Twilight Illusions by MAGGIE SHAYNE

Democratic National Convention inside. And the robe that hung from the wall was…wait a minute, that was her robe!
    Charging back into the bedroom, she yanked open the door of the closet, only to see more of her clothes hanging neatly inside. A pair of jeans, a button-down blouse, her brown suede jacket. Her favorite running shoes stood innocently on the floor. Her purse perched on a shelf.
    â€œThat son of a—what the hell does he think he’s doing?” She paced back toward the bed, and that’s when she saw the picnic basket on the floor beside it. She narrowed her eyes, moved cautiously closer, flipped it open. A pile of fruit. She looked closer, lifted the other lid. A half-dozen assorted muffins. A thermos bottle. A sugar bowl. Her stomach rumbled. Part of her wondered if he’d put something into the food. Another part wondered why he’d bother. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had his chance last night.
    She disliked this situation. Everything in her rebelled against it, and if she’d cared to analyze herself this morning, she would know why. Her choices had been taken away. It was almost as bad as if she were a child, a ward of the state, again. She was not in control of anything at this moment. He was. He’d brought her here without her consent, locked her in for some insane reason, chosen the clothes she’d wear today, the food she’d eat for breakfast, the soap she’d use in the damned shower.
    When she saw the bastard again, she would probably kill him.
    In the meantime she was starved. The hell her body had been through last night had drained her. And while he had chosen the food, it was entirely up to her whether or not to eat it.
    She threw caution to the wind and reached for a muffin, then the thermos, praying it held good, strong, ultracaffeinated coffee.
    It did, piping hot. Aromatic steam rolled from the brew as she poured. It tasted even better than it smelled.
    She looked around the room again, shaking her head in frustration. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Damien, but you aren’t going to get away with it.”
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    Damien had decided there were only three possibilities. One, that he’d lost control of his own mind, that he’d become the harbinger of death, his hated enemy. Two, that there was another vampire hunting the streets of Arista. Or, three, that an ordinary mortal with a twisted mind was responsible for the killings, and for some sick reason, wanted them to look like the work of a vampire. Though how any human could manage it, he still couldn’t guess. The killer might be someone who wanted Damien to be blamed for his kills. If that was the case, then Shannon was in grave danger. And much as Damien had sworn never to do it, he was inclined to protect her. The blood ties, damn them straight to hell, were impossible to ignore. He could hate the instinct all he wanted, but he couldn’t resist it. No more than a human can resist the gravitational pull of the earth, and go floating off into never-never land. He had no choice, no matter how he looked at it. And he resented the intrusion on his solitude.
    â€œThe lady’s awake, sir.”
    Damien pulled himself from his ponderings to glance up. The deck of cards he’d been shuffling went still in his hands. Netty tilted her small head to one side and the other, like a little, curious bird. He forced a smile, and her face crinkled with her answering one. She had the frail build of a music-box dancer, and the temperament of a saint. Where else would he ever find someone to take care of the everyday needs of this place, to deal with the repairmen and the gardeners and the salesmen, to put up with his bizarre hours and strange requests, all without question or complaint? What the hell would he do when death crept up to claim Netty?
    â€œThank you, Netty.” He pursed his lips, wondering what he’d say to Shannon when he went up the