I know the dead and the dead know me. Not a personal choice, mind you, just the result of being born into a family of necromancers. It's in our blood, so to speak. Not that I am one--not yet anyway. It's more that they needed someone to learn the family business. So instead of more practical training, I learned how to deal with death.

Two years ago, my entire life changed and I ended up more or less back where I'd started--the heart of Texas Hill Country in a small town called Rio Seco--babysitting a whiny forty-year-old mortician cousin whose idea of fun was to call me at the ass crack of what-the-hell-time-is-it, a couple of hours past my usual dawnish bedtime, and beg for money. Okay, I had it and he didn't, but all I wanted from him was a little respect--you know, the stuff Aretha sang about. My cousin had plenty of respect for his clients (actually, for their families who were paying for his services) but not for me. Marty Nelson would always bitch to me about his dead-end (pun intended) job, his life (mostly useless) and his lack of funds (eternal).

Enduring two years of boredom, near-solitude, and conversations with a man with whom I had less in common than a family pet wasn't what I'd imagined. Okay, so I had made this choice. What can I say? At the time, it sounded easy. I hadn't bothered to consider the consequences, imagine the future and recognize how unspeakably bored I would become. Marty certainly didn't make it any easier.

Then things started changing. Over the past couple of weeks, I'd been blessed with my own personal nightmare freak show. Lifelike dreams, crashing into my REM cycle with an overwhelming assault of vivid Technicolor, Surroundsound and Smell-o-vision. I spent years as Death's assistant and now those years were coming back to haunt me ... not with guilt or accusation, but in nightmares full of pain, fear, violence and a hell of a lot of blood.

That was the part I kept wondering about. Clan deaths were rarely violent, at least in the last century or so. Nowadays, when our folk died, it was by choice, not by chance. I wasn't sure where all this was coming from, maybe it was just my own sick psyche dealing with the so-called facts of my life.

This last one was the worst so far. Even the bright mid-afternoon sun couldn't chase it away. I still tasted blood, tasted death. The rich flavor of life bleeding into lifelessness hovered at the back of my throat, covering my tongue with that morning-after-the-night-before fuzzy coating that makes you run to the nearest toothbrush and giant bottle of Scope.

I could still remember, every last bloody minute of it.

I ran. Faster than I could ever remember running, my feet passing smoothly over rough terrain, my body automatically turning, avoiding rocks, cacti, and stumps of dead mesquite dangerously spearing the still night air. As the pale light of the nearly full moon blazed my path, my night vision adjusted automatically.

I could smell them in front of me. Hot fear-scent mixed with the exhilaration of the chase. This was what I wanted, what I needed.

Two hunters ran in front of me, staying in the shadows so I couldn't see who they were. No matter; after they fed, then I would.

I lunged forward, impatient now to reach my--

The smell slammed into my nose as I heard their prey fall, one body, then another. My gut roiled in agony, anticipation.

Blood. Lots of it. Where were they?

Fog clouded my vision. My senses shut down as the blood spoor became my only focus. I broke through the bushes, branches scratching my face, my arms, my body, pain receding into the background. There they were--ahead, in a clearing just by the lake, next to the homey picnic benches scattered throughout the small area.

Two of them, torn and bleeding. The rich scent teased me, luring me over. I looked around. The hunters were gone. Long gone. No one was there but the dead ... and me.

I stepped closer. Two deer, small, defenseless, spotted bodies too small to escape the things that chased them. I reached down, my hand operating independently of my conscious brain, my body taking over, knowing it needed--

I screamed as I realized that the bloody corpse nearest me wasn't a deer after all.

It was my cousin, Marty.

Something buzzed at my hip and my hands jerked the wheel. The Land Rover's right front tire slid off the road onto the gravel shoulder, kicking up dust. I recovered, steering back on to the road.

Holy crap. I really had to stop thinking about this, especially while I was driving. Maybe I should try to adjust my sleep cycle and sleep at night, like normal people. Yeah, right. Normal. Ignore the obvious.

The buzz-tickle came again--damned cell phone. Would I ever get used to this thing? I fumbled it out of my pocket, while steering one-handed and answered. "Hello?"

"Keira?"

"Hi, Marty." Great. I should have looked at the Caller ID before answering. Who else would call at three p.m.--early for me--but my charge, my responsibility, the reason for my dissatisfaction and the frequent star of many of my recent nightmares? Of course, the dreams of his death might just be the product of my jumbled mind sorting out not-so-cousinly feelings. Could just be a bit of scary wishful thinking. After all, two years was twenty-four months too long to be riding herd over a man only three years my senior, especially one as annoying as my cousin. After this last set of dreams, though, I was considering changing my analysis. These nightmares weren't fodder for a shrink's couch. They'd send any would-be Freud screaming.

"Are you busy?"

Busy trying to not freak out, but otherwise, not really. Can't say "busy" describes my life these days.

I pulled over to the side of the road so I could concentrate on talking to him. I didn't like to talk while driving the narrow, winding back roads.

"Not exactly. What's up?"

He paused, as if my question was too hard to answer.

"Keira, I'm sorry, I know you hate to be called early, but ... uhm ... I sort of need ... I've got..." A sigh and another pause followed.

An armadillo waddled across the asphalt, its leaden progress hypersonic compared to the conversation I didn't actually seem to be having. The silence stretched. I could hear Marty breathing, but no words.

I finally spoke, unwilling to sit watching armadillos avoid becoming road decor any longer.

"Marty, what the hell do you want? I can't do anything if you won't talk to me."

Closing my eyes, I leaned back in my seat, holding on to my temper. I could feel it rising, an almost automatic response. Deep breaths, Keira. Slow, calming breaths. It didn't pay to get angry with Marty. He never really noticed.

No doubt his skinny, balding self was now sitting behind his previously-owned pressboard desk, the very picture of a respectable mortician in a baggy Men's Wearhouse three-piece suit while I sat here like an idiot in my vintage Land Rover Defender waiting for him to tell me something that mattered. It never mattered to me--only to Marty and his overbearing sense of self-importance. The fact I'd been "assigned" to him couldn't help his misguided illusions of grandeur.

"I think I'm in trouble," he finally whispered. Marty's voice sounded hesitant.

"How much is it this time? Another security door? The latest and greatest embalming machine or whatever?" At the beginning of this particular month, he'd needed to pay his property taxes. The week before that he didn't have enough to cover an overdue invoice. Two days before that ... well, it was always the same thing. Just a couple of weeks ago, I'd paid for a state-of-the-art security door after another phone call, during which he whined for the better part of a half hour and then gloated over his nifty new toy, an electronic door controlled by a security touchpad. Expensive high-tech protection. Just what a small town mortuary run by one guy and a part-time receptionist needed. As always, it had been easier to write the check and pay the invoice. If money could buy a little peace and quiet, then so be it.

"No, it's not--Keira, I ... can't ... Shit. I need you to come over." He sounded exasperated, a change from his usual pity-poor-me-I-need-money whine.

"Excuse me? Come over? Now, before I eat breakfast?"

"I really need you to come over here, Keira."

"Why--the door break down?" I couldn't help it. I'd not only paid way too much money for the thing, I'd also had to pay for the special technician to come in from Austin and re-install the door after Marty's local bargain guy messed it up.

"Look, I really need to talk to you. It's important. But I can't talk right now, and not on the phone."

The last words were more breaths than actual words, as if he were trying not to let someone overhear. Who, I had no idea, since the receptionist was older than God and almost as deaf as Marty's clients. She was unlikely to be there at this hour anyway.

Damn it, if I avoided him now, he'd keep badgering me with phone calls and voice messages until I gave in anyway. But I gave it one more shot.

"Marty, can I call you later, after I get some food in me? I just got up."

"Yeah, I guess," he said, reluctantly. "But don't call, just come by when you're done eating. I have to see you in person, Keira." He hesitated, then continued. "This is family important ... blood important. Please."

Bloody freaking hell. I hated this already and I didn't even know what it was about. I'd let the words sway me, but I knew his tendency to exaggerate. Last time he'd sworn it was a family thing he'd been scared he'd gotten his then-girlfriend pregnant. He wanted money for an abortion. She wanted the baby and a husband--turned out to be a false alarm. A few weeks later, she moved to Dallas with a new guy. Marty kept the money and bought a new suit. That was eight months ago. I told him then that if he ever invoked the family again when it was a personal problem, I'd call in said family. Why did I think he'd listened?

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Marty. Don't get your tighties in a wad. Let me eat or I'll be more than useless."

I took a breath. If this was serious family business, he wouldn't want to wait.

After a short pause, he spoke again. "I'll wait. And, Keira..."

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

The odd flat silence finally penetrated as my brain processed the fact that Marty hung up. He'd said both "please" and "thanks"--two words that I'd rarely heard from him over the past two years. Hmm.

I tried to ignore the distant alarm bells clamoring in my head as I pulled back onto the road. Damn it. It really wasn't Marty's fault that for the past several weeks, I'd woken up either just before or just after dawn with shrieks still echoing in my ears. It also wasn't his fault that until this last one, most of the previous nightmares involved his screams, his blood ... and that somehow, for some bizarre reason, I felt guilty about it.

Okay, maybe not so bizarre considering what was happening. To me, not Marty. I had no idea what he was going on about. After two weeks, I'd finally figured out at least part of what was going on with me. The nightmares were just a small part of it. The paranormal floodgates had most definitely opened, the psychic horses had gotten out and my personal Elvis had finally left the fucking building.

I should have known, especially after the past few visits from the nightmare fairy, but ignoring the signs was far too easy. Ignoring wasn't going to help now.

I saw it in the mirror this morning. It was most definitely there, slipsliding behind my eyes: a hint of darkness, of other.

It really wasn't all that noticeable. I don't suppose it wouldn't stop any presses or even a casual passerby. At first glance, I looked normal, human. But I'd always known better. I was Changing--twenty years too early and with no one to guide me--coming into my full powers as a family member. Well, I always was GDI (god-damned independent) and (according to my instructors) advanced for my age group. Guess I'd have to live up to that reputation now.

Meet Keira Kelly: not-such-a-child prodigy. Height: Five feet, ten inches. Eyes: Gray. Hair: Black. Likes: Old movies, good books, and great wine. Trained as: "Escort," temporarily on leave. Talents: Clairvoyance, farseeing, necromancy--a lovely smorgasbord of supernatural powers and things that go bump in the night.

I left off shapeshifting, since it would be overkill to state the obvious.

CHAPTER TWO

Despite my distractions, I made it to my destination without having an accident. Not hard to do in Rio Seco. Our idea of heavy traffic was more than one vehicle approaching the four-way stop at the same time. Yeah, "the," as in "there's only one." One main intersection marking the center of what we called "town." We were so small, we not only didn't have a Dairy Queen, we didn't even have a football team. In Texas, that's tantamount to heresy. No worries on our end, though, it helped keep us out of the limelight.

Places like ours still exist in parts of the Hill Country. Some towns, like Luckenbach or Fredericksburg, hang on due to tourism. Others are supported by some local product, usually limestone or cattle. Then there's most good ol' boys' favorite "product"--hunting. Rio Seco had only a few small ranches, our quarry closed more than twenty years ago and--despite the occasional SUV-load of family out wandering the Hill Country for lack of anything better to do who stopped here because they were lost or needed to pee--we didn't do tourists. We existed for the seasons: dove, quail, javelina, turkey and the most popular: deer.

Whitetail season opened in a couple of weeks for general hunting. Bow hunting season was already in progress, but we don't get much of that around here. The town itself didn't do much direct business with the hunters, but the residents of the county, mostly ranchers with lucrative leases, did.

I crossed the parking lot of the small strip center that was pretty much all there was of beautiful downtown Rio Seco. A small silver-haired woman holding a couple of cups of coffee stood just outside Bea's Place, our only retail food establishment. I was there for fuel: caffeine, food and a quick gabfest with my best friend (and the caf?'s owner), Beatriz Ruiz.

"Hey, Greta," I called to the woman, smiling as I approached and trying to keep a neutral tone. Hard enough to keep my regular secrets from the locals without anyone noticing this Change business, too. Would she see anything different about me? Marty hadn't noticed, but then we'd only spoken on the phone. Besides, he was preoccupied with whatever it was he was caught up in.

"Good day, Keira." Greta Nagy returned my smile with one of her own. Good. She sounded like she usually did. I guess that meant I didn't sound any different, even though my brain was still buzzing.

"How you doing?" I asked. "That a new outfit?"

"Yes." She preened a little, showing off the snazzy silver-gray track suit, the uniform of choice around here for women of a certain age. "Thank you for noticing."

A bit over seventy, Greta and her slightly more senior brother owned and operated the deli/convenience store that made up most of the right-hand side of the L-shaped center. The caf? anchored the far left of the strip. A laundromat, video store and a real estate office made up the rest. Not much town here, but I loved every square rolling foot of it, despite my apathy of the last couple of years.

"Since it is the middle of the afternoon, you must be having breakfast," Greta asked.

"Nothing like Bea's breakfast tacos and coffee to wake a person up." I smiled. My stomach made the appropriate accompanying noises.

A glimpse of movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. Greta's brother was in front of the deli, loading the store van with what looked like cases of wine. He carried them almost effortlessly, with the smooth moves of a much younger man.

I turned back to Greta. "So, how's Boris doing?"

She grimaced a little, but kept her polite tone. "He is better."

I heard the uncertainty behind the words, not completely masked by her matter-of-fact delivery.

"No more problems, then?"

"A few nightmares, but he is better. I will let him know you asked, thank you."

With that, she smiled and walked away.

I watched as she handed him his coffee. They were too far away for me to hear anything, but as he took a sip, he wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and looked over at me, a strange expression on his face.

I waved a "hello" and walked into the caf?.

Poor man. I wasn't the only one having nightmares. Boris had mentioned he had horrible nightmares, sometimes so terrible they affected his health. Were they as bad as mine? Maybe, except his were based on reality; mine only seemed like they were.

Last time I'd talked to Boris, a few days ago, his usual tan was faded and his eyes were sunk into his wrinkled face, making him look much older than his seventy-odd years. Normally he was as fit and as physically able as his sister or more so. Perhaps he was better, as Greta said but, knowing Boris, he probably figured lying to his sister, pretending the drugs helped, was better than continuing to go to doctors who could never really cure what was wrong. Doctors cannot make the past go away.

I'd only seen the numbers tattooed on his forearm once, but I knew what they were. Greta had her own set. Neither of them ever discussed it, but I knew enough to recognize the symptoms of trying to forget. I could relate to having memories that needed to stay hidden.

I crossed the floor of the caf?. Before I could order, Bea's nephew, Noe, handed me a giant mug. Coffee: hot as hell, sweet as love and white with real cream. I took a deep gulp of the hot liquid and silently blessed the boy for anticipating my order.

"Thanks, Noe," I said. "Can I get my usual?"

He nodded and rang up my order.

I was putting my wallet back into my backpack when a deep voice behind me muttered, "Strange doings at the Wild Moon."

I turned to see Boris standing just inside the door of the restaurant. He wiped his hands on his bandanna, then placed it carefully in his left back pocket as he approached. He walked up to the counter and I watched him pull two packets of sweetener from a small bowl and place them into his shirt pocket, then pat the pocket as if to make sure they were carefully tucked in.

Boris wore a male version of my own outfit: jeans, hiking boots and a plaid cotton flannel shirt, worn open over a T-shirt. His was crew necked with short sleeves; mine was a tank top, but both were standard Hill Country gear. Most local guys wore their shirt sleeves rolled up, even in winter, but Boris's sleeves stayed tightly buttoned over the telltale numbers on his arm.

"Hey, Boris."

He did look a little better, less faded than the last time I'd seen him, but I could still see the strain in his eyes.

He nodded, a grim expression on his face. "I was there this morning," he said.

"There where?" I asked.

"At the Wild Moon."

Once a local hunting ranch, the Wild Moon had closed about thirty years ago when its absentee Houston owners abandoned it after their oil stocks tanked. The bank that held the note couldn't unload the place, so it had been left to decay, becoming the playground for the county's adventurous teenagers who liked to trespass. Its nearly two thousand acres also provided a great happy hunting ground for members of my family who preferred to hunt the old-fashioned way--chasing down their prey before they killed and ate it.

A couple of years ago, not too long after I'd come back home, all that changed. Some unknown outsider bought the place and started renovations.

I hadn't heard the Wild Moon was open for business, but it was possible. Although the ranch was located only a dozen miles outside of town, none of the locals ever went out there. Residents here had grown used to the fact that guests at exclusive ranches for the rich and shameless rarely left their pampered lives to shop at the Video Hut or lunch at a small town deli. No matter--for the most part, we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us. I figured this incarnation of the Wild Moon was just another way for outsiders to not spend money in town.

Boris took out his bandanna again, his hands restless. "You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?"

"Two children, young people. They found two dead deer. By the picnic grounds at the lake. Bled. Mutilated."

Oh, that was just freakin' dandy. Unless Boris had a direct line to my twisted psyche--which he couldn't--evidently what I'd experienced were more than just nightmares; they had some connection with reality. Nightmare Visions Are Us. Welcome to the Clairvoyance Club--another byproduct of my wonderful weird heritage.

But, wait--something didn't quite match my bloody dreams.

"What do you mean, 'mutilated'?" I asked. "Like the cattle in those horrible UFO stories?" Maybe I was wrong, maybe it was just--no. I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't wrong. The memory was too real, too fresh in my mind. This could not be a coincidence. Or could it?

Boris shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. "Someone took the heads." He sounded tired, raw.

Now that was an interesting twist. When I'd--

Okay, I'm not wanting to remember that part right now, but I do know the deer were intact in my vision. Dead, yes. Bled--well, yeah, as part of the feeding. But they had not been headless.

Boris continued his story. "I was just making morning deliveries to the Inn. Then there was the shouting."

"Deliveries?"

"Yes. They are stocking up, I think. Open for guests now. Been taking supplies out there every day before breakfast. Most afternoons just before dark. I order wine and other things for them. Deliver it. Business is good."

The last word came out as "goot." Neither he nor Greta had much of an accent but, every once in a while, traces in their speech were reminders they hadn't always been Texans.

Boris glanced past me. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was looking at. No one was near. A few customers sat in booths to our right, nobody I recognized offhand. Probably daytrippers. Boris wiped his face with his bandanna, as if just the telling of his tale upset him. "Those poor children. It was terrible. The blood was gone, the heads ... terrible."

"Did you actually see the deer?"

He nodded, and leaned toward me, whispering faster, as if the faster he spoke, the easier the words would be to say.

"When the manager went to look, I followed. I saw the bodies. The death." He shuddered a little and stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket. "There is evil. It is not safe, Keira. He doesn't know. Tell him--"

The brass Indian elephant bells attached to the caf? door tinkled behind me, announcing a new arrival.

Boris could see whoever had just entered. His eyes widened and a look of horror spread across his face. He shut his mouth, pressing his lips together.

I whirled at his reaction, nearly dropping to a defensive crouch before I saw it was just Greta coming through the door. She had a peculiar look on her own face. Her mouth smiled, yet something else swam behind her dark eyes, something that could almost be anger. I'd never seen any strong emotion from her--at most a gentle lift of the corners of her mouth as if slightly amused.

"Boris, did you get what you needed?"

Greta's words were flat, juiceless, completely without inflection, as if each word were printed on a piece of paper from which she read.

I tightened my grip on my coffee cup, my adrenaline surging just a little as I sensed her tension. I reinforced my mental shields. I did this naturally, without thinking. My barriers were a part of me; the first thing I learned during my early years--how to hide in plain sight. The emotions of others couldn't get in; mine couldn't get out. Survival training at its finest.

But Greta's silent agitation wasn't directed at me. She approached her brother and took his arm. He grimaced as her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, but didn't remove her hand. There was more than tension there. Fear maybe? I couldn't tell by just watching them and I wasn't prepared to do more than look with my eyes.

Maybe that's all this was--fear, worry that Boris was descending back into his own private mental hellhole, triggered by what he'd seen at the ranch. I didn't want to upset him any further, but it did bother me that Boris seemed to be trying to warn me in the same breath he used to speak of the Wild Moon and mutilated animals. Who did he want me to tell--and what?

Before I could say anything, Greta spoke.

"We need to go now, Boris. Let Keira have her breakfast." Her voice still sounded strange--strained, as though she were forcing out the words, making herself act normally. She turned and practically dragged her brother out the door with her. As they exited, Boris shot me a despairing look.

Still a popular hangout after more than fifty years, not much ever changed about Bea's Place, not even after Bea took it over from her parents ten years ago. Still single, like me, Bea and I had been friends since nearly forever.

As a feisty eight-year-old and the only child of aging parents, Bea took me under her wing, determined to befriend the pallid, scared and semi-motherless seven-year-old with bushy black hair, pale gray eyes and a funny accent.

Thirty years later, I'd lost the accent and tamed the hair, but still had the same pale eyes and best friend. Bea was the one person in my life who I could count on to be there for me without an underlying agenda. My family always had ulterior motives for everything. Bea did things out of the goodness of her heart and for friendship. At least some things never changed.

And some things most definitely did not stay the same. The string of brass bells tinkled again; the caf? door swung open and my day got even more complicated.

Beige Stetson poised on his once very familiar head, Carlton Larson, acting county sheriff, stood in the doorway, his handsome face serious as a funeral. Nearly six-five, and with a build to match, he'd always tended to overwhelm a lot of things, not the least of all--some fifteen years ago--me.

I spoke first, hoping my voice would stay steady and friendly. "Hey, there. Welcome back."

I succeeded.

"Well, if it isn't Keira Kelly," he replied, his deep voice rumbling throughout the restaurant. "Been awhile. Good to see you."

He seemed just as calm as I was pretending to be. Good sign. Last time we'd been in the same room together, sparks flew, and not from passion. We'd both lashed out. Me to wound him, him in anger--cut too deep, not wanting to hear what I was saying. I'd still wanted to be with him then, but not in the way he'd wanted. Not forever, because that was impossible.

Flirtation at twenty-two became an affair at twenty-three. Then one morning, nearly a year after our first date, I woke up and realized he really meant what he said the night before about the whole white-wedding-and-matching-appliances-from-Sears thing, and ended it. No looking back. No other options.

A couple of months after that, just long enough to go through the application and admissions process, Carlton left Rio Seco to join the San Antonio PD. I'd beat his exit by five days and five thousand miles.

I'd beat him back, too--by just under two years. Except ... unlike me, he brought back a hell of a lot more baggage than he'd taken away. He was married and had children.

This was the first time I'd seen him since he'd returned a couple of weeks ago. In fact, it was the first time I'd seen him since I'd left.

We stared at each other, appraising, the silence acknowledging every single one of those thirteen years. He'd trained to become a cop. I'd trained to become ... something else. As far as he knew, I was still the same unemployed trust-fund baby as before. The trust fund still existed, but my job description was totally different--and nothing he would ever find out about.

I took a sip from my cup, taking a moment to taste my feelings as I tasted the rich flavor of the coffee. As I swallowed the hot liquid, I began to relax. His voice once charmed the pants off me--literally--but there was no more charming here. Everything I'd ever felt for him was most definitely in the past tense. Lover: as in former. These worn blue jeans were definitely remaining firmly on my body. Thank goodness. Not that I'd be opposed to some horizontal exercise, but definitely not with him. Not now, not ever again. Especially not now.

"Just getting breakfast." I smiled the polite smile of I-have-no-clue-what-to-say-right-now. "So, what's new?"

Carlton took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick, short-cropped brown hair. He still didn't show any gray, even though he was a couple of years older than me.

"Want to sit?" He strode over to the nearest empty booth, put his hat on the tabletop and motioned to the seat across from him.

As I slid across the bench, Noe came over and dropped off my food without a word. He set down a full glass of tea and several packets of sugar in front of Carlton, then returned to his post at the cash register.

I watched Carlton perform a routine I'd seen countless times. Tap the packets together to line them up, tear them all open at once and dump too many teaspoons of sugar into his glass. The long-handled spoon clunked against the plastic as he stirred.

"Still drinking sweet tea?"

Carlton chuckled. "Yeah, still."

I took a bite of my bacon-and-egg taco dripping with salsa. Heavenly. I sighed and settled in to eat, just like it was any other day. I was good at pretending.

"You look good," I ventured, talking around a mouthful of food.

The years away from Rio Seco had etched Carlton's face. Fine lines defined his deep brown eyes, a few extra lines on his tanned forehead enhanced his good looks. He'd always been a candidate for Marlboro Man ads, even more so now that he was older and more settled into his features. He even made the cheap brown polyester uniform he wore look good. Not a mean feat.

"Thanks," he said. "Good genes, I guess." He picked up the spoon again, stirring and staring at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

"You know, it's really amazing, Keira. It's been too many years to count and you haven't changed a bit."

"Good genes," I repeated and took another big bite of my taco.

"How's your family? I heard they moved to Canada."

Sure did. Lock, stock, and grimoire. Everyone from my great-great-grandmother on down to my brothers and once-local cousins. Everyone but me and Marty.

"Can't keep a secret in this town," I joked. "They're in British Columbia. Doing great. Dad enjoys the hunting."

I returned his query, lobbing the conversational ball back over to Carlton's side of the court.

"So, speaking of family ... Carol and the kids getting settled?"

"They're fine."

Carlton put down his glass with a small thump, sloshing a bit of the tea over the side. As he mopped up the spill with a paper napkin, he changed the subject. "What have you been up to?"

Score a point for me in the I-don't-care game. It obviously bothered him to talk about his wife with his former girlfriend.

"Just breakfast," I said, with a shrug. "Still not so much into the cooking."

The smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and he inadvertently echoed my earlier thought.

"Some things don't change, do they, Keira?" He spoke softly.

Well, not exactly.

I knew the Change wasn't obvious since none of the people I'd talked to earlier had noticed. There was no neon sign above my head or anything, but oddly enough, it would've been nice if someone noticed something, anything. Someone could ask me if I was feeling okay or even--

Damn it. I didn't really know just what I wanted. It was kind of like getting your first period. You didn't want to talk about it, but you wanted everyone to know you were a woman. Maybe not the best analogy, but it works for me. This was a major rite of passage for me, but no one other than my clan really understood what it meant, and they were all in Canada or other parts of the world. Which actually is a good thing most days. It means they stay off my back. But today, I wanted to be able to share with someone who understood.

I looked at Carlton. He'd known me so well back then, or so he thought. He never knew me, what I really was. All he ever saw was a girl who'd broken his heart. I hated it, but I did what I had to then. No regrets.

"So what's been happening?" I asked, bringing us back to the present and to safer ground.

His face tensed, the smile was wiped away in an instant.

"I suppose you've heard about what happened out at that ranch. Up to hearing the gory details?"

I put down the remains of my taco, my appetite waning as I slowly wiped my hands on a paper napkin. I couldn't meet his gaze. "There are gory details?"

I should have known that they'd called out the sheriff.

"Pretty nasty details, actually. You sure you're up for this, you look a bit--"

"I'm fine," I said, cutting him off. The nasty details were what I needed to hear. I wanted to know more.

He frowned, but continued. "Out at the Wild Moon--its outskirts, really. Got the call before dawn. A couple of kids took a walk down on the Point after an all-night party out at the Bar-K dance hall. Probably went to make-out by the lake. You know how dark it is out there."

Another smile zipped across his face, a flash of the old twinkling eyes peeked out at me, before the seriousness returned.

I smiled back out of reflex. Oh yeah, I knew how dark it was out there. Nights out at the Point, by the lake. Nights spent with Carlton, doing things that might get a person arrested for trespassing and more--except his daddy had been the law back then and we'd had the arrogance of youth.

He kept talking, his big hands folding and re-folding a paper napkin.

"They literally stumbled across the carcasses. Two Sitka deer bodies."

"Do you know who did it?"

I wanted to see what he'd say. There was no way he could know that the hunters weren't human, but someone else had mutilated those deer ... and my bets were on the mundane.

"Not a clue. Anyone can sneak out to the Point. I don't know if you've seen the ranch since the renovation. Most of it's fenced now, some even game-fenced, but not all the way out to the lake. I think it has something to do with an easement or something. Right now, my guess is poachers. Some out-of-town fools with more money than sense trying to get out of buying a license or getting a jump on the season. Even so, I can't put my finger on why these deer."

"Why not?"

"Sitka aren't much good for trophies in any event, and these particular ones were young. Not much meat, not much in the way of a rack."

Young deer. Not a bad choice for hunters chasing prey on foot. Hunters not interested in meat or trophies, just blood, the exhilaration, the bliss of the chase followed by the capture and the kill. Small animals, almost too easy to find, to follow under a hunter's moon, full and bright.

I never saw the predators' faces in my dream, didn't see their real forms. That part of my memory was hazy, wrapped in shadows. Clear as dirty ice. Deliberately? Something else I didn't know.

Carlton spoke again, eyes almost closed as if telling the story tired him out.

"Keira, there is something else that really freaks me out--something that makes me sick to my stomach."

I turned my attention to him, reinforced my mental barriers, and placed my hand on top of his. The energy that radiated from his body flowed over and around me, as I tried not to notice the distraction. Most humans emitted some kind of "noise," but Carlton's anxiety increased the sensation, so that it felt like the hum of a high-tension wire sizzling against my skin.

He looked around, as if to see who was nearby. Most of the tables had emptied by now. It was getting late. No one sat within earshot. Even so, he dropped his voice to a pitch so low that even I almost had to strain to hear it.

"When I said trophies, I meant it. They weren't field dressed and pieces left behind--the heads are missing."

He paused a moment, then continued. "Gone, hacked off, brutal. I can't help but think this is something more than just poachers." He dropped his head and wouldn't look at me as he whispered. "What if we have some sort of satanic cult around here?"

I pulled away.

"Shit, Carlton, you're not serious?"

Shielding my emotions was one thing, but my control would be harder if I were touching him. What was he doing talking about cults instead of poachers? I tried to control my breathing, the irrational panic I felt building. Crap, crap, crap. Not good. Too many childhood stories racing through my mind. Persecution, being hunted down, treated as Enemy. We weren't, but it was too easy to call us "cult," or worse.

"Carlton, you can't possibly believe that."

As far as the general public was concerned, my people were nothing but rumor and superstition. Fine by me. I'm not so ready to wave that particular pride banner, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, stupid imitators and wannabes kept enough rumors alive to leave just a tiny bit of doubt in people's minds. Just enough to make me worried in this kind of situation. I was not in the mood for another Inquisition. Torquemada may have been right about one thing, we were pretty much all heretics, but I wasn't going to burn at anyone's stake. Not even a symbolic one.

"I can't really believe in any of that stuff, Keira," Carlton admitted. "But what if some group's gotten into voodoo or Santeria or something like that? We may be a small town, but you know how many new people are moving out to the Hill Country. Maybe somebody's into animal sacrifice or something. You wouldn't believe some of the weird-ass cult shit I saw in San Antonio."

"Come on, Carlton, are you listening to yourself?" I fought to keep my voice from rising. "Nothing's changed around here. We're still in the middle of White People Central."

No shit. We were Texas' answer to Wonder Bread, mayo, and Baptist church Sundays. This part of the Hill Country had been settled by conservative German immigrants. The closest thing to a cult was a little charismatic Christian church across the lake. No practitioners of Voudoun there, just a bunch of folks who like to sing loud hymns and testify about Jesus to unsuspecting campers.

"Next you'll be blaming the deer mutilations on the Chupacabra." I smiled weakly, and poked him in the arm. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Take the hint, Carlton.

Just because last night's hunters fed on blood didn't mean they were unnatural--just some kind of preternatural creatures whose identity was best left hidden from the mundane world. There had to be a run-of-the-mill explanation for the missing heads. Something explainable by normal human means. Some local boys maybe, running across a couple of dead deer and thinking it was funny to steal the heads. Had to be something like that.

"I know. I know," Carlton laughed, a little of his usual humor coming back into his soft brown eyes as he visibly relaxed. "I'm just grasping at straws. I don't believe in all that junk anyway. Too much like tabloid TV."

I had to stop myself before I said something I regretted. The part of me that wanted validation wanted to speak up. Not a good idea. I settled for changing the subject.

"I heard the ranch is open for business. Have you talked to the guests out there?" I asked. "Maybe someone saw something."

"Come on, Keira, cut me a little slack. I did try." Carlton sighed. "Those folks out there keep your kind of hours. Seems there was an all-night party or something--most of them are still sleeping it off. Hell, even the owner isn't available to talk to me."

"Who is the owner? All I heard was that it was someone who was not from around here."

He shrugged. "Don't know much. I talked to Kevin Hilton a couple of hours ago. His brother-in-law, Alan Richards, brokered the sale. Alan's out of town, but Kevin remembers the guy who bought it was from England, looking for an investment. Bought the place a couple of years ago, then sank a ton of money into it for renovations. Hired a bunch of outsiders to do the work. Hell, they're not even hiring locals now that they're open."

"So what's their deal, some sort of dude ranch or something?"

"Looks like. A bunch of spoiled European snobs, I'm thinking. The place looks expensive. But there wasn't a soul around. The only person I saw was the day manager. Nice enough, but no damned help to me. I haven't met the main guy yet, but the manager said he just moved on site."

The strains of a digital rendition of Toccata and Fugue interrupted. Crap. That setting wasn't any better than "vibrate" mode.

I pulled my mobile out of my backpack, glanced at the ID on the screen, then put the still-chiming phone back into the bag.

"You going to answer that?" Carlton asked.

"Nope," I answered. "It's Marty. I'm already going over there, so he can just wait."

"I take it he's still as much of a pain in the ass as he always was."

"That's putting it mildly. It's always something with him--usually money."

"He asks you for money?" Carlton sounded surprised. "I thought the funeral industry was pretty recession proof."

I shrugged. "I imagine so, but you know Marty with the spending."

"You still bailing him out?"

"I still do," I admitted. "Someone's got to watch out for him."

That someone being me. Clan by birth, but not by genetics, Marty was a biological anomaly. I may be half-blood, but neither of my halves were human--couldn't be. Biologies weren't compatible.

Somehow, something in Marty's chromosomes was defective, at least to our way of thinking. Some mutation caused by who-knew-what made him powerless and fully human, a reverse X-Man. In less enlightened times, he would have been dumped at birth and left to die. Instead, he'd been allowed to live, but as an outsider. His own parents abandoned him. He was raised by an uncle and taught the funeral business. Uncle Damon was a necromancer who'd translated his natural talent into an acceptable mundane career. Marty took over the business when the family left. The clan decided that Marty could run the place, even without talent or powers. I'd always figured they'd thrown the human dog a bone.

I was the dog sitter left holding that particular leash.

My one and only job now was to make sure Marty didn't get into any trouble--interpret that to mean "embarrass the family." Not that any of them were actually concerned with his welfare, just with the possibility that he might do something stupid and drag them into it. Unfortunately for me, Marty's lack of power seemed to translate into a distinct lack of sense, common or otherwise. My dear cousin appeared to enjoy getting into messes. I hoped that wasn't the case now. I did not want to get on the wrong side of my double-great-grandmother.

"Well, enjoy," Carlton said, still chuckling. "Thanks for the company. I'm heading back over to the ranch. Maybe I can convince that manager to roust the owner so I can get some questions answered."

He paused as he slid out of the booth, his gaze catching mine. "It was good to see you again, Keira. It's always nice to see old friends. Check you later?"

Old friends. I suppose you could call us that. Had a nice ring, false as it might be. Former lovers never really translated into friends. Too much muddied water under that particular bridge.

I smiled back anyway, willing to keep playing this role for now. Made things a lot easier.

"Sure, later," I said and watched him leave the restaurant.

I was glad he was happy. He deserved it. I was equally as glad that the attraction was over. No anxiety, no thump of jealous heart. Maybe Carlton and I wouldn't be the best of buddies, but we could exist in the same small town without emotional angst. Things were looking up. Sort of.

I sighed and looked at the clock above the cash register. It was nearing four-thirty, but I could definitely use another cup of coffee before facing Marty. My version of "soon" wasn't going to be the same as his. Tough. He'd live and all his clients were already dead.

CHAPTER THREE

"Sheriff-man making googly eyes at you again, m'hija?"

Bea slid her petite curvaceous figure into the seat Carlton had just vacated, cradling a large coffee mug in one small hand and carrying a full pot of coffee in the other.

"That's so not even close," I said as she topped off my mug. "You know that's long over. He was telling me about--Shit, Bea, are those two working here?"

The two stupidest criminals in the county had just walked through the kitchen door, out into the main caf?. The brothers stood behind the counter, side by side, sleeves rolled up past their elbows baring overly pumped armloads of tattoos. I watched as they served themselves coffee.

Dusty Albright, the elder of the two by ten months, glanced in my direction. He'd probably heard me. The place wasn't all that big and I hadn't exactly been quiet.

His dark bushy eyebrows contrasted with his neatly shaven head. He turned to face me, and I saw he held a chef's cleaver in his left hand, caressing it with his right as if it were his favorite toy, or worse, an intimate body part. His near-twin, Derek, stood silently beside him, no expression on his face.

Wonderful, the two town idiots wanted to play the "whose dick is bigger" game. Any other day, I'd have been happy to just avoid them and concede the match, since I didn't have any manhood to wither, but Carlton's information had already put me into a mood.

I stared straight at Dusty's muddy-colored eyes, keeping the lines of my body loose and relaxed, even though I did cross my arms in a sort of warning to back off. In my opinion, people like the Albright brothers should be treated as if they were unfamiliar animals, with caution and a little aggression--just enough to assert yourself, without appearing to be a direct threat.

I had no idea what set them off, as far as I knew I'd never done anything to them. Considering the fact they'd both just gotten out of jail, it was probably just the fact that I had the balls to look at them without permission. In high school, Dusty had beaten a kid nearly to death for standing in front of his locker. My cousin had often been their unwilling victim.

The silent pissing contest continued, neither Dusty nor I allowing ourselves to look away. What he didn't know was that I was perfectly capable of staring like this indefinitely--for hours without getting tired. Predator genes.

Bea broke the edgy silence. "Go back to the kitchen, boys. Dusty, you need to finish chopping the vegetables. And Derek, weren't you finished with your shift?"

Dusty licked his lips and gave me a smirk, punctuated by him mimicking a kiss. Without a word, but with widening grins, the two turned and passed through the swinging doors out of my sight.

I stared at my friend across the table, not sure what I wanted to say.

She looked down, delicate fingers stroking the sides of her coffee cup. With a sigh, she looked back up at me and crossed her arms.

"I know ... bad idea, but I needed help and they needed a job to satisfy their parole," she explained. "I'm running out of options, Keira. I hate the fact I had to hire those bozos because no one else applies for work. I can't compete with all those resorts opening up."

More proof that progress wasn't necessarily always good. Until a few years ago, Rio Seco had enjoyed the anonymity of a small town buried in the depths of the Hill Country. But the sprawl of the cities kept inching its way in our direction as more and more people discovered the great location. Besides the Wild Moon, two other resort ranches had opened for business over the last couple of years. The Wild Moon might not hire locally, but the others did.

Rio Seco was still pretty much the back of beyond, but "beyond" was becoming a much smaller place, which was the main reason my family packed up and left. Too hard to keep ourselves hidden.

"Hell, even my own relatives won't work for me any more. The only reason Noe's still around is because the other places don't hire minors. The minute he turns eighteen, he's out of here."

"Don't worry," I said, trying to cheer her up. "I'm sure that after the excitement of working for a new place wears off, some of them will come back."

"I hope you're right," she said. "I'd hate to think I was stuck with those two idiots forever. Not that I think they'll be here longer than a few months. I just hope they don't clean me out before they go."

I laughed. "Maybe they'll leave you alone anyway. After all, you don't sell candy bars or T-shirts."

The last time either of the Albright brothers had spent more than a couple of months in any one place had been their recent jail stint, and even that had been cut short when they'd been released under a new statewide leniency program. Of course, their crime had been pretty minor. They'd tried to hold up the band concession booth at a nearby high school football game. Truly brilliant, considering that county deputies always attended the games.

Bea grinned back at me. "You may be right, girlfriend. But I'm not holding my breath that they'll stay long enough for me to find more help."

She shrugged and pulled the pencil out of her hair, sending it tumbling to her waist, black, thick and shiny. Miss Clairol was not making any money off Beatriz Ruiz. Of course, I wasn't contributing to their profits, either, but that was different. By my family's reckoning, at thirty-seven, I was barely out of adolescence.

"All done. Your turn."

"My turn what?"

"I've known you too damn long, Keira Kelly," Bea said. "I can see something's up other than you seeing Carlton again and the two idiot brothers working for me. You look tired. Are you okay?" She frowned at me, worry lines creasing her forehead.

I let out a sigh, a little relieved. Bea noticed something off kilter. Now I could talk about it. This wasn't as good as sharing with family, but it would work ... for the short run.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it 'okay'," I said. "Notice anything different about me? Something not quite usual ... something that's changed?" I emphasized the last word.

She narrowed her eyes and stared at me silently. Her eyes flicked up and down as she searched my face. As realization dawned, she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Change? No shit, already? I thought you said none of that happened until you were in your fifties."

"Lucky me, I guess. I suppose I get the early-bird prize ... so to speak. You heard about the animal mutilations out at the Wild Moon?"

She nodded. "We all heard. Pretty damn sick. Oh, hell, was that what Carlton was talking to you about?"

"Well, yeah, except that's not really the problem, Bea. I already knew."

I drank down the last of my coffee. "I had the great good fortune to dream the whole thing before it actually happened ... or maybe even during."

Bea didn't even blink. "A vision?"

"Maybe, I don't know what to call it. These last few weeks have been hell. I've had death dreams, blood dreams. I even dreamed that Marty was dead. But this dream ... the whole thing was way too real, just like I was there watching the deer get hunted and die."

I pushed the empty mug away from me. "Bea, I not only saw it. I was a part of it. I even tasted the blood ... and I wanted to." I didn't want to tell her the last part ... about the deer body turning into Marty. That wasn't prophecy or a vision; just my own sick subconscious playing tricks ... wasn't it?

"Damn, and I thought . had problems." Bea relaxed and smiled at me, trusting in my self-diagnosis. "So what happens now? You've never really told me."

"I never told you specifics because I didn't expect to have to deal with it anytime soon," I said, shrugging. "Mostly, I just wait. Not much else I can do. I might have more visions, short spells of power bursts or any combination of symptoms. Then after a few weeks, it'll all be over and I'll settle into one talent. Probably shapeshifter since that's what my brothers are."

I had my mental fingers crossed. I hoped I wasn't underestimating this. One of my aunts described the experience as being like a real-life role-playing game. The multi-sided die would be tossed down a long narrow path, bouncing and skipping its length. Each side was another manifestation of power and Fate was the Dungeon Master. Every time the die turned and a number flashed into view, some talent would manifest itself, then another and another until, eventually, it came to a halt at the end of the lane with only one face pointing upward. The power "showing" was your lifetime talent.

"Symptoms?"

"Nothing bad, really," I said. "When Aunt Jane went through this about twenty years ago, I barely even noticed. Every once in a while she'd go into a mini-trance and make some prediction about the future. She had a couple of episodes of telekinesis, too. She could float pencils. But nothing of consequence."

"So, what is she now?"

"A healer. Symptoms don't necessarily mirror your inherited talent. We don't really know why." I laughed a little, trying to ease both of our minds. "Don't worry, it's never fatal."

That was the understatement of the century. What was the opposite of "not fatal" anyway? Oh yeah, "immortal," or near enough. Not a bad trade-off, but sometimes the price was a little high. I was afraid mine was going to be higher. Thirty years of living in mainstream human culture didn't necessarily prepare me to handle this on my own. But I sure as hell wasn't yelling for help--not just yet.

"This whole thing's a big pain in the ass for me right now," I said. "Usually, when the Change comes on, you spend time with family, but the last thing I want to do is go back to the smothering bosom of the clan."

Bea raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, giving me that "don't mess with me" look.

"I'll be fine," I insisted. "They obviously think I'm better off here as Marty's watchdog." I stopped talking, turned in the booth and leaned against the wall, not wanting to meet Bea's eyes. There was something else I wasn't telling. I hoped she wouldn't remember that part. I'd shared the story of my heritage years ago, just before I left for England, after my break-up with Carlton. She'd swallowed hard, looked me in the eye and basically accepted everything I told her. Not surprising, she'd spent enough time at my father's house to notice things we normally didn't let outsiders see. By the time we were in our early twenties, she'd become an adjunct member of the family.

"But what about the Inheritance?"

Shit. She remembered.

Only one person in a handful of generations inherited all the abilities and powers of the clan and was therefore destined for greatness, yadda yadda ... blah blah blah. Chosen One and all that. This may not be Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but our genetic Texas Lotto winner was just about as lucky ... or as cursed. Whoever became the heir got to play politics for the rest of his or her extremely long life--or as long as she or he could stand it. Trouble was, you couldn't just abdicate. There had to be an heir ready to take the position.

My father's great-grandmother, Gigi, currently held the post, and there was no heir in sight. Not that it was a problem, she loved being in charge. In fact, she really wanted the position to stay in our branch of the clan, but there was no guarantee the next leader would come from our particular line. Even so, genetics being a powerful thing, my family was willing to play the odds. At the very least, I carried half my father's genes--genes that could be passed on to a future leader. Making babies would be right up there on their list of Things for Keira to Do, but most definitely not on mine. Bea knew I was expected to rejoin the family when I began to Change. I wasn't going.

"Bea, I am not ready for this. I'm too damn young to start playing the politics and breeding game."

"They're not going to come here and drag you there if you don't want to go, are they?"

I smiled. "I don't think it's likely, but better safe than sorry. I'm not telling anyone. You know how Dad is. He'll start begging and appealing to my better nature or whatever. It's bad enough that I keep having to deal with the consequences of Marty's short leash; I don't want to have to mess with clan politics for a long time yet."

"They haven't changed their minds about him?"

"Nope. And they aren't likely to. All I ever wanted was to stay here and be left alone for a little while--instead, I got stuck with Marty. I never told you this, but I even asked if I could donate part of my regular trust allowance to him."

"Would he have taken it?"

"Oh, please, what do you think? I was counting on it. Then he could do what he always wanted--leave town. That would get me off the family hook. But for some reason, Gigi had a conniption fit. My guess is that she doesn't want him loose. He knows too much, hates us too much to be trusted."

I brightened a little as something occurred to me. Considering my new circumstances, I just might be able to free myself of Marty duty for good, maybe turn it over to some pre-changeling who needed a job. My spirits fell again as I realized what I'd have to do to reap that particular benefit. It would mean going home ... not Rio Seco home, but clan home in Canada.

Not an option at this point. I preferred Marty's whining to Gigi's wrath, any day. At least I could pretend to ignore Marty. Ignoring Gigi was neither safe nor recommended.

Bea laughed. "Damn it, girl, I've always known your family life was interesting, but this is too much. I'm so glad I'm just a lowly human with mundane problems like making a living, paying my bills, hiring ex-convicts."

"Yeah, I guess I'm just living in interesting times."

I really wouldn't trade my abilities for anything, but I'd certainly give up some of the intrigue that went with them.

Bea picked up her coffee cup and slid out of the booth. "And I suppose I need to get back to my own problems. I need to check to make sure Dusty's chopped up the veggies and not his brother."

She looked back over at me. "You are going to be okay, m'hija?" She made it more of a question than a statement.

"I'll be fine," I said as I stood up. "I really should run. Marty's whining that he needs to see me and I want to get over there and out before dark. We still doing the chick flick thing later?"

"Who's on the short leash? Baby Cuz yells for you and you're going out to pull his bacon out of the fire again?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, well, what can I say? If I don't go, you know I'll hear about it for days. He's saying it's family related and you know what happened last time."

"Yeah, but he's not dating anyone, is he?"

"Not that I know of, but who knows with Marty?"

Bea grinned. "So true." She drained her coffee cup and stood up. "Okay, girl, I'll see you later. Bad movies and good munchies it is. You get wine?"

"Yep, stocked up a couple of days ago." I headed out the door with a wave. "See you when you get there."

I noticed Dusty Albright standing alone at the counter as I left. His gaze was a tangible weight on my back as I crossed the to the exit. I couldn't help shivering as a low snigger followed me out the door.