I figured out recently that if I wasn't such a geek, I wouldn't have gotten myself killed.

Geekiness is what got me involved with Porter and Zero. Being smart, a little bit creative, and quiet enough that I wasn't too threatening to approach. And Porter and Zero were the ones who sent me to a game convention in the middle of the night to retrieve a registration key for computer software I couldn't have afforded and didn't know how to use.

This means they were the reason I was now sitting on a bus bench on the wrong side of town, trying to forget that it would be another hour until dawn and the cops wouldn't be fast enough to save me if somebody jacked me up. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't geekiness that killed me. Maybe it was Porter and Zero.

It was October, and the wind bit me anywhere it could find exposed skin. I hunkered down on the bus bench and slipped the Game Toolbox key from the plastic bag. I admired the glossy sleeve and the raised electric blue lettering. Pre-release, limited quantity. Purchase and payment arranged for in advance by Porter, so I didn't even know how much it cost. But I knew it was expensive, and I caught myself glancing around at the dirty street as if thugs bothered to mug kids to get their hands on their game-making software.

This was the ticket, theoretically. Game Toolbox, I mean. Porter was convinced that this software would be the difference between decent graphics and spectacular ones. Between three nerds making a video game in his bedroom and three teenage multimillionaire techno-prodigies with hot Brazilian girlfriends. Between reality and fantasy in my opinion, but I liked his vision of the future more than I liked my own, so I wrote his stories and alpha tested his games and ran questionable errands like this one. In short, I was his slave.

I was checking out the graphics on the back of the cardboard sleeve when a car pulled into my peripheral vision. Nervous, I slid the key back into the bag and tried to see the car without looking at it. It was black and looked brand new, a sporty something with those piercing blue-white headlights. The headlights swept over me as the car drove past, blinding me for a second before it moved on. But then the taillights brightened and the car came to a stop ten feet away. I gripped the Game Toolbox key, prepared to run if necessary, when the reverse lights came on. The car backed into the bus lane and then stopped in front of my bench.

The passenger side window rolled down and the driver become visible. I honestly expected a drug dealer, I'd seen so many PSAs at school about that kind of thing. But it was a girl not much older than me. Maybe nineteen or twenty. She looked out at me with polite concern, as if it had never occurred to her not to talk to a random guy sitting on a bus bench before dawn on the wrong side of town.

"Hey," she said, and she gave me a little smile. She was pretty, with dark eyes and hair that made her skin look pale. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," I said, too quickly. It's hard not to get defensive when good-looking women talk to you like you can't take care of yourself.

"You sure? You just seem a little young to be out here this early."

"I'm fine."

"Did something happen?"

"No, I'm just waiting for the bus."

"Okay, but it doesn't run until seven."

Which is why I'm waiting, and not boarding. I kept my mouth shut and saved that morsel for later. Better to put biting commentary into a video game and leave it out of real-life conversations with pretty girls.

"Feel free to blow me off," she said, "but I can give you a ride home if you want."

"Aren't you going somewhere?"

"Nope. Just got off work at the airport. I was headed home, but I don't mind."

"I don't know. I'm not supposed to accept rides from strangers." I made myself smile and pretend it was a joke. There's no telling how I actually looked.

I saw a flash of her teeth, white like the headlights of her car.

"Come over here for a second."

I hesitated. She laughed.

"Come on. Come around to the driver's side. No one's going to jump you."

I have a theory that men are genetically programmed to ignore their gut instincts when those instincts conflict with the possibility of making out. Of course, I was never going to make out with this cute broad in her sports car, but my genes didn't know that. I went around to the driver's side, the plastic convention bag getting all sweaty in my left hand. My right hand was free and not quite as sweaty, so I accepted hers when she reached out to shake it.

"Parva," she said.

"Parva," I repeated, testing the name.

"Well, there's a coincidence," she said. "I was expecting you to have a really masculine name, like Mitch or Hank. But it turns out you're also Parva."

"I'm Nate."

"Nate." She smiled. "And now we know each other. So it should be perfectly safe to accept a ride home from me." Then she dropped a slow wink. "Should be."

She was talking the way women do when they're too old/too cool/too beautiful for you and they know you know it, so they figure it's okay to flirt with you a little. I didn't mind. Even though it was cold outside, my palm burned where it had been pressed against hers.

I went around to the other side and opened the door. The car smelled like she'd just driven it off the lot. Parva watched me with that same slightly patronizing smile as I got in and shut the door. Then she pulled back into the main lane heading south.

"You tell me which way to go," she said.

"This is good for now."

Parva was so gorgeous it was melting my brain a little. Her hair was dark and shiny, and she wore it in a pair of braids that trailed down a red and white tie-dyed t-shirt. She had those thick eyelashes that bat up and down like moth wings and soft lips with no lipstick or anything. The epitome of natural beauty. I caught a flash of pale skin near the floorboard and realized that she wasn't even wearing shoes to drive the car. Like a hippie, except I'd always thought hippies drove vans.

We rode quietly for a few blocks, with nothing but the soft strains of early-morning classical radio playing in her car. I pointed out where she needed to turn left, then settled in for what was going to be a long stretch on an empty road. As we passed another bus bench, I saw a figure sleeping under a pile of coats. For a few minutes, I felt really lucky to be in this car with Parva.

Then she pulled onto a side road.

"Sorry," she said. "Just need to stop in here for a second."

Stop in where? This was an industrial area, and all along my side of the car were the block walls of factories or office buildings. There were no houses, no stores to shop at this early in the morning. The first hint of worry worked its way into my gut.

Parva turned again, onto an alley that passed between two of the block buildings. Bags of garbage were piled along the walls. She stopped the car and parked while I watched her. I was nervous, but I refused to overreact. She faced me and studied me with that same smile.

"Relax," she said.

"What are we doing here?"

"Truthfully, I wanted a chance to talk to you before we keep going." Truthfully is a tricky word. It means I've been lying to you up til now.

She rotated to face me and pulled one knee up into her seat. She looked perfectly comfortable as she dropped her hand to rest on mine.

"Or maybe not even talk," she said.

I shivered when she slipped her pinky in between two of my knuckles. This wasn't right. Women like this did not hit on me. Ever. The girls that liked me were the loud, scary ones that prided themselves on being "bitches." Not the smooth, natural, drop-dead gorgeous kind.

"I don't have any money," I said.

Her hand stilled on mine.

"What?"

I knew what I was going to say was incredibly offensive, but it was the only explanation I could think of that made sense.

"You're a prostitute, right?"

She laughed once, a sharp sound of shock rather than humor. Her eyes were wide.

"Wow. That's a new one."

"You're not?"

"No," she said, but she didn't sound angry. "Is this what you kids are picking up on the Internet?"

"Then what do you want?"

"What, you can't believe I'm attracted to you? Maybe I like glasses."

I got out of the car. I felt like a moron, walking away from Parva and toward back alley who-knew-what, but my sense of self-preservation had finally sputtered to life and I couldn't make myself go back. I don't know how I knew it, but I wasn't safe in the sports car.

I heard Parva's car door shut, felt her walking beside me a second later. I walked faster. Parva was five-nothing and maybe ninety pounds, and I was scared of her.

"Where do you think you're going?" Now she sounded angry. And surprised. I didn't respond. I just focused on the street lamp that illuminated the street ahead of me. "Answer me," she said. A hard shove and I was pressed back against a wall with Parva's arm against my chest. "Don't walk away from me!"

"What do you want?" I asked again. It was a humiliating thing to hear the fear in my voice when faced with this tiny little woman, but I couldn't move at all so I figured fear was the correct response.

"Normally I would just take you and be done with it, but I find myself wondering what strange thing you're going to do or say next. It's been a long time since anyone surprised me."

"Take me?"

"No, not like that. Repeating the things I say is what everyone does. Give me something I'm not expecting."

Jesus. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I was willing to try surprising her if it would keep her from "taking" me, which, judging by her tone of voice, had nothing to do with sex. I scrambled through my brain, trying to think of something she'd never heard before. It was like looking for my math book in the after-weekend mess left behind by the guys. I felt defeated from the get-go.

She was pretty old if she could say "It's been a long time" with a straight face. Maybe being so pixie-like was hiding the fact that she was near thirty. Also, she was strong. Tough. Walked on dirty, broken pavement with no shoes the same as if she was walking on carpet. And when she was close to me I caught a whiff of a tangy, animal smell. Like the meat section in a grocery store. I swallowed and tried to maintain some kind of confidence.

"Let's see," I said. "You're not a prostitute. And you're not a drug dealer. And you're probably not a serial killer." And she was interested in me, for some reason. "So I'm thinking you're a vampire."

I let this declaration sink in. Her face slackened. I wondered if I was surprising her or boring her.

"You're a three-hundred-year-old vampire that . . ." I tried to think of something funny, although the last thing I felt like doing was laughing. ". . . that feasts on the blood of young virgin males." I caught a glimpse of the moon, hanging like a spotlight over a radio tower. "During the full moon. Barefoot."

She stared at me, totally blank, for several seconds. Then she barked out another of those shocked laughs.

"Am I right?" I asked.

"Barely."

"Which parts?"

"The barefoot part."

"Oh."

Then she turned that radiant, pixie face up to look at me. She grinned, and the moonlight glinted off her bared teeth. Then I realized her canines were long and pointed, like the teeth of a wild animal.

"And the vampire part," she said.