F I V E

We are cursed to most want that which we can never have. The more we try to hold on, the more our prize struggles to escape. Still, we pursue these things all the same. Life (and death) struggles center around the search for the perfect other-half that will make us whole and happy.

Here's a flash – there are no perfect "halves" to match up with. There are only people.

Oh. Well. Things sure hadn't worked out the way I thought they would after I left the detention center. Back then I was certain life was going to be different. I was going to make it different.

And it was. Sort of.

Danny dropped out of the University during the winter semester. This action provoked a frenzy of phone calls back and forth between Danny and his family, especially his mother. It wasn't the first time I heard him talk about Europe and going abroad because no one could appreciate his work in the States. Ta-da. Mother Miller wasn't exactly in love with the idea. New York City wasn't close to North Carolina but it wasn't as far away as Paris. She went to work faster than a recruiter at the Port Authority bus station. Strings were pulled, bigger money exchanged hands and soon Danny was preparing for his first official exhibition at a big-deal City gallery.

What a circus. The night of the show, a parade of two-legged sharks decked out in suede, silk and other fancy dress circled Danny's work swilling champagne and gnawing raw fish. Everyone that mattered was aware of how the show had come about and arrived on the scent of bleeding meat. The first shock of the night came when they couldn't find anything to sink their teeth in and shred. People liked – no, I'd say they loved Danny's pictures. It was the best reaction possible, the kind of thing you'd imagine artists dream of.

Guess what? Danny didn't go for it. At first he seemed to be having a good time but pretty soon those old, familiar storm clouds gathered over his face and he began to go sour. Watching the cluster coo and awe around him was like watching a litter of exotic puppies trying to get friendly with a sulky cougar.

I got out of the way fast. Danny brooded across the room spewing out short, surly remarks about Art and Great Things while I sought out the champagne. Believe it or not, I'd only been drunk twice before. The anesthesia was terrific but I couldn't stand the loss of control. The first time it happened was an accident, the second was because I was stupid. I laughed out loud thinking this occasion might be categorized as lunatic.

"So you can laugh," a voice rumbled next to me. "I was beginning to wonder."

I looked around and spied the gallery proprietor, Jerry Columbia, standing at my elbow. He was only a bit taller than me and ugly as a cathedral gargoyle. He was the kind of man who could make Savile Row custom-made look like off-the-rack from Sears although it didn't bother him. He had style enough of his own. He was a nice guy actually.

"Having a good time?" Jerry asked.

"Of course I'm having a good time," I told him. Sarcasm has always come natural to me. "Aren't you having a good time? Everything's a big success. Everybody's happy, right?"

"Don't worry, kiddo. It won't last much longer."

"That's what you say."

"It'll empty out quick once the booze runs out."

I frowned at that. "The show is a success, isn't it? Danny's stuff is okay?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. It's great. Better than I hoped. I like Miller's work but you know how it is sometimes, when you really like something, other people don't. Specially with art."

I parked my ass on the edge of the buffet for ballast and lit another cigarette.

"At any rate, we're making a lot of sales tonight," Jerry said. "You're going home with a lot of different folks."

That made me laugh again (as you could guess it would). Jerry gave me a big-tooth grin.

"You're taking it better than Danny. We had another argument over prices this morning – what was for sale, what wasn't for sale," Jerry said. "I told him he was going to have to sell something."

"I don't think Danny ever thought he would lose any of it. People are supposed to look and admire. They're not supposed to take it away."

"But you don't mind?"

"Why should I?"

"You're the star. This is quite an homage."

"It's nothing to do with me."

He looked at me hard for a minute. There was something he wanted to say that I was just as glad he didn't.

Finally he begins, "Artis's are a little intense. It goes with the territory. If you want to crash in the office tonight, give him some breathing room after the show, it's okay with me."

Like I said, Jerry was a nice guy. But before I could say anything, another couple zeroed in. Theirs was a relationship I'd seen before but this was a sophisticated bunch and no one was supposed to notice. The girl (I wouldn't call her a woman) was wearing a mini but no one was looking at her legs. Her older, male companion was wearing fastidiously decimated jeans and tweeds and carried a pipe carved out of a huge chunk of ivory. Like most of the horde, they looked like they'd just stepped fresh from their cellophane wrapping. I upended the nearest bottle over my glass and refilled.

The girl began to gush on contact, "The paintings, the drawings are wonderful. Urban Pre-Raphaelite. Romantic, contemporary-Bosch. But you know that already, don't you?"

"And here I thought it looked just like Daniel Miller's work," I told her.

"You're funny." She turned to her companion. "Isn't he funny?"

"You look familiar," her friend said.

"Well, just look around, Scottie. He's everywhere."

"Wait a minute," Scottie announces like he's just found the answer to the six-million dollar question. "You're the boy from the Allen Frank trial. I saw your picture in the papers."

"Right," I said and handed him the empty bottle. "You win."

We all watched him fumble between the bottle, the pipe and his savoir-faire.

"Now I remember," he says. "What a tragedy. It must have been terrible for you."

"That's probably why people keep bringing it up."

"Would you rather we talked about you behind your back?" the girl asked, smooth.

"As long as you're out of earshot, talk all you want. I don't care."

"That's not very friendly."

I looked at Jerry and asked, "Do I have to be friendly?"

He laughed a little like I was being clever. Ho-ho. The girl's eyes went narrow and sharp. When she smiled, I could see her teeth.

"You two are lovers aren't you, you and the artist?" she said.

Sometimes you find yourself in a situation that is too stupid for words. This was one of them. I shook my hair back over my shoulders, crossed my arms over my chest. Scottie's eyes flashed from the top of my head to the toes of my boots, then drifted back to rest on my mouth and I could tell what he was speculating. It didn't make any difference that men weren't his usual preference. It never does.

"It's okay to talk, honey," the girl blathered on. "I understand. My best friend is gay."

I took a drag off my cigarette, watched Scottie drool a little and said, "There's nothing to understand. I come for money, honey. Just like you."

The expression that jumped up on Scottie's face was an absolute knee-slapper but I only smiled. Jerry coughed and said, "Excuse us." He put his arm around my shoulders and walked me away. We lurched through the art crowd.

"I bet they're going to buy a big painting," I whispered loud.

"To throw darts at," Jerry said. "You're drunk."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Before I could make any other dazzling observations, the cellophane couple caught up to us. Scottie was still carrying his pipe – in a fist now – and the bright dots of color in his cheeks matched the red in his eyes. He planted himself in front of us, facing us down, and demanded that I "Apologize!"

Well, okay. An apology. It was the smart thing to do to relieve the situation and I was going to do it, too. Except I glanced at Jerry, saw him grimace and roll his eyes up in his incredible, gargoyle face and that did it. All I could do was laugh which was a mistake because then Scottie felt obliged to slap me.

It wasn't much of a slap but you would've thought someone had fired off a shotgun the way it got quiet in there. That tap wouldn't have sobered a mouse and, after a long breath of a second, the hysteria started again and that really pissed him off. He grabbed me up by my shirt front and started shaking me and yelling at me. Jerry tried to separate us but that didn't work. Then Danny appeared, looking like the wrath of Soho, and laid into this pathetic asshole. I don't know if it was because nobody liked him or that they just wanted to see what would happen or because Danny looked like Serious Trouble, but no one even tried to help Scottie. I gawked like all the rest and winced when Danny landed blow after blow. Pretty soon, this guy wasn't even trying to hit back, he just put his arms up over his face and tried to hide, only Danny didn't let up.

That's when I stepped in. Danny was wired and when I grabbed him, if I hadn't been quick, he would've slugged me, too. Danny had his moods, all right, but I'd never seen him crazy like this. It was more than the fight. It had to be. He was still angry when I stopped him but scared, too. He was breathing hard and shaking like an animal that had been chased too long. I never felt so sorry for him.

When I saw Danny was looking at me like he remembered where he was and all, I put my arms around him and held him, right in front of Jerry and the critic people and everybody. There isn't any talking to people when they get like that. They don't hear you and Danny wasn't much of a listener anyway. He was still spooked but then he dropped his head on my shoulder and buried his face in my hair. He held me so tight I thought my bones would crack.

Over Danny's shoulder, I spied Jerry making moves toward the hurt dude and making eyes at me like the dance was over and company should go home. So I shook Danny a little and said, "Hey, tough guy, let's take our party elsewhere, okay?"

He grinned at me (he looked so young) and said "Okay" and we walked out together. Danny grabbed up a bottle of wine as we made for the door. The crowd parted to let us through.

Outside, it was almost light enough to be dawn but it was just the moon hanging big and bright and round in a clear, night sky. We walked away from Jerry's gallery, not wasting any time. We were both glad to go and stepped brisk, almost jogging, until the edge wore off. Then slowed down and, finally, stopped inside a little park. We cleared a place out of the litter and sat down under a couple of trees. Hard to tell if those scarred survivors were young or old. They were tough and gnarled. Their bark was as lumpy, hard and gray as aged cement but they were all bleached-out white in the moonlight, ghost-pale and pretty. The leaves made a soft, rustling sound against the traffic and other street noises.

We sprawled out for a while and passed the bottle back and forth. I had lost my buzz real sudden back at Jerry's and kind of missed it – especially since all I could think about was what had just gone down. Wasn't too pleased with myself.

Danny reached over and put his hand in my hair, lifted it up and let it slide through his fingers. "You do love me, don't you?" he asked.

"Everybody thinks so," I answered cautious and fished out a cigarette.

"You stood by me tonight."

"Hey – I thought you was taking up for me."

"Were," Danny corrected. "Anyway, we showed them."

"Yeah. Ain't love grand?" Sighed. "Poor Jerry."

"What about him?"

"His evening sure went bust, didn't it? You know, he really likes painting and art and stuff like that. He's real straight. Too bad he's got to put up with us sorry assholes wrecking his place and all. It was my fault things went off back there."

"You like him?"

"Sure. He's okay."

"Sometimes when I get up in the morning, I watch you sleeping," Danny said. "The sun comes in through the window and shines on your hair. It's so red and sleek. You look like you're laying in a pool of blood."

"Now there's an image crying out for canvas," I said. "And I think you left a customer back there who would probably go for it."

"I wonder what I'd do if I ever lost you?"

"Move back to Raleigh?"

"Did he hurt you?"

"No." I swallowed more wine. "What happened back there anyway? What were you so mad about?"

"Didn't you hear what they said? Weren't you listening?"

"Yeah. I think. Maybe I didn't hear what you heard."

"'Illustration.'" Danny's eyes locked on the air in front of him like he could see those words dancing before his face. "Illustration! Pop art!"

"That's not good?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"Yeah. So what do I know?" I shrugged and took another sip, offended, but Danny didn't notice. He grabbed the bottle back, took a drink himself.

"And they wanted to meet you," he said. "The way they talked, I felt like a pimp."

I threw my head back and howled. "Oh man! Danny – trust me. You're no pimp."

"Well, that's how I felt."

"I heard people say they liked your work. Jerry said he was making a lot of sales. Nobody seemed much interested in me except to ask about you."

"You don't understand."

"Yeah, well, they'll probably understand better in Paris, right? Jesus, Danny, what makes you think you'll do any better there than here? I mean –"

Danny made a noise and then he lashed out with his fist and hit me. He just – hit me! He split my lip open and I tasted blood. He scared me, but he made me mad. I scrambled out of reach and my hand closed on something in the trash. Another bottle. He scurried after me but I was faster. I smashed the bottle down on a tree, broke off the base. Man, if Danny hadn't scooted back like he did, New York would have had one less artist stealing her secrets.

We crouched there on our knees facing each other, him staring at me and me snarling at him.

"Don't you ever do that again," I said. "Don't you ever hit me. I'll kill you, you son of a bitch. I'll get you. Nobody hits me anymore. Nobody beats me. You understand?"

"Tony," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I mean it! You don't hurt me. You don't hit me. I'll get you – maybe not right off. You might get at me first but you remember, Danny-boy – you got to sleep some time. You think on that. I can watch you sleep, too."

My throat hurt like I'd been screaming but I was only whispering, talking in fast, shallow breaths. Danny kept staring at me. He shook his head. His face twisted up and he tried to find words but they wouldn't come. Tears came. Lots of them – big, wet, loud, sloppy – but his didn't panic me like Angelo's had. I held onto my weapon watching to see that he wasn't planning anything frisky – and kind of hoping he would.

"I wish you would kill me," he says after a while. "That would put an end to it, wouldn't it? Maybe the best end. I can't do anything right. Everything I touch turns to shit. Look at you ... look at your face."

"My face ain't shit," I said. "Just cut up a little."

"It's my fault. I did it. And you make jokes. This is crazy."

"Seriously."

"What can I say? I knew the show was a mistake from the start. I shouldn't have agreed to it. You could be right, you know. They might not like my work any better any place else. This could be the best reception I'll ever have. This could be it."

"Maybe."

"But that's no excuse. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I look at you and I can't believe I did that."

"Well, you did."

"Yeah." He looked absolutely miserable. "I did. I'm sorry."

I didn't say anything. I felt weird. The scariest person around at the moment was me. Kept thinking – I would have killed Danny. All he'd done for me, that wouldn't have made any difference. I could have done it. I would have done it.

That was my big, ugly secret – that I wasn't any different from Allen Frank or Angelo. I didn't want to be like them – but so what? Blood tells. All that time I'd spent on the street, I'd done plenty of things I wouldn't tell anyone about. Things I didn't want to remember and couldn't forget, would never forget. Some nights, when I'd been locked up safe and quiet in that little room in the detention center, I dreamed about those times, but whenever I saw Allen's face, or Angelo's or Speed's or any of those countless, nameless others, there'd be my face looking back. Then I'd wake up. That isn't me, I'm not like that, I'd keep whispering that to myself again and again until I could almost get myself to believing it.

Except I knew different.

My fingers cramped up from the grip I had on the bottle neck. I felt sick to my stomach.

Got to my feet and tossed the glass up into the night. We heard it hit something and smash.

"I'm tired," I said. "Let's get out of here."

"You're not mad any more?"

"No." I lifted my shoulder, let it fall. Wiped the blood off my mouth.

"It'll never happen again," Danny promised. He stood up, too. Then he said, "You were really going to kill me. You would have done it."

I nodded, feeling sicker. Danny put his arm around me and kissed the scar beneath my eye which he liked to do.

"And I said I was going to take care of you," Danny murmured. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving me from myself. I swear to God, Tony, it'll never happen again."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, uncomfortable, and wished the conversation was over. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. All I knew was my face hurt, I was tired and I wanted to go to sleep. But we were both crazy keyed-up again by the time we got back to the Village and, once we washed up, Danny made me with the kind of fire and single-minded fury you usually get from a first-night fuck. I had to hold onto the damn headboard to keep on the mattress. He made me yell out and he made me bleed there, too, before it was over, damnit. That doesn't have to happen. It doesn't have to be like that but Miller liked it quick and rough most times. He liked to leave his mark.

When I woke up the next day, it was late. The shade was part-way up and I blinked a lot when I opened my eyes. Noticed Danny sitting beside the bed right away. I yawned and stretched. Regretted that last. It felt like someone had dumped me in a barrel and rolled me down the World Trade stairwell. And yes, I had a hangover.

Danny brought me a cup of coffee and I tried to drink it around my cut mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he said and gave me a sympathy wince. "Does it feel any better?"

"No."

"Well, try to cheer up. I've got good news. I called the travel agency this morning."

"When are you leaving?"

"We're leaving. In two weeks – for Paris!"

"Waiting that long are you?"

"I've been ready to go for a long time," he said. "It was just a question of making a decision and placing a few calls. What do you think?"

Actually, I was thinking that for a person who was embarrassed to have money, Danny didn't mind using it when he wanted to, but I didn't say that. I didn't ask what Mother Miller thought about his plans either.

"Well?" he says after a while.

"I'm thinking you're the artist," I said. "You know what you want. I hope it works out for you."

"It's going to work out for both of us. You'll see."

"Get real. What'll I do in Paris?"

"You've got to come," he said. "You've got to be there."

"What for?"

Danny took a deep breath and said, "Look, I know things haven't been that great here. It's this damn city. Too much has happened. There are too many memories. It's going to be different in Europe."

Like dropping the proverbial coin in its slot, Danny rattled on for hours – or so it seemed. Time is eternity in Hell with a hangover, especially when someone's jabbering in your face. After a while, you'll agree to anything for a little peace and quiet. That or start looking for uzis.

But to be totally honest, it didn't sound all bad. Danny could paint as pretty a picture with words as he could with brushes, pencils and pens when he wanted. And he wanted me with him bad. In his voice, I heard the lure of my favorite song – Things Are Going To Be Different ... I Will Make Them Different. In this, we were a lot alike. There was nothing keeping me in the City, even though I loved it more than Danny ever would or could. But New York didn't care much for me at the moment – or if she did, she was saying, "Time for a little vacation."

"They call Paris the City of Lights," Danny concluded. "You're going to love it there."

For once, Danny was absolutely right. I did love Paris – and London, Madrid, Venice and all the cities and spaces we visited in between. Travel agreed with me. Better than it agreed with Danny. He experienced no better luck in Europe with his work than he'd had in the Big Apple. I don't know why. Maybe he just expected too much.

Maybe it's because we believe in delusions and dreams – not people. Certainly not ourselves. The best anyone can hope for is disappointment because when the illusion of love disappears, there are too many other feelings left to fill the void.

The first of these is betrayal – "You aren't the person I thought you were."

Danny acknowledged that eventually and, with his superior intellect, it didn't him take long to seize a new strategy – transformation. Everyone knows that if you love a person enough, he (or she) will change, right? Like magic – voila!

Despite his best efforts, I didn't change. I got a tan. I was surprised when we ended up in pastoral Greece, way off the beaten track. Even more surprised to find I liked it. The island was no metropolis, just a village with goats, boats and fine, white sand and brilliant, blue water rolling out as far as the eye could see. There was a little hotel for tourists who wanted to go rustic and it stayed moderately busy. From time to time, I did a little work there but not like I had in New York. Just useful bits of this and that, bussing tables, helping tourists make themselves understood, even a little cooking (after a while, even the most adventurous stomach wants a bite of something that tastes like home. Scrambled eggs, french fries, hamburgers, grilled cheese and like that were my specialties. Authentic American cuisine). I got along. On the whole, I was content to think about nothing, to ripen and rot on the beach whenever I could.

Danny and I hadn't planned to stay but that's how it worked out. He wasn't happy about it. Living with Danny was like living with someone suffering from a terminal disease. He raged against everything and everyone, against the unfairness he perceived all around him. Mostly, at this point, he raged against his mother who had died as we were setting up on the island. She'd been ill for a long time and confined to a wheelchair, but I don't think Danny ever expected her to go. I don't think he expected the allowance to be cut off either, but that's what happened the minute Mother Miller took her last breath. Danny's father saw to that. He didn't even want Danny back for the funeral.

It would have been easy for me to take off then but I didn't. Habits are hard to break and I was in the habit of living with Danny, although even I could tell it was ending. At last. Danny kept painting but he didn't need me to sit for him anymore. My image was indelibly etched inside his eyelids. He drank and he painted, turning out dozens of perfect Tony Bianco's in all kinds of settings and costumes, all kinds of moods. The key word there is "perfect" which is something I stopped being for him. He never got used to selling them.

"You laugh at me just like everybody else," he told me one night. He was so far gone with wine and ouzo, he couldn't stand up, just sprawled there on the steps to the house.

It wasn't true. I wasn't laughing at him. He was too sorry to laugh at. Still, he kept talking.

"I was always an artist," he said. "Even before I knew what that meant. Whenever I saw pictures in a newspaper or magazine and, later, when my mother took me to the galleries, I knew that was what I was going to do. I had to draw. There was so many people in my head and I had to get them out. You were the face."

I kept quiet even though by now, I'd heard all this before. Dozens of times.

"I don't remember when I first saw you but it was your face. It was your body and voice," Danny continued. "You were the most incredible creature I'd ever seen, even if you were only in my mind. I tried to get it down on paper in charcoal, acrylics, oil, colored pencil, over and over. I tried everything. But I couldn't get it right. I practiced and studied and, then, I finally found you in the big city. At the university. The first time I saw you walking through the Village, I thought I was hallucinating. I hope that means I'm not completely crazy."

Danny paused and grinned at me – boyishly. "When I saw you again, I followed you. I had to. You don't like to hear how beautiful you look. You don't like to hear how smooth your skin is or how your hair feels like warm silk, how it shines like sunset. Your eyes aren't emeralds, they're malachite. Deep green, wolf-green and ringed with black lightning. Your mouth is very feminine, good color, full lips. You have good bones. They balance your face and that little crescent scar – right there beneath your eye saves it from being too perfect. Did you know you're an androgyne? That means you don't look completely male or female although your mannerisms place you with the male animals. That first night I followed you, I found out what kind of animal. All that perfection, all that beauty for sale to any bastard with the right price.

"Everyone laughed when I used to draw pictures of people who didn't exist. My father.... It wasn't so much that they couldn't understand but because they wouldn't! Well ... here you are. You don't care about love. You don't know anything about love, only the variations that pass for it. Still, more than anyone I've ever met, you understand obsession. You know how to put it in its place and deal with it. I can respect that. Tony, you probably wouldn't be perfect for anyone else but me."

"You don't make me sound so perfect," I said. "I don't feel perfect ... I don't understand."

"Why should you? I'm the artist, remember?" He laughed but it wasn't a good sound. "I didn't create you but I can give you life."

"It's time to go in. Time for bed, Danny."

He kept on about this and that. His words were very slurred. I pulled one of his arms over my shoulder, tried to get him up on his feet.

"You want to go back, don't you? Back to the city," Danny accused.

"Not so much," I told him. It was a true fact. I liked it there. "Stand up, okay? Give me a hand here."

He laughed into my face and I got doused with a wave of rancid liquor and stale smoke that made my stomach pitch.

"You want to go back to the streets," Danny persisted. I let him bounce back down on his ass. But he was feeling no pain, the asshole didn't even flinch.

"I know what you're thinking." Danny glared up at me. "You tell yourself you want to be like everybody else. You want to be normal. That's impossible. I took you off the streets, I took care of you – gave you a home. What could be more normal than that? Now you want to go. You can't wait to get away from me."

"No," I said and lit a cigarette. "I love being around you when you're like this."

"You know how I feel about you, Tony."

"Yeah, I know ... I know! But Danny – I don't feel the same way about you. I never have. You know that."

It was like talking to a wall. He didn't react to anything I said, especially not the truth. I stood there and finished my smoke. He sat there and looked at the sand between his legs for a while. Then Danny looks up and says, real sober, "You're going to leave me, aren't you?"

"No." I told him that but it was a lie. I tossed the butt out on the beach. It left a trail of sparks like a falling star. Then I got my hands under his arms so I could get him up and carry-drag him into the house. "I won't leave you," telling him what he wanted to hear so he wouldn't talk any more.

Leaving Danny, getting away ... it was almost all I thought about.

It was my guess/hope that one day Danny would wake up to the fact that he didn't need me any more. He had his perfect lover on canvas and in the bottle. Pretty soon, I was going to be able to walk away. No muss. No fuss. No ring around the collar.

I was dreaming about that walking along the beach in the late afternoon. I was headed out to roost for sunset although every spot outside was good for watching the sun go down, boiling, into the sea. I wanted out of the shack because Danny was going through another one of his possessive moods. Generally he ignored me. But there were times where he wanted to know where I was and what I'd been doing every second. What I didn't tell him, he made up himself and it was always rotten. During those periods, I would look around and spot him watching me like he was trying to see what I was thinking. He gave me the creeps. These spells would usually end with us having a big fight with lots of screaming, helling and, yes, hitting. The hitting was back. He hurt me bad a couple of times. But he'd be sorry and it would be cool for a while.

We're all the most comfortable with the routines we're used to.

It was hours before sunset but I wanted out and away. I knew the island pretty well and intended to wander around and visit the good spots. Just planned to settle wherever I was once the show started, then split for the shack after. Danny really spazzed when I was out after dark without him.

I was kicking along the path outside the village when I saw them, a bunch of kids tussling with an old man. He was a newcomer, a tourist. For a minute, I stared. The villagers maintained good relationships with their visitors. They didn't jump them on the street, especially in broad daylight. So I was surprised and yelled, "Hey – stop that! Leave him alone!"

I picked up a rock and pitched it – not too far over their heads – and repeated the words in Greek, wondering what the old guy had done to set them off. Whatever it was, six against one was a pretty shitty advantage.

The kids stopped, looked back at me and shouted something. I grabbed up another rock and made noises like I meant business. Then started running at them, kicking up sand and rocks with my sandals as I went. I didn't have to yell more than twice. They took off and, by the time I reached the old man, they were nothing more than dust devils disappearing among the sun bleached buildings.

The little old guy was sitting on the ground and, except for being a bit red in the face and dirty, none the worse for his ordeal. He was a vision, suited out from head to foot in formal manservant-type gear, a refugee from a London tea room. I took hold of his arm and helped him up to his feet.

"Better take it easy now," I said. "Are you hurt?"

"No ... no – thanks to your timely interruption," he said in a super-elegant, British tone of voice. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

"What happened?"

"I don't understand it myself – but it's fortunate for me that you happened along when you did. The name is Errol. Just Errol. I'm the butler at the villa on the west beach."

I held out my hand, gave him my name and said, "You live in Winter's Garden...?" I tried to cover my surprise and disappointment. The old ruin was my favorite hideaway. "I guess that explains it. Folks on the island stay away from there. They say that place is haunted. Bad luck."

Errol looked at me with wide, crystal blue eyes peering out of his old gnome's face. "Haunted? My goodness. Whatever will the Lady say?"

"What lady?"

"My mistress. I was headed into the village. I thought the walk would do me good, travel can be so confining. I wanted to bring something back to the villa, for the Lady. Something fresh for supper but I'm afraid all this has left me rather shaken. I don't mind admitting it."

"When did you get in?"

"This past weekend. We haven't had an opportunity to do much more than unload." Errol finished dusting himself off. He was a pale man with thick, white hair waving across his brow and temples. Deep, permanent smile-lines were carved into his ancient face. He was such a tiny guy, even shorter than me. He looked like someone should be taking care of him rather than the other way around.

"This particular island has always been so pleasantly isolated," he said. "I had no idea it had become so uncivilized."

"You've been here before?"

"Not for a long time. The villa is a family home."

"Oh. It's hard to imagine anyone living there now."

"I don't suppose I could impose on you to accompany me to market?" Errol looked at the ground, embarrassed. "You seem to know your way around so well. It's getting so late. And I would be grateful for the company."

"Sure," I said. "Okay. Glad to help."

He actually took my arm and patted my hand. He was such an old sweetheart – which was a relief because when I saw the kids going after him, I was afraid he was something else. Kids can spot a funny uncle miles away even when they don't know exactly what's going on or how to deal with it. So, in the back of my head, when I decided to butt in, that had been something I was afraid I would have to take care of. And I would have. I was glad things were turning out different.

We took the path up towards the village and headed for the market. Errol had no trouble keeping pace with me and chattered the whole time.

"You speak the language very well," he says.

"It's easy to pick up. Just wait till you've been here a while."

"Do you speak many other languages?"

"Italian, Spanish – some French and German now. A bit of this and that, just enough to get by," I told him. "Danny had it rough when we were in Paris. They sure don't like Americans. But if you speak a language other than English, the French consider you European. So it worked out." Memories of Danny's first attempt to find a place for us to stay returned like a virus. No, Paris hadn't gotten off on the right foot.

"Americans must be incredible scholars."

I laughed. "Where have you been? The Japanese are scholars. Americans are ... businessmen, entertainers." Errol looked a little puzzled. I shrugged and went on. "My family was Italian and that's where I learned the language. I got the rest in the streets. It's easy to pick up, like music. All you got to do is remember the words and the rhythm. You got to know how to communicate to make a living, right?"

"That's true," Errol agreed and added, "We haven't known many Americans. You'll have to meet my Lady. She never has any difficulty making herself understood. I think she would enjoy you."

"Likewise." I had a definite mental image of Errol's lady as a frail, ancient dowager listing towards senility. She would have to be at least slightly nuts, I reckoned, sending this gentle old man out on foot in the heat of the day.

"We've been together for years," he said. Then, "Who is Danny?"

"An artist. We've got a place together. Which reminds me, I got to be back before dark. He worries."

Errol patted my hand once more as we started into the market stalls. "Don't trouble yourself," he said. "We'll have you back home long before sundown."

To this day, I cannot believe I fell for that. All that time on the beach must have affected my brain. Maybe the island was just too peaceful and put me off my guard. Anyway, I watched the sun set in all its neon glory as we made our way back up the road, breaking off to the weed-strangled trail that would take us to the villa. The natives had a name for the ruin that translated to Winter's Garden but there was a twist in the translation that meant something else. A pun I couldn't get.

In New York – and almost every place else – old houses, barns and so forth get a rep for being haunted once they've been deserted. Most times they turn out to be make-out parlors, shooting galleries or crash pads for the homeless. They're about as supernatural as a worn-out Reebok. Such places are also irresistible, so you can bet that early in my island explorations, I had visited Winter's Garden.

The island wasn't the kind of place you'd find junkies and homeless folks. There were lots of romantic types, though, only right away I could see the villa wasn't the place a person would take a date or a trick. Some places are too wild. You spend too much time looking over your shoulder to get comfortable. The streets teach you respect for the customs and territories of others. The villa might have looked deserted but I knew it belonged to someone else. When I visited, I asked permission.

The house faced away from the sea. That alone was unusual since the spectacular dawns and sunsets on the water were part of the island's appeal. It had an open courtyard, no high, enclosing wall. The grounds were smoothed out in three levels and bordered in stone. All kinds of bushes, trees and vines had been planted there but, over the years, had fallen to natural riot. On the top level, four marble posts guarded the area, each carved-up to represent one of the seasons. Looking at them, I thought about Danny's androgynes because I couldn't tell if they were supposed to be men or women. Spring had dogwood blossoms sculpted around the base while Summer had roses and iris. Fall was lush with wild, ripe grapes. Winter was all but hidden beneath the branches of an ancient olive. Thistles and oak leaves were carved into her marble, an odd combination. I don't know why I thought of Winter as a "her" because the base, torso and one shoulder was all I could see. Someone had whacked the head off. It had happened long ago from the looks of the surface break. I poked around a bit but I never found the head. Could only guess that someone didn't like the Winter Queen. Then again, maybe somebody liked her a little too well and wanted a more permanent souvenir.

It bothered me, as much as things like that do, because winter was my time of year. I was born in the deep winter and I was comfortable in that stark season. What you saw was what you got. Winter never made promises it wouldn't keep.

Errol and I passed the four seasons without a glance. Now it was me who was red-faced and panting, loaded down with over-flowing baskets and bundles. Frankly, I was ready to collapse. He was a surprisingly nimble old goat and I was thinking uncharitable thoughts.

We climbed up to the patio outside the kitchen at the back of the villa and I dumped the packages onto a table. Sat down. Errol disappeared and came back with a bottle of wine and a glass. I helped myself while Errol fussed with the lamps. It was dark. Something short and caustic hovered on the tip of my tongue but Errol gave me a look that was so soulfully repentant, I cut it off quick.

"I'm very sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to keep you out so long. I hope this won't cause trouble for you."

"It's not a problem" I said knowing that, yes, sometime soon, it would be.

The wine Errol gave me was delicious, a deep, rich red, and I held my glass out for more.

"Egri Bikavar," he said, smiling. "The Blood of the Bull."

"German?"

"Hungarian," he told me.

I finished the second glass and stood up. "Thanks," I said. "But I've got to go. My friend –"

"Wait just a moment more, won't you?" Errol pleaded. He stepped back into the kitchen doorway. "Have another glass of wine."

"Errol – I've got to go. Errol?"

Damn. He was gone. The doorway loomed before me but somehow I wasn't tempted to follow him. I looked around. The night was so quiet. The porch had been swept and scrubbed clean. Blue and white mosaics sparkled under the lamplight. The table and chairs, fresh flowers and wine looked natural and inviting but, despite all the obvious clues, it was impossible to believe anyone actually lived at Winter's Garden. I worried about the old man and his unseen lady.

A brief gust of wind spiraled up from a corner of the patio and died. It had been a day, now a night for dust devils. Seven stone lions lay, alert, along a thin strip of reflecting pool at the foot of the stairway. I sipped Bull's Blood and wandered down. Drinking was as good an idea as any and probably useful before heading back to deal with Danny. Alone, I savaged the flesh around my fingers like a mongrel worrying a bone. All my nails were chewed past the quick leaving my digits a bruised sunrise color of blue, red and gold. Caught unaware, my reflection stared back at me from the water and I was trapped into looking. Waist-length red hair shrouded a slim, bronzed body. Wolfish green eyes glowered beneath dark lashes and brows. There was a straight nose, a too-big and vulgar mouth. Granted, there were physical aspects that appeared sensual and sleek but the soul was as naive and hungry and emotionally immature as a child's – a monster's child. Any innocence or charm it may have projected was a lie.

It was less than useless, crippled, corrupt. The stuff of artists' visions? Impossible. That people paid to possess it in any form was the filthiest joke of all.

The Wyr Wind came up again – sudden, sharp, strong. It rushed over me and roared up into the night. Whatever else moved in the dark became still. The courtyard was saturated with immeasurable Presence. Power. I caught my breath and held it until tiny beads of sweat blistered across my forehead. Later, even after I came over, I could not remember having heard her approach. I felt a hand, a kitten's sheathed caress, against the back of my neck. It was a graze that soothed and burned.

Startled, I glanced down into the reflecting pool. Saw another face hovering behind mine. Her skin was white as ice, her cheeks hollowed and sharp – famished. Her eyes blazed with blood. Her lips, her teeth....

It was Touraine again – but not Touraine. And it wasn't a dream!

My wine glass shattered on the tile and I whirled about. Some of the legends are lies. Vampires cast reflections... only the reflections mirror the image of the true Fae.

There was a huge difference between the reflection and the person who stood before me. I stared at her. She was tall for a woman as I was short for a man which made us about the same height. Her hair was long, smooth and moonlight blond. She was still ice-pale with the faintest blush of life on her cheeks, her throat, her arms. Her face was a lot like mine – green eyes, full lips but so completely, complexly female. Her body was slim, yes, but not boyish. Not to me. Firm shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs curved under taut, flawless skin and I ached to touch her. In all my twenty-three mortal years, I had never felt desire for anyone. I never wanted to touch any one. Never wanted to be touched. All that yearning had been cut out of me, cauterized, long ago. I lived through the commerce of flesh on flesh and I despised it.

She scared the hell out of me. I didn't know what to do. I didn't dare do anything.

She made the first move, closing the distance between us and, God, she touched me again. My head went back, my back arched. I stiffened with pleasure. She kissed me. Satin smooth, dragon-winged fireflies pulsed and soared in the blackness inside my skull. There was music, the melody of a name.

"...Tasia," I gasped. "Your name is Tasia."

"I have been waiting for you," she said, "such a long, long time."

I touched her then. Put my arms around her and kissed her back, feeling clumsy and stupid and too good to care. Her skin was as silky as I thought it would be, but colder than was natural. She put her hands into my hair and icy fingers played against my scalp. I found out a person could shiver with delight. Her mouth opened under mine. Her tongue played against mine, teasing, barring entrance – then slid aside and I felt the teeth.

It was too much. I could still see a mahogany face ghosting behind hers. I pushed her away from me and backed off fast, dizzy enough to stumble. She didn't try to stop me.

"I know what you are," I said. Brilliant deduction, right? Well, I'd seen my share of Hammer Horror films. I knew what was going on. One vampire cruising the streets of the City was a hallucination, a nightmare. Another standing by an old pool in a ruined courtyard was fantasy gone live.

"Of course you know," Tasia said. One eyebrow quirked up over an almond shaped, sea-green eye. Her lashes were so thick they looked like fur. "You've been waiting for me, too."

She walked towards me, took my hands in hers. She smoothed my raw, cracked skin with her own perfect flesh. I was ashamed enough to want to hide them, too weak to try.

"We don't call ourselves vampires. That's a mortal term," she said. "We are the Blood, the Dragon-riders. Part mortal, part Fae. We are the bridge between human and faery. And we live forever."

"Or until some Van Helsing-type shoves a stake through your heart."

Now she looked surprised. Her eyes crinkled up at the corners when she laughed. The sound of it took my breath away and I felt myself beaming like a kid who'd got a gold star on his report card.

Tasia smiled back, an old smile with old eyes caught in a young face. Unbelievably sad. Early on, I learned to savor the times I could make her laugh and forget.

"I know who you are," she said and I believed her. "I know what you need. Do you really think I'm evil? Do you think you're evil?"

It was a genuine question, angry and defiant – demanding. She got me. Agony caught in the back of my throat and I tried to move away but she wouldn't let go. I had to look at her.

"You have been so alone," she said. Shook her head. "Never again. No one will ever hurt you again."

Tasia ... I loved her from the moment I saw her. I wanted her to love me, too. Those who have never known affection yearn for it the most. There's never enough.

Sometimes the impossible does happen. Our conditioning is so strong, we need to believe, we've got to feel we have a chance. Every little match girl will have her day. Every ugly, unloved duckling turns into a swan. Or, in my case, something more nocturnal.

The gingerbread children will be free.

Tasia, my Tasia ... I would have died for you then.

But that didn't come until later.

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