ON MY WAY TO WORK, I pass the worn-out white cottage where I lived as a little kid. The windows are boarded up. So is the door. I expect it’ll be put up for auction. I expect it’ll go cheap. Nobody’s moving to Spirit, Texas.

Every year, the high-school grads pack up and leave — one or two for college, the rest for jobs in bigger towns. And every other week, a crowd gathers at the funeral parlor to pay their respects to one of the old folks. Death is the most lucrative business in town.

It seems like everyone dies or leaves. But I’m not going anywhere. Spirit is home. It’s the little piece of the world that makes sense to me, which, lately, is saying a lot.

“Cody!” calls a bright, female voice from behind me.

I ignore her. I’ve never been a talkative kind of guy.

“Cody Stryker!” exclaims the teenage daughter of the new mayor — the one who’s going to turn the empty storefronts into antique shops and the abandoned houses into bed-and-breakfasts and offer Spirit a future again, or so he says. “Wait,” she pleads. “I need to talk to you.”

I pause, turn. Did I say nobody moves here? The girl standing in front of me this evening is an exception to that rule. Last fall, Ginny Augustine and her folks arrived in Spirit after the bank foreclosed on their home in The Woodlands.

Typically, you have to live in town for at least a year before running for office, but nobody else wanted the job, so the city council passed a waiver and Mr. Augustine ran unopposed.

My glare falls to Ginny’s hand on my sleeve.

She snatches it back. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” I begin walking again. Glancing at her sideways, I ask, “What do you want?”

I feel a faint flash of guilt when she blinks, startled.

“Well,” Ginny begins again, “someone’s cranky. Here’s the deal: I’m going to handle ticket sales for you. Cool, huh?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You know, at the theater. Movies? Tickets?”

For the first time in over fifty years, the Old Love Theater will open tonight at 8 P.M. After Uncle Dean’s death, I sold off a third of his cattle, his antique gun, and his fishing boat to make the down payment. None of it was worth much, but neither is the Old Love.

It’s reassuring to have somewhere to be on a night-to-night basis, though, to have another purpose beyond satisfying my thirst. To have something else to think about besides the night I faced down my uncle for the last time.

I keep going, trying to ignore how Ginny falls in step by my side.

At sixteen, she’s girl-next-door pretty, medium height, and curvy. Her teeth are even and pearly white. Long, honey-blond hair frames her friendly face. What with the powder blue baby T that reads sassy in rhinestones and her faded denim cutoffs, Ginny looks like she was born and bred in Spirit, like a real small-town girl.

When we reach the theater, she persists in following me around back.

Ginny leans against the door, coy, as I fish my keys out of my jeans pocket.

“Big night,” she observes. “You nervous?”

“No,” I lie, unlocking the dead bolt. Once inside, I add, “And I’m not hiring.”

“Really?” Ginny asks, shoving a sandal-clad foot in the doorway. “You mean you’re going to run the projector, pop the corn, restock the concession stand, ring up food and drinks, vacuum the carpet, change the toilet paper, and do . . . whatever managers do — paperwork and bills — all by yourself? Think about it, cowboy. How do you plan to sell tickets and handle concessions at the same time?”

On one hand, I don’t want to encourage her. On the other, I don’t need any trouble from her leaving pissed off. I don’t need trouble — period. I wish she would just take off. “I’m not opening the concession stand.”

“Well, there go your profits! You’re charging — what? — three bucks a show? I know people around here are cheap, but do you have any idea what, say, electricity alone is going to cost? It’s summer. It’s Texas. Think: air-conditioning.”

Honestly, I hadn’t considered that. It’s not like I have an MBA or anything. I just graduated from high school a couple of weeks ago. I used to mow lawns in the summer, but this will be my first real job off the ranch. I may have been overambitious.

“Plus,” Ginny goes on, “insurance, taxes, and you might want to advertise the place as a tourist attraction. The founders of Spirit were key players in the early days of the Republic, and historical tourism is becoming —”

“Enough.” She’s a politician’s daughter, all right. Opening the door wider, knowing I’ll regret it, I say, “Come in. We’ll talk.”

Ginny quiets as I lead her through the service hallway. It is hot in here. Muggy.

I wonder what, if anything, she knows about the building’s tragic history, its lingering reputation. A teenage girl — Sonia Mitchell — was found dead in a storage closet in 1959. Another girl, Katherine something-or-other — Vogel maybe — went missing for good. She was new in town, like Ginny, and her body was never found. Both girls worked at the theater. And again, like Ginny, both girls were sixteen.

Everyone hereabouts has heard the story. Partiers have busted in over the years, too, and every now and then a whole pack would run out hollering about a ghost.

There’s no denying that the theater has an eerie quality to it. Over the past week, I’ve seen the letter S written in the dust and wiped it away again and again. Once or twice, I could’ve sworn I heard a soft voice coming from somewhere in the building. Enticing, musical, feminine . . . I’m starting to hear it in my dreams.

As Ginny and I enter the lobby, I don’t give her the satisfaction of cranking the air conditioner immediately.

Instead, I take in my new business, trying to see it the way tonight’s customers will. It’s a grand old place with a huge antique crystal chandelier, built when cotton was king. Granted, the gold-and-crimson wallpaper is faded, and the blood-red carpet is worn. So are the red upholstered seats in the screening room — both on the main floor and up in the balconies. But there’s still a romance to the place, a whisper of the past.

Besides, my mom loved it. Every time we passed by, she’d say the Old Love was a ghost of the glory days of Spirit, a reminder of who we’d been and could become again.

“Do you know how to run a register?” I ask Ginny, gesturing.

She’s already playing with it. I only have one, set at the ticket counter. It’s an older model that I ordered off eBay.

“Hmm,” Ginny says, scanning the lobby before brightening. “I know! We can lay out candy and popcorn on the counter, post prices, and provide a box with a slot in it so that people can pay on the honor system. Like at the library for folks with fines on overdue books.”

That wouldn’t work in most places. In Spirit, it’ll do fine.

“There are some boxes in my office,” I say, impressed despite myself. After a pause, I add, “Why do you want this job anyway?”

Ginny shrugs. “I could use the money.”

That makes two of us. The thing about living forever, I suddenly need a long-term financial plan. And, I realize, so far as Ginny is concerned, there aren’t any other jobs within walking distance. I bet she used to have a flashy car. I bet it was repossessed.

I can’t help wondering if there’s more to her being here than that. Not to be conceited, but I’m fairly good-looking. I’ve got Mom’s blue eyes, and they stand out against my deep brown skin, slick black hair, and the sharp features I inherited from whoever was my dad. I’m wiry but solid enough from working on Uncle Dean’s ranch.

Outside Spirit, girls are always flirting, not that I know what to say back.

The locals, on the other hand, they pity me. When my mom died, everyone said what a shame it was for me to be orphaned at only ten. They saw my bruises in the years that followed. And they knew what Uncle Dean was like.

For a long time, I thought sooner or later somebody would report him to social services — a preacher, a teacher, the school nurse — but it never happened.

I guess most folks were as scared of Uncle Dean as I was.

Ginny is looking at me with an oddly knowing smile, and I realize she’s waiting for my decision. I can’t help thinking she may be useful. I can’t help wondering if she has a boyfriend. But spending quality time around that flesh-and-blood girl is intrinsically problematic. The flesh is a problem. The blood is a problem. At any given moment, it’s a toss-up which is worse. “Okay,” I say. “You’re hired.”

The chandelier rattles, distracting us both.

“Drafty,” Ginny says, glancing around. “But where’s it coming from?”

She asks too many questions. “I turned on the air conditioner.”

It’s a lie.

After a ridiculous amount of negotiation, I agree to ten cents above minimum wage, send Ginny home to change into a white button-down shirt, black slacks, and black shoes, and tell her to come back in a couple of hours.

Unlocking the door to my cramped office, I’m less than thrilled to realize that I may need to hire a second person. Someone local. Quiet.

Within the next few years, I need to sew up an understanding with the good people of Spirit. They may not know what I am, but they’ll figure it out over time. On the off chance that Ginny’s daddy’s “revitalization” plan works, I’ll be here for generations. I need to reassure them that my presence is no more threatening than the fact that Edwina Labarge collects snow globes or that Betty Mueller talks to her dead husband or that Miss Josefina and Miss Abigail have been “roommates” for more than thirty years.

I’ll need front people, I realize, so that the customers who drive in from nearby towns don’t notice that the “young” owner never seems to age.

Inside the office, I hit the ceiling-fan light, and begin sifting through the old newspapers and boxes, looking for one that will do for the concession stand.

The headline of a yellowed copy of The Spirit Sentinel from June 13, 1959, catches my eye. It reads “City Mourns Daughter; New Girl Missing.”

I lift it, studying the black-and-white picture — Sonia’s dimple and laughing eyes. I trace the hairline around her lovely face. Sixteen forever.

I never want to be the kind of monster that destroys innocence like that.

Reaching into my small half-fridge, I grab a bottle of blood, pour a quarter of it into a Texas A&M mug, and pop that into the microwave on the shelf.

Seconds later, I close my eyes, savoring the taste, pushing back the disgust.

I’ve been this way for only a few weeks.

It’s funny. I used to roll my eyes at all those media stories about the trouble kids get into on the Internet. How every generation of grown-ups assumes that whatever’s new — from flapper dresses to rock and roll to the World Wide Web — is automatically a sign of the apocalypse. My theory was that parenthood triggered amnesia followed by paranoia, though I had to admit it would’ve been nice to have someone who cared.

Not long after Uncle Dean cracked one of my ribs, I heard at school that there was this guy in Athens, Georgia, selling a “power elixir” on the Net. I figured it was some kind of steroid cocktail. Probably risky, but it’s not like my life was all that safe to begin with. Anyway, the guy supposedly supplied a vat of the stuff to the Varsity football team in El Paso that took state last year.

It was so easy. I “borrowed” Uncle Dean’s Mastercard and put in my order. The vial arrived overnight in a box packed with dry ice.

I remember thinking as I unscrewed the cap, What the hell?

Nothing could’ve been more appropriate.

Blinking back the memory, I reach for the bottle to pour myself more blood.

Someone has used a finger to write something in the condensation on the glass. It looks like the letter S. It wasn’t there a moment ago. She’s getting bolder, making a bigger play for my attention. It’s flattering, I admit. “Sonia?”

“What do you think?” Ginny asks, straightening the newly poured paper cups on the concession stand counter.

“Not bad.” I have to give her credit. In Ginny’s make-do theater uniform, complete with ponytail, she looks like the picture of all-American wholesomeness. She also had her mom swing by Walmart (two towns north) and they picked up ice, several two-liter plastic bottles of Coke (diet, regular, Dr Pepper, Sprite), and several discounted packages of candy bars. It’s quite the display of enthusiasm, of spirit, you might say.

She grins and grabs a black marker to write out prices and instructions for paying on the honor system. Ginny brought the marker and poster board with her, too. I set the box from my office on the counter before she got back. It’s already been wrapped in bright gold paper, another Walmart purchase.

My gaze lands on the skin over her jugular. Luckily for Ginny, I’m able to buy fresh-shipped “provisions” from the same site that sold me the original dose.

The night I buried my uncle’s body behind the barn, I received an e-mail from the vendor, telling me I qualified for “special customer status” and giving me a code to log in for future purchases. What I found was a series of pages within the site that included a long question-and-answer document about our kind, information on how to mix various blood-wine blends, and from there, an online dating service (“Love that Lasts”) extended to all registered members at no additional fee. I admit to clicking through it, despite everything amused by the ads for growing your fangs and shrinking your thighs and finding your “eternal consort.” I have no intention of going there.

I may be an easy mark, helping to finance some other fiend’s long-term retirement. But I got what I wanted. Now I can defend myself against anyone.

I just had no idea that the price would be so high.

Looking out the theater window onto Main Street, I’m pleased to see a line has already formed — a handful of teenagers and a county deputy with his wife.

This week, I’m showing Phantom of the Opera. I’ve scheduled The Haunting with Vincent Price, Ghostbusters, and Ghost for the three weeks after that.

I’m taking advantage of the place’s spooky rep. I hope Sonia doesn’t mind. More and more, whenever I fix a loose board or vacuum the carpet or add crème caramel potpourri to the ladies’ room, I can’t help wondering if Sonia approves. I can’t help feeling like I’m trying to impress her.

School has been out for a couple of weeks now. The newness of summer has already worn off. Football players and cheerleaders are in double practices, but they’re done by sundown and eager to blow off steam. I should be able to pack in the locals and folks from nearby towns, if only because there’s nothing better to do.

“Three minutes,” I announce, noticing that the line outside is longer now. Much of it is curiosity, I’m sure. But I can build on that.

“That long?” Ginny exclaims, propping up the sign. “The ice will melt.”

“The ice will be all right. You’re . . . you’re doing fine.”

I can stand the sunlight, though it seems to weaken me. Just like Ginny’s bright smile. She half skips toward the ticket counter and then, with a “Whoa,” goes flailing. Without thinking, I pour on the supernatural speed in time to stop her fall.

Ginny steadies herself with a hand on my shoulder. “Where did you come from?”

During life, I didn’t have friends my age, not in-person friends anyway, just some people I’d chat with on the Internet. It never occurred to me that I’d feel pulled toward someone now. I know better than to care. I ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

“I guess.” She straightens. “I could’ve sworn I tripped over something.”

We both glance down at the smooth red carpet.

Ginny’s doing a bang-up job at the register. She’s all “yes’m” and “yes sir” with the grown-ups, amicable with the teens, and a charming reassurance that, despite the “haunted” theater and its murderous history, the ghost-movie theme is tongue-in-cheek. We’re all just having fun here.

Meanwhile, I’m serving up another row of Cokes. It’s great. With the honors pay system, I don’t really have to interact with the customers.

At least not until the deputy shoves a couple of rolled-up dollars into the box and says, “Young Mr. Stryker, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” I keep my voice level. I’ve never been in trouble with the law. In fact, I’m known as decent enough — as someone who’s had a hard life, but who’s respectable, graduated with honors. “Welcome to the Old Love, deputy.”

“How’s your uncle doin’?” he asks, grabbing a Coke and a box of Milk Duds and a package of red licorice. “Some boys at Hank’s Roadhouse were askin’ about him.”

I knew that, sooner or later, the questions would come. It hurts to be reminded that Uncle Dean had buddies, that there was a better side to him, one I only glimpsed on the rare holiday or when he’d score a big buck.

I swallow the lump in my throat, make a show of glancing both ways, and meet the deputy’s eyes dead on. Lowering my voice, I amp my drawl to match his. “Between you and me?”

The answering nod is sharp.

“I’m thinkin’ he finally pissed off the wrong man. Hightailed it to Matamoros before the guy came after him. Didn’t even say good-bye.”

The deputy takes that in. “Good riddance,” he mutters as he starts to walk off. Then after handing the Coke to his wife, he turns back toward me, and adds, “I’m glad to see you makin’ something out of yourself. Your mama was a fine woman.”

For a while, I pour more drinks and offer a “hey” or “howdy” now and then as customers make their selections and pay. But it’s not long before I notice the ruckus at the ticket counter.

“Ben, please,” Ginny says, her voice rising, “I’ve got customers.”

Ben Mueller was a year behind me in high school. His older brother plays football for Baylor, his mom teaches at the elementary school, and his dad owns a used car dealership on the highway. His granddaddy, Derek Mueller, died two years ago of a heart attack after serving as sheriff for four decades. Ben himself is popular, a solid all-around athlete, and church-going. I only know him by reputation, but he smirks a lot and looks like one of those fungible blond guys on the CW.

“Problem, Ginny?” I ask, approaching.

Ben laughs, and the sound is angry, bitter. “Are you a freak, too?”

Behind him, Tricia, the lady who owns the beauty shop, is whispering with her best friend, Martie. They’re the unofficial news hotline. If the Old Love becomes known as a place for “wild young hooligans,” it’s all over. I’ve got to deal with this fast and without making a bigger scene.

“Ben, please,” Ginny says again. “You have to pay or leave.”

“Fine,” Ben replies. “But just know that I’m —”

I grab his arm, and I can tell he’s surprised by the strength of my grip. I stare him in the eye, realizing I’m a couple of inches taller. According to the FAQ on my blood dealer’s site, some of us have the power to enthrall the traumatized or weak willed. It’s worth a try. Keeping my voice steady, I say, “You’re going to take off now.”

“I’m going to take off now,” Ben repeats and pivots on his boot heel to stroll out the front door.

I’m surprised that it worked. Again, I don’t know Ben well, but I’d never tag him as weak, and as for trauma, anyone could tell he’s led a charmed life.

“My hero!” Ginny exclaims, and there’s real appreciation in her voice. Then she beams at the two ladies next in line. “May I help y’all?”

After the last customer settles in, I get Phantom of the Opera running from up in the projector room. Then I hear Ginny call my name. She sounds shocked, terrified.

I half fly downstairs and burst through the swinging door into the ladies’ room where she’s pointing at GET OUT, written on the mirror in plum-colored lipstick.

It wasn’t there before we opened. I didn’t notice anyone walking into the room before the movie started. From the look on her face, I’m pretty sure Ginny didn’t do it, but the color of the lettering matches her lips. She grabs the tube from the counter.

“It’s mine,” she confirms. “It was in my purse.”

I’d stashed the purse in my office for her when Ginny returned this evening.

It must have been Sonia. I didn’t know she could do that, move objects. In any case, it’s starting to look like she wants to keep the place to herself. I don’t understand. We’re still getting to know each other, but it was going so well.

“A dumb joke,” I say to reassure Ginny. “Let’s get it cleaned up.”

Ginny opens the small storage cabinet to grab a spay bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels. “What did you do to Ben?” she asks in a measured voice, and I realize how sloppy I’ve been.

If I want to stay above suspicion, I’m going to have to learn to deal with people — especially run-of-the-mill troublemakers — without using my powers. No more enthralling. For that matter, no more super speed.

I answer the question with a question. “What’s going on between you and Ben?”

Ginny begins spraying the glass. “Can I trust you?”

It’s a bigger question than she realizes. I’m not sure I know the answer. “You can talk to me,” I say. “Ask anyone. I’m no gossip.” That’s true enough.

She goes to peek out the bathroom door to ensure no one is listening. “Well —”

“Wait. Let’s go to my office. It has a lock on it. No one can just walk in.”

“But what about . . . ?” she gestures to the mirror.

I shrug. “We’ll say it was the ghost.”

“Ghost?” Ginny asks.

On our way, I fill her in on the history, characterizing the haunting as local folklore. From Ginny’s severe expression, I figure she either finds the idea of ghosts offensive or blasphemous or, at the moment, she’s invested in a more corporeal issue.

I let us in, take the desk chair, and wait, trying not to let my impatience show. We can’t stay in here long with the door closed. She’s still a minor after all.

There’s something about her, though, some strange connection between us. I’ve said more words to Ginny today than I probably have to anyone in the last year.

Ginny crosses her arms. “I don’t know the people of Spirit that well yet, nowhere nearly as well as they know each other. I didn’t know about Ben.”

I lean forward to clear newspapers off a crate for her to sit on. “What about him?”

She takes a seat. “I . . . We went to prom together. Ben got a motel room on the highway afterward. I thought it meant one thing. He thought it meant, um —”

“I understand,” I say. A lot of guys have expectations about prom. I can’t help wondering how badly Ben took “no” for an answer. The fact that he was still hassling Ginny tonight suggests it was an ugly scene.

“I had to crawl out the bathroom window,” she adds.

It could’ve been worse. “You want me to walk you home tonight?”

“Yes,” Ginny pauses, standing again. “No. I’m fine. It’s just . . . I never meant for things to turn out this way. I never thought going on one lousy date would —”

“Haunt you forever?” I ask.

She visibly shivers. “How did you know?”

My uncle’s face flits across my memory. “Call it a hunch.”

Once the last happy customer leaves, Ginny skips across the lobby with a large black trash bag. “Let’s get this over with and go celebrate!” With that, she flashes that sunshine grin and disappears into the screening room.

Celebrate? I’m going to have to sit her down and explain that we’re employee and employer, that we can’t ever be anything more. Except . . . she could use a friend right now. “Hang on,” I say. “Let me help you.”

I grab a bag, and then it dawns on me that I should probably hit the restrooms first. So, I head down the hall, my steps slowing when I hear the mysterious voice again. “Sonia?” Is that her singing? “Sonia!”

I let the plastic bag slip from my fingers onto the red carpet and begin walking faster in the direction of the sound. It’s louder, clearer with each step I take.

I’ve heard the song before. Spirit only gets three radio stations — one in Spanish, one that plays country western, and one that plays golden oldies. It’s a 1950s hit, “To Know Him Is to Love Him.” It’s kind of sweet and kind of insipid and, once you’ve heard it, it’s hard to get out of your head for the rest of the night.

The voice leads me to the door of a dingy break room that, in the push toward the grand re-opening, I decided to worry about later. I’m reaching for my keys when the supposedly locked door opens on its own.

Inside, the temperature is cooler, much cooler than it should be, especially with the vents shut. I’m greeted by the sight of a sink and cabinets, an empty space where a full-size refrigerator used to be, a beat-up table big enough for six, and five metal chairs.

The voice is coming from one of ten rusty half-lockers lined against a wall.

I’d hold my breath, but breathing is optional. “What are you trying to tell me?”

When I open the locker, it’s empty. The voice grows louder, the room colder.

From behind, I hear something smack the table. Turning fast, I see the dust still flying up from where the little cloth-bound book landed. I walk over, and the song dissipates with each step I take, ending altogether when I pick up the . . . it’s a diary.

I flip through the entries, each signed with the letter “S.” I slip out an old photo of a lovely dark-haired girl, the same girl whose photo is on the front page of the 1959 copy of The Spirit Sentinel in my office. She’s cuddling a tabby kitten.

Amazing. After a lifetime as a loner, I suddenly have two new girls in my life.

Ginny is easy enough to figure out. But Sonia? The singing, the diary, even the mysterious S here and there all seem a lot more welcoming than the GET OUT in the bathroom. Does she really want me to leave, or is she just playing along with the haunted-theater theme?

A moment later, from across the building, Ginny cries out again.

When I reach the screening room, she’s clutching her right forearm. Blood is dripping through her fingers. I can smell it. I can almost taste it. I feel my fangs slide.

I pause to regain control, calling, “Ginny!” like I can’t spot her toward the front, bent in the aisle.

“Over here,” she says, straightening, her face covered by her honey-colored hair.

I jog to her side. “What happened? Did you cut yourself on a chair?” They’re old, and the heavy cushioned seats fold down. She could’ve torn her skin on a spring.

“No.” Ginny lifts her hand from her arm to show me three short, deep scratches. They look like fingernail marks. Sounding mystified, she adds, “It was like being clawed by the wind.”

Sonia. I catch myself licking my lips. “You need stitches. Let’s —”

“No,” Ginny replies. “It’s fine. I was just surprised.”

“It’ll scar,” I insist.

“Give me your shirt,” she counters.

“Wha —”

“Your shirt. So I can use it to, you know, apply direct pressure.”

Embarrassed by the misunderstanding, I’m already unbuttoning by the time she’s finished the sentence. I fold the material as best I can and tie it around her arm.

“My hero,” Ginny says again. She rises on her toes to kiss my cheek and, losing her balance, her lips land, lingering, on my throat instead. “About that celebration . . .”

“Go home, Ginny,” I say, moving away.

She looks stricken, like the child she is. “But . . .”

I lighten my tone. “I mean, you’d best be getting home.”

I watch her walk up the aisle, fuming, and disappear out the door.

Then a disembodied voice — soft, musical, and furious — whispers in my ear, “Murderer, murderer, murderer.”

Later, at my uncle’s ranch, I walk to his unmarked grave behind the barn. I buried him deep, wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ground is bare, packed hard. I try to tell myself it’s more fitting that he’s here instead of at the old cemetery in town. Uncle Dean loved this land as much as he was capable of loving anything.

The grave unsettles me, though. No stone, no cross. He may not have been a good man, but he was my mom’s big brother.

As dawn approaches, I shake off the guilt and go inside.

Now, I’m surfing the Web at the dining-room table, drinking microwave-heated blood and researching ghosts. Sonia’s history does track with what I’ve learned so far. Her death was traumatic. Her murderer was never caught. In the spirit world, that’s textbook “unfinished business.” A reason to haunt. And it’s clear that Sonia wants me to know who she is — writing her initial and giving me the diary are clear enough hints.

According to the newspaper article, though, Sonia was a sweetheart. She used to teach Sunday school and run errands for her elderly neighbors. A quick skim of the diary — peppered with initials — confirms that she was a good-hearted girl with loopy handwriting and typical teen angst: homework, a boy (“D”), a rival girl (“K”). She adored Elvis (“E”), had a kitten named Peso (“P”), and collected toys at Christmas for the poor.

Maybe Sonia thinks I’m a threat to Ginny, and she wants me to know she’s onto me. I’m not sure why she attacked Ginny, though. Maybe in her ghostly state, Sonia’s confused. Or maybe she’s trying to protect Ginny by scaring her off.

I guess there’s always the possibility that the Old Love is home to more than one ghost. Katherine, the girl who went missing, is probably K. According to the diary, she and Sonia didn’t get along in life. But there’s no hard evidence of more than one entity, and the singing voice that lead me to Sonia’s diary in the break room matched the accusing one that whispered “murderer.”

Besides, how many dead people could possibly be hanging around the place?

In any case, I can’t overlook the lipstick message or the fact that Ginny was injured. If I can’t somehow convince Sonia (or whomever) that I’m not dangerous, I’ll need to force her out. Either that or my effort to resurrect the Old Love is over.

The question is, how? I’m in no position to be calling a minister or priest.

Worse, the ghost who spoke is right. I can be lethal. I have killed once before.

I take another swig of blood and notice that my caller ID is blinking. Ben Mueller. He didn’t leave a message.

Why would Ben call here? Does he seriously think Ginny came home with me last night? It’s not like I’ve got any kind of rep with girls. Then again, he knows Ginny better than I do, and considering the way she kissed my neck . . .

Still, calling after the way they fought earlier, that’s stalker behavior. Maybe Sonia’s right to fret Ginny’s safety, only she’s worried about the wrong guy.

The following evening, patrolling the theater hallway, I don’t hear any singing. I don’t step into a cold spot. I don’t see a fresh letter S written anywhere.

Today I was the one who fetched refreshments. I also made some calls, ordered a regular shipment of candy, popcorn, and Coke. Tonight I have to put Sonia to rest.

Ginny comes bounding into the lobby at 7 P.M. sharp. She’s wearing a different white shirt, its sleeves down and buttoned at the wrists.

“How’s your arm?” I ask from the concession stand.

Ginny shrugs. “It looked worse than it was.”

“And Ben?” I press. “Has he bothered you again?”

She glances at the front doors. “Not today.”

It’s then that I hear Sonia whisper “murderer” in my ear again.

“No!” I exclaim. At Ginny’s expression, I add, “Not you.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave. We’re not opening tonight. There’s . . . Someone’s here. This is going to sound crazy, but she’s a —”

“Ghost?” Ginny raises her scratched arm. “Yeah, I already figured out that much. And personally, I say we exorcise the bitch.”

Wow. That was the last reaction I would’ve expected. I can’t help admiring Ginny’s bravery, though. Maybe we could have a future after all, if we’re willing to fight for it.

I glance at my mom’s Bible, wrapped in a kitchen towel, on the concession counter. I don’t know whether I’ll burst into flames if I touch it. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. Even though Sonia lashed out at Ginny, I can’t help having mixed feelings about taking her on. After all, I’m no innocent, and by all accounts, she used to be.

“Seriously, let’s do it now.” Ginny takes a step in my direction, only to be violently shoved back by a whirlwind, a fierce wall of air, separating us.

Candy and cups fly off the counter, splattering Coke. A bloody slash appears on Ginny’s forehead. The crystal chandelier shakes and sways.

“Sonia!” I shout, trying to reach Ginny. “Sonia, please! Listen to me! You’re making a mistake! Don’t you see? You’re hurting her!”

“Murderer!” returns Sonia’s voice, this time louder than mine. “Murderer!”

“I —” Do I have to admit it? Is that what it’ll take? “I’m . . .”

Ginny is knocked onto her back. She struggles like she’s being choked by invisible hands. She kicks with both legs. Then she’s lifted, spun, and dropped again.

I reach back for the Bible, letting go as pain flashes across my fingertips.

I don’t understand. Sonia knows that I’m the monster. Why target Ginny, not me?

For a split second, I wonder if Sonia is jealous, if the girls are fighting over me. But then Sonia wails, “murderer, murderer!” again.

“You’re right! Sonia, you’re right!” I never intended to kill my uncle, even though sooner or later, he probably would’ve killed me. I just wanted to become stronger, strong enough to protect myself. I didn’t know that the blood lust would come with that strength. I hadn’t gained control of it yet. “Sonia, stop! Please! Punish me!”

I’m resigned to face her judgment when Ben tears into the lobby from the service hallway. He has a battle-axe in one hand and — dear God — the decapitated heads of Ginny’s parents, by the hair, in the other.

Ben tosses them to the red carpet. “Howdy, Ginny!”

Has Sonia possessed him? Has he lost his mind?

Ginny is on her knees, her head bent, her hands covering her face.

She’s an easy target.

“Murderer, murderer, murderer!” Sonia charges again.

Ben hesitates, his gaze searching for the speaker.

“Sonia!” I duck a box of Milk Duds that whizzes by. I want to help. I need to, but the supernatural wind is holding me back. “Let her go! He’ll kill her!”

Ginny looks so small, huddled on the red carpet. We’ve known each other only a couple of days, but she’s brought sunshine into my life and made me feel like I belong in the glow. It’s not love. It’s the hope of love. But it’s the closest I’ve come to it since I was ten years old. If Ginny wants me, how can I be a monster?

I reach for the Bible again and hold it over my head, ignoring the pain. “In the name of . . .” I raise my voice, start again. “In the name of the Father, the Son —”

With a roar, Ginny raises her face. Her mask of innocence melts away, and I see her for what she is. Undead. Demonic. Like me, a vampire.

I drop the Bible, clenching my blistered hands. “Ginny?”

Ben looks from her to me, like he’s trying to figure out whose side I’m on.

“I was going to tell you,” Ginny says, her voice pleading. “When your profile showed up on the system, I thought it was a sign.” Her shoulder jerks, struck by the ghost. “I want the kind of love that lasts.”

The system. “Love That Lasts.” She’s talking about the blood dealer’s matchmaking service. Ginny must have the same supplier.

“Sonia!” she screams. “Don’t you have anything better to do? You were a loser in life, and you’re still a loser now. I told you this town would be mine someday!”

“Murderer!” Sonia replies. “Katie, murderer!”

So, Ginny was the one who killed Sonia. Sonia was never trying to scare her off, to protect her from me. When Sonia said “murderer,” I wasn’t the one she was talking about. Ginny had been Katie, Katherine, the girl whose body was never found.

From her crouched position, Ginny lunges at Ben as a swath of blood appears across her torso, staining the white shirt. She knocks the axe from his hand and kicks his boots out from under him. He’s no match for her.

Ginny can’t fight Sonia, but she could tear Ben apart.

“Let me help him,” I say, and the ghostly force dies as quickly as it rose. I vault over the concession stand, snatch the axe from the carpet, and stand between them.

For a moment, I see the hope in Ginny’s eyes. Unlike Ben, she knows that I’m one of her kind. She’s already admitted that she wants me. She’s already called me her “hero” twice. I slowly shake my head, leaving no doubt about my intentions.

“You wouldn’t,” Ginny breathes as reality sinks in. She’s been beaten by me, Sonia, and Ben together. Her voice is resigned. Her last words are: “Daddy had such big plans.”

I sever her head with the blade and, shaking, drop the axe handle.

After a stunned moment, Ben climbs to his feet and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“Better now,” I say. “You?”

“She came after me on prom night,” he explains. “I’ve been trying to run her out of our town ever since.”

Our town. Ben is Spirit. I’m Spirit. God knows Sonia is Spirit.

Ginny was the new girl again, this time with a new name.

“I tried to warn her off,” Ben adds. “I tried to scare her off. I went to my family for help, but nobody believed me. She didn’t seem like a vampire, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

What happened here will stay with Ben for a long time. He isn’t the kind of person who can destroy someone else, even something else, without it weighing on him. I know how he feels and then some.

Ben and I burned Ginny’s and her parents’ bodies (heads, too) behind my barn. We buried the axe, which he’d taken from the mayor’s office, near my uncle.

“Come spring, you might sprinkle some wildflower seed on the graves,” he said. “I mean, they were human beings once.”

I said I would and made a mental note to sprinkle seeds on Uncle Dean’s grave, too.

The next day Ben fibbed to his aunt Betty that the Augustines had packed up and left in the middle of the night for some six-figure job that the mayor landed up north. Ben explained that Ginny told him her dad was too embarrassed to own up to running out on the town after all his big promises. He claimed that’s what their spat in the ticket line had been about.

Betty repeated the story the next day at the beauty shop, and it’s become common knowledge since. The deputy is circulating a petition to put his own name on a mayoral ballot. I signed it last week.

Turns out, Ben’s not a bad guy. His granddad, Sheriff Derek Mueller, had been the vampire hunter who originally chased the Augustines out of town back in the day. The sheriff had passed on what he’d seen, what he’d learned, to Ben so Ben would know what to do if the homicidal undead ever swung back through town.

Ben has decided to work at the Old Love and save up for college. Apparently, being a good athlete by Spirit standards isn’t necessarily the same as being scholarship material. Facing down the undead has grown him up a lot.

He doesn’t know what I am, not yet, but he took it well when I explained about Sonia. I hope that when the day comes, when he realizes I’m not just another hometown boy, he thinks back on what happened and gives me the benefit of the doubt.

Tonight after the Ghostbusters save New York City, I thank Ben for a good night’s work, lock the front door behind him, and once again hear Sonia singing “To Know Him Is to Love Him.”

When I look toward the voice, I see Sonia herself for the first time. She’s taken over one of my jobs, wiping down the concession counter, like it’s no big deal.

Sonia is a see-through figure in a uniform not much different than the one Ginny wore, except that Sonia’s includes a red vest with a gold patch that reads “Love Theater.”

I didn’t realize she was still here. I don’t get it. With Ginny gone for good, why stick around? “Sonia?”

She raises her face, and I see the dimple, the laughing eyes. “Cody!”

“Sonia,” I say in case she didn’t understand what happened, “your murderer has been destroyed. It’s over. You can move on now. You can, uh, go into the light.”

Sonia tilts her head. “It wasn’t all about justice.” Her voice has a hollow quality to it. “Tell me, Cody. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Staring at her, God help me, I just might. I read on the Web that the more you believe in a ghost, the stronger your feelings for them, the more substantial they become.

With each passing second, Sonia appears more solid, more alive. And I have to admit, in some ways, we would be perfect for each other. We’re both tied to this old theater, we’ll both be teenagers forever, and we’re both dead. Even better, I don’t have to worry about physically hurting her. No flesh. No blood. No problem.

This could become more than the hope of love. It could become the real thing. But there’s something she has to be told first. She may not know what happened at my uncle’s ranch, but I thought she’d figured out what I am from the bottle of blood in the office mini fridge. I guess Sonia didn’t realize what the liquid was or maybe in her ghostly state, some details are fuzzy.

“Sonia,” I begin again as she floats toward me. “There’s something you should know. I’m a monster, the same kind of monster —”

Her cool fingertips press against my lips, and in her gaze, I see complete understanding, total acceptance. “No,” Sonia says. “You’re not.”

UNTIL THE NIGHT I WAS TAKEN, demonically infected, the guardian angel Zachary watched over me. Now, I watch over him.

It’s not your average long-distance relationship. Romantic entanglements between humans and angels are rare, archaic, and discussed only in hushed tones.

A romantic entanglement between a guardian and one of the murderous undead had been unprecedented. Then we fell in love.

One of the consequences of Zachary’s “slipped” status is that, though not fallen, he’s earthbound, limited to corporeal form, and banished from the ethereal plane.

Therefore, he’s banished from me as well . . . at least for the foreseeable future.

Meanwhile, Zachary will continue to devote himself to counseling neophyte eternals, those who might embrace redemption like I did.

Assuming the monster lying in wait for him around that thorny bush doesn’t pluck out his eyes, claw out his throat, and rip his glorious muscled body to bloody pieces.

Zachary is immortal. He wears a gleaming holy sword with a gold hilt, a weapon forged in heaven. His blood is as toxic to an eternal as holy water. Yet he’s no stronger or faster than a mortal man. He can still be brutally injured. He has been in the past.

Far, far, far above, I’m curled in a plush wing chair in a tropical lobby of the Penultimate, the way station for ascended souls immediately outside heaven. I’m one of hundreds of thousands, gazing down on loved ones, enemies, and the occasional celebrity of the day, trying to make our peace before passing through the famed pearly gates.

It’s usually a comfort, watching over Zachary, a way to hold the loneliness at bay. Yet at moments like this, when he’s in danger, I feel every inch the predator defanged.

I zero in on the nearest lakeside dock. Where did the fiend go? I never should’ve taken my eyes off it. Not that I can warn my angel, not that I’m useful in any way.

Zachary scans the shadowy trees. In his matte black cowboy shirt over black jeans and boots, he makes a dashing, romantic figure. My fingertips twitch at the sight of his golden hair, lit by the moon.

He’s come from working as a waiter at a vampire-themed Italian restaurant located a few blocks south. There, the danger is pretend.

It’s past 3 A.M. a few hours before sunrise on New Year’s Day, on the wide hike-and-bike trail surrounding Lady Bird Lake. It’s a natural border, dividing downtown Austin, Texas, from its south side. Lake is something of a stretch. It looks more like what it is — a dammed section of the Colorado River, lined with trees, brush, and parkland — a playground for waterfowl and boaters, famous for its bats.

You can see across it, stroll from one side of the bridges to the other in only a few minutes. Perhaps I’m biased from having resided on the coast of Chicago’s formidable Lake Michigan, but, to me, it’s more of a water feature than a lake per se.

I slip in my earbuds and raise the volume on my palm-size monitor-com. Now I can hear Zachary’s footsteps on the sandy path and the whiz of a stray bottle rocket, punctuated by a loud popping sound.

Last autumn this park was the scene of a handful of murders — the victims found punctured, nearly emptied of blood. Locals hoped that would be the last of it.

Zachary exudes caution. He carries a heavy flashlight, though it’s not turned on. He’s not emitting heaven’s light or showing his wings either, though he regained those powers during our brief time together. My angel makes every effort to operate incognito.

“Reso, reso, resolution,” begins a stocky figure, who’s somehow doubled back to end up behind Zachary. “Resolved.”

Turning, my angel draws his sword from the scabbard with one hand, clicks on his flashlight with the other, and shines it in the eternal’s — I mean, vampire’s — face.

“Happy New Year, Mitch,” he replies. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Mitch isn’t displaying his fangs, and his cornflower-blue eyes look as cool as creation. He’s dressed up, too. No PJ bottoms or camouflage pants tonight. Instead, he’s shaved and sporting jeans with a long-sleeved black T designed to mimic a tuxedo shirt, jacket, and tie. He’s also holding a cardboard sign, though I can’t see what it says.

“Hap, happy,” Mitch says. “Happily ever after. The end is beginning. It’s the beginning of the end.”

Mitch has been homeless for as long as anyone can remember and is affectionately thought of as a local celebrity. Before he first rose undead, Mitch had been pure of heart — so pure that he could identify Zachary, even in human form, as an angel. Typically, only quite young children possess that level of goodness, innocence, and faith.

Some say that Mitch used to build wells in Ecuador with the Peace Corps. Others claim he was wounded in Vietnam. What I know is that Mitch is young for our, or rather, his kind. He was infected only last September, and for months, he’s been sustaining himself on pig’s blood with the love and support of friends.

“We need to talk,” Zachary begins. “About that kid you drained last night. . . .”

Mitch stares at his torn sneakers. “He was a druggie, drug dealer.”

“He was fourteen. Desperate. Both of his parents lost their jobs last year. He has five younger siblings. They’re struggling to make rent.”

“Mean, you’re mean. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way. I was just saying —”

“What are you saying?” Zachary presses.

It’s not like him to lose patience. My angel blames himself for the boy’s death.

Painful as it is, he’s not being unfairly self-flagellating. What happened was foreseeable. If Zachary had already struck Mitch down, the teen would still be alive.

I could’ve warned him that this would happen, that Mitch could only manage his bloodlust so well for so long.

Then again, perhaps Zachary wouldn’t have believed me anyway. He’s a confirmed optimist. He doesn’t know the thick, sticky satisfaction of nursing from a savaged, leaking vein. He doesn’t miss it like I do.

Mitch replies, “I, I, bye. Bye-bye, Zachary. It’s time. Resolution. Resolved.”

He holds up his hand-lettered sign. It reads:

“You’re sure?” my angel asks, and I hear the catch in his voice. He may have set out tonight to remove Mitch as a threat. Yet now that the neophyte is willingly offering to end his existence, it’s become a matter of resolve for both of them.

Mitch has taken lives — more than one. He’s orchestrated violent, bloody deaths. Yet I serve as proof that a killer may be forgiven. I was ten times the monster that Mitch is, a fiend to whom other fiends groveled and bowed.

At the same time, Zachary can’t know whether he’ll be sending his friend to the Penultimate en route to heaven or whether he’s condemning a once-kind man to hell.

Zachary turns off the flashlight and tosses it aside. The blade of his sword bursts into flame. Raising the weapon, he begins, “What you’re doing . . . Offering yourself to the Big Boss, there’s no better decision you could’ve made. You’re going out a hero.”

My angel said as much to me when I begged him to use his holy radiance to burn me to nothingness, when I surrendered my own demonic existence for true eternal life.

I can only imagine how painful tonight must be for Zachary, having to once again destroy someone he cares about. It must bring back memories.

It’s archangels that are warriors born, not guardians.

Guardians are sent to earth to care.

“Good, good,” Mitch replies. “Good for you. You’re good, too. Hero.”

Zachary’s fiery blade falls on Mitch’s last word.

IF I SCREW UP AGAIN, I’m one toasted guardian angel (GA). We’re talking hellfire and damnation. Hot. Searing hot. Chomp the serrano peppers. Chug the Tabasco.

In case there’s any doubt, the archangel Michael himself materializes on the dock to tell me so. “That was unnecessarily costly and dramatic,” he announces. “Zachary, how many times must we review this? Though the neophyte vampire’s soul may have been temporarily salvageable —”

“He was still tainted by evil,” I recite, returning my sword to its scabbard. “When he became an immediate threat to the living, I shouldn’t have hesitated to destroy him.”

I’m not inclined to argue. Michael is the Sword of Heaven, the Bringer of Souls, my supervisor. Besides, he’s right.

I bend to pick up my flashlight and hook it to my belt.

“Once again, you have indulged your feelings at the expense of the greater good,” Michael thunders. “Your friend’s victim, fourteen-year-old Jorge Alvarez, didn’t find out that his father got the janitorial position at Dell until after he recovered from the shock of dying. If Jorge had lived, that drug deal may have been his last.”

I’m not sure about that, but it’s not worth debating. The boy is dead. That’s all that matters now. That and his grieving family.

I’d worried when Mitch didn’t stop by over the holidays to pick up his latest supply of pig’s blood. I should’ve assumed the worst and followed up then. But I wanted to give him the opportunity to choose salvation. And he did. Only too late for Jorge.

Sounding weary, Michael says, “You are a slipped angel, Zachary — granted, one who has shown promise. You earned back your wings and the power of heaven’s light, and you have put them to good use. But that in no way should be interpreted to mean that your current status, let alone eventual full reinstatement, is guaranteed.”

Another bottle rocket whizzes into the night with a bang. Michael adds, “Perhaps this assignment is too much for you.”

These days, I’m only specifically assigned to watch over one vamp, a teenager named Quincie Morris. But the deal is that if I can help save every redeemable neophyte, I’ll be allowed to return upstairs. I’ll be welcomed home. Reunited with Miranda.

The only problem? Fulfilling my mission is freaking impossible. Vamps grow in number with each passing night.

Then again, prior to me, the archangel had written off the neophyte undead completely. Devoting one GA to the cause is still better than devoting none.

“Another mistake of this magnitude,” Michael adds, “and you’ll have exhausted your second chance. I’ll have no choice but to recommend that you be permanently exiled from Grace and that your assignment be given to a more capable guardian.”

“But —”

“One more mistake, Zachary, and you’ll find yourself in hell.”

I HATE SECRETS. From day one, my parents made it clear that I couldn’t tell anyone about our family. I can’t talk about the fact that Mom’s a werewolf, Dad’s a human, and I’m a hybrid. Shifters are naturally born. But I can’t speak out against humans who claim we’re preternatural monsters. I can’t fight back when bigots take away jobs. Even lives.

I have a lot at stake. Mom’s wedding-planner business. Dad’s professorship in engineering. Our middle-class life in the newly repaired McMansion. All that could be ripped away if our family’s mixed heritage became public. When my kid sister, Meghan, was born, I had her to protect, too.

Now, I have secrets to keep from my family as well. Two biggies: (1) Quince is a vampire, and (2) Zach is her guardian angel. A secret is a burden. It’s exhausting, a lie.

Zach hasn’t told Quince what happened with Mitch. I don’t want to see her hurt. What’s between me and Quince is more than puppy love. She may not need to breathe, but she’s like air to me. But that’s inevitable. If Zach doesn’t tell her soon, I’ll have to.

When the angel yawns, I push the issue. “So, Zach, when did you come in last night?”

The angel shoots me a reprimanding look.

“Yeah, you weren’t here when I got home,” Quince adds. She leans into her open refrigerator. She digs through plastic containers and aluminum-foil-covered plates of tamales and casseroles. Leftovers from the holidays. “I called your cell a couple of times. I was about to go looking when I heard you land on the roof.”

“I had something to do.” Zach disappears into Quince’s dining room. He’s carrying two glasses of iced tea. A mug of porcine blood is warming for Quince in the microwave.

“Aha!” Quince finally locates the Sanguini’s take-out bag. She sets it on her kitchen counter. “I want you guys to try this proposed dish for the catering menu.”

Sanguini’s is the vampire-themed Italian restaurant that Quince inherited from her late parents. It’s closed for New Year’s Day. Last night’s party sold out at a thousand dollars a head (75 percent of which was donated to a local food kitchen). It attracted a country-and-western superstar, the latest Heisman Trophy winner, and several NASA astronauts.

Last night I walked her home at 3 A.M. I don’t normally get to stay out so late. We’re out of school for winter break. It’s weird for Zach not to leave with her, too. It’s his holy mission, watching over Quince.

I’m being too hard on him. It’s not like he won’t tell her about Mitch.

He’s waiting for the right moment. I get that.

The microwave dings, and I take out her mug.

Not every guy would be as accepting of my girlfriend’s liquid diet. But since I’m part Wolf, the smell of pig’s blood makes my canines itch, too.

We join Zach in the dining room.

“Cold Italian pasta salad,” Quince announces, setting down the bowl, “with prosciutto, chopped red pepper, chopped red onions, and cannellini beans. Nora let it sit in the fridge overnight.”

Nora also left a pot of black-eyed peas on the stove. She’s Sanguini’s famed and acclaimed chef. Nora, Zach, and their pal Freddy rent out rooms in Quince’s 1930s home.

It’s not your typical household arrangement. Quince’s mom and mine had been best friends since before we were born. My folks are Quince’s legal guardians. But last fall, Nora offered to pitch in as an extra supervisory grown-up.

It’s better for everyone. It was a nightmare for Quince, trying to pass as human in front of my parents. Meanwhile, my folks didn’t want two love-struck, hormonally charged teenagers living under the same roof.

I distribute dinner plates. Zach ducks into the kitchen for silverware and napkins. Tonight, it’s just the three of us. Nora went out for sushi with her son, who’s visiting from Boston. Freddy is on a date with some Australian guy he met through the rowing club.

They come and go, whereas Zach is a constant fixture. Not that I mind. Usually.

If he were a full-status angel, he’d be invisible. Watching over Quince 24-7. Being slipped, he’s corporeal all the time. That makes the logistics of “watching over” more complicated. Among other things, it’s seriously cramping my love life.

Don’t get me wrong. Zach’s a great guy. An angel — literally. Don’t think that revelation didn’t knock this good Catholic boy off his boots.

But Quince and I need our alone time.

We settle around the antique table. Quince says grace and announces, “We’re taking down the Sanguini’s holiday decorations before reopening tomorrow. Enough with the fangs and mistletoe. I’ve had it with The Nightmare Before Christmas —”

“Until next year?” I finish.

She blows me a kiss. I laugh. Quince adores the holidays.

She takes a tiny experimental bite of the pasta salad. “Delicious, but I don’t know. It says to me, ‘corporate picnic,’ ‘Tarrytown baby shower.’ Not ‘Sanguini’s.’”

“What about taking out the prosciutto?” I suggest. “You could market it as a prey dish?” Sanguini’s menu is divided into two sections — one for customers who call themselves “predator” and one for those who call themselves “prey.”

It’s partly a matter of carnivore versus vegetarian. It’s partly sexual posturing.

“You’re quiet,” Quince says to the angel. “You’re not eating. Are you feeling okay? You’re not sick, are you? Can you get sick?”

“It’s my job to keep an eye on you,” he replies, “not vice versa.”

Waiting, I take a sip of sweet tea. Tonight, it’s living up to the “friend” part of boyfriend that’s my job. When she needs me, I’ll be here.

“Zachary,” she prompts, “would you mind picking out the prosciutto and letting me know how it tastes?” For my restaurateur girlfriend, one of the toughest things about being undead is that it’s a struggle for her to keep food down. She’s still building up her tolerance for anything heartier than gelatin or whipped cauliflower. “Zachary?”

He covers her hand with his own. “You heard about the boy found dead on the lakefront.” The angel takes a deep breath. “Well, I found Mitch on the hike-and-bike trail last night after work. It was him. I mean, he —”

“I know what you mean,” Quince says, pulling away. “So you —”

“I didn’t strike him down against his will,” Zach assures her. “Mitch offered his soul up to the Big Boss. He said he was resolved.”

“Good.” Quince pushes her chair back and stands. “Good for him. We’re supposed to be happy for him, right? Isn’t that the drill?”

Zach winces. “There’s no one way that you’re supposed to feel. You —”

At preternatural speed, she bolts out of the room, upstairs and slams her bedroom door behind her. I’ll be surprised if the hinges held.

“Should we go after her?” he asks.

I shake my head. “After dinner, I’ll go up.”

We polish off the pasta salad. Then we head to the back porch to grill up a couple of T-bones. Split a six pack. Dissect U.T. football.

Zach and I have a lot in common. As an earthbound guardian angel and a hybrid werewolf, we’re both different from everyone we know. He’s been cast out of heaven. I’m no longer welcome at the training pack. We both have big appetites. And we both — or so we’re constantly told — have great hair. Plus, we love Quince. In different ways, but she’s as precious to him as my little sis is to me.

Then there are our vampire girlfriends.

Quince had her uncertain days. Her blood-starved nights. In the end, though, she became stronger. More confident. Even in undeath, the true Quince thrives.

“When Miranda was upset, she’d run and hide,” says Zach. “Mostly in girls’ bathrooms.”

“Quince isn’t hiding,” I explain at the picnic table. “She just wants to be alone.”

I wish Zach wouldn’t compare Quince to Miranda. From what Freddy tells me, Miranda kept a stable of human victims in her castle dungeon. She left drained bodies strewn across the alleys of Chicago. She ordered the tongues cut out of gossiping servants.

Zach pops the tab of a beer. “I never understood my girl like you do Quincie.”

I’ve had a lifetime to get to know Quince. But he’d watched over Miranda from day one. “You mentioned before that you’re a young angel. What does that mean?”

He hesitates before answering. “We new angels were created after the first atomic blast in 1945.”

“And Miranda was . . . not a senior citizen?”

He laughs. “No, she’s not much older than you. She . . .” He pauses. “What?”

I’m not sure how to phrase this. Zach may be my buddy, but he’s still a holy being. “Aren’t you kind of old for her?”

I’ve traced Brad, the vamp who cursed Quince, to the early twentieth century. He’d hit the preternatural scene by at least the 1920s. He used his experience, his worldliness, to try to seduce her. Just thinking about it makes me want to snarl. So maybe I’m oversensitive about the subject. But I need to know where heaven stands on much older guys going after teenage girls. I want to hear that my faith is justified.

Zach puts down his knife and fork. “You know dog years?”

“Is this a werewolf joke?” I like a good werewolf joke. But I want my answer.

“No. I mean, you know how dogs — how different species — reach maturity at different rates? How they have different life expectancies?”

I nod. Werebirds, for example, mature much faster than weremammals. Life cycles vary. On average, Wolves die fifteen years earlier than humans.

It’s unclear what that’ll mean for me, a hybrid. But odds are, Quince and Zach will be here years, even centuries, after I’m gone. It makes his answer to my question that much more important. I know that angels can slip, fall. So how good of a guy is he?

Zach yawns again. “In angel years, I’m about the age I look. I was born this way, fully grown. I’ll look this way forever. But I’m the human equivalent of twenty or so.”

Great to know. On the other hand . . . Suddenly, I can’t help thinking that guardian angels start working awfully young. On-the-job training? It’s comforting that Zach’s not a letch.

Except . . . how qualified is he to guard Quince? It’s a dangerous world. With a more dangerous underworld. Given that Zach’s slipped already, it’s lucky that he hasn’t stumbled across anyone more diabolical than his own girlfriend.

Get the rest of the story in Diabolical, available in
hardcover and e-book formats.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2008 by Cynthia Leitich Smith
First appeared in Immortal: Love Stories with Bite, published by BenBella Books.
Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

Excerpt from Diabolical copyright © 2012 by Cynthia Leitich Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First electronic edition 2011

ISBN 978-0-7636-6047-5 (electronic)

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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Miranda

Zachary

Kieren

Copyright