RICH PEOPLE AREN'T NICER - THEY JUST HAVE BETTER CARS

My parents were new-money Chicago.

My grandfather, Chuck Merit, had served the city for thirty-four years as a cop - walking a beat in Chicago's South Side until he joined the CPD's Bureau of Investigative Services. He was a legend in the Chicago Police Department.

But while he brought home a solid middle-class living, things were occasionally tight for the family. My grandmother came from money, but she'd turned down an inheritance from her overbearing, old-Chicago-money-having father. Although it was her decision, my father blamed my grandfather for the fact that he wasn't raised in the lifestyle to which he thought he should have been accustomed. Burned by the imagined betrayal and irritated by a childhood of living carefully on a cop's salary, my father made it his personal goal to accumulate as much money as possible, to the exclusion of everything else.

He was very, very good at it.

Merit Properties, my father's real estate development company, managed high-rises and apartment complexes throughout the city. He was also a member of the powerful Chicago Growth Council, which was made up of representatives of the city's business community and which advised the city's newly reelected mayor, Seth Tate, on planning and development issues. My father took great pride in, and often remarked upon, his relationship with Tate. Frankly, I just thought that reflected poorly on the mayor.

Of course, because I'd grown up a Chicago Merit, I'd been able to reap the benefits that came with the name - big house, summer camp, ballet lessons, nice clothes. But while the financial benefits were great, my parents, especially my father, were not the most compassionate people. Joshua Merit wanted to create a legacy, all else be damned. He wanted the perfect wife, the perfect children, and the perfect position among Chicago's social and financial elite. Little wonder that I worshipped my grandparents, who understood the meaning of unconditional love.

I couldn't imagine my father was going to be happy about my new vampiric identity. But I was a big girl, so after I washed my face of tears, I got into my car - an old boxy Volvo I'd scrimped to pay for - and drove to their home in Oak Park.

When I arrived, I parked the Volvo in the drive that arced in front of the house. The building was a massive postmodern concrete box, completely out of place next to the more subtle Prairie Style buildings around it. Money clearly did not buy taste.

I walked to the front door. It was opened before I could knock. I glanced up. Dour gray eyes looked down at me from nearly seven feet of skinny white guy. "Ms. Merit."

"Hello, Peabody."

"Pennebaker."

"That's what I said." Of course I knew his name. Pennebaker, the butler, was my father's first big purchase. Pennebaker had a "spare the rod" mentality about child rearing and always took my father's side - snooping, tattling, and generally sparing no details about what he imagined was my rebellious childhood. Realistically, I was probably lower than average in the rebellion department, but I had perfect siblings - my older sister, Charlotte, now married to a heart surgeon and pumping out children, and my older brother, Robert, who was being groomed to take over the family business. As a single twenty-seven-year-old graduate student, even though studying at one of the best universities in the country, I was a second-class Merit. And now I was coming home with a big ol' nasty.

I walked inside, feeling the woosh of air on my back as Pennebaker shut the door firmly behind me and then stepped in front of me.

"Your parents are in the front parlor," he intoned. "You are expected. They've been unduly concerned about your welfare. You worry your father with these" - he looked down disdainfully - "things you get involved in."

I took offense to that, but opted not to correct his misunderstanding of the degree to which I'd consented to being changed. He wouldn't have believed me anyway.

I walked past him, following the hallway to the front parlor and pushing open the room's top-hinged door. My mother, Meredith Merit, rose from one of the room's severe boxy sofas. Even at eleven p.m., she wore heels and a linen dress, a strand of pearls around her neck. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed, her eyes pale green.

Mom rushed to me, hands extended. "You're okay?" She cupped my cheeks with long- nailed fingers and looked me over. "You're okay?"

I smiled politely. "I'm fine." Relative to their understanding, that was true.

My father, tall and lean like me, with the same chestnut hair and blue eyes, was on the opposite sofa, still in a suit despite the hour. He looked at me over half-cocked reading glasses, a move he might as well have borrowed from Helen, but it was no less effective on a human than a vampire. He snapped closed the paper he'd been reading and placed it on the couch beside him.

"Vampires?" He managed to make the single word both a question and an accusation.

"I was attacked on campus."

My mother gasped, clutched a hand to her heart, and looked back at my father. "Joshua! On campus! They're attacking people!"

My father kept his gaze on me, but I could see the surprise in his eyes. "Attacked?"

"I was attacked by one vampire, but a different vampire turned me." I recalled the few words I'd heard, the fear in the voice of Ethan Sullivan's companion. "I think the first one ran away, was scared away, and the second ones were afraid I was going to die." Not quite the truth - the companion feared it might happen; Sullivan seemed supremely confident it would. And that he could alter my fate when it did.

"Two sets of vampires? At U. of C.?"

I shrugged, having wondered the same thing.

My father crossed his legs. "And speaking of, why, in God's name, were you wandering around campus by yourself in the middle of the night?"

A spark fired in my stomach. Anger, maybe mixed with a hint of self-pity, not uncommon emotions when it came to dealing with my father. I usually played meek, fearful that raising my voice would push my parents to voice their own long-lived desires for a different younger daughter. But to everything, there is a season, right?

"I was working."

His responsive huff said plenty.

"I was working," I repeated, twenty-seven years of pent-up assertiveness in my tone. "I was heading to pick up some papers, and I was attacked. It wasn't a choice, and it wasn't my fault. He tore out my throat."

My father scanned the clear skin at my throat and looked doubtful - God forbid a Merit, a Chicago Merit, couldn't stand up for herself - but he forged ahead. "And this Cadogan House. They're old, but not as old as Navarre House."

Since I hadn't yet mentioned Cadogan House, I assumed whoever had called my parents mentioned the affiliation. And my father had apparently done some research.

"I don't know much about the Houses," I admitted, thinking that was more Mallory's arena.

My father's expression made it clear that he wasn't satisfied by my answer. "I only got back tonight," I said, defending myself. "They dropped me off at the house two hours ago. I wasn't sure if you'd heard from anyone or thought I was hurt or something, so I came by."

"We got a call." His tone was dry. "From the House. Your roommate - "

"Mallory," I interrupted. "Her name is Mallory."

" - told us when you didn't come home. The House called and informed us that you'd been attacked. They said you were recuperating. I contacted your grandfather and your brother and sister, so there was no need to contact the police department." He paused. "I don't want them involved in this, Merit."

The fact that my father was unwilling to investigate the attack on his daughter notwithstanding, my scars were gone anyway. I touched my neck. "I think it's a little late for the police."

My father, evidently unimpressed by my forensic analysis, rose from the couch and approached me. "I've worked hard to bring this family up from nothing. I will not see it torn down again." His cheeks were flushed crimson. My mother, who'd moved to stand at his side, touched his arm and quietly said his name.

I bristled at the "again," but resisted the urge to argue with my father's assessment of our family history, reminding him, "Becoming a vampire wasn't my choice."

"You've always had your head in the clouds. Always dreaming about romantic gibberish." I assumed that was a knock against my dissertation. "And now this." He walked away, strode to a floor-to-ceiling window, and stared out of it. "Just - stay on your side of town. And stay out of trouble."

I thought he was done, that the admonishment was the end of it, but then he turned, and gazed at me through narrowed eyes. "And if you do anything to tarnish our name, I'll disinherit you fast enough to make your head spin."

My father, ladies and gentlemen.

By the time I made it back to Wicker Park, I was red-eyed and splotchy again, having cried my way east. I didn't know why my father's behavior surprised me; it was completely in keeping with his principal goal in life: improving his social standing. My near-death experience and the fact that I'd become a bloodsucker weren't as important in his tidy little world as the threat I posed to their status.

It was late when I pulled the car into the narrow garage beside the house - nearly one a.m. The brownstone was dark, the neighborhood quiet, and I guessed Mallory was asleep in her upstairs bedroom. Unlike me, she still had a job at her Michigan Avenue ad firm, and she was usually in the Loop by seven a.m. But when I unlocked the front door, I found her on the couch, staring blankly at the television.

"You need to see this," she said, without looking up. I kicked off the heels, walked around the sofa to the television, and stared. The headline at the bottom of the screen read, ominously, Chicagoland vamps deny role in murder.

I looked at Mallory. "Murder?"

"They found a girl dead in Grant Park. Her name is Jennifer Porter. Her throat was ripped out. They found her tonight, but think she was killed a week ago - three days before you were attacked."

"Oh, my God." I dropped onto the sofa behind me, pulled up my knees. "They think vamps did this?"

"Watch," Mallory said.

On screen, four men and a woman - Celina Desaulniers - stood behind a wooden podium.

A swath of print and broadcast reporters huddled before it, their microphones, cameras, recorders, and notepads in hand.

In perfect sequence, the quintet stepped forward.

The man in the middle of the group, tall with a spill of dark hair around his shoulders, leaned over the microphone.

"My name," he said, in a wine-warm voice, "is Alexander. These are my friends and associates. As you know, we are vampires."

The room erupted in flashes of light, reporters frantically snapping images of the ensemble. Seemingly oblivious to the flash of the strobes, they stood stoically, side by side, perfectly still.

"We are here," Alexander said, "to extend our deepest sympathies to the family and friends of Jennifer Porter, and to promise to do our part to assist the Chicago Police Department and other law enforcement agencies in any way that we can. We offer our aid and condemn the acts of those who would take human life. There is no need for such violence, and it has long been abhorred by the civilized among us. As you know, although we must take blood to survive, we have long-established procedures that prevent us from victimizing those who do not share our craving. Murder is perpetrated only by our enemies. And rest assured, my friends, they are your enemies and ours, alike."

Alexander paused, but then continued, his voice edgier. "It has come to our attention that a pendant from one of Chicago's Houses, Cadogan, was found at the crime scene."

"Oh, my God," Mallory whispered.

I kept my eyes on the screen.

"Although our comrades from Cadogan House do drink from humans," Alexander continued, "they are meticulous in ensuring that the humans who donate blood are fully informed and fully consenting. And Chicago's other vampires do not, under any circumstances, take human blood. Thus, it is our belief, although only a hypothesis at this early time, that the medal was placed at the scene of the crime solely to inculpate the residents of Cadogan House. To suggest otherwise is unjustified supposition."

Without another word, Alexander fell back in line next to his comrades.

Celina stepped forward. At first, she was silent, her gaze scanning the reporters in front of her. She smiled softly, and you could practically hear the reporters' sighs. But the innocence in her expression was a little too innocent to be believable. A little too forced.

"We are devastated by the death of Jennifer Porter," she said, "and by the accusations that have been leveled against our colleagues. Although Navarre House vampires do not drink, we respect the decisions of other Houses to engage in that practice. The resources of Navarre House are at the city's disposal. This crime offends us all, and Navarre House will not rest until the killer is caught and prosecuted."

Celina nodded at the bank of reporters, then turned and walked offscreen, the rest of her vampires falling in line behind her.

Mallory muted the television and turned back to me. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

"They say the Houses aren't involved," I pointed out.

"She says Navarre isn't involved," Mallory said. "She seems pretty willing to throw the other Houses to the wolves. And besides, vampires were involved when you turned up almost dead. A vampire attacked you. That's too many fangs to be coincidental."

I caught the direction of her thoughts. "You think I'm, what, number two? That I was supposed to be the second victim?"

"You were the second victim," she said. She used the remote to turn off the television. "And I think it's an awfully big coincidence that your throat was ripped out on campus. It's not exactly a park, but it's close enough. Look," she said, pointing back at the television.

A picture of Jennifer Porter, a small shot from an ID card, filled the screen. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, just like me.

We shared a moment of silence.

"And speaking of heinous people," Mallory finally said, "how was the visit home?" Mallory had met my parents only once, when I couldn't hold off an introduction any longer. She'd just adopted the blue-hair regimen. Needless to say, they weren't impressed. Creativity, even if benign, was not tolerated in the Merit house. After the one visit, during which Mal had barely avoided socking my father in the jaw, I decided not to force them on her again.

"Not great."

"I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "My expectations were low going in, just not as low as they should have been." I took a long look at the giant leather Canon on top of the coffee table, then reached out and pulled it into my lap. "They were concerned, I guess, but mostly I got a lecture about embarrassing the family." I put my hands in the air, waggled my fingers for dramatic effect. "You know, the Chicago Merits. Like that means anything."

Mallory snorted softly. "Unfortunately, it does mean something. You only have to look at the Trib to know that. Did you go see your grandpa?"

"Not yet."

"You need to."

"I will," I quickly replied, "when I'm up to it."

"Bullshit," she said, grabbing the cordless phone from its cradle next to the couch. "He's more of a father to you than Joshua ever was. And you know he's always up. Call him." She handed the receiver over, and I clutched it, stared down at the rubbery blue buttons.

"Damn it," I muttered, but punched in his number. I lifted the phone to my ear, clenching my hand to control the shaking, and silently prayed that he could be understanding. The phone rang three times before the machine kicked on.

"Hi, Grandpa," I said at the beep. "It's Merit. I wanted to let you know I'm home and I'm okay. I'll come over as soon as I can." I hung up the phone and handed the receiver back to Mallory.

"Way to be an adult," she said, reaching across the couch to return it to its cradle.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure I can still kick your ass, undead or not."

She snorted disdainfully. She was quiet for a moment, then cautiously offered, "Maybe something good could come from this."

I slid her a sideways glance. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, maybe you could get laid?"

"Jesus, Mallory. So not the point," I said, but gave her points for the hit on my nonexistent dating life. Mallory blamed the cold spell on me, said I "didn't put myself out there." What was that supposed to mean? I went out. I hung out in coffeehouses, went to English department FACs. Mallory and I went out almost every weekend to catch bands, Chicago being a hub for touring indies. But I also had to focus on finishing my dissertation. I'd assumed there'd be time for boys after. I guess I had an (undead) eternity for it now.

Mallory put an arm around my shoulder, squeezed. "Look. You're a vampire now. A vampire." She looked me over, took in the Cadogan makeover. "They've definitely improved your fashion sense, and pretty soon you'll have this whole goth-chic-undead thing going on."

I lifted brows.

"Seriously. You're tall, smart, pretty. You're like eighty percent legs." She cocked her head and frowned at them. "I hate you a little for that."

"You've got better boobs," I acknowledged. And just as we'd done each time we'd had this boobs-versus-legs conversation, we looked down at our chests. Ogled. Compared. My boobs were fine, if a little on the small side. Hers were perfect.

"So I do," she finally said, but waved a hand dismissively. "But that's beside the point. The point is, you're great-looking, and although it personally irks you, you're the daughter of Joshua Merit. Everyone knows his name. And for all that, you haven't had a date in, what, a year?"

Fourteen months, but who was counting?

"If you're out there doing your hot new vampire thing, it could open up a new world for you."

"Right, Mal. That's a phone call home I'm gonna make." I raised my hand, arched my fingers to mimic a telephone receiver. "Hi, Dad. It's the daughter you barely tolerate. Yeah, I know you're disappointed I'm the walking undead, but vampire guys are seriously hot." I mimicked hanging up the phone. "No, thanks. I'm not going to date a vampire."

She put her head on my shoulder. "Hon, you are a vampire."

I rubbed my temples, which were beginning to throb. "I know, and it sucks. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Mallory sighed impatiently, but didn't say anything else about it. She pushed back into the couch cushions and tapped the cover of the guide to vampire life, still closed in my lap, with a finger. "So, you're going to read it?"

"I should probably understand the ground rules. And since I have all night . . ."

"Well, I don't have all night." She rose and stretched. "I've got to get some sleep. I've got an early meeting. Have fun with your vampire book."

"Night, Mal. Thanks for waiting up."

"No problem. I'll call U of C tomorrow and let you know what they say about reenrolling." She walked out of the room, but peeked back in, her hand wrapped around the oak doorframe. "Just to review, you're pissed about being made a vampire, and we hate this Ethan Sullivan guy, right?"

I thumbed through the Canon's thick, ancient-looking pages, scrolling through the acknowledgments and table of contents, my drifting gaze stilling when I reached the title of chapter two: "Servicing Your Lord."

"Oh, yeah," I assured her. "We hate him."

I slept on the couch, book in my hands. I'd spent the final hours of the evening, long after Mallory had dragged herself upstairs, pouring through the Canon. I was wide- awake for the review, the transition to vampire already reversing my sleep schedule, at least until the wave of exhaustion hit me at sunrise. As dawn approached, I could feel the sun creeping up, preparing to breach the horizon. As it rose, so did the weighty drowsiness. What was it that Carl Sandburg had said about fog? That it crept in like a cat? That was how the exhaustion came. It crept in, silent but assuredly there, and covered me like a heavy velvet blanket.

But where falling asleep was incremental, I woke suddenly, finding myself wrapped in an ancient musty quilt. I unraveled my limbs, and looked out to see Mallory on the love seat in jeans and a Cubs T-shirt, staring at me curiously.

"Were you trying to mummify me?"

"There are windows in the room," she pointed out, "and you were too heavy to get upstairs. I leave you exposed to the sun all day and I definitely don't get this month's rent." She rose, walked closer, and looked me over. "No burns or anything?"

I threw the blanket on the floor and surveyed my body. I was still in the slinky cocktail dress, and the parts of skin that showed looked fine, maybe better than they had before the change. And I felt a helluva lot better than I had the night before, the sluggishness having finally cleared. I was now a healthy bloodsucking vampire. Yay!

"Nah," I told her, sparing her the internal monologue. "I think I'm good. Thanks."

Mallory tapped nails against her thigh. "I think we need to spend a little time tonight, you know, checking you out. Figuring out what we're dealing with, what your needs are. Write down stuff you might need."

I lifted my brows skeptically. Mallory was brilliant, without a doubt. Case in point: She'd landed the job as an advertising executive at McGettrick-Combs right after college -  literally the day after she graduated from Northwestern. Said Mallory: "Mr. McGettrick, I want to work for your firm." Said grumpy, balls-to-the-wall Alec McGettrick: "Be here at eight a.m. Monday morning."

But Mallory was an idea person, not a detail person, which was probably why she was so valuable to Alec and crew. For her to suggest that I make a list - well, that just wasn't typical Mallory.

"You feeling okay, Mal?"

She shrugged. "You're my best friend. Least I can do." Mallory cleared her throat, looked blankly at the wall. "That said, the refrigerator is now filled with blood that was delivered before you woke up, and there's an eight hundred number on the side to order more." Her mouth twitched, and I could tell she was trying not to laugh.

"Why are you chortling at my food?"

She closed her eyes. "The company that does this vampire delivery thing? It's called 'Blood4You.' Unoriginal much? I mean, they've got a captive audience, but still, take your branding seriously, for Christ's sake. They need a new name, new image, repackaging. . . ." Her eyes glazed over, probably as potential logos and mascots danced in her head to the sound track of the jingle she'd no doubt already conceptualized.

"Never mind," she finally said, shaking her head as if to clear it. "I'm not at work. In more important news, I bought a leather curtain for your bedroom. It's huge, so it completely covers the window. That should give you a safe place to crash, although it totally clashes with the decor." She looked critically around the room. "Such as it is."

When Mallory moved in, she hadn't made any changes to the brownstone beyond divvying up bedrooms, stocking the fridge, and adding electronics. So the decor, such as it was, remained Aunt Rose-ish. The woman took her name seriously, and covered virtually every free surface with flowered doilies or throw rugs. Even the wallpaper was dotted with cabbage-sized roses.

"Again, thanks."

"In case it matters, you were actually sleeping."

I grinned at her. "You checked?"

"I held a finger under your nose. I didn't know if you were breathing, or if you just kind of . . . died. Some books say vampires do that, you know, during the day."

And Mallory, being a student of the occult, would know. If she hadn't been so well- matched to her job at a Chicago ad agency, she would have dedicated her life to vampires and the like - and that was even before she knew they were real. As it was, she put in the time during her off-hours. And now she had me, her own little in-house vampire pet. Vampet?

"It felt like sleep," I confirmed, and stood, laying the book on the floor between us and realizing what I was still wearing. "I've been in this dress for twenty-four hours. I need an excruciatingly long shower and a change of clothes."

"Knock yourself out. And don't use all my conditioner, dead girl."

I snorted and walked to the stairs. "I don't know why I put up with you."

"Because someday you want to be as kick-ass cool as me."

"Please. You're a total fang hag."

Laughter issued from the living room. "We're going to have some serious fun with this."

I doubted that, too, but I'd wallowed enough, so I swallowed my doubts and padded upstairs.

I avoided looking at the bathroom mirror just in case, fearful that I'd find no reflection there, but stood beneath the showerhead until the hot water ran out, cherishing the prickles of heat, and thinking about my new . . . existence? Helen had mentioned the basics - stakes, sunlight, blood - but she'd avoided the metaphysics. Who was I? What was I? Soulless? Dead? Undead?

Forcing myself to face at least part of the issue, I brushed a hand over the fogged mirror, praying for a reflection. The steam swirled in the small bathroom, but revealed me, damp and mostly covered by a pink bath sheet, the relief in my expression obvious.

I frowned at the mirror, tried to puzzle out the rest of it. I'd never been explicitly religious. Church, to my parents, was an excuse to show off Prada loafers and their newest Mercedes convertible. But I'd always been quietly spiritual. I tried, my parents notwithstanding, to be grateful for the things I'd been given, to be thankful for the things that reminded me that I was a small cog in a very big wheel: the lake on a moodily cloudy day; the gracious divinity of Elgar's "The Lark Ascending"; the quiet dignity of a Cassat painting at the Art Institute.

So as I shivered, naked and damp, in front of the bathroom mirror, I raised my eyes skyward. "I hope we're still okay."

I got no answer, but then, I didn't really expect one. Answer or not, it didn't matter. That's the thing about faith, I guess.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged downstairs, clean and dry, and back in jeans. I'd settled for a favorite low-waisted pair and teamed it with two thin, layered T-shirts in white and a pale blue that matched my eyes, and a pair of black Mihara Pumas. At three inches short of six feet, I had no need for heels. The only accoutrement missing from the ensemble was the black elastic I kept on my right wrist for hair emergencies. Today, I'd already pulled my dark hair up into a high ponytail, leaving the fringe of straight-cut bangs across my forehead.

I found Mallory downstairs in the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, a Diet Coke on the counter before her, a copy of Cosmo in her hands.

"What'd you learn last night in your vampire bible?" she asked, without looking up.

Preparing myself for the retelling, I nabbed a soda from the refrigerator, popped the tab, and slid onto a stool next to her. "Like Helen said, there're twelve vampire Houses in the United States; three in Chicago. The House arrangement is kind of . . . Well, think feudal England. Except instead of a baron, you've got a Master vampire in charge of everything."

"Ethan," she offered.

I nodded my agreement. "For Cadogan, Ethan. He's the most powerful vamp in the House. The rest of the vampires are basically his minions - we have to take an oath to serve him, swear our allegiance, that kind of thing. He even gets a fancy title."

She looked up, brows lifted.

"He's my 'Liege.' "

Mallory tried unsuccessfully to hide a snicker - which ended up sounding strangled and anemic - before turning back to her magazine. "You have to call Darth Sullivan your 'Liege'?"

I grinned. "Only if I expect him to answer."

She snorted. "What else?"

"The Houses are like" - I paused to think of a good analogy - "company towns. Some vamps work for the House. Maybe guards or public relations folks or whatever. They've got administrators, docs who work outside the House, even some historic positions. All of them get a stipend."

"Historic positions?"

I took a sip of my soda. "Ethan has a 'Second,' like a second-in-command or something."

"Ooh, like Riker?"

Did I mentioned she also loved Star Trek: The Next Generation ? "Sure. There's also a 'Sentinel,' which is like a guard for the House."

"For the brand?"

I nodded at the apt metaphor. "Exactly. And the House itself is in Hyde Park. Think mansion."

Mallory looked appropriately impressed. "Well. If you're going to be attacked and unwillingly made a vampire, let it be a rich and fancy vampire, I guess."

"That's an argument."

"How many Cadogan vamps?"

"Three hundred and eight nationally. Eighty-six actually live in the House proper. They get dorm rooms or something."

"So these vamps live in a mansion-slash-frat house, and you get a stipend just for having pointier teeth." She cocked her head at me. "How much cash is it, exactly?"

"Decent. Better than TA-ing."

"Minus the free will."

"There is that."

Mal cleared her throat, put the can on the counter, linked her hands together, then looked over at me. I guessed I wasn't going to like whatever confession she was about to make.

"I called the university."

The tone of her voice made my heart sink. "Did you tell them none of this was my choice?"

Her gaze dropped to the counter. "Merit, they don't admit vampires. They don't have to do it legally, and they're afraid of the lawsuits if one of you was to, you know" - she frowned, waved a hand in the air - "with the teeth and the biting. Honestly, if Helen hadn't done it, the university would have dropped you when they found out."

That seed of hatred unfolded, sprouted. "But I wouldn't have told them," I persisted. "How else would they have known? I could have rearranged my schedule, taken night classes. . . ."

Mallory shook her head, handed me, with somber expression, a folded newspaper that lay on the tabletop. It was the morning's Trib, open to a page that bore the word "CONGRATULATIONS!" in bold Gothic letters across the top.

I popped the paper open. The banner topped off a full-page ad in the lifestyles section. A list of names, twelve columns of them, a dozen names in each column. The text read: The North American Vampire Registry congratulates the following new Initiates. May your service be fruitful and fulfilling.

I scanned the Houses: Navarre, McDonald, Cabot, Cadogan, Taylor, Lincoln, Washington, Heart, Lassiter, Grey, Murphy, Sheridan. My name was listed in the Cadogan column.

My stomach clenched.

"Some reporters called," Mallory quietly said. "They left messages on the machine. They want to talk to you about being a vampire. A Merit vampire."

"Reporters?" I shook my head and chucked the paper back onto the table. "I can't believe this. I can't believe they'd do this. That they'd out me." I scrubbed hands across my face, tried to contain the anger that was beginning to well.

"Are you okay?" Mallory asked.

I dropped my hands and looked at her, willing her to understand. "I could have pretended, made sure no one knew. All I had to do was take evening classes, which wouldn't have been so hard. My committee would have worked with me. Goddamn it! I didn't even get a chance to try!"

The fury rose, quick, hot, and strong. It itched beneath my skin like my body was one size too small to contain it. Like my body didn't fit. I rolled my shoulders in irritation, the anger still swelling.

I wanted to hit something. Fight something. Bite something. I slowly turned my head, cast a covetous glance at the refrigerator.

"Jesus H., Merit."

I flicked a glance her way. Mallory's eyes were wide, her hands clenched at the edge of the countertop. I heard the quick, flat double-thudding of a drum, and realized it was the thump of her heartbeat.

"What?" I whispered.

She reached out a hand, but snatched it back. "Your eyes. Your irises are completely silver."

I ran from the kitchen to the first-floor bathroom, flipped on the light, and stared at myself. She was right. The blue of my eyes had become gleaming silver, the pupils dilated to pinpricks.

Mallory squeezed into the tiny powder room behind me. "You got angry. It must happen when you get angry."

Angry or thirsty, I silently amended, since I'd just considered drinking blood as a means of stress relief.

"Open your mouth."

My eyes still silver, our gazes met in the mirror. I hesitated for a moment, having to work up the courage for it, knowing what I'd see when I did.

I opened my mouth, saw the fangs that had descended from my upper jaw. My eyeteeth had lengthened, the tips becoming longer, sharper. That must have happened when I'd considered raiding the refrigerator. I'm not sure what it said about who I was now that I hadn't noticed at the time.

I murmured a worried curse.

"Those weren't there before."

"I know," I bit out.

"I'm sorry, but that's wicked fucking cool."

I snapped my mouth shut, and pointed out through a clenched jaw, "Not so cool the first time I get the urge to make you an afternoon snack."

"You wouldn't do that."

Her tone was easy, wholly confident, but I had no such faith. "I hope not."

She picked up a lock of my straight, long hair. "Your hair is darker." She cocked her head at me. "Maybe 'sable,' instead of 'chestnut.' And your skin is paler. You have this kind of . . . undead glow."

I stared at my reflection. She was right - darker hair, paler skin, like the stereotypical vamp.

"What else do you feel? Stronger? Better hearing? Eyesight? Any of that?"

I blinked at my reflection. "I see the same stuff, and my hearing level is the same." I thought of the smells of the house, the richness there. "Maybe a little better sense of smell? And I'm not bombarded or anything, but when I got excited, I could kind of sense new things." I didn't mention the prickle in the air I'd felt around her, or the fact that the new things I could sense included the resounding thud of her heartbeat.

Mallory leaned against the doorframe. "Since my hands-on experience with the walking dead is, like, eighteen hours old, this is just a guess, but I bet there's an easy way to take care of this silver-eyes problem."

This should be good. "And that would be?"

"Blood."

We put it on the island, along with a martini glass, an iced tea glass, a food thermometer, a bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup, and a jar of olives, both of us unsure how best to attack. Mallory jabbed the bag with the blunt end of a bamboo skewer. It gurgled, and the depression in one side of the medical-grade plastic slowly filled back in. She made a sound of disgust and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. "Jesus, Merit."

I nodded and looked down at the bag of type O. It was one of the seven that had been delivered. There was one of each type - A, B, AB and O - and three extra bags of O. It was supposed to have universal appeal, I guessed.

"Liquid, liquid everywhere and not a drop to drink," I observed.

"Ugh. English lit geek much?"

"Corporate oppressor."

"Nerd."

"Blue-haired weirdo."

"Guilty as charged." She picked up the iced tea glass and handed it to me. "Now or never, Merit. She said you needed a pint every other day."

"I'm kind of assuming that's an average. You know - four pints a week, give or take, averaging to one every other day. And I probably had one before they dropped me off yesterday. So I don't really need to open it until tomorrow."

Mallory frowned at me. "You don't want to even try it? It's blood, and you're a vampire. You should be ripping at the plastic with those sharp-ass teeth just to get to the stuff." She held up the bag between two fingers, waggled it in the air. "Blood. Yummy, delicious blood." The crimson liquid shuffled back and forth in the bag as she waggled it, making little waves in a tiny, self-contained ocean. And it was making me seasick.

I put a defensive hand over my abdomen. "Just put the bag down, Mallory."

She did, and we stared at it for another few minutes until I looked up at her. "I think I'm just not hungry for it. Surely it would be more appealing if I really, really wanted it."

"Are you hungry for anything?"

I scanned the library of cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator, the stash owing in part to Mallory's preparations for the rumored vampire apocalypse. "Hand me the box of Chunkee Choco Bits. The marshmallow kind."

"Done and done," she said, and slid off her stool. She went to the refrigerator, reached up, grabbed the box, and walked back to hand it over. I opened and reached into it, grabbing a handful of cereal, then picking through it to get to the marshmallows, which I popped into my mouth. "None for you?"

"Mark's coming over," she carefully said, "if that's okay with you."

Mark was Mallory's sweet but aimless boyfriend. I gave them two more weeks. "Fine with me. Make him bring Chinese. But if he annoys me, I'll probably have to bite him."

She rolled her eyes. "Vampire bitch."

I shrugged and picked through another handful of cereal. "I'm just warning you, I'm probably going to be a total hard-ass vamp."

Mallory snorted and walked out of the kitchen, calling out, "Yeah, well, you've got a purple marshmallow on your chin, hard-ass vamp."

I peeled it away and, between my thumb and index finger, flicked it into the kitchen sink. Stuff like that was going to ruin my reputation.

At twenty-five, Mark Perkins decided he wanted to swim the English Channel. At twenty- six, he decided he wanted to climb Everest. Then it was Machu Picchu, base-jumping, ghost-hunting in New Orleans and racing the Utah salt flats. Unlike Mallory, who rarely planned, Mark planned with a vengeance.

He just never actually did anything.

Tall and thin with short brown hair, he blew through our front door like a tempest, arms laden with guidebooks, maps, and two paper bags with greasy bottoms.

"Chinese!" Mallory squealed, leaping to the door when he came in. She pecked his cheek, grabbed a bag of food, and headed to the kitchen. I'd been reading again, so I returned the book to its spot on the coffee table.

He nodded in my direction, dumped his own books on the love seat, and followed Mallory. "Merit."

"Hi, Mark." I gave him a little finger wave and rose from the couch, but I paused before following him to check his literature. On the couch, their glossy, mountain-pictured labels read: The Greatest Adventure Book Ever, Climbing for Dummies, and Your Big, Fat Swiss Adventure. The Matterhorn, apparently, was next on Mark's list. Poor, sweet, dumb Mark.

"She's gone fang, Mark," Mallory called out. "So be careful."

Halfway to the kitchen, Mark stopped midstride and turned to face me, grinning like an idiot. "Kick. Fucking. Ass."

I rolled my eyes and snatched the remaining bag of Chinese. "Kick your own ass. Did you get crab rangoon?"

He frowned. "What do vampires need with crab rangoon?"

We moved into the kitchen. I put the bag on the kitchen counter and picked through it until I found the paper box of fried crab-and-cream-cheese-stuffed dough and a container of sweet-and-sour sauce. I popped them both open, dipped a wrap in the sauce, and bit in. They were still hot - and I groaned happily at the taste: sweet, salty, crispy, creamy. Everything a newly changed vampire could want.

"Orgasms, apparently," Mallory snarked, and pulled out her own containers of food. She pulled one open, then broke open a set of chopsticks, stared into the container, pulled out a chunk of broccoli, and munched.

"So, how long have you been the walking dead?" Mark asked.

Mallory choked. I thumped her, ever so helpfully, on the back.

"I'm on day two," I told him, and pulled out another bit of fried wanton heaven. "So far, it's been uneventful."

Famous last words, those.

We'd been eating about ten minutes when we heard glass shatter in the front of the house. Our heads snapped up at the sound. We stood simultaneously, but I motioned Mark and Mallory back down. Mallory's eyes widened, and I guessed what she'd seen: My blood hummed with adrenaline, and I knew my eyes had gone silver.

"Stay here," I told them, and walked across the kitchen. I flipped off the overhead light and moved into the unlit hallway. There were no other sounds in the house, and I didn't hear anything outside - cars revving, people screaming, sirens flaring. Carefully hugging the walls, I crept into the living room. The living room window - a picture window made up of a single sheet of glass - had been shattered from the outside in. A brick lay on the floor, wrapped in white paper, a breeze fluttering one corner of it. First things first, I thought, ignoring the missile to pick my way across the glass to the front door and check the peephole. The yard was empty and quiet. It was dark out, so theoretically our attackers could have been hiding in the shrubbery, but I knew no one was there. I could kind of . . . tell. There were no sounds, no smells, no indications that anyone had been near the house beyond the light, acrid scent of car exhaust. They'd driven by, done the deed, and moved on.

I went back to the brick, reached down to pick it up, and pulled away the band of paper. In scraggly black script, it read:

Think UR 2 good 4 us, Cadogan bitch?

Next time U die.

The threat was clear enough, and I guessed that I now qualified as the "Cadogan bitch." But "too good for us" stumped me. It sounded like a choice - like I'd chosen Cadogan out of the catalog of vampire Houses. It was profoundly untrue, and a good clue - the vandal didn't know me, at least not well enough to understand how inaccurate the statement really was. How little choice I'd had.

Mark's voice rang out. "Merit?"

I looked up, found them huddled in the doorway, and felt my chest tighten protectively. It took me a moment - a surprising one - to realize that the tingle in my limbs wasn't fear, but adrenaline. I beckoned them forward with a folded hand. "It's okay. You can come in. Just watch the glass."

Mallory stepped carefully into the room, tiptoed through the fragments. "Jesus. The window - what happened?"

"Holy crap," Mark agreed, surveying the damage.

Mallory looked up at me, eyes bright with fear. "What happened?"

I handed her the note. She read it, then met my gaze. "You're the bitch?"

I shrugged. "I assume so, but I don't understand the threat."

Mark walked to the door, opened it slowly, and looked outside. "Nothing else out here," he called out, "just some glass." He drew back in, his gaze moving between us. "You've got some plywood or something I could hang over the window?"

I looked to Mallory, who shrugged. "There might be something in the garage."

He nodded. "I'll go check. I'll be right back."

When the front door shut behind him, Mallory looked down at the note in her hands. "Do you think we should call the cops?"

"No," I told her, remembering my father's admonition. But an idea dawned. I took the note back from her and stuffed it into my pocket. "I think we should go to the House."

Ten minutes later, Mark was balancing on the edge of the stoop, securing an old sheet of particleboard over the window, and Mallory and I were pulling the car out of the garage, Hyde Park address in hand. Mark wasn't thrilled that Mallory was planning to visit a den of vampires in the middle of the night, but I think that stemmed mostly from the fact that he hadn't been invited to tag along. His blusters about her safety didn't read sincere given the awestruck expression on his face.

To mollify him, we promised to keep our cell phones in hand. Apparently thinking extra precautions were warranted, Mark ran down the driveway as we pulled out, and when Mallory rolled down the passenger-side window, he stuffed a good-luck charm into her hands.

"What's this?" she asked him.

"Garlic." He slid a glance to me, then winged his eyebrows at Mallory. "Vampires," he whispered through a tightly clenched jaw, as if the movement of his lips was the Rosetta stone that was gonna key me into his secret code.

"I can still hear, Mark," I reminded him.

He blushed and shrugged apologetically. Mallory shook the plastic take-out container of organic prepeeled garlic and held it beneath my nose. I sniffed, waited for a reaction, and when nothing happened, shrugged.

"I'm not sure Whole Foods is what Buffy had in mind, hon, but thanks for the thought." She blew a kiss to Mark, and we watched him return to his station at the window. As I pulled the Volvo out of the driveway, Mallory threw the plastic bin into the backseat. "I'm not sure how long this thing with Mark is going to last."

"Huh," I remarked, trying to remain supportively neutral. "Not going well?"

"He's well-meaning, I guess, and we have fun." She shrugged. "I don't know. There's just not much there - beneath the camaraderie, I mean."

I nodded. "I get that."

She waved a hand in the air. "More important issue at hand." She swiveled in her seat to face me. "Before we hit Hyde Park, I want to be sure what we're doing. Are we going to kick vampire ass, or are we just going to ask about this death-threat issue?"

I gnawed the inside of my lip as I considered her question. We were walking into a nest of trouble, and had only ourselves - an ad executive and a not-quite-two-day-old vampire - as weapons. And while Mallory spent an hour in the gym every day, and I had ten years of ballet lessons and a lot of jogged miles under my belt, I doubted either of those would help significantly. They certainly hadn't helped a few days ago.

"We're going to talk to them calmly and rationally," I decided.

"And you're not going to tell Darth Sullivan you reject his fascist assumption of authority?"

I stifled a laugh. "Maybe not at this first meeting, no."

Traffic was light; the drive didn't take long. Mallory served as navigator, checking the directions we'd printed off the Web. "We're getting close," she finally said, and instructed me to turn left. When we reached the address, we gaped.

"Oh, my God."

"I know. I see it." I parallel parked in an empty slot on the street - between a Beemer and Mercedes, incidentally - and we got out of the car. The House, and it was a mansion, took up a whole block. The building was surrounded by an intricately wrought, ten-foot-high, black iron fence. The interior of the fence was lined with shrubs and hedges, so the lawns were shielded from public view. The House itself was gigantic, three pale limestone stories leading to a slate mansard roof. There was a turret on one corner and tall rectangular windows ringed the floors. Gabled dormer windows and widows' walks gave the top floor a Gothic look. But overall, while the building was imposing and the lot larger than those nearby, it looked at home beside its Hyde Park neighbors.

Well, except for the vampire thing.

Mallory squeezed my hand. "You ready?"

"No," I admitted. "But I need to do this."

We followed the sidewalk to a gap in the iron fence where two black-clad men stood, swords belted at their sides. Both were tall and lean, with long, straight dark hair, tied back tightly. They looked alike, the guards, their just-this-side-of-gaunt facial features fraternally similar.

The one on the left whispered something into his mouthpiece, then touched his earpiece, and finally nodded at me. "You can go in," he told me, then shifted his gaze to Mallory. "But she can't."

Easy decision. "She goes, or I don't."

He turned his back on us, and I heard faint whispering as he touched the headset again. When he turned back again, a nod was the only affirmation we got.

As we walked up the sidewalk, Mallory took my hand and squeezed it. "Chatty fellows. They had swords."

Not just swords, I thought, glancing back at the lean, slightly curved scabbards and long, straight handles.

"I think they're katanas." These were the swords of the samurai, a fact I'd learned while researching weaponry for my dissertation. Although I was interested in the romantic side of medieval literature - think Lancelot and Tristan - the genre was heavy on the war and weapons.

"Do you think you'll get a sword?"

"What the hell would I do with a sword?" We reached the front door, which was unguarded. The portico that covered it was arched, and four symbols, the lowest one a stylized "C," hung above the door.

"Hmm," I said. "Knock or just go in, do you think?"

We were saved the decision. The door was opened by a tall, exquisitely handsome man with caramel-colored skin. His hair was short, his eyes a pale green. He wore a black suit that was perfectly fitted to his frame, and a crisp white dress shirt beneath. He extended a hand. "Malik."

This was the second vampire. Not the one who turned me, but his colleague.

"Merit," I said, taking his hand. "And Mallory."

His nostrils flared as he looked at Mallory, and his brows lifted. "Magic?"

Mallory and I looked at each other. "I beg your pardon?" I asked. He didn't respond, but moved aside to let us enter.

The interior of the House was as impressive as the outside. Contrary to what I'd expected - black tulle, leather furniture, red candles, pentagrams - the House was very tastefully decorated. Actually, it looked like a five-star hotel. The floors were gleaming wood, the high ceilings girded by ancient beams of thick oak. The decor - lots of inlaid woods, urns of flowers, carefully selected lighting - was sophisticated and French- inspired. Malik escorted us past one parlor and into another.

"Stay here," he instructed in a tone that brooked no argument. We obeyed, Mallory and I standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway so we could survey the room. Ten or so men and women, all dressed in trendy black suits, milled around, some with PDAs in hand, others on couches perusing laptop computers. I felt incredibly gauche in jeans and a T-shirt, especially when their gazes began to fall on Mallory and me.

"New girl," Mal whispered. "It's like your first day at school."

I nodded. "Feels like that."

"Do you think he's in here? Sullivan, I mean?"

I looked around, which was futile. "Maybe?" I offered. "I don't know what he looks like." I hadn't gotten a good look at his face when he bit me, and if he'd been there while I was recuperating, I had no memory of it. I had an inkling that he belonged to the distinctly green eyes I remembered, but that was only a hunch.

"Use your spidey sense."

I chuckled. "Even if I had a spidey sense, I wouldn't know how to use it."

A voice suddenly echoed through the parlor - louder than the quiet whispering of the working vamps. "That's fine, Celina. I appreciate your calling me."

The words belonged to a man with a cell phone at his ear who'd stepped into the doorway on the opposite side of the long room. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet, and lean like a swimmer - narrow waist, broad shoulders, long legs. His hair was straight, shoulder-length, and golden-blond. His face was chiseled - knife-edge cheekbones and a firm jaw, his brow strong, his lips worth calling home about. He was dressed in a black suit that fit his body like a glove, beneath which was an impeccably white dress shirt, top button unclasped, no tie.

"He's prettier than Beckham," Mallory breathlessly whispered. "Jesus."

I nodded in silent agreement. He was incredibly handsome.

The blond was accompanied by an equally attractive redhead, her skin luminously pale. She wore only a slim burnt orange cocktail dress, the toes of her bare feet painted red. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and while she stood intimately close to the blond, she scanned the room with an almost mechanical precision. She looked around, saw Mallory and me, and tensed. Then she leaned toward the blond and whispered something. He raised his head, a lock of golden hair across his brow, and looked up.

Our gazes locked. He stared, and I stared back.

A chill raced up my spine, an eerie premonition of something I couldn't quite discern. Vampires definitely had some sort of spidey sense, and mine was sending up flares -  enormous, fiery flares that put the Fourth of July fireworks at Navy Pier to shame. I pushed down the sensation and the disturbing, burgeoning sense of familiarity. I didn't want him to be familiar. I didn't want him to know me, to know who I was, to have taken part in my change. I wanted this beautiful man to be new to the House, a regular vampire doing a hard night's work for the Master he secretly loathed. I wanted him to approach me, introduce himself, be pleasantly surprised that I was a vampire and that I'd just joined his cool kids' club.

I couldn't tear my eyes away. I stared. He stared back, lips parted in shock or surprise, his knuckles white around the file folder he held in his free hand.

The rest of the room stilled and quieted as the vampires watched us, probably waiting for cues - Should we jump the new girl? Mock her for wearing jeans and sneaks? Welcome her into the ancient brotherhood of vampires with a pancake breakfast and mixer?

Making some decision, the blond snapped his cell phone shut and walked toward us, his stride confident and swift. Each step seemed to make him more handsome - his perfectly sculpted features coming into sharper relief.

Before that moment, before watching him walk toward me, I'd been a normal girl. If I saw a boy I found attractive, I might smile. I might, on the rare occasion, say hello or give someone my phone number. I wouldn't say I was forward, but I made a move when I was interested. But something about this boy, maybe mixed with the fact that I'd recently become a vampire, made every molecule in my body tingle. I wanted to sink my fingers into his hair and push my lips against his. I wanted to claim him for my own - the rising of some deep-seated, instinctual need. Time seemed to speed up, to zip by, my body driving me toward a fate my head didn't understand. My heart thudded, hammerlike inside my chest, and I could feel the blood rushing through my veins.

Mallory leaned toward me. "FYI, your eyes are silver. I'll just add 'horny' to the list of reasons that happens."

I nodded absently.

My beautiful blond moved closer, until he stood in front of me, until, looking up, I could see the color of his eyes.

They were a deep, translucent, emerald green.

Impossibly green.

And as my heart sunk, I realized, familiarly green.

"Shit," was all I could think to say.

Our rangy Beckham look-alike was my sworn enemy.