“Stay chilly,” Short Eyes said. “Everything’s rock.”

As de Vries watched himself on the screen, a small grin spread across his full, slightly bluish lips. The tips of his delicately curved incisors showed twin crescents of stark white against the skin of those lips. “Excellent, my dear. The priest?”

“Give me the go, and I’ll slot,” she said.

“In a moment,” de Vries said. “First I must tend to our guest. He is already awake, although he’s trying to hide that fact.”

Derek D’imato was strapped to a metal chair in the center of a ritual circle, his face reposed in what appeared to be sleep. Severely chopped black hair framed strong masculine features, a straight prominent nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. Long lashes fell almost to his aristocratic cheek bones. Close scrutiny, however, revealed make-up. In fact, it was caked on, though artfully done, and where Derek’s sweat had run down his face, tracks of darkness invaded the healthy-looking tan.

Despite appearances, de Vries knew Derek was faking. No matter how much he tried to maintain the illusion of stupor, the drug would have worn off more than two minutes ago.

The man’s thousand-nuyen suit was ripped to shreds in places and showed stains all down the front, though there were no wounds visible on him. The stains didn’t look like blood. De Vries knew blood, knew all of its stages, all of its secrets. These dark stains were too black, too shiny, to be what the uninfected would call blood.

“Derek, you may stop pretending now. I’ve done this far too many times to misjudge the sedative you were given.”

Derek didn’t open his eyes, but simply said, “Old man, you have no idea how deep in drek you’ve decided to go wading. When I get out of this, I’m going to rip you apart piece by piece and suck the marrow from your bones.”

De Vries noticed there was something definitely wrong with Derek’s mouth, but he couldn’t place it. It was just wrong, that was all.

Short Eyes gasped, a clearly audible hiss of breath through her human teeth.

De Vries just laughed. “I have no doubt you would try, my young friend, though it’s my guess you’re the one with no idea how deep your troubles are running.”

Derek opened his eyes with a snap, and the deep blue screamed into de Vries’ mind like pallid, vile lasers. Though this young man and he shared a common bond of sorts, de Vries felt a momentary shock at the sheer hatred and barely hinged insanity in those eyes.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Derek’s voice was almost a screech.

De Vries smiled. “Of course. You’re Derek D’imato, son of Marco D’imato, principal owner of a private security corporation named Fratellanza, Inc. I also know what you are. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

A look of stunned incredulity crossed Derek’s rugged features. “Who in the hell are you?”

“My name is Martin de Vries.”

Sudden, unearthly silence. Derek had gone completely still. When he spoke, his tone was soft, cautious. “Bulldrek. De Vries is a myth”

De Vries was surprised to hear Short Eyes answer. “Shut your hole, simpey.”

De Vries shot a glance at Short Eyes as he pulled a pack of Platinum Selects from the pocket of his duster. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply and let the smoke jet out in twin plumes from his nostrils. “My dear, it is time to set things in motion. Why don’t you load up our special surprise for our guest?”

De Vries smiled as Short Eyes reached to the chipjack interface set into the back of her skull, just below her scalp. Instantly, her mannerisms changed as she became Priest, the BTL personality chip she’d obtained just for today. Her facial expression went from confronting to solemn; she straightened her back and brought her feet together, bowing her head in de Vries’ direction. She looked like a different person altogether.

Short Eyes’ voice came deep and accented. “Priest here.”

De Vries looked back at the greasy face of Derek D’imato, whose confusion was obvious. “You are wondering about Priest, yes?” He took another drag on his Select. “Actually, you have my sincerest apologies at not being able to obtain a bona fide member of the holy cloth. You see, I know of your family’s background in Catholicism, and seeing as I’ll be sending a trid of this evenings activities to your father, I thought it would console him to know that his son had something of a proper send-off.”

Derek shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

De Vries looked down at his cigarette, noticed it was burning low, and pulled another from the pack. Lighting the second with the glowing butt of the first, he said, “You don’t think your father will appreciate my sense of humor?”

Derek said nothing.

“Prepare for last rites,” de Vries said. He took a deep drag off the fresh Select while tossing the butt of the old one to the floor and crushing it with the heel of his boot.

“What the frag are you talking about?” Derek’s carefully cautious facade went ragged at the seams, then unraveled. “I don’t believe any of this. You’re just a vampire with delusions of grandeur.”

“No,” de Vries said. “I am a living dichotomy.” He gave a harsh laugh. “A vampire who hunts vampires.”

Priest walked up to the edge of the ritual circle. “You are the devil’s work, Mr. D’imato,” she said in deep, solemn tones. “Martin has salvaged his soul by forfeiting the taking of blood from innocents. God has made him an agent of His vengeance.”

Derek’s face twisted with rage, his eye flicking to de Vries. “You’re insane, old man. Just because you despise what you are doesn’t make you the agent of God.”

“You’re wrong,” said Priest. “That’s exactly what it makes him. And as his witness and priest of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, I pronounce sentence on you, Derek D’imato. Witnessed and recorded.”

De Vries smiled. “She has a way with words, don’t you think?”

“I declare you an abomination in the eyes of the righteous,” said Priest.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Foam-flecked spittle flew from Derek’s mouth, and his incisors tore a small, bloodless wound in his lower lip. “How can you do this? We’re the same.”

De Vries felt his anger surge. “We are nothing alike, you and I.”

Derek’s torn lip healed up almost immediately. “Whatever you say, vampire. But you and I are not that different.”

De Vries ignored him and turned to face Short Eyes. He gestured with one fine-boned hand. “Priest, it is time.”

Priest walked across the room and picked up a ceramic basin filled with water, a silver spoon, and a large sponge. She carried them back to the edge of the circle. “I am ready.”

De Vries silently acknowledged her, then gathered his power around him. When he was ready, he drew himself up and stepped close to Derek.

“Don’t come near me.” Derek’s voice was calm again, the edge of insanity turned to something far more cunning.

“You were raised Catholic, weren’t you, Derek? I should think you would appreciate all the trouble I’ve gone through for you. For you and your father, who has forgotten his faith.”

Derek just grunted, his unreal blue eyes tracking de Vries. De Vries took the towel from Priest and wet it in the basin’s water. “Are you ready for your final baptism?” He wrung the excess water from the sponge.

“After all,” de Vries continued, “you were baptized as a child, and seeing as you have just recently been born a child of darkness, I thought baptism was a fitting way to prepare you for what I have in store.” De Vries chuckled as he moved the sponge close to Derek’s face, watching carefully as the man’s neck muscles bulged, trying to move away.

Abruptly. Derek’s head lunged violently forward and he tried to sink his fangs into de Vries’ wrist.

De Vries spoke a word, and the air around Derek’s head seemed to crackle with magical electricity. Derek’s fangs stopped a mere centimeter from contact with de Vries’ skin.