《The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo (Spinoza #1)》


 Page 1

    Her name was Gladys Melbourne and she was crying.


    We were sitting together in my office, with the door closed. Outside, the street sounds came through my partially open window. A particularly loud Harley rumbled by so loudly that the fillings in my teeth nearly rattled out.


    Gladys ignored the Harley. She was looking away and wiping tears from her high cheekbones.


    Women crying in my presence wasn''t something new to me, and so I calmly waited it out. Meanwhile, my natural shyness to people in general prevented me from saying the soothing words she no doubt needed to hear.


    I waited. She buried her face in both hands. I looked at the ceiling and sat back in the chair, and silently wished I could find it within me to say something, anything.


    She continued crying.


    Outside, a street person yelled something. I thought I recognized the voice. I knew most of the street people. When I''m feeling generous, especially when work is steady, I usually gave abundantly to the local homeless.


    A bird squawked outside my window. I was sure it was a crow, although it could have been a raven. I wasn''t sure which was which, although both struck upon some primal fear within me. Perhaps in a past life I had my eyes pecked out by such a bird. A black, soulless, pitiless bird.


    Gladys''s shoulders quaked. A tissue appeared in her hands. She used it to dab her eyes. She looked up at me and I promptly looked away.


    Her breathing was harsh and ragged. She was still not ready to speak.


    On my desk was a closed laptop, a clear plastic cup of half-finished iced coffee, a pen, my car keys and my cell phone. Next to the laptop was a picture of my dead wife and son. As I looked at them, I smelled again their burning flesh. I would never, ever forget the smell, or the image of their blackened bodies. I kept the pictures up on my desk to remind myself that they were so much more than blackened lumps of charred flesh.


    But it never worked. Always, I saw them burning, burning.


    I closed my eyes. The smoke stung them all over again.


    As I rubbed my eyes, I finally remembered the forgotten dream I had had just this morning, the haunting memory of which had been plaguing me all morning. And so now the memory of it came blazing back into my consciousness, awakened by the woman''s heartbreak and the psychosomatic scent of burning flesh....


    I was in a forest with my son, holding his hand. Massive tree trunks punctuated the earth, rising up like magnified hair follicles. A sticky mist lay over the forest and the sound of falling water was nearby. We were heading to the falling water. I sensed our great need for water. For hydration. No, I sensed it for my son''s benefit. He needed the water. Desperately. And now I was recklessly crashing through the forest like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries, dangerously towing my son behind me. I looked down at him but his sweet, angelic face was blank, his lips parched and dry and white. The forest opened into a clearing and there before us was a beautiful waterfall, cascading down through the mist as if falling from heaven itself. And when I looked down again, I saw that I was holding my son''s dead and blackened hand. The water crashed idyllically just a few feet away. I held his scorched hand and sat in the high grass and wept.


    The woman in front of me was breathing normally again. When I came back from the forest, when my wet vision cleared again, I saw that she was watching me curiously. I tried to smile, but smiling never came easy to me.


    "Can I help you?" I asked.


    "Yes," she said. "I need help."


    "I know."


    "I''m sorry for crying."


    She needed encouragement. She needed to know it was okay to cry in my presence, that everything would be okay. I said nothing. I was never very good at small talk. I was never very good at much, and sometimes nothing was okay. Sometimes things crashed around you, and they kept on crashing for years to come.


    "My granddaughter ran away," she said. "Step granddaughter."


    I sat back. I thought the woman was going to cry again, but she held it together. Thank God. Instead, she gazed at me steadily, her wet eyes unwavering.


    She went on, "I was told you specialize in finding the missing. Missing children, in particular."


    I did find them. And sometimes I found them dead. But I did not tell her that. With a runaway, there was still hope.


    "When did your granddaughter run away?" I asked quietly, taking out a notepad and a pen from my top drawer.


    "A week ago. Six days ago, to be exact."


    "Who told you I could help you?"


    "Detective Hammer. He said it wouldn''t hurt to see you. That you had a knack for this sort of thing."


    I did. When it came to finding missing children, one needed to be dogged and relentless. No stone left unturned. Having good instincts helped, too. But the funny thing about instincts was that one never knew when they would kick in. That''s where the dogged and relentless part came in.


    "How old is your granddaughter?" I asked. Always use the present. Never, ever refer to a child in the past tense.


    "Sixteen or seventeen. I''m not really sure. Her birthday is next month."


    My son''s birthday would have been next month, too, but I didn''t say anything about that. There was enough heartache in this room without bringing that up. He would have been thirteen. Instead, he died when he was nine.


    At the thought of my son''s birthday, my breath caught, and I was briefly back in the forest, sitting in the short grass, holding his charred hand as the nearby water bubbled with life.


    Presently, a small breeze made its way through the open window behind me. Los Angeles smelled of exhaust and oil and burned rubber.


    "Has she run away before?" I asked.


    "No."


    "Do you have a photo of her?"


    "Yes."


    She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a manila file. "At Detective Hammer''s suggestion, I put together a package for you. Everything about her is in here, pictures, friends, her likes and dislikes, favorite places to hang out, anything and everything I could think of. There''s even a list of her favorite books. All vampire books."


    I took the proffered file, flipped through it. I got to the list of vampire books. She seemed to prefer one author in particular.


    "Thanks," I said. "This will help a lot."


    Gladys nodded. "I have some more information that might help you, Mr. Spinoza."


    I waited.


    "Her parents were killed three years ago. She''s lived with us off and on ever since."


    She waited, as if expecting a reply. None came. She went on awkwardly. "Yes, well, there''s something else you should know about her. Something that worries me a great deal."


    I waited some more, although I did nod encouragingly.


    She went on, "Veronica is a little...different."


    "Different how?"


    I was imagining a slower child. Perhaps one with autism. Some sort of disability. Gladys was looking increasingly uncomfortable. She took in some air and leveled her stare at me.


    "She sort of lives in her own fantasy world, Mr. Spinoza."


    "What does that mean?"


    "She calls herself a slayer."


    "A slayer?" I said. "As in dragons?"


    "No, as in vampires."


    Gladys blinked slowly, but didn''t look away. I think my mouth might have opened, but no words came out. Finally, I nodded.


    "You mean like in Dungeons & Dragons," I said. "Or that World of Witchcraft, or whatever it''s called. A slayer is like her - what do they call it? - her avatar?"


    Gladys smiled gently. "I''m not sure I understood half of what you just said, Mr. Spinoza, but what I do know is that she really thinks she''s a vampire slayer."


    "Do you have her on any medication?"


    Gladys shook her head. "She won''t see a doctor, and won''t go to school."


    "So she just stays with you?"


    "Yes."


    I thought about that. "How did you meet her, Gladys?"


    "Veronica just...appeared at our house one day. Bloodied and in a horrible mess. She always refused to talk about where she came from or what happened to her. But I later understood her parents had been in a horrible accident."


    I rubbed my temples. If I had known that by putting a simple ad in the Yellow Pages I would be meeting the world''s whackos, I might never have gotten into this business.


    Not true, I suddenly thought. Getting into this business was something I had to do. Needed to do. Looking for the missing was, in fact, the only thing I could do.


    I asked, "Are you on medication, Gladys?"


    "Many," she said, smiling. "But not the kind you''re thinking of. I assure you, Mr. Spinoza, everything I have told you is true."


    "And this girl is sixteen?"


    "Give or take a few years."


    "What does that mean?"


    "She would never tell us her exact age."


    I thought about that. "When she appeared at your house, did you report her to the authorities?"


    "She warned us that if we did, she would run away and we would never see her again."


    "And you didn''t want her to run away."


    "No. It was so...nice having someone in the house with us. Jack is in a wheelchair, you see, and she was always so helpful, even from the beginning."


    "You enjoyed her company," I said.


    "We loved having her around. She was a breath of fresh air, despite...despite her problems."


    "Problems?"


    "You know, typical teenage stuff. Always sad, depressed. Of course, back then we didn''t know why she was so sad and depressed. But later we figured it was about her parents. We didn''t ask her too many questions. She didn''t like questions."


    "And you didn''t want her to run off because you liked her company."


    "We loved her company. We loved her. She was like a real granddaughter to us."


    "Do you have any kids, Gladys?"


    "One. But we do not speak anymore. She disowned us decades ago. All over a fight. One single fight."


    And now she did weep again, although softer than before. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, which squeaked under my considerable weight.


    "Veronica was our last chance to do it right, and she was our gift from God."


    We were silent. Outside my office window, the streets of Los Angeles weren''t silent. I studied Gladys. She seemed sane enough. But I have been fooled before.


    She went on, "Since we didn''t know her exact age, my husband and I agreed that she was at least eighteen, and so we felt comfortable about not reporting her. Of course, we would have preferred to contact the proper authorities, or her parents, but she wasn''t giving us many options. In the end, we wanted her safe and well fed and properly cared for."


    I nodded, wondering if Veronica''s best interests were really being considered. I looked down at my notes. "And Veronica has lived with you for the past three years?"


    "Yes, sometimes."


    "Sometimes? What does that mean?"


    "It means that sometimes she disappears for a few days and nights."


    "Days and nights?"


    "Yes.


    "Where does she go?" I asked, and already I was dreading the answer. My feelings of dread weren''t unfounded.


    "Hunting vampires," said Gladys. She said the words so calmly, so conversationally, so pleasantly, that I nearly burst out laughing. Hearing the words "hunting vampires" come out of this sweet, elderly lady nearly made me question my own sanity.


    Maybe I''m the one going insane.


    "That''s what I get for asking," I said, mostly to myself. Gladys looked at me curiously.


    "Excuse me?" she said.


    I waved off my comment. "Never mind. So when she''s not out hunting vampires, where do you think she really goes? A boyfriend''s house? Parties? Weekend drinking binges in Vegas?"


    Gladys shook her head to all of the above. "No," she said. "I believe she really hunts vampires."


    "Of course you do." I took in some air. I nearly asked her to leave my office. Nearly. "And she''s been missing a week?"


    "Yes."


    "How long does it usually take to hunt a vampire?"


    "Three days, tops."


    "Of course," I said. "So this latest vampire hunt is lasting longer than usual."


    She nodded and reached a shaking hand into her purse, removing a badly wrinkled and very used tissue. Crazy or not, Gladys was a woman in need, and my heart went out to her. It always did. To everyone. I may not always be able to voice my concerns or sympathies, but I did the next best thing. I helped people with my actions. I knew in my heart I would help her. One way or another, I would give this crazy old woman peace of mind.


    "Mr. Spinoza," she said. "Veronica was a gift from God. An angel, if you want to know the truth. What she''s involved in, I don''t know. How she became involved with it, I don''t know, but I love that girl, and I need someone to help me find her."


    I sat back and steepled my fingers in front of me. I had two pending cases sitting on my desk. Both were cheating spouse cases. Oh, joy.


    I had, of course, already made my decision.


    "I will do all I can to help you, Gladys."


    She nodded and smiled and cried, and finally I was able to force myself to stand and walk around the desk, and give the old woman a deep hug.

 Page 2

    I was sitting with Detective Hammer inside a donut shop on Glendale Avenue. Hammer seemed right at home in a donut shop, and I told him as much.


    "Very funny, asshole," he said.


    Hammer and I had been working missing cases together for the past few years, ever since I got into the business and had made finding missing children my specialty. Hammer was a lead detective at the LAPD Missing Persons Unit, and he was damned good at what he did. I happened to have a knack for it, too, and we made a good team.


    We had also become friends, which is a rarity in the private business. Mostly, cops looked at us private dicks as irritants. Not to mention, I rarely, if ever, went out of my way to make friends, which was partly due to extreme shyness, and partly due to my desire to just be left the hell alone. The fewer the people who knew me, the fewer the people who could remind me about what a fuck-up I was.


    Anyway, Detective Hammer and I were sitting in the far corner booth, which gave the detective a good view of the glass door, and the donut case behind me.


    "How come I never get to watch the door?" I asked.


    "Because you''re not a real cop," he said.


    "How do I know you''re really watching?" I asked. "And not just planning your next donut?"


    "Because I''m a highly trained detective in the LAPD. I can do both," he said. "So far, the coast is clear, and I''m thinking I''ll have a maple bar next."


    And he did just that. A moment later, he returned with said donut and a chocolate milk.


    I said, "When you''re done with that, there''s cubes of sugar over there that you can snack on."


    "Maybe," he said, and I wasn''t entirely sure he was joking. "So which case are you working on?"


    I told him about it, although I left out the part about Veronica being a vampire slayer. Which was probably for the best, since I wouldn''t have been able to say it with a straight face, anyway.


    Hammer nodded and took a bite of his donut. "The runaway who''s been living with the old couple."


    I nodded.


    "We put this case on the back burner," he said. "We''ve got more important things to do than look for a runaway who ran away again."


    "Or so it seems."


    "She''ll turn up alive and well, trust me. Probably out on some party boat in Havasu. She''ll come back to the old folks when she''s partied out." He finished his donut and sucked on his fingers. "Anyway, to put the old lady''s mind at ease, I told her to go see you, since you''ve got nothing better to do."


    "That, and I happen to be the best."


    "Maybe, maybe not. There''s a guy here in town who gives you a run for your money. An old guy. Looks a little like Elvis."


    "Lucky bastard."


    "Tell me about it. Anyway, he''s pretty good, too. Maybe better than you."


    "That''s one thing I don''t mind being second best at. Maybe he and I could touch bases sometime."


    "Sure," said Hammer. "I''ll give you his number. Then you and Elvis can solve crimes together - call yourselves Starsky and Hubba-Hubba."


    "When you''re done clowning around," I said, "maybe we can think about finding a missing girl. And I don''t give a shit if you think she''s just another runaway. Even so, runaways find themselves in more shit than anyone. She needs help, no matter."


    "Fine. Quit busting my balls."


    "Did you do any work on this case?"


    "Enough to know that it looks like she skipped town."


    "What else do you know?"


    "That''s it. I told grandma to put together as much information as possible on the girl and to give it to you."


    "She did."


    "Then you now have twice as much info as we''ve got."


    We were quiet. As Hammer was about to bite into his maple bar, his bristly mustache sort of quivered in anticipation.


    "When you eat," I said, "Your cop mustache quivers like a randy mouse."


    "Does it do it in a sexy way or a creepy way?"


    "A disgusting way."


    "Probably why my old lady never sleeps with me." He wiped his mouth. "Did Gladys mention, um, anything else to you?"


    "Maybe," I said.


    "Something, you know, odd?"


    "Maybe."


    He said, "You ask me, she''s off her rocker."


    "Maybe."


    "You got anything else to say other than maybe? And if you say maybe again, I''m going to go ape shit on you."


    I grinned. "She might have mentioned something about the girl being into some weird goth shit."


    "No, it wasn''t weird goth shit," said Hammer. "And might have and maybe is the same fucking word, asshole."


    I grinned again.


    "What did she tell you?" I asked.


    "That the girl was some sort of a vampire slasher."


    "Slayer," I said. "Vampire slayer."


    "Thank you for clearing that fucking up," said Hammer. "Now I can rest well tonight knowing I have it fucking straight."


    "So what does your gut say about this case," I said. In this business, instincts were everything, and we often asked this question to each other.


    Hammer, for the first time in quite a while, looked legitimately perplexed; his mustache even sagged a little. "I''ll admit, it''s weird enough that it''s worth looking into, which is why I sent the old lady your way."


    "That, and because I''m the best."


    He ignored me and went on, ticking points off on his fingers as he spoke, "So, this girl Veronica shows up at the old lady''s door one day, bleeding and hurt, but won''t tell Gladys where she''s from or how old she is, and warns the old lady not to call the cops or she''s gone. The old folks are so desperate for excitement in their pathetic lives that they happily take on this degenerate."


    "Way to look on the bright side," I said.


    "There ain''t no bright side to what I do," he said.


    "I do it, too," I said.


    "But not as good."


    "Go on."


    He said, "So they take this girl in, treat her as if she''s their own for a few years. Meanwhile she disappears every now and then to hunt werewolves."


    "Vampires."


    "Whatever. Look, someone here is clearly nuts."


    "Nuts or not, we have a missing girl, who''s most likely a minor."


    "I still say she''s a runaway. A runaway of a runaway is low priority for a prestigious law enforcement agency like the LAPD."


    "But not for me."


    "Do I really need to answer that?" he said. "Anyway, since you get paid to do this shit, you''re the lucky bastard who gets to look into it further."


    "Yeah," I said. "Lucky me."

 Page 3

    I spent the next two hours in my office poring over the file Gladys had given me. I was on my own with this case. The LAPD had effectively shelved the case, and, quite frankly, I was Gladys''s only hope.


    Perhaps Veronica''s only hope, too.


    No pressure or anything.


    There was a time when I was without hope, too. A pathetic, hopeless drunk. There had also been a time when I couldn''t have been happier. A wonderful marriage. A sweet little son. Within a matter of years, two tragic accidents, and a lot of alcohol later, it was all lost to me. My wife, my son, and my freedom. I had spent a year in prison, sobering up.


    Vehicular manslaughter.


    With that afternoon''s donuts still churning sluggishly in my digestive system, I locked up my office and decided to hit the first name on the list.


    According to Gladys''s notes, the first name was Veronica''s best friend. Gladys didn''t have a number for the girl, but she knew where she worked. She car-hopped at Industrial Burger in Hollywood.


    "Oh, goody," I said to my empty Camry. "More grease."


    I was in luck. And luck is imperative in my business.


    In this case, my luck consisted of catching Veronica''s good friend, Nicole, on the right day at work. According to the manager, (after, of course, I showed him my P.I. license and slipped him a $20 bill), her shift would start in just under an hour.


    Happy that the investigation was off to a good start - not always the case, trust me - I ordered a Diet Coke and sat in my car and waited.


    While I waited, I did some research on my iPhone; in particular, I Googled vampire slayers. I was disheartened to see nearly three million hits came up, most about Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.


    I adjusted my search parameters: vampire slayer -Buffy.


    Better. Only five hundred thousand. So I settled in with my diet soda and spent the next hour or so reading about all things undead and those who hunt them.


    My conclusion after an hour of reading?


    Well, outside of popular literature, no one took vampires or vampire hunting very seriously. There seemed, in fact, to be very little evidence of real vampires anywhere. Outside of a vampire hunting kit on display at the Ripley Museum in Niagara Falls, NY, and the ludicrous incident of the Highgate Vampire Hunt in England, which featured a couple of goofballs running around a cemetery claiming to be hunting vampires, there was remarkably little information about honest-to-God vampire hunters. Unlike ghost hunters, whole groups of which numbered in the tens of thousands around the world.


    So what was I to make of this?


    Apparently, more people saw a need to hunt ghosts than vampires. In fact - a quick Google search later - there were no legitimate vampire hunting groups out there.


    Conclusion: obviously more people believed in ghosts than vampires.


    I sat back in my hot seat and thought about it. So why in the hell would a teenage girl claim to be a vampire slayer?


    I opened Gladys''s file next to me and took out the two blown up pictures I had of Veronica. Included with the two pictures was a hand written note apologizing that these were the only two pictures she had.


    The girl in the picture was not small. In fact, the girl seemed to have grown three or four inches between the two pictures. One featured a defiant-looking young teenager at a BBQ, holding a paper plate overflowing with food. She was looking at the camera with a smoldering look, daring the picture taker to take another shot. Her hair was pitch black, short and completely straight. She was wearing shorts and sandals and a lot of attitude.


    The second picture couldn''t have been more different. Her short hair was now long. Gone was the attitude, now replaced with an underlying confidence. In the picture she was standing with Gladys, her arm around the elderly woman''s shoulders. Veronica had perfect posture, shoulders thrown back, back perfectly straight, easily a half a foot taller than her adopted grandmother. Veronica wasn''t smiling in this picture, either. Most interesting, she seemed like a young lady who was very secure in who she was.


    A rare feat if you ask me.


    She also didn''t look crazy. She wasn''t dressed in the typical goth fashion, either, which I had suspected she would. If anything, she looked like the captain of her high school volleyball team or the center for the basketball team. She radiated calm and poise and great inner strength.


    Again, a rare feat for a girl so young


    Hell, if this girl in the picture told me she was a vampire hunter, I''d almost be inclined to believe it.


    Which brought me back to Gladys. The old lady was looking more and more like she was, as Detective Hammer put it so eloquently, off her rocker.


    It was at that moment, as I sat there perplexed and sweating, that a young lady skated smoothly across the baking pavement and rolled expertly up to my window.


    "Bobby said you wanted to speak with me?" she said.


    Nicole was still in high school. She was fit and athletic and seemed to have this skating thing down pat. I would have killed myself many times over.


    I showed her my P.I. license. "I''ve been hired to find your friend Veronica."


    She leaned down and studied the picture, then looked at me and studied me. She nodded. Apparently, I checked out. Oh, goody.


    "Did Gladys hire you?" she asked.


    "Yes, and please tell me she''s just a crazy old lady whom I shouldn''t take seriously."


    Despite her youth, the girl smiled at me knowingly. "Unfortunately, she''s probably the sanest of us all."


    "I was afraid you''d say that."


    She grinned. "I think we need to talk."


    "I couldn''t agree more."


    "Then you need to order something, or my boss will be all over my ass."


    I said sure and she handed me a menu. I scanned it.


    "You have anything here that won''t give me a heart attack before we''re done talking?"


    "We have side salads."


    "Fine. Then get me two of those with some extra ranch."


    She laughed and rolled away. The waitresses here all wore bright yellow shiny spandex pants that made them look like life-sized gold statues. Perhaps that was fitting here in Oscarland.


    A few minutes later, Nicole returned with only a single salad and one small container of low-calorie vinaigrette. I looked at the meager offerings.


    "This is what you meant to order," she said, setting the containers on the window tray.


    "But I thought the customer was always right," I said.


    "You were right," she said, "until you opened your mouth and ordered."


    I sighed and drizzled the dressing over my salad, and while I dug into my rabbit food, she told me what she knew. She and Veronica were pretty close, as they had been for these past few years. Yeah, Veronica was different. I asked how different, and she asked how much did I know about Veronica? I said I knew enough that Veronica was running around telling people she was a vampire slayer. Nicole opened her mouth to reply but then a car pulled up a few slots down. She told me to hold on and I did, finishing off the rest of the salad. Would have been better with cheese and extra ranch.


    I looked down at my gut. Probably not better for my gut, though. It wasn''t a huge gut, granted, but it was big enough to be on my mind. I worked out when I could, jogging and walking and lifting weights at home, but the gut seemed impervious to my efforts.


    It''s hell hitting 38.


    Nicole skated across the parking lot to turn in the driver''s order. She returned a moment later with another Diet Coke.


    "How did you know I had diet?" I asked.


    "I didn''t."


    "Is my gut that big?" I asked.


    "Big enough."


    "Ouch."


    "Where were we?" she said.


    "You were going to tell me the difference between a vampire hunter and a vampire slayer."


    "There is no difference. But probably slayer is the most accurate."


    "Accurate in what way?" I asked.


    Nicole leaned a hip against my Camry and seemed to consider what to say next. I''m sure the sheet metal was piping hot in the California sun. Maybe her shiny pants were just as hot. Maybe there was going to be some sort of nuclear reaction. Or not.


    "Slayers kill vampires. And that''s what Veronica does. You know, on the side. Not all the time. Mostly, she''s looking for one vampire in particular."


    I stared at her. She stared at me. The sun stared down, too.


    "You''re serious, aren''t you?" I asked.


    "Serious as a heart attack."


    "And Veronica is a vampire slayer?"


    "Yes. Exactly."


    Another car pulled up, but Nicole ignored it. Luckily, another girl wearing flaming yellow pants appeared to take the order. I could feel the sweat dribbling down between my brows. I studied the young girl''s face. A small film of sweat coated her brow and upper lip. Had it been me out there on skates, I would have been a sweating mess, and would have soaked my yellow spandex pants. Probably why they hired girls and not overweight middle-aged men.


    I finally said, "I don''t know what to say."


    "Then maybe you should let this go and walk away."


    "I can''t do that," I said. "A girl is missing."


    "This girl can take care of herself, trust me."


    "I''ll decide that for myself, no offense."


    We sat staring at each other some more. We sweated some more, although her not so much.


    I said, "And why on God''s green earth would she kill vampires?"


    "She has her reasons, apparently."


    I took a breath. If I hadn''t been given good money by a kindly old lady who really seemed to need help, I would have been certain someone was pulling my leg. Hell, I still wasn''t entirely certain someone wasn''t pulling my leg. I exhaled.


    I asked, "How many people has she told this to?"


    "Not many."


    I said, "And you believe her?"


    Nicole looked at me hard, and she suddenly looked ten years older. She bit her lower lip, struggling with something internally. Finally, she said, "I''ve seen her when she...returns."


    "Returns from where?"


    "Doing what she does."


    "Killing vampires?"


    "Yes. She''s...she''s covered in blood. Everything is covered in blood. It''s disgusting."


    I didn''t know what to say. I didn''t know what to think. I did know that I wanted something a lot stronger than a Diet Coke. I drummed my fingers on my steering. I thought some more, then decided to try a different angle.


    "When was the last time you saw Veronica?"


    "A week ago. We were shopping together."


    "What was the last thing you two discussed?"


    "That she was going on the biggest hunt of her life."


    Deep breaths, I thought.


    "And where would that be?" I asked.


    Nicole smiled at me as another car pulled up. And as the car pulled up, I heard her boss bellow at her to get moving.


    "She wouldn''t tell me," said Nicole. "She never does. Says it''s safer that way. Okay, I gotta go."


    "She''s been missing a week," I said. "Aren''t you worried about her?"


    Nicole looked back and grinned mischievously. I almost didn''t see her grin due to the sun reflecting brightly off her yellow spandex pants and searing my retinas.


    "It''s the vampire that needs to be worried," she said, and turned and quickly skated away.

 Page 4

    I was with my new girlfriend, Roxi.


    We were sitting at a French bistro called French Quarters sharing an angel hair carbonara. My new girlfriend wasn''t quite sure what to make of me. I was a mess, and she knew it. Why she was sticking it out, I wasn''t sure, but I had decided not to delve too deeply into that line of inquiry. Better to let sleeping bears lie. Instead, we were talking about Veronica.


    "And no one knows her age?" asked Roxi.


    "Anywhere from fifteen to seventeen."


    "And she just appears one day out of the blue?"


    "Yes, at the old folks'' home."


    Roxi slurped some noodles. "And she claims to be a vampire hunter?"


    "Slayer." I corrected. "Hunters don''t necessarily slay."


    "So she''s delusional."


    "There are more things in heaven and earth, Roxi, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," I quoted.


    "Are you saying vampires are real?"


    "Actually, I was just playing the devil''s advocate. I''m with you. It''s all nuts."


    "But this friend believed her."


    "Like attracts like," I said. "Batshit attracts batshit."


    "Did her check clear?"


    "It did. I deposited it immediately."


    Roxi bit her lip. She was younger than me by six years. She was also Irish, and had the world''s cutest accent. Unlike me, she did not have a gut and kept herself in fairly good shape. She was a struggling screenwriter, hustling her way through Hollywood. Presently, she earned her money doing freelance editing work for other writers. She hated it.


    "I don''t get it," she said, sitting back.


    "I''m not hired to get it," I said. "I''m hired to find a missing girl, and that I do get."


    "How long has she lived with the old folks?"


    "Nearly three years."


    "And this is the longest she''s been gone?"


    "Apparently."


    I had only recently started dating Roxi, and already I was loving how she threw herself into my cases, and made them practically her own. She was proving to be an excellent sounding board.


    She drank some more red wine. I watched her drink with a mixture of envy and horror. I hadn''t touched alcohol in a few years, but that didn''t mean I didn''t want to.


    Be strong. My daily mantra.


    I said, "Her friend, of course, doesn''t think she''s missing. Her friend thinks she''s hunting a vampire."


    "This is nuts."


    "I don''t choose the cases," I said. "They choose me."


    "So what are you going to do?"


    "Find her. Get her real story. Convince her to come home."


    "Even is she doesn''t have a real home?"


    "The old folks take care of her," I said. "That''s home enough."


    "Will you call the police?"


    "Depends on the answers she gives me. Depends on the state I find her in. Depends on who I find her with."


    "Fair enough. But that if she''s even alive."


    "True."


    "So what''s your next step, Mr. Private Dick?"


    "No clue."


    Outside, I kissed Roxi lightly on her cheek and helped her into her car. She asked when she would see me again, and I told her I didn''t know. She hadn''t known me long, but already she knew that in a missing person case, time was of the essence. She took my hand and squeezed it and told me to be careful. We were not quite to the "I love you" phase of our relationship, but I sensed her love for me. I told her to go write the hell out of her new screenplay and she smiled and drove off.


    It was late.


    I was sitting in my car, studying the file Gladys had given me, going over the list of acquaintances. Unfortunately, Gladys had only known the first names of Veronica''s friends. So prior to leaving Industrial Burgers, I had called Nicole one last time and asked her if she had recognized any of the other names on the list. She had, one of them. Roy, the only male on the list, was a bartender at a dive in Hollywood called Coffins.


    A goth bar.


    Sitting in my car I sighed and Googled Coffins on my iPhone. A moment later, I was heading off into the night to my first vampire bar.


    Lucky me.


    Coffins was dark and gloomy. Go figure.


    I surveyed the place from the front door. It was a Wednesday evening and Coffins was about half empty. Maybe all the vampires were still asleep.


    The walnut paneling was empty of pictures or any references to the undead. Thank God. There were, however, three or four coffins arranged around the room. Coffee tables. Cute. And weird.


    Sometimes I was amazed at where my job took me. Three weeks ago, a twisted trail of clues had led me to Jamaica, where I had helped rescue a kidnapped child.


    Tonight, they led me to Dracula''s lair.


    I had never planned on being a private investigator. In fact, I was perfectly content working as an insurance claims investigator. As a claims investigator I had worked with a few private eyes. Admittedly, I had always been intrigued by P.I.''s. They were a small group of men and women who lived outside the norm, working for themselves, their own man, so to speak. The lone wolves of our day. Helping people, following people, finding people, catching people. The profession itself was as honorable as one wanted it to be, or as sleazy.


    Just like in life.


    After the death of my son, I re-evaluated my entire life. I came to two conclusions. The first was obvious: I had to give up drinking. The second wasn''t so obvious. After a lot of soul searching, I realized that although I couldn''t bring back my sweet baby boy, I could help bring back other children. Missing children.


    In insurance claims, I always had a knack for finding witnesses, for seeing through the lies, for massaging random information into meaningful clues.


    It was a gift, and I would use it to help find the missing.


    I could never bring back my baby boy, but I could bring back other baby boys. Baby boys and girls. And teens. And even adults. I found them all. One way or another, I brought them home. Doggedly, relentlessly, whatever it took.


    Veronica, in my mind was no different. A lot weirder, granted, but no different. She was missing, and I had been hired to find her, and goddammit, I was going to find her.


    I didn''t pick my cases. They picked me.


    I stepped over to the bar while a few sets of eyes followed me from the dark sofas scattered around the coffins. The bar top was also shaped like a very long coffin.


    When the bartender came over to me, I rested my hands on the coffin-lid bar top, and said, "I''m sorry, I seem to be lost. I''m looking for a place called Coffins?"


    "Very funny, wise guy. What can I get you?"


    "The smooth, sweeping neck of a fair maiden."


    "No fair maidens here, and the blood is in the back."


    "I hope to God you''re kidding," I said.


    The tall bartender studied me, and then cracked a smile. "Of course." he said. "What can I really get you?"


    "Tonic water and a guy named Roy."


    He nodded and reached under the counter, rummaged around, and came up with a bottle of tonic water, opened it, and put it in front of me.


    "Here''s your water and what can I do for you?"


    "You Roy?"


    "Yup."


    Roy was younger than me, and a lot more handsome. He had dark brown eyes and dark brown eyebrows and dark brown hair. I sensed a pattern.


    "I''m looking for a girl," I said.


    "Ain''t we all."


    "Her name is Veronica."


    Roy''s dark brown eyebrows narrowed so dramatically that they came to together to form one long dark brown unibrow. He looked around. I watched him as he looked around. We were alone at this end of the coffin-shaped counter.


    "What about her?" he asked.


    I showed him my P.I. license. He squinted at it.


    I said, "I''ve been hired by the old lady she lives with to find her."


    "Gladys," he said.


    I nodded. "That would be her."


    "Gladys worries too much."


    "Nothing wrong with that, when you''re dealing with a kid."


    "Veronica''s no kid."


    "Oh, yeah? How old is she?"


    "No idea, but, trust me, she ain''t no kid."


    "Fine," I said. "Kid or not, I''ve been hired to find her, and that''s exactly what I''m going to do."


    Roy placed two extremely large hands on the bar counter. His thick eyebrows were still pressed together like a fat, hairy sausage.


    "This is none of your concern," he said.


    "What''s none of my concern?"


    Roy, who had seemed good-natured and willing to laugh at my stupid joke earlier, suddenly seemed not-so-friendly.


    "Veronica''s fine. She''s just...busy."


    "Slaying vampires?"


    He squinted at me, and seemed about to shush me, but there was really no one close enough to us to hear. Besides, the thumping techno-music in the background would have drowned out our words.


    "This is none of your concern," he said again.


    "I heard you the first time," I said. "Except I''ve already deposited a check from a very concerned woman who hired me to make it my business."


    He leaned forward, placing more weight on those big hands. I think the gesture was meant to be intimidating. "You have no idea what you''ve gotten yourself into, bro. Would be safer for you to return that check."


    There was a creaking sound from behind me. Maybe one of the caskets was opening. Eager to see a reallive vampire, I turned and looked. Nope, just two goth-looking, pale-faced girls stepping into the bar. They didn''t look happy. They seldom did.


    I looked back at Roy, and as I did so, I grabbed both of his wrists and pulled. He fell forward in a blink, hitting the counter hard, his forehead bouncing off the scarred wood casket lid. A chair scraped behind me.


    I ignored whoever was behind me, but I didn''t ignore Roy, whose face was now just inches from mine. I still held him by his wrists. "You know something about a missing girl, Roy. And that makes you a person of extreme interest to me. Tell me what you fucking know or I''m going to bring some unholy hell down upon you and your fucking weird bar. Bro."


    "Okay, man. Okay. Take it easy."


    "What the fuck is going on around here, Roy?"


    "Just let me go and I''ll tell you."


    I released his wrists slowly and he stood. There was a shiner already forming on his forehead. I glanced around me. Two guys were standing behind me. Thin guys. Dark hair. Pale faces. Both wearing white, untucked, long-sleeved shirts. They looked like Dracula''s minions. Or his house boys.


    "Beat it," I said to them.


    They didn''t move. From behind the counter, Roy said, "It''s okay, guys, we''re cool."


    The two dumbasses shuffled off.


    I looked at Roy. His hair was disheveled. So were his bushy eyebrows, which had somehow gotten tweaked when his forehead had done its best impression of a basketball.


    I said to him, "We''re very much not cool until you tell me what the fuck is going on around here."


    Roy nodded and motioned to one of the whip-thin punks. "Watch the bar, man. I''ll be back in a few."


    Roy nodded toward me.


    "Follow me," he said.

 Page 5

    We were sitting in a backroom, in an unused part of the bar that might have been used to host parties or wedding receptions or even blood lettings. Roy and I were alone.


    He asked if I wanted a drink and I held up my tonic water. I was fine, although I''d had booze on the mind throughout the day. Booze on my mind was not a good thing.


    Let it go, I thought. And I did. It was, after all, easy to let it go. All I had to do was think of my dead son.


    "Veronica is not like other girls," Roy began. His shiner was now more than a shiner. It looked like a science experiment gone bad.


    "I''m getting that impression," I said.


    Roy was sitting in a black leather sofa, one arm draped over the camel hump back. His legs were crossed. I noticed red marks around his wrists where I had pinned him down. I think he was making a concertive effort not to rub them in front of me. Probably didn''t think it would look cool to rub them.


    He asked, "How much did the old lady tell you about Veronica''s parents?"


    "That they had been killed in a car accident."


    Roy nodded. He unconsciously reached for his wrists but stop himself. He said, "That''s only partially true. They were found in a car, burned to death."


    "Go on."


    "Veronica would kill me for telling you this, but I have a feeling you''re not going to go away unless you know the truth."


    "Good thinking."


    I might have a gut, I might be a royal mess, and I might be a recovering alcoholic with serious issues, but I could fight my way out of anywhere, and I was packing heat, too. There were very few things that made my blood run cold, and Slim Jim here with his crazy eyebrows wasn''t one of them.


    He said, "They were having a picnic in Echo Park, near Dodger Stadium. It had been late. Too late, obviously. The way Veronica describes it, a man suddenly appeared. A man with a long, winding dragon tattoo up and down his right arm. Veronica, who had been throwing away their garbage and was off on a side trail, had heard screaming and shouting. She ran toward her parents and watched just as the man was in the process of tearing out her father''s throat, like a fucking lion. He did the same to Veronica''s mother. Both attacks happened within seconds. Veronica didn''t even have time to scream, which was probably a good thing. She would have been next."


    Roy fished a cigarette out of his pocket. "You mind?"


    "Kill yourself all you want," I said.


    He grinned weakly and lit up. He exhaled a long, slightly erratic plume.


    He went on. "Her parents were dead instantly. I have no clue what she must have felt watching this animal attacking her parents, but it must have been horrible. Worse, she watched from the woods as he huddled over both bodies, drinking deeply from them. Sometimes he would look up, glance around, sniff the air, and then bury his face back into their torn necks."


    Roy shook his head some more, and I wondered idly what drugs the man was on. Probably one or two, although he didn''t seem high. Still, he seemed skittish as hell. Paranoia? Good old-fashioned weed? Or was he just scared of me?


    He went on, "And what the man did next is really no surprise. She watched from the woods as he proceeded to drag her parents across a grassy area to their nearby car. He then used their lighter fluid to set fire to the car and the immediate area.


    "Veronica had scrambled away, higher into the hills, in shock and horror, no doubt. She told me the last thing she saw was her parents'' bodies blackening in the burning car."


    Roy finished the cigarette and seemed to debate having another. Apparently, he decided against it. He went on, "In twenty minutes, this girl went from having a normal life with happy, loving parents, to watching their corpses burn into charcoal."


    He stopped talking and his words hung in the air. The room smelled now of cigarette smoke. It had smelled of something else, too. Something coppery. And if I had to guess, I would say the smell was blood. Old blood.


    But that could have just been my imagination.


    "Who else have you told this story to?" I asked.


    "No one, you''re the first. Well, the first outside our group of friends."


    "I''m honored," I said. "So how long did it take you to make up that bullshit?"


    Roy''s eyebrows knitted together irritably, the unibrow making its grand re-reappearance. "It''s the truth, man."


    "Fine. When did this happen?"


    "Three years ago," he said.


    "I''m going to look this story up, Roy. Something like this would have made the news, and if I discover you''ve been lying to me, or have played any part in Veronica''s disappearance, I''m coming back for you."


    His eyes never wavered. "Look it up, man. Three years ago. Echo Park."


    "Fine. Where is she now?"


    He looked down. Always a sign of deception.


    "Tell me, motherfucker."


    "Look. I don''t know, okay? All I know was that she wasn''t...successful down here, and so she''s up north."


    "What the unholy fuck does that mean?"


    Ron looked truly agonized. I knew this because his unibrow was arched halfway up his forehead. "Look. She''s meeting with someone."


    I didn''t like his answer, mostly because I knew it was bullshit. I hit Roy hard with the back of my hand. It''s amazing how much kinetic energy you can generate with a simple backhand swing. Roy felt it. He stumbled backward and yelped.


    "Jesus, what the fuck was that for?"


    "What''s she doing up north?"


    "Look, I don''t - "


    I didn''t like the beginning of that answer, either, and my other hand shot out, low. It caught him in the gut and he doubled over. I grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him up to face me. His nose was trickling blood. He was gasping hard as if he had just run a marathon and it took all my willpower not to slap him again just because I hated his stupid eyebrow.


    "Talk. No lies. Or this starts going very badly for you."


    He gasped, sucking wind. I could feel his heartbeat reverberating up through his hair.


    "Look, she''s...she''s searching for the thing that killed her parents." Suck, gasp. "He''s somewhere up north."


    "Who is he? What''s his name?"


    "I don''t know. She never tells us anything. She only drops, you know, clues. Says it''s better that we don''t know anything."


    His words jived with Nicole''s. They also had the ring of truth. I always listen for the ring of truth. It''s there, if you know how to find it. I let him go, and he collapsed in a big velvet chair. He looked defeated and fucked up. Good.


    "And how did you meet Veronica?" I asked.


    He smiled weakly. "Anyone looking for vampires eventually ends up here," he said, spreading his arms.


    "Do you have any clue how fucking lame that sounds?"


    "Do you have any clue what you''re talking about?" he countered, and wiped his bleeding mouth and stared down at the blood on his hand. The word longingly came to mind.


    "And what do people do in here?" I asked, motioning to this back room.


    Roy licked his hand.


    "Anything they want, man."


    I stood, sickened.


    "You''ll be seeing me," I said, and left.


    I was sitting in a Starbucks a few streets away.


    Adrenalin was still pumping through me. I still felt a strong desire to kick someone''s ass. The name Roy popped into my mind. Maybe later.


    I had no clue what was going on, and that was the frustrating part. I''ve been frustrated on cases before, trust me, but this one was taking the cake.


    Seriously, what the fuck was going on?


    Sipping on a latte of some sort and eating a scone of some sort, I waited while my laptop fired up. Starbucks was mostly empty. No surprise there since it was coming on to midnight. My hands were still shaking a little. Adrenalin does that to you. Sometimes it takes me a little while to come down from my ass-kicking high.


    Finally online, I did a quick Google search and came up with nothing. I sensed a very thorough beating in Roy''s immediate future. If that weird, blood-sucking asshole lied to me....


    A few tries later, after trying different keywords, I came upon the article I wanted. For now, Roy was spared.


    The article was in the L.A. Times. There had, indeed, been a car fire in Echo Park, one that had burned nearly half the hillside. Two charred bodies had been found inside a Cadillac. No indication of foul play, and no mention of the daughter who had witnessed the attack. The article gave the couple''s names: Jeremy and Tonya Fortune.


    I quickly accessed my various data mining websites, proprietary sites available only to licensed private investigators, and found them soon enough. Jeremy and Tonya Fortune out of Reseda, California. The valley. About an hour north of Los Angeles. It had to be them because all their personal information abruptly stopped three years ago. I even verified the Cadillac.


    I dug deeper.


    Jeremy and Tonya Fortune had one daughter. Valerie Fortune.


    Valerie? Veronica?


    It was her, I knew it. Why she had changed her name, I didn''t know. Just as I didn''t know why she had not come forward to report her parents'' murder.


    Maybe she feared no one would believe her.


    Believe what? That a vampire killed her parents? If so, then she was right. No one would have believed her.


    I checked her date of birth, then did the math. Valerie - or Veronica - was indeed seventeen. Which put her at fourteen at the time of her parents'' death.


    So what did I have here?


    Two dead bodies, and a girl who witnessed something. What she witnessed, exactly, I didn''t know. But a car with her parents inside didn''t just go up in flames on its own.


    I sat back and drummed my fingers on the table. Veronica''s story was credible. But it was hearsay. I needed to talk to the source.


    I needed to find Veronica. Or Valerie.


    I packed up my laptop, polished off the latte thingy, and decided to start fresh in the morning.


    After all, I had had enough of vampires for one night.


    Hell, for a lifetime.

 Page 6

    We were in bed together.


    Roxi had wanted to make love, and I had just wanted to talk. I know, lame. Of course, all it took were a few seconds of persuasion and I soon saw her side of things.


    Now, panting and sweating and feeling as if I might very well have a heart attack, I turned on my side and looked at her. Roxi was lying on her back, panting a little herself. Her skin glowed softly from the ambient light coming in through the partially open blinds.


    I said, "There''s something screwy going on here."


    "There was a lot of screwy going on here, babe."


    "Of the investigative kind."


    She told me to tell her about it and I did. I had never felt that sense of shyness with Roxi. Ever. It''s one of the reasons why I thought we might just have a chance of making it. I caught Roxi up to date on the case. As always, she had listened with complete attentiveness. Another reason I was falling in love with her. That, and she always called my big stomach a "donut". You gotta love that.


    When I was finished, Roxi said, "Lots of people are talking about vampires here, but no one''s talking about a girl who is no doubt seriously delusional."


    "Or perhaps somehow suffering from the traumatic and horrific events of the night her parents were killed."


    "Perhaps Veronica had been hurt, too. Didn''t Gladys tell you she showed up at her door bloodied and bruised?"


    I said, "But the cuts and bruises could have just as easily been from running through the wooded park at night."


    "Fine. So let''s say she witnessed something horrific happen to her parents," said Roxi. She crossed her hands behind her head and stared up. "Why is she going around telling people it had been a vampire attack?"


    "Maybe what happened to her parents was too horrible to deal with, especially for a fourteen-year-old girl," I said. "And to make sense of it she replaced the reality with something fantastical."


    Roxi nodded, somehow following my logic. "With something that did make sense to a fourteen-year-old girl."


    "But vampires?" I asked.


    "Who knows. They''re everywhere these days. Not to mention we don''t know the depth of her psychosis."


    We were quiet for a few minutes. Outside her apartment I heard a lot of street noise. But the noise was steady, soothing. I felt my eyes growing heavy.


    I said after a while, "So now she''s hunting vampires."


    "Or what she thinks are vampires."


    "And somehow convinces a few fanatics that she''s a vampire slayer."


    "Wish fulfillment," said Roxi. "These are vampire lovers, and now they have a girl in their midst who claims to not only have seen one kill her parents, but to hunt them as well. She''s practically their hero."


    "Much like I''m your hero?"


    She rubbed my donut. "Something like that."


    "So, if we can agree that there''s no real vampires, then what the hell is she hunting?"


    "That," said Roxi, rolling over and kissing me lightly on the cheek, "is the million-dollar question."


    I woke up, gasping and weeping.


    My son again. Same mad dash through the forest. The smell of burning flesh. The tormenting sound of running water. His blackened hand.


    Jesus.


    The mad dash through the forest was only in my dreams, of course. The reality had been far different. Twisted car metal, the smell of gasoline, people screaming, my son trapped...reaching for me. A fire under the hood, spreading rapidly. Myself half-unconscious, but too drunk to help my own son....


    Sweet, sweet Jesus.


    I wept some more, quietly, so as not to disturb Roxi, who slept contently on her side. A few minutes of this later, I realized grimly that Veronica and I were not so different. After all, we had both seen loved ones burning....


    Burning....


    Oh, God.


    We have something in common, I thought. Something two people should never, ever have in common.


    And as I sat there in bed, with fresh tears on my cheeks and complete hopelessness in my heart, I suddenly remembered something Roy had told me. Something that hadn''t made sense at the time.


    "Her first attempt failed."


    I focused my thoughts, tearing them way my son. So what the hell had Roy meant by that? And now Veronica was apparently up north. How far up north? And what attempt had failed? Had she tried to kill a vampire and the attempt failed? Was she following a vampire north, somehow?


    I got quietly out of bed and padded into the kitchen. There, I opened my laptop, fired it up, and soon I was online, jacking into Roxi''s wireless network.


    I didn''t know what I was looking for. I didn''t even know what to Google. Hell, I had the complete World Wide Web at my fingertips, and I didn''t even know where to begin.


    And so I tried random phrases:


    Vampires. Seattle.


    Oh, sweet Jesus. That turned up more than I bargained for. Apparently, this was Twilight country. If Veronica was up there, then any information I had hoped to garner was lost to me. Still, I waded doggedly through fifty or so pages, but nothing stood out.


    I tried Washington, vampires. I told Google to remove any mention of the word Twilight or Stephenie Meyer. Good, better. Not quite so many hits, and many of these pages were new to me. Still, after about a half hour of searching, nothing stood out. I moved on.


    Portland, vampires.


    I scanned and scanned. Same shit. This was feeling like a big waste of time. Needle in a haystack came to mind. I predicted that a serious beating was in Roy the bartender''s immediate future. He wasn''t telling me something, and I was going to kick the shit out of him until he gave it up.


    I typed in: San Francisco, vampires.


    And on about the tenth page, something turned up. An article from the San Francisco Chronicle about a book signing taking place tomorrow. A popular vampire author. Not necessarily the break I was looking for, since I had by now come across a shitload of articles about vampire writers. But it was the title of the article that caught my eye.


    "Security Beefed Up For Popular Vampire Author"


    Oh? I read on. The author, James P. Storm, had apparently been attacked by a fan four days earlier at the Glendale Barnes & Noble. According to the article, his assailant had been wielding a silver stake. The article went on to state that the attacker had escaped, and because of this, security had been heightened at all of Storm''s signings.


    With my heart now pounding steadily in my chest, I scrolled down and found a picture of Mr. Storm signing books. He was smiling at one such fan as he handed back a book. The man''s skin was unusually tan. Almost golden. Hell, he practically glowed. But there was something else. Although he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, something seemed to be reaching down to partially cover the back of his hand. A tattoo.


    I right-clicked and saved the picture. I next uploaded it into my photo viewer. Blew it up twice as big.


    Indeed, it was a dark tattoo, but the picture was too pixelated to tell for sure what it was. But if I had to guess, I would say that I was looking at something that looked like a claw.


    A dragon''s claw?


    As I stared at the picture, completely and utterly fascinated, I found myself wondering if I was looking at an actual vampire....

 Page 7

    It was early. Too early for someone who''s his own boss. But if I wanted to make it to San Francisco with plenty of time to spare by the 2:00 p.m. book signing at Borders, well, I had to get moving.


    Roxi had barely stirred when I got up to dress. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I would be back tomorrow. She murmured that she loved me, which was news to me.


    I smiled down at her and told her I loved her, too, but I think she was already asleep.


    Now I was on the road with a Starbucks mocha between my legs and a belly full of scone. What the hell is a scone, anyway? I''ll Google it later.


    The sun was rising to my right, in the east, as I headed steadily up the 5 Freeway. Or, as my friends in San Fran call it, 5 Freeway, minus the article the.


    San Franciscans are weird.


    Cool, but weird.


    So I was heading up the 5 Freeway, listening to the wind whistle across my partially open window, and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.


    Maybe I should have listened to Roy.


    Maybe I should have laid off the case. After all, wasn''t Veronica, or Valerie, nearly an adult now? Hell, hadn''t she basically been on her own since witnessing her parents'' murder three years ago.


    Yes, and yes, but one thing shouldn''t be forgotten here: More than likely Veronica was delusional. More than likely she had erroneously pitted the blame on an innocent writer of vampire fiction. And if she had attacked him with a fucking silver stake, well, she was still a threat to the man.


    For his safety, she needed to be stopped.


    For her mental health and her own safety, she needed to be stopped.


    And I was just the guy to do it?


    Apparently so. After all, I didn''t pick the cases, they picked me.


    As the sun came out in full force, I dropped my shades and headed steadily north.


    On the 5 Freeway.


    I called Detective Hammer of the LAPD Missing Persons Division. He picked up on the fourth ring.


    "So I''m a fourth-ring friend now?" I asked.


    "Since when were you a first-, second-, or even a third-ring friend?"


    "Now that''s just mean."


    "I happen to be a busy man, Spinoza. You''re lucky I picked up at all. Now what the hell do you want? I''ve got a mother waiting outside my office who hasn''t seen her seven-year-old in five hours."


    My own stomach plummeted at the thought and my heart went out to her. I made a mental note to check up on her and offer my services. I said, "I need you to put me in contact with a buddy of yours on the San Francisco PD."


    "You think just because I''m with LAPD that I have friends around the country?"


    I waited.


    "Okay, you''re right. I don''t have time to fuck with you. What''s this about?"


    "Our friend the vampire slayer."


    "Talk to me. Fast."


    I quickly caught him up to speed. When I was finished, Detective Hammer whistled lightly. "Yeah, a real nut job. Here''s a name and number. Detective Sparks. A good man." He gave me his number and added, "So this guy really writes vampire novels?"


    "Yes, apparently."


    "Aren''t most vampire novels about teenage girls running around and, you know, acting retarded?"


    "I wouldn''t know," I said. "But you seem to be some sort of expert."


    He said something derogatory about me and my hygiene, reminded me once again that I was nothing more than a glorified mall cop, and hung up.


    I called Detective Sparks with the SFPD and caught him up to speed. I did my best not to mention the words "vampire slayer" until the very end. And when I finally did - because I inevitably had to - I could practically see the detective''s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I had never met Sparks or heard of him, but I had a mental image of a man shaking his head and his eyes rolling up.


    "Vampire slayer?" he said.


    "Yes," I said.


    "As in, you know, vampires?"


    "Yes."


    "Okay, now I''ve heard everything."


    "Sadly, now you have."


    "And you have a picture of this girl?"


    "Yes."


    "Good. Swing it by the station and we''ll give it to our guys."


    "See you then."


    We hung up, and I continued driving north through the heart of California, past acres and acres of farmland. I had heard once that California farms fed most of the world. Out here, driving up this empty stretch of highway, it was easy to believe.


    And as I sat back and dug in for the rest of the drive, I idly considered the possibility that perhaps Veronica had really witnessed her parents being killed by a vampire.


    Now I almost regretted not working the cheating spouse cases. Almost. No matter what, Veronica was a minor and she needed help.


    One way or another, I was going to help her.


    Four hours later, and using my GPS navigation to direct me through the busy streets of San Francisco, I soon pulled up to the SFPD Main Station. Shortly after that, I was directed up into Detective Sparks''s office.


    The detective was pretty much as I had imagined: average-sized, thick around the neck and shoulders, and balding. We shook hands, chatted briefly. He took Veronica''s pictures and made colored copies of them and gave them to one of his men. The images were then uploaded and broadcasted to various officers. Within minutes, Veronica''s mug was everywhere.


    I left the station, feeling as if I had somehow betrayed the girl, denying her the chance at retribution.


    Maybe, I thought. But more than likely she was going to hurt someone, including herself.


    I checked the time. 1:00 p.m.


    The book signing was in one hour.

 Page 8

    Apparently this James P. Storm was a pretty popular guy. A line filled mostly with titillated women wended itself through the store, out the front door, and around the building.


    I was in the wrong business.


    Many of those standing in line were clutching various books. I noted that most of the covers were darkish and gloomy and seemed to scream vampire.


    Inside, the Borders was everything a super bookstore should be, and perhaps a little more. This one, it seemed, had three stories. That''s a shitload of books.


    I silently vowed to read more someday. Maybe then I''ll finally figure out what the hell a Kindle is.


    James P. Storm was nowhere to be found, having yet to make his grand appearance. As I cruised the bookstore, following the long line of excitedly chatting women, I looked for Veronica. Would have been nice if I found her standing there wielding a stake, but no such luck.


    At the front of the line, which ended up at the second floor in the mystery section, I found myself at a long table draped in a red table cloth and stacked high with gloomy-looking vampire books. A life-sized cardboard cut-out of James P. Storm leaned against an easel next to the table.


    I walked over to the cut-out. Storm wasn''t a bad-looking guy. Certainly nothing to write home about, although he seemed to take himself a little too seriously for someone who simply wrote vampire novels.


    And that tan. Sweet Jesus. The man looked practically radioactive.


    I tried to imagine him pouncing on Veronica''s mother and father, ripping open their throats, and drinking from them. I couldn''t do it. Mostly, I couldn''t imagine him tearing himself away from a tanning bed.


    I checked the time: 1:50.


    His Royal Tannedness would be appearing soon, no doubt to the delight of those waiting in line for God knows how long. I moved away from the table and checked out the security set-up. A single policeman was standing off to the side, near an "Employee Only" door. He didn''t look happy about his assignment. I didn''t blame him. I scanned the crowd and spotted two security guards patrolling the line. The security guards looked a little more into it.


    I knew from Detective Sparks that a plainclothes officer was in the store as well, looking for anything unusual. Granted, an endless line of chattering women waiting for a too-tan man seemed unusual enough, but whatever.


    I noted that one of the security guards had a piece of paper rolled up in his back pocket. The paper and the partial image I saw looked familiar. It was Veronica, an image no doubt distributed by the police. Good, there was nowhere for her to hide or to run. We were going to find her, and save her from herself.


    Or, at least, that was the plan.


    I checked my cell. Five minutes to go.


    She was here, somewhere. I knew it. I felt it. But so far no one matched her description: that of a tall, dark haired, seventeen-year-old girl with murder in her eyes.


    A murmur began behind me. The murmur turned into outright cheers and clapping. I turned to see a tall man emerge from a backroom door, escorted by two very serious-looking Borders employees and another police officer.


    James P. Storm waved to his adoring fans, flashed a white smile, and took a seat at the long table. He picked up a pen, nodded to one of the Borders employees, and the first in line was permitted to stand before the table. Both policemen took up their positions to either side of the author. Both policemen looked as if they would rather be anywhere but here. One actually yawned.


    As I stood watching the scene from about fifty feet away, I couldn''t help but notice that Storm seemed frail and sickly, despite his brilliant tan.


    Fake tan, I suddenly thought.


    So fake that I suspected it could have been make-up. I had lived in Hollywood long enough to have seen my fair share of fake tans. Bronzers they call them. Something you rub on the skin. No sun required.


    Perfect for a vampire.


    I should have laughed at the notion. I should have banished it from my thoughts. I should have done anything but take it seriously. But it suddenly made some sense. Weird, strange, incomprehensible sense. Oxymorons on top of oxymorons.


    I frowned and watched him smile brightly at the next girl in line. He took her book with an equally tan hand, and spoke quietly to her, smiling, and then leaned over and wrote something inside the book. As he wrote, I noted a change in his pleasant expression.


    He wasn''t smiling now; indeed, he looked like he was in pain. Or deathly ill.


    Like a vampire forced into the light of day?


    I shook my head. Craziness.


    As he handed back the book to the young lady, his white long sleeve rode up his arm a little, and I couldn''t help but notice the fanged head of a snapping dragon. A helluva big tattoo. No doubt that beast wrapped all the way up his arm, and probably then some.


    Don''t get caught up in the craziness, I thought. Lots of people have dragon tattoos.


    And then Storm turned his head slightly and caught my eye and something very close to a chill coursed through me. He gave me a half smile and nodded and held my eyes for a half a second. He squinted a little and then he turned back to the next girl, smiling brightly at her, as well.


    What the hell had that been about?


    I didn''t know, but there was nothing more to see here on the second floor. I had just turned toward the escalator, when I stopped short and almost gasped.


    Almost, but I kept my composure.


    It was her, Veronica the Vampire Slayer.

 Page 9

    It was as if I was staring at a ghost, something that might not really be there, something phantasmagorical and ethereal. But she was there, in the flesh, real as hell, and she was heading up the escalator to the second floor.


    After I got over my initial shock, I processed what I was seeing. Veronica was wearing a long blond wig and a long flowing white dress. She might have even gone unnoticed had I not spent the long drive up to San Francisco memorizing every detail of her face.


    And so, despite the wig, and the distance between us, I immediately recognized the strong jaw and her challenging eyes. The blond girl was tall, too, as tall as Veronica would have been.


    It was her; I was sure of it.


    And so far, no one else seemed to notice.


    She stepped calmly up onto the very escalator I had planned on using, and as she slowly ascended, I saw that she was sporting a guitar case strapped to her back. I seriously doubted there was guitar inside.


    I considered my options. There weren''t many, so it didn''t take long. I could find the closest policeman, convince him that the guitar-wielding blond was a delusional psychopath. Or just follow her up myself.


    I decided on the latter. I was, after all, a man of action.


    As she continued to ascend, I picked up my pace and just as I reached the escalator, a very large elderly couple stepped on before me. Damn. Veronica reached the top of the escalator and made a right. She flashed me a view of her strong profile, and then she was gone, out of my line of sight.


    Double damn.


    It was at that moment, as I was about to impolitely push through the elderly couple in font of me, that an icy chill coursed through me. I shivered as goosebumps rippled along my forearms.


    Someone was watching me.


    I glanced around for the source of the feeling. I didn''t have to look long. Below, staring up at me from behind the table draped with the red tablecloth, a squinting James P. Storm was watching me ascend.


    I shivered and looked away.


    She was gone. Or, rather, I had lost her. Shit.


    At the top of the escalator, I hung a right and moved quickly through an area of low tables and oversized gift books. The third floor, like the other two, was laid out in a perfect square, with the center open. A low glass wall gave shoppers a view of the floors below. From up here, I could see the book signing taking place below, with a clear view of James P. Storm smiling and talking pleasantly to a young reader. The winding line of humanity looked a little like the Great Wall of China.


    As calmly as I could, I checked each row and aisle for signs of the girl. I made a full circuit of the top floor and soon ended back at the escalator landing, with no sign of Veronica anywhere.


    I stood there, confused. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe I had imagined the girl. The third floor seemed darker than the other floors, and quieter, too, since all the action was taking place on the floor below. Still, there was a handful of people up here. The elderly couple that had blocked my ride up the escalator were holding hands and laughing and moving slowly down one of the aisles. A man and woman were sitting together cross-legged in an aisle, reading. An elderly man was flipping through a magazine, sitting in a reading chair. A young man holding a laptop case strolled over to the brass railing and looked down, a bemused smirk on his face.


    I continued scanning. As I did, my heart thumped once in my chest, then twice. Hard. Something was going to happen. I could feel it. Either that, or I was going to keel over and die right here of a heart attack.


    So where the hell had she gone?


    The bathrooms were all downstairs on the first floor. Up here, there was only a single Employees Only door, with a keypad.


    Maybe she had the code.


    I doubted it. Confused, I began systematically searching each corner of the upstairs, one after another, and when I got to the fourth and last corner, I found it.


    The guitar case. Leaning against the far end of a bookcase. Hidden unless one ventured deeper into the corner, as I had done.


    I hurried over to it, opened it. Inside was a blond wig and a white dress and no guitar.


    "Ah, hell."


    As as I ran out from behind a tall bookcase, the first person I saw was the young guy with the laptop case. He was still standing near the railing, on the opposite side of the room. I noticed he was no longer smiling bemusedly. Instead, he was unzipping the case and pulling something out from within. It was most certainly not a laptop.


    No. It was a small, stainless steel crossbow.


    And the young man wasn''t a man.


    It was Veronica.


    She had, of course, cut her hair in a boyish way and was wearing men''s jeans and t-shirt, both of which had been hidden beneath the long white dress. Enough of a disguise to temporarily throw me off, especially since I had been locked on to finding a blond girl in flowing white dress.


    "Veronica?" I shouted. "Stop!"


    She had just rested the weapon on the brass railing, when her head snapped up. She scanned the area, spotted me from across the open space. She frowned, and then went back to her crossbow, squinting along its sights and ignoring me.


    Now I was running, not as fast as I would have liked, and certainly not very gracefully. I barreled recklessly around the first corner, dashed down an aisle crammed with reading glasses and cheesy-looking Velcro book covers.


    Veronica was now on my right, carefully taking aim. Ignoring me completely.


    The overweight old couple looked up, startled, as I swept past them. I dodged a low wooden bench at the last second. Back in the day I would have hurled it. Now, it was all I could do to just avoid it and not fall flat on my face.


    Already I was gasping for air.


    "Veronica, stop!"


    But she didn''t stop. Instead, she was taking careful aim.


    I turned the final corner. Now she was directly in front of me, about thirty feet away, ignoring me completely. The metallic crossbow gleamed brilliantly. I realized too late that she could have just as easily turned the weapon on me. If she did, there was nothing I could do.


    I also realized that I was now holding my own gun. I had no intention of using it, but maybe it would help convince her to stand down.


    "Stop!" I shouted. "Or I''ll shoot!"


    Yes, I actually said that. But she didn''t stop. She didn''t even acknowledge me.


    Instead, she pulled the trigger.

 Page 10

    The bolt burst from the crossbow.


    I whipped my head around in time to see James P. Storm, who had been looking down and signing a book, reached up without looking and snatch the crossbow bolt out of the air.


    I gaped, dumfounded. That did not just happen.


    Storm looked curiously at the bolt, and then calmly looked up at us. Other people looked, too. No doubt they saw two people standing at the railing, one holding a gun, and the other holding a very medieval-looking weapon.


    And that''s when someone screamed.


    Utter chaos ensued.


    People were now running in every direction. But Storm didn''t run; in fact, he hadn''t moved. He continued sitting there, staring up at us, holding the crossbow bolt.


    A mob of people passed briefly in front of him, screaming hysterically. When they cleared, he was gone.


    This can''t be good.


    I had just turned to Veronica, had just reached out a hand to grab her, when I found myself flying backwards through the air. Yellow light burst through my skull as I crashed hard against an immovable bookcase. I crumpled in a heap, and might have blacked out for a few seconds.


    When I opened my eyes, I saw that Veronica was gone. Amazingly, I was still holding my gun. I stumbled to my feet and searched the area and found her silver crossbow and a single bolt. I retrieved both just as the two policemen rounded the corner and approached me fast. I slipped the small crossbow and bolt into my jacket pockets.


    "What the fuck is going on up here?" asked one of them. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as I had been.


    My head was still groggy. Veronica was gone, and I wasn''t sure what the hell to tell these guys. I still had no clue how I suddenly came to be flying through the air.


    "I saw someone up here," I said. "Someone with a weapon."


    "And who the fuck are you?"


    "I''m a P.I. hired to find - "


    "Never mind. Where''s the shooter?"


    "No clue. Someone...hit me from behind."


    "Stay here," said the first officer. "We''ll be back."


    They dashed off and spread out, quickly searching the upstairs. They convened back at the escalators a few minutes later, conferred with each other, and then headed back down to the second floor mayhem.


    As they had searched the upstairs, I noticed one had checked the "Employees Only" door. He had opened it, looked around inside for a few seconds, and then reemerged and continued on. Obviously he hadn''t found what he was looking, but what he hadn''t noticed was that the touchpad had been completely torn off the wall. Where it was, I had no clue, but it was gone.


    With my head still throbbing and a fantastic pain in my right shoulder, I lurched forward toward the storeroom door.


    With people still shouting below, I drew my gun and opened the "Employees Only" door.


    The room was indeed a storeroom. I could smell dusty books and someone''s lunch. A microwavable pizza, perhaps. The room probably doubled as a break room, too.


    It was also quite dark. I flipped on a switch.


    The back room was, in fact, a longish room, separated by another door. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Now only a few muffled sounds reached me from the craziness outside. I still felt woozy, but I powered through it.


    I continued through the long room, holding my gun out before me.


    The storeroom probably looked like a thousand other bookstore storerooms. Boxes and books everywhere. Broken bookshelves. Dusty display cases crammed in one corner. A circular Formica table sat near a glowing vending machine and a microwave.


    I headed deeper into the room, listening hard. I heard nothing unusual. No sounds of a throat being torn open.


    At that thought, I reached inside my jacket pocket and withdrew the stainless steel crossbow and silver bolt. I goofed with the thing for a few seconds, until I finally knocked back a bolt, thus arming the contraption.


    At least, I hoped it was armed.


    I cautiously stepped through the second doorway, a doorway which was devoid of an actual door, and into what I assumed was a second storeroom. I reached around the corner and flipped on another switch. More books, more broken equipment. Shelving everywhere. And something in the far corner.


    Another door?


    It was easy to miss, especially if you were a cop hurrying through here and wrongly assuming no one was inside. The difference being that I knew someone was hiding somewhere inside this storeroom.


    The door appeared to be blocked by some boxes. But that could have only been an optical illusion. Indeed, the closer I got, the more clearly I saw a narrow path that led through the boxes and to this back door.


    I stepped between the boxes, onto the narrow path. The door was directly in front of me. It was also partially open. From within, I heard some very strange sounds.


    And if I had to guess, I would guess that someone - or something - was feasting hungrily.


    I moved quickly through the narrow corridor of boxes, and as I did so, the sickening noises grew steadily louder from behind the door.


    Without slowing or hesitating, I raised the crossbow, and kicked open the door.


    The small room was mostly dark, but there was enough light from the single dusty bulb behind me to see inside.


    And what I saw was something out of a nightmare.


    James P. Storm was in there, hunched over Veronica, his face buried into her torn and bloody neck. Veronica''s eyes were closed and she could have been dead.


    As Storm turned reluctantly away from her neck, I shot him with the crossbow.


    Had he been any further away, I''m certain I would have missed. But, in this case, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Or a vampire in a coffin.


    As it was, the small arrow whipped through the air and plunged deep into his chest, exactly where I assumed its heart was.


    What happened next still gives me nightmares to this day.


    James P. Storm leaped back, staring down at the bolt protruding from his chest. He gripped the fletchings and pulled.


    The bolt came out, along with a geyser of black blood that splattered the small room and turned immediately into steam. Indeed, the bloody hole in his chest gushed steam as well.


    He stumbled backward and collapsed against some shelving, and as he hissed and steamed and bled, I ran over to Veronica and dragged her across the floor and out the door. I ripped off my jacket, wadded it up, and used it to plug the gaping wound in her neck.


    With the jacket pressed firmly against her, I watched in horror and fascination as James P. Storm continued to hiss and steam. He looked at me confusedly, opened his mouth to say something, and then pitched forward onto his face.

 Page 11

    I was sitting in Detective Sparks office at the Central Station on Vallejo Street.


    He and I had gone over and over the events at Borders Books and Music. He didn''t like my answers and had only grudgingly started to wrap his mind around the fact that something very strange had indeed gone on in his city.


    He rubbed his eyes and drank some more coffee and stared at me for a long minute.


    "So you really think this thing was a vampire?" he asked.


    "I think this thing was a monster. But call it what you want."


    "A monster?" he said.


    "It killed her parents and tried to kill her. It had its face buried in her neck and was drinking her blood. And when I shot it with the arrow, it turned to dust before my very eyes. What would you call that?"


    "A long night of drinking."


    "No one was drinking, detective."


    "The Crime Lab analyzed the remains. Human DNA. They''re telling me that these remains are at least a hundred and fifty years old. They''re still testing them."


    I said nothing. What the hell was there to say to that?


    Sparks said, "And you shot him with a silver arrow?"


    "Yup."


    "And he just started smoking?"


    "Like a chimney."


    "He say anything?"


    "I think he was too busy smoking and dying," I said.


    We were silent some more. Veronica was in the hospital. Apparently, she was going to make it. Gladys and her husband were on their way up to be with her. At least Veronica had someone.


    "So what am I supposed to do with all of this?" asked Sparks. He waved at the reports on his desk.


    "You''ll think of something," I said. "It''s why you make the big bucks."


    "They don''t pay me enough for this shit."


    "So am I free to go?"


    He nodded wearily. "I''ll be in touch, Spinoza. We know where to find you."


    "Lucky me," I said.


    And left.


    It was late evening, and I was sleeping fitfully in my office when someone knocked on the door.


    I had been dreaming of my son, of course. Once again, we were in the forest and I was holding his hand, only this time his hand wasn''t charred. This time it was healthy and alive and soft and warm, and my little boy was looking at me with joy and love in his bright eyes.


    This is different, I remembered thinking in my dream. Something is different.


    My son nodded and swung my hand and I sensed great peace from him. He nodded again and laughed and squeezed my hand. I sensed something else. I sensed that he wanted me to move on. I had been about to ask him how when the knock came again.


    My hand went automatically under my arm, gripping my pistol. I was a little jumpy these days after my run-in with the vampire.


    "It''s open," I said, reluctant as hell to release the image of my healthy and happy son.


    Veronica opened the door and stepped inside. She was wearing tight jeans and a tank top. A far cry different than the loose-fitting boy jeans she had been wearing a week earlier at Borders. Her dark hair was still cut boyishly short and even from here I could see the red scarring around her neck. Her torn throat had needed a lot of stitches. I didn''t see any stitches now. She seemed pale and sickly and not as confident as she had been in her pictures. No surprise there, since she had nearly had her throat torn out.


    "Can I talk to you?" she asked.


    "Sure."


    She shut the door behind her, turned, and sat across from me in one of my client chairs. I released my grip on the pistol.


    "I wanted to thank you for saving my life," she said. Her voice sounded stronger than she looked.


    Despite myself, my old shyness returned. I forced myself to power through it.


    "Well, it was drinking your blood," I said. "It was the least I could do."


    "Where did you learn to shoot a crossbow like that?"


    "Maybe I was Robin Hood in a past life."


    She grinned, and seemed about to rub her neck, but stopped herself.


    I asked, "So he really was a vampire?"


    "Of course."


    She said it so matter-of-factly that my next question died in my mouth. I was left stumbling over words until I finally said, "So how many of them are out there?"


    She shrugged. "I don''t know, but I don''t think many. The ones who are really old and smart rarely kill anymore. They find other ways to get blood."


    "So, um, how many have you killed?"


    "Just three. Storm would have been the fourth."


    "And he''s the one who killed your parents."


    "I hated him for so long." She paused, composed herself. "I spent the past three years hunting him."


    "How did you find him?"


    "I''m a hell of a detective," she said.


    "Maybe you could work for me someday."


    "Maybe," she said. "Anyway, if you meet the right people and make the right friends, yeah, there''s a whole scene out there."


    "Scene?"


    "Vampire scene."


    "Of course."


    She leveled her stare at me. Her eyes, I saw, were lightly bloodshot. "But you took care of him for me."


    "Spinoza the Vampire Slayer," I said. "So he''s really dead?"


    "Of course, you saw him turn to dust. That''s what happens to them when they die."


    I nodded. "Of course. Silly of me to ask."


    Veronica''s neck was surprisingly healed. Just a big red blemish. She saw me looking at her neck. Now she reached up and touched it self-consciously.


    "It''s hideous," she said.


    "It''s not that bad," I lied.


    "You''re a bad liar. The doctors tell me that it''s healing surprisingly fast."


    "Ah, youth," I said.


    "Sure. Youth." She smiled again and stood. She reached out a pale hand across my desk. "I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Spinoza, for saving my life. I wouldn''t be here today if it weren''t for you, and a monster would still be out there killing innocent people."


    "All in a day''s work," I said, and shook her shockingly cold hand. I nearly winced at her icy flesh.


    She saw my reaction and released my hand. "They''re always cold now, since the attack."


    "I, um, hadn''t noticed."


    "You''re a bad liar, Mr. Spinoza."


    I told her to call me if she ever needed any help or needed a job, and she assured me she would. At the door, she looked back at me and seemed about to say something, but decided not to.


    As she turned to leave, I saw a fresh tattoo above her low-riding jeans. It was a tattoo of a black dragon.


    I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk and laced my hands behind my head, certain that I had just seen my second vampire.


    The End