That weekend I go shopping-this time, for a gift. Diana told me what to look for, and she texted me a list of stores where I might find it.

I work my way down the list and end up at an antique shop on City Island. The cab ride to get there costs a fortune, but, after all, I have all the money I need.

City Island is a funny place, a small town in the Bronx that reminds me of upstate New York, but the antique shop owner has what I'm looking for: an antique sextant in a polished mahogany box. A sextant is a navigational instrument that measures the altitudes of celestial bodies. Diana taught me that. She said Cameron has a long eBay record of bidding on sextants but so far hasn't bought one.

I pay the asking price, counting out more than three thousand dollars in large bills. The seller says, "You shouldn't walk around carrying so much money. You'll get mugged."

"No, I won't," I tell him.

I carry the box out of the shop, feeling hungry. There are a few restaurants on the street, specializing in oysters and lobster, but I'm in the mood for a cheeseburger. I hail a cab and head back to the city.

Chelsea has a way of coming up behind me without making a sound. "What are you doing?"

I've been writing in my journal. "I'm on my lunch break," I say.

"Is that a diary?"

When I tell her it is, she says, "You come from another planet or what? Why don't you keep a blog?"

She leans over me to reach the computer keyboard on my desk. Within seconds she's opened my NetFriend page and, pressing a few keys, created a new page called AriVamp's Blog. "You can give it a new title if you want," she says. "Now you can share your experiences with your friends. What's the point of keeping a diary that only you can read?"

I close the journal and as I slide it back into my purse, a yellow tag falls from its pages. "Ocala National Forest Recreation Resource Management," it reads. I toss it into the trash can.

When I open my blog page, I think of writing about what I saw the previous afternoon in the break room: Chelsea drinking from the neck of one of the other interns. Other employees must have seen them, too, but nobody paid any attention except one older colleague.

"That's odd," he said. "Chelsea usually takes her lunch break at noon."

My cell phone keeps ringing. The "missed calls" list shows that Dashay and Jacey are determined to talk to me. But I don't want to talk to them.

My new phone has an application that can place any call I make directly into voice mail, and I use it to leave messages for each of them. I tell Dashay's phone that I am swamped with work and enjoying life in the big city. I promise to call again soon. Jacey gets a different message: New York is dirty, my job is boring and time-consuming, and my apartment is a pigsty. She wouldn't want to visit, and I have no time to come to Pittsburgh. I say I look forward to seeing her back in Georgia.

I go to work, come home, bide my time. The newspapers are full of Cameron now. He already has his party's nomination sewn up, though it won't be official until the summer convention. A surge in voter registrations has been noted nationwide. The new voters are of all ages and come from all economic brackets. Political analysts are having a hard time finding any pattern to his popularity.

None of them even considers that one reason for the surge might be vampire voters.

The night that Cameron speaks in New York, the line of hopeful attendees stretches for blocks. A thousand or so tickets to the event have been issued, but when the doors open another thousand will be admitted.

I go to the head of the line, because I have a ticket. Dr. Roche mailed it to me. "I can't make it myself, but I know you'll enjoy the speech," he wrote.

That night a misty rain is falling. Temperatures are unseasonably warm. I wear a red trench coat and red lipstick, both selected by Diana, as well as the black chiffon dress. Scanning the seats, I see a single empty one in the center of the third row from the front. I make my way through the row, facing forward as Diana taught me.

Joel Hartman, Cameron's running mate, introduces Cameron. An older man with white hair, he probably isn't a vampire, I think. He's not much of anything. He doesn't interest me at all until he says, "I give you the next president of the United States, Neil Cameron!"

Everyone stands up, cheering, and I do, too. Cameron comes out from the wings of the stage, shakes Hartman's hand, faces the audience, and smiles. His eyes run across the crowd as he waits for them to stop applauding. They stop when they reach me.

Diana had said, Focus your eyes directly on his, as if you are the only two in existence. Focus your energy, feel it coalesce. Send it from the backs of your eyes into the depths of his. Open your mouth slightly, a quarter of an inch, no more. Don't move.

Then I do something she didn't tell me, something I didn't plan. I put my right hand over my heart.

He stops smiling. His eyes look shocked, then full of wonder. He raises his right hand and places it over his heart.

All around me, people stop clapping and put their hands over their hearts. They are ready to pledge allegiance.

And so am I.

What does he speak about? The usual things: the need for conserving environmental resources, for fiscal prudence, for unity. He tries not to look at me as he speaks, but his eyes return to me every other phrase or so. Later the media will report that he seemed so distracted that night that he wasn't in his best form. I think otherwise.

When he finishes, his eyes remain with mine, helpless. He manages to pull them away and leave the stage. The audience members begin to stand up, putting on their coats. I stay where I am.

A few minutes later, a young man wearing an ill-fitting suit and running shoes makes his way to my seat. He hands me a folded note, which I don't open.

"Tell him I'll meet him wherever he wants," I say.

He ushers me to a town car parked in an alleyway behind the hotel. No one except a driver is inside.

The car glides down the wide black avenues, gleaming silver from rain. Riding in that town car is as close as I've ever come to being a passenger on a ship. It stops, and I get out. I stand in the light rain, watching the car drive away, sad to see it go. I like being driven.

The restaurant has no name but is known by its street number: 410. It has a small dining area with a dozen tables in it. When I come in, the hostess doesn't even ask who I am. She leads me to an empty private dining room and shuts its door behind me.

A server comes in through a second door, carrying a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket. He takes my coat and leaves again, then returns with a pitcher of ice water and two goblets.

I send Diana a Trend message telling her how well her advice worked. She buzzed me yesterday, asking me to get back to her. Then I sink into the high-backed leather chair, sip water, and reapply my lipstick.

When the first door opens again, Cameron rushes in as if someone is chasing him. I rise, and he is in my arms. His camel-hair coat feels damp, and so does his hair. He kisses me, but when we separate, his eyes look surprised, then uneasy, then a bit frightened.

"What have you done to yourself ?" he says, his voice low.

I smile and make my eyes command his. "I've grown up. I'm twenty-two. And I did it all for you."

He takes off his coat. He's wearing a dark blue suit with a barely visible silver stripe. He says he had a hard time getting away to meet me. His "handlers" wanted to know where he was going, but he told them he needed a break. He said he'd meet them at the airport in three hours to fly to Chicago.

I smile. I know he'll miss that flight.

We eat poached shrimp and lemon sole meuniere and roast potatoes. We drink champagne. It isn't easy, keeping my eyes on his while we're dining, but I manage to keep my gaze steady, looking away only to glance at the food. Cameron eats less than I do. Even when we're finished, I feel hungry.

He orders a second bottle of champagne. We sip it slowly. I tell him about my job, and he talks about the campaign.

"We're under a lot of pressure from some of the Nebulists," he says. "They want me to rewrite our platform, make it more vamp-centric. I can compromise on some things, but their goals aren't mine, pure and simple. And we'll lose the Sanguinist support if we let them have their way."

"You have to be true to yourself," I say.

He looks as if he wants to ask me a question. Instead he says, "I switched off my cell phone. If I turn it on, there will be ten messages asking where in hell I am."

"Don't turn it on."

I stand up, walk around the table. He stands up, too.

"Kiss me," I say.

And a moment later, I say, "Kiss me again."

When we finish, he helps me put on the red trench coat. "Time to get back to reality," he says.

"Reality," I repeat.

We walk out onto the street. He walks to the curb to hail a cab, but I put my hand on his arm. "I live only a few blocks away. Walk me home."

And so we walk. I link arms with him, so that he can feel the shape of my hip. The streets are dark and mostly empty, only a few people moving through them. The rain has stopped and a winter chill returns. I look up and see a black bird perched on a ledge, watching us. The bird will be seeing a couple, a woman in red and a man in a tan coat, moving through the night with a purpose.

I know what's about to happen. We will arrive at my building and I'll invite him in. He'll say he shouldn't. I'll say I have a present for him, and he'll follow me inside. We'll step into the stark, immaculate loft, and I'll hang up our coats. I'll hand him the mahogany box, and he'll be thrilled by the sextant. I'll kiss him again, and I'll take his hand, lead him into the bedroom. We'll sit on the platform bed. Then we will make love.

In the morning he will act as if he's ashamed of himself. He'll say, "We should have waited. What would your father think of me?"

I'll tell him Raphael Montero would like him, that one day they will meet and become friends. But I'm not too sure about the last part.

When he leaves, I'll hand him the sextant. "Don't forget your present," I'll say. "It's what you've been waiting for."