11
   The room was huge, like a warehouse, but the walls were solid, massive stone. I kept waiting for Bela Lugosi to sweep around the comer in his cape. What was sitting against one wall was almost as good.
   She had been about twelve or thirteen when she died. Small, half-formed breasts showed under a long flimsy dress. It was pale blue and looked warm against the total whiteness of her skin. She had been pale when alive; as a vampire she was ghostly. Her hair was that shining white-blonde that some children have before their hair darkens to brown. This hair would never grow dark.
   Nikolaos sat in a carved wooden chair. Her feet did not quite touch the floor.
   A male vampire moved to lean on the chair arm. His skin was a strange shade of brownish ivory. He leaned over and whispered in Nikolaos's ear.
   She laughed, and it was the sound of chimes or bells. A lovely, calculated sound. Theresa went to the girl in the chair, and stood behind it, hands trailing in the long white-blonde hair.
   A human male came to stand to the right of her chair. Back against the wall, hands clasped at his side. He stared straight ahead, face blank, spine rigid. He was nearly perfectly bald, face narrow, eyes dark. Most men don't look good without hair. This one did. He was handsome but had the air of a man who didn't care much about that. I wanted to call him a soldier, though I didn't know why.
   Another man came to lean against Theresa. His hair was a sandy blond, cut short. His face was strange, not good looking, but not ugly, a face you would remember. A face that might become lovely if you looked at it long enough. His eyes were a pale greenish color.
   He wasn't a vampire, but I might have been hasty calling him human.
   Jean-Claude came last to stand to the left of the chair. He touched no one, and even standing with them, he was apart from them.
   "Well," I said, "all we need is the theme from Dracula, Prince of Darkness, and we'll be all set."
   Her voice was like her laugh, high and harmless. Planned innocence. "You think you are funny, don't you?"
   I shrugged. "It comes and goes."
   She smiled at me. No fang showed. She looked so human, eyes sparkling with humor, face rounded and pleasant. See how harmless I am, just a pretty child. Right.
   The black vampire whispered in her ear again. She laughed, so high and clear you could have bottled it.
   "Do you practice the laugh, or is it natural talent? Naw, I'm betting you practice."
   Jean-Claude's face twisted. I wasn't sure if he was trying not to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that way.
   The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look that cats give small birds.
   Her voice lilted at the end of each word, a Shirley Temple affectation. "You are either very brave, or very stupid."
   "You really need at least one dimple to go with the voice."
   Jean-Claude said softly, "I'm betting on stupid."
   I glanced at him and then back at the ghoulie pack. "What I am is tired, hurt, angry, and scared. I would very much like to get the show over with, and get down to business."
   "I am beginning to see why Aubrey lost his temper." Her voice was dry, humorless. The lilting sing-song was dripping away like melting ice.
   "Do you know how old I am?"
   I stared at her and shook my head.
   "I thought you said she was good, Jean-Claude." She said his name like she was angry with him.
   "She is good."
   "Tell me how old I am." Her voice was cold, an angry grownup's voice.
   "I can't. I don't know why, but I can't."
   "How old is Theresa?"
   I stared at the dark-haired vampire, remembering the weight of her in my mind. She was laughing at me. "A hundred, maybe hundred and fifty, no more."
   Her face was unreadable, carved marble, as she asked, "Why, no more?"
   "That's how old she feels."
   "Feels?"
   "In my head, she feels a certain ... degree of power." I always hated to explain this part aloud. It always sounded mystical. It wasn't. I knew vampires the way some people knew horses, or cars. It was a knack. It was practice. I didn't think Nikolaos would enjoy being compared to a horse, or car, so I kept my mouth shut. See, not stupid after all.
   "Look at me, human. Look into my eyes." Her voice was still bland, with none of that commanding power that Jean-Claude had.
   Geez, look into my eyes. You'd think the city's master vampire could be more original. But I didn't say it out loud. Her eyes were blue, or grey, or both. Her gaze was like a weight pressing against my skin. If I put my hands up, I almost expected to be able to push something away. I had never felt any vampire's gaze like that.
   But I could meet her eyes. Somehow, I knew that wasn't supposed to happen.
   The soldier standing to her right was looking at me, as if I'd finally done something interesting.
   Nikolaos stood. She moved a little in front of her entourage. She would only come to my collarbone, which made her short. She stood there for a moment, looking ethereal and lovely like a painting. No sense of life but a thing of lovely lines and careful color.
   She stood there without moving and opened her mind to me. It felt like she had opened a door that had been locked. Her mind crashed against mine, and I staggered. Thoughts ripped into me like knives, steel-edged dreams. Fleeting bits of her mind danced in my head; where they touched I was numbed, hurt.
   I was on my knees, and I didn't remember falling. I was cold, so cold. There was nothing for me. I was an insignificant thing, beside that mind. How could I think to call myself an equal? How could I do anything but crawl to her and beg to be forgiven? My insolence was intolerable.
   I began to crawl to her, on hands and knees. It seemed like the right thing to do. I had to beg her forgiveness. I needed to be forgiven. How else did you approach a goddess but on bended knee?
   No. Something was wrong. But what? I should ask the goddess to forgive me. I should worship her, do anything she asked. No. No.
   "No." I whispered it. "No."
   "Come to me, my child." Her voice was like spring after a long winter. It opened me up inside. It made me feel warm and welcome.
   She held out pale arms to me. The goddess would let me embrace her. Wondrous. Why was I cowering on the floor? Why didn't I run to her?
   "No." I slammed my hands into the stone. It stung, but not enough. "No!" I smashed my fist into the floor. My whole arm tingled and went numb. "NO!" I pounded my fists into the rock over and over until they bled. Pain was sharp, real, mine. I screamed, "Get out of my mind! You bitch!"
   I crouched on the floor, panting, cradling my hands against my stomach. My pulse was jumping in my throat. I couldn't breathe past it. Anger washed through me, clean and sharp-edged. It chased the last shadow of Nikolaos's mind away.
   I glared up at her. Anger, and behind that terror. Nikolaos had washed over my mind like the ocean in a seashell, filled me up and emptied me out. She might have to drive me crazy to break me, but she could do it if she wanted to. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to protect myself.
   She stared down at me and laughed, that wondrous wind chime of a laugh. "Oh, we have found something the animator fears. Yes, we have." Her voice was lilting and pleasant. A child bride again.
   Nikolaos knelt in front of me, sweeping the sky-blue dress under her knees. Ladylike. She bent at the waist so she could look me in the eyes. "How old am I, animator?"
   I was starting to shake with reaction, shock. My teeth chattered like I was freezing to death, and maybe I was. My voice squeezed out between my teeth and the tight jerk of my jaw. "A thousand," I said. "Maybe more."
   "You were right, Jean-Claude. She is good." She pressed her face nearly into mine. I wanted to push her away, but more than anything, I didn't want her to touch me.
   She laughed again, high and wild, heartrendingly pure. If I hadn't been hurting so badly, I might have cried, or spit in her face.
   "Good, animator, we understand each other. You do what we want, or I will peel your mind away like the layers of an onion." She breathed against my face, voice dropping to a whisper. A child's whisper with an edge of giggling to it. "You do believe I can do that, don't you?"
   I believed.

12
   I wanted to spit in that smooth, pale face, but I was afraid of what she would do to me. A drop of sweat ran slowly down my face. I wanted to promise her anything, anything, if she would never touch me again. Nikolaos didn't have to bespell me; all she had had to do was terrify me. The fear would control me. It was what she was counting on. I could not let that happen.
   "Get ... out ... of ... my ... face," I said.
   She laughed. Her breath was warm and smelled like peppermint. Breath mints. But underneath the clean, modern smell, very faint, was the scent of fresh blood. Old death. Recent murder.
   I wasn't shivering anymore. I said, "Your breath smells like blood."
   She jerked back, a hand going to her lips. It was such a human gesture that I laughed. Her dress brushed my face as she stood. One small, slippered foot kicked me in the chest.
   The force tumbled me backwards, sharp pain, no air. For the second time that night, I couldn't breathe. I lay flat on my stomach, gasping, swallowing past the pain. I hadn't heard anything break. Something should have broken.
   The voice thudded over me, hot enough to scald. "Get her out of here before I kill her myself."
   The pain faded to a sharp ache. Air burned going down. My chest was tight, like I'd swallowed lead.
   "Stay where you are, Jean."
   Jean-Claude was standing away from the wall, halfway to me. Nikolaos commanded him to stillness with one small, pale hand.
   "Can you hear me, animator?"
   "Yes." My voice was strangled. I couldn't get enough air to talk.
   "Did I break something?" Her voice rose upward like a small bird.
   I coughed, trying to clear my throat, but it hurt. I huddled around my chest while the ache faded. "No."
   "Pity. But I suppose that would have slowed things down, or made you useless to us." She seemed to think about the last as if that had had possibilities. What would they have done to me if something had been broken? I didn't want to know.
   "The police are aware of only four vampire murders. There have been six more."
   I breathed in carefully. "Why not tell the police?"
   "My dear animator, there are many among us who do not trust the human laws. We know how equal human justice is for the undead." She smiled, and again there should have been a dimple. "Jean-Claude was the fifth most powerful vampire in this city. Now he is the third."
   I stared up at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was a joke. She continued to smile, the same exact smile, like a piece of wax. Were they playing me for a fool? "Something has killed two master vampires? Stronger than"-I had to swallow before continuing-"Jean-Claude?"
   Her smile widened, flashing a distinct glimpse of fang. "You do grasp the situation quickly. I will give you that. And perhaps that will make Jean-Claude's punishment less-severe. He recommended you to us, did you know that?"
   I shook my head and glanced at him. He had not moved, not even to breathe. Only his eyes looked at me. Dark blue like midnight skies, almost fever-bright. He hadn't fed yet. Why wouldn't she let him feed?
   "Why is he being punished?"
   "Are you worried about him?" Her voice held a mockery of surprise. "My, my, my, aren't you angry that he brought you into this?"
   I stared at him for a moment. I knew then what I saw in his eyes. It was fear. He was afraid of Nikolaos. And I knew if I had any ally in this room, it was him. Fear will bind you closer than love, or hate, and it works a hell of a lot quicker. "No," I said.
   "No, no." She minced the word, crying it up and down, a child's imitation. "Fine." Her voice was suddenly lower, grownup, shimmering with heat, angry. "We will give you a gift, animator. We have a witness to the second murder. He saw Lucas die. He will tell you everything he saw, won't he, Zachary?" She smiled at the sandy-haired man.
   Zachary nodded. He stepped from around the chair and swept a low bow towards me. His lips were too thin for his face, his smile crooked. Yet, the ice-green eyes stayed with me. I had seen that face before, but where?
   He strode to a small door. I hadn't seen it before. It was hidden in the flickering shadows of the torches, but still I should have noticed. I glanced at Nikolaos, and she nodded at me, a smile curving her lips.
   She had hidden the door from me without me knowing it. I tried to stand, pushing myself up with my hands. Mistake. I gasped and stood as quickly as I dared. The hands were already stiff with bruises and scrapes. If I lived until morning, I was going to be one sore puppy.
   Zachary opened the door with a flourish, like a magician drawing a curtain. A man stood in the door. He was dressed in the remains of a business suit. A slender figure, a little thick around the middle, too many beers, too little exercise. He was maybe thirty.
   "Come," Zachary said.
   The man moved out into the room. His eyes were round with fear. A pinkie ring winked in the firelight. He stank of fear and death.
   He was still tanned, eyes still full. He could pass for human better than any vampire in the room, but he was more a corpse than any of them. It was just a matter of time. I raised the dead for a living. I knew a zombie when I saw one.
   "Do you remember Nikolaos?" Zachary asked.
   The zombie's human eyes grew large, and the color drained from his face. Damn, he looked human. "Yes."
   "You will answer Nikolaos's questions, do you understand that?"
   "I understand." His forehead wrinkled as if he were concentrating on something, something he couldn't quite remember.
   "He would not answer our questions before. Would you?" Nikolaos said.
   The zombie shook its head, eyes staring at her with a sort of fearful fascination. Birds must look at snakes that way.
   "We tortured him, but he was most stubborn. Then before we could continue our work, he hung himself. We really should have taken his belt away." She sounded wistful, pouty. The zombie was staring at her. "I ... hung myself. I don't understand. I ... "
   "He doesn't know?" I asked.
   Zachary smiled. "No, he doesn't. Isn't it fabulous? You know how hard it is to make one so human, that he forgets he has died."
   I knew. It meant somebody had a lot of power. Zachary was staring at the confused undead like he was a work of art. Precious.
   "You raised him?" I asked.
   Nikolaos said, "Did you not recognize a fellow animator?" She laughed, lightly, a breeze of far-off bells.
   I glanced at Zachary's face. He was staring at me, eyes memorizing me. Face blank, with a thread of something making the skin under one eye jump. Anger, fear? Then he smiled at me, brilliant, echoing. Again there was that shock of recognition.
   "Ask your question, Nikolaos. He has to answer now."
   "Is that true?" she asked me.
   I hesitated, surprised that she had turned to me. "Yes."
   "Who killed the vampire, Lucas?"
   He stared at her, face crumbling. His breathing was shallow and too fast.
   "Why doesn't he answer me?"
   "The question is too complex," Zachary explained. "He may not remember who Lucas is."
   "Then you ask him the questions, and I expect him to answer." Her voice was warm with threat.
   Zachary turned with a flourish, spreading arms wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, behold, the undead." He grinned at his own joke. No one else even smiled. I didn't get it either.
   "Did you see a vampire murdered?"
   The zombie nodded. "Yes."
   "How was he murdered?"
   "Heart torn out, head cut off." His voice was paper-thin with fear.
   "Who tore out his heart?"
   The zombie started to shake his head over and over, quick, jerky movements. "Don't know, don't know."
   "Ask him what killed the vampire," I said.
   Zachary shot me a look. His eyes were green glass. Bones stood out in his face. Rage sculpted him into a skeleton with canvas skin.
   "This is my zombie, my business!"
   "Zachary," Nikolaos said.
   He turned to her, movements stiff.
   "It is a good question. A reasonable question." Her voice was low, calm. No one was fooled. Hell must be full of voices like that. Deadly, but oh so reasonable.
   "Ask her question, Zachary."
   He turned back to the zombie, hands balled into fists. I didn't understand where the anger was coming from. "What killed the vampire?"
   "Don't understand." The voice held a knife's edge of panic.
   "What sort of creature tore out the heart? Was it a human?"
   "No."
   "Was it another vampire?"
   "No."
   This was why zombies still didn't do well in court. You had to lead them by the hand, so to speak, to get answers. Lawyers accused you of leading the witness. Which was true, but it didn't mean the zombie was lying.
   "Then what killed the vampire?"
   Again that head shaking, back and forth, back and forth. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He seemed to be choking on the words, as if someone had stuffed paper down his throat. "Can't!"
   "What do you mean, can't?" Zachary screamed it at him and slapped him across the face. The zombie threw up its arms to cover its head. "You ... will ... answer ... me." Each word was punctuated with a slap.
   The zombie fell to its knees and started to cry. "Can't!"
   "Answer me, damn you!" He kicked the zombie, and it collapsed to the ground, rolling into a tight ball.
   "Stop it" I walked towards them. "Stop it!"
   He kicked the zombie one last time and turned on me. "It's my zombie! I can do what I want with him."
   "That used to be a human being. It deserves more respect than this." I knelt by the crying zombie. I felt Zachary looming over me.
   Nickolaos said, "Leave her alone, for now."
   He stood there like an angry shadow pressing over my back. I touched the zombie's arm. It flinched. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you." Not going to hurt you. He had killed himself to escape. But not even the grave was sanctuary enough. Before tonight I would have said no animator would have raised the dead for such a purpose. Sometimes the world is a worse place than I want to know about.
   I had to peel the zombie's hands from his face, then turn the face up to stare at me. One look was enough. Dark eyes were incredibly wide, fear, such fear. A thin line of spittle oozed from his mouth.
   I shook my head and stood. "You've broken him."
   "Damn right. No damn zombie is going to make a fool of me. He'll answer the questions."
   I whirled to stare at the man's angry eyes. "Don't you understand? You've broken his mind."
   "Zombies don't have minds."
   "That's right, they don't. All they have, and for a very short time, is the memory of what they were. If you treat them well, they can retain their personalities for maybe a week, a little more, but this ... " I pointed at the zombie, then spoke to Nikolaos. "The treatment will speed the process. Shock will destroy it."
   "What are you saying, animator?"
   "This sadist"-I jabbed a thumb at Zachary-"has destroyed the zombie's mind. It won't be answering any more questions. Not for anyone, not ever."
   Nikolaos turned like a pale storm. Her eyes were blue glass. Her words filled the room with a soft burning. "You arrogant ... " A tremor ran through her body, from small, slippered feet to long white-blonde hair. I waited for the wooden chair to catch fire and blaze from the fine heat of her anger.
   The anger stripped away the child puppet. Bones stood out against white paper skin. Hands grabbed at the air, clawed and straining. One hand dug into the arm of her chair. The wood whined, then cracked. The sound echoed against the stone walls. Her voice burned along our skin. "Get out of here before I kill you. Take the woman and see her safely back to her car. If you fail me again, large or small, I will tear your throat out, and my children will bathe in a shower of your blood."
   Nicely graphic; a little melodramatic, but nicely graphic. I didn't say it out loud. Hell, I wasn't even breathing. Any movement might attract her. All she needed was an excuse.
   Zachary seemed to sense it as well. He bowed, eyes never leaving her face. Then without a word he turned and began to walk towards the small door. His movements were unhurried, as if death wasn't staring holes in his back. He paused at the open door and made a motion as if to escort me through the door. I glanced at Jean-Claude, still standing where she had left him. I had not asked about Catherine's safety; there had been no opportunity. Things were happening too fast. I opened my mouth; maybe Jean-Claude guessed.
   He silenced me with a wave of a slender, pale hand. The hand seemed as white as the lace on his shirt. His eye sockets were filled with blue flame. The long, black hair floated around his suddenly death-pale face. His humanity was folding away. His power flared across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. I hugged myself, staring at the creature that had been Jean-Claude.
   "Run!" He screamed it at me, voice slashing into me. I should have been bleeding from it. I hesitated and caught sight of Nikolaos. She was levitating, ever so slowly, upward. Milkweed hair danced around her skeleton head. She raised a clawed hand. Bones and veins were caught in the amber of her skin.
   Jean-Claude whirled, claw-hand slashing out at me. Something slammed me into the wall and half out the door. Zachary caught my arm and pulled me through.
   I twisted free of him. The door thudded closed in my face. I whispered, "Sweet Jesus."
   Zachary was at the foot of a narrow stairway, leading up. He held his hand out to me. His face was slick with sweat. "Please!" He fluttered his hand at me like a trapped bird.
   A smell oozed from under the door. It was the smell of rotting corpses. The smell of bloated bodies, of skin cracked and ripening in the sun, of blood slowed and rotting in quiet veins. I gagged and backed away.
   "Oh, God," Zachary whispered. He put one hand over his mouth and nose, the other still held out to me.
   I ignored his hand but stood beside him on the stairs. He opened his mouth to say something, but the door creaked. The wood shook and hammered, like a giant wind was beating against it. Wind whooshed from under the door. My hair streamed in a tornado wind. We backed up a few steps while the heavy wooden door fluttered and kicked against a wind that couldn't be there. A storm indoors? The sick smell of rotting flesh bled into the wind. We looked at each other. There was that moment of recognition of us against them, or it. We turned and started running like we were attached by wires.
   There couldn't be a storm behind that door. There couldn't be a wind chasing us up the narrow stone stairs. There were no rotting corpses in that room. Or were there? God, I didn't want to know. I did not want to know.

13
   An explosion ripped up the stairs. The wind smashed us down like toys. The door had blown. I scrambled on all fours trying to get away, just get away. Zachary got to his feet, dragging me up by one arm. We ran.
   There was a howling from behind us, out of sight. The wind roared up behind us. My hair streamed over my face, blinding me. Zachary's hand grabbed mine and held on. The walls were smooth, the stairs slick stone, there was nothing to hold on to. We flattened ourselves against the stairs and hung onto each other.
   "Anita." Jean-Claude's velvet voice whispered. "Anita." I fought to look up into the wind, blinking to see. There was nothing there. "Anita." The wind was calling my name. "Anita." Something glimmered, blue fire. Two points of blue flame, hung on the wind. Eyes-were those Jean-Claude's eyes? Was he dead?
   The blue flames began to float downward. The wind didn't touch them. I screamed, "Zachary!" But the sound was swallowed in the roar of the wind. Did he see it, too, or was I going crazy?
   The blue flames came lower and lower, and suddenly I didn't want it to touch me, just as suddenly I knew that was what it was going to do. Something told me that that would be a very bad thing.
   I tore loose from Zachary. He screamed something at me, but the wind roared and screeched between the narrow walls like a roller coaster gone mad. There was no other sound. I started to crawl up the stairs, wind beating against me, trying to crush me down. There was one other sound, Jean-Claude's voice in my head. "Forgive me."
   The blue lights were suddenly in front of my face. I flattened myself against a wall, hitting at the fire. My hands passed through the burning. It wasn't there.
   I screamed, "Leave me alone!"
   The fire melted through my hands like they weren't there, and into my eyes. The world was blue glass, silent, nothing, blue ice. A whisper: "Run, run." I was sitting on the stairs again, blinking into the wind. Zachary was staring at me.
   The wind stopped like someone had turned a switch. The silence was deafening. My breath was coming in short gasps. I had no pulse. I couldn't feel my heartbeat. All I could hear was my breathing, too loud, too shallow. I finally knew what they meant by breathless with fear.
   Zachary's voice was hoarse and too loud in the silence. I think he was whispering, but it came out like a shout. "Your eyes, they glowed blue!"
   I whispered, "Hush, shhh." I didn't understand why, but someone must not hear what he had just said, must not know what had happened. My life depended on it. There was no more whispering in my head, but the last bit of advice had been good. Run. Running sounded very good.
   The silence was dangerous. It meant the fight was over, and the winner could turn its attention to other things. I did not want to be one of those things.
   I stood and offered a hand to Zachary. He looked puzzled but took it, standing. I pulled him up the steps and started running. I had to get away, had to, or I would die in this place, tonight, now. I knew that with a surety that left no room for questions, no time for hesitation. I was running for my life. I would die, if Nikolaos saw me now. I would die.
   And I would never know why.
   Either Zachary felt the panic too, or he thought I knew something he didn't, because he ran with me. When one of us stumbled, the other pulled him, or her, to their feet, and we ran. We ran until acid burned the muscles in my legs, and my chest squeezed into a hard ache for lack of air.
   This was why I jogged, so I could run like hell when something was chasing me. Thinner thighs was not incentive enough. But this was, running when you had to, running for your life. The silence was heavy, almost touchable. It seemed to flow up the stairs, as if searching for something. The silence chased us as surely as the wind had.
   The trouble with running up stairs, if you've ever had a knee injury, is that you can't do it forever. Give me a flat surface, and I can run for hours. Put me on an incline, and my knees give me fits. It started as an ache, but it didn't take long to become a sharp, grinding pain. Each step began to scream up my leg, until the entire leg pulsed with it.
   The knee began to pop as it moved, an audible sound. That was a bad sign. The knee was threatening to go out on me. If it popped out of joint, I'd be crippled here on the stairs with the silence breathing around me. Nikolaos would find me and kill me. Why was I so sure of that? No answer, but I knew it, knew it with every pull of air. I didn't argue with the feeling.
   I slowed and rested on the steps, stretching out the muscles in my legs. Refusing to gasp as the muscles on my bad leg twitched. I would stretch it out and feel better. The pain wouldn't go away, I'd abused it too much for that, but I would be able to walk without the knee betraying me.
   Zachary collapsed on the stairs, obviously not a jogger. His muscles would tighten up if he didn't keep moving. Maybe he knew that. Maybe he didn't care.
   I stretched my arms against the wall until my shoulders stretched out. Just something familiar to do while I waited for the knee to calm down. Something to do, while I listened for-what? Something heavy and sliding, something ancient, long dead.
   Sounds from above, higher up the stairs. I froze pressed against the wall, palms flat against the cool stone. What now? What more? Surely, to God, it would be dawn soon.
   Zachary stood and turned to face up the stairs. I stood with my back to the wall, so I could see up as well as down. I didn't want something sneaking up on me from below while I was looking upstairs. I wanted my gun. It was locked in my trunk, where it was doing me a hell of a lot of good.
   We were standing just below a landing, a turn in the stairs. There have been times when I wished I could see around corners. This was one of them. The scrape of cloth against stone, the rub of shoes.
   The man who walked around the corner was human, surprise, surprise. His neck was even unmarked. Cotton-white hair was shaved close to his head. The muscles in his neck bulged. His biceps were bigger around than my waist. My waist is kinda small, but his arms were still, ah, impressive. He was at least six-three, and there wasn't enough fat on him to grease a cake pan.
   His eyes were the crystalline paleness of January skies, a distant, icy, blue. He was also the first bodybuilder I'd ever seen who didn't have a tan. All that rippling muscle was done in white, like Moby Dick. A black mesh tank top showed off every inch of his massive chest. Black jogging shorts flared around the swell of his legs. He had had to cut them up the sides to slip them over the rock bulge of his thighs.
   I whispered, "Jesus, how much do you bench press?"
   He smiled, close-lipped. He spoke with the barest movement of lips, never giving a glimpse of his incisors. "Four hundred."
   I gave a low whistle. And said what he wanted me to say: "Impressive."
   He smiled, careful not to show teeth. He was trying to play the vampire. Such a careful act being wasted on me. Should I tell him that he screamed human? Naw, he might break me over his thigh like kindling.
   "This is Winter," Zachary said. The name was too perfect to be real, like a 1940s movie star.
   "What is happening?" he asked.
   "Our master and Jean-Claude are fighting," Zachary said.
   He drew a deep, sighing breath. His eyes widened just a bit. "Jean-Claude?" He made it sound like a question.
   Zachary nodded and smiled. "Yes, he's been holding out."
   "Who are you?" he asked.
   I hesitated; Zachary shrugged. "Anita Blake."
   He smiled then, flashing nice normal teeth at last. "You're The Executioner?"
   "Yes."
   He laughed. The sound echoed between the stone walls. The silence seemed to tighten around us. The laughter stopped abruptly, a dew of sweat on his lip. Winter felt it and feared it. His voice came low, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard. "You aren't big enough to be The Executioner."
   I shrugged. "It disappoints me, too, sometimes."
   He smiled, almost laughed again, but swallowed it. His eyes were shiny.
   "Let's all get out of here," Zachary said.
   I was with him.
   "I was sent to check on Nikolaos," Winter said.
   The silence pulsed with the name. A bead of sweat dripped down his face. Important safety tip: never say the name of an angry master vampire when they are within "hearing" distance.
   "She can take care of herself," Zachary whispered, but the sound echoed anyway.
   "Nooo," I said.
   Zachary glared at me and I shrugged. Sometimes I just can't help myself.
   Winter stared at me, face as impersonal as carved marble; only his eyes trembled. Mr. Macho. "Come," he said. He turned without waiting to see if we would follow. We followed.
   I would have followed him anywhere as long as he went upstairs. All I knew was that nothing, absolutely nothing, could get me back down those stairs. Not willingly. Of course, there are always other options. I glanced up at Winter's broad back. Yeah, if you don't want to do it willingly, there are always other options.

14
   The stairs opened into a square chamber. An electric bulb dangled from the ceiling. I had never thought one dim electric light could be beautiful, but it was. A sign that we were leaving the underground chamber of horrors behind and approaching the real world. I was ready to go home.
   There were two doors leading out of the stone room, one straight ahead and one to the right. Music floated through the one in front of us. High, bright circus music. The door opened, and the music boiled around us. There was a glimpse of bright colors and hundreds of people milling about. A sign flashed, "Fun house." A carnival midway, inside a building. I knew where I was. Circus of the Damned.
   The city's most powerful vampires slept under the Circus. It was something to remember.
   The door started to shut, dimming the music, cutting off the bright signs. I looked into the eyes of a teenage girl, who was straining to see around the doorway. The door clicked shut.
   A man leaned against the door. He was tall and slender, dressed like a riverboat gambler. Royal purple coat, lace at the neck and down the front, straight black pants and boots. A straight-brimmed hat shaded his face, and a gold mask covered everything but his mouth and chin. Dark eyes stared at me through the gold mask.
   His tongue danced over his lips and teeth: fangs, a vampire. Why didn't that surprise me?
   "I was afraid I would miss you, Executioner." His voice had a Southern thickness.
   Winter moved to stand between us. The vampire laughed, a rich barking sound. "The muscle man here thinks he can protect you. Shall I tear him to pieces to prove him wrong?"
   "That won't be necessary," I said. Zachary moved up to stand beside me.
   "Do you recognize my voice?" the vampire asked.
   I shook my head.
   "It has been two years. I didn't know until this business came up that you were The Executioner. I thought you died."
   "Can we cut to the chase here? Who are you and what do you want?"
   "So eager, so impatient, so human." He raised gloved hands and took off his hat. Short, auburn hair framed the gold mask.
   "Please don't do this," Zachary said. "The master has ordered me to see the woman safely to her car."
   "I don't intend to harm a hair on her head-tonight." The gloves lifted the mask away. The left side of the face was scarred, pitted, melted away. Only his brown eye was still whole and alive, rolling in a circle of pinkish-white scar tissue. Acid burns look like that. Except it hadn't been acid. It had been Holy Water.
   I remembered his body pinning me to the ground. His teeth tearing at my arm while I tried to keep him off my throat. The clean sharp snap of bone where he bit through. My screams. His hand forcing my head back. Him rearing to strike. Helpless. He missed the neck; I never knew why. Teeth sank around my collarbone, snapped it. He lapped up my blood like a cat with cream. I lay under his weight listening to him lap up my blood. The broken bones didn't hurt yet; shock. I was beginning not to hurt, not to be afraid. I was beginning to die.
   My right hand reached out in the grass and touched something smooth-glass. A vial of Holy Water that had been thrown out of my bag, scattered by the half-human servants. The vampire never looked at me. His face was pressed over the wound. His tongue was exploring the hole he'd made. His teeth grated along the naked bone, and I screamed.
   He laughed into my shoulder, laughed while he killed me. I flicked the lid open on the vial and splashed his face. Flesh boiled. His skin popped and bubbled. He knelt over me, clutching his face and shrieking.
   I thought he had been trapped in the house when it burned down. I had wanted him dead, wished him dead. I had wished that memory away, pushed it back. Now here he stood, my favorite nightmare come to life.
   "What, no scream of horror? No gasp of fright? You disappoint me, Executioner. Don't you admire your own handiwork?"
   My voice came out strangled, hushed. "I thought you died."
   "Now ya know different. And now I know you're alive, too. How cosy."
   He smiled, and the muscles on his scarred cheek pulled the smile to one side, making it a grimace. Even vampires can't heal everything. "Eternity, Executioner, eternity like this." He caressed the scars with a gloved hand.
   "What do you want?"
   "Be brave, little girl, be brave as you want to be. I can feel your fear. I want to see the scars I gave you, see that you remember me, like I remember you."
   "I remember you."
   "Scars, girl, show me the scars."
   "I show you the scars, then what?"
   "Then you go home, or wherever you're going. The master has given strict orders you are not be harmed until after you do your job for us."
   "Then?"
   He smiled, a broad glistening expanse of teeth. "Then, I hunt you down, and I pay you back for this." He touched his face. "Come, girl, don't be shy, I seen it all before. I tasted your blood. Show me the scars, and the muscle man won't have to die proving how strong he is."
   I glanced at Winter. Massive fists were crossed over his chest. His spine nearly vibrated with readiness. The vampire was right; Winter would die trying. I pushed the ripped sleeve above the elbow. A mound of scar tissue decorated the bend in my arm; scars dribbled down from it, like liquid, crisscrossing and flowing down the outer edge of my arm. The cross-shaped burn took up the only clear space on the inside of my forearm.
   "I didn't think you'd ever use that arm again, after the way I tore into it."
   "Physical therapy is a wonderful thing."
   "Ain't no physical therapy gonna help me."
   "No," I said. The first button was missing on my blouse. One more and I spread my shirt back to expose the collarbone. Scars ridged it, crawled over it. It looked real attractive in a bathing suit.
   "Good," the vampire said. "You smell like cold sweat when you think of me, little girl. I was hoping I haunted you the way you haunted me."
   "There is a difference, you know."
   "And what might that be?"
   "You were trying to kill me. I was defending myself."
   "And why had you come to our house? To put stakes through our hearts. You came to our house to kill us. We didn't go hunting for you."
   "But you did go hunting for twenty-three other people. That's a lot of people. Your group had to be stopped."
   "Who appointed you God? Who made you our executioner?"
   I took a deep breath. It was steady, didn't tremble. Brownie point for me. "The police."
   "Bah." He spit on the floor. Very appealing. "You work real hard, girl. You find the murderer, then we'll finish up."
   "May I go now?"
   "By all means. You're safe tonight, because the master says so, but that will change."
   Zachary said, "Out the side door." He walked nearly backwards watching the vampire as we moved away. Winter stayed behind, guarding our backs. Idiot.
   Zachary opened the door. The night was hot and sticky. Summer wind slapped against my face, humid, and close, and beautiful.
   The vampire called, "Remember the name Valentine, 'cause you'll be hearing from me."
   Zachary and I walked out the door. It clanged shut behind us. There was no handle on the outside, no way to open it. A one way ticket, out. Out sounded just fine.
   We started to walk. "You got a gun with silver bullets in it?" he asked.
   "Yes."
   "I'd start carrying it if I were you."
   "Silver bullets won't kill him."
   "But it'll slow him down."
   "Yeah." We walked for a few minutes in silence. The warm summer night seemed to slide around us, hold us in sticky, curious hands.
   "What I need is a shotgun."
   He looked at me. "You going to carry a shotgun with you day after day?"
   "Sawed off, it would fit under a coat."
   "In the middle of a Missouri summer, you'd melt. Why not a machine gun, or a flamethrower, while you're at it?"
   "Machine gun has too wide a spread range. You may hit innocent people. Flamethrower's bulky. Messy, too."
   He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "You've used a flamethrower on vampires before?"
   "No, but I saw it used."
   "My god." He stared off into space for a moment, then asked, "Did it work?"
   "Like a charm; messy, though. And it burned the house down around us. I thought it was a little extreme."
   "I'll bet." We started walking again. "You must hate vampires."
   "I don't hate them."
   "Then why do you kill them?"
   "Because it's my job, and I'm good at it." We turned a corner, and I could see the parking lot where I had left my car. It seemed like I had parked my car days ago. My watch said hours. It was a little like jet lag, but instead of crossing time zones, you crossed events. So many traumatic events and your time sense screws up. Too much happening in too short a space of time.
   "I'm your daytime contact. If you need anything, or want to give a message, here's my number." He shoved a matchbook into my hand.
   I glanced at the matchbook. It read "Circus of the Damned" bleeding red onto a shiny black background. I shoved it in my jeans pocket.
   My gun was lying there in my trunk. I slipped into the shoulder rig, not caring that I had no jacket to cover it. A gun out in plain sight attracts attention, but most people leave you alone. They often even start running, clearing a path before you. It made chases very convenient.
   Zachary waited until I was sitting in my car. He leaned into the open door. "It can't just be a job, Anita. There's got to be a better reason than that."
   I glanced down at my lap and started the car. I looked up into his pale eyes. "I'm afraid of them. It is a very natural human trait to destroy that which frightens us."
   "Most people spend their lives avoiding things they fear. You run after them. That's crazy."
   He had a point. I closed the door and left him standing in the hot dark. I raised the dead and laid the undead to rest. It was what I did. Who I was. If I ever started questioning my motives, I would stop killing vampires. Simple as that.
   I wasn't questioning my motives tonight, so I was still a vampire slayer, still the name they had given me. I was The Executioner.

15
   Dawn slid across the sky like a curtain of light. The morning star glittered like a diamond chip against the easy flow of light.
   I had seen two sunrises in as many days. I was beginning to feel grumpy. The trick would be to decide whom to be grumpy at, and what to do about it. Right now all I wanted was to sleep. The rest could wait, would have to wait. I had been running on fear, adrenaline, and stubbornness for hours. In the quiet hush of the car I could feel my body. It was not happy.
   It hurt to grip the wheel, hurt to turn it. The bloody scrapes on my hands looked a lot worse than they were, I hoped. My whole body felt stiff. Everybody underrates bruises. They hurt. They would hurt a lot more after I slept on them. There is nothing like waking up the morning after a good beating. It's like a hangover that covers your entire body.
   The corridor of my apartment building was hushed. The whir of the air conditioner breathed in the silence. I could almost feel all the people asleep behind the doors. I had an urge to press my ear to one of the doors and see if I could hear my neighbors breathing. So quiet. The hour after dawn is the most private of all. It is a time to be alone and enjoy the silence.
   The only hour more hushed is three a.m. and I am not a fan of three a.m.
   I had my keys in my hand, had almost touched the door, when I realized it was ajar. A tiny crack, almost closed, but not. I moved to the right of the door and pressed my back against the wall. Had they heard the keys jingling? Who was inside? Adrenaline was flowing like fine champagne. I was alert to every shadow, the way the light fell. My body was in emergency mode, and I hoped to God I didn't need it.
   I drew my gun and leaned against the wall. Now what? There was no sound from inside the apartment, nothing. It could be more vampires, but it was nearly true dawn. It wouldn't be vampires. Who else would break into my apartment? I took a deep breath and let it out. I didn't know. Didn't have the faintest idea. You'd think I'd get used to not knowing what the hell is going on, but I never do. It just makes me grumpy, and a little scared.
   I had several choices. I could leave and call the police, not a bad choice. But what could they do that I couldn't, except walk in and get killed in my place? That was unacceptable. I could wait in the corridor until whoever it was got curious. That could take a while, and the apartment might be empty. I'd feel pretty stupid standing out here for hours, gun trained on an empty apartment. I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed. Dammit!
   I could always just go in, gun blazing. Naw. I could push the door open and be lying on the floor and shoot anyone inside. If they had a gun. If there was anyone inside.
   The smart thing would be to outwait them, but I was tired. The adrenaline rush was fading under the frustration of too many choices. There comes a point when you just get tired. I didn't think I could stand out here in the air-conditioned silence and stay alert. I wouldn't fall asleep standing up, but it was a thought. And another hour would see my neighbors up and about, maybe caught in the crossfire. Unacceptable. Whatever was going to happen needed to happen now.
   Decision made. Good. Nothing like fear to wash your mind clean. I moved as far from the door as I could and crossed over, gun trained on the door. I moved along the left-hand wall towards the hinge side of the door. It opened in. Just give it a push flat against the wall, simple. Right.
   I crouched down on one knee, my shoulders hunched as if I could draw my head down like a turtle. I was betting that any gun would hit above me, chest-high. Crouched down, I was a lot shorter than chest-high.
   I shoved the door open with my left hand and hugged the doorsill. It worked like a charm. My gun was pointing at the bad guy's chest. Except his hands were already in the air, and he was smiling at me.
   "Don't shoot," he said. "It's Edward."
   I knelt there staring at him; anger rose like a warm tide. "You bastard. You knew I was out here."
   He steepled his fingers. "I heard the keys."
   I stood, eyes searching the room. Edward had moved my white overstuffed chair to face the door. Nothing else seemed to be moved.
   "I assure you, Anita, I am quite alone."
   "That I believe. Why didn't you call out to me?"
   "I wanted to see if you were still good. I could have blown you away when you hesitated in front of the door, with your keys jingling so nicely."
   I shut the door behind me and locked it, though truthfully with Edward inside I might have been safer locking myself out rather than in. He was not an imposing man, not frightening, if you didn't know him. He was five-eight, slender, blond, blue-eyed, charming. But if I was The Executioner, he was Death itself. He was the person I had seen use a flamethrower.
   I had worked with him before, and heaven knows you felt safe with him. He carried more firepower than Rambo, but he was a little too careless of innocent bystanders. He began life as a hit man. That much the police knew. I think humans became too easy so he switched to vampires and lycanthropes. And I knew that if a time came where it was more expedient to kill me than to be my "friend," he would do it. Edward had no conscience. It made him the perfect killer.
   "I've been up all bloody night, Edward. I'm not in the mood for your games."
   "How hurt are you?"
   I shrugged and winced. "The hands are sore, bruises mostly. I'm all right."
   "Your night secretary said you were out at a bachelorette party." He grinned at me, eyes sparkling. "It must have been some party-"
   "I ran into a vampire you might know."
   He raised his yellow eyebrows and made a silent "Oh" with his lips.
   "Remember the house you nearly roasted down around us?"
   "About two years ago. We killed six vampires, and two human servants."
   I walked past him and flopped onto the couch. "We missed one."
   "No, we didn't." His voice was very precise. Edward at his most dangerous.
   I looked at the carefully cut back of his head. "Trust me on this one, Edward. He damn near killed me tonight." Which was a partial truth, also known as a lie. If the vampires didn't want me to tell the police, they certainly didn't want Death to know. Edward was a whole lot more dangerous to them than the police.
   "What one?"
   "The one who nearly tore me to pieces. He calls himself Valentine. He's still wearing the acid scars I gave him."
   "Holy Water?"
   "Yeah."
   Edward came to sit beside me on the couch. He kept to one end, a careful distance. "Tell me." His eyes were intense on my face.
   I looked away. "There isn't much left to tell."
   "You're lying, Anita. Why?"
   I stared at him, anger coming in a rush. I hate to be caught in a lie. "There have been some vampires murdered down along the river. How long have you been in town, Edward?"
   He smiled then, though at what I wasn't sure. "Not long. I heard a rumor that you got to meet the city's head vampire tonight."
   I couldn't stop it. My mouth fell open; the surprise was too much to hide. "How the hell do you know that?"
   He gave a graceful shrug. "I have my sources."
   "No vampire would talk to you, not willingly."
   Again that shrug that said everything and nothing at all.
   "What have you done tonight, Edward?"
   "What have you done tonight, Anita?"
   Touchy, Mexican standoff, whatever. "Why have you come to me then? What do you want?"
   "I want the location of the master vampire. The daytime resting place."
   I had recovered enough so that my face was bland, no surprise here. "How would I know that?"
   "Do you know?"
   "No." I stood up. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. If there's nothing else?"
   He stood, too, still smiling, like he knew I had lied. "I'll be in touch. If you do happen to run across the information I need ... " He let the sentence trail off and started for the door.
   "Edward."
   He half-turned to me.
   "Do you have a sawed-off shotgun?"
   His eyebrows went up again. "I could get one for you."
   "I'd pay."
   "No, a gift."
   "I can't tell you."
   "But you do know?"
   "Edward ... "
   "How deep are you in, Anita?"
   "Eye level and sinking fast."
   "I could help you."
   "I know."
   "Would helping you allow me to kill more vampires?"
   "Maybe."
   He grinned at me, brilliant, heart-stopping. The grin was his very best harmless good of boy smile. I could never decide whether the smile was real or just another mask. Would the real Edward please stand up? Probably not.
   "I enjoy hunting vampires. Let me in on it if you can."
   "I will."
   He paused with a hand on the doorknob. "I hope I have more luck with my other sources than I did with you."
   "What happens if you can't find the location from someone else?"
   "Why, I come back."
   "And?"
   "And you will tell me what I want to know. Won't you?" He was still grinning at me, charming, boyish. He was also talking about torturing me if he had to.
   I swallowed, hard. "Give me a few days, Edward, and I might have your information."
   "Good. I'll bring the shotgun later today. If you're not home, I'll leave it on the kitchen table."
   I didn't ask how he'd get inside if I wasn't home. He would only have smiled or laughed. Locks weren't much of a deterrent to Edward. "Thank you. For the shotgun, I mean."
   "My pleasure, Anita. Until tomorrow." He stepped out the door, and it closed behind him.
   Great. Vampires, now Edward. The day was about fifteen minutes old. Not a very promising beginning. I locked the door, for what good it would do me, and went to bed. The Browning HiPower was in its second home, a modified holster strapped to the headboard of my bed. The crucifix was cool metal around my neck. I was as safe as I was going to be and almost too tired to care.
   I took one more thing to bed with me, a stuffed toy penguin named Sigmund. I don't sleep with him often, just every once in a while after someone tries to kill me. Everyone has their weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you won't tell, I won't.

16
   I stood in the huge stone room where Nikolaos had sat. Only the wooden chair remained, empty, alone. A coffin sat on the floor to one side. Torchlight gleamed off the polished wood. A breeze eased through the room. The torches wavered and threw huge black shadows on the walls. The shadows seemed to move independent of the light. The longer I looked at them, the more I was sure the shadows were too dark, too thick.
   I could taste my heart in my throat. My pulse was hammering in my head. I couldn't breathe. Then I realized I was hearing a second heartbeat, like an echo. "Jean-Claude?" The shadows cried, "Jean-Claude," in high whining voices.
   I knelt by the coffin and gripped the lid. It was all one piece, and raised on smooth oiled hinges. Blood poured down the sides of the coffin. The blood poured over my legs, splashed on my arms. I screamed and stood, covered in blood. It was still warm. "Jean-Claude!"
   A pale hand raised out of the blood, spasmed, and collapsed against the side of the coffin. Jean-Claude's face floated to the top. My hand was reaching out. His heart was fluttering in my head, but he was dead. He was dead! His hand was icy wax. His eyes flew open. The dead hand grabbed my wrist.
   "No!" I tried to pull my hand free. I went down on my knees in the cooling blood and screamed, "Let me go!"
   He sat up. He was covered in blood. The white shirt dripped with it, like a bloody rag.
   "No."
   He pulled my arm closer to him, and pulled me with it. I braced one hand on the coffin. I would not go to him. I would not go! He bent over my arm, mouth wide, fangs reaching. His heart beat against the shadows like thunder. "Jean-Claude, no!"
   He looked up at me, just before he struck. "I had no choice." Blood began to drip down his face from his hair, until his face was a bloody mask. Fangs sank into my arm. I screamed, and woke sitting straight up in bed.
   The doorbell was buzzing. I scrambled out of bed, forgetting. I gasped. I had moved too fast for the beating I'd had last night. I ached all over in places I couldn't possibly be bruised. My hands were stiff with dried blood. They felt arthritic.
   The doorbell was buzzing continuously as if someone was leaning against it. Whoever it was, was going to get a hug for waking me up. I was sleeping in an oversized shirt. Pulling last night's jeans on was my version of a robe.
   I put Sigmund the stuffed penguin back with all the rest. The stuffed toys sat on a small loveseat against the far wall, under the window. Penguins lined the floor around it like a plump fuzzy tide.
   It hurt to move. It even felt tight when I breathed. I yelled, "I'm coming." It occurred to me, halfway to the door, that it might be someone unfriendly. I padded back into the bedroom and got my gun. My hand felt stiff and awkward around it. I should have cleaned and bandaged the hands last night. Oh, well.
   I knelt behind the chair Edward had moved in front of the door and called, "Who is it?"
   "It's Ronnie, Anita. We're supposed to work out this morning."
   It was Saturday. I had forgotten. It was always amazing how ordinary life was, even while people were trying to hurt you. I felt like Ronnie should know about last night. Something so extraordinary should touch all my life, but it didn't work that way. When I'd been in the hospital with my arm in traction and tubes running all through me, my stepmother had complained that I wasn't married yet. She's worried that I will be an old maid at the ripe age of twenty-four. Judith is not what you would call a liberated woman.
   My family does not cope well with what I do, the chances I take, the injuries. So they ignore it as best they can. Except for my sixteen-year-old stepbrother. Josh thinks I'm cool, neat, whatever word they're using now.
   Veronica Sims is different. She's my friend, and she understands. Ronnie is a private detective. We take turns visiting each other in the hospital.
   I opened the door and let her in, gun limp at my side. She took it all in and said, "Shit, you look awful."
   I smiled. "Well, at least I took like I feel."
   She came in and dropped her gym bag in front of the chair. "Can you tell me what happened?" Not a demand, a question. Ronnie understood that not everything could be shared.
   "Sorry that I won't be able to work out today."
   "Looks like you had all the workout you can handle. Go soak those hands in the sink. I'll make coffee. Okay?"
   I nodded and regretted it. Aspirins, aspirins sounded real good right now. I stopped just before I went into the bathroom. "Ronnie?"
   "Yes." She stood there in my small kitchen, a measuring cup of fresh coffee beans in one hand. She was five-nine. Sometimes, I forget how tall that is. It amazes people that we can run together. The trick is I set the pace, and I push myself. It's a very good workout.
   "I think I have some bagels in the fridge. Could you pop them in the microwave with some cheese?"
   She stared at me. "I've known you for three years, and this is the first time I've ever heard you ask for food before ten o'clock."
   "Listen, if it's too much trouble, forget it."
   "It isn't that, and you know it."
   "Sorry. I'm just tired."
   "Go doctor yourself, then you can tell me about it. Okay"
   "Yeah." Soaking the hands did not make them feel better. It felt like I was peeling the skin off my fingers. I patted them dry and rubbed Neosporin ointment over the scrapes. "A topical antibacterial," the label read. By the time I finished all the Band-Aids, I looked like a pinkish-tan version of the mummy's hand.
   My back was a mass of dark bruises. My ribs were decorated in putrid purple. There wasn't much I could do about it, except hope the aspirin kicked in. Well, there was one thing I could do-move. Stretching exercises would limber the body and give me movement without pain, sort of. The stretching itself would feel like torture. I'd do it later. I needed to eat first.
   I was starving. Usually, the thought of eating before ten made me nauseous. This morning I wanted food, needed food. Very weird. Maybe it was stress.
   The smell of bagels and melting cheese made my stomach ripple. The smell of fresh brewed coffee made me want to chew the couch.
   I scarfed down two bagels and three cups of coffee while Ronnie sat across from me, sipping her first cup. I looked up and found her watching me. Her grey eyes were staring at me. I'd seen her look at suspects like that. "What?" I asked.
   She shrugged. "Nothing. Can you catch your breath and tell me about last night?"
   I nodded, and it didn't hurt as much. Aspirin, nature's gift to modern man. I told her, from Monica's call to my meeting with Valentine. I didn't tell her that it all took place at the Circus of the Damned. That was very dangerous information to have right now. And I left out the blue lights on the stairs, the sound of Jean-Claude's voice in my head. Something told me that was dangerous information, too. I've learned to trust my instincts, so I left it out.
   Ronnie's good, she looked at me, and said, "Is that everything?"
   "Yes." An easy lie, simple, one word. I don't think Ronnie bought it.
   "Okay." She took a sip of coffee. "What do you want me to do?"
   "Ask around. You have access to the hate groups. Like Humans Against Vampires, The League of Human Voters, the usual. See if any of them might be involved with the murders. I can't go near them." I smiled. "After all, animators are one of the groups they hate."
   "But you do kill vampires."
   "Yeah, but I also raise zombies. Too weird for the hardcore bigot."
   "All right. I'll check out HAV and the rest. Anything else?"
   I thought about it and shook my head, almost no pain at all. "Not that I can think of. Just be very careful. I don't want to endanger you the way I did Catherine."
   "That wasn't your fault."
   "Right."
   "It isn't your fault, none of this is."
   "Tell that to Catherine and her fiance if things go bad."
   "Anita, dammit, these creatures are using you. They want you discouraged and frightened, so they can control you. If you let the guilt mess with your head, you're going to get killed."
   "Well, gee, Ronnie, just what I wanted to hear. If this is your version of a pep talk, I'll skip the rally."
   "You don't need cheering up. You need a good shaking."
   "Thanks, I already had one last night."
   "Anita, listen to me." She was staring at me, eyes intense, her face searching mine, trying to see if I was really hearing her. "You've done all you can for Catherine. I want you to concentrate on keeping yourself alive. You're ass deep in enemies. Don't get sidetracked."
   She was right. Do what you can and move on. Catherine was out of it, for now. It was the best I could do. "Ass-deep in enemies, but ankle-deep in friends."
   She grinned. "Maybe it'll even out."
   I cradled the coffee in my bandaged hands. Warmth radiated through the cup. "I'm scared."
   "Which proves you aren't as stupid as you look."
   "Gee, thanks a lot."
   "You're welcome." She raised her coffee cup in a salute. "To Anita Blake, animator, vampire slayer, and good friend. Watch your back."
   I clinked my cup against hers. "You watch yours, too. Being my friend right now may not be the healthiest of avocations."
   "Since when was that a news bulletin?"
   Unfortunately, she had a point.

17
   I had two choices after Ronnie left: I could go back to sleep, not a bad idea; or I could start solving the case that everyone was so eager for me to work on. I could get by on four hours sleep, for a while. I could not last nearly as long if Aubrey tore my throat out. Guess I would go to work.
   It is hard to wear a gun in St. Louis in the summertime. Shoulder or hip holster, you have the same problem. If you wear a jacket to cover the gun, you melt in the heat. If you keep the gun in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything in her purse in under twelve minutes. It is a rule.
   No one had been shooting at me yet; I was encouraged by that. But I had also been kidnapped and nearly killed. I did not plan on it happening again without a fight. I could bench press a hundred pounds, not bad, not bad at all. But when you only weigh a hundred and six, it puts you at a disadvantage. I would bet on me against any human bad guy my size. Trouble was, there just weren't many bad guys my size. And vampires, well, unless I could bench press trucks, I was outclassed. So a gun.
   I finally settled on a less than professional look. The t-shirt was oversize, hitting me at mid-thigh. It billowed around me. The only thing that saved it was the picture on the front, penguins playing beach volleyball, complete with kiddie penguins making sand castles to one side. I like penguins. I had bought the shirt to sleep in and never planned to wear it where people could see me. As long as the fashion police didn't see me, I was safe.
   I looped a belt through a pair of black shorts for my inside-the-pant holster. It was an Uncle Mike's Sidekick and I was very fond of it, but it was not for the Browning. I had a second gun for comfort and concealability: a Firestar, a compact little 9mm with a seven-shot magazine.
   White jogging socks, with tasteful blue stripes that matched the blue leather piping on my white Nikes, completed the outfit. It made me look and feel about sixteen, an awkward sixteen, but when I turned to the mirror there was no hint of the gun on my belt. The shirt fell out and around it, invisible.
   My upper body is slender, petite if you will, muscular and not bad to look at. Unfortunately, my legs are about five inches too short to ever be America's ideal legs. I will never have skinny thighs, nor anything short of muscular calves. The outfit emphasized my legs and hid everything else, but I had my gun and I wouldn't melt in the heat. Compromise is an imperfect art.
   My crucifix hung inside my shirt, but I added a small charm bracelet to my left wrist. Three small crosses dangled from the silver chain. My scars also were in plain sight, but in the summer I try to pretend they aren't there. I cannot face the thought of wearing long sleeves in hundred-degree weather with hundred-percent humidity. My arms would fall off. The scars really aren't the first thing you notice with my arms bare. Really.
   Animators, Inc., had new offices. We'd been here only three months. There was a psychologist's office across from us, nothing less than a hundred an hour; a plastic surgeon down the hall; two lawyers; one marriage counselor, and a real estate company. Four years ago Animators, Inc., had worked out of a spare room above a garage. Business was good.
   Most of that good luck was due to Bert Vaughn, our boss. He was a businessman, a showman, a moneymaker, a scalawag, and a borderline cheat. Nothing illegal, not really, but ... Most people choose to think of themselves as white hats, good guys. A few people wear black hats and enjoy it. Grey was Bert's color. Sometimes I think if you cut him, he'd bleed green, fresh-minted money.
   He had turned what was an unusual talent, an embarrassing curse, or a religious experience, raising the dead, into a profitable business. We animators had the talent, but Bert knew how to make it pay. It was hard to argue with that. But I was going to try.
   The reception room's wallpaper is pale, pale green with small oriental designs done in greens and browns. The carpet is thick and soft green, too pale to be grass, but it tries. Plants are everywhere.
   A Ficus benjium grows to the right of the door, slender as a willow with small leather green leaves. It nearly curls around the chair in front of its pot. A second tree grows in the far corner, tall and straight with the stiff spiky tops of palm trees-Dracaena marginta. Or that's what it says on the tags tied to the spindly trunks. Both trees brush the ceiling. Dozens of smaller plants are pushed and potted in every spare corner of the soft green room.
   Bert thinks the pastel green is soothing, and the plants give it that homey touch. I think it looks like an unhappy marriage between a mortuary and a plant shop.
   Mary, our day secretary, is over fifty. How much over is her own business. Her hair is short and does not move in the wind. A carton of hair spray sees to that. Mary is not into the natural look. She has two grown sons and four grandchildren. She gave me her best professional smile as I came through the door. "May I help ... Oh, Anita, I didn't think you were due in until five."
   "I'm not, but I need to speak to Bert and get some things from my office."
   She frowned down at her appointment book, our appointment book. "Well, Jamison is in your office right now with a client." There are only three offices in our little area. One belongs to Bert, and the other two rotate between the rest of us. Most of our work is done in the field, or rather the graveyard, so we never really need our offices all at the same time. It worked like time-sharing a condo.
   "How long will the client be?"
   Mary glanced down at her notes. "It's a mother whose son is thinking about joining the Church of Eternal Life."
   "Is Jamison trying to talk him into it or out of it?"
   "Anita!" Mary scolded me, but it was the truth. The Church of Eternal Life was the vampire church. The first church in history that could guarantee you eternal life, and prove it. No waiting around. No mystery. Just eternity on a silver platter. Most people don't believe in their immortal souls anymore. It isn't popular to worry about Heaven and Hell, and whether you are an absolutely good person. So the Church was gaining followers all over the place. If you didn't believe that it destroyed your soul, what did you have to lose? Daylight. Food. Not much to give up.
   It was the soul part that bothered me. My immortal soul is not for sale, not even for eternity. You see, I knew vampires could die. I had proved it. No one seemed curious as to what happened to a vampire's soul when it died. Could you be a good vampire and go to Heaven? Somehow that didn't quite work for me.
   "Is Bert with a client, too?"
   She glanced once more at the appointment book. "No, he's free." She looked up and smiled, as if she was pleased to be able to help me. Maybe she was.
   It is true that Bert took the smallest of the three offices. The walls are a soft pastel blue, the carpet two colors darker. Bert thinks it soothes the clients. I think it's like standing inside a blue ice cube.
   Bert didn't match the small blue office. There is nothing small about Bert. Six-four, broad shoulders, a college athlete's figure getting a little soft around the middle. His white hair is close-cut over small ears. A boater's tan forces his pale eyes and hair into sharp contrast. His eyes are a nearly colorless grey, like dirty window glass. You have to work very hard to make dirty grey eyes shine, but they were shining now. Bert was practically beaming at me. It was a bad sign.
   "Anita, what a pleasant surprise. Have a sit." He waved a business envelope at me. "We got the check today."
   "Check?" I asked.
   "For looking into the vampire murders."
   I had forgotten. I had forgotten that somewhere in all this I had been promised money. It seemed ridiculous, obscene, that Nikolaos would make everything better with money. From the look on Bert's face, a lot of money.
   "How much?"
   "Ten thousand dollars." He stretched each word out, making it last.
   "It isn't enough."
   He laughed. "Anna, getting greedy in your old age. I thought that was my job."
   "It isn't enough for Catherine's life, or mine."
   His grin wilted slightly. His eyes looked wary, as if I was about to tell him there was no Easter Bunny. I could almost hear him wondering if he would have to return the check.
   "What are you talking about, Anita?"
   I told him, with a few minor revisions. No "Circus of the Damned." No blue fire. No first vampire mark.
   When I got to the part about Aubrey smashing me into the wall, he said, "You are kidding."
   "Want to see the bruises?"
   I finished the story and watched his solemn, square face. His large, blunt-fingered hands were folded on his desk. The check was lying beside him atop his neat pile of manila folders. His face was attentive, concerned. Empathy never worked well on Bert's face. I could always see the wheels moving. The angles calculating.
   "Don't worry, Bert, you can cash the check."
   "Now, Anita, that wasn't ... "
   "Save it."
   "Anita, truly I would never purposefully endanger you."
   I laughed. "Bull."
   "Anita!" He looked shocked, small eyes widening, one hand touching his chest. Mr. Sincerity.
   "I'm not buying, so save the bullshit for clients. I know you too well."
   He smiled then. It was his only genuine smile. The real Bert Vaughn please stand up. His eyes gleamed but not with warmth, more with pleasure. There is something measuring, obscenely knowledgeable, about Bert's smile. As if he knew the darkest thing you had ever done and would gladly keep silent-for a price.
   There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he was not a nice person and didn't give a damn. It went against everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
   "What can Animators, Inc., do to help?"
   "I've already got Ronnie working on some things. I think the fewer people involved, the fewer people in danger."
   "You always were a humanitarian."
   "Unlike some people I could mention."
   "I had no idea what they wanted."
   "No, but you knew how I felt about vampires."
   He gave me a smile that said, "I know your secret, I know your darkest dreams." That was Bert. Budding blackmailer.
   I smiled back at him, friendly. "If you ever send me a vampire client again without running it by me first, I'll quit."
   "And go where?"
   "I'll take my client list with me, Bert. Who is the one that does the radio interviews? Who did the articles focus on? You made sure it was me, Bert. You thought I was the most marketable of all of us. The most harmless-looking, the most appealing. Like a puppy at the pound. When people call Animators, Inc., who do they ask for?"
   His smile was gone, eyes like winter ice. "You wouldn't make it without me."
   "The question is, would you make it without me?"
   "I'd make it."
   "So would I"
   We stared at each other for a long space of moments. Neither of us was willing to look away, to blink first. Bert started to smile, still staring into my eyes. The edges of a smile began to tug at my mouth. We laughed together and that was that.
   "All right, Anita, no more vampires."
   I stood. "Thank you."
   "Would you really quit?" His face was all laughing sincerity, a tasteful, pleasant mask.
   "I don't believe in idle threats, Bert. You know that."
   "Yes," he said, "I know that. I honestly didn't know this job would endanger your life."
   "Would it have made a difference?"
   He thought about it for a minute, then laughed. "No, but I would have charged more."
   "You keep making money, Bert. That's what you're good at."
   "Amen."
   I left him so he could fondle the check in privacy. Maybe chuckle over it. It was blood money, no pun intended. Somehow, I didn't think that bothered Bert. It bothered me.

18
   The door to the other office opened. A tall, blonde woman stepped through. She was somewhere between forty and fifty. Tailored golden pants encircled a slender waist. A sleeveless blouse the color of an eggshell exposed tanned arms, a gold Rolex watch, and a wedding band encircled with diamonds. The rock in the engagement ring must have weighed a pound. I bet she hadn't even blinked when Jamison talked price.
   The boy that followed her was also slender and blond. He looked about fifteen, but I knew he had to be at least eighteen. Legally, you cannot join the Church of Eternal Life unless you are of age. He couldn't drink legally yet, but he could choose to die and live forever. Funny, how that didn't make much sense to me.
   Jamison brought up the rear, smiling, solicitous. He was talking softly to the boy as he walked them towards the door.
   I got a business card out of my purse. I held it out towards the woman. She looked at it, then at me. Her gaze slid over me from top to bottom. She didn't seem impressed; maybe it was the shirt. "Yes," she said.
   Breeding. It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit with one word. Of course, it didn't bother me. No, the great golden goddess did not make me feel small and grubby. Right. "The number on this card is for a man who specializes in vampire cults. He's good."
   "I do not want my son brainwashed."
   I managed a smile. Raymond Fields was my vampire cult expert, and he didn't do brainwashing. He did do truth, no matter how unpleasant. "Mr. Fields will give you the potential down side of vampirism," I said.
   "I believe Mr. Clarke has given us all the information we need."
   I raised my arm near her face. "I didn't get these scars playing touch football. Please, take the card. Call him, or not. It's up to you."
   She was a little pale under her expert makeup. Her eyes were a little wide, staring at my arm. "Vampires did this?" Her voice was small and breathy, almost human.
   "Yes," I said.
   Jamison took her elbow. "Mrs. Franks, I see you've met our resident vampire slayer."
   She looked at him, then back at me. Her careful face was beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me. "Really." She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior again.
   I shrugged. What could I say? I pressed the card into her manicured hand, and Jamison tactfully took it from her and pocketed it. But she had let him. What could I do? Nothing. I had tried. Period. Over. But I stared at her son. His face was incredibly young.
   I remembered when eighteen was grown-up. I had thought I knew everything. I was about twenty-one when I figured out I knew dip-wad. I still knew nothing, but I tried real hard. Sometimes, that is the best you can do. Maybe the best anyone can do. Boy, Miss Cynical in the morning.
   Jamison was ushering them towards the door. I caught a few sentences. "She was trying to kill them. They merely defended themselves."
   Yeah, that's me, hit person for the undead. Scourge of the graveyard. Right. I left Jamison to his half-truths and went into the office. I still needed the files. Life goes on, at least for me. I couldn't stop seeing the boy's face, the wide eyes. His face had been all golden tan, baby smooth. Shouldn't you at least have to shave before you can kill yourself?
   I shook my head as if I could shake the boy's face away. It almost worked. I was kneeling with the folders in my hands when Jamison came in the office. He shut the door behind him. I had thought he might.
   His skin was the color of dark honey, his eyes pale green; long, tight curls framed his face. The hair was almost auburn. Jamison was the first green-eyed, red-haired black man I had ever met. He was slender, lean, not the thinness of exercise but of lucky genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a good party.
   "Don't ever do that again," he said.
   "Do what?" I stood with the files clasped to my chest.
   He shook his head and almost smiled, but it was an angry smile, a flash of small white teeth. "Don't be a smart ass."
   "Sorry," I said.
   "Bullshit, you're not sorry."
   "About trying to give Fields's card to the woman, no. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again."
   "I don't like to be undermined in front of my clients."
   I shrugged.
   "I mean it, Anita. Don't ever do that again."
   I wanted to ask him, or what, but I didn't. "You aren't qualified to counsel people about whether or not they become the undead."
   "Bert thinks I am."
   "Bert would take money for a hit on the Pope if he thought he could get away with it."
   Jamison smiled, then frowned at me, then couldn't help himself and smiled again. "You do have a way with words."
   "Thanks."
   "Don't undermine me with clients, okay?"
   "I promise never to interfere when you are discussing raising the dead."
   "That isn't good enough," he said.
   "It's the best you're going to get. You are not qualified to counsel people. It's wrong."
   "Little Miss Perfect. You murder people for money. You're nothing but a damned assassin."
   I took a deep breath, and let it out. I would not fight with him today. "I execute criminals with the full blessing of the law."
   "Yeah, but you enjoy it. You get your jollies by pounding in the stakes. You can't go a fucking week without bathing in someone's blood."
   I just stared at him. "Do you really believe that?" I asked.
   He wouldn't look at me but finally said, "I don't know."
   "Poor little vampires, poor misunderstood creatures. Right? The one who branded me slaughtered twenty-three people before the courts would give me the go-ahead." I yanked my shirt down to expose the collarbone scar. "This vampire had killed ten people. He specialized in little boys, said their meat was most tender. He's not dead, Jamison. He got away. But he found me last night and threatened my life."
   "You don't understand them."
   "No!" I shoved a finger in his chest. "You don't understand them."
   He glared down at me, nostrils flaring, breath coming in warm gasps. I stepped back. I shouldn't have touched him; that was against the rules. You never touch anyone in a fight unless you want violence.
   "I'm sorry, Jamison." I don't know if he understood what I was apologizing for. He didn't say anything.
   As I walked past him, he asked, "What are the files for?"
   I hesitated, but he knew the files as well as I did. He'd know what was missing. "The vampire murders."
   We turned towards each other at the same moment. Staring. "You took the money?" he asked.
   That stopped me. "You knew about it?"
   He nodded. "Bert tried to get them to hire me in your place. They wouldn't go for it."
   "And after all the good PR you've given them."
   "I told Bert you wouldn't do it. That you wouldn't work for vampires."
   His slightly up-tilted eyes were studying my face, searching, trying to squeeze some truth out. I ignored him, my face a pleasant blankness. "Money talks, Jamison, even to me."
   "You don't give a damn about money."
   "Awful shortsighted of me, isn't it?" I said.
   "I always thought so. You didn't do it for money." A statement. "What was it?"
   I didn't want Jamison in on this. He thought vampires were fanged people. And they were very careful to keep him on the nice, clean fringes. He never got his hands dirty, so he could afford to pretend or ignore, or even lie to himself. I had gotten dirty once too often. Lying to yourself was a good way to die. "Look, Jamison, we don't agree on vampires, but anything that can kill vampires could make meat pies out of human beings. I want to catch the maniac before he, she, or it, does just that."
   It wasn't a bad lie, as lies go. It was even plausible. He blinked at me. Whether he believed me or not would depend on how much he needed to believe me. How much he needed his world to stay safe and clean. He nodded, once, very slowly. "You think you can catch something the master vampires can't catch?"
   "They seem to think so." I opened the door and he followed me out. Maybe he would have asked more questions, maybe not, but a voice interrupted.
   "Anita, are you ready to go?"
   We both turned, and I must have looked as puzzled as Jamison.
   I wasn't meeting anyone.
   There was a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, half-lost in the jungle plants. I didn't recognize him at first. Thick brown hair, cut short, stretched back from a very nice face. Black sunglasses hid the eyes. He turned his head and spoiled the illusion of short hair. A thick ponytail curled over his collar. He was wearing a blue denim jacket with the collar up. A blood-red tank top set off his tan. He stood slowly, smiled, and removed his glasses.
   It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn't recognized him with his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly hidden by the jacket collar. "We need to talk," he said.
   I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent. "Phillip, I didn't expect to see you so soon."
   Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands, enjoying the show.
   The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison. I mumbled. "Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip ... a friend." The moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. "Friend" is what people call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.
   Jamison smiled broadly. "So, you're Anita's ... friend." He said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.
   Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.
   "Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip." I grabbed his arm and began pulling him towards the door.
   "Nice to meet you, Phillip," Jamison said. "I'll be sure to mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I'm sure they'd love to meet you sometime."
   Jamison was really enjoying himself. "We're very busy right now, Jamison. Maybe some other time," I said.
   "Sure, sure," he said.
   Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He grinned at us as we walked down the hallway, arm in arm. Fudge buckets. I had to let the smirking little creep think I had a lover. Good grief. And he would tell everyone. Phillip slid his arm around my waist, and I fought an urge to push him away. We were pretending, right, right. I felt him hesitate as his hand brushed the gun on my belt.
   We met one of the real estate agents in the hall. She said hello to me but stared at Phillip. He smiled at her. When we passed her and were waiting for the elevator, I glanced back. Sure enough, she was watching his backside as we walked away.
   I had to admit it was a nice backside. She caught me looking at her and hurriedly turned away.
   "Defending my honor," Phillip asked.
   I pushed away from him and punched the elevator button. "What are you doing here?"
   "Jean-Claude didn't come back last night. Do you know why?"
   "I didn't do away with him, if that's what you're implying."
   The doors opened. Phillip leaned against them, holding them open with his body and one arm. The smile he flashed me was full of potential, a little evil, a lot of sex. Did I really want to be alone in an elevator with him? Probably not, but I was armed. He, as far as I could tell, was not.
   I walked under his arm without having to duck. The doors hushed behind us. We were alone. He leaned into one comer, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me from behind black lenses.
   "Do you always do that?" I asked.
   A slight smile. "Do what?"
   "Pose."
   He stiffened just a little, then relaxed against the wall. "Natural talent."
   I shook my head. "Uh-huh." I stared at the flickering floor numbers.
   "Is Jean-Claude all right?"
   I glanced at him and didn't know what to say. The elevator stopped. We got out. "You didn't answer me," he said softly.
   I sighed. It was too long a story. "It's almost noon. I'll tell you what I can over lunch."
   He grinned. "Trying to pick me up, Ms. Blake?"
   I smiled before I could stop myself. "You wish."
   "Maybe," he said.
   "Flirtatious little thing, aren't you?"
   "Most women like it."
   "I would like it better if I didn't think you'd flirt with my ninety-year-old grandmother the same way you're flirting with me now."
   He coughed back a laugh. "You don't have a very high opinion of me."
   "I am a very judgmental person. It's one of my faults."
   He laughed again, a nice sound. "Maybe I can hear about the rest of your faults after you've told me where Jean-Claude is."
   "I don't think so."
   "Why not?"
   I stopped just in front of the glass doors that led out into the street. "Because I saw you last night. I know what you are, and I know how you get your kicks."
   His hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. "I get my kicks a lot of different ways."
   I frowned at his hand, and it moved away. "Save it, Phillip. I'm not buying."
   "Maybe by the end of lunch you will be."
   I sighed. I had met men like Phillip before, handsome men who are accustomed to women drooling over them. He wasn't trying to seduce me; he just wanted me to admit that I found him attractive. If I didn't admit it, he would keep pestering me. "I give up; you win."
   "What do I win?" he asked.
   "You're wonderful, you're gorgeous. You are one of the best looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the length of your skin-tight jeans, to the flat, rippling plains of your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful. Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?"
   He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised the glasses back in place. "You pick the restaurant." He said it flat, no teasing.
   I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.

19
   The heat outside the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that melded to your skin like plastic wrap. "You're going to melt wearing that jacket," I said.
   "Most people object to the scars."
   I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other skin. "I won't tell if you won't."
   He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn't read his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those big brown eyes. His voice was soft. "Is that your only bite scar?"
   "No," I said.
   His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he'd had a jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders, along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by a bandage.
   "I can put the jacket back on," he said.
   I had been staring at him. "No, it's just ... "
   "What?"
   "It's none of my business."
   "Ask anyway."
   "Why do you do what you do?"
   He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. "That is a very personal question."
   "You did say ask anyway." I glanced across the street. "I usually go to Mabel's, but we might be seen."
   "Ashamed of me?" His voice held a harsh edge to it, like sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were clenched.
   "It isn't that," I said. "You are the one who came into the office, pretending to be my 'friend'. If we go some place I'm known, we'll have to continue the charade."
   "There are women who would pay to have me escort them."
   "I know, I saw them last night at the club."
   "True, but the point is still that you're ashamed to be seen with me. Because of this." His hand touched his neck, tentatively, delicate as a bird.
   I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That didn't bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn't Phillip's feelings but the principle of the thing. "Let's go."
   "Where to?"
   "To Mabel's."
   "Thank you," he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy. That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.
   It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had seen Phillip's idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.
   Mabel's is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders. On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.
   Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform didn't fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.
   "Hi, Beatrice." And without waiting to be asked, "This is Phillip."
   "Hi, Phillip," she said.
   He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I hadn't known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did it matter to her?
   It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major accomplishment.
   "What has happened to Jean-Claude?" he asked.
   "One more minute." I said grace over my food. He was staring at me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and the punishment.
   He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring over my head, at nothing that I could see. "Phillip?" I asked.
   He shook his head and looked at me. "She could kill him."
   "I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you know what that would be?"
   He nodded, voice soft, saying, "She traps them in coffins and uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy."
   I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind. What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke didn't help much.
   "What are you going to do?" he asked.
   I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders. The first victim, one Maurice-no last name, had lived with a woman named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. "Cohabited" sounded better than "shacked up."
   "I'll talk to friends and lovers of the dead vampires."
   "I might know the names."
   I stared at him, debating. I didn't want to share information with him because I knew good of Phillip was the daytime eyes and ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn't have time to wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better get.
   "Rebecca Miles," I said.
   "I know her. She was Maurice's property." He shrugged an apology at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he meant by it. "Where do we go first?" he asked.
   "Nowhere. I don't want a civilian along while I work."
   "I might be able to help."
   "No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that isn't enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?"
   "No gun, but I can handle myself."
   I doubted that. Most people don't react well to violence. It freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body hesitates, the mind doesn't understand. Those few seconds can get you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice. Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy. Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I didn't need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed information from people who wouldn't want to talk to me. They might talk to Phillip.
   I didn't expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I've been wrong before but ... If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm in it. As long as he didn't flash that smile at the wrong time and get molested by nuns, we would be safe.
   "If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?" I asked.
   "Oh," he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. "I don't know."
   Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. "Then I'd rather you didn't come."
   "How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?"
   It sounded ridiculous even to me. "I don't know."
   He smiled. "Then it's settled. I'll come along and help calm the waters."
   "I didn't agree to that."
   "You didn't say no, either."
   He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with Bert. "Let's go," I said.
   We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.

20
   Rebecca Miles lived in South City's Dogtown. The streets were all named for states: Texas, Mississippi, Indiana. The building was blind, most of the windows boarded up. The grass was tall as an elephant's eye, but not half so beautiful. A block over were expensive rehabs full of yuppies and politicians. There were no yuppies on Rebecca's block.
   Her apartment was on a long, narrow corridor. There was no air conditioning in the hallway, and the heat was like chest-high fur, thick and warm. One dim light bulb gleamed over the threadbare carpeting. In places the off-green walls were patched with white plaster, but it was clean. The smell of pine-scented Lysol was thick and almost nauseating in the small, dark hallway. You could probably have eaten off the carpeting if you had wanted to, but you would have gotten fuzzies in your mouth. No amount of Lysol would get rid of carpet fuzzies.
   As we had discussed in the car, Phillip knocked on the door. The idea was that he would calm any misgivings she might have about The Executioner coming into her humble abode. It took fifteen minutes of knocking and waiting before we heard someone moving around behind the door.
   The door opened as far as the chain would allow. I couldn't see who answered the door. A woman's voice, thick with sleep, said, "Phillip, what are you doing here?"
   "Can I come in for a few minutes?" he asked. I couldn't see his face, but I would have bet everything I owned that he was flashing her one of his infamous smiles.
   "Sure; sorry, you woke me up." The door closed, and the chain rattled. The door reopened, wide. I still couldn't see around Phillip. So I guess Rebecca didn't see me either.
   Phillip walked in, and I followed behind him before the door could close. The apartment was ovenlike, a gasping, stranded-fish heat. The darkness should have made it cooler, but instead made it claustrophobic. Sweat trickled down my face.
   Rebecca Miles stood holding onto the door. She was thin, with lifeless dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. High cheekbones clung to the skin of her face. She was nearly overwhelmed by the white robe she wore. Delicate was the phrase, fragile. Small, dark eyes blinked at me. It was dim in the apartment, thick drapes cutting out the light. She had only seen me once, shortly after Maurice's death.
   "Did you bring a friend?" she asked. She shut the door, and we were in near darkness.
   "Yes," Phillip said. "This is Anita Blake ... "
   Her voice came out small and choked. "The Executioner?"
   "Yes, but ...
   She opened her small mouth and shrieked. She threw herself at me, hands clawing and slapping. I braced and covered my face with my forearms. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps, scratches, and flailing arms. I grabbed her wrist and used her own momentum to pull her past me. She stumbled to her knees with a little help. I had her right arm in a joint lock. It puts pressure on the elbow, it hurts, and a little extra push will snap the arm. Most people don't fight well after you break their arm at the elbow.
   I didn't want to break the woman's arm. I didn't want to hurt her at all. There were two bloody scratches on my arm where she had gotten me. I guess I was lucky she hadn't had a gun.
   She tried to move, and I pressed on the arm. I felt her tremble. Her breath was coming in huge gasps. "You can't kill him! You can't! Please, please don't." She started to cry, thin shoulders shaking inside the too-big robe. I stood there, holding her arm, causing her pain.
   I released her arm, slowly, and stepped back out of reach. I hoped she didn't attack again. I didn't want to hurt her, and I didn't want her to hurt me. The scratches were beginning to sting.
   Rebecca Miles wasn't going to try again. She huddled against the door, thin, starved hands locked around her knees. She sobbed, gasping for air, "You ... can't ... kill him. Please!" She started to rock back and forth, hugging herself tight as if she might shatter, like weak glass.
   Jesus, some days I hate my job. "Talk to her, Phillip. Tell her we didn't come here to hurt anyone."
   Phillip knelt beside her. He kept his hands at his sides as he talked to her. I didn't hear what he said. Her shuddering sobs floated after me through a right-hand doorway. It led into the bedroom.
   A coffin sat beside the bed, dark wood, maybe cherry, varnished until it gleamed in the twilit dark. She thought I came to kill her lover. Jesus.
   The bathroom was small and cluttered. I hit the light switch, and the harsh yellow light was not kind. Her makeup was scattered around the cracked sink like casualties. The tub was nearly rotted with rust. I found what I hoped was a clean washrag and ran cold water over it. The water that trickled out was the color of weak coffee. The pipes shuddered and clanked and whined. The water finally ran clear. It felt good on my hands, but I didn't splash any on my neck or face. It would have been cool, but the bathroom was dirty. I couldn't use the water, not if I didn't have to. I looked up as I squeezed the rag out. The mirror was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks. It gave me my face back in broken pieces.
   I didn't look in the mirror again. I walked back past the coffin and hesitated. I had an urge to knock on the smooth wood. Anybody home? I didn't do it. For all I knew, someone might have knocked back.
   Phillip had the woman on the couch. She was leaning against him, boneless, panting, but the crying had almost stopped. She flinched when she saw me. I tried not to look menacing, something I'm good at, and handed the rag to Phillip. "Wipe her face and put it against the back of her neck; it'll help."
   He did what I asked, and she sat there with the damp rag against her neck, staring at me. Her eyes were wide, a lot of white showing. She shivered.
   I found the light switch, and harsh light flooded the room. One look at the room and I wanted to turn the light off again, but I didn't. I thought Rebecca might attack me again if I sat beside her, or maybe she'd have a complete breakdown. Wouldn't that be pretty? The only chair was lopsided and had yellowed stuffing bulging out one side. I decided to stand.
   Phillip looked up at me. His sunglasses were hooked over the front of his tank top. His eyes were wide and careful, as if he didn't want me to know what he was thinking. One tanned arm was wrapped around her shoulders, protective. I felt like a bully.
   "I told her why we are here. I told her you wouldn't hurt Jack."
   "The coffin?" I smiled. I couldn't help it. He was a "Jack in The box."
   "Yes," Phillip said. He stared at me as if grinning were not appropriate.
   It wasn't, so I stopped, but it was something of an effort.
   I nodded. If Rebecca wanted to shack up with vampires, that was her business. It certainly wasn't police business.
   "Go on, Rebecca. She's trying to help us," Phillip said.
   "Why?" she asked.
   It was a good question. I had scared her and made her cry. I answered her question. "The master of the city made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
   She stared at me, studying my face, like she was committing me to memory. "I don't believe you," she said.
   I shrugged. That's what you get for telling the truth. Someone calls you a liar. Most people will accept a likely lie to an unlikely truth. In fact, they prefer it.
   "How could any vampire threaten The Executioner?" she asked.
   I sighed. "I'm not the bogeyman, Rebecca. Have you ever met The master of the city?"
   "No."
   "Then you'll have to trust me. I am scared shitless of the master. Anybody in their right mind would be."
   She still looked unconvinced, but she started talking. Her small, light voice told the same story she'd told the police. Bland and useless as a new-minted penny.
   "Rebecca, I am trying to catch the person, or thing, that killed your boyfriend. Please help me."
   Phillip hugged her. "Tell her what you told me."
   She glanced at him, then back at me. She sucked her lower hp in and scraped it with her upper teeth, thoughtful. She took a deep, shaky breath. "We were at a freak party that night."
   I blinked, then tried to sound reasonably intelligent. "I know a freak is someone who likes vampires. Is a freak party what I think it is?"
   Phillip was the one who nodded. "I go to them a lot." He wouldn't look at me while he said it. "You can have a vampire most any way you want it. And they can have you." He darted a glance at my face, then down again. Maybe he didn't like what he saw.
   I tried to keep my face blank, but I wasn't having much luck. A freak party, dear God. But it was somewhere to start. "Did anything special happen at the party?" I asked.
   She blinked at me, face blank, as if she didn't understand. I tried again. "Did anything out of the ordinary happen at the freak party?" When in doubt, change your vocabulary.
   She stared down into her lap and shook her head. Long, dark hair trailed over her face like a thin curtain.
   "Did Maurice have any enemies that you know of?"
   Rebecca shook her head without even looking up. I glimpsed her eyes through her hair like a frightened rabbit staring out from behind a bush. Did she have more information, or had I used her up? If I pushed she'd break, shatter, and maybe a clue would come spilling out, then again, maybe not. Her hands were tangled in her lap, white-knuckled. They trembled ever so slightly. How badly did I want to know? Not that badly. I let it go. Anita Blake, humanitarian.
   Phillip tucked Rebecca in bed, while I waited in the living room. I half-expected to hear giggling or some sound that said he was working his charm. There was nothing but the quiet murmur of voices and the cool rustle of sheets. When he came out of the bedroom, his face was serious, solemn. He slipped his glasses back on and hit the light switch. The room was a thick, hot darkness. I heard him move in the ovenlike blackness. A rustle of jeans, a scrape of boot. I fumbled for the doorknob, found it, flung it open.
   Pale light spilled in. Phillip was standing, staring at me, eyes hidden. His body was relaxed, easy, but somehow I could feel his hostility. We were no longer playing friends. I wasn't sure if he was angry with me for some reason, or himself, or fate. When you end up with a life like Rebecca's, there should be someone to blame.
   "That could have been me," he said.
   I looked at him. "But it wasn't."
   He spread his arms wide, flexing. "But it could be."
   I didn't know what to say to that. What could I say? There but for the grace of God go you? I doubted God had much to do with Phillip's world.
   Phillip made sure the door locked behind us, then said, "I know at least two other murdered vampires were regulars on the party circuit."
   My stomach tightened, a little flutter of excitement. "Do you think the rest of the ... victims could be freak aficionados?"
   He shrugged. "I can find out." His face was still closed to me, blank. Something had turned off his switch. Maybe it was Rebecca Miles's small, starved hands. I know it hadn't done a lot for me.
   Could I trust him to find out? Would he tell me the truth? Would it endanger him? No answers, just more questions, but at least the questions were getting better. Freak parties. A common thread, a real live clue. Hot dog.