Even so, it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to snake my arm out from under the covers. I desperately yearn to turn on the lamp beside my bed, to flood the room with light. Light is good, so very good. It chases away the shadows and the monsters hiding in them. I hesitate, not yet ready to face the unknown.

One small part of my brain tries to tell me to quit being foolish. There’s no one waiting to pounce the moment they realize I’m awake. I’d locked up the house and set the alarm before coming to bed. There’s no way anyone could have gotten inside. I’d been awakened by a nightmare I couldn’t remember. That’s all. A nightmare brought on by too much bad pizza and a horror movie marathon I knew better than to watch so late at night.

Still my pulse pounds and the cold fingers of fear tighten inexorably around my heart. No matter how hard I try to will myself to simply roll over and go back to sleep, I can’t. So I lie here as I have so many times in the past, ears straining for any sound that might identify who or what had awakened me. Every instinct screams on a primal level I know so well, warning me to run away as fast as I can. If I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, a life that might end at any moment.

How can I ignore that feeling? Surely this must be more than simple imagination. Everything seems so real, so close. Just as it had when I was a child, when I knew things went bump in the night and monsters lived under the bed.

Dear God, help me.

 
Drea glanced up from the page she was reading and I breathed an almost silent sigh of relief. I’d done it and had somehow survived. The earth hadn’t opened up to swallow me nor had the heavens sent down thunder and lightning to wipe me from existence. That had to be good, right? After all, a large part of me had anticipated at least one of those improbable acts happening. Honestly, I still expected something to reach out and strike me down without mercy because of what I’d dared to write.

Truth be told, part of me wanted it to.

What in the world had possessed me to put those particular words to paper? I knew better. By doing so I’d broken a code of silence as ancient as it was necessary. Those words hinted at things best left unsaid—for me and for those like me, as well as for the rest of the world. How could I have been so foolish?

More to the point, why had I ever said anything about them? Drea certainly hadn’t held a gun to my head when she’d unexpectedly shown up at my front door and asked what I was working on. I could have mentioned several other projects. So why in the world had I mentioned this particular one?

Something perverse must have taken hold of me. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Without conscious thought, I’d told her about this story, and there was no way I could turn back the clock and swallow the words before they’d been spoken. All I could do was hope some flash of inspiration would come to me that would help explain why she couldn’t offer this project to my editor—now or ever.

Unfortunately, that hope hadn’t come to fruition yet and, with my luck, it never would.

Still, I couldn’t give up. Perhaps Drea wouldn’t like it. That would be the easiest, most painless solution to the problem. Then I could simply put the pages back in a drawer so they would never again see the light of day.

That was the only possible solution that would keep both of us out of trouble, out of danger.

So how could I convince her?

Drea read on.

 
How different it had been when I was a child.

My parents expected, even accepted, that I would see monsters under my bed, in my closet and outside my window. They knew that a child’s imagination is a wonderfully wild and untamed resource, good for hours of entertainment. Imagination takes the ordinary and turns it into the extraordinary, the mundane into the magical. It allows a child to fly to distant planets or be a fairy princess. What could be more exciting?

They’d even encouraged me to use my imagination. But they hadn’t warned me about what would happen when night came and those wonderful flights of fancy turned dark and terrifying. Every sound and shadow foretold some disaster to come. They held me in a grip so firm and unyielding that I became trapped in the nightmarish hell of my imagination without hope of escape.

Then I’d wake, knowing the bogeyman was waiting, ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down or turned my back. Fear held me and I knew I’d never be safe again. Then, miracle of miracles, Mommy and Daddy were there to comfort and protect. Oh so calmly they’d assure me there’s no such thing as the bogeyman. To prove it, Daddy would look under the bed and in the closet. Mommy would hold me close and promise to keep me safe forever.

Remember, there are no such things as monsters. That’s what they told me over and over. It was all my imagination. If I’d think happy thoughts, I wouldn’t be afraid.

Funny thing, they actually believed it. They’d forgotten the nightmares from their own childhoods. They didn’t remember just how real those nightmares could be. I knew how real they were; but how could I convince my parents?

I couldn’t. So I let them reassure me and I believed their explanations. After all, Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t lie. If they say the nightmare’s nothing more than my imagination running wild, they must be right. So I’d listen and believe. In short, I grew up.

Then the nightmares returned, coming with a force and fury far eclipsing those of my childhood. Perhaps it’s because there is more I hold dear. Therefore, I have more to lose. All I know is that the fears of my childhood are somehow magnified to such an extent that a normally confident adult once more becomes that terrified child desperately wanting her mommy and daddy to protect her.

That’s even more frightening than the nightmare itself. So I look for some logical explanation. I listen to the so-called experts who all too easily discount the fear and sense of doom the nightmare instills in me.

So smug and sure of themselves, these experts say the nightmares are simply extensions of whatever is bothering me. They are my subconscious trying to draw my attention to a problem so I can find a solution. There’s nothing to be afraid of because monsters aren’t real. I simply have to figure out what’s wrong with my life and fix it. That’s all.

So simple. So easy.

And so much bull!

Because the truth is that the monsters are there, under my bed and outside my window. They’re lurking in my closet, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. I know. I’ve seen them.

Haven’t you?

 
Please let her hate it.

I repeated it over and over like a mantra. My only hope was Drea would tell me I’d missed the mark this time. After all, I couldn’t always write something that would sell. No one can. Let her think this lacked that special spark editors look for. Please let this fall into that category. It has to fall into that category.

Unfortunately, all it took was one look at the woman who had been my agent for almost two years and my hopes were instantly crushed. She didn’t hate the story. Quite the contrary, in fact. Excitement danced in Drea’s light blue eyes and a smile touched the corners of her mouth. I could almost see her adding up the dollar signs as she all but rubbed her hands together in glee. This was my newest nightmare, one I would not awaken from—unfortunately. My only hope was to find some way to convince her she was wrong, that it would be a big mistake to try to sell this story. But how?

“Jess, this is simply amazing.’’

Drea leaned back and reached for the glass of wine I’d poured her a lifetime ago. When she lifted it in a toast, I knew I needed to say something. But what? She’d think I’d lost my mind if I told her she couldn’t have the story. Still, she hadn’t heard all of it. There was still a chance she’d change her mind. Until that happened, I had to keep her from guessing how I felt.

But how? I’m not that good an actress, one of the main reasons I never play poker.

“Do you really think so?’’

“Oh, yes.’’ She gave that cat and canary smile of hers that always made me just a little uncomfortable. “It’s similar to what you’ve written before, yet different. Darker, more intense. It also feels more personal, somehow. I like it.’’

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. What was I going to do? I desperately needed that flash of inspiration. Unfortunately, it didn’t come. Instead, emotions warred deep inside me. I wanted to shout in triumph even as I cursed my foolishness. I had created something my agent obviously liked, so it was a pretty sure bet my editor would as well. Wasn’t that the dream of every writer?

Then reality returned with the speed and devastation of a tornado cutting a path of destruction across the plains. How could I have been so foolish? I never should have told her about the story, much less let her read it. That seemingly innocent narrative was far more dangerous than I wanted to think about. It threatened everything I held dear. But what could I do?

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing I could do. The damage was done and there was no turning back. Now I simply had to figure out how best to contain the fallout.

“Jess, I can’t wait to get this to Greg. He’s going to love it.’’

She gave another of those cat and canary smiles and I fought the urge to squirm. Dismay surged for a moment only to be dimmed by the faintest glimmer of hope. Maybe Greg wouldn’t like it. Maybe he’d hate it. If he did, I could forget I’d ever been foolish enough to write the story, much less let Drea know about it.

“Now, how about the rest of it?’’ Drea placed her wine glass once more on the table at her elbow. “Please tell me there’s more.’’

Oh, there was more all right. Much, much more.

“All right.’’ As I reached for more pages—compulsively doling them out to Drea like candy, like a reward—I glanced out the window and my heart skipped a beat to see the moon begin its slow trek across the night sky. “Drea, don’t forget you need to leave soon if you’re going to make it back to the city before midnight.’’

And so you won’t be here when things get really interesting.

 
Maybe I should start at the beginning. I’ve known I’m different from everyone else for almost as long as I can remember. So many mornings I’d wake, excited and energized because I’d spent the night soaring high in the sky or creeping silently through the deepest, darkest shadows in search of—something. Those dreams had seemed so real, so much a part of me. Nothing anyone said could change that.

The beat of the drum fired my blood. Playing tag brought out the thrill of the hunt. I felt so alive then, so ready to meet the challenges of a new day. How could anyone not revel in such a feeling?

Unfortunately, I hadn’t understood. Those wonderful dreams were simply a prelude to the nightmares to come. The nightmares were a dark warning of what life could become if I let it.

I was fifteen when things changed. That’s when I had the “accident.” That’s what my parents called it. I really don’t remember much. We’d been in the country, near the woods, on a picnic. It was getting late. The sun had already dropped below the horizon and the first evening stars twinkled overhead. Mom and Dad had been gathering everything for the trip home and I’d wandered off, bored and sulking because they’d dragged me away from my friends on one of the last days before school began. I remember following someone, something, into the woods and then nothing else before I woke in the hospital, Mom sitting beside my bed, crying.

For several days, they wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened. Whenever I asked, they simply said the doctors wanted me to try to remember on my own. The police came to ask questions I couldn’t answer. Finally, when I demanded an explanation, Mom told me they had searched for me for hours, calling in the local police to help. Finally they’d found me lying in the creek bed, my head just inches from the water. It looked like I had fallen and hit my head on a large rock nearby. Later I learned that I hadn’t been breathing when Dad found me and that the doctors had thought me gone by the time I got to the hospital.

That’s the day everything changed and the nightmares returned. Nightmares so terrible I’d wake, screaming in terror, convinced the flesh had been ripped from my bones, my blood drained away, leaving nothing more than a dry husk. Nothing my parents said reassured me. It was all so real. Just as those wonderful dreams had been.

That’s when things started going bump in the night and I knew the monsters were real.

All the experts, all the shrinks and counselors my parents sent me to, told me there was nothing wrong with me. It was all in my head. I simply needed to believe in them and take my medication. I just needed to be a happy kid and everything would be all right.

How little they knew—then or now.

Sure the doctors had saved me that day so long ago—or so they thought. All they’d really done was postpone the inevitable. Twice more I’d disappeared. The first of those happened the night I graduated from high school. At first no one, not even my parents, had been too worried. After all, so many seniors spend graduation night celebrating that transition into adulthood. Surely I’d come home the next morning, a little worse for wear but still fine.

Only I didn’t return home the next morning. Or the morning after that. Three days after graduation, a police officer found me in a field near the high school. Once more, the doctors worked like Trojans to save me from massive blood loss from tearing wounds to my neck and left forearm. And, like before, I couldn’t remember what happened.

The next time, the last time, happened the night of my thirtieth birthday. Only this time, there was no last minute reprieve, no heroic lifesaving efforts by the doctors. That night I died. I know that just as surely as I know my own name. Since then, I’ve lived my dreams—and my nightmares. There’s no escape, not for me.

Even now, as I write this, I can feel it. My blood pulses with a growing heat as my hunger builds. The anticipation of the hunt fills me. The moon is slowly trekking across the night sky, welcoming me just as the sun of a new morning once did. A part of me looks forward to the night and the hunt to follow because no hunt is the same as the one before it. What will happen this time?

Outside my window, the last hint of day loses the battle against the dark of night. As it does, I close my eyes, remembering the evening of my thirtieth birthday. The beauty of the setting sun washed over and through me then. The blues, reds, yellows and purples are like an artist’s palette, so lovely and awe-inspiring. Such beauty should never be the harbinger of anything but good. It’s at times like this, as the memory of the splendor of a sunset fills me, that I almost regret what’s happened.

But, as with most regrets, it quickly fades. The dark mystery of night is as invigorating as the beauty of a sunny day. Too many overlook or never see the true majesty of the night. Now the night is my milieu and I revel in its mysteries, its challenges and its dark beauty.

The song of countless crickets fills the air and the hunger once more asserts itself. At least I don’t have to be picky about what I want. The city just beyond my window offers a whole smorgasbord of possibilities . . .

 
I leaned back with the remaining pages on my knees, my hands resting lightly on top of them, guarding them. As I did, a sense of something new filled me. It wasn’t peace, not exactly. It was more like a sense of calm, of acceptance. Come what may, I’d written the story and Drea’s reading it somehow made it real. Depending on Drea’s response, I had some decisions to make.

Drea reached for the pages. My first instinct was to slap her hands away. Then the irony of it hit. Why stop her? She’d already read most of the story. It wouldn’t cause any more damage to let her see the rest of the pages. While it wasn’t exactly a “no harm, no foul’’ situation, that philosophy certainly seemed to apply.

“Jess, tell me something.’’

Drea spoke softly, almost hesitantly, and hope once more flared. Maybe she hadn’t liked the second part of the story and was finding it difficult to tell me.

Please, God, let that be it.

“It’s obvious you’ve drawn on your own childhood for parts of this story. Why? Why choose something so personal?’’

I didn’t answer immediately. I couldn’t. If I said too much, she’d realize more about the story than was safe for either of us. If I didn’t say enough, she would keep probing, prodding. But I needed to say something before she started putting it all together.

To give myself a moment to gather my thoughts, I reached for my wine glass. I should have realized she’d recognize part of the story. She knew how my parents had institutionalized me twice during my teens. They’d been at their wits’ end because I kept disappearing at night. The next morning they’d find me, sometimes battered and bloody. All too often, the blood had been my own. No matter how hard they tried to convince me to tell them what was going on, I wouldn’t. How could I? They’d no more understand what was happening than I did. So, worried I was trying to harm myself, they’d turned me over to the “professionals’’ to cure.

Not that any cure for what ailed me was available. The only cure was to die—again—and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet, at any rate.

Any way, I’d told Drea about it, without going into too many details, a year ago. She’d needed to know before some reviewer dug it up. She’d jumped to the conclusion I’d expected. She thought I’d had a drug problem my parents couldn’t deal with and I was satisfied letting her think that. It was so much safer than the truth—for both of us.

“You’re always telling me to write what I know.’’

And I had made a fairly successful career out of it. Over the last five years I’d had five books published, each of them steeped in the paranormal. Oh, they weren’t horror stories like those of King or paranormal romances that made tragic heroes of hunky vampires or tormented werewolves. Still my paranormal mysteries had made me enough money to allow me to move to the country, away from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors and the cameras of those fans who simply didn’t know how to respect personal boundaries.

Out here I was safe. Whenever the urge to hunt came over me, I could indulge it with a short trip to the city. There was no one to ask uncomfortable questions, no one to see something they shouldn’t.

In short, I was living the life I’d always wanted and enjoying it.

However, if I didn’t think of something to say pretty soon, that might all over.

Once more I glanced out the window. My pulse beat a quick staccato at the sight of the harvest moon moving inexorably across the night sky. It was later than I thought and Drea had to go—now. But how was I going to without bodily throwing her out the door?

“Well, you certainly captured the pain and fear of your narrator.’’ She looked up and smiled, approval lighting her eyes. “You outdid yourself. Especially when you described how she slowly changed. It’s almost as though you’ve been through it yourself.’’

Oh, she had no idea.

“Really, Drea. You know that’s impossible.’’

“I do. Even so, I’d love to know how you managed to tap into not only how it feels to die but also how it feels to be someone who’s no longer quite human.’’

“To paraphrase the old adage, ’If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’ ”

Damn it, why wouldn’t she leave?

Pain flashed and muscles tensed as a shaft of moonlight streamed through the window. If Drea didn’t get out of there soon, it would be too late. She’d get the answers to her questions, but the cost would be too high—for her, at least.

I flowed out of my chair, unable to sit still any longer. As I did, I felt my control slipping even as my senses sprang to life. Fighting the sudden hunger that demanded satisfaction, I fisted my hands at my side so tightly my nails bit into my palms. My breath hissed from between my clenched teeth as my lips peeled back, revealing those telltale fangs I’d been so careful to hide.

Damn it! It was too late. She’d waited too long.

Drea looked up, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O of shock. The wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the hard wood floor. With a small cry of fear, she shrank against the back of her chair, almost as if she were trying to become part of it. No longer did she look like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Now she reminded me of the canary—a very tasty canary.

Why had she so foolishly shown up without warning, without giving me the chance to feed before her arrival?

Well, she’d wanted to know how I’d been able to describe the changes my narrator went through. Now she was about to find out, up close and personal. But it was a shame. I really didn’t want to kill her. Besides, in those high heels and tight skirt, she wouldn’t even lead me on a good chase. That would be no fun at all.

Then inspiration struck, bringing with it the answer to all my problems. It was perfect. If I controlled myself, I could turn her, make her one of us. There’d be no uncomfortable questions to answer when she didn’t turn up for work for a day or two, since she worked out of her house. Even better, I wouldn’t be faced with having to look for someone to replace her.

After all, it’s so very hard to find a good agent, and Drea had been a very good agent indeed.