As a vampire, Bob was lucky to get this modest little ceremony. Solar immolation was our way of destroying the evidence of our presence to humans, nothing more. Bob would be missed, certainly, but as undead creatures who walked in step beside the Grim Reaper, we accepted the inevitability of our final destruction.

The vampires in robes gathered around the plywood sheet and kicked free the two-by-fours holding it upright. The sheet slapped the ground with a whap. The vampires dragged the plywood and lumber down the slope and tossed it into the trash littering the gully.

Carmen and I walked back to her Audi TT roadster, a sleek, flattened lump of metal with narrow windows. We got in, she in the driver’s seat, I next to her. Protected by the Audi’s tinted glass, we pulled off our goggles, hoods, and gloves. Behind us, the other vampires dispersed into three groups and climbed into a copper-colored station wagon, an SUV, and a long-bed pickup with dually wheels.

Carmen unsnapped the collar of her leather jacket and pulled the zipper midway down her cleavage. Neither of us had said much on the way out here last night, consumed as we were with dismay and outrage at Bob’s death.

She plucked a plastic bottle from between her seat and the center console and proceeded to smear her face with coconut-scented SPF 90 sunscreen. Tiny golden Aztec calendars dangled from each earlobe. “With Bob gone, the Denver nidus chose me as its new leader.”

I held my palms up for her to give me some of the sunscreen. “I thought that position went automatically to the most senior vampire in the community. That would be Mel.”

“Under normal circumstances.” Carmen squirted the lotion into my hands. “Because of these vânätori attacks, the nidus wanted someone younger and more ruthless.”

I dabbed the sunscreen on my cheeks. “And that would be…you?”

“Yes. Me.” Carmen unzipped her jacket further and exposed breasts cupped within a black leather bra. She buttered the tops of her tits with sunscreen. “The first question from the nidus to me as the new leader was, what was I going to do about your investigation?”

She flicked her black hair over one shoulder and rubbed sunscreen onto her neck. “Before you answer, be aware that the question came directly from the Araneum.”

My aura spiked defensively. “What’s it to them?”

“The Araneum insists that we focus all our attention, at the expense of all other obligations, on finding and destroying the vânätori, on taking direct action.”

“You mean killing humans outside of self-defense?”

“Chalé. This is self-defense.” Carmen pursed her lips and applied blood-red lipstick. She flipped down the sunshade and looked at the vanity mirror. Laminated pictures of Frida Kahlo and the Virgin of Guadalupe were pinned next to the mirror. Of course Carmen wouldn’t see anything in the mirror but the interior of the car.

“Do you know what I hate most about being a vampire? Fixing my makeup without a mirror.” Carmen slapped the sunshade against the interior ceiling. “How many more vampires have to die before we do something?” She smoothed her hair.

“And the police?”

She polished the sunglass lenses with a tissue. “Subsisting on chalices and donated blood hasn’t made us that complacent. We can cover our tracks.”

“What does this have to do with my investigation?”

She put on her sunglasses and tugged at the corners to make sure they fit tight. “If things get…uh…sticky, I’ll need you. These vampire hunters use guns. You have experience with firearms.”

“And getting shot, too. Don’t forget that part. Want to see my scars?”

Carmen peered over the tops of her sunglasses and gave me the once over. She zipped her jacket to cover most of her cleavage. “Some other time.”

I put in my contacts. Now that I was unable to see auras, the world looked inert and unfinished.

She started the Audi and honked the horn. The station wagon honked back. Carmen pressed the gas pedal and her car darted off the shoulder of the road. Gravel pinged against the chassis. When the tires bit into the asphalt, the Audi lunged forward and we accelerated toward the highway.

Carmen cocked her thumb to the tiny backseat. “Gimme that portfolio, will you?”

The portfolio sat atop a pile consisting of cross trainers, a yoga mat, and a gym bag.

I placed the portfolio on my lap and stroked the cordovan leather. “Pretty nice. Expensive, no doubt.”

“Sí, un regalo.” Carmen nodded simply. “A gift from one of my chalices.”

“Like your leather outfit?”

“Like my leather outfit.”

I tapped the instrument panel. “And the car?”

“What can I say? My chalices are generous people.” Carmen gestured toward the latch on the portfolio’s flap. “I asked the Araneum to send me what they had concerning vampire-hunter attacks in America.”

I pulled out several manila folders and flipped open the first one, a document in a language I didn’t recognize, followed by what appeared to be an English translation.

“What language is this?”

“Romanian,” Carmen answered, “the native tongue of Transylvania. You’ll need to become familiar with it.”

I read the English translation. “It says that ten vampire deaths have been attributed to these vânätori de vampir. On a path that started in New York and ended in Denver.”

I upended another envelope and a bunch of color photographs clipped together fell into my hand. A sticky note on the top photo read that these were photos of the vânätori pursuing us. On the back of each picture was the name of the man depicted.

The first picture. Mihail Vasile. A thin face, hungry eyes peering from under strands of hair, as if he were a shrew trying to hide in his own skin.

The second picture. Teodor Vlasov. A round, bearded face, less a head than a hairy bowling ball perched upon a thick neck. I remembered him-he was the sniper who had killed Dr. Wong and was one of the two attackers who had dragged Bob out of the Buick.

Next. Petru Codreanu. A slightly lesser version of Vlasov, but with an equally fierce expression. Close-set eyes that seemed to flicker anxiously even in this frozen image.

Finally. Nicolae Dragan. An apt name for their leader. Eyes that burned at me from the paper. As I studied his image, his presence became so powerful that I expected an aura to radiate from the photo. In his beard and close-cropped, steely-gray scalp, he looked like a zealous mob boss, the kind who would incite a lynching and supply the rope. Dragan was the one who had come after me with a crucifix and an ax, and then more recently blasted Bob with a shotgun.

“Look familiar?” Carmen asked.

“Most definitely. All four of these scary bastards.” I slid the photos back in the envelope, relieved at shutting the psychic connection.

I turned to a folder marked “History of Colorado Attacks.” I read the first entry aloud. “Three vampires were allegedly killed by vânätori in 1883, two around Leadville, the third at Central City.”

“Wasn’t our guys,” Carmen said. “We’re dealing with mortals. Those hunters would have died long ago.”

I continued. “The next attack occurred in 1969.” My thoughts froze on the date. I opened the folder labeled “Attacks in the 20th Century.” “There were several vampire killings from 1910 through the mid-twenties. Then nothing until 1947.”

I could feel my aura sparkle in alarm. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved the paper Wendy had given me. I compared her list of nymphomania outbreaks with this record of vampire murders. “Roswell, New Mexico, 1947-nymphomania and two vampires killed. Dayton, Ohio, 1952-nymphomania and two vampires killed.” I paused to control my quaking, excited voice. “Denver, 1969-nymphomania and three vampires killed. Now recently, another outbreak of nymphomania in Denver followed by the appearance of vânätori de vampir. In every case, the vampire-hunter attacks followed the discovery of nymphomania by mere weeks, sometimes days.”