Ten minutes later, Mark was balancing on the edge of the stoop, securing an old sheet of particleboard over the window, and Mallory and I were pulling the car out of the garage, Hyde Park address in hand. Mark wasn't thrilled that Mallory was planning to visit a den of vampires in the middle of the night, but I think that stemmed mostly from the fact that he hadn't been invited to tag along. His blusters about her safety didn't read sincere given the awestruck expression on his face.

To mollify him, we promised to keep our cell phones in hand. Apparently thinking extra precautions were warranted, Mark ran down the driveway as we pulled out, and when Mallory rolled down the passenger-side window, he stuffed a good-luck charm into her hands.

"What's this?" she asked him.

"Garlic." He slid a glance to me, then winged his eyebrows at Mallory. "Vampires," he whispered through a tightly clenched jaw, as if the movement of his lips was the Rosetta stone that was gonna key me into his secret code.

"I can still hear, Mark," I reminded him.

He blushed and shrugged apologetically. Mallory shook the plastic take-out container of organic prepeeled garlic and held it beneath my nose. I sniffed, waited for a reaction, and when nothing happened, shrugged.

"I'm not sure Whole Foods is what Buffy had in mind, hon, but thanks for the thought." She blew a kiss to Mark, and we watched him return to his station at the window. As I pulled the Volvo out of the driveway, Mallory threw the plastic bin into the backseat. "I'm not sure how long this thing with Mark is going to last."

"Huh," I remarked, trying to remain supportively neutral. "Not going well?"

"He's well-meaning, I guess, and we have fun." She shrugged. "I don't know. There's just not much there - beneath the camaraderie, I mean."

I nodded. "I get that."

She waved a hand in the air. "More important issue at hand." She swiveled in her seat to face me. "Before we hit Hyde Park, I want to be sure what we're doing. Are we going to kick vampire ass, or are we just going to ask about this death-threat issue?"

I gnawed the inside of my lip as I considered her question. We were walking into a nest of trouble, and had only ourselves - an ad executive and a not-quite-two-day-old vampire - as weapons. And while Mallory spent an hour in the gym every day, and I had ten years of ballet lessons and a lot of jogged miles under my belt, I doubted either of those would help significantly. They certainly hadn't helped a few days ago.

"We're going to talk to them calmly and rationally," I decided.

"And you're not going to tell Darth Sullivan you reject his fascist assumption of authority?"

I stifled a laugh. "Maybe not at this first meeting, no."

Traffic was light; the drive didn't take long. Mallory served as navigator, checking the directions we'd printed off the Web. "We're getting close," she finally said, and instructed me to turn left. When we reached the address, we gaped.

"Oh, my God."

"I know. I see it." I parallel parked in an empty slot on the street - between a Beemer and Mercedes, incidentally - and we got out of the car. The House, and it was a mansion, took up a whole block. The building was surrounded by an intricately wrought, ten-foot-high, black iron fence. The interior of the fence was lined with shrubs and hedges, so the lawns were shielded from public view. The House itself was gigantic, three pale limestone stories leading to a slate mansard roof. There was a turret on one corner and tall rectangular windows ringed the floors. Gabled dormer windows and widows' walks gave the top floor a Gothic look. But overall, while the building was imposing and the lot larger than those nearby, it looked at home beside its Hyde Park neighbors.