The next night, I pulled back into my driveway after going about my little errand. The boyfriend-Denny-had been tearfully receptive to my news. That was the weirdest part of all the ghost stuff... not only did the ghosts feel better after they told me what they wanted, but whomever I told also felt better. Believed me, unquestioningly. None of that Whoopi Goldberg skepticism in Ghost. No, it was always, "Thank you so much, thank God you told me, now I can get on with my life, are you sure you don't want any coffee?" Very strange. But better than the alternative, I figured.

There was a shiny red Dodge Ram pickup in the driveway, parked crookedly, one tire actually in the grass. I had no idea who the hell it was-no one I knew drove a red truck-and wondered if I wanted to go in.

See, things started out innocently enough-a visitor, a comment, finding out a new vampire rule-and the next thing I know, I'm up to my tits in undead politics, or attempted revolutions, or dead bodies.

It had gotten so that I distrusted everything new, no matter how minor. And that was a big truck. Not minor at all. With a super-cab, no less. It could have brought five new troublemakers to my house, easy.

I looked at my watch. It was only six-thirty. But that meant Tina and Sinclair were up, at least. So if it was something annoying, I'd at least have help. Maybe I could fob the whole thing off on them.

Shit, maybe it didn't have a single thing to do with me!

Nah.

I let myself in the front door in time to hear a cracking adolescent male voice yell, "I'll go if Betsy wants me to go, so cram it, Sinclair!"

I knew that piping, wanting-to-be-deep-but-not-quite-making-it voice. Jon Delk, former head of the Blade Warriors, current pain in my ass. After the Warriors disbanded last summer, he'd gone back to the family farm. I hadn't heard from him since. What the hell could have brought him back? Nothing good, that's what.

"Tina," I heard Sinclair say casually, and because I knew that voice, I started running, "see our little friend out."

"Go ahead, vampire. You just lay one dead finger on me."

"Okay," Tina said cheerfully and then I burst into the kitchen.

"Stop it! Whatever it is, play nice, you bums."

"Betsy." His face-his young, wholesome, ridiculously handsome face-brightened when he saw me, and he smiled so wide his dimples showed. "Hey. Great to see you. You look great. It's really... uh..."

"Great?" Sinclair snarked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Stretched out in front of him like they were, his legs looked a mile long.

His darkness was an odd contrast to Jon-I mean, everything about Eric was dark. The clothes, the attitude. Even the way he carried himself; like he could pounce on you at any minute.

Meanwhile, Jon was practically vibrating from trying just to stand still, and he kept raking his hands through his blond hair, which did nothing to straighten it. He was always in constant motion, while Eric could do statue imitations and win, every time.

Jon's blue eyes watched us all anxiously, but I could smell gun oil and leather, so I knew he was wearing a holster somewhere-probably his armpit. Guys loved the armpit holster, though my mom had taught me it was one of the worst places to carry a gun. You could never get to it in time.

And he probably had at least one knife on him. He looked like a corn-fed nineteen-year-old, and he was. But he had also teamed up with a bunch of loners and killed more vampires than most people would see in a lifetime.

Luckily, he liked me, and liking me had ruined his taste for staking vampires. I wasn't sure why, because most vampires were assholes, but I wasn't going to complain. I held out my hand, and Jon shook it with a sweaty palm. "It's nice to see you, too. Is anything wrong?"

"I guess that depends," he replied, glaring over his shoulder at the lounging Sinclair, "on who you ask."

"No, uh, new dead people, though. Right?"

He shook his head. "Nothing like that. Betsy, can I talk to you in private? Maybe in your room?"

"Our room," Sinclair corrected, and smiled when the blood rushed to Jon's face.

"Oh, so you've finally gotten around to moving your stuff in? You've only had two months."

That took care of the smile, I was happy to see, and sure, maybe I shouldn't have said it, but I couldn't stand to see them picking on a kid. It was the fifth grade all over again.

"The queen has many duties," Tina added, her legs scissoring in her lap as she crossed them and looked smug. "I don't think there's time to-"

"Butt out, Tina. And Eric-knock it off. Hello, guest in our happy home?"

"Uninvited guest," Sinclair muttered.

"You wanna go?" Jon challenged. "Because we'll go, partner. Anytime."

"As a matter of fact, I do want to go," Sinclair said, straightening up from the counter in a movement so abrupt, even I couldn't see it.

"No, no. You guys! Jeez." I turned to Jon, who had a hand out of sight under his jacket. "Don't you dare pull a gun in my kitchen. I'm the only one who can pull a gun in my kitchen. Let's go up." Men! Like rats fighting over a hamburger, I swear to God. "Tell me all about... whatever it is. We all wondered where you went after you left."

He was young enough that he didn't feel silly sticking his tongue out at them-but boy, he sure looked silly. Tina rolled her eyes, but Sinclair just stared at him like a snake at an egg. I bit my own tongue, figuring Jon had taken enough shit for one day.