I was so used to pouring out my troubles to Jessica-I'd been doing it since seventh grade-that I was actually shocked to find a bunch of doctors and nurses clustered around her bed. I couldn't even see her, much less talk to her. Not to mention, usually there was just one nurse, and that was only if it was time for a new bag of death.

Nick was standing off to one side, watching with his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles in his cheek jumping.

He saw me and said dully, "They're doing another round of chemo. She's something of a nine-day wonder. Everyone's been invited."

"But-" Shocked, I shifted Babyjon to my other ¦ boulder, for once praying he wouldn't wake up. "But she just had a round of it!"

"It's a hard cancer to kill."

"But-but-I have to tell her. . . um, stuff." Careful, I said to myself. Nick's poor scrambled brains didn't need any more clues that things weren't normal at the House O' Vampires. "I mean, I came to talk to her."

"Well, you can't." Clearly distracted, he ran his hands through his thick blond hair. Even though his black suit was rumpled and he had a ketchup stain on his navy blue shirt, he looked like a million bucks: swimmer's build, long legs, sharp, Norwegian features-cheekbones you could shave with!-and ice blue eyes. Before I'd died, he'd been the closest thing to a boyfriend I'd had for years. And we hadn't been that close, frankly. Friendly, not friends.

See, the Fiends had attacked me outside of Kahn's Mongolian Barbeque (this was long before I knew what a Fiend was). And like a good citizen, I reported the assault to the police. Nick had helped me look through mug shots, and we'd shared a Milky Way. That was it. The big romance. It was only after I rose from the dead (after getting creamed by a Pontiac Aztec) that I put two and two together.

Not that Nick knew any of this, and not that I had any plans to enlighten the good detective.

"They're not letting anybody talk to her," he was saying, bringing me back to the present with a yank. "But I want to talk to you."

My heart instantly went out to him. Sure, I loved Jessica as much as I loved Sinclair and Manolo Blahniks. But she and Nick had gotten pretty tight over the last few months. This couldn't be easy for him, either.

"Sure, Nicky, honey." I took his elbow and led him out into the hall. "What's on your mind?"

"In here," he said, gesturing to another room. I stepped in after him and saw it was an empty patient's room. "Put the baby on the bed."

Somewhat puzzled, I did so. Babyjon never twitched, bless him. Maybe Nick needed a hug? Maybe-oh God no-he was going to make a pass at me? Maybe he was only going out with Jessica because he couldn't have me! Oh my God! Like things couldn't get worse! Should I let him? Should I knock him out? Should I kill him and tell Jessica he got hit by a bus?

I turned to him and began, "Nick, listen, I don't think you're in your right-"

I stopped talking as I realized something cold and hard was pressed under my chin.

His nine millimeter Sig Sauer. (There were advantages to growing up with a mother who was an expert in small arms.)

"You're not going out with Jessica to get to me, are you?" I managed, so totally shocked that he had drawn his police-issued firearm and tucked it under my chin before I had time to realize that I couldn't move, much less slap the gun away. I was more shocked by the look in his eyes: flat rage.

"Betsy. I like you a lot. Even before you died, I liked you. But if you let Jessica die of this thing, I will shoot you in the face. I'll empty the whole clip between your pretty green eyes. I don't know much about vampires, but I bet it'll be tough for you to grow your brain back. Such as it is."

My jaw sagged in shock; the gun never wavered. "You-you knew?" Once Jessica got over the new chemo round, I was going to kill her! "And what's that supposed to mean, 'such as it-

"Of course I knew," he said impatiently. "I've known since that taxi driver gave his report-you remember. About a gorgeous blond woman who chased off a vampire and picked his car up with two fingers?"

"But-but-but-"

"Why didn't I say anything? Because you all took such great pains to keep it from me. If Jessica had wanted me to know, she would have told me. And I was content to wait. And then this-this thing happened to her. And that was the end of the waiting. So in case you missed it the first time: if you sit by and let this happen, I will make you regret the day you ever met me."

"Already regretting," I gurgled, since he was digging the barrel of his gun pretty tightly into my chin. "I already asked her if I could turn her."

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for? For her to vomit until she dies like Karen Carpenter? For her to be more miserable? For her to rupture the lining of her throat? For the chemo to kill more healthy cells?"

"Owwwww!" I complained, because boy, he was really grinding the Sig into my chin. "I'm not waiting for anything, Detective Demento. She said no. And that was that."

"So? You're stronger, faster than us. You can make us believe something. . . or forget." I should have I been super pissed, but instead I was embarrassed and my heart actually flipped over in my chest. Because he sounded bitter, so bitter.

He leaned forward until our eyes were about four niches apart. Mine were wide, I knew, with amazement. His were slits of blue fire. "I thought I was going crazy, you know? Kept dreaming about you for months. Dreaming about you biting me and me. . . liking. . . it. Needing it."

"I didn't know," I said faintly "I was newborn. Still am. I didn't know what I was doing to you. I'd have given anything to fix it, but I didn't know how. An older vampire fixed it."

"I know who fixed it," he informed me. "I dream about him, too. Dream about blowing his fucking mind-meddling head-peeping brains out. Dream about setting him on fire. Most nights I'm afraid to close my eyes."

"Nick, I'm sorr-"

"Know who fixed that? Your best friend. The one currently engaged in the business of dying. Your hellhound bastard lover fixed me, honey, and you're gonna to fix her ."

I thought about taking the gun away. I could probably do it. Probably. Too bad I had the nasty feeling his finger was white on the trigger. I'd survived arrows to the chest, and a stake to the chest, and even a bullet to the chest. But a Sig Sauer clip to the brain? I had no idea. And I had no plans to find out. The week had been weird enough without getting shot, thanks very much.

And who would take care of Babyjon, if I were left with half a head? I need to write a will, I thought crazily Can I do that, now that I'm dead? Maybe Marjorie can help. But who do I trust to watch Babyjon-

"I'm waiting," he whispered.

"Nick, you've gone seriously nuts, you know?"

"What can I say?" he replied, almost cheerfully. "I'm in love."

"Uh-huh." I thought about mojoing him, except I had my damned sunglasses on. I doubted he'd give me the second I needed to take them off. "Listen, Nick, I already told you twice, I can't-"

He cut me off, smiling. "Are we clear, Betsy? Honey? Deadly sweetheart with a killer figure and long legs and green eyes to get lost in? Are we clear?"

"I hear you, detective. But it's her choice. Not mine. And not yours. So get that peashooter off of me before I make you eat it."

He grinned entirely without humor, but pulled the gun down and holstered it. His eyes were still flat. "Nice seeing you again, Betsy," he said cheerfully, and actually held the door for me as I picked up Babyjon, and scuttled out. I didn't know which was scarier: the Bat rage or the fake (or was it fake?) recovery.

What was going on with everybody?