There are Christmas mornings, and then there are Christmas mornings like this one: watching my brother, Rhys, swagger through our New York City apartment...smiling. We are talking about Rhys, the detached, surly and annoying; the man who turned brooding into an art form. But he's not brooding now. No, he's practically threatening to pistol whip me for shaking hands with the beautiful, sweet, half-dressed creature named Jane who just tried to sneak out of his bedroom. Weird. And who knew Brother Grim even had a sex drive? But it isn't just the smiling and the sudden libido that has me freaked out. Something terrible happened last night, something that made my brother break his own rule and save the life of a mortal. Whatever it was, now he, doesn't remember anything from the past two hundred years. He wants Jane so bad that he's forcing himself to forget he's a vampire, taking himself back to a time before he crossed over, and our family was destroyed. He's sauntering around the place like a Regency viscount with an English accent, saying things like "I behaved like a randy, soused caper-wit." Did we ever really talk like that? So, Rhys doesn't know he's a vampire, and neither does Jane. This is what we call a problem.