Ramsey stood in the backyard, his face turned toward the east, and waited for the sunrise. Would he burst into flame at the first touch of the sun? Would it be quick?

He thought of Marisa. He thought of Chiavari. But mostly, he thought of Kelly. In another life, he might have loved her. Perhaps she would have loved him.

Before leaving the house, he had untied her hands, covered her with a blanket.

He had written a will, leaving her everything he owned: the house, the car, the money in the Ramsey family bank account. He smiled to think of her bemusement at learning she now was the trustee of quite a considerable fortune - the heritage of generations of successful vampire killers.

His heart and soul aching with grief and regret for the abominable way he had used her, he had stood beside the bed, watching her sleep, one hand lightly stroking her hair.

"Rest now," he had murmured. "You have nothing more to fear. Soon the angel of death will be gone."

Now, standing in the predawn light, he closed his eyes, and the image of her fragile beauty rose up in his mind, her hair like a waterfall of black silk, her dark-brown eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. He remembered how perfectly she had fit in his arms, the sweetness of her blood, the touch of her skin, soft and warm, beneath his hands.

He opened his eyes, his skin crawling with the knowledge that dawn was near.

His last dawn.

Fear uncoiled deep within him as the dark sky gradually grew lighter, the black fading to indigo then exploding with color as the sun peeled the cloak of night from the sky. It was the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen. Gold and crimson, lavender and fiery red.

For a breathless moment, he basked in the beauty of it, in the warmth of the sun upon his face. But only for a moment. All too soon, the pleasure turned to pain.

He groaned as the light seared his eyes, trembled as the warmth increased, until what would once have been a pleasant warmth became intolerable, scorching heat. The skin on his face, hands, and arms blistered under the touch of the sun.

The sun rose higher, hotter. His body grew heavy, lethargic. Darkness called to him - the darkness of sleep, of death. The preternatural blood in his veins grew hot, burning him from the inside out.

A cry rose in his throat and he choked it back. Pain. Agonizing. Excruciating. Beyond bearing. Pain unlike anything he had ever known or imagined.

Terror engulfed him. A scream clawed at his throat as the torment became unbearable. With a strangled cry, he turned toward the refuge of the house, his only thought to escape the agony that engulfed him.

The house. So close. There was blessed darkness there, relief from the pain. It was so near, so near. His arms and legs felt heavy. His feet were like lead. The sunlight burned through the clothes on his back, seared the skin beneath.

He dropped to his hands and knees, fighting the dark sleep as he dragged himself toward the door, his fingers plowing deep furrows in the earth as he pulled himself, inch by slow inch, across the grass.

He was moaning helplessly when he reached the house. Grasping the door knob, he opened the door and then fell across the threshold. Crawling into the kitchen on his hands and knees, he dragged himself toward the door that led down to the cellar. He pushed it open with the last of his strength, felt himself pitch headlong into darkness as he tumbled head over heels down the stairs...

The sound of her own screams woke Kelly from a deep sleep. Breathing heavily, she jackknifed to a sitting position. The nightmare had been so real. She looked at her arms, surprised to see they weren't burned, only then realizing that she was no longer tied to the bed.

The dream faded as she glanced around the room, her gaze searching for the monster who kept her here against her will. She shuddered as she remembered the way his eyes had burned red as he bent over her, her helpless horror as his fangs pierced the skin of her throat, the weakness that had spread through her, the uncanny sense of two hearts beating as one as her blood mingled with his...

She shook off the memory. That, too, must have been a nightmare, she thought It had to be a nightmare. There was no such thing as a vampire, not really. She knew there were people who pretended they were vampires. They dressed in black and drank blood and avoided the sun. No doubt some of them actually believed they were vampires.

Perhaps the man who had brought her here, wherever "here" was, was one of those. No less frightening or dangerous than an actual vampire, when it came right down to it.

She threw off the covers, surprised to find that she was wearing a nightgown, embarrassed because she knew he had to have undressed her.

Rising, she tiptoed from the bedroom. The house looked familiar, but she had no memory of having been here before, no recollection of how she had gotten there.

In the kitchen, she found an envelope with her name scrawled across it.

Curious, she picked it up and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She read it once, and then again:

I, Edward James Ramsey, being of sound mind and body, do hereby give and bequeath all my worldly goods and property, both real and monetary, to Kelly Lynne Anderson. Ms. Anderson is hereby vested by me with trusteeship of the Ramsey Trust Fund, to do all acts and perform all duties as she sees fit.

It was signed and dated.

What did it mean?

She had the irrelevant thought that he had not had a witness sign the document, so it probably wouldn't amount to much if it was contested, and dropped the paper back on the table. Whatever he had been thinking, he had left her unguarded. It was time to make good her escape.

She glanced down, wondering what he had done with her clothes. She couldn't very well go running down the street wearing nothing but a nightgown.

It was when she turned to go back to the bedroom that she saw the open cellar door. She moved cautiously toward it, her heart pounding as she stared down into the darkness below.

She stood at the top of the steps, recalling every horror movie she had ever seen where the foolish young girl, usually attired in a nightgown, walked down a dark flight of stairs to her death.

"Not me," she said. "No way."

Yet even as she spoke the words, she was compelled to move forward. She saw her left foot moving toward the top step, and it was like watching someone else's foot. Her right hand searched the wall, hoping to find a light switch, but to no avail.

Unable to help herself, she took another step, and another, her heartbeat pounding like thunder in her ears.

When she reached the bottom, she tripped over something. Something large. She put her hand on it to push herself away, shrieked when she realized it was a body. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away, gasped when she smacked into a wall. A light switch jabbed into her arm and she whirled around, her fingers trembling as she flipped the switch.

Light flooded the cellar.

Afraid of what she might see, yet unable to keep from looking, she slowly turned around. Her eyes widened. It was him. The man who thought he was a vampire.

He looked dead.

She moved slowly, warily toward him.

She could see no sign that he was breathing. He had fresh, ugly burns and painful-looking blisters on the skin of his face, hands, and arms. Summoning her courage, she touched his cheek. His skin was cold, as if he had been dead a very long time. In spite of all he had done to her, she felt a surge of pity for him.

Gingerly she picked up his arm and placed her fingertips over his wrist. There was no detectable pulse.

She laid her hand over his chest. She couldn't feel a heartbeat.

The word vampire whispered through her mind again. They slept during the day. They went Poof! in the sun. She thought of the paper on the kitchen table. What if he was a vampire? A real vampire? The sunlight streaming through a partly open curtain in the kitchen could have caused those dreadful burns, if the mythology was accurate. There was no evidence of a fire in the house, no smell of smoke.

A last will and testament, and the badly burned body of a man who thought he was a vampire. Had he intended to kill himself? It was the only answer that made any kind of sense, even though it made no sense at all. Why would he want to kill himself? Why would he put her name in his will? He didn't even know her.

She looked around, wondering where he kept his coffin. And suddenly it all seemed too possible, too real.

Shivering, she ran up the stairs as fast as she could and slammed the door behind her. What should she do now? Call the police? She dismissed that idea even as it crossed her mind. How could she explain her presence here? What if they accused her of killing him?

What if he really was a vampire?

People killed vampires, at least in the movies. They dispatched them by driving wooden stakes through their hearts, or cutting off their heads, or both. They burned them, or drenched their bodies with holy water. Driving a stake through a vampire's heart was always depicted as very messy, with the vampire waking up, screaming and hissing, while great fountains of blood gushed every-where. Not that she was likely to find a stake lying around, especially in a vampire's house.

What should she do?

She went back into the bedroom in search of something to wear. Opening the closet, she found the sweater and jeans she had been wearing the night she decided to kill herself. How long ago that seemed now!

She found her sandals under the bed. She dressed quickly, ran her fingers through her hair, and hurried out of the house. Only to come to a stop once she reached the sidewalk. She had no idea where she was.

She glanced over her shoulder. The house loomed behind her, looking ominous somehow. Maybe it was the windows, tinted dark to block the sun. Maybe it was the gothic architecture. Maybe it was knowing there was a body in the cellar.

She looked up and down the street, wondering which way to go, turned left for no reason except that it put the sun behind her.

Her pace increased until she was running, running like a woman being pursued by demons.

Ramsey woke with the setting of the sun, his body feeling as if it were on fire. With a groan, he rolled onto his side. For a moment, he lay there, hands tightly clenched, trying to breathe through the pain.

He knew the woman had been in the cellar. Her scent was all around him. He knew, just as certainly, that she was no longer in the house.

He rose up on his hands and knees, head hanging, panting like a dog. He stayed that way for several minutes; then, with one hand braced against the wall, he gained his feet.

Every breath, every movement, was a new adventure in pain.

It seemed to take forever to climb the stairs. When he reached the top, he sat down, feeling as though he had just climbed Everest.

Feeling dizzy, he stood up and staggered down the hallway to his bedroom. Feeling as though he were moving through thick mud, he changed into a long-sleeved shirt to cover his burned arms, and a pair of soft, loose-fitting trousers. The touch of cloth against his seared flesh was agonizing. He found a pair of dark glasses to shield his eyes. A hat, pulled low, kept his face in shadow.

Taking a deep breath, he left the house.

He needed help.

He needed blood.

He needed Chiavari.