37.

"You home?" I asked.

"Of course I'm home," said Kingsley, "it's two-thirty in the goddamn morning."

"Don't sound so dramatic."

"Dramatic? If anything I sound tired."

"I'm coming over. Where do you live?"

There was a long pause. I wondered if Kingsley had fallen back to sleep. Then a thought occurred to me, maybe he had a woman with him. If so, I didn't care. I wanted to talk, and not with a mortal. Either way, last night had been the full moon, so tonight Kingsley should be his old self.

"Okay," he said, and gave me directions. "Oh, and remind me when you get here that there's something I need to talk to you about."

"That makes two of us."

Kingsley lived in Yorba Linda, just a few cities over. At a quarter to three, I drove east down Bastanchury Blvd. The night was still and quiet. To my left were empty rolling hills. Beyond was the county dump, well hidden from curious eyes and sensitive noses.

Here on Bastanchury was some of the best Orange County had to offer. Beautiful homes slightly removed from the hustle and bustle of the county.

I turned left into a long driveway, drove through a tangle of shrubbery along a crushed seashell drive. The seashell drive, reflecting the near full moon, was as bright as a yellow brick road to my eyes. The driveway continued for perhaps an eighth of a mile, until it curved before a massive estate house.

I parked in front of the portico, and briefly admired the huge structure. It was a Colonial revival, complete with two flanker structures on either end. Nearly the entire facade was covered in dark clapboard, and the windows were enclosed with paneled shutters. All in all, a fitting home for a werewolf.

Shortly after I rang the bell, a porch light turned on and a very tall and dour man appeared at the door, who looked down at me from a hawkish nose. He was frowning. Probably wasn't in his job description to be receiving guests at 3:00 a.m. There was something disjointed and odd about the man. It took me a second to realize what it was. One ear was clearly larger than the other.

"This way," he said. "Master Kingsley is waiting in the conservatory."

"With Professor Plum and the candlestick?" I asked.

Big Ear was not amused.

38.

Kingsley was lounging on a leather sofa with a drink in hand.

He looked like hell: scruffy beard, hair in disarray, serious bags under his eyes.

"Um, you look good," I said.

"Like hell I do."

"Just what I was thinking."

The conservatory was octagon-shaped and faced the expansive backyard which spread out into the hills beyond like a vast estate. Through the French window, I could make out an alabaster fountain gurgling away, depicting a naked nymph blowing water through her cupped hands. The sculptor went a little crazy with her breasts. Men and breasts. Sheesh.

"Would you like a drink?" Kingsley asked.

"Sure. I'll have whatever you're having."

Kingsley motioned to his butler. A moment later, a drink appeared before me.

"Thank you, Jeeves," I said.

Kingsley grinned. "His name is Franklin."

"Franklin the butler?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't have quite the same ring."

"No, it doesn't," Kingsley said, "but he's a good butler, and can pour a hell of a drink."

"It's true," said Franklin. "I almost never spill." His enunciation was clear and precise with a slightly lilting accent that could have been English. When he spoke, his face appeared completely still, as if the muscles were inert, or deactivated. I couldn't help but notice an ugly scar that ran along his chin and extended back to his hairline, as if Franklin had at one time or another lost his entire head.

Kingsley said, "Thank you, Franklin. That will be all. Sorry to rouse you out of your sleep in the dead of night."

"I am made to serve."

"And you do it so well. Off you go. Good night."

Franklin the Butler nodded and left. Curious, I watched him go. His strides were long and loping, as if his legs were disproportionate to his body.

"Franklin is an interesting fellow," I said when he was gone.

"You don't know the half of it."

"Must have survived a hell of an accident, scarred like that."

"Yeah, something like that."

"Where did you find him?"

"He was recommended by a friend."

I sipped the alcohol. It had no flavor at all, and no effect. The ice rattled in the tumbler.

"What do you know of vampire shape-shifting?" I asked suddenly.

Kingsley blinked, then thought about it. "Not a whole hell of a lot, I'm afraid. Why?"

"It's been coming up lately."

"I see."

"So, can vampires turn into, you know, things?"

He laughed, "They can indeed turn into...things."

My heart slammed in my chest. "What sort of things?" I asked.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

"And you've never tried shape-changing?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

"You could always try jumping off a tree branch and see what happens."

"And think like a fruit bat?"

"Is that the gay bat?"

"You're not helping."

"That's just it. I don't know how to help. My own transformation sort of takes place uninvitingly."

"I understand. So back to the question: what sort of things can vampires turn into?"

"Vampires turn into...something big and black." He paused and grimaced as if he had just bitten into something sour. "Something ugly and hideous. Something with massive leathery wings. A sort of hybrid between man and bat."

"You've seen one?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"And?"

"And that's all I know."

"Who was the vampire?"

"I'd rather not discuss it right now."

"Why?"

He inhaled. His handsome face was mostly hidden in shadows, although that posed little problems for me. I could see the fine lines of his nose and jaw.

"Because he killed my wife."

I breathed. "I'm sorry, Kingsley."

"Hey, it's in the past."

"I ask too many questions. It's the investigator in me. I don't know how to turn it off sometimes."

"You didn't know."

I wanted to ask him more about his wife. Why was she killed? Was she a werewolf, too? If not, then how did they make their marriage work? How long had they been married? And kids? Moreover, who was this vampire? But I held my tongue, which was something I didn't do well. Therefore, I found myself thinking of flying around the city of Fullerton like a super-sized bat out of hell. The image was too crazy. I mean, I'm a mother of two. I went to a PTA meeting last week. I washed twelve loads of laundry over the weekend. Real people don't turn into giant bats, right?

"So basically," I said after a suitable time, "I turn into a monster."

He eased off the sofa and headed to the bar. He poured himself another drink.

"You're not the only one," he said. "Once a month Franklin keeps me locked up in a special room where I won't hurt myself or others." He swirled the contents of his glass. Some of the contents splashed over the rim. He didn't seem to notice or care. "Only monsters need to be locked up."

"But you have taken measures to control the monster within you. In my book, that makes you very much not a monster"

"By practicing safe-transformation?" he asked.

I laughed. "Precisely."

As he sat, I noticed a particularly thick tuft of hair at the back of his hand. The hair hadn't been there a few days before. I slipped out of my chair and to his side. I took his hand in my own and ran my fingers through the fur.

"Just what are you doing?" he asked. He didn't move. I could feel his pulse in his wrist. His pulse was quickening. I pulled on the fur.

"It's real," I said.

"Of course it's real."

"You really are a werewolf."

"Yes."

"Can I call you Wolfy?

"No."

A glint of amber reflected in his irises. I could have been looking into the eyes of a wolf staring back at me from the deep shadows of a dark forest.

The forest. My dream. His hot breath. His hotter lips.

I looked away. God, his stare was hypnotic. No wonder he won so many court cases. What juror could resist those eyes? I noticed then that the couch had a light sprinkling of what appeared to be dog hair. The hair was now on my clothing.

"You're shedding," I said.

"Yes, I tend to do that."

"How old are you Kingsley?"

"You will not be denied tonight, will you, Samantha?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps by understanding more about you, I can understand more about me, about who I am and where I'm going."

"Fine," he said. "I'm seventy-nine."

"Is that in dog years?"

"I'm going to bed," he said.

"Wait. What did you need to talk to me about?"

He nodded solemnly. "There's someone looking for you, Samantha."

"Who?"

"A vampire hunter."

"A...what?"

"A vampire hunter, and he wants you dead."

I choked on my drink. "Why?"

"Because you're a vampire and killing vampires is what he does."

"How does he kill vampires?"

"A crossbow, I think. Apparently arrow bolts have the same affect on vampires as stakes."

"When did you find this out?"

"Tonight."

"How did you find out?"

"I'm privy to such information. Through associates. From others like me."

"Werewolves."

"Yes."

I thought about that, and then told him about the man from the other night with the night-vision goggles. Kingsley shrugged.

"It could have been him. Perhaps he's been following you."

"No one's been following me."

"How do you know?"

"I watch for tails. It's a habit of mine."

"A good habit," he agreed.

"Speaking of tails�D"

"I'm going to bed," he said again.

"Wait. What do you propose I do about this vampire hunter?" I asked.

"Kill or be killed. That's where I come in. Let me help you get rid of this guy."

"No," I said. "I'm a big girl and this is my problem."

"He's a trained killer."

"And I've been trained to protect myself."

He didn't like it, but said no more. We sat together on the couch, our shoulders touching.

"Why are you with him, Samantha?"

I knew who he was talking about. Danny. "It's none of your business why."

"Yes," he said, "it is."

"How so?"

"Because I think I'm falling in love with you."