It was a lab of some kind. Bunsen burners and beakers and glass tubing, the sort of stuff Doc Landrieu might play with. Plus a bank of filing cabinets and three humming refrigerators.

Jules was mystified. “What kinda place is this?”

“It’s a drug lab. A heroin processing lab, to be exact.”

“Heroin?What the heck do a buncha vampires need to fuck around withheroin for?”

“Good question. Let’s try to find out, shall we?”

They spent the next twenty minutes rummaging through the contents of filing cabinets, ledgers, and hand-scrawled notes scattered around the lab. Most of the paperwork dealt with the supply trail and distribution network of a hot new commodity called Horse-X.

Jules broke open the locked bottom drawer of the last of the filing cabinets. He pulled a thick black three-ring binder from the back of the drawer. Almost immediately he knew he’d struck pay dirt. It was a manual describing the care and feeding of a long list of priority clients.

He flipped through the pages. Some of the names slapped him in the face like a bucketful of ice water. “Holy shit! Iknow these people! Knowof ‘em, anyway… Some of these guys are high up in the police department. You got lawyers here who made millions workin’ all them casino deals. Whoa-ho!You got names here that belong to hizzoner the mayor’s top politicos.”

He handed the binder to Doodlebug. The younger vampire spent a few minutes reading intently. “This is bigger than we ever imagined. It seems your friend Malice has his tentacles in nearly every corner of the city.”

“Yeah… Horse-X: It’s not just fer the ghetto anymore.”

Doodlebug closed the binder. “It’s not safe for us to stay here much longer. I’m sure this is a very active little lab. Ms. Raddeaux’s partners could show at any moment. Let’s gather up what we can and beat a prudent retreat.”

They searched for any document that might list a physical address for Malice X, but their hurried survey only turned up the names of lower-level operatives and a series of post office boxes. Jules retrieved a pair of old D. H. Holmes shopping bags from the house, and they stuffed a generous sampling of binders and folders into the bags, including the revelatory black binder.

Back in the house, Jules grabbed utility bills, photo albums, a shoe box full of canceled checks-anything that could potentially provide them with Malice’s connections or current whereabouts. A set of matching coasters next to the drying rack in the kitchen caught his eye. He’d seen them all around the house, but he hadn’t paid them any mind until now. They were all from the same Central City neighborhood bar. Club Hit ‘N’ Run.

He stuffed one of the coasters into his pocket. When Doodlebug came into the kitchen carrying a very full D. H. Holmes bag, Jules tossed him one of the drink holders. “Here’s where we need to head next, pal. Seems like this joint is a popular hangout with Sistah Souljah in the coffin there. Maybe it’s a popular hangout with Brotha Bas-turd, too.”

Doodlebug read the name of the club. He looked up at his partner, and his fire-engine-red lips puckered into a half frown. “Not so fast, Mr. Hooded Terror. Your performance tonight wasn’t exactly what I’d call confidence-inspiring. I think we have a little work to do before we attempt to beard this lion in his lair.”

Jules thought about arguing. Then he looked down at his blood-splattered clothes, scowled, and clamped his jaw tightly shut.

Doodlebug scooted him toward the front door. “Earlier tonight you sent me back to high school. I had such afabulous time. Well, my friend, now it’syour turn to go back to school. Vampire University, in fact. And I just happen to be dean.”

“Are you ready for a major surprise?”

Jules rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Right now, the only thing that’s surprisin‘ me is that we’re sittin’ on our asses in your cottage instead of stakin‘ out the Hit ’N‘ Run Club. What’s all this bullshit about you teachin’ me to be a better vampire? Kid, I was an A-One vampire when yourmama was in diapers, much lessyou.”

Doodlebug smiled. “The only ignorant man is he who refuses to learn, grasshopper. Now change into a wolf. I have something very important to show you.”

Jules grumbled. Then he reminded himself that his embarrassing failure of nerve at Elisha Raddeaux’s had nearly gotten Doodlebug’s arms wrenched from their sockets. Maybe he owed his friend a little indulgence. He started unbuttoning his jacket, then stopped. “Hey, this isn’t some kinda trick you’re pullin‘ to get me naked, is it?”

Doodlebug snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I dress like a woman, but that doesn’t mean you’re my type.”

Reassured, Jules stripped off his safari suit, shoes, and underwear. He concentrated on the full moon, Lon Chaney Jr., and lots and lots of hair. At least his transformations were coming more easily now. They still made his bones and joints ache, but that was nothing new; five decades of ever-increasing obesity had left him achingly familiar with aching bones and joints.

The universe shifted around him. The visual world turned black and white, like the picture on an old Philco TV, whereas the sensitivity of his ears and nose jumped a hundredfold. His long gray nose twitched; Doodlebug was wearing a pungently vile perfume, a witches’ brew of citrus extracts and boar musk. Jules sneezed violently, three times in quick succession.

“Jules? Can you understand what I’m saying? If you can understand me, scratch the floor twice with your right paw.”

He really wished Doodlebug would stop screaming. But he complied, thumping the polished floor twice with the thick black pads of his right front paw.

“Good. Now come with me into the living room. It’s a tight squeeze with your coffin in there, but we’ll manage.”

His furry gut dragged as he followed his friend from the kitchen. Doodlebug opened the lid of the piano case that served as Jules’s coffin.

“Take a peek inside. You should find this very interesting.”

Whatever was inside smelled weirdly familiar. He trotted up to the big wooden box, placed his front paws on the edge, and peered in. The thing that had invaded his coffin certainly didn’tlook familiar. It was like a huge, pulsating slug, but a slug that couldn’t hold a steady shape for more than a second or two. It filled most of the floor of the box; Jules guessed it was between six inches and a foot deep. He couldn’t tell what color it was, of course, but the shadings and the blotchy patterns on its surface shifted as frequently as its shape did.

Why the hell did the thing smell so damnfamiliar?… With a start of recognition, Jules realized what the peculiar odor reminded him of. The big, amorphous slug smelled exactly likehe did, himself, after a few lazy nights of skipping showers, drinking coffee, and lying around in his undershirt reading old comic books.

“Change back to your normal shape now. But keep your eyes on that thing in your coffin.”

Jules did as Doodlebug requested. As his hind legs unbent and his arms lengthened and his nose shortened, he watched the grayish blob. While he was changing, it gradually grew smaller, like a tubful of dirty, soapy bathwater disappearing down the drain. But the piano box didn’thave a drain. By the time he was on hands and knees instead of hind paws and forepaws, the slug-thingie was entirely gone. He reached in and touched the soil. The dirt was dry and crumbly, just as it had been the last time he’d slept. Whatever the thing had been, it had left no trace of itself.

“Holy mackerel,” Jules muttered. “What the hellwas that? And where the hell did it go?”

Doodlebug crouched down beside his friend and placed his arm on Jules’s shoulder. “That was the part of you that you weren’t using at the time. As for where it went, when you needed it again, it vanished from your coffin to rejoin the rest of you.”