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  She took the money without looking at it. “Are you gonna talk to Nico?”

  It was Brandon’s turn to shrug. “Do you think he’d talk to me?”

  The boy snorted but said nothing.

  The girl said, “I hope Nico gets them. She was sweet, you know? I liked her. Everybody did.”

  Brandon didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. “You guys got a safe place to crash until this is over?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We’re cool.”

  He bade them good night and left, out of sorts. He thought of his own bland middle class suburban upbringing, comparing it to some of the things he saw covering crime for the Post. He saw so much ugliness, but nothing as ugly as what kids like those two lived through every single day.

  He paused at an intersection, trying to decide what to do next. He wasn’t sure exactly how to find Nico, but he did know where to find someone else who might have some information, or at least some insight. He thought for a moment about the safest route to the Joshua Mission, and headed in that direction.

  * * * *

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Lisa,” she answered, the name bubbling up from somewhere in her memory. She’d given a different name at the hotel. “Lisa Taylor.”

  “And you’re a reporter?”

  Jessie nodded.

  “I don’t know how much help I can be. I already told the police everything I knew about her, not that it was much.”

  His name was William Kirkbride, Reverend William Kirkbride, though he certainly didn’t look like a minister. He looked more like the Marine Corps veteran he was, tall, good-looking in a severe sort of way in his mid-thirties with short dark hair and intense blue eyes. He held himself with an attitude she recognized instantly as military and spoke to her with a professional courtesy. She convinced him to talk to her by asking first about the shelter he ran. When she brought up the murders, he became instantly guarded. Not suspicious, exactly, but careful.

  “Reverend Kirkbride, I’ve done stories on homeless kids before, on what their lives are like when they’re forced to live on the streets. By shining a light on this, on the help these kids need, on the work you’re trying to do, I may be able to help you.” She knew it was reporter BS, and he would recognize it as such, but there was also some truth there, or would be, if she were actually a reporter.

  They were standing in the kitchen in the back of the shelter. He rinsed off several pots and pans before placing them in the industrial dishwasher. He seemed to be considering how much to cooperate with her. Finally, after he started the dishwasher, he spoke.

  “She never told me her real name. The kids rarely do. I did get a state out of her—Ohio. She wouldn’t talk about her family. I know she worked for a pimp and a drug dealer named Nico and she would share with younger girls, a little cash, food, clothes. Whatever.” He paused, and she could see his thoughts turn inward.

  Knowing she had to ask this, because a reporter would ask the question, she said, “Do you think her pimp killed her?”

  His eyes flashed to her face briefly, then looked away. “There are worse monsters out there than pimps.”

  If you only knew. “Do you think her murder was related to the other killings?”

  He faced her again. The intensity in his blue eyes might have scared her, if she were mortal.

  Kirkbride spoke with a strangely flat tone. “Yes, I do, but I don’t think the cops will catch who did it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some more work to do.”

  Jessie suddenly got the feeling it might not be a good idea to press the issue with this man. He might decide to ask her questions—the entirely wrong sorts of questions. With a nod she said, “Thank you for your time.”

  She showed herself out of the kitchen, walking through the front of the shelter where two- or three-dozen kids gathered, some sleeping or sitting around talking with others. There was enough of a hum of noise she would not have been able to hear a child in a cot against the far wall crying, were it not for her unnatural senses. As Jessie reached the door, she looked around, her stomach tightening. She decided she would tell the king about this place. He had plenty of wealth to spread.

  She left, grateful to be back out in the night.

  * * * *

  Mickey knew he needed to hide. He felt it, like tiny fingers scratching at the edge of his senses. He needed to get in out of the night, out of the dark, out of the buffet, because he knew what the night really was, an all-you-can-eat buffet for predators. Someone like him, small and weak with a limp in one leg, would make a pretty easy meal for someone, or something. He’d heard the talk, gangs and drugs and all that gangster movie stuff, but it wasn’t real. It was just talk, like the sodium arc of a streetlight letting people pretend they were safe. The false light should be enough to keep the monsters at bay, but it wasn’t. The monsters knew what they were doing, knew how to slither through the spaces of darkness between the false light. It would hardly be any trouble at all at for them to reach out and snatch him as he left the nimbus of one false light on his way to the next. Mickey knew that. Mickey saw things as he hid in the night, peering out from his safe places and watching the hunt. That’s what the monsters did, hunt. Oh, some knew the truth. Mickey wasn’t the only one. Like the others, he kept his mouth shut. The ones who told themselves stories about the false light of gangsters, trying to keep the night monsters at bay, didn’t want to hear the truth. Mickey didn’t tell anyone what he’d seen. He kept to himself and went about his business.

  Tonight, that business was stripping copper wire from the air conditioning unit of an empty building. Not the best sort of business, he knew, but he could sell the copper and make a little money. He didn’t spend the money on drugs, like some of the people he knew. He spent the money on medicine. There was a difference. Mickey knew he wasn’t like other people who lived out in this part of town. He wasn’t a junkie. He had injuries, and he needed medicine for them, pains all over his body. His leg hurt all the time where the stump met the ill-fitting prosthetic. He had nightmares too, that had nothing to do with the monsters feeding all over the waterfront now. Monsters of a different sort lived in his head, and the medicine helped to keep them quiet. Some part of him knew his medicine was a false light of his own, but he always pushed those thoughts far away, down deep until he couldn’t hear them anymore.

  He limped along, carrying his stolen copper wire through the empty building. He needed to get to his safe place soon. It was getting to be the time of night the monsters liked to come out for their supper.

  In the stillness, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone inhaling deeply. He froze, waving the small flashlight in his hand. It gave only a quarter-sized beam and weak light at that. He criss-crossed it around the big room, finding nothing moving. Maybe it was just somebody looking for a place to crash for the night. He got moving again, quicker this time. The side door where he’d come in was still several yards away, propped slightly ajar with a rock he’d found in the alley.

  Another sound—this time something falling to the floor with a chunk. He raised the flashlight again, spotting something on the floor a few feet in front of him, the rock he’d left in the door. Another sound—something he could not identify, from behind. He turned slowly, the beam from the small flashlight wavering in his shaky hand.

  A scream ripped out of him.

  Chapter 3

  Brandon turned a corner, checking his watch. He knew Reverend Kirkbride was a night owl and most likely still up working in the shelter, but even so, it was long after midnight. This was not his best idea, being out in this part of town at this hour, even without a possible serial killer on the loose. He checked his pockets for the can of pepper spray and the brass knuckles he carried. Still there. This made him feel somewhat better. He picked up his pace, wanting to reach the shelter as quickly as possible.

  This stretch of street was uncomfortably empty. The sidewalk was littered with garbage. He walked on the side of
the street that still had a few functioning businesses, locked up at this time of night. Across the street was a large office building, abandoned and severely run down. He picked out the shadow of graffiti on the walls. Most of the street-lights from this point through the next two or three blocks were out, either on the fritz or busted out. He saw where the lights picked up again, three blocks down. The shelter stood a block farther. Feeling somewhat foolish, Brandon figured he could make it there by running if he had to. He shook his head, embarrassed. Then he heard the scream.

  * * * *

  Mickey dropped his load of copper wire and ran as fast as he could on one good leg, which wasn’t fast enough. The man caught him easily, pinning him to the hard floor. Mickey cried out, pleading words pouring out in an indecipherable flood of panic. Sprawled face down on the floor, the man’s hands clawing into his back, Mickey kept screaming. The attacker flipped him over and leaned over slowly until Mickey could see his face. Mickey’s screams petered out, shock beginning to settle in. The attacker’s face looked human, yet not, distorted with a feral hunger. Was it a man or a monster? Its irises glowed a bright silver in black pupils, like twin full moons in a cloudless sky. It opened its mouth in a maniacal grin, showing its teeth. Its canines lengthened into razor-sharp fangs. Viciously pulling Mickey’s head back by his hair, the monster exposed his neck. As it lowered its mouth to his flesh, he began to scream again, loud, echoing screams of incoherent terror, almost drowning out the sound of the creature laughing as it sank its teeth into his skin.

  * * * *

  Brandon shouldered the door open, pepper spray in one hand, brass knuckles on his punching hand. All he saw was someone hurting someone else, one man holding another smaller man down on the ground. The smaller man’s legs flailed and kicked. Brandon took off at a run and plowed into the assailant, knocking him off the victim. The screaming kept up, though, and Brandon chanced a quick glance at the screamer. Blood poured from a wound in his neck. He looked around for the attacker, not seeing him in the dark. Brandon moved to the victim’s side, fumbling with the pepper spray and the brass knuckles to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wound up dropping both in his haste.

  “Are you okay?” he asked the smaller man, knowing it was probably a dumb question. “How bad are you hurt?” He held the handkerchief over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood it obscured the wound.

  After a moment the injured man seemed able to speak again, instead of just scream. He said in a frightened whisper, “Where did it go? Where is it?”

  Brandon looked around. “We need to get you out of here. You need to get to a hospital.”

  “It’s still here. I know it is. I can feel it watching us.” The man tried to pull himself up to a sitting position. Brandon helped him.

  “What’s watching us? Is there an animal here?” Brandon felt pretty sure the mugger, or whoever, had left. He also felt pretty sure this guy wasn’t playing with a full deck. He took one of the man’s hands and placed it on the handkerchief at his wound. “Can you keep pressure on it? I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

  The man shook his head in a panic. “Cops won’t get here before the monsters do.”

  Brandon pulled his cellphone from its clip on his belt and opened it, grateful for the little bit of light it gave off. A deep guttural growl sent chills through him. He moved the cellphone slightly to the left. Its light illuminated a pair of fangs snapping at him. He jumped back, dropping the cellphone. Mickey began to wail again, dragging himself away. Shock froze Brandon in place.

  The mugger moved toward him, reaching out with an almost feline-like gesture. The reporter’s part of his brain noted the man’s large size, dark clothes and hair. The frightened part of him could only take in the predatory menace and inhuman fangs. This was no mere mugger. Instinct sent him scrambling backward across the floor. His brain was locked in a fog of shock, horror and disbelief. The injured man wailed in terror, the sound seeming to come from far away. A snarling hiss came from the fanged creature, whatever it was. Close enough—he felt it moving nearby in the dark, disturbing the air around him. Through the fog of his panic, dim thoughts about the need to run, to fight back, tried to push forward but couldn’t. He was backed up against something, a wall, he couldn’t tell what. The creature, whatever it was—though a dim voice calling to him from deep in his brain whispered vampire—edged closer. It seemed to be looking him over. It reached out to grab at him, picking him up and holding him aloft, by the throat. He gasped for breath, struggling to get loose, legs kicking, arms flailing. The creature was too strong. His lungs burned, running out of air.

  Another form moved in the dark, behind the creature, as if someone was trying to surprise it. With no warning, he was dropped to the floor as the creature disappeared in a haze of smoke and ash. Brandon rubbed his throat, looking around, and finally up, to see a woman standing over him where the creature had been. She held a sharpened length of wood in one hand.

  Brandon stared at her for a long moment. His brain had not caught up to events. She extended her empty hand to him, and he took it, shocked at her strength as she helped him stand. Surprised again at how small she was, nearly a foot shorter than him and slender.

  “What...” He did not know what to say. Looking in her eyes, he saw shadows. He stepped closer, wanting to see her face better. She took a step back. “Who are you? What just happened?”

  The woman kept her gaze on him, pointing to where the injured man had hidden himself. “That man needs help.”

  Brandon followed the direction of her arm and saw the homeless man curled up in a ball behind an old filing cabinet, one hand still pressed to the wound on his neck. “If I can find my phone, I’ll call nine-one-one.” He turned back to look at her again, but she was gone. Not walking away, gone.

  “What the hell?” Brandon looked around for her in the dark.

  The front door caved in from a vicious kick and a floodlight lit up the darkness. Thinking it might be cops, Brandon raised his arms and called out, “Hey, there’s a guy in here who needs a doctor.”

  Reverend Kirkbride ran in carrying a sawed-off shotgun and a backpack. He found the victim and pulled him up by one arm. Spotting Brandon, he waved him over. “Come on, help me get him out of here!”

  Brandon obeyed. He barely knew the minister but he’d never been happier to see an ex-Marine. As they cleared the door, he eyed the shotgun. “How did you know someone needed help?”

  “Someone heard screaming and came and got me.”

  “So you came running...with a shotgun?”

  Kirkbride gave him a look over the bleeding, slumped form between them, but said nothing.

  * * * *

  Jessie spent the day holed up in her hotel room, the “do not disturb” sign hung on the door. The early hours of the day were spent in a fitful sleep full of dreams of the night before. Images of the mortal held up off the ground, the look on his face as he realized he was running out of air, as well as the reaction after she’d killed the vampire, the amazement and the shock. She remembered too, the way he smelled: wild vanilla dusted with a blend of spices, a scent that had no business coming from someone who lived in a city, among asphalt, pavement and pollution and a scent most modern men would probably think of as almost feminine. The only creatures with more gender role confusion than modern women were modern men. What she could smell from a person had nothing to do with perfumes and colognes, scented lotions and the absurd scented laundry detergents, and all the other things people used every day offering some sort of “refreshing” scent or other.

  What she could smell, what that other vampire smelled, and werewolves too for that matter, was blood. His blood sang of vanilla and clove, cardamom and chocolate, with a tang of something sharp underneath, something with a little bite—tobacco, perhaps, or something similar. It made for a rich brew that delighted the senses and she had no trouble understanding why that vampire cast aside the weaker, easier victim to go after him, whoever
he was. His blood would taste too good to make just one feast out of him. Keeping him locked up, bound, drinking from him every day and twice on Sunday—that would be the way to go. Not that she did that sort of thing anymore.

  Fed up with her dreams and with lying awake thinking feverish thoughts of the blood of a man she’d never taste, she tossed aside the covers and took a shower. Not that it helped calm her, she felt like a caged animal and, until sundown, that’s exactly what she was. She tried watching TV but it bored her. Jessie attempted reading a few of the books she’d brought along, but couldn’t concentrate on the words. She spent an hour forcing herself to work through a rigorous yoga routine. The usual peace it gave her remained elusive this time. Finally, she found herself sitting on the floor, back to the wall, plugged into her MP3 player. With the lights off, the sun shining through the hotel curtains acted as her clock. She flipped through a long playlist. No jazz this time, though. She wanted nothing to soothe her. Unable to find any calm, she decided to stoke the low burning fire within with Garbage, Korn, Muse and Nine Inch Nails. Like raising energy, it was the way a witch she knew had taught her. She turned the volume up louder, and waited for the night.

  * * * *

  It took Brandon most of the day to work up the nerve to search “vampire.” He wouldn’t do it in the Post’s bullpen, where someone might glance over his shoulder and see what was on the computer screen. He waited until he had a chance to leave the building, offering the vague unnecessary excuse of a late lunch. He didn’t want to go to any of the usual places he might be found at lunchtime. He walked several blocks from the paper and found a small, quiet coffee shop with Wi-Fi and settled into a seat with his back to the wall. Arranged before him on the table were his laptop, a mocha latte, and a blueberry muffin. He ate the muffin and drank most of the latte before he finally opened his laptop and started his search.