The young man appeared in the doorway, dark circles around his eyes. “I’m supposed to give you this.” He handed Nathan a card with a police-shield emblem printed beside a name and phone number. “The cop said the books and merchandise are trashed. And they want the owner of the building to get in touch with them because they can’t seem to locate him.”

“The owner?” I looked from Ziggy to Nathan. “I guess I thought you owned the building.”

“I do.” Nathan slipped the card into his jeans pocket. “I’ll call them later.”

Ziggy let out a huge yawn. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got a big test tomorrow and I don’t want to be involved in any other vampire shit today, got it?”

“Got it,” Nathan replied with a smirk. “But I’m gonna need your help in the shop later tonight to find what we can salvage.”

“Can do.” Ziggy shot me a sharp and knowing look. “You feeling okay now, Nate?”

“Yeah, I must have grabbed a stale bag, gotten a little food poisoning.”

His expression hard, Ziggy stared at me. “Yeah, that must be it. I mean, it couldn’t have been anything else.”

But he didn’t mention the trip to Cyrus’s place. I hoped he’d have the sense not to say anything. When I left, he’d believe I’d gone of my own accord. I would make him believe it.

Ziggy bade us good-night and retreated to his room. As soon as his door closed, loud rock music blasted away.

“When he gets moody like this, I just leave him alone.” Nathan yawned and strolled into his bedroom. I followed him, not sure why. His upper-torso nakedness probably had something to do with it as he moved like an R-rated pied piper.

He opened his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt. Gray, like his eyes, I thought as I watched him pull it over his head. No. I didn’t need to remember his eyes, or any other part of him for that matter.

Except for his beating heart. I could take some solace in the fact I’d added another saved life to my tally.

I tried not to think of the price that would cost me. “Nathan, who’s Nolen Galbraith?”

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing strands that had gotten mussed from the shirt. “That would be me. Actually, I should say that used to be me. Where did you hear that name?”

“It was on the fax from the Movement. And it’s what Cyrus called you.” I placed my hands on my hips. “He said he didn’t sire you.”

Giving me a crooked smile, he sat on the end of the bed. “Why all the questions?”

Because I just traded my life for yours. “You told me your name was Nathan Grant, and you told me Cyrus was your sire. Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie.” He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. “Look.”

His driver’s license, besides having a criminally unfair good picture, bore the name Nathan Grant.