The flight from San Diego takes about three hours. I learned from my trusty pilot that he was excited about the trip. Turns out the Leadville Airport is the highest elevation airport in North America. He saw it as a chance to do a little high altitude performance testing. I wasn't so enthusiastic about the testing part, but since he always seems to know what he's doing, and if I go down, he goes down, I didn't waste much time worrying about it.

After we land, I send the crew on to Denver. No use subjecting them to the limited attractions of an old west-mining town. I made reservations for them in the Ritz Carlton downtown and told them to take a few days vacation on me. After looking Leadville over, they were more than happy to take me up on it. Since once in the air, they can make it to Leadville from Denver literally in minutes, when I'm ready to leave, all I'll have to do is call.

The airport is a short car ride from Leadville. It's mid-day and the main drag is quiet, only a few cars parked here and there. The town is ringed with snow-capped peaks even though it's summer. The driver takes me to the hotel and when he disgorges me and my bags, refuses the tip I offer.

"Complements of the Leadville airport," he says.

I watch him drive away open-mouthed. Who ever refuses a tip?

Definitely not in Kansas anymore.

The hotel itself is a sprawling brick building occupying an entire city block. I'm always leery of old hotels. I've had a few experiences with spirits who are bound to their earthly abodes and it hasn't been pleasant. When I walk into the Delaware, though, I feel none of the goose-fleshy, hair-raising warnings that the presence of such spirits usually awakens in my vampire nature. The vampire remains quiet and undisturbed.

So far, so good.

Sophie made reservations in both our names so I am able to check into my room. It's a very nice room, done in tasteful antiques, clean, with modern bathroom fixtures. The view from the window stretches up and down the street. The sidewalks are nearly empty.

Who would choose to live in such an isolated place?

Since Sophie hasn't checked in yet, I take a walk to scope out the town. The entire city was built well before 1900; plaques commemorate one historic building after another. The colors are vibrant under the summer sky-red, green, lavender, blue. Victorians beautifully restored and lovingly cared for. Even I find myself impressed.

But I didn't come for the architecture.

I circle back to the hotel and ask if Sophie has arrived. She hasn't. I take a seat in the lobby, doing some mental finger tapping, impatient. Where are they? I'm deciding which saloon I past during my walk to go to for a drink when a man walks in and asks the same question of the receptionist that I had moments before.

"Has Sophie Deveraux checked in yet?"

The guy is in his thirties, slicked back dark hair, face with features that can only be described as sharp. Angular cheekbones, square jaw, high forehead. He's dressed in a business suit that pegs him immediately as a tourist and from the cut and style of the suit, a big city tourist. Gucci wingtips on his feet and an expensive leather suitcase complete the picture.

Definitely big city.

Steven Prendergast?

He completes his registration, scribbles a note on a piece of hotel stationery and hands it to the clerk. "Please see that Ms. Deveraux gets this will you?"

Steven Prendergast.

The clerk takes it. "Sure thing. Here's your key. Room 302, top of the stairs."

302, huh? Right next door. I let him go ahead and wait a discreet amount of time before heading to my own room, 300. Maybe I can pick up a tidbit or two by eavesdropping on Prendergast. If he makes a telephone call, for instance, my vampiric powers will allow me to hear. Old hotels do have one distinct advantage-thin walls.

He does make one call, but to his office. A checking in call to let someone named Nancy know that he arrived at the hotel and where he can be reached in an emergency. Nothing to indicate that he's up to anything other than a business trip. He mentions Sophie's name and that he expects their business to be wrapped up in less than two days.

Brief. Nothing ominous.

Disappointing.

My cell phone chimes. I move away from the wall just in case Prendergast's hearing is better than average, too. It's Sophie.

"We're in the lobby," she says, sounding breathless. "Prendergast left me a message. I'm to call him when we get in. Arrange dinner plans. What should I do?"

"Prendergast knows nothing about me, right?"

"Don't know how he could. The trip to see you in San Diego was last minute and we were gone less than one day. Why?"

"Make those plans. Let me know where you're going. Stay in your room until it's time to meet him. I'll tail you."

She agrees, starts to ring off.

"Wait a minute. I'm in room 300, he's in 302. Ask for a room on the second floor."

Sophie says she will and we end the call.

Now I have nothing to do but wait for Sophie to make those dinner plans. I plop myself on the bed and let my mind wander. A hundred years from now, will I be recalling the year I became vampire with more regret than satisfaction over the choices I've made? If I could start over, what would I have done differently?

The questions prickle like an irritating bug bite. I've had little choice in anything I've done in the last year. The one decision I may have made in haste was killing a helpless Belinda Burke. She was evil and I told myself I was protecting both Sophie and myself, but could I have handled it differently? Is Sophie's attitude now a result of what I did? My desire for revenge was strong and I disregarded Sophie's plea to spare her sister's life.

The practical side of my brain chimes in. I did what had to be done to protect my family. No use second-guessing myself now. It's done and I can't undo it even if I wanted to. The problem now is helping Sophie recover her equilibrium. Concentrate on the problem at hand.

When Sophie calls with the dinner arrangements, I'm more than ready to concentrate on something other than my shortcomings. They're meeting Prendergast in the Calloway, the hotel bar, at six, then going to The Matchless Steak House for dinner at seven. I remember passing the Matchless on my walk this afternoon. It's a short distance from the hotel. I tell Sophie I'll get there before they do and look the place over. From the outside, it didn't look like a very big place and odds are there'll be a bar where I can inconspicuously eavesdrop on the conversation. In the meantime, I remind her to stay in her room. I'm keeping an eye (or ear) out for Prendergast.

He doesn't leave his room either. I hear the tap of fingers on a keyboard and guess he's working. He makes no calls and about five thirty, comes the sound of running water from the shower. I duck out of my room a few minutes after I hear Prendergast leave and head for the bar.

The Calloway is what you'd expect in a bar in a vintage hotel. Dark, lots of wood, lots of brass. I pass through and see Sophie and Prendergast, their heads together, talking quietly. Neither looks up as I pass by. I pick a bar stool close to the door and nurse a beer. Sophie's demeanor is calm, relaxed, unthreatened. Prendergast has changed into jeans and an open-neck shirt under a leather jacket. Much more appropriate attire for Leadville. His expression is serious but I'm not getting any warning vibes to alert me that Sophie is in immediate danger. Obviously, she isn't either. There's too much ambient noise for me to zero in on their conversation. At one point, Sophie looks up and spies me at the bar. Her eyes flick away and back and Jonathan's voice is in my head.

Interesting development. Go on to the restaurant. We'll meet you there.

There's a halting quality to his words that makes me uneasy. What's going on?

No reply. The conduit between us is shut.

So at six forty-five, I leave for The Matchless. Like everything else along the main drag, The Matchless is a throwback to the days when Leadville was a booming mining town. Brick front, dark, shuttered windows. When I push through the door, I'm greeted with the smell of grilling beef and a hundred years of cigar and cigarette smoke. Mementos, mining paraphernalia, and gilded photos of a couple named Tabor line the walls and the back of the bar. A glance at one of them and the origin of the bar's name becomes clear. Evidently this couple had a mine in Leadville named The Matchless.

The bar stretches along one wall. The rest of the place is filled with a dozen tables and booths. All are occupied. I hope Prendergast made reservations.

I take a seat at the bar, one of only two left. The place buzzes with conversation and laughter. From what I pick up, this is a popular place with the locals.

The bartender is a grizzled, grey-haired guy of indeterminate age. He's wearing overalls and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He wanders down to my end of the bar and slaps a coaster in front of me. No smile, but he's not glowering at me either.

"What'll it be?"

I peruse the draft handles, surprised at the number of German brews available. I would have pegged this for a Millers or Budweiser kind of place. "Paulaner Oktoberfest."

He does a quick about face and expertly fills a glass.

"Nice pour."

His mouth twitches. A hint of blossoming good will? He moves away from me, to the middle of the bar, before I can be sure.

I've taken two appreciative swallows of my beer when the door swings open.

Sophie and Prendergast enter, pausing just inside the vestibule. Sophie looks around and then does the last thing I expect. She walks right up to me.

"Anna," she says. "Please join us. I've told Steven all about you."

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