She stopped in at the office for the first time in three days. The legwork had kept her out, tracing Tawny's steps in the week before she'd died, trying to find out who'd killed her, why and how on earth they'd done it in such a macabre manner.

The only lead she'd found was Damien, and she was no longer sure the guy was anything other than an eccentric, world-renowned magician who valued his privacy and went to great lengths to preserve the mystique of his alter ego. She'd tried her damnedest to check his background, but had come up empty. Before exploding onto the scene as the world's most beloved magician, he had, it seemed, no past at all.

"Shannon. Hey, where you been? I was starting to think you'd gone outta business."

She smiled at Sal, standing in the doorway of the pizzeria, with his clean white apron covering his rounded middle. She hadn't told him, or anyone, that Tawny's murder would be her last case. "Hey, Sal. Not out of business, just busy. What's new?"

"Rent's going up next month."

"What--again?" It didn't matter. She wouldn't be here next month.

Sal nodded, rolling his eyes. "Probably a letter wait in' for you. Got mine yesterday."

"This place isn't worth what we're paying now," she grumbled. She unlocked the door beside Sal's, swung it open, mounted the steep stairway.

Sal came to the bottom and called up to her. "You could afford the rent if you didn't drive such a fancy car, you know."

"So you keep telling me. It'll be fancier as soon as I save up enough for a paint job." She'd get that done. She promised herself she'd get that done before she went down for the count.

"That's baloney. You don't look good. Shannon. You eatin' right?"

"I will be today." She reached the top of the stairs and unlocked her office door, then paused to look down at Sal. "Two slices for lunch, with the works."

"Everything but anchovies. I know how you like it."

She smiled, swung her door open and stepped inside. The man sitting in a chair in front of her desk rose, set the file folder he'd been perusing aside, parted his lips to say something, and then thought better of it. His gaze dropped to the revolver she was pointing at his chest. She'd jerked the gun from her waistband in a split second, before he'd even turned fully. He stood very still.

"Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my office?"

He licked his lips, a quick, nervous little dart of his tongue. And then she recognized him. He was the one who'd taken Tawny's body out of the ME's office last night.

"Take it easy with that thing. I have ID. May I?"

She nodded, a little shiver dancing up her neck. "You pull anything other than a wallet out of that fancy jacket you're wearing and it's gonna have a big hole in the front."

His hand dipped into the jacket, came out with a small leather folder. He handed it to her, and she took it, never moving her gaze from him. She nipped it open, glimpsed a photo ID from the corner of her eye. She took a quick look, her gaze darting back to him every other millisecond or so. Stephen Bachman. Then she read a little further and blinked.

"CIA?"

"One of its subdivisions."

"Which one?"

"That's not important."

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the card more carefully, trying to see whether it was genuine or a fraud. She had no way of knowing. She gazed at him again. Tall, broad- shouldered. He had an athletic build to him, and his dark hair curled a little at the ends. Gray suit, spotless white shirt. Telltale bulge beneath the left arm.

She wiggled the gun barrel. "Put your weapon on the desk, Mr. Bachman. Slowly."

He nodded, removed his gun, a shiny nickel-plated 9 mm Ruger, and set it on the desk. She stepped forward and picked it up, tucked it into the back of her jeans. "How'd you get in here?"

He smiled a little. "I told you. I'm CIA."

She held his gaze, nodding, and then took the file folder he'd been reading. It contained her notes on Tawny's death. She frowned hard. "Why is the CIA involved in a murder investigation?"

"Oh, come on, Ms. Mallory. We both know this is no ordinary murder. May I sit now, or do I have to be standing in order for you to shoot me?"

She nodded, moving behind her desk as he sat. She took her own seat. "Just what the hell is going on?"

The man stared hard at her. "You're the one who found her. Why don't you tell me?"

"What do you want from me, Bachman?"

"You're going to tell me all about Tawny Keller. And all about yourself. And everything you think you know about this case."

She smiled slowly. "Why would I do that?"

He shrugged, pursed his lips. "Because we both want the same thing. To catch her killer. And because if you don't, I'll have your private investigator's license pulled before noon."

"Sure do know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you? Tell you what. I'll tell you everything I know, if you'll answer me one or two questions first." She wasn't going to tell him a damned thing. For all she knew, he could be a fraud. Then again, maybe not. He certainly had clout with the ME's office.

His eyes narrowed. "If I can. What do you want to know?"

"Why I can't get Tawny's body released to me. I want to give her a funeral." She knew he had the answer to that question. She waited.

That tongue darted out again. "Settle for a memorial service. Buy a marker, if you want. You won't get the body."

"Why?"

"It's now the property of the federal government. That's all you need to know."

He might as well have slapped her. "What the hell have you done with her, Bachman? I know she's been moved. Where is she?"

"Good little private snoop, aren't you? How'd you know we moved her?"

She bit her lower lip. She wouldn't show weakness, turmoil, nothing. Not to this suit. "ME's been giving me the royal runaround. I had a suspicion. You just confirmed it."

He nodded. "Not bad. But I can't tell you where she is. Sorry."

He glanced at his watch. "You want to move on to the next question? I don't have all day."

She fought with her temper and won. Voice level, cold, she asked him, "How did she really die?"

"Blood loss."

"I know that. I mean... how?"

He stared hard at her. "Damned if I know."

It was such a blatant lie he might as well have been wearing a sign. He made sure she knew he was lying. So smug. The bastard.

"My turn, Ms. Mallory. You've been seeing a doctor--four times in the past month. What's the problem?"

She felt her brows lift. "There isn't any problem."

His head tilted sideways. "I thought you were going to cooperate."

"I am. I didn't feel well, got checked out. There was no problem."

"I can verify this more easily that you'd believe."

"Why am I not surprised?"

He studied her for a long time. He wasn't sure if she was being flippant or blatantly honest, she could tell. Good, let him wonder.

"You've seen a lot of Damien Namtar in the past couple of days."

She blinked, then stopped herself from registering her surprise in any other way. "Have I been under surveillance?"

"Not yet."

"Him, then?"

His lips thinned. "I need to know why you've been seeing him."

So the CIA was watching Damien. She wondered if he knew it. "I'm a fan," she told Bachman. "Is there something I should know about Mr. Namtar?"

"I'm not altogether sure you don't already know."

The puzzled expression she felt twist her brows was genuine. What the hell was that supposed to mean? "Do you think he had something to do with the murder?"

"Anything's possible."

Bachman was talking, but he wasn't saying a damned thing. The briefcase he held caught her gaze. "Maybe I should watch myself, then."

"Maybe you should stay away from him altogether."

Was that a warning? What did this bastard know?

"I'm already familiar with your background, and the victim's--"

"Tawny. Her name was Tawny. Use it."

He snapped open the briefcase on his lap, nipped open a notebook. "Whatever. You were wards of the state, assigned to a foster home in Flatbush. Then both ran away. It's what went on between then and now that's tough to document. She was obviously a whore. How did you survive? Same game?"

She pulled the man's own gun from the back of her jeans, worked the action and pointed it right at his nose. "Your time's up, Bachman. Get out."

"I'm not finished." He closed the notebook, then the case.

"You'll be more than finished if you don't leave--now."

He nodded. "Fine. There are other ways to find out what I need to know." He reached for the folder on her desk. She squeezed the trigger. The bullet shattered an ashtray two inches from Bachman's hand. He froze, turning to stare at her. It was anger not fear she saw in his eyes. "I could have you in jail for that."

"I could blow your brains out and say I mistook you for an intruder. Leave the file here, and go."

His eyes darkened, but his hand fell to his side. He stepped toward her. She opened the door and moved aside. In the doorway, he turned to face her. "You keep quiet about your friend's death, Ms. Mallory. It's going down as suicide and the first time you say differently, you might just disappear yourself."

"If you think I'll let it die, you're wrong."

"You have no choice in the matter. And I mean what I say. You don't know what you're dealing with here." He glanced down at the Ruger she still held and opened his hand. "My gun?"

"Not anymore." She slammed the door in his face.

It took her all of five seconds to decide to follow him when he left, and as she did, she racked her brain for answers. Bachman must be legit. The ME wouldn't have cooperated otherwise. So why was the government so interested in the murder of a prostitute? The way she'd died. It had to be. But how had Tawny died, exactly? How had someone put those marks on her throat, drained her blood? And why?

She had a feeling Bachman knew. But the son of a gun wasn't talking.

* * * * *

Damien pored over the pages of the newest translation, searching. always searching. But for what? No matter how many stone tablets were uncovered in the sands of Iraq, no matter how many cuneiform symbols told the story of Gilgamesh the hero, Gilgamesh the king, there would never be one recording the true end to the tale.

He slammed the book closed, tossed it to the floor. His eyes burned, but he blinked them clear again. Rereading the stories never failed to reignite the pain. Stupid. It was long gone now. Netty cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

"You have a guest."

At Netty's side in the library doorway. Shannon stood staring at him. She shifted the backpack that hung over her shoulder, glanced past him to the book he'd just thrown. "If it's a bad time--"

He shook his head quickly and got to his feet. "No. Pet peeve, that's all."

"She looks so much better tonight, doesn't she now, sir? More color to her cheeks." Netty patted Shannon's arm. "I'll bring you a hot toddy. Just the thing for this chilly autumn night. Warm your bones."

"That's really not--" Shannon broke off. Netty was already hurrying away with those abbreviated, high-speed steps of hers. Shannon shook her head, smiling a little.

Damien couldn't take his eyes off her. But when her gaze met his again it was troubled. "What's wrong?"

She licked her lips. "Look, I don't know why the hell I'm even here. Except maybe I owe you. That and that I've got good instincts. I had to have, the way I grew up. Not so much who to trust and who not to trust. More like who'd slit your throat and who'd just rob you blind."

He frowned. She was rambling. Nervous. "You don't trust anyone."

"Right."

"You said you and Tawny learned to fight on the streets. I meant to ask--"

She shook her head, stopping him. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." He stared at her; those huge amber eyes seemed to reach out to him. "Where was your family?"

She looked at the floor. "My mother dumped me when I was a baby. I don't even remember her."

"Then you were adopted?"

Her lips twitched a little. "They tell me I was a sickly kid. Skinny, asthmatic. I grew up a ward of the state, saw lots of institutions, a few foster homes. I met Tawny in one of them." She turned a little away from him, fingered the strap that was anchored over her shoulder.

"And then?" He wanted to know. He didn't stop to tell himself that he shouldn't. It wouldn't have mattered if he had.

"Things got rough. We decided we could do better on our own. And we did."

He considered reading her mind. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen. And that's all I'm going to say about it, I came here, Damien, despite the fact that I still don't really trust you, because right now I distrust you a little less than the other guy."

She'd changed the subject so firmly that he knew she wouldn't reveal any more of her past to him. So he took the bait. "What other guy?"

She paced the room, shoving her hands into the deep pockets of her brown suede jacket. She moved toward the fire. Stood near it, as though she were absorbing its warmth. "On the streets, when someone does you dirty, you do them right back. But it works the same the other way. I guess I've never gotten that damned unwritten code out of my head. You helped me out, so here I am. Maybe I'm an idiot, but here I am."

He moved closer, wishing he could see her face, read whatever was in her eyes. He understood her pain over losing Tawny a little better now. They'd been together since they were just kids. They must have been like sisters. "Shannon, I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

She whirled around, standing so close he could feel her agitated breaths on his face. Her eyes were wide, dark gold.

"I think you're in trouble, Damien. I think maybe we both are."

But the urgency in her eyes faded when she glanced past him. Frowning, he turned to see Netty just beyond the doorway, a steaming mug in her hand. She stepped forward, beaming a smile as she brought the toddy to Shannon.

"Thanks, Netty." Shannon sipped. "Mmm, wonderful. Aren't you having one?" Her gaze probed Damien's.

"Ah, he never eats a thing, this one. Surprised he don't waste away before my eyes."

"That's all for today, Netty. Go on home to your grandchildren."

She nodded, blew Shannon a kiss, then waved as she trotted away in search of her coat. Shannon sipped her drink and walked to the book lying on its bent pages. She set the mug down and bent to pick the heavy volume up.

"Oh. Gilgamesh again. You read about him a lot, don't you?"

"Hobby of mine."

He heard the back door close, though he knew the sound would never reach mortal ears. Soon afterward, the car started up and Netty drove away.

"Not a pleasant one," she said. "You weren't too happy with whatever you read in here."

"It's what I didn't read in there. But that's off the subject, isn't it?"

"Can I take it home? I'd like to read it."

He nodded. "It'll bore you to tears. Moldy old stories that don't matter anymore. You said you were in trouble. Shannon."

She set the book carefully on the desk. "I said we."

She shrugged the backpack off, let it thump to the floor. The thing was heavy. She knelt, unzipped it and pulled out a stack of papers. Then another. File folders, notebooks, photographs, manila envelopes. "I thought you ought to see these."

"What are they?"

She fished in the bottom of the bag, making sure she'd removed everything, then shifted her position, curling her legs beneath her for comfort. "Don't know for sure--haven't gone through it yet." She glanced up at him, her eyes slightly shiny. She was excited, maybe still afraid, but wound up, as well. "Damien, did you know the CIA had you under surveillance?"

"The CIA?" He almost laughed. Then he saw her frown, and knew she was serious. He shook his head slowly and sat down across from her. "Shannon, what's going on?"

"This suit broke into my office today. It was the same man we saw last night, with the ME. When I got there he was going through my files. Flashed some fancy ID card and said he was CIA. 'One of its subdivisions' were his exact words. This DPI--if it's for real--must be it. He wanted to know all about Tawny and me, and then he started asking about you. Threatened to have my investigator's license pulled unless I talked."

Damien felt a slow anger begin to simmer. "He threatened you?"

"Don't worry--I didn't tell him anything. But he knew I'd been with you lately, and he more or less said you were being watched." She shook her head, glancing down at the pile of documents in front of her. "Do you have any idea why they'd be interested in you?"

He shook his head. There was only one reason he could think of, and that was impossible. No government agency would take the existence of his race seriously enough to investigate it. The murder, then. It must have to do with the murder. "You said they asked about Tawny?"

Shannon's glimmering amber eyes clouded just before her lashes lowered, hiding the emotion in their depths. "They aren't going to bring her back, Damien. He wouldn't tell me where they took her or why, just that her body belongs to the government now, and I... I can't even bury her." When she looked up her eyes swam with tears. "He knows how she died--I'm sure of it. But he won't say. I have to know, Damien. Can you understand that? I have to know what happened, who put those holes in her throat, what she went through, whether she suffered or was afraid..."

She was hurting, this pixie with the leather-tough heart. She was hurting because her best friend had died. And he knew that pain so well that he hurt, too. He reached up, cradled her head in his hands and drew it downward to rest on his chest, with the mound of papers on the floor between them. He stroked her silky hair, wishing he could do more. "I'm sorry, Shannon. I know how much it hurts to lose someone you loved. There's no other pain like it. I know." It wouldn't ease her pain to know how Tawny had died. She'd never believe it if he told her it really had been a vampire. So he didn't.

She let him hold her there a moment longer, then she straightened, blinked for a moment and stared hard into his eyes. "Who did you lose?"

Enkidu's face hovered in his mind's eye, his laughter filled Damien's ears. Just as if no time at all had passed. "A friend," he told her. "He was like a brother, like the other half of me. My weaknesses were his strengths, and his were mine. We did everything together...." Damien swallowed the lump in his throat, searched her face. What was it about her that had him talking about Enkidu this way? He hadn't voiced that old anguish in ages.

"And then he died," she whispered. "And now you're a recluse." She tipped her head to one side. "Is that why? Are you afraid to have any more friends, because they might leave you someday?"

"It isn't a question of 'might.' Death is certain, guaranteed to every mortal on the planet."

"I'm all too aware of that. But life's too short to waste it alone."

He smiled in an attempt to break the tension. "You're one to talk. I haven't seen hordes of companions beating paths to your door."

"No, but not because I avoid making friends. I don't shut myself away from the world, Damien, the way you do. I just don't make attachments easily."

She looked up as she spoke, and the fire's light glowed its reflection in her eyes, made her golden hair gleam. Did she want an attachment now? With him? The gods had better help him if she did. She really was beautiful. So fragile looking, skin as delicate as lily petals. The hardness, the calluses on her heart, didn't show.

Damien shook himself when he realized how he was staring. He looked away quickly, glancing down at the papers. "You haven't finished telling me how you got these."

"Oh." She blinked, seeming to gather her thoughts. "Well, I threw the guy out on his ear and then I followed him. Some spook. He didn't even notice. He's staying at the Hilton over on Tenth. I lurked around until he went out again, then just went to his room and helped myself."

Damien's head came up fast. "You--"

"It's kid's stuff, getting into a hotel room. I used to clean them, you know, to put myself through school and help pay the rent. I just gave the clerk the creep's room number and said I'd lost my key." One hand dipped into her jacket pocket and she pulled out a key card. "He was more than happy to give me another. Figured I'd hang on to it, in case we need it again."

"Shannon, the man's going to know these papers are missing."

"Yeah, and if he has half a brain, he'll know who took them. I imagine my license is as good as gone. Doesn't matter, though. He would've pulled it anyway. He was pretty licked off when I shot at him with his own gun." She smiled, appearing more like a mischievous teenager than a wounded, wary adult. "Don't look like that--I was only trying to make a point. I didn't hurt the guy."

"It isn't him I'm worried about."

Her brows went up and down expressively. "Well, it oughtta be. He really ticked me off."

Damien felt his lips pull into a reluctant smile as she got to her feet and walked back toward the table where she'd left her drink. He scanned the folders while she sipped. She moved closer to the fire again, her back to him.

"I was planning to close the office soon anyway. Already quit working on everything except Tawny's murder. Sent most of my clients to other agencies."

A manila folder had her name on its tab. Frowning, Damien opened it and saw medical notes, test results. The file was thick. He closed it, glancing up at her back, and slid it under a sofa cushion just as she turned again.

"Looks like we'll have to pull an all-nighter. You up for it?"

* * * * *

"If you are," he said. He was more than a little bit worded about letting her see whatever was in the reports on him. But he couldn't think of a way to get around it. He still couldn't believe this Bachman man knew... No. It was impossible. But if Bachman wasn't investigating the undead, then just what was his interest in this case and in Damien?

Shannon squeaked and jumped backward, sloshing her drink. A brown field mouse raced past her feet and stopped in a corner. Shannon set the glass on the mantel and grabbed the brass poker, turning toward the creature.

"Wait." Damien stepped forward, closed his hand around hers and took the poker away. He replaced it in the holder.

"What're you, nuts?" She certainly looked at him as if he was. "You let one in, you'll be infested before you know it."

He shook his head, pointed. "Look at it. Shannon." She turned her head, staring at the tiny, white-bellied mouse. Its brown eyes bulged and its body trembled. "Just stand still," he told her. Damien moved forward slowly, his eyes sending silent messages to the creature. When he was close enough he crouched down, cupped his hands and scooped the mouse into them.

"There. See how harmless he is? You scared him half to death." He closed one hand around the body, careful not to crush it.

"I scared him?"

With one forefinger he rubbed the tiny head. He glanced up at Shannon. "He's just looking for a few crumbs and a warm place to spend the winter. Want to pet him?"

He held the mouse out, and she backed away. "No, thanks."

He shrugged and walked toward the doorway.

"What are you going to do with it?" She trotted behind him. "Damien, if you put it outside it's just going to come back in."

"There's a rickety little woodshed out back. I'll turn him loose in there. Mice love woodsheds."

* * * * *

By the time she finished reading. Shannon was feeling more than a little bit uneasy. She'd found herself looking up at Damien over and over again while she'd read the notes, noticing the lack of a single gray hair. Not a wrinkle on his smooth face. Damn, the man had to be old enough to have accumulated a few crow's-feet. Then she'd laugh at herself, realizing how ridiculous it was to be thinking what she was thinking. Then she'd read some more, and feel a little uneasy all over again. Line after line of reasons to believe Damien Namtar was a vampire. A vampire, for crying out loud. The so-called evidence was lined up like a grocery list. Times of Damien's comings and goings, side by side with the times the sun rose and set on the day in question. Where he'd been seen, and when and with whom.

He read steadily, never glancing up. He looked puzzled, and then worried, and then angry.

Finally, she stood up and stretched the kinks out of her muscles. She forced herself to dismiss every bit of what she'd read as nothing more than the rantings of a nut. "Well, I guess that settles it. The guy's not CIA, or if he's is, he's suffering from burnout. God, he thinks he's the latest version of Kolchek."

"Who?" She glanced down and smiled, but the tension remained on Damien's face, in his black eyes.

"Kolchek. You remember, the old TV series with the vampire hunter.... Damien, don't look so devastated, the guy's insane."

He rose, head down, and paced toward the fire to toss another log onto the dwindling flames.

"Either that, or you're really a vampire."

He spun to face her, eyes wide.

"Hey, I was kidding. Take it easy, will you?"

"I can't take it easy. Shannon. The man's been recording my every move for days. I don't like it."

"Well, of course you don't. Who would?"

She returned to her spot on the floor and snatched up the last sheet he'd read, wan ting to know what had upset him so much. He lunged toward her, reaching for the paper, but she ducked away and scanned the lines.

Then the blood rushed to her feet and her breath froze in her lungs. "My God..." Her gaze shot to Damien's. He stood motionless, looking devastated. "You didn't want me to see this, did you?"

"Do you blame me?"

She licked her lips, and reread the lines. Tawny's body was the second that had been found. The first, another young woman, had died of identical wounds to the throat. And there was a note that she, too, had volunteered to be Damien's assistant on stage. Rosalie Mason. The woman Shannon had tried to find.

She shook her head, staring at Damien in disbelief.

"That's why I didn't want you to see it. Shannon. That look that's on your face right now. I know what you're thinking."

"That's bull, because right now, I don't even know what I'm thinking." She got up again, walked to where she'd dropped her backpack and picked it up. "I'm going now. I'm overtired, and if I don't get some sleep soon, I'll be bunking in your shed with that mouse."

"You can use the guest room--"

"No." She softened her tone. She didn't really believe any of this, did she? Of course she didn't. "No, I really can't. Not tonight."

"You're afraid of me."

She chewed her lower lip, blinked twice. "I'm not. Maybe that's what worries me." She took a single step, then turned back and picked up the new book on Gilgamesh, the one he'd been reading when she'd arrived. "You, uh, you said it was okay to borrow this, didn't you?"

Damien nodded. Shannon slipped it into her pack, then slung the bundle over her shoulder and started for the door. Damien followed, touched her shoulder, stopping her before she went out.

"I know you don't trust me. Shannon, but I have to follow you home. It's still dark, and--"

She spun around, blinking up at him. "That's right, it is. And that reminds me to ask you why it is you're so sure I'm safe during the day, but in danger at night."

"Vampires only hunt at night."

A little chill ran over her nape at those words. She ignored it. "Get real, Damien."

"I'm serious." He sighed hard, pushed a hand through his hair and stepped away from her.

"There's no such thing." But when she said it, her words were barely more than a whisper.

He turned and met her eyes. "Then let's say the killer wants it to look like a vampire. Can you buy that?"

She nodded, still wary.

"He'll hardly change his tactics now and strike by day."

She felt the tension in her spine ease. "For a minute there I thought you were going to say you believed in this stuff had me worried." She was still worried. She just wasn't sun what about. Not that he was a blood-sucking night stalker. No that.