“But she’s not quite an adult, is she?”

“I didn’t do anything she didn’t like!”

“Anything she didn’t like? Or anything you didn’t like?”

Glancy’s face was so tight, so flushed, he looked as if he might explode. “She… was enjoying it!”

“No, sir. You were enjoying it. It was your fetish. Always being in control. She told me she asked you to stop repeatedly. But you wouldn’t.” The buzz in the courtroom rose, but Padolino continued. “She said you cut her neck, and she cried out for you to stop, but you wouldn’t. She said it was as if you lost all reason, as if you became some sort of monster!”

“Objection!” Christina shouted. “Is counsel testifying now or just repeating hearsay from his ambush witness?”

Padolino ignored her. “Tiffany said you cut her, and you wouldn’t stop, and she believed that if she hadn’t been strong enough to stop you, you would’ve killed her!”

Christina objected, and Glancy denied, but they were both drowned out by the tumult that swept across the courtroom. It took much gavel pounding before Judge Herndon restored any semblance of order.

“Just answer this for the jury,” Padolino said, “and answer truthfully, sir, because I have photographs that were taken by Miss Dell the very night it happened. Do you deny that you cut your young lover on the neck? With a knife?”

The wait seemed interminable. But at last they got their answer.

“No,” Glancy said quietly. “I don’t deny it.”

And then it was over. Not the cross-that went on for another half hour, and then Christina attempted to redirect, for all the good it did. And they would interview Tiffany Dell and try to find some holes in her story. But that had nothing to do with the trial. The trial, as Christina knew all too well, was over. She had no doubts now about whether the jury would convict. She only wondered if they would do her the courtesy of deliberating.

The Sire was dancing around the dead body of his former underling, clapping his hands and shouting in tones that bordered between elation and hysteria. “You thought you could escape the Inner Circle? You thought you could escape my wrath? You fool! Thus to all traitors. Thus to all who challenge the Brotherhood of Miatas. I am the Sire! I cannot be defeated!”

He’s insane, Loving thought, as he lay helplessly on the floor. Totally over the edge. He knew it was only a matter of time before the Sire killed him. And in his current condition, he was unable to stop it. Even if he managed to pull himself up, he could never move fast enough to elude that drooling psychopath.

“You thought you could defeat me, didn’t you?” He jerked the scalpel out of Deep Throat’s neck and pressed it against Loving’s throat. “You thought you could take what was mine. Mine! You thought you could steal from me! No one takes what is mine, my sad pathetic friend. I am an immortal! I am a god among men.”

“Fine,” Loving managed to spit out. “Kill me. But let Beatrice go. There’s no reason why you have to kill her.”

The Sire shook his head, giving Loving a pitying expression. “How little you understand. After all this time.”

Loving felt his gorge rising in his stomach. He had failed-totally and utterly failed. He couldn’t save Beatrice. He couldn’t even save himself.

“How does it feel to be helpless, my strapping friend? How does it feel to know that your time on this planet is about to come to an end? That I’m going to add your petty life to my collection of souls. That I will drink your blood for my breakfast?”

Loving desperately wanted to tell him what he thought, but he knew that wouldn’t be wise.

“Still silent? Very well. Prepare yourself. Say a prayer, if you think it will do you any good.” He held up the scalpel; it glistened in the overhead light. “I’m going to cut your throat now. And drink from you like a fountain. Like a fountain!” He crouched down beside Loving. “I’m going to cut you like-”

“I don’t think so. Say cheese, Dracula.”

“What?” The Sire whirled around in the direction of the voice, but before he could complete the turn the room was split by the sound of a projectile whistling through the air. It thudded into the center of the Sire’s chest. He screamed, then collapsed.

His hands were clutching the bolt of a crossbow.

“Nice shot, if I do say so myself. Kind of disappointed he didn’t turn into dust, though.”

Loving leaned forward, struggling to see. “Shalimar!”

She walked beside him, beaming. “Yup. Your friendly neighborhood vampire hunter.”

Loving did his best to appear cross. “I told you to stay outside.”

“Yeah. Good thing I didn’t listen, huh?” She crouched beside him. “How are you?”

Loving grunted and stretched out his arm. “Help me up.” He felt extremely woozy, but he was determined to stay at his feet. “The Sire. Is he dead?”

“Nah. Hurting real bad, I hope, but not dead. See? Eyes still open.”

Loving bent over the Sire, who was writhing on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to remove the bolt. Loving desperately wanted to kill the fiend on the spot, but he knew that wouldn’t be smart, however pleasurable.

He grabbed the end of the crossbow and gave it a twist. The Sire screeched like a banshee. “Not so fun when the sharp instrument is inside you, huh? You’re bleedin’ big-time. The human body only contains eight pints of blood, as I ’spect you know, bein’ an expert on the subject. So if you don’t tell me what I want to know, immediately, not only am I not gonna call an ambulance, but I’m going to leave you here to die slowly. Then I’m going to let all your henchvamps come in and lap up your blood. And then-” He leaned closer so the Sire could feel his breath. “Then I’m going to take your body to the Playground and put it in the room reserved for necrophiliacs. For the first time in your miserable existence, you’ll be bringin’ some joy into someone else’s life.” He paused, giving the man a look that made it clear he was not bluffing. “One chance. Only. Where’s Beatrice?”

The Sire raised a shaky hand and pointed up the stairs. Then he jerked his hand to the left.

“You’d better be tellin’ the truth, or I’ll prove to everyone in the Inner Circle that you’re not immortal. Come on, Shalimar.”

Shalimar raced upstairs and across the hall, then through the far left door. Loving hobbled behind as best he could. She threw open the door.

“Oh my God.”

It was like a wing of a hospital ward, one bed after the next, all of them alike, all of them occupied. By young girls.

“Beatrice!”

Shalimar spotted her long before Loving did. She raced to her sister’s side. Loving followed as quickly as possible.

She looked much as she had when he’d seen her earlier, in the Inner Circle ceremony-pale, weak, motionless. But now her eyes were open, and they reacted to the sound of her sister’s voice.

“Beatrice! Oh my God. Beatrice!”

Shalimar leaned across the bed and hugged her sister tightly, tears streaming from her eyes. Loving sat on the edge of the bed, tired, hurting, but so so glad. They’d found her. She wasn’t dead. She was-

Loving spotted the IV needle in her arm. Beside the bed was a bottle filled with a red fluid.

Her blood.

And as he scanned the room, he saw that on every bed, every girl had an IV needle in her arm, and a half-filled bottle beside her.

Oh my God, Loving thought. This was too much. Too much.

“Call the ambulance,” he whispered, the best he could manage. “Call the police. Ask for Lieutenant Albertson.”

And then he closed his eyes and tried to make the rest of the world go away.

Oh my God. Oh my dear God.