I'VE JUST STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER WHEN I hear the trill of my cell phone from downstairs.

I choose not to answer it. The way the last couple of days have gone, it can't be anything good. If it's Stephen, he'll leave a message.

Besides, the person I need to talk to right now is Daniel Frey. To tell him of my conversation with Chael and to warn him that the existence of his son is not the well-kept secret he thought it was.

And to broach the subject of the shaman.

To become human again.

The idea fills me with excitement. At the same time, the logical part of my brain screams to put on the brakes. Nothing Chael says can be trusted.

I towel dry my hair, slip into clean clothes and start downstairs.

Then I remember-and retrace my steps to shut and bolt the slider. Of course, any vampire worth his fangs could break that door without breaking a sweat, but may as well not make it too easy.

The message light on my kitchen phone is flashing. My cell phone is chirping. Shit. Whoever is trying to get in touch with me is persistent to say the least.

I ignore the landline and reluctantly pull up the cell's voice mail messages. There are three. The first from a cautiously optimistic David. Test results were negative for STDs and preliminary HIV screenings though those tests have to be repeated in six months. At least he can have sex now. With protection, of course. He's decided not to spill his guts to Miranda.

And, "Oh, by the way, glad you and Tracey are okay. Nice plug for the business."

Plug for the business? I suspect that might have something to do with the newspaper article Chael was reading this morning. Either the reporter connected my name to our business or Tracey mentioned it.

Doesn't matter. The important thing is there is no need to call David back.

The second is from Tracey: checking in to thank me again and to warn me about the press interest in the story. She and her sister were hounded until she finally gave in and arranged a press conference scheduled for this afternoon. Did I want to participate? Might get the hounds off my trail.

This is easy. I send Tracey a text-

Go ahead w/o me. Tell the reporters I've left town.

A finger jab on Send and it's on its way.

The last from Harris. A simple, "Call me."

A finger jab on Delete and that's on its way, too, to the great voice mail landfill in the sky. If Harris really wanted to talk to me, he'd be on my doorstep. There is precedent.

Then I'm on my way out the door. I debate calling Frey first to let him know I'm coming, but he's teaching summer school and if I time it right, I'll catch him before class starts.

IT'S AN ODD FEELING, WALKING ON THE CAMPUS where my mother was principal until her resignation a few months ago. Eerie because of the quiet. There are only a handful of classes offered during summer session; budget cutbacks trimmed all but the essentials. Frey's English Lit class is offered because of demand. He's such a popular teacher, even six classes a day during the regular school year can't accommodate all the students who want to take it.

It's not quite eight, but as I suspected, Frey is already on campus, cloistered in his cubbyhole of an office at the front of the room.

Memories flood back as I watch him. He isn't aware of my presence, his alf turned to the door as he pores over papers on his desk, a pencil in one hand, a mug in the other. It was at that desk I first learned that Frey was a shape-shifter and exactly what that meant. I hadn't been a vampire very long and everything about my new existence was frighteningly exotic, including the knowledge that creatures like Frey, a panther in his other shape, and like me, walk among mortals undetected. I soon learned though, that while there is plenty of evil in the world, Frey is one of the good guys.

He should be able to sense my presence. Like Culebra, he should be able to read my thoughts and I, his. But I broke our psychic connection when I attacked him months ago. I thought he was an enemy. I was wrong. Now the link that binds us is more human than supernatural-it's friendship.

I tilt my head, study him. Frey is handsome, fortysomething, his dark hair touched on the sides with gray. He has a quality about him-trustworthy, strong. Must be that square jaw, those serious dark eyes. It's no wonder he's so popular with his students. I imagine he has to fend off at least one serious crush a semester. And not only from female students. I wonder how his girlfriend Layla handles the competition.

Chael's face swims to the surface of my consciousness, chasing away such mundane musings and bringing me sharply back to the reason for this visit.

I walk up behind Frey and tap his shoulder. I should have made more noise. He is so startled he jumps to his feet, sending the chair flying and a stream of coffee sloshing over the sides of the mug and onto the desk. When he sees me, those serious dark eyes flash with anger.

"Jesus, Anna. Where did you come from?"

"So much for catlike reflexes." I grab up a bunch of napkins piled beside the coffeemaker on his bookcase and use them to sop up the mess on the desk. "What were you working on with such concentration?"

He pushes my hand away and takes over clean up. "Final exam essays. One of which"-he holds up an inkblurred, coffee-stained page-"is ruined. Now what?"

"That lucky kid gets an A."

Frey shoots me a look of exasperation, but the anger soon passes and a smile cracks the shell of irritation. He tosses the napkins into a trash can near the office door and comes around the desk.

"Wondered when you'd drop in." He peers into my face. "Are you all right?"

My back stiffens. Why does everyone keep asking me that?

Frey sees the reaction. "Got asked that a lot lately, huh?"

"Too damned many times."

He leans back against the filing cabinet. "Well, maybe if you didn't shut yourself off from your friends, we wouldn't have to ask."

There is a sharp edge to his tone. I deserve it. He's right. Two months ago, he put his own life on hold to help me prepare to meet my destiny. Except for a brief phone call to let him know I survived, we haven't spoken since.

I try to make light of the situation. "I figured after being cloistered with me for three days, you'd be happy not to hear from me for awhile. I'm sure Layla was."

Frey's expression changes, aggravation to a look I recognize. I wince. "Uh-oh. What's up? Trouble in paradise?"

His eyes slide away.

Guilt wiggles its niggling little fingers. "Because of me?"

Frey moves again, back to his chair behind his desk. "We're taking a break."

"Because of me." No question this time.

"Because of a lot of things."

Vague. Shit.

"I'm sorry, Frey."

He meets my eyes this time. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. We both did what needed to be done. If Layla can't accept our friendship . . ."

He leaves the sentence unfinished, words fading away like smoke in a breeze.

His eyes, though, are sad, and I know in spite of what he said, I am the reason for their breakup. I don't know what to say or do. I never liked Layla, but he obviously did.

I wish I were more like my mother. She would know how to comfort him. I lack those instincts. A physical threat I know how to handle. An emotional hurt, my head swims with indecision. I can only stand here like a fucking idiot and stare.

"Well," I say in a stammering attempt to jump-start the conversation. "There is a reason I'm here. I have something I need to discuss with you."

He glances behind me into the classroom and checks his watch. "The bell is going to ring in ten minutes. Can it wait until after class?"

For the first time I'm aware of shuffling feet outside the office door. Students are filing into the room. "Sure. I'll wait for you in the parking lot. We can go to the cottage."

He picks up a pair of glasses from the desk and waggles them at me. "No need to wait. I'll meet you there. I drive now."

The only carryover between Frey's physical and metaphysical selves is the feline inability to distinguish a broad spectrum of colors. Made driving difficult. Layla (also a feline shape-shifter) came up with a special lens that corrects the defect.

I acknowledge the glasses with nod. At least he has something to show for the broken relationship. Something other than a broken heart.