David glances around to see how much attention we've attracted with my vault off the barstool. The noise level remains the same, and except for the biker next to David who got bumped when he leapt up, no one seems to have noticed.

That guy is not happy. Beer drips off the elbow of his leather jacket. "Hey, asshole."

David mumbles, "Sorry, man," and signals the barkeep for another round.

The guy shoots off his stool, but when he's standing next to David, who is six inches taller and built like a tank, he shrugs and accepts the beer with a grudging nod.

David waits for him to sit down, then turns his frown on me, "What's the matter with you?"

I settle my butt back on the stool. If I told him what was the matter-that I think a witch might be trying to put a spell on me-I imagine the reaction would be the same if I told him his partner was a vampire. And had been for almost a year.

Not an option.

What is an option is for me to get the hell out of here and find out who, or what, is after me.

Time to go on the offensive. "Ten minutes, David. I'll give it ten more minutes. Then I'm gone."

He opens his mouth to object but snaps it closed again, his eyes on the guy who just pushed his way through the door. "There he is."

Curly Tom isn't curly. He's bald and short and fat, about two hundred forty pounds on a five-ten frame. He's dressed in leathers that bear no markings. At least he's smart enough to know wearing Angels' colors uninitiated is a death sentence. He looks around the bar, a goofy smile on his face, as if waiting for an invitation to join one of the groups clustered at the bar or in the back by the pool table.

No invitation is forthcoming. The barkeep leans over to David and whispers, "Get him and get the fuck out of here."

With bikers, gratitude only gets you so far.

David slides off the stool and motions to the right. I go that way and he goes to the left. Before Curly Tom realizes what's happening, we've got him flanked.

David takes his arm in a steel grip that makes the biker flinch. "Let's take a walk," David says.

Curly Tom's eyes widen, the smile falls from his face. He struggles to break David's hold but in a flash, I've got his other arm. When my fingers close around his forearm in a grip even stronger than David's, he yelps.

"Who the fuck are you?"

That makes the bikers closest to us look around. But they know what's going on. They tighten ranks, their backs to Curly Tom, and in an instant, he sees he's on his own. He starts to dance around, trying to shake us loose. When that fails, he unleashes a shit storm of invective that's as creative as it is ineffective.

David and I hustle him outside.

While Curly Tom continues his diatribe, David and I have a conversation of our own.

"Told you he'd show up," David says.

"Yeah, yeah. Can you get him downtown on your own?"

"Why? You going back inside?"

When I don't answer, he says, "See if you get lucky?"

"Funny."

I push Curly Tom's head down and shove him into the backseat of the Ford Crown Vic we use for work. David snaps his cuffed wrist around a steel bar in the door and straightens to peer at me in the dim light of the parking lot.

"How will you get home?"

"I'll call Lance."

"You'll call Lance. And he'll have to drive all the way out here from Mission Beach to pick you up. Doesn't make sense, Anna, even for you."

His tone makes the thudding in my head worse and the knot in my stomach tighten. Whatever is wreaking havoc with my nervous system is here in this place, and I need to find out what it is. But David is not giving up without a fight.

I slam the car door so hard, Curly Tom bounces in the backseat. "I don't ask you to explain every thing you do. If I did, I might start with why you and that booking clerk from jail pick my side of the desk to fuck on when you sneak back to the office in the middle of the night."

He turns startled eyes toward me. "How-?"

"How do I know?" I smell it. Not the answer I can give. I shake a finger. "I just know, okay. And since she's on duty tonight, I imagine you'll be heading there after you drop this dirtbag off."

He puts a finger to his lips and jerks his head in Curly Tom's direction. "Are you crazy? What if he hears you?"

"Your problem. Now, are you finished grilling me?"

David snatches the car keys from my outstretched hand. It wasn't fair bringing up his affair-he has a steady girlfriend that I'm sure knows nothing about his on-again, off-again fling with the chick from jail-but lately, nothing much is. He stomps around to the driver's side of the car, drops into the seat and peels out of the parking lot.

I release a pent-up sigh.

Finally.

The night closes around me. Moonless. Dead quiet. Mid-July hot. Even so, I start to shiver. I turn my face toward the bar. Whoever-whatever-is affecting me is inside.

The realization makes the feeling grow stronger. Something is there-just out of sight. Something evil. It draws me back. If this is a spell, it's like nothing I've felt before. The witch Belinda Burke's black magic drained her victims of physical strength and left their bodies ill and dying. This is attacking my brain at a primeval level. A warning of danger that's repulsing and magnetic at the same time. I can no more leave it unexplained or unanswered than I could convince David to leave me here alone at a biker bar without resorting to blackmail.

I'll apologize for that later.

A car pulls into the parking lot.

A dark Ford sedan.

Followed by a second.

Nothing says "cop" like identical Ford sedans.

I step back into the shadows and watch.

When one of the drivers steps out, I recognize him.

Detective Harris, SDPD Homicide.

Three more cars, patrol cars this time, pull up around the perimeter of the lot, effectively sealing it off. Harris directs the cops with hand signals, stationing them by the door and around the row of Harleys parked in front. One he sends around back, but the cop returns almost immediately. As David and I discovered earlier, there's no exit in the back, just one small window near the ceiling of the women's bathroom.

When Harris is ready, he unclips his gun, holds it out of sight at his side and disappears through the door.

Hell breaks loose.

Shouting. Swearing. Scuffling and running feet. Bikers pour out the door and straight into a line of cops, all waiting with guns drawn.

At the same time, I hear a sound from behind the building. A small sound, a window sliding open. Too soft for the cops out front to hear but not for a vampire.

Besides, the cops are occupied with corralling stampeding bikers. I make my way unnoticed to the back.

There's a man trying to wriggle through that one tiny bathroom window. His head is down, his hands flailing for purchase against the wood siding. He's stuck.

He raises his head, spies me. "Hey, bitch." He's whispering, but his voice is hard, commanding. "Help me out of here."

The sick feeling in my gut grows stronger.

I stare at the face. Dark skin, eyes filled with hate, mouth twisted in a sneer.

I step back.

"Didn't you hear me, bitch?" He's trying to prop himself up.

This time when he raises his head, I'm ready. I steel myself for the wave of nausea his gaze unleashes.

The headache, the sense of evil, the foreboding twisting my gut. It's all emanating from an asshole stuck like a fat toad in a bathroom window.

I swallow down disgust. "What are you?"

He pauses in his struggles to shoot me a look that's part astonishment, part rage. "What do you mean, what am I? Are you nuts?"

All my vamp senses have sprung to alert. I try to get inside his head. Are you a vamp? A shape-shifter? A witch?

Nothing.

All I get is a black void, a deep well of malevolence.

And the certain knowledge that he's human.

Human?

How could that be? How can he be affecting my senses like this if he's human?

We stare at each other. He's got my mind locked in a steel vise. Every instinct screams I should rip out his throat, now, before he frees himself, before he gets loose and-

And what?

He's human.

He rouses himself first, face reddening. "You stupid cunt. When I get out of here, I'll kill you." He resumes his wild thrashing, pushing against the wall with the palms of his hands, trying to get his lard ass through an opening barely bigger than his head.

I'm stupid?

I have two choices. Yell for Harris or let the guy do it himself when he realizes he's wedged so tight in the window, he'll likely starve to death if no one finds him.

No. There's another choice.

A voice inside my head.

Kill him.