8.

The someone on her steps was truly dead. Over his punctured heart a star-shaped blotch was black in the moonlight.

Genevieve felt no residue. The intangible thing - immortal soul, psychic energy, battery power - which kept mind and body together in both nosferatu and the warm was gone.

Broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flown forever.

She found she was crying. She touched her cheek and looked at the thick, salt, red tears, then smeared them away on her handkerchief.

It was Moondoggie. In repose his face seemed older, his smile lines turned to slack wrinkles.

She took a moment with him, remembering the taste of the living man, that he was the only one who called her 'Gidget', his inability to put in words what it was about surfing that made him devote his life to it (he'd been in pre-med once, long, long ago and when there was a crack-up or a near-drowning, the doctor he might have been would surface and take over), and the rush of the seas that came with his blood.

That man was gone. Besides sorrow at the waste, she was angry. And afraid.

It was easy to see how it had happened. The killer had come close, face to face, and stuck Moondoggie through the heart. The wound was round, not a slit. The weapon was probably a wooden stake or a sharpened metal pole. The angle of the puncture was upwards, so the killer was shorter than the rangy surfer. Stuck through, Moondoggie had been carefully propped up on her doorstep. She was being sent a message.

Moondoggie was a warm man, but he'd been killed as if he were a vampire.

He was not cold yet. The killing was recent.

Genevieve turned in a half-circle, looking out across the beach. Like most vampires, she had above average night vision for a human being -without sun glare bleaching everything bone-white, she saw better than by day - but no hawk-like power of distinguishing far-off tiny objects or magical X-ray sight.

It was likely that the assassin was nearby, watching to see that the message was received. Counting on the popular belief that vampires did have unnatural eyesight, she moved slowly enough that anyone in concealment might think she was staring directly at them, that they had been seen.

A movement.

The trick worked. A couple of hundred yards off, beyond the trailer park, out on the beach, something - someone - moved, clambering upright from a hollow depression in the dry sand.

As the probable murderer stood, Genevieve saw a blonde pony-tail whipping. It was a girl, mid-to-late teens, in a halter-top and denim shorts, with a wispy gauze neckscarf and - suggestive detail - running shoes and knee-pads. She was undersized but athletic. Another girl midget: no wonder she'd been able to get close enough to Moondoggie, genial connoisseur of teen dreams, to stab him in the heart.

She assumed the girl would bolt. Genevieve was fast enough to run her down, but the killer ought to panic. In California, what people knew about vampires was scrambled with fantasy and science fiction.

For once, Genevieve was tempted to live up to her image. She wanted to rip out the silly girl's throat.

(And drink.) She took a few long steps, flashing forwards across the beach.

The girl stood her ground, waiting.

Genevieve paused. The stake wasn't in the dead man's chest. The girl still had it. Her right hand was out of sight behind her back.

Closer, she saw the killer's face in the moonlight. Doll-pretty, with an upturned nose and the faintest fading traces of freckles. She was frowning with concentration now but probably had a winning smile, perfect teeth. She should be a cheerleader, not an assassin.

She wasn't a vampire, but Genevieve knew she was no warm creampuff, either. She had killed a strong man twice her weight with a single thrust and was prepared for a charging nosferatu.

Genevieve stood still, twenty yards from the girl.

The killer produced her stake. It was stained.

'Meet Simon Sharp,' she said in a clear, casual voice. Genevieve found her flippancy terrifying.

'You killed a man,' Genevieve said, trying to get through to her, past the madness.

'Not a man, a viper. One of you, undead vermin.'

'He was alive.'

'You'd snacked on him, Frenchie. He would have turned.'

'It doesn't work like that.'

'That's not what I hear, not what I know.'

From her icy eyes, this teenager was a fanatic. There could be no reasoning with her.

Genevieve would have to take her down, hold her until the police got here.

Whose side would the cops take? A vampire or a prom queen? Genevieve had fairly good relations with the local law, who were more uneasy about her as a private detective than as a vampire, but this might stretch things.

The girl smiled. She did look awfully cute.

Genevieve knew the mad bitch could probably get away with it. At least once. She had the whole Tuesday Weld thing going for her.

'You've been warned, not spared,' said the girl. 'My A plan was to skewer you on sight, but the Overlooker thinks this is better strategy. It's some English kick, like cricket. Go figure.'

The Overlooker?

'It'd be peachiest all around if you left the state, Frenchie. The country, even. Preferably, the planet. Next time we meet, it won't be a warning. You'll get a formal introduction to the stalwart Simon. Capisce?'

'Who are you?'

'The Slayer,' said the girl, gesturing with her stake. 'Barbie, the Vampire Slayer.'

Despite herself, despite everything, Genevieve had to laugh.

That annoyed Barbie.

Genevieve reminded herself that this silly girl, playing dress-up-and-be-a-heroine, was a real live murderess.

She laughed more calculatedly.

Barbie wanted to kill her, but made no move. Whoever this Overlooker - bloody silly title - was, his or her creature didn't want to exceed the brief given her.

(Some English kick, like cricket.) Genevieve darted at the girl, nails out. Barbie had good reactions. She pivoted to one side and launched a kick. A cleated shoe just missed Genevieve's midriff but raked her side painfully. She jammed her palm-heel at Barbie's chin, and caught her solidly, shutting her mouth with a click.

Simon Sharp went flying. That made Genevieve less inhibited about close fighting.

Barbie was strong, trained and smart. She might have the brain of a flea, but her instincts were panther-like and she went all out for a kill. But Genevieve was still alive after five hundred and fifty years as a vampire.

Barbie tried the oldest move in girly martial arts and yanked her opponent's hair, cutting her hand open. Genevieve's hair was fine but strong and sharp, like pampas grass to the touch. The burst of hot blood was a distraction, sparking lizardy synapses in Genevieve's brain, momentarily blurring her thoughts. She threw Barbie away, skittering her across the sand on her can in an undignified tangle.

Mistake.

Barbie pulled out something like a Mace spray and squirted at Genevieve's face.

Genevieve backed away from the cloud, but got a whiff of the mist. Garlic, water and silver salts. Garlic and (holy?) water didn't bother her - more mumbo-jumbo, ineffective against someone not of Dracula's bloodline - but silver was deadly to all nosferatu. This spray might not kill her, but it could scar her for a couple of centuries. It was vanity, she supposed, but she had got used to people telling her she was pretty.

She scuttled away backwards across the sand. The cloud dissipated in the air. She saw the droplets, shining under the moon, falling with exaggerated slowness, pattering onto the beach.

When the spray was gone, so was Barbie the Vampire Slayer.

9.

'And, uh, this is exactly where you found Mr Griffin, miss?' asked the LAPD homicide detective.

Genevieve was distracted. Even just after dawn the sun was fatiguing her. In early daylight, on a gurney, Moondoggie - whose name turned out to have been Jeff Griffin - looked colder and emptier, another of the numberless dead stranded in her past, while she went on and on and on.

'Miss Dew-dun-ee?'

'Dieudonne,' she corrected, absent-mindedly.

'Ah yes, Dieudonne. Acute accent over the e. That's French, isn't it? I have a French car. My wife says...'

'Yes, this is where I found the body,' she answered, catching up.

'Ah. There's just one thing I don't understand.'

She paid attention to the crumpled little man. He had curly hair, a gravel voice and a raincoat. He was working on the first cigar of the day. One of his eyes was glass, and aimed off to the side.

'And what might that be, Lieutenant?'

'This girl you mentioned, this...' he consulted his notebook, or pretended to, 'this "Barbie". Why would she hang around after the murder? Why did she have to make sure you found the body?'

'She implied that she was under orders, working for this Overlooker.'

The detective touched his eyebrow as if to tuck his smelly cigar behind his ear like a pen, and made great play of thinking hard, trying to work through the story he had been told. He was obviously used to people lying to him, and equally obviously unused to dealing with vampires. He stood between her and the sun as she inched into the shrinking shadow of her trailer.

She wanted to get a hat and dark glasses but police tape still barred her door.

'"Overlooker", yes. I've got a note of that, miss. Funny expression, isn't it. Gives the impression the "Overlooker" is supposed not to see something, that the whole job is about, ah, overlooking. Not like my profession, miss. Or yours either, I figure. You're a PI, like on TV?'

'With fewer car chases and shoot-outs.'

The detective laughed. He was a funny little duck. She realised he used his likability as a psychological weapon, to get close to people he wanted to nail. She couldn't mistake the situation: she was in the ring for the killing, and her story about Barbie the Slayer didn't sound straight in daylight. What sane professional assassin gives a name, even a partial name, to a witness?

'A vampire private eye?' The detective scratched his head.

'It makes sense. I don't mind staying up all night. And I've got a wealth of varied experience.'

'Have you solved any big cases? Really big ones?'

Without thinking, she told a truth. 'In 1888, I half-way found out who Jack the Ripper was.'

The detective was impressed.

'I thought no one knew how that panned out. Scotland Yard still have it open. What with you folk living longer and longer, it's not safe to close unsolved files. The guy who took the rap died, didn't he? These days, the theorists say it couldn't have been him.'

'I said I half-way found out.'

She had a discomfiting memory flash, of her and Charles in an office in Whitechapel in 1888, stumbling over the last clue, all the pieces falling into place. The problem was that solving the mystery hadn't meant sorting everything out. The case had continued to spiral out of control. There was a message there.

'That wouldn't be good enough for my captain, I'm afraid, miss. He has to answer to Police Chief Exley, and Chief Exley insists on a clearance and conviction rate. I can't just catch them, I have to prove they did it. I have to go to the courts. You'd be surprised how many guilty parties walk free. Especially the rich ones, with fancy lawyers. In this town, it's hard to get a conviction against a rich man.'

'This girl looked like a high-school kid.'

'Even worse, miss. Probably has rich folks.'

'I've no idea about that.'

'And pretty is as good as being rich. Better. Juries like pretty girls as much as lawyers like rich men.'

There was a shout from the beach. One of the uniformed cops who had been combing the sand held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was Barbie's bloody stake.

'Simon Sharp,' Genevieve said. The detective's eyebrows rose. 'That's what she called it. What kind of person gives a pet name to a murder weapon?'

'You think you've heard everything in this business and then something else comes along and knocks you flat. Miss, if you don't mind me asking, I know it's awkward for some women, but, um, well, how old are you?'

'I was born in 1416,' she said.

'That's five hundred and, um, sixty-five.'

'Thereabouts.'

The detective shook his head again and whistled.

'Tell me, does it get easier? Everything?'