All the way home, I was practically gasping for breath. Which, as I didn't need to breathe, made me dizzy. So I held my breath for five minutes, trying to calm down. It worked. A little.

Nick knew? A Minneapolis detective knew I was a vampire, that my runaway groom was a vampire? How many other cops knew? Even if he was the only one (and one was waaay too many), what if he found out about Antonia the werewolf, assuming the walkabout wench ever came back? And Garrett? And if Jessica got worse or-oh God please no-died, what was he going to do? What the fuck was I going to do?

Mojoing him was out. Sinclair's clearly hadn't taken. Or had taken for a while and then worn off.

II why? Sinclair was a pretty damned powerful vampire-old, and the king besides.

I took a yellow light way too fast, remembered Babyjon trapped-I mean strapped-in the car seat behind me, and slowed to a reasonable speed.

Why had Sinclair's "you are getting very sleepy" routine worn off? He could make people forget their own mothers. Was it because-it couldn't be. Naw. That was idiocy and worse, ego.

But. . . well, I couldn't shake the idea that because the long-prophesied queen of the vampires (moi) had gotten to Nick first, Sinclair never had a chance. That lie maybe fixed it for a while, but my power was too strong, and eventually Nick remembered.

Naw. That was too conceited, even for me.

Although it was pretty much the only thing that made sense, unless Nick had been lying about Jess not telling him. And I knew in my dead heart that Jessica would set herself on fire before telling my secrets.

Sure, the Book of the Dead prophesied that I would be the strongest, coolest, most badass vampire in a thousand years, but I still had trouble actually grasping it, you know? Shit, sixteen months ago I was a secretary dreading her thirtieth birthday. But the Book had been right about everything else. So why not this?

Which meant, maybe the way to fix this was to mojo Nick myself.

Except I wasn't sure I dared. For one thing, he would be ready for that-for me.

For another, I wasn't keen on mind-raping my best friend's boyfriend.

And for another, what right did I have to wipe anybody's brain, even if it was dangerous not to? I wasn't God. I was just me, Betsy, one-time secretary and part-time vampire and soon-to-be married woman.

I screeched into my driveway, decamped with Babyjon, hustled through the front door and up the stairs to his nursery. Changed him, fed him, burped him, all the while trying to figure out what to do about Nick. And Jessica. And Sinclair. And Antonia. And-

The door chimes rang, and I leapt out of the rocking chair, gaining another gasping burp from my brother. I plopped him into the crib (it was 6:30 p.m.-time for his mid-afternoon nap) and hustled down the stairs.

Yippee! Who would it be? Did Garrett eat his key again so they couldn't get to it? Had Sinclair sent flowers? Was Nick waiting on the porch with a twelve gauge shotgun? Was it my mom? (I would consider listening to an apology.) Had Marc escaped the clutches of whatever madman had snatched him from his shift at the ER? Had Tina's coffin been rolled in from the airport? And would I have to sign for it? Was Laura stopping by with her usual sweetness to offer condolences and offer to take Babyjon off my hands?

Who cared? It was somebody, by God. I wasn't going to be rattling around the house by myself a minute longer, and that was cause for a Hallelujah brother!

I yanked the door open, a cry of welcome (or "Holster that sidearm, Nick") on my lips. I had just enough time to register the gleam of a wedding ring, as a fist the size of both of mine smashed into my face, knocking me back into the foyer.