“You like that?” asked de Vries. “I learned it from a young woman in New Orleans about a year ago. You feel the pressure on your throat? You move too much, and you lose your head. You know what happens to a vampire who loses his head?”

With a soft chuckle, de Vries wiped at Dereks immobile face, and with each touch of the sponge, the caked make-up disappeared. Underneath, Derek D’imato’s skin was black. Not the black of someone with African blood, no, the intense sun of that continent had never touched something so dark. As the make-up was patiently washed away, the darkness became so absolute that Derek’s features began to meld with each other. Even in the camera’s floods, the black flesh absorbed the light and gave nothing back.

When de Vries was done, Derek had become a faceless nightmare, with only the tiny crescents of his teeth and the violent white and blue of his eyes to testify that this was a face, and not some black pit.

De Vries dropped the brown-smudged sponge, and took the small silver spoon from the bowl. With two swift, precise motions, he used the lip of the spoon to pluck the blue discs from Derek’s eyes. Then he dropped the spoon back into the bowl.

Derek didn’t blink, and now his eyes were simply white, with two small pinholes of night at their center.

“Holy mother of God,” whispered Priest.

De Vries stepped back. “What did I tell you? If his kind is allowed to spread its infection, metahumanity is doomed.”

Priest shook her head as if to clear it after too much strong drink. “Are you ready, then?”

De Vries laid a hand on Priest’s shoulder, and looked at Derek. “You are familiar with the sacrament of extreme unction? As a good Catholic boy, you should be.”

Derek glared at them both.

Beside him, Priest chuckled. “You know, last rites? I even know it in Latin.”

De Vries grinned at Derek, who still couldn’t move. “You see, I have taken pains to make this as formal as possible. Your father should appreciate that.” He made a small passing motion with his hand, and Derek’s nothing face continued its truncated arc, his teeth snapping shut on the air where de Vries’ hand had been when Derek had begun his attack.

“You’ll pay for this, de Vries!” he screamed. “My father will make you and this chiphead priest suffer beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”

Priest began to chant as de Vries lit incense along the edges of the circle. “Per istam Sanctum unctionem et suam piissimam inisericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti…”

Priest finished anointing Derek, though instead of actually touching him, she simply sprinkled water at him from outside the circle.

There was one final touch de Vries wanted to make. He turned to face one of the cameras, looking straight into it. “Marco D’imato,” he said. I have taken your son, and he is no more to you. Soon, you will be visited in the dark of night, and I will set you on the road to follow him.”

It was time.

Derek screamed as de Vries turned back to him. And there was little wonder why. Short Eyes had taken the Priest chip, and was back to her normal self. She had also pulled a small surgical pump from out of her bag and was holding it out to de Vries. This wasn’t how de Vries preferred to work, but if the information he’d received was correct, for him to ingest Derek’s blood would have devastating consequences. So new methods had to be found. Stepping up to Derek, he spoke the word he’d learned in New Orleans last summer, and Derek’s head snapped into stillness once again.

De Vries attached the surgical pump to the side of the chair and fastened the drain tubing to the side of Derek’s neck, The surgical pump had been modified so that it would clamp independently onto Derek’s head, and the hose would drain the blood from his jugular. At the same time, the silver needle on the pump would stop Derek’s natural regeneration from closing the wound. Clamping the needle into the skin of Derek’s neck, causing it to puncture the jugular, de Vries started the small motor a the base of the pump.

A tiny whining noise filled the warehouse as the suction pump began to siphon Derek’s black blood from his neck, down the tubing, and into the large bucket Short Eyes had placed on the floor at de Vries’ feet.

Like petrol from a car, thought do Vries with a sad smile. With a wave of his hand, he released Derek’s head from the barrier.

Derek screamed, a loud piercing wail that shattered one of the windowpanes, high in the warehouse.

2

Hey, Stem, I need a favor-off the record. I thought you OC guys might be able to get me something on a small security corp named Fralellanza. inc. here in town. I hear the name means “brotherhood” and that these guys popped up out of nowhere about seven years ago. The scan I got says they’re a little family-owned organization, which is growing fast. Some of my snoops say they’re Mafia, and considering what happened today, it seems plausible. The son of Fratellanza’s owner died in a very peculiar way a few weeks back, and we’ve been holding the body pending certain tests. Then, today I found out that the stiff had been released to the family and that my captain had closed the case. I don’t want to get in his face on this. but the whole things got me wondering. Think you could do a little legwork on your end? I’ll owe you one.

– 

Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Mike Powell. Department of Homicide, to Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanza deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060

Rachel Harlan stood naked in the cluttered studio, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back and shoulders. She wiped sleep from her eyes, then walked over to Warren’s latest sculpture and threw back the cover cloth. Underneath was a demon, vicious and cruel, straining to break free of its marble prison.

Rachel studied the creature’s partially formed wings, outspread and anxious to take flight. The face was unfinished, but she could picture what it would look like when Warren was done sculpting it-a ruined visage, scarred and twisted with a rage so intense it scared her.

Rachel reached out and ran her fingertips over the hewn stone. Anyone watching might have been struck by the sharp contrast of her beauty to its ugliness. Where Rachel’s nose was pert and straight, the sculpture’s hooked into a hideous beak. Rachel’s eyes were wide and blue, her lips full and naturally red. The demon eyes would shine with dark intensity, Its lips would be torn by its jagged line of teeth.

Rachel shuddered. She didn’t understand Warren’s choice of subjects, but he was the artist, not her. This demon sent a chill like ice running all the way down her spine.

She stepped back from the table-actually a large wooden door propped up on twin metal filing cabinets-and studied the block of marble from a distance.

The damn thing is ugly, she thought, then quickly tossed the cover cloth back over it.

When Warren had selected the marble block from the quarry, Rachel thought he was seeing an angel inside the large chunk of rock. An angel would have been sweet.

But now she knew that he’d been seeing a demon all along. And she didn’t know what was more frightening, the demon or Warren’s mood while carving it. He’d been distant and sullen all week and she couldn’t figure out why.

She turned from the block and crossed the large, open studio, her bare footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors and bouncing off the high, white stucco ceiling.

She walked to the trid, past the midnight-blue futon couch that was the large room’s only furniture, except for easels and worktable. She slipped a chip of Cool Phantom’s “Millennium Bygones” into the rack, letting the lead singer’s soothing voice pour out of the wall speakers. She swayed to the music as she made her way into the kitchen.