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a pretty big guy for his age--broad shouldered, kind of tall. And he had at least a foot on the man facing him, who looked frozen at the age of about thirty.The vampire instructor, Claire thought. He had long hair he'd tied back in a ponytail.

They bowed to each other formally and settled back into some kind of stance, almost mirroring each other.

Shane kicked, high and fast. The vampire ducked and let Shane's momentum spin him out of position, and with one economically placed, almost gentle push, sent him tumbling to the mats. Shane rolled and came up with his hands out, ready to defend, but the vampire was just standing there, watching him.

"Nice attack," he said. "But I can move out of the way of a kick. You'd do much better to move in close, reduce my reaction time. It's the only real chance you have, you see. You need to remember how much faster we can move, and how much more observant we are of things like shifts of weight and eye movements."

Shane nodded, shaggy hair rippling around his hard, intent face, and took two quick, light steps in to close the distance. He struck as he did it, and even though he didn't land the punch, he came closer. The vampire's open hand stopped it less than an inch from his face.

He hadn't flinched.

"You're quick," he said. "Very quick, and unless I miss my guess, very well accustomed to fighting all sorts of enemies. You're young to be so angry, by the way. That can be either an advantage or a disadvantage, depending on who you're fighting. And why."

Shane fell back into a waiting stance and didn't answer. The vampire gave him a little one-more-time signal, and Shane went for a punch...but it was a distraction, and this time, his kick actually hit the vampire in the side of his knee, forcing a shift in balance.

The vampire, without seeming to even think about it, spun and kicked Shane right off the mat. He tumbled across the wood floor and into the kneeling students like a ball into bowling pins. They scattered.

Claire gasped and gripped the stair-climber handles more tightly, resisting the urge to jump off and run to him. He was already rolling up to his feet--slower than last time, granted--and walked back to the mats. He put his right fist against his left palm, put feet together, and bowed.

The vampire bowed back. "Again," he said. "I congratulate you on being the first to actually touch me. Now see if you can hurt me." He bared his teeth in a savage little smile. "Come on, boy. Try."

Shane settled into attack stance again, and then, very suddenly, it wasn't all about the polite martial arts form at all. He went all street fighter, and the vampire wasn't prepared for it. In fact, despite the vampire's being faster and deadlier, Shane got him off balance in two quick, well-placed punches, swept his legs out from under him, and sent him on his back to the mat.

And he didn't stop there. Claire gasped and stopped climbing, frozen, as he dropped down on the vamp, slamming both knees into the man's chest, and pantomimed ramming a stake into his heart. There was something savage on Shane's face, something she remembered seeing before, but only when he was fighting for their lives. A real, deep, burning hatred.

Shane didn't move. He was staring down at the fallen vamp, and the vamp was locking eyes with him. Then, slowly, he stood up, hand with the invisible stake falling back to his side.

The vampire rolled up to his feet in one fast, fluid movement, keeping a healthy distance between them. He stared at Shane for a beat too long, then did the formal bow. Shane echoed him.

"You have a gift," the vampire said. It didn't sound like a compliment, exactly. "I think you're too

advanced for this entry-level class. See me later. I think you may be suitable for some advanced placement."

Shane bowed again, stepped back, and took his place at the edge of the floor, kneeling down.

A thin blond girl got up to take his place, looking terrified. Claire didn't blame her. Shane had brought a sense of real violence into the room, and that had gotten everyone's attention; the sound of weights clanging and people talking had hushed and slowed, if not stopped.

Claire realized she was standing still on the stair-climber, and began pumping her legs again, mind not on the exercise at all, even though her calf muscles were already burning. She couldn't stop looking at Shane now. She could see only a thin slice of his face between the others, but from that she knew that he wasn't paying attention to the blond girl getting her ass kicked--gently--in the middle of the floor. He was staring straight ahead, face set and still, and if the victory had given him any kind of peace or triumph, she couldn't see it.

SHANE

I wasn't always like this. I know people think I like to fight, and, yeah, maybe they're right--I do--but I didn't when I was little. I just wanted to fit in and get along. The usual crap in a town where not fitting in got you a whole lot of trouble.

I guess the first time I hit somebody was in elementary school, which is pretty standard for guys, but it wasn't because I was personally getting attacked. No, I threw the first punch.

I hit a guy named Terrence James because he was shoving around my best friend, who was littler and couldn't stand up to save his life. I was about Terrence's size, and there was something about seeing a big guy pick on a little one that made me see red.

Yeah, I'm not that complicated. I know why I felt like that. My dad. My dad, the guy who was okay when he was sober, but was a mean drunk. He didn't hit me much, not then, but he was scary, and he'd always liked to push people around.

Felt good to push somebody like him around for a change. Punching Terrence didn't feel nearly as good, though. My knuckles felt like I'd broken them into little pieces, but after the first horrific shock the pain was a good kind of pain, and it all fed into a red haze of euphoria as I looked at Terrence lying on his back, tears streaming down his face, telling me he was sorry and that he'd never do it again, ever.

And that's how I discovered that I liked that feeling, that righteous, hot feeling of winning for what I thought was the right cause. I wasn't afraid of a little pain to get there, either, which is a huge advantage in a fight. Let's face it: most people don't like to get hurt, so if you show you're okay with it, they're going to get a little bit weird. And maybe walk away. I don't mind a win by default, as long as I win.

When I got older, people pretty much left me alone. I had that pit-bull mentality and a useful amount of height and muscle, both of which I probably owed to my father. Girls liked it, too, but not the right kind of girls, generally. I won most fights, lost a few, but I never quit. I took boxing and wrestling in high school and did okay, but I didn't like the rules that much. I was a street brawler.

I guess I was on track to being my dad--maybe not as bad, but let's face it, it wasn't easy to resist the black hole that was Frank Collins, and I'd always done what he said. He liked that I could hold my own in a fight. After my sister and mother died, well, it got worse--a whole lot worse. Sending me back to

Morganville to scout out the weaknesses had been a real show of faith from my dad, but the farther I got away from him, the more I realized that I didn't want to be him anymore. He'd taken it too far.

Meeting Claire made me realize that I could be something different. Something better. The first time I saw her, black-and-blue but with this strange little core of strength...I recognized something we had in common. We didn't quit. And we suffered for it.

I started out wanting to protect her, and the more I was around her, the more I realized that she was one girl who could take care of herself. I wasn't used to chicks being equals--and Claire was, and is. She's not that physically strong, but she's quick and smart and fearless, and if sometimes I get overprotective about her, she's the first one to remind me of that.

But I want to be ready, if it comes to a fight again--which it will. Not just against the normal human bullies and criminals; those were a piece of cake. No, I want to be able to defend her against the vampires, and that is a whole lot harder. Weapons are good, and I never turn those down, but the reality is I can't count on always having one. I worry. There have been a couple of times--more than a couple--when only the fact that Michael had vampire strength he could throw in with mine had saved us.

And that really bothered me. I couldn't depend on Michael, either. Or anybody else.

Mixed martial arts--that was the ticket. Hit your guy however you can, and put him down fast. My kind of fighting, and something that could work on vampires, if you knew what you were doing. I'd been itching to try it, and when the flyer came in the mail, it seemed like somebody up there liked me after all.

Michael had pulled me off to the side after Claire left to say he didn't think it was a good idea. I told him to stuff it, but in a nice way, because even though he's got fangs and a thirst, he's still my bro. Most times. Took me a while to accept that, but I'm almost okay with his whole night-stalking lifestyle now.

Doesn't mean I don't want to be able to kick his ass if I have to, though. The chance to learn martial arts from a vampire...that was way too good to pass up.

I know how to do the real kind of martial arts. I mean, I had karate until I was thirteen and decided I was too cool for it. So I know how to put on a gi and tie a belt and be formal on the mats. Turned out that was good, because the instructor--some dude named Vassily, with an Eastern European accent straight out of an old movie--wanted to start out that way.

I was okay the first couple of passes, when he got me up to spar. It was like fighting anybody else, no big thing, until he started using vampire speed and strength on me. I couldn't help it; that made me angry, and anger kind of makes me forget the rules. I went for his knee. He hit me like a wrecking ball smashing a wall, and next thing I knew, I was shaking it off with a giant ache in my chest. I'd been lucky. He could have caved in my ribs and Swiss-cheesed my heart if he'd hit full strength.

Then don't let him hit you again, loser.I could almost hear my dad's voice, dry and mocking. He was dead now, but in my mind he was