We work with the planet we live on, Sam. We work together. We construct together, and the planet yields to us what we want.

  Winged shapes crisscrossed the sky. More creatures like Talos. Other creatures, too. Smaller animals. Oddly shaped, multi-winged animals. Hundreds of different flying creatures, dotting the sky above.

  You said man lived on your planet, I thought. In one of our previous conversations.

  He lives below, Sam. Within the earth.

  Why?

  He so chooses.

  Do they look like me?

  Close enough.

  I thought about all of this as I continued flapping Talos’s massive wings, catching the air, holding it, and pushing it behind me. A wonderful sensation. Below me, the city lights of Earth faded into rolling hills as I left Orange County behind and headed over the Santa Ana Mountains.

  Why are you sitting next to me? I asked. You know, in your world?

  I’m keeping an eye on you, Samantha Moon, came his gentle words, and I sensed some mirth behind them.

  Can I move around in your world?

  Yes.

  But I haven’t yet mastered being in two places at once.

  Not yet. It is a little like walking and chewing gum.

  Because my focus is primarily in this world, on us flying, I thought.

  Very good, Sam.

  But if I were to land, and take my focus off flying, and put my focus on myself in your world...

  You could move about.

  But not safely?

  Probably not without my help.

  This is hurting my head, I thought.

  My head, too, thought Talos, and I sensed a smile behind his words.

  Will you show me your world?

  Someday, Sam.

  I took in a lot of air, using Talos’s great lungs, filling his chest, my chest, our chest completely. As I did so, I held the air, held it and was aware of it, and then let it loose again. It came out hot. Very hot.

  Are you a dragon, Talos?

  Oh, yes.

  A real, honest-to-God dragon?

  Close enough to one, Sam. And so are you. We are, together.

  I took in more air, held it, felt it brewing in my chest. In fact, I felt great power within my chest. I felt heat and gathering energy. I almost didn’t dare ask the question, but yet here it was:

  Talos, can I...?

  Oh, yes, Sam. Oh, yes...

  I felt the air churning inside my lungs, churn and heat and broil and metamorphose into something else, something not of this world, something alchemical and magical and exciting.

  And when I opened my mouth, when I exhaled this roiling, burning air within, something orgasmic happened. Something explosive. Something terrible and beautiful and deadly. Something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

  Fire erupted from me, and it kept on erupting as I continued to breathe out, crackling and snapping and charging through the air before me.

  Chapter Eleven

  I breathed fire tonight, I wrote.

  Is that a euphemism, Moon Dance? If so, you can keep your sordid sex life to yourself.

  Sordid?

  All that howling and panting and clawing.

  Kingsley isn’t a werewolf when, you know...

  I wasn’t talking about him, Moon Dance.

  I shook my head and called him an asshole and he sent me back an “lol” which, in our newfangled world, meant that he had, apparently, laughed out loud. I secretly questioned most laughed out louds. Were people really going around and laughing that hard over texts and emails... and, in this case, IM messages? Call me a cynic, but I thought “LOLs” were making liars out of most everyone.

  What’s this breathing fire business, Moon Dance?

  I told him about it. I told him about my gradual realization that I had been misidentifying Talos all along. What I had thought was a giant bat was, in fact, a dragon.

  A fire-breathing dragon, I added.

  There was a short pause, and then his name began flashing on my screen, signifying he was typing away over there. These days, I didn’t worry so much about waking up Fang—or keeping him up after a long bartending shift. Now, as a fellow creature of the night, he was always up. Always wide awake; that is, until dawn, when sleep overcame both of us.

  Fang had always wanted us to work. Fang, unfortunately, was a little creepy, although I adored him immensely. Then again, I’m a little creepy, too. Truth was, Fang was a cutie when he wasn’t busy stalking me or killing girlfriends or prison guards...

  Okay, that might be a little unfair. All of that had been in the distant past. These days, I knew Fang ran a blood bank. A very different kind of blood bank, where he paid mortals good money for their blood—and even paid some of them to be feasted upon directly by high-paying clients. As far as I was aware, no humans had been killed in the making of his business. Fang had quickly developed the ability to manipulate memory, and so most mortals went away thinking they’d really donated to a legitimate blood bank. All pretty much on the up and up. Anything less, and Fang knew he would have a problem with me. Not too long ago I’d shut down another type of blood bank... one where the donors weren’t so willing, and they most certainly didn’t walk away with a wad of cash. Most, of course, were hung from meat hooks where they had been drained dry.

  Anyway, gone were the days where Fang lived in his tiny one-bedroom apartment, supporting himself with bartending tips. No, he was a real player in the blood trade... and had generated a lot of money. Blood money, as it were. In every sense of the word. Last I had heard, he was living in a familiar Gothic mansion in downtown Orange, the same mansion a client from Kingsley’s past had lived in, a client I’d been certain was responsible for shooting Kingsley five times in the head. I had been wrong, of course. But that was another case for another time.

  I always suspected you turned into a dragon, Moon Dance. There have been rumors and sightings of dragons for centuries, millenniums. There is always something to such legends. But you always seemed so sure that you were, and I quote, “a giant vampire bat.”

  How the hell would I know any different? I wrote. I’ve only been recently communicating with Talos, and it never occurred to me to ask what, exactly, I was turning into. I mean, I knew I turned into something massive and winged. I just never thought of asking for a name.

  What was it like, breathing fire?

  Honestly? I wrote, and found myself truly LOL-ing on my couch. Kind of orgasmic. It felt so... fucking good coming out of me. It was a true release. Like it had been building up and needed an outlet.

  You make it sound kind of fun. And sexy.

  I giggled on my end. Or GOL’d.

  Oh, yes, I wrote.

  Few of us can turn into such creatures, Sam. In fact, I am only aware of a handful.

  I think, I wrote, they choose us more than we choose them.

  They, being the dragons?

  I wrote yes and added: They do it for the experience, and they do it to help us, too. In fact, if I am correct, they are here to combat the darkness within us. Maybe combat is too strong of a word. To add balance, perhaps.

  Like your librarian friend.

  Yes, like Maximus and the other alchemists.

  Sam, do you and Talos switch bodies?

  Not quite, I wrote. We sort of combine bodies.

  But your human body gets transported instantly to another world, his world?

  Something like that, I wrote. But in Talos’s world, we don’t merge. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. Only in this world do we merge bodies.

  What happens when he’s, say, in mid-flight and you summon him?

  I asked him that. It’s why I see the flame. He sees the flame, too, and knows I am calling on him. He will find a safe place for us to integrate, often high upon a rocky precipice.

  So weird, Sam.

  How often have we said that? I wrote.

  Too often, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  You really do love being a vampire, I wrote. It wasn’t a question.

  More than you can possibly know, Moon Dance. He paused, then wrote: How are you and the wolfman?

  We are happy. We are together. We might even be falling in love.

  Oh, joy.

  Don’t be a sourpuss, I wrote. Are you dating?

  Occasionally. Mostly, I work. There was a pause. I miss you, Sam.

  We’re talking right now.

  I miss seeing you in the bar with your sister. I miss your smile and sometimes, the tragic look in your eyes. I miss lighting up those eyes with a joke or a drink or both. I miss watching you.

  You’re getting creepy again...

  You know what I mean, Sam. I knew what you were. I knew why you were drinking the kind of wine you were drinking, and I knew why you never ordered appetizers. I knew why you looked tired before sunset, and why you suddenly looked so alive just after.

  I exhaled on my couch, looking at his words. Of course, I hadn’t known that our cute bartender was also the same Fang I’d often IM’d with. He had found me through various clues in our conversation, and eventually, had gotten a job at the very bar I frequented. Which got me thinking: had I dropped such clues on purpose?

  I wrote: I think our friendship was based a lot on you watching me, Fang. Watching me without me knowing it.

  Of course, he hadn’t been a threat; at least, not to me. Never once had my inner alarm system warned me about him.

  Not true, Sam. We spent many months and years getting to know each other. I loved everything about you. I still do.

  Fang had, of course, nearly destroyed our friendship by going behind my back and teaming up with a woman who, eventually, not only had kidnapped my sister but had killed my ex. A woman who’d plotted to kill me, too. Of course, Fang had been under the control of a very, very old vampire who’d had the rare ability to control other immortals. A vampire Kingsley had disposed of.

  Fang’s end goal had always been to be a vampire. Growing up with two exceptionally long canines, being harassed and bullied along the way, and then developing the mother of all psychoses—a love for real blood—had ended badly for him and especially for his girlfriend, whom he’d drained of blood, effectively killing her. Fang’s murder trial had been a sensation, and his ultimate escape from a high-security insane asylum had dominated the news for weeks. Finally, he’d managed to elude capture, and his story went away. Which is where I came in, years later.

  I like our friendship, Fang, I wrote.

  I do, too.

  But you want more, I added.

  Is that so wrong?

  No, of course not. It’s always nice to be wanted by a cute boy.

  He gave me a capitalized “LOL” signifying that he’d really let loose with a guffaw. I wondered, just how hard did one have to guffaw to be deemed worthy of an LOL?

  I am more than a boy, Sam.

  In lots of ways, he wasn’t, but I didn’t tell him that. He seemed stunted at times. He seemed stuck in that ten-year-old’s body, with his grotesquely deformed teeth, who dreamed of being a real vampire—only to discover that vampires really did exist. Who dreamed of acceptance and friendship and love.

  Back in the day, I would have been worried about Fang picking up my thoughts... back when he was still mortal. But now, our thoughts were shielded from each other, which was a relief to me. No wonder why vampires hung out with other vampires and other creatures of the night.

  It’s late, Fang.

  Although, of course, early to the rest of the world. By my inherent clock, the sun should be rising in less than thirty minutes. I might have a ring on my finger that helped me withstand the sun, but there was no denying the need for sleep at dawn.

  Are you mad, Sam?

  Mad that someone has feelings for me? Never. But sometimes, feelings need to be checked. I’m in a relationship now. A healthy one. A happy one. One that, I think, might be going somewhere.

  Going where?

  We’ll see.

  Marriage?

  Now, I nearly lol’d him, but the thought had crossed my mind. The big oaf—that is, Kingsley—seemed to be dropping hints these days. I wasn’t entirely against the idea. I was... intrigued, to say the least.

  We’ll see.

  I wish nothing but the best for you, Sam.

  I know.

  But if you marry the bastard... I don’t know if I can still be your friend.

  You will, I wrote. It’s just hard imagining it now. Besides, it may not happen.

  Good night, Moon Dance. No snoring... you might just burn up your sheets.

  I gave him a hearty LOL, which was well deserved because I’d just snorted embarrassingly. Good thing I was alone. Was there such a thing as SOL?

  Anyway, when I was done snorting out loud, I shut my laptop and headed to the bathroom. I didn’t wear much makeup these days—mostly because I couldn’t see my face—although a little blush never hurt, especially when one had the complexion of a whiteboard. When I was done removing my makeup, I brushed my teeth and walked through the empty house. Truthfully, I got a little weirded out standing in front of an empty mirror.

  Anthony and Tammy were with Mary Lou, as they often were. I tended to work the night shift. Someday soon, my kids would be old enough to take care of themselves. Anthony was already strong enough, certainly. And no one, but no one, was sneaking up on my daughter, not with her radar-like telepathic powers. Apparently, I was raising the X-Men. Complete with my own Wolverine.

  Speaking of which, I wondered how Kingsley was doing. It was not yet dawn, so he would still be in his wolfie state. I wondered if he got tired of all that growling and pacing and feasting. Was he, even now, sitting up in his cell, just counting down the minutes until dawn?

  I finished my home reconnaissance and spit the toothpaste in the sink, rinsed my mouth and spit that out, too. Long ago, I’d gotten used to making sure all the toothpaste was spat out. Even if a little bit found its way down my gullet, it hurt like hell. Now, thanks to the ring, I had gotten careless. I rinsed and swished and spit, and was soon lying in bed, on top of my blankets. Yes, I am often cold. No, blankets did nothing for me.

  I didn’t read myself to sleep or watch DVR’d episodes of Modern Family in bed until my eyelids got heavy and I finally dropped off to sleep.

  No. Sleep started the instant the sun rose—as it was starting to do now—and it came over me rapidly, overwhelming my senses, my mind, my body, my entire being. A complete and total shutdown of all that I am. It was a form of micro-death. Yes, I could fight it if I wanted to, thanks to the day ring. I could even force myself to stay awake. But giving in was so much easier.

  And so I gave in now, and felt myself die a little, all over again.

  Chapter Twelve

  I rarely dream when I sleep.

  Mostly, I just lay there, comatose, not breathing, not thinking, not really sleeping. Perhaps I really do die a little. Perhaps I’m not anything. Perhaps there is no definition for what happens to me during the day. I don’t remember any of it. Usually, I feel myself slip away, and then, my alarms are going off. Two of them, in fact.

  Yes, it was hell getting up during the day. It was much better to awaken naturally at sundown. I could count on one hand the number of times I had slept through the day. I envied those creatures of the night who didn’t have kids.

  I set my alarm for 1:30. That gave me enough time to climb out of my sleep, to return to the land of the living—perhaps, literally—and then make some coffee, do some chores, and watch Judge Judy, all before picking up my kids.

  That was generally my routine.

  Except on the rare occasions when I dreamed. And because I didn’t really sleep, I didn’t really dream either. I knew this because these weren’t really dreams.

  They were visions of the future. Prophetic visions.

  And on this day, while others were working or in class or running errands or smoking weed, I was in my bedroom, dreaming of my daughter Tammy dying, over and over again.

  The same dream, repeated over and over.

  In it, I saw her being flung through a broken windshield, to lay broken and bleeding in the middle of the intersection... only to be run over by something, something big...

  ***

  I shot up out of bed, fully awake, gasping and crying.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Tammy, clear as day, lying in the center of the street, bleeding and cut and choking on her own blood, when a car—no a truck—ran her over. I heard the thud, thud. I saw the tires bounce, the shocks compress. I saw her jackknife involuntarily as her chest collapsed and blood burst from her mouth and eyes. Mostly, I saw the life escaping instantly.

  Now, I paced, alternately running my hands through my hair and shaking my hands before me, as if they were wet. My room was hotel-room dark. No light at all. I might as well be pacing in a cemetery in the dead of a moonless night. Even as I paced, I moved quickly, perhaps even supernaturally quickly. Pacing, turning, pacing. I didn’t stub my toes along my smallish desk pushed up against the window. I didn’t hit or touch anything. I was a spirit in my own bedroom. A wraith. A shade.

  The dream or vision hadn’t been very long. The car had been packed with kids. Teenagers. Older teenagers. Much older than my daughter, who was now a freshman in high school. The dream was seared into my memory. The details, too. And, unlike real dreams, I remembered everything.

  As I paced, I relived the dream again and again.

  I see the joints. I see someone raising something—a can of beer. A forty, they call them. It’s a party in the car. I see all the faces. Hell, they are seared into my memory. And there is my daughter, riding shotgun, arms above her head and dancing in her seat, her seatbelt off. And then she screams, and I see why she screamed.

  The bastard behind the wheel, the bastard drinking the 40, runs a red light.

  Tammy screams, they all scream. Brakes squeal. The crunch of metal is terrible. No airbags. No seatbelts, and my daughter is launched out of her seat and through the windshield. I see this from seemingly many angles at once: her angle, the driver’s angle, the passengers’ angles. I am a wildly swinging point-of-view camera.