Sam had no dreams. He was out cold, stuck in blackness, for what could have been several hours or several days; he couldn't tell. But he did come around eventually, slowly blinking open his eyes. Wherever he was, the lighting was dim, so thankfully his eyes didn't have to adjust to any harsh light. He felt warm, and it didn't take him long to realize that was due to the several blankets draped neatly over his body. He was in a bed, but he didn't recognize the room.

Sam slowly looked around the room, from the lamp on his right to the dresser, the door, and then the chair in the left corner. His heart kicked into double time and his eyes widened when he saw the man sitting in it—the same tall, blonde guy from before. Everything came back to Sam at once and he scrambled to sit up against the headboard, pushing the heavy blankets out of his way.

The man sat in the chair in a relaxed position, one leg balanced over the other and his head titled to the side—fast asleep.

Sam placed a hand over his chest to calm his heart. He breathed as silently as he could, as if exhaling too loudly would wake up the man. Once his heart rate was dropped enough to think clearly, he oh so carefully lifted the blankets off his legs and lowered his feet one by one onto the floor. The floorboards creaked when he put his full weight on them and his heart skipped a beat, but the man made no move of waking.

There was a mirror propped against one of the corners by the door and Sam caught a glimpse of himself. He was wearing the same clothes, but there was no blood on his neck—only two punctures by his collar bone that were clotted. There was a noticeable stain on his shirt but it was pink, as if someone had tried to wash it off. Still, there was no saving the material; it would have to get thrown out.

He winced when turning the door knob, willing the click to be less audible. He made sure the door was shut completely before he left it be, hoping that if the man woke up in the next few seconds, Sam would at least get a warning when the door made a lot of noise opening back up.

When Sam stepped into the hall, he realized that it was sometime in the morning. Dawn, he could tell by the lighting. How long had he been asleep? Was it the next morning, or had days passed?

He held his breath as he walked down the hall one very careful step at a time, in case someone else was around. From all the people he had stumbled into the last time he was awake, there could very well be a whole cluster of killers waiting for him in the living room.

When he rounded the corner, there wasn't a barrage of people standing there—but the room wasn't empty.

Surprisingly enough, it was the living room he had walked into. There was a man sitting in an armchair, the tableside lamp turned on to illuminate a small portion of the room. Sam had seen him before, that split second his eyes had opened after his very confusing and strange vision. The older gentleman with the glasses. He looked up at Sam from the book he had been reading, and something told Sam he had already known his guest was awake.

"Hello," he greeted, politely shutting his book and setting it down next to the lamp. He smiled at Sam and folded his hands together on his lap. "How are you feeling?"

Sam gaped. "How am I feeling?"

"You looked dreadful when you came here," the man explained. "I'm happy to see you already look much better." He stopped, as if he was expecting Sam to say something. When the blonde didn't, he carried on, "Of course, you would look even better if your neck healed completely. I hope that wasn't too painful for you."

Sam really didn't care for any of this chit-chat. He just wanted to know where he was, who these people were, and what had happened to Michael. The man must have read his mind, because he said, "I'm sorry about Michael. It was my fault, really; I didn't think slipping him the necklace would cause any problems. He'll be fine, but I'm afraid he won't be exactly how you remember him."

Sam eyed the man wearily, looking for any sign that he was lying. "They said he was dead."

"He was. But I assure you, he's all right now." He took his glasses off and placed them on top of his book. He pushed up from his knees into a standing position. From his seat, Sam hadn't been able to tell just how tall he was. When he took several steps forward, Sam took one hesitant step back. The man outstretched his hand and said, "My name is Max. I'm Michael's boss." Sam didn't even think about shaking this guy's hand. After a moment of no response on Sam's part, Max sighed and said, "I understand. You want answers, not an introduction."

Damn right, Sam thought.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"I'm not much of a cook, but I'm sure Marko could make something for you." Max stepped around Sam, who never took his eyes off the older man. "What would you like?"

Sam watched the man disappear into another room and stared after him, baffled. He shook his head and followed, though; in his mind he had no other option. This man might give him answers, there could be weapons or dangerous people throughout the house that would come out if Sam tried to leave, and there was a chance that Michael was here—or that Max knew where he was. Those were enough reasons to make Sam follow.

"I'm really not hungry," he insisted, but that went right over Max's head.

"You aren't allergic to anything, are you?"

"No," he replied, and quickly added, "But I don't want anything." Truthfully, he didn't trust anything that Max had to give him. And it didn't feel right, eating breakfast in a situation like this. He needed to find Michael and Lucy. Then he would consider eating.

Max led Sam into a dining room that had an open doorway that attached to the kitchen. The table was long enough to fit a dozen or so people, and the room was overall nice, with various plants and paintings to complete it.

It was an old house—probably a Victorian. Sam couldn't be sure about that until he looked at the outside, though. Max pulled out a chair and gestured for Sam to sit. He did, reluctantly, and Max took a seat opposite him. "So," Max began with a pleasant smile on his face. "Sam. While we wait for your food—" the scraping of pans could be heard from the kitchen "—I'd be happy to answer some of yours questions. But only if you promise to answer some of mine after."

Sam didn't know what kind of questions Max could want to ask him, but he nodded.

"Good." Max folded his hands together on the table. He waited, and Sam was unsure whether or not he could start asking questions until Max prompted, "Go ahead."

Sam sat up in his chair, keeping his hands on his lap; he didn't trust leaving them out in the open on the table, feeling they were vulnerable that way. "Where's Michael?" He almost asked "Where's my brother?" but he was worried that that would come across as aggressive; there was something about this man that said "I'm playing nice for now but don't make me angry."

"He's in good hands." Sam opened his mouth to object to that; he wanted explanations, not vague words! "He's with my boys," Max clarified. "David and Dwayne. You might have come across them already. They're taking care of him; you'll be able to see him when they feel he can handle it."

Sam swallowed thickly. He didn't know if he wanted to hear more details on what was wrong with Michael now—what was different about him. Was he really going to be the same? What had they done to him? But no, he couldn't hear about that now. He was glad to know his brother was alive. That was good enough. Sam wanted to focus on that, and not anything negative involving Michael. Not right now. "What about my mom?"

"Your mother?"

"Yeah… She came home. I think. But she never came inside. David used her car to bring Michael wherever they were going."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know anything regarding her," Max said solemnly. "We can search for her, if you'd like, but I don't know if we would find her alive."

Sam nodded, accepting that. He was never close with his mother—never spent much time with her at all. Of course he cared what happened to her, but with everything going on, he didn't see a point in dwelling on whether she was alive or dead. He would find out in time, and he would deal with it then. One issue at a time, right? Call him an ungrateful kid who didn't give a shit about his own mom, but he was sitting across from someone who gave off intense psychotic-killer vibes and was trying to feed him against his will, like something out of Hansel and Gretel. Sam's mind was focused on what was happening right that moment, not what the future held.

"Who attacked us? And…what were they?"

"A vampire we've been watching for many weeks now. His companion slipped away, but we were able to kill the one that attacked you and Michael. Well—my boys killed him." Sam's head was still reeling around the word "vampire," but Max went on with his story-telling. "They were keeping track of the duo last night because I told them to. I think you've been watched for several days now. David tells me they were immeasurably drawn to you when they saw you around the city." Sam thought of that time he had seen David in that diner, along with those two guys who had stared at him oddly. That had to be the incident Max was talking about. "So when they went to your house, my boys were close behind. I'm glad we were able to save both of you." There was an odd inflection on "both" when Max spoke, making Sam think they had expected at least one to die—or they had been hoping for one in particular to live.

"Why were they drawn to us, of all the people in Santa Carla?"

Max's eyes twinkled. "You seem like a smart young man, Sam. I think you can figure that one out."

He instantly thought of his vision. David and the two…vampires…were the only people in the whole diner who had somehow known something was going on with Sam when his vision had hit him. Somehow they knew what was going on. So…was this Sam's fault? Michael almost died because some guys found out about his little brother's secret?

A figure appeared in the doorway to the kitchen—a short blonde with one hand hitched at his hip and the other gripping a spatula. "He's actually going to eat, right? Because it's taking a long ass time to thaw the sausage." Sam's eyes widened; he almost instantaneously recognized the boy. He was wearing the same shades as that night in the jewelry shop, when he had been sitting on the bench next to the other blonde guy upstairs.

And he was wearing his hair the same as he had been in Sam's most recent vision.

"Yes, Marko, he will," Max assured him. Marko had a whatever-the-hell-you-say expression when he sauntered back into the kitchen, but he did resume cooking. "We don't get company very often," Max said. "He's the only one of us who remembers how to cook. The rest of us… Well, we've long forgotten." He chuckled, and then noticed Sam's expression. "Are you all right, Sam? You look ill."

Sam had gone pasty white, still staring at the doorway where Marko had just stood. "Yeah," he breathed. "Just fine."