THE BRAZENNESS AND THE stunning deftness of Andre’s murder shook both Bob and me. These vânätori de vampir were expert assassins.

Still, I had my investigation to complete, and that clock was ticking away. The next day Bob and several of the other vampires arranged for the solar immolation of Andre’s remains. I attended the ceremony, or, rather, the perfunctory arranging of his remains to be burned to dust by the dawn sun. All the vampires kept unusually quiet. The vânätori had us worried, something that as vampires we were ashamed to admit. Even though we were undead, none of us was eager to trade our animated forms for mounds of ash.

Wendy had left a message on my voice mail saying that she had something important to tell me. I hoped it was about my investigation. She lived in the Washington Park neighborhood. Her home was a modest brick bungalow, known locally as a “Denver square.” I circled the block with my contacts out, reconnoitering the area to make sure that no vânätori waited in ambush. The area clear, I put my contacts back in and parked.

Wendy answered after the second ring of her doorbell. Her elfish face peeked through the small window in the door and greeted me with a smile. She opened the door and looked past my shoulder. Her gaze surveyed the street. A rainbow-colored scrunchy gathered her hair into a ponytail.

“We’re okay,” I said to reassure her.

Inviting me in, she stepped aside to let me enter a compact living room where a humid plant smell overwhelmed me. Spider plants and ferns hung from baskets along the edges of the ceiling. Flowers and herbs crowded the buffets and built-in shelves lining the walls. Instrumental music-a sub-Saharan beat-drifted from unseen speakers.

Wendy locked the door. A loose blouse hung to her plump hips.

“Your message on my voice mail was vague,” I said. “I hope you have news about my investigation.”

“I’ve found something. Maybe it’s useful. You decide.” Wendy reached up to the closest shelf. The contours of her muscles showed where the blouse clung to her torso. She opened her day planner and unfolded a sheet of paper.

Printed on the paper was a disjointed series of paragraphs that looked lifted from other documents. Certain words practically jumped at me, as if they had been highlighted with electricity. “Where’d you get this?”

“People owe me favors. Your story about the nymphomania at Rocky Flats fascinated me. I wanted to see if it had happened before.”

I read her notes aloud. “The first outbreak was reported in1947. According to the Chaves County Health Department, five women in Roswell, New Mexico, succumbed to what they called heightened female sexual nervosa.”

“Nymphomania,” Wendy interrupted.

“I figured that. The second outbreak was recorded by Greene County, Ohio, health officials in 1952. Three women treated for heightened sexual nervosa.”

“Nymphomania,” she interrupted again. “Just in case you forgot.”

“Fine. Thanks.” The next dates startled me. “Two women treated for nymphomania in 1969. Here in Denver?”

She motioned for me to sit on the cushions grouped around a coffee table. There weren’t any chairs in the room. “Actually, it was in Jefferson County. There’s not much more than that. The Department of Energy confiscated the records.”

DOE? How far back did this conspiracy go? “When did they confiscate the records?”

“Shortly afterwards. In 1969.”

I settled into a cushion and rested my elbows on the coffee table as I reread the list. “What’s the connection between all this?”

She sat next to me. “You’re the detective. You tell me.”

My eyes sifted through the words and searched for clues that would hook into my investigation. But at the moment, nothing. “It’s interesting. Let me study it more.” I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket. “Thanks. Good work.”

Wendy got up and padded on bare feet toward the kitchen. “You’re not too busy for drinks, are you?”

In the time I’ve been a vampire, this was the first occasion a woman, even if she was a dryad, had asked me into her home for a visit. The sensual coziness surprised me. “Make it something special,” I said.

I settled into a big cushion, removed and put away my contacts. A dim pinkish aura washed over the plants. There was a ceramic water pitcher, a wash towel, and a flower vase on the table.

Wendy returned holding a plastic cafeteria tray with a bottle of shiraz, a creamer, and two goblets, which didn’t match. Her aura looked like transparent green glass. She set the tray on the table and sat cross-legged next to me. Wendy’s naked feet had an inviting sexual allure. Her manicured toes added the notion of erotic preparation. My aura pulsed in anticipation.

Wendy looked away. This made my aura brighten in annoyance. We supernaturals used our ability to read auras to outwit humans. Now this power betrayed me. I took a calming breath and let my aura smooth out.

Wendy pushed the creamer toward me. “I got ewe’s blood for you.”

I mixed it with my wine. The opaque blood turned the shiraz cloudy. “The myth is that ewe’s blood and certain red wines enhance sexual potency.”

Wendy’s green eyes sparkled. “Really?”

Her teasing made my aura burn. Being the vampire, I was supposed to manipulate the woman.

She pulled the scrunchy off and shook her head. The ponytail separated into luxurious curls.

My aura burned brighter. I sipped the blood-wine cocktail. A coppery aftertaste slid down my throat.

Smiling, she twisted a lock of hair between her fingers. “How many of the nymphomaniacs have you talked to?”

“Three.”

Wendy tapped her foot against my ankle. “Did they try to seduce you?”

“Actually, they did.”

“At the same time? Lucky you.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

Wendy placed her hand on my knee. “Were any successful?”

“No. There were difficulties.”

“Man problems?” Wendy held a finger out, then curled it.

“There were no problems of that sort,” I replied and masked my irritation at the suggestion. “What’s this interest in nymphomania, anyway?”

“What’s not to find interesting?” Wendy sipped and then chuckled. “The idea of women shucking their panties and humping men-what a great image. It’s hysterical.”

“Wasn’t funny to the nymphos.”

“The ones you interviewed, they didn’t enjoy themselves?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Wendy’s cheeks dimpled. “So they did have fun?”

“At a price, yes.”

Wendy brought her face to mine. “And what would the price be for me?”

The price would be a good screwing. My desire percolated into lust. We kissed. I grasped her shoulders and pushed so that she rolled onto her back.

Wendy resisted. “Wait.”

She unbuttoned my shirt and exposed my translucent vampire skin. “Felix”-she ran her mouth across my neck and collarbone-“can vampires get hickeys?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. We’d find out. Closing my eyes for a moment, I focused on the touch of her lips.

Wendy sat back and reached for the pitcher on the coffee table. She moistened the towel and dabbed my nose to remove the makeup and sunblock.

“It doesn’t look right for your face and hands to not match the rest of your body.”

The damp towel caressed me like a cool tongue. She held up my right hand and admired the veins pulsating within the sheath of my pale skin. My aura rippled where her fingers traced along my flesh.

Wendy released my hand. She pulled the flower stems from the glass vase on the table. When she turned the vase around, I saw that it wasn’t a vase but a bong. She retrieved a butane lighter and a small plastic bag from a drawer in the coffee table. When she opened the bag, the pungent odor of marijuana leaked out. Wendy crammed a wad of the pot into the small metal bowl of the bong.