achel ached everywhere. Her body was a mass of pain and, for one moment she felt sure she was still suffering the flu that had brought her so low. But when she opened her eyes, Rachel saw at once that she wasn't bundled up in her bed at home. In fact, she'd never before seen the room she was in.

She was struggling to understand how she'd got there, and where exactly there was, when memory swamped her--random and confusing memories, a blond-haired man bending over her, holding her half upright and urging her to drink, though there was no glass to drink from. Yet she recalled fluid warm and thick on her tongue. Rachel also had a flash of a madman in khakis and a trench coat wielding an ax. She recalled a horrible pain in her chest, which was followed by a memory of Fred and Dale telling her that she'd got the assistant's job and would soon be off the night shift. The memories seemed out of order, but the last was good and made her smile as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Then Rachel remembered a confusing conversation she'd heard--one that had made very little sense to her at the time and still didn't, but had something to do with life partners and turning. Turning what, and how, she couldn't recall. All in all, the memories were scattered and made very little sense.

Rachel opened her eyes again and glanced around the room. It was blue, with a tasteful modern decor, abstract paintings and silver lamps on either side of the bed. Rachel still wasn't sure where she was or how she'd got there, but she was so weak and exhausted she decided she didn't care and would rest. The moment her eyes drifted closed, though, she had a flash of an ax swinging at her.

Rachel popped her eyes open, and horror consumed her. She'd been struck down by an ax blow, and she had been sure it was a killing one. At least, without aid it would have been. But Rachel had a vague recollection of her attacker, then a silver-eyed man bending over her, telling her to rest and conserve her strength while he checked her wound. He had been similar in looks to the man who had haunted her dreams while she had the flu, but this man's hair had been dark where her dream man was blond.

Obviously, help had come. Rachel just wished her thoughts were a little less murky. While the memory of being brought down by the blow of an ax explained the pain in her chest, it didn't explain the pain through the rest of her body. It also didn't explain where she was. She really should be in a hospital. This definitely wasn't a hospital.

Rachel peered toward the blinds covering the windows. They glowed at the edges with a hint of the sunlight attempting to enter. It was obviously day out. She wished the blinds had been left open so she could perhaps figure out where she was.

Pushing aside the blankets that covered her, Rachel struggled to a sitting position, then peered down at herself. She was completely nude. That was interesting. She never slept in the nude, and hospitals generally put those awful gowns on. Well, this was a wrinkle, and she had no idea what to make of it.

She shifted restlessly on the bed, then glanced down curiously when something pulled at her arm. The sight of an IV near the crook of her elbow made her pause. Her gaze followed the clear tube leading from it to the bag hanging from the IV stand. The bag was deflated and empty, but a drop or two of liquid remained behind--enough for Rachel to recognize it as blood. She had obviously needed a transfusion.

The thought made her glance down at her chest again in search of her wound. She distinctly recalled the ax slamming into her body, yet there were no bandages, and no sign of injury other than a thin scar that marked her chest from her shoulder blade down to the top of one nipple. Her eyes widened incredulously on the scar, and she went still as its meaning struck her. Weeks, perhaps even months, had passed since the attack.

"Dear God," Rachel breathed. How long had she slept? Had she been in a coma? Was she in a special facility for coma cases? That was almost reassuring, until she recalled the promotion she had just got at work. If she had been in a coma for months, she might have lost the position to someone else. Hell, she had probably lost her job altogether. But then why the blood? she wondered, and glanced at the empty IV bag. She could understand the need for a transfusion directly after the attack, but if it had been months, surely she wouldn't need it again now?

Her mind awhirl with questions, Rachel tugged the tube free, leaving the IV itself in place in her arm, then slipped her feet off the bed and tried to stand. It took a great deal of effort to do. Once she had managed, Rachel stood weak and exhausted and gave her idea second thoughts. It was a very short thinking session. As much as her body seemed to want to crawl back into bed and rest and recuperate, it also yearned for something that bedrest couldn't give. She didn't know what it was, just that she had a hankering that needed fulfilling. Even if she had been able to ignore that hankering--though Rachel very much suspected she couldn't if she tried--her mind had a hankering as well. It wanted to know where the heck she was, along with what had happened to the man who attacked her, and whether the man on the steel table really had been alive as she had suspected, or if she had risked her life for a dead man.

It would be just her luck if she had suffered the wound, lost months of time to a coma, and now had a lovely scar for a dead man. Feeling a tad cranky, and strengthened by it, Rachel started for the door, then stopped suddenly as she recalled she was naked. She could hardly walk around in the nude.

A check of the drawer in the nearest bedside table turned up nothing but a couple of books Rachel had already read. Someone had good taste, or at least taste similar to her own.

Her gaze slid around the shadowed room to the three doors leading out of it. There was one to her right along the wall the bed backed onto, and one straight ahead in the wall parallel to the bed, both of which were normal-sized doors. Directly across from the foot of the bed, however, was a double set of doors that were most likely to the closet. They seemed an awfully long distance away, and while Rachel was sure she could reach it, she would be embarrassed to be caught naked halfway there. Besides, she had no guarantee that there would be clothes in it.

After a moment's thought, she tugged the bedsheet out from under the comforter and wrapped it around herself like a toga. Then she moved toward the door in the wall parallel to the bed, deeming it the one most likely to lead to a hall and some answers.

As she had hoped, the door led out into a hallway, but it definitely wasn't the hallway of a hospital. She appeared to be in a house--a rather well-decorated house. Her gaze drifted over the neutral earth tones of the hallway with appreciation. She had used the same colors in her apartment and found them warm and inviting.

But the decor wasn't her main concern at the moment, Rachel reminded herself. The room she had just left was at the end of the hall. Several doors led off the hallway that stretched before her, but there was no evidence of anyone else in attendance. Rachel shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway and considered what to do, but in the end there seemed little choice. She could either stay where she was and wait for someone to come to her, or she could seek out someone to get answers to her questions.

That hankering she was suffering decided for her. Rachel moved out of the door and made her way along the hall. She didn't think to check the doors she passed. The house was so silent, it seemed to scream of emptiness, at least on this floor.

Things didn't appear much more hopeful when she reached the landing. Peering down into the entry below, she frowned at the darkness and silence reaching up to her. Surely she wasn't alone in this house? Someone had to have been changing her IV bag.

Her legs were still a tad shaky, but Rachel was able to manage the stairs without incident, then she stood in the entry and peered about. Every window was covered. This part of the house was as shut against the sun as the bedroom. Rachel instinctively tried the knob of what appeared to be the front door but found it locked. It was an old-fashioned lock, needing a key to open. There was no key around, though she checked the table nearby.

Giving up on the door, Rachel started along the hall in search of someone, anyone, who could explain where she was. She passed unknown rooms full of darkness and shadow, but obviously empty of human inhabitants. At the end of the hall, she pushed open the door and found herself in what appeared to be a kitchen. There she paused and peered around at the dark shapes of a refrigerator, stove, table and chairs. She was about to back out of the room when she noted the soft glow of light coming from under a door on the opposite side.

Excitement coursed through Rachel at this first sign of someone besides herself being present. It was quickly followed by trepidation. But she pushed fear aside and moved to the door. It led to another stairwell, she noted with dismay when she opened it. There was a light on. Rachel hesitated on the landing, unsure what to do. Her strength seemed to be waning again, the cramps returning. It was like the flu, but more intense and pervasive of every portion of her body.

"Hello?" she called out hopefully.

Of course there was no answer. No one came rushing to explain or help. Rachel was creeping through a dark and empty house, trailing a sheet like some old-fashioned gown.

"I've stepped into a Gothic novel," she muttered to herself with amused disgust but couldn't laugh. It truly felt like she had. It made her suffer some pretty weird thoughts--like, perhaps she was dead and this was Hell. Or it could be Heaven. Rachel was relatively sure that she hadn't done anything in her life to land herself in Hell. Unless... Perhaps she hadn't got last rites. The priests said if you died without those...

Rachel pushed such depressing thoughts aside and started down the stairs. Better to know what she was dealing with than to not. Ignorance wasn't bliss.

She managed the stairs, though just barely. Pain and weakness were really setting in now. Her legs were almost rubbery with the combination by the time she descended the last step onto the carpeted basement floor. This can't be Hell, she decided as her feet sank into the plush carpeting. Surely Hell wasn't so well appointed.

Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps she hadn't really woken up yet. That idea was a lot easier to accept. Rachel even liked it. It certainly beat the heck out of being dead. Dreams could be entertaining. As long as they didn't turn into nightmares.

Shrugging that disquieting thought aside, she allowed her gaze to slide over the doors available to her. The first door was open and revealed what appeared to be a laundry room in the bit of light that spilled from the hallway. The second door opened onto what turned out to be a wine cellar of all things. That left the third door, the only one with light spilling out from behind it.

Rachel took a deep bracing breath, then pushed that door open. At first glance, the room beyond appeared to be some sort of security room. Computer equipment lined the large L-shaped desk that covered two walls. There were at least four computers all told, and as many monitors. But the idea that it was a security room slipped away when she realized the images on the screens were not of this house.

She moved into the room to get a better look at the images. One was a freeze-frame of a spooky night forest. Another was an image of an old house even creepier than this one. The third held a frozen computer image of a beautiful woman clutching a cross she held thrust out as if to ward off evil. The last monitor was blank.

Fascinated by the woman, Rachel ignored the rest of the room and moved to stand in front of that monitor. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and large silver eyes. She also looked familiar.

"I know you," Rachel murmured to the image. "Where do I know you from?"

The woman seemed to be part of the menage of memories floating loose in her mind.

"Where do I know you from?" Rachel repeated a little louder, as if expecting the monitor to answer. It didn't, but a sudden creaking from behind her did. Rachel whirled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. There was an old-fashioned coffin along the wall next to the door that she hadn't noticed upon entering, and now its lid was slowly pushed upward until a pale hand propelling it could be seen. It continued to creak all the way open, revealing a wrist, an arm, and then a shoulder.

A moment passed, seeming to stretch into hours; then Rachel's breath left her in a whoosh and her legs gave out as the coffin's occupant sat up. Rachel crashed to the floor, kneeling, mouth agape as the blond man from her dreams peered around until he spotted her.

"Oh." He seemed surprised by her presence. "Hello. I thought I heard someone talking, but I didn't sense your presence, so I wasn't sure I wasn't simply dreaming. I should have known. I worried that you might awake on your own and be afraid."

"Oh, fudge," Rachel breathed as the room began to spin. "I'm going to faint."

"Really?" he asked. "You seem to do that a lot."

Rachel dropped weakly onto her butt with a thump as the muscles in her thighs turned to putty. However, she didn't faint, and after a moment the room's spinning slowed and steadied. She was even able to ask, "Who are you?"

"Sorry." He made a face and bounded out of his coffin in one smooth move, then let the lid fall closed. "Rude of me not to introduce myself. I'm your host," he announced with a courtly bow. "Etienne Argeneau, at your service."

"You're the dead guy!" Rachel gasped as he moved closer. She noted his silver eyes.

"You remember me." He seemed pleased by the news, though she couldn't imagine why. Rachel certainly wasn't pleased to find herself talking to a dead man--a man who had, in fact, died twice, she realized. He was easily recognizable as the gunshot victim she had managed to convince herself had been a fever-induced hallucination, but it had taken her a few more moments to recognize him as the crispy critter from last night... or whenever it was she had stopped the armed guy from hacking his head off, she corrected herself. She frowned as she recalled the attack.

"Get back, he's a vampire," the madman had yelled.

Rachel's gaze slid to the coffin, then back to her self-proclaimed host. There were no such things as vampires. Yet this guy had just leapt out of a coffin and apparently got up twice and walked away from death.

"Vampire?" He echoed the word with amusement, making Rachel realize she had spoken aloud. "Now, what would make you think I was a vampire?"

Rachel gaped at him, then glanced toward his coffin. Her host followed her gaze, and his expression turned slightly sheepish. "Well, I realize sleeping in a coffin must seem odd, but it helps clarify my thoughts. Besides, you were in my bed and I didn't think you'd appreciate my joining you."

Rachel shook her head. No. She wouldn't have been happy to awake with a stranger in bed with her. Especially a dead stranger. That was taking the idea of bringing work home with her a bit far. Not that she was home, she reminded herself.

"Where am I?" That seemed the obvious question at this point.

"My home," her host answered promptly. "Mother wanted to take you to the family manse, but I insisted we bring you here."

"Ah." Rachel nodded as if her question had been answered, then asked, "Your mother?" Did vampires have mothers? She supposed they must. They were made, not hatched. Or was it turned rather than made? Rachel was a little fuzzy on the point.

Aware that he was moving toward her, she instinctively reached for the cross that usually hung around her neck. It wasn't there, of course. Silly to imagine it would be, Rachel supposed. Her host would hardly ignore such a threat to his well-being. Without the cross, she did the only thing she could think of--she made a cross out of her pointer fingers and thrust them out. She was most amazed when it worked and her host paused.

He didn't look properly horrified, however. Tilting his head, he appeared more curious than cringing. He said, "I just thought you might be more comfortable in a chair." Apparently unaffected by her makeshift cross, the man then swept her into his arms.

Hooking the desk chair with his foot, he tugged it out, and before Rachel could draw enough breath to either protest or scream, he set her in it. He then stepped back to lean against the L-shaped desk. "So, tell me a little about yourself," he suggested in a chatty tone. "I know your name is Rachel Garrett and you work in the hospital morgue, but--"

"How did you know that?" Rachel snapped.

"It was on your hospital ID card," he explained.

"Oh." Her eyes narrowed. "How did I get from there to here?"

"We brought you."

"Why?"

He seemed surprised. "Well, they couldn't help you, and we knew you'd need time to adjust."

"Adjust to what?"

"To your change."

"Change?" she squeaked. Rachel was beginning to get a very bad feeling. Before he could respond, she blurted, "Some crazy man hit me with an ax."

Her host nodded solemnly. "You saved my life taking that blow. Thank you. I could hardly do any less in return."

"You couldn't?" She frowned at his statement, almost asking how he had saved her, but she suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to know. After all, the man hadn't denied being a vampire.

Recognizing the ridiculous nature of her thoughts, Rachel shook her head. There were no such things as vampires, and even considering it... Well, that way lay madness. Instead, she asked, "When was that? The attack, I mean?"

"Last night."

Rachel blinked in confusion. "Last night, what?"

"Last night is when you were injured," he explained patiently.

Rachel immediately began to shake her head. This was impossible. The wound had healed into a scar. She glanced down and tugged her makeshift toga aside just to be sure she hadn't imagined it, then froze, her eyes widening. The scar was gone. Reaching beneath her sheet, she prodded the unbroken skin with disbelief, as if touching it would make the scar suddenly reappear, but it was gone.

"We heal more quickly than mortals."

"We?" Rachel echoed. "Mortals?" Her tongue felt fat and dry. Unwieldy. Yet, somehow she formed the words. At least, he seemed to understand them.

"Yes. I'm afraid there was only one way to save you, and while we generally like to receive permission before we turn someone, you weren't really capable of the decision. Besides, I couldn't simply let you die after you had sacrificed your life for mine."

"My life?" Rachel's tongue felt as if it was made of cotton.

"Yes. Your life."

"Turned?"

"Yes."

"Turned into what, exactly?" Her cotton tongue made the question "urned inoo ut aghactly," but again he understood.

"An immortal."

Immortal. Rachel felt a moment's relief. She had very much feared hearing the word vampire. Immortal sounded much better. Immortal. It made her think of that movie with that actor--what was his name? Good looking, cool accent, Sean Connery had played another immortal... Oh, yes. Christopher Lambert, and the movie had been Highlander. And in it immortals weren't evil bloodsucking demons, but... well... immortal. It seemed to her that there had been some evil immortals, though--and some nastiness about cutting off heads. Some nonsense about there could be only one. She didn't care for the idea of having her head cut off.

"Not immortal like Sean Connery and Christopher Lambert in Highlander," her host explained patiently, making her realize that she had been muttering her thoughts aloud. "Immortal like... well, the closest thing you would understand is a vampire."

"Oh, jeez." Rachel was suddenly on her feet and running. Time to go. She had heard enough. This had moved beyond a cool dream and into the nightmare realm. Unfortunately, her legs were no more steady now than they had been. They gave out halfway to the door, and her head spun. She fell back, limp.

Her host scooped her into his arms. Saying something about it being time for her to go back to bed, he carried her out of the room and upstairs. All Rachel could think to say was a plaintive, "But I don't want to be a bloodsucking demon. How will I do my makeup if I don't have a reflection?"

He said something in response, but Rachel wasn't listening; she was thinking of the few episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer she had caught on TV as she prepared for work and added, "Those facial lumps and bumps are so unattractive."

"Facial lumps and bumps?"

Rachel glanced at the face of the man carrying her. He didn't look anything like she imagined vampires would look. He wasn't really pale--that must have been an effect of the lighting in the computer room. Here in the lighted stairwell, his skin looked natural and even flushed with color. He looked like a typical healthy male, not a dead man. He also smelled vaguely of some rather expensive cologne, and not like a rotting corpse.

"Facial lumps?" he repeated.

"Like Angel and Spike and the rest of the vampires on TV. Their faces reshape and contort into these really unattractive demon faces," she explained absently. She wondered if he was mad. There were no such things as vampires; thus, this man thinking he was one... On the other hand, she distinctly recalled an ax entering her body, yet there was no longer any sign of injury. Had she really been injured? Perhaps she had imagined the scar earlier in the bedroom. Or perhaps this was all a dream.

"Your face won't contort," he assured her. "You won't look like a demon."

"Then, how do your teeth extend?" Rachel asked. It was a test pure and simple, to see if he was mad.

"Like this."

He opened his mouth, but the fake vampire teeth she had expected weren't there. In fact, his teeth looked perfectly normal--for the count of a heartbeat; then his canines began to lengthen as if sliding along oiled hinges.

Rachel moaned and closed her eyes. "It's just a dream," she reassured herself as Etienne stepped out of the stairwell and carried her through the kitchen. "Just a dream."

"Yes. Just a dream." His voice was warm and soothing by her ear.

Rachel relaxed a little at his words, but only a little. She remained in his arms as he carried her up the second set of stairs and along the hall. At last he set her in the bed she had so briefly left.

Opening her eyes, Rachel snatched at the blankets and tugged them up to her chin. Not that she needed to be defensive. He seemed to have no interest in attacking her and he was instead walking away toward a small fridge. He bent to open it and retrieved a bag of what was unmistakably blood.

Rachel's eyes narrowed suspiciously and she tensed when her host walked back to affix the blood bag to the IV stand. "What are you doing?" she asked. She tried to snatch her arm away when he took it, but he was much stronger than she.

"You need this." He slid the tube back into the IV in her arm with the skill of a nurse. "Your body is going through changes, and healing took a lot of blood. This will ease the cramps so you can sleep again."

Rachel wanted to argue, but the moment the blood slid down the clear tube and began to pour into her body, some of the aching she had suffered since awakening began to ease. So did the odd hankering she'd been experiencing. Apparently, this was what her body had yearned for.

"You will sleep now."

It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. Never having cared much for being ordered about, Rachel wanted to argue... but she was suddenly quite weary. Her exhaustion and lassitude were growing in proportion to the blood entering her. She felt much as she did after a big carbohydrate-rich holiday meal.

"This is a dream, remember?" her host said soothingly. "Just sleep. All will be well when you wake up."

"Sleep," Rachel muttered.

Yes, sleep would be good. And when she woke up for real, she would find herself in a hospital, or perhaps snoozing at her desk. Perhaps it was all a dream--the crispy critter, the ax-wielding madman, everything. It was such a reassuring thought that she closed her eyes and let her mind drift. Rachel did have one regret just before she gave in to sleep: If it was all a dream, then the handsome, vital man who had carried her upstairs was a dream too, and that was rather a shame.

Etienne watched Rachel's face relax into sleep. She was a beautiful woman--nearly as tall as him too, which he liked--but her life had obviously been a stressful one. There were vague tension lines around her eyes and mouth. Those would disappear once she'd had enough blood, but they were signs that her life had not been an easy one. He brushed a fiery red curl away from her cheek, smiling when irritation flickered on her face and she brushed his hand away like a pesky fly.

Yes, Rachel was an interesting woman. She showed signs of being prickly. He liked prickly, and he had always enjoyed challenges.

His smile faded as he considered Rachel's reaction. She would be resistant to the change at first. The woman obviously had all sorts of preconceived ideas about his people. Lumpy faces? Bloodsucking demons? He would have to clarify matters when next she awoke. Vampire wasn't a label he liked, but it was expedient, and one most people could at least understand. It would serve as a starting point in the conversation to come.

Stifling a yawn, Etienne glanced around his room. He would have liked to remain here, didn't want to leave her alone, but sleep was creeping over him. From her pallor, he estimated she needed another two or three bags of blood, and cramps would wake her again when this bag ran out. He didn't want her wandering around weak and shaky--she could fall and hurt herself.

After a hesitation, Etienne stretched out on the bed. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands behind his head, then turned to glance at her. He would stay, catnap, and change the bags as needed. Her restless stirring when the bag ran out would wake him to the task.