"Who do you think you're kidding?" he said, wondering if he could provoke Franco into lashing out and killing him. "You and your kind are ticks on the ass of humanity, and you know it."

But Franco appeared unruffled. "Perhaps we were, but the anatomy has changed now: we're the ass and rebellious cattle like you are the biters." He leaned closer, staring into Joe's eyes. His breath stank of old blood. "I'll bet you think that even after we make you one of us you'll be able to resist the blood hunger."

Joe couldn't help blinking, stiffening—he'd said as much to Zev just the other day—and that let Franco know he'd struck a nerve.

"You do, don't you? You really think you could resist!" He tilted his head back and laughed. "Your naivete is almost charming. You have no idea what you face. You change when you turn, priest. Everything turns inward. You awake from death and there's only one being in the world that matters: you. All your memories will be intact but devoid of feeling. The people you loved and hated will run together and redivide into two critical categories: those who can supply you with blood and those who can't. You'll have to sate that thirst. You'll have no choice. That hunger above all. The world exists for you. All the other undead around are inconveniences you must endure in order to secure a steady supply of blood. For the red thirst is insatiable. As I told you, we need very little blood to survive but would spend our waking hours immersed in it if we could. We're lazy, we're petty, and we don't want anyone to have more blood than we do."

Please, God, Joe prayed, if You're listening, don't let me end up like that. I beg You. He peeled his tongue away from the roof of his dry mouth and managed to speak.

"Sounds like you've got a lock on the seven deadly sins."

"Perhaps. I never thought of that. What are they? Envy, anger, greed, lust, pride, avarice, and sloth, right. I think you might be right. Except that sex becomes meaningless. How we used to laugh at those Anne Rice novels. The undead as tortured Byronic aesthetes. Ha! We'd read them aloud to each other and howl. Her fictional undead are so much more interesting than the real thing. We're boring. We care nothing for art or music or fashion or surroundings. We bore each other and we bore ourselves. The only thing we care about, the only lust left to us, is blood."

"What about power?"

"You're thinking of me when you say that, yes? I can assure you that power is lusted after only insofar as it can assure one of more blood."

Joe glanced back at Franco's guards. "These fellows seem pretty devoted to you."

"Not out of selflessness or personal regard for me, I assure you. It's self-preservation. You see, there's a secret, a momentous secret we keep only to ourselves."

"And what's that?"

"You'll know tomorrow night. You'll be one of us then. So treasure these moments, priest. This is your last night with your own blood in your veins."

Now, Joe thought, realizing he might not get another chance. It has to be now.

"Huh?" he said and stared past Franco's shoulder at the empty darkness. "Who was that?"

"What do you mean?"

Joe raised himself on tiptoe again and leaned over the parapet, pointing into the darkness. "There! I just saw him again. One of your undead flyers. A pal of yours?"

Franco whirled to follow Joe's point. "A flyer? Up here? I should think not."

The instant Franco's back was turned, Joe dropped the drape, levered himself up onto the parapet, and rolled over it. He heard shouts from behind as his bare feet landed on the narrow outside ledge. Knowing that if he hesitated even for an instant he'd either lose his nerve or be caught, he let out a cry of terror and triumph and launched himself into the air. He spread his arms in a swan dive, hoping it would carry him beyond the setbacks. He wanted to fall all the way to the street, to splatter himself on the pavement, leaving nothing but a mocking red stain for Franco to find.

The air that had felt like cold silk against his naked body when he began his fall was now a knife-edged wind tearing at his skin and roaring in his ears. He straightened his arms ahead of him, diving headfirst into eternity.

"Forgive me, Lord," he said aloud. "I know it means damnation to throw away the gift of life, but what I was facing—"

He broke off with a cry of shock as cold fingers wrapped around his ankle and Franco's voice shouted, "Your prayers are premature, priest!"

Joe looked over his shoulder as his descent slowed and angled to the left. A grinning Franco gripped him with one hand. Large membranous wings arched from his back, spreading like a cape behind him.

Joe kicked at him with his free foot but this only allowed Franco to grab that ankle as well. Joe hung helpless in his grip as they glided through the air. Franco made a full circuit of the building, landing before the same entrance where Joe had been dropped earlier.

Barrett was outside, watching when Joe landed on the pavement.

"Well, well, well. Look who's back."

Joe wanted to cry.

Franco's wings slithered and folded and disappeared into his back as he grabbed Joe by the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

"Clear the way," he said. "I'm taking him to Devlin myself."

Sick with fear and disappointment and frustration, Joe allowed himself to be marched through the doors and back to the elevator banks. Franco shoved him into the car and stepped in after him.

"Just the two of us," he said as a couple of Vichy tried to crowd in behind him.

Joe didn't see any of Franco's retainers. Apparently they hadn't made it down from the Observation Deck yet. Joe stared at Franco's back, noting the ripped fabric where the wings had torn through, but no sign of the wings themselves. Where did they go?

Franco stabbed a button, the doors closed and the car began to move. Down.

He was smiling when he turned to Joe. "You almost got away with that. I didn't think you had it in you." He shook his head. "If you'd succeeded we never would have learned the details of your little vigilante operation."

"What if I don't know any details?"

Franco's smile broadened. "Come now, you don't expect me to buy that."

"But—"

"Don't waste your breath. You'll tell us everything you know."

Joe swallowed. "Torture?"

Franco laughed. "How quaint! Why waste time torturing you when you'll volunteer the information after you've been turned."

The sick, lost feeling gave way to anger and Joe lunged at him. But Franco shoved him back with one hand and grabbed his throat with the other. Joe struggled for air as he was lifted off his feet and tossed against the rear wall of the elevator car.

"Don't make me laugh," Franco said.

"Do your damnedest." Joe slumped in the corner, gasping and rubbing his throat. "I'll never be like you."

"Quite right, priest. You won't be anything like me."

The car stopped and the doors opened. Franco pointed to the right. "That way."

Joe didn't move. Why cooperate in his own death march—or in this case, undeath march?

Franco said, "You can walk or I can drag you by one of your feet."

Joe walked, looking for a way out, an escape route, but the hallway was lined with doors that seemed to lead to offices or utility rooms. Franco stopped as they came to a mirror set in the wall.

"Take a look."

Joe glanced at the reflection of his bruised, naked body, his sunken eyes. Not a pretty sight.

"Enjoy it," Franco said. "This is the last time you'll ever see yourself in a mirror."

Joe noticed with a start that the reflection showed him standing alone in the hallway.

"So it's true," he murmured. "The undead cast no reflection."

"Odd, isn't it. I used to be interested in physics. You look at me and see me because light reflects off me onto your retinas. But that same reflected light is not caught by a mirror. How is that possible? They used to say it was because we have no souls but neither does the rug you're standing on, and that reflects perfectly. I tried to sit down and figure it out once but found I didn't care enough to try. As I told you, once you're turned you care about only one thing."