"I assume your interest isn't… academic?"

  "No, it's not. We've had three murders that appear to be tied to the book in some way. And I'm afraid we might be due for more if I don't figure out what's going on."

  "On what basis did you conclude that the homicides you refer to have anything to do with… the book we're talking about?"

  He doesn't want to say the name out loud. Interesting.

  "The first victim had a copy of the Opus Mago in his possession. He was tortured to make him tell where the book was hidden, then killed after he gave it up."

  "My God." The wheezing in Prescott's voice was worse now.

  "The other two victims are apparently part of some kind of sacrifice connected to a spell from the book," I said. "At least, that's the theory we're working from right now."

  "And how on earth did you reach that unlikely conclusion, Sergeant?"

  "Each victim had occult symbols carved on their bodies, symbols that aren't part of any recognized system of magic. I've been told that the symbols may have been taken from the Opus Mago."

  "Told? By whom?"

  "A local guy who's acting as a... consultant on this case. His name's Vollman, Ernst Vollman."

  There was no long pause this time. The name was barely out of my mouth before Prescott said, "I'm afraid I can't help you."

  "Professor, listen, if there's–"

  "I really doubt there's any real assistance I could offer," he said. "I've only translated fragments of the book in question, and I can't see how my very limited knowdge on the subject could be of any use to you. It would just be a waste of your time – and mine."

  "Professor Prescott, I–"

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant. Goodbye."

  A second later, I was listening to a dial tone.

  I hung up and said several nasty things about Prescott under my breath. Once that was out of my system, I grabbed my Rolodex and looked up the phone number of a guy I know who's a professor at the U.

  If he didn't know the time and place of Prescott's guest lecture, he'd sure as hell know how to find out.

I was hoping to hear from Vollman before my shift was over. Instead, I got a call from Lacey Brennan.

  Lacey works the Supe Squad over in Wilkes-Barre, which is twelve miles away and the biggest city in the Wyoming Valley, after us. We've done a little business over the years when a case crossed jurisdictional lines – like the time when a werewolf serial killer was going around tearing up people in both her county and mine.

  Lacey's a good cop. A fine-looking woman, too, but I wasn't hot for her or anything.

  Besides, she was married.

  The first thing I heard when I picked up the phone was, "Hey, Stan, how many vamps does it take to change a light bulb?"

  "I'm fine, Lace, thanks for asking," I said. I'm used to her supe jokes by now, although they never seem to get any better. "I don't know, how many?"

  "Trick question – they can't do it. Because when it comes to changing light bulbs, vampires suck."

  "That one's a hoot, it really is. I'm cracking up, but deep inside, where it doesn't show." If I ever actually laughed at one of her jokes, I think Lacey'd be offended. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked.

  "I hear you've got murder vics turning up with weird shit engraved on the bodies."

  "Where'd you hear that?" There's no reason to hide stuff like that from Lacey, but in this job caution becomes a habit after a while.

  "Ah, you know how the rumor mill is. Cops gossip worse than old ladies at a bake sale."

  "Well, you heard right. Two corpses, so far. We're still working on what the symbols mean."

  "Anything unusual about the CODs?"

  "Cause of death for the first one was a slit throat. The second guy was shot."

  "That doesn't exactly sound out of the ordinary, Stan," Lacey said.

  "No, but get this: the knife was apparently coated with silver, and the bullet we dug out of the other vic seems to be made of pure charcoal. Oh, and there's one thing I forgot to mention: both victims were vamps."

  "Holy fuck," she said softly. I never figured out whether Lacey swears because she wants to be considered one of the boys, or if she's just a natural guttermouth.

  "My feelings exactly," I said.

  "What about the perp – you got any leads that aren't totally worth shit?"

  "Bits and pieces, but nothing solid yet. Why?"

  "Because it looks like your perp's broadening his range. I'm pretty sure last night the motherfucker did one over here."

I got authorization from the lieutenant to put in some overtime the next day in the cause of inter-departmental cooperation. The chief always loves to hear about stuff like that. When my shift was over, I headed home to grab a few hours' sleep. After lunch, I'd head down the line to Wilkes-Barre, to see whether Lacey Brennan had turned up the third victim of our serial killer.

My headlights illuminated her for a second as I made the slow turn into the driveway, a young woman with dark hair who looked like early twenties, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt. As the lights passed over, her eyes reflected back a red glow.

  Far as I know, there's only one creature with eyes that show red in response to light. Not cat or deer or raccoon or fox – nothing in the natural world.

  Vampire.

  But even without the red reflection, I'd have known what she was.

  I parked in the right half of the two-car garage. It had come with the house – a big, weathered Cape that had been just about the right size when my family and I had lived there. But I live alone now, and the place has more space than I need. A lot more. I've thought about selling, but I've lived there a long time, and I'm used to the house and its ghosts.

  The front porch has three concrete steps leading up to it, and the vampire was sitting on the bottom one. I eased myself down next to her.