“Somewhere,” said Rolf.

“Well, they can’t turn on a sun jacket if they’re dead before we’re within five hundred yards.”

“Messy,” said Makeda. “Bullets leave bodies.”

“I’d rather have to dispose of a couple of bodies than get fried by a sun jacket,” said Bella, taking charge now. “Rolf, you and I will go after the cats. Take out as many as we can. Makeda, follow the hunters, keep your distance, see where they go, and meet us back at the ship. Tonight cats. Tomorrow night, humans.”

“I hate cats,” said Makeda.

“I know,” said Bella.

“There’s something else,” said Rolf. “There was something else on the roof with the cats. Something bigger.”

“What do you mean ‘something’?” asked Makeda.

“I don’t know,” said Rolf, “but it wasn’t putting out any heat, so it’s one of us.”

Somehow it had seemed to make sense that he follow Abby’s interpretation of Madame Natasha’s reading, but now, standing on the dock by the black ship, with the night almost gone, he wasn’t so sure.

“You think she’s in there?”

“She could be. I saw in the City Blog that this ship arrived-there was a picture, and it looked cool, and-oh, I don’t know, I’m new at this. You can’t expect me to be good at everything. Why don’t you go all misty and sneak aboard?”

They heard bare feet on teak and suddenly a gorgon of blond dreadlocks popped up over the top of the smooth black carbon fiber of the cockpit.

“Irie bruddah. Irie sistah. Howzit?” A young man, very tan, heat coming off him, but with a thin black ring inside his life aura.

Abby elbowed Tommy and he nodded to show he’d seen it.

“What did he say?” Tommy asked.

“I don’t know,” Abby said. “It sounds Australian. If he goes off about going down under to have a go on his dirigity-doo I’m going to kick him in the kidneys with my forbidden love Chucks.”

“Okey dokey,” Tommy said.

The blond guy held up a pair of night-vision binoculars, looked quickly through them, then set them down again. “Shoots! You be deadies! Jah’s love to ya, me deadies!”

He vaulted up over the edge of the cockpit, landed on the deck eight feet below, then jumped over to the dock. He was very fit, very muscular, and smelled of fish blood and weed.

“Pelekekona called Cap’n Kona, pirate of the briny science, lion of Zion, and dreadie to deadies of the first order, don’t you know.”

He extended his hand to Tommy, who shook it, tentatively. “Tommy Flood,” Tommy said, then, because he felt as if he should have a title, added, “writer.”

Then the blond Rasta man took Abby in his arms, hugged her, and kissed her on both cheeks, then let his hands linger on her back and slide down. He let go when she bent one of his fingers back, driving him to his knees. “Back off, you fucking hemp Muppet! I am Countess Abigail Von Normal, emergency backup mistress of the Greater Bay Area darkness.”

“Countess?” Tommy said out of the corner of his mouth.

“And a slim and delicious deadie biscuit, too, as fine as a snowflake, yeah,” said Kona. “No harm, me deadies, I’n’I have grand Aloha for ya, but can’t bring ya on the ship. That Raven ship will kill ya dead for good, don’t cha know. But we can chant down Babylon right here, mon.” He produced a pipe and lighter out of the pocket of his baggies. Out of the other he pulled a sterile lancet, the kind diabetics use to poke their fingers for blood tests. “If one of me new deadie dreadies would donate to a mon’s mystic. Jus’ a drop two.”

Abby looked at Tommy. “Renfield,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Tommy nodded. She was talking about Renfield, the crazed blood slave of Dracula in the original Bram Stoker novel. The original “bug eater.”

“Maybe we can help you with that,” Tommy said.

Abby said, “You’re not worthy of our aid, not worthy to be free, and we would surely both be tools, to help you, vampire fool.” She curtsied. “Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

“Nice,” Tommy said. She knew her romantic poetry, not very well, or accurately, but she knew it.

“Ah, mon, I tried dat paraphrasing in Mexico one time. The boat, she stop too quick and dis brutha drop out da sky like one rock. No mon, Kona doan like de heights.”

“Not parasailing, you imbecile, paraphrasing.”

“Oh. Dat diffren.”

“Ya think,” said Abby.

Tommy said, “Kona, I will give you a drop of blood, but first, are you saying that this ship belongs to vampires?”

“Ya mon. Me deadie masters, mon. Powerful old.”

“Are they on the ship now?”

“No, mon. They here to fix up this calamity. Vampire cats dat old one leave.”

“Just the cats?”

“No mon, dey clean it all up. All the peoples have seen them, or know about it. They cleaning house, brah.”

Abby shook her head like she had water in her ears. Tommy knew how she felt. “So, these old vampires are here to take out witnesses and whatnot, and they left you in charge of this ship? Just you?”

“Oh yeah, sistah. Kona ichiban top-rate pirate captain of briny science.”

“Why would they do that? You’re not even trying to keep a secret.”

Kona let his good-time bravado slip, his shoulders slumped, and when he answered, the breezy island bullshit accent was gone, “Why would anyone believe a word I say?”

“Good point,” Tommy said.

“And besides, you two already knew about vampires. No heat in the night-vision goggles.”

“Also a good point,” Tommy said. “So these are the vampires who came to get Elijah?” Abby had told Tommy that the Emperor had seen Elijah and the hooker, Blue, leaving with three vampires, taking a small boat out into the fog off the St. Francis Yacht Club.

“Ya, mon. Dat old bloodsucka be locked up below now, air tight. Dat buggah stone crazy, him.”

Tommy expected a chill of sorts, but instead of alarm, he felt his senses and mental acuity almost tightening down. There was no flight response, only fight. That was new.

He said, “So Elijah, the hooker, and how many others?”

“Just the three, mon. No hooker. She second gen vamp, mon. They doan make it long. Curl up and die for good, she.”

Abby stepped up and tried to grab Kona by the throat, but her hand was too small and she just ended up knocking him over on the dock. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck are you talking about, Medusa?”

“Oh, dey doan tink Kona know, but only dem vamps Elijah make live long time. How ’bout a drop of Zion, now, brah?” Kona held the lancet out to Tommy.

Tommy was stunned. “One more thing. Why would they bring the ship back here? They had to know that we blew up Elijah’s yacht.”

“Ya mon, but the Raven, she ain’t like dat. She protect herself.” Kona held up his arm and Tommy noticed for the first time he was wearing something that looked like a dog’s shock collar on his wrist. “If I doan have dis here on, da Raven kill Kona dead dead, too. She knows. She knows them three. Anyone else, she send to Davy Jones.”

Tommy took the lancet from Kona, unwrapped it, and pricked his finger with it.

“Not going to happen,” Abby said, catching Tommy’s hand as he was holding his bleeding finger out to Kona. “You are not getting dirty hippie mouth on you. You might be dead but you can catch heinous hacky-sac rot from someone like him.”

“Gentle down, biscuit, Kona has him feelings, too.”

She reached into her messenger and came out with a retractable pen. She unscrewed it, squeezed Tommy’s blood into the cap, then handed it to Kona. “There.”

The Rasta man sucked at the pen so hard he nearly aspirated it, then sat back on the dock and dazzled a wide, white grin. “Ya mon, takin’ the ship home to Zion.”

Abby’s cell trilled. She checked the screen, said, “It’s Foo,” then answered and turned away.