I'VE BEEN SITTING ON THE BED STARING AT THE telephone in my hand for fifteen minutes. Max's number is up on the screen, just waiting for my finger to press Send. I'm not sure why I'm so hesitant. There's only one reason I'd call him, and the only thing I have to decide is the number of expletives to insert before I tell him to fuck off.

So what's the problem?

I suck it up and punch Send.

He picks up so fast, it takes me a second to realize he's on the line.

"Max?"

"Anna." There's relief in his voice. "Thanks for calling. I need to see you."

"Why?"

"I can't talk about it on the phone. Can I come in?"

My grip on the phone tightens. "What do you mean, come in? Where are you?"

"Outside. On the boardwalk."

I cross the bedroom to the deck, look toward the ocean. The boardwalk is crowded. It takes me a second to locate him. Max is leaning against the seawall, staring up toward the cottage. He waves when he sees me. But it's not a cheery wave and he's not smiling.

I'm not smiling, either. "What are you doing here? How did you know I'd call?"

"I didn't, but Culebra told me you'd picked up the note."

"Did he also tell you I don't want to talk to you?"

"Yes. I'm glad to see he was wrong."

"He wasn't wrong. There's only one reason I'd call you. To tell you to fuck off-"

"Anna, please." I see Max cup his hand around the phone. "If there was anyone else I could go to about this, I would. You are the only one who can help."

"Jesus, Max. Could you be any more dramatic? You sound like a druggie jonesing for a fix. God. Is that what this is about? You want me to bite you? You get tired of screwing anonymous vamps? You remembering what a good thing you threw away?"

"No. Anna." His words are short, clipped, his anger burning through even over the phone. "Everything isn't about you. I need you because I think I'm dealing with a vampire. A vicious vampire. And I don't know how to fight him. He's killing innocent people. I thought you'd want to help. Culebra thought you'd want to help. Guess we were both wrong."

He snaps his cell phone shut, ending the conversation before I can respond. He doesn't look my way again, but heads up the boardwalk toward the parking lot. He shoulders are drawn up, his strides long, fast, stiff with fury.

Shit. A vampire? It takes me about a heartbeat to decide. I'm probably going to regret this but I'm down the stairs, have grabbed up my purse and keys and reached the end of the boardwalk before he does.

Max isn't startled when I appear in front of him like a genie sprung from a bottle. He knows what I can do. But he doesn't look relieved or pleased, either. He stares down at me from his six-foot-three-inch vantage point and waits for me to speak first.

"What do you mean you're dealing with a vampire?"

His shoulders hunch up even more. The lines of his face draw down, as if weighted. He looks tired. He looks stressed. The Max I knew-the one with lively blue eyes, a quick smile and sun-burnished Latino good looks-has been swallowed up by this sallow-faced, sober, weary doppelganger.

"Are you sure you want to hear this? Or are you waiting for another opportunity to tell me what a screwup I've been?"

I close the distance between us and jab a finger into his chest. "Oh, I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities to do that. Right now, I want to know what you meant on the telephone."

He looks around. "Let's walk. I don't want to risk being overheard."

The boardwalk teems with people. Skateboarders, cyclists, Rollerbladers, joggers. If we walk here, we'll spend most of our time dodging incoming. I'm not going to invite him to the cottage, either. I don't want him invading my personal space. I've had enough of that today.

"Let's cross to the bay side."

He doesn't object. Neither of us speaks until we've crossed Mission and head for the sidewalk that runs along the harbor. Here the view spans the San Diego skyline on one side, row on row of condos and apartments on the other. There's a marina and a small park. We head for the benches in the middle of the park. We choose the one that faces a playground. The water is at our backs and we have a clear view of the sidewalk. It's much quieter here.

"So talk."

Max looks toward the sidewalk, eyes restlessly scanning the faces of the people moving at a Sunday-afternoon, warm-summer's-day pace. I look, too. But I know I'm not seeing the same things he is. He's looking at them with cop eyes.

"I've been working a joint task force with the Mexican border patrol," he says at last. "Drugs mostly. But in the last few weeks, we've been finding something else on our patrols. Bodies drainedf blood. Entire families killed and dumped in the desert. No clue as to who is doing it. At first we thought it was some local drug lord's new and vicious way to intimidate."

"But now?"

"The victims all had their throats slashed. But there's never any blood at the scene. None. The tox screens we've run always come back negative for drugs. They're not addicts or dealers. The victims have no connection to local law enforcement, either, always a favorite target of the cartel. We've traced some of the victims to places in Latin America and as far south as Ecuador. A hell of a long way to transport bodies just to dump them. They're from poor families. If they were carrying anything of value on them, it's gone by the time we find them. All that's left are the clothes on their backs."

Max pauses, draws a breath. He hasn't looked at me since we sat down on the bench. He does now. "I think we're dealing with a coyote. I think he takes money from these people to get them across the border. Then he kills and dumps them within sight of the border. The bastard probably lets them know how close they are before he kills them."

It doesn't take much of a leap to know where Max is heading with this. "You think this coyote is a vampire."

"I do. The slash marks are clumsy. Because the bodies are found in Mexico, we haven't been able to do anything but drug sampling. But I'd be willing to bet if we could do the autopsies here, we'd find something under those slashes."

He would. When I worked as a Watcher, I used the technique myself. A vampire can erase puncture wounds from a live donor, but not a dead one. Slashing the throat is a way to hide the fact that a body has been sucked dry.

Confirming that Max is right about this and how I know that he's right is not something I want to share. I already know what he thinks of me. "What do you want from me?"

"There's a pattern to the killings. We find the bodies on our patrols on Tuesday mornings. Always in roughly the same location."

"If you know this, you don't need me. Set a trap."

"We did. Last week. The guy slipped past us as if he was invisible. But not before leaving us another victim. A young girl. You have to realize, Anna, our emphasis is on stopping the drug trade. Not human trafficking. We don't have the resources to conduct another undercover op. That's why I'm here. To ask you to come with me tomorrow night. If I'm right, the only way we're going to stop him is by fighting fire with fire."

I snort. "You mean vampire with vampire."

Max's mouth tightens. "This isn't a joking matter."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

His expression shifts, softens. "Sorry. I know I'm asking a lot. I don't know what else to do. If we don't stop him, he'll go on killing. He likes it. He's found an easy food source. And he takes money from victims desperate to make a new life."

He stops, draws a breath. "Culebra told me you're some sort of uber-vamp now. Well, I need an uber-vamp. I can't think of another way to stop him."

Uber-vamp. Yeah. That's me, all right. Head of the thirteen vampire tribes. Only thing is, except for a few extra abilities, I don't feel any different than I did before. The only thing that's changed is that I have another uber-vamp, Chael, gunning for me.hat dnt>

I push the thought out of my head. I can probably help Max. I'm stronger than other vamps. The question is, do I want to?

Stupid question. I choose my words carefully.

"I'll do it. But not for you. I'll do it because a vamp who acts like this is a rogue, a threat to all vampires. Sooner or later, what he's doing will come to the attention of vampire hunters. Then none of us will be safe."

Max lets his relief show in a tiny gesture of gratitude. He holds out a hand.

I let my feelings show by standing up and taking a step out of reach. Max is still an asshole in my book. "Where shall I meet you?"

He stands, too, lets his hands fall to his sides. "The border crossing at San Ysidro. Tomorrow night. Ten o'clock."

I nod. Max stares at me a minute, waiting I suppose for the ice to melt. It doesn't, and finally, Max walks away.

For the first time, I notice.

He's not limping anymore.

At least one wound has healed.

When I get back to the cottage, there's no one waiting for me, no urgent voice mails announcing yet another crisis. I decide to push everything that happened this morning out of mind and do what I originally intended to do this Sunday afternoon. Curl up with a bottle of wine and watch a Dead Like Me marathon on the Syfy channel.

Only in my original plan, Stephen was supposed to be curled up on the couch with me.

I pour myself a nice big glass of Merlot and fire up the TV. The first time I saw this series I was human. Amazing how one's perspective can change. Now not only does the title seem ironic, but a story about a grim reaper? Reapers have it easy. From where I sit, being a reaper is a hell of a lot easier than being a vampire.