Jessica Fraser listened to the music, the cool jazz tones. She had closed her eyes, and despite the voices, the scraping of chairs and clinking of glasses, she could filter everything else out and hear the music. She wished she could just give way to it, forget the night, forget work and her upcoming flight-even the very good friends surrounding her. From the moment she had first come to New Orleans, years ago now, she had been in love not just with the city's sense of history and pulsing life, but with the sounds, especially the music. Tonight, for a few minutes, closing her eyes, she was alone. All she could feel was the music, as if it had entered her body and soul, and soothed her.

Of course, few people actually considered Bourbon Street to besoothing .

Yet even as she listened to the music, savoring the feeling of calm, a sense that all was not well startled her. She opened her eyes and looked around, plagued by a sudden and yet very disturbing feeling that she was being watched.

"Hey, did you hear me?" Maggie Canady asked, nudging Jessica.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"What you need to design," Maggie said, "is a bathing suit for people with a little more body than they want to show."

"Oh, Maggie, just get one of those tankini things," put in Stacey LeCroix, who helped Jessica with both her B and B and the designing she did, both sidelines, since Jessica's real livelihood came as a practicing psychologist. Stacey was young, cute and thin as a reed.

Maggie sighed. "Honey, a tankini doesn't do a thing in the world for too much rear and thunder thighs."

Jessica couldn't help but laugh as she looked across the table at Sean Canady, Maggie's husband, a tall, well-built man who combined a look of complete authority with a handsome, strikingly rugged face, an asset in his job as a cop. "Please tell your wife she doesn't have thunder thighs."

Sean pushed back a thatch of thick blond hair and looked at his wife. "Maggie, you don't have thunder thighs."

It was a curious complaint, coming from Maggie, who tended to be far more serious and spent her time worrying about the fate of the world. She had been much occupied in the past months dealing with problems in the parish, the "coming back," as they called it, of New Orleans. On top of that, she was a stunning woman with burnished auburn hair and hazel eyes that seemed to flash with gold. She was usually last person to feel insecure about her appearance. Maggie knew there were real evils in the world, but she tried not to worry about the possibilities-natural and otherwise-unless she had to.

Maggie sighed deeply. "Who knows? Maybe I just gained a bit more thigh with each of our three children. But I dream of a comfortable, good-looking bathing suit. Jessica, can't you come up with something? Hey, Jessica-are you with us?"

Jessica started; she had been looking around, certain she would find someone watching her. But no one seemed the least bit interested in her or her table.

Maybe it was just the odd restlessness that had settled over her before she had even reached the club tonight, a restlessness she hadn't been able to understand.

"Um...of course." Jessica said, forcing her attention back to the conversation. "If you want a bathing suit that covers more of you, I can certainly design one for you."

"It's going to make for a really weird tan line," Stacey warned.

Jessica looked at her assistant. Stacey was wonderful. She was a fireball of energy, just over five feet tall, but confident and even fiercely assertive at times-assertive, not aggressive, Stacey had once told her.

"This whole conversation is..." Jessica began, but caught herself before sayinginane . She winced, wondering at the impatience she was feeling. It was as if she needed to be somewhere, doing something, but she had no idea where or what. Maybe she was just on edge about heading out to the conference.

Jessica turned to see a man heading toward them. Bobby Munro, Stacey's latest boyfriend, was one of Sean's fellow cops, tall, dark-haired and good looking.

He nodded at Sean. "Lieutenant."

"Bobby, I thought you had to work," Stacey said.

"I do, private party, around the corner," Bobby said. "I just came to wish Jessica a good trip. And say hello to you, of course." He stood behind Stacey, bent down and kissed the top of her head, then looked at Jessica. "You be careful, huh?"

Jessica groaned.

"It's just a conference," she said. She considered asking the others if they had been seized by any strange feelings, if they felt that eyes were secretively scrutinizing their every move, but forced herself not to. Sean was a cop, for God's sake. If he saw or evenfelt anything, he would certainly say so. She was just on edge because going to a conference in Romania wasn't exactly her usual thing.

Bobby waved and left, and once he was gone, Sean leaned forward again.

"You're awfully tense for someone heading off to a simple professional conference," he said. "Hell, Jessica...it's a foreign country."

"It's not a trip into the deepest jungle, Sean. Romania is very much a part of the modern world," she said.

"We should be going with you."

Jessica waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I-" Stacey began.

"I need you here to take care of things. I'm just going to a conference."

"Still," Sean observed, "you're awfully tense. Do you want a drink?"

"I'm not tense," Jessica informed him quickly. Yes, she realized, she was. She had practically snapped at Sean. She was tense-and she had no idea why. "I'm sorry. It's just that..." She stared at her friends. She just couldn't sit still any longer. She stood suddenly, feigning a yawn. "Guys, excuse me, will you? I leave tomorrow, and I guess I'm a little on edge."

"I knew it." Sean said. "Youare worried about your trip."

"No, just antsy, I guess. But I think I'll head home," Jessica said.

"I think I'll leave, too," Stacey said, rising. "It's too bad you're not going on a real vacation. You need one. You aren't yourself tonight. Maybe psychologists need psychologists more than anyone else. Maybe you should be taking a trip to a mountain cabin. This is just more pressure, and very strange. I mean, seriously, who ever heard of a psychologists' convention in Romania?"

"I'm an experienced traveler, so don't worry about me. This will be almost like a vacation, I'll do all kinds of wonderful touristy things," Jessica assured her.

"Will you go to Dracula's castle, walk in the mist-shrouded woods and listen for werewolves?" Maggie asked.

"Exactly," Jessica said, smiling. "I'll be back in a week."

Sean laughed. "I hardly think Jessica needs to worry about vampires and werewolves. For God's sake, she's from New Orleans, land of voodoo-and all the crazies whothink they're zombies and vampires."

"He has a point," Jessica assured Maggie.

"I know, it's just that...I don't know. I just don't like it."

"I'm going, and it's going to be a great experience. I'm grateful you all care. I love you, and good night." Jessica hugged them all, then left, walking past the stage on her way out. She lifted a hand and waved to Big Jim, the trumpet player.

He was a huge man, his skin was like ebony, yet he played his instrument with a delicacy that belied his size. There was an angel's touch in his music. He also had great instincts about people and situations, perhaps handed down by his family, many of whom were known in the local voodoo community.

Like Sean and Maggie, he'd befriended her when she'd first moved to the parish. He looked at her now, shaking his head with a sigh. Then he quietly mouthed the words to her, "Be careful."

She mouthed in reply, "Always."

He still didn't look happy. But then, Big Jim's mother had been a voodoo priestess, and he was a definite believer that things weren't always what they seemed. She lowered her head, hiding the secret grin that teased her lips. Bless him. He was such a good guy. Just like a big brother.

Band member Barry Larson, lanky, in his thirties, a transplant from somewhere in the Midwest, covered his mike with his free hand. "Hey, gorgeous. You have a good trip and come home safe, okay?"

"Of course."

He smiled deeply. He was nice, a little bit geeky. She'd been afraid when she first met him that he'd had something of a crush on her, but he'd never said anything and over time had become a good friend.

She left the club, glad that the French Quarter was back to its busy, even a little bit crazy, self. It was just around eleven, a time when the streets were at their busiest. She quickly walked the three blocks to her house, then, at her gates, paused for a minute. There was a stirring in the air. Rain tomorrow, she thought, and looked up at the sky.

She didn't like what she saw. As she hurried toward the front door, she reminded herself that Gareth Miller was in the cottage at the rear, once the old smokehouse. Gareth was great. In return for a place to live, he kept an eye on the place, and on her and Stacey. He was a quiet man, kind of like a reticent hippie, with his slight slouch and longish, clean but unkempt hair.

He was another of the good friends she'd made here, and her home was safe in his keeping.

Even so, she paused again halfway up the walkway, staring heavenward. Again the sense of urgency assailed her, a feeling that she needed to be moving quickly.

Maybe they're right. Maybe I do need a real vacation, she thought. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.

She almost laughed aloud at the idea of a vacation when she was feeling this terrible need to hurry, to get ahead of something....

Of someone?

Too bad. There was nothing she could do about it now. The plane would leave the next day, and she would be on it.

Jessica couldn't sleep. She lay on her bed, strangely aware of time passing.

In the middle of the night, she walked outside to her balcony, which faced the street. She loved her house, and it was sheer luck that she'd been able to buy it. Amazingly, the winds and flooding from hurricane Katrina that had devastated so much of the parish had done very little damage to the Quarter or her house. The house was quite large, and she was able to keep it because, with Stacey's help, she ran it as a very selective bed-and-breakfast. Her practice, which she ran out of the house, was a good one; in psychology, she had found the perfect vocation. And, on the side, she designed one-of-a-kind costumes for various Mardi Gras krewes.

From a distance, she could very faintly hear the sounds of music and laughter, carried on the breeze from the French Quarter.

She looked at the sky again. Absurdly, it appeared as if there was a hint of red in the night air. A hint of red that seemed to grow stronger as she watched and the darkness seemed to take almost physical form around her.

"Ridiculous," she told herself.

She imagined herself with a shrink. "I don't actually see the dark...Ifeel it."

For a moment, a chill seized her as the darkness seemed to loom, like a hint, a warning. A deep red darkness...

It made her feel as if she was being hunted. Stalked.

She stepped back into her room, locking the balcony doors, trying to fight the feeling.

But she was oddly afraid. As she hadn't been in ages.

She stayed awake, staring at the sky, certain the darkness was turning a still deeper red as she watched.

Her friends had felt it, too, she thought. That was why they've been so nervous about her trip.

This was ridiculous, she told herself. When the conference had been announced, it had immediately intrigued her. And now she was committed to speak. She had to go, and that was that, even though her initial excitement was gone.

What the hell had changed? she wondered. Or was it all in her mind?

Suddenly, she felt dizzy. The world before her seemed to shift and change. She was no longer in her bedroom but outside, staring up at a high ridge, and atop the ridge stood a man. He was exceptionally tall, a cape billowing around him in the breeze.

And he was the epitome of evil.

Evil that was stalking her. An ancient evil that lurked somewhere in a strange and distant memory that couldn't be.

The Master.

The name flashed unbidden to her mind. She banished it immediately.

The vision faded. She was home again, in her own room, the peace and beauty barely disturbed by distant sounds from the street, the scent of magnolia blossoms heavy on the air.

She was losing her mind, she told herself impatiently. She needed some sleep.

The next day, alighting in Romania, she felt a chill the minute her feet touched the ground.

A disembodied voice announced arrivals and departures in a multitude of languages. The bright lights of the airport were all around her.

Yet she felt as if the world had darkened behind her, as if a shadow were following her. As she walked toward Customs, she stopped, swinging around, certain that footsteps right behind her were closing in on her. Panic almost overwhelmed her. She was convinced she was being followed, that she could feel hot breath-fetid breath-at her nape. Chills shivered up her spine.

She thought she heard her name whispered by a deep, mocking voice.

But when she turned, there was no one near her. Busy people, bored, anxious, were hurrying through the airport. No one seemed interested in her at all.

It was night again before she reached her final destination. And there, in the exquisite historic hotel, she felt the darkness again as she walked to her room.

She locked the door securely behind her, then waited, afraid, watching the door, wanting to believe she had worked with one too many an antisocial paranoid and their fears had simply rubbed off on her.

Nothing.

She turned away.

Then there was a sound, a clicking, as if someone were trying the door. And again, the whisper in her mind of her name. And something more.

Laughter.

You can't hide. Wherever you go, I will find you....

"Are you coming with us?" Mary demanded, her expression seductive as she sat on the edge of Jeremy's bed at the former seventeenth-century monastery, now a youth hostel, where they were staying. "I can't believe I got the invite. Some girl on the street just came up to me and started talking. It's aprivate club. There's not even a sign on the door. She says people will be there from all over Europe. It's in the ruins of some old cathedral. There was a Hungarian couple in the cafe, and they said it's almost impossible to get into the local club scene, especially the "castle" vampire parties. ButI got an invitation. And get this. They supposedly brought in a famous dominatrix to be the hostess. Celebrities even come to Transylvania to show up at these parties. I guarantee you, it's the coolest thing we'll do all year."

Mary was gorgeous, an energetic pixie with brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of wheat blond hair. Jeremy was old enough, however, to know that going out withhim hadn't suddenly become the focus of her life. She wanted to get into this club, but she was scared, and she wanted friends with her.

In high school, he might have dropped everything to do what she wanted. Though he'd never been a first-string player, he'd made his way onto the football team just because she was a cheerleader. He'd learned the guitar because she loved musicians. He'd never set out to be one of the in-crowd, but somehow, in his quest for her approval, he'd become one. He'd kept his own brand of morality, though, and that had somehow made him more desirable-to all the girls but Mary.

He had to admit, he'd chosen to attend Tulane, in New Orleans, largely because of her. But he was past that. He was twenty-two, ready to graduate-with honors-and either accept a decent job offer, or head off to grad school. He had gained four inches since his eighteenth birthday, and time spent in the college gym had actually given him shoulders and a chest. He was serious and studious, something Mary had always teased him about, but something other girls seemed to appreciate. Once, he had worshiped Mary, now he saw her from a clearer perspective, but he still loved her, just more realistically, so he'd agreed to join her on this trip for their last spring break. Still, this wasn't exactly like visiting England, or even France or Italy.

This was Transylvania. They had started in Bucharest, explored Walachia before heading into Sighisoara and dining in the ancient home-now a restaurant-where Vlad Tepes, the man who'd become known as Dracula, had been born. They had strolled medieval towns, visited dozens of churches, heard about history and architecture. Their guides had all spoken English. The Romanians were no fools. Americans were willing to spend lots of money to travel, to feel a part of myth and mystery-and buy souvenirs.

There were twenty students in their group, and luckily everyone got on well. Even better, they had crossed paths with an international convention of psychologists a few days earlier, and one of them was Jessica Fraser, who he'd met when she'd given a lecture at school. She had spent her free afternoon with them, and even claimed to remember meeting him. He had to admit, he'd developed a little bit of a crush on her. In fact, compared to her, Mary had started to seem kind of shallow and not at all interesting.

He had an uneasy feeling about this invitation of hers, too. He'd heard a little about the kind of parties she was talking about. Rumor had it that on top of the usual bondage scene, they were run by a group of people who actually believed that they were vampires.

"Mary, I don't like it."

"Don't be a wuss, Jeremy. I'm a journalism major. Think what I can do with this story."

Mary's idea of journalism had landed them in several uncomfortable situations already. For about six months, he'd had an out, because he'd gotten into a serious relationship with a pretty English major. But she'd left the school when her mother got sick, and never returned. They had called each other every night for a while. Then the calls had become fewer and fewer. Even their e-mails had dwindled, until they'd finally drifted completely apart.

So here he was in Transylvania, and here was Mary, ready to use him again. No, that wasn't fair, he told himself. She'd always been a good friend.

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

She laughed. "Oh, Jeremy. Come on. You've been mourning Melissa too long. What's the matter? Are you afraid you might get laid?"

"Mary," he murmured. He hated it when she talked that way, no matter how liberated the world was supposed to be.

"Please, Jeremy. I've read up the recent surge of private sex clubs-there was an article in the paper a few months back about one right in New Orleans. No sign on the door. People come from all over, because they can do what they want to do there."

"Yeah. Have silly rituals and slice their thumbs and suck each other's blood. That's pathetic, Mary."

"No, it's not. No one is allowed to push anyone else into doing anything they don't want to do. The woman who wrote the article said she wasn't hit on as much there as at a bar."

"Maybe she's old and ugly. And if there was already an article-"

Mary sighed. "Jeremy, I want to take this story national. An expose-what's going on here and in the States. Look, I'm going, with or without you. I won't be going alone. Nancy agreed to come. But we need a guy. I mean, we'd like to have a guy with us. And, if you don't go, what are you going to do? Play some dumb computer game all night?"

"Mary, I designed that game, and it's going to get me a good job."

To his amazement, she took his hands, pleading. "I want this story so badly, Jeremy. Please."

"All right, fine. I'll go."

She jumped up, a brilliant smile on her face. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. Ever."

"Listen, Mary, when I say we have to leave-"

"We leave. Fine. Now, quit worrying. I always land on my feet."

"How do we get there?" he demanded.

"It's too cool. We head up that path toward the mountain, and we get picked up by a carriage." Mary shook her head, smiling. "I still don't know why that girl invitedme . I guess I'm just lucky."

I guess you're just beautiful, he thought.

But he wanted her to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. He'd go, but he still didn't like it.

He was still unhappy when Mary went to her room to change for the night. While she was gone, he went outside. The psychologists were all in the restored judicial palace across the street, now a four-star hotel.

He walked into the lobby and asked for Jessica Fraser, but she was already out for the evening.

What the hell was making him so uneasy?

Nervous enough that he wouldn't dream of letting Mary go alone.

And nervous enough to dread the fact he was going to go.

He hesitated, then left a note.

A precaution.

Someone needed to know where they had gone.