"We cleared Asia."

"Cleared?"

"We killed them, all of them."

"Except for Mrs. Tallman."

"Except for her."

"Elle est une sauvage, aussi?"

"You call them savages?"

"To keep the record clean. We know what they are. But you come from Asia, where we know you have been working very hard. Why not start in America, where the lives are more important to you?"

"Our first solid lead was in Tokyo."

At that moment, Charlie and Becky were brought in.

"Ah," Colonel Bocage said, "your colleagues. Now, please, we shall all sit together."

"You guys okay?"

"Fine," Becky said. She looked wonderful when she was angry - her eyes full of sparks, her cheeks flushed, her lips set in a line that was at once grim and somehow suggestive.

Beside her, Charlie played with the d.a.m.n cigarette machine. His style under this kind of pressure was sullen defiance.

There was a silence. Paul was trying to remember if he had ever felt quite this embarra.s.sed and uncomfortable before. He decided that the answer was no.

"This matter has the very highest level of secrecy attached to it in France," Bocage said. "Government does not care to inform the population of such matters." He paused. "You have concluded the same."

"All governments that we've been to have concluded the same."

"Given that we cannot protect our people, there seems little choice but to hide this until matters are resolved."

Bocage rested his eyes on Becky, so frankly that she looked away. Paul was fascinated. Becky was the very essence of self-possession, and Becky did not look away.

"You obtained what you needed, I trust," he said to her.

"Yes."

He strolled over to his desk. "We used a computer spying program to watch your keystrokes," he said, his voice rippling with self-satisfaction. There were few things more pleasant in the life of an intelligence agent than getting the drop on a colleague from a friendly country. Paul knew, he'd done it. "If you'd like a copy of your work -" He held a file folder toward Becky and Charlie. "In the interest of friendly cooperation."

"It'd be friendlier," Paul said, "if you shared something with us that we didn't already have."

"With pleasure, Mr. Ward," he said. Then his mouth snapped closed, as if he had caught himself in a moment of indiscretion.

Paul saw that the man's carefully relaxed appearance was concealing a state of extraordinary emotional tension. Paul's experience as a wartime interrogator told him that this man was about to address something that he considered extremely terrible.

"Go ahead, Colonel," Charlie said, no doubt reading the same signs.

"We have had one of these creatures under observation in a house in -"

"Let us tell you that," Becky said. "Thirteenth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. Rue des Gobelins."

"Very good. Do you know which house? Or exactly what has happened there?" The colonel was sweating now.

"Tell us," Paul said. He decided that the colonel was a man who habitually exploded in the face of his own staff, but in this situation had to contain the energy.

"We have had une sauvage une sauvage trapped in a house in the Rue des Gobelins for over a year. It hasn't eaten for twelve months, but it still lives." trapped in a house in the Rue des Gobelins for over a year. It hasn't eaten for twelve months, but it still lives."

"So why not go in? If you got the thing trapped, kill it."

"We were hoping that it would attract some response from its peers - curiosity, compa.s.sion, something that would draw them to it. But it did not, and now - well, it's too late."

Something had gone terribly wrong, which explained the ominous lowering of the colonel's voice.

"What's the trouble, Colonel?"

"The house is at this moment burning to the ground. In it, there are two vampires that we know of." He stopped again. He rubbed his cheek, as if hunting for stubble. "There are six of my own people."

"G.o.d save them," Paul said. He knew, now, why the map of the Thirteenth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt was so up-to-date, and also why the sewer system had been altered. They had cut off access from the vampire's lair. Exactly the approach Paul would have taken.

"But I do have some good news for you. This 'Mrs. Tallman' of yours was in the house."

"That's G.o.dd.a.m.n good news, Colonel!" Maybe she hadn't had time to spread her warning. Maybe now she would never have time. "Do you know how long she's been there?"

"She appeared yesterday afternoon at about six. That we know."

"Yesterday afternoon?"

He nodded. "The taxi brought her from a hotel."

"It's possible that she didn't reach any of the others."

"It is. But they are aware that something is wrong, the Paris vampires."

Paul had a.s.sumed that there would be resistance if they realized they were under attack.

"Only very recently," the colonel continued, "have we been able to deal with them. Only since we understood the difficulties involved in - the difficulties with the blood -"

"How do you kill 'em?"

"We shoot them to incapacitate them with a gun that has been especially designed for the purpose, then we burn them to ash."

"That'll work."

He bared his teeth, sucked in air with a hiss. Paul thought, This is one tough b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I like this guy. This is one tough b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I like this guy. Bocage stuck out his jaw. "We made many kills over the years. But the numbers, they still went up. Slowly, but always Bocage stuck out his jaw. "We made many kills over the years. But the numbers, they still went up. Slowly, but always up! up! My G.o.d!" My G.o.d!"

"It's been hard for us, too."

"We would shoot them in the chest, then bury them. They would come out, but carefully, so we would not notice the disturbance to the grave. We thought we were eradicating them, but we were accomplishing nothing. Eventually, even we could see that the pattern of killing went on. But we could not track it because they come up out of mines under the city. All sorts of places. No pattern, you see."

"What about the Ninth and the Thirteenth," Becky asked.

"We eventually tracked one of the creatures back to the Thirteenth. To Nineteen Rue des Gobelins, to be precise. The only one in Paris living above-ground. The rest of them - dear G.o.d, those mines are a horrible place." He fell silent for a moment."We have a seventy percent casualty rate down there."

Paul said nothing. Of the seven people who had started with him, he'd lost four. He and Justin had thought over fifty percent was monstrous.

The telephone rang. Colonel Bocage went around his desk and answered it. He spoke in French at some length, then put it down abruptly. He stood, silent. Paul knew what had happened without even asking.

"Another casualty report. The whole team that entered Nineteen Rue Gobelins was lost. Six men."

"s.h.i.t!" Charlie said.

In the distance, a church bell sounded.

"There is good news. Of one sauvage, sauvage, bones were found. They are being taken out to be burned." bones were found. They are being taken out to be burned."

"And the other one?"

"Mrs. Tallman was reduced to ash."

"Then we're done," Becky said. "Back home to find out if my fiance remembers my name."

"We are going to attempt to isolate and sterilize the mines," Bocage said with that carefully practiced mildness of his. "We're short six essential personnel. It'll take us months to find and train replacements." He raised his eyebrows. "I think that our two countries have some secrets to share."

Langley would be as nervous about this as an old maiden aunt about a slumber party. There were protocols to create, careful integration procedures so that the secrecy laws of both countries could be followed during the operation. He ought to go back and make a full report up supervisory channels. On the other hand, he could just stuff the whole d.a.m.n process straight up Langley's a.s.s, and do it without telling them.

"May I take it that you're on board," Colonel Bocage asked.

He didn't even need to look at Becky and Charlie. Their answer would be the same as his. "You bet."

EIGHT.

Flicker of Fire If she did not have blood immediately - absolutely fresh blood - she would die. Where she lay, trapped, helpless, and in agony, there could be no blood. Here in this dank place, with pain radiating through her body as if an army with burning coals for heels were marching up and down her, Miriam saw that she was coming to the final edge of life.

She had ended up here for one reason only: She had been surprised by the disaster in Chiang Mai and running like a desperate rat ever since. No planning, no forethought, simply a wild race across the world.

The humans had blocked the escape tunnel with concrete and reinforced it with bars of iron. She'd taken to the stairs, running up to the top of the house, to the ancient rooms where Lamia had lived. The old brocades still hung on the walls, rotting and falling though they were. And there was the bed she had used, where Miriam had cuddled with her, and where they had so happily shared kills. But the flames had come, marching like soldiers, and Miriam had been forced to the roof. She'd looked from the edges of the house; the streets had been filled with dozens of police and firemen. She could not climb down the wall into that, not in broad daylight. She could not jump to another building, not quite. She'd found a way, though. She always found a way. She had climbed down inside the chimney, down into the hearths in the bas.e.m.e.nt, below the level of the fire. As she crawled out, covered with ash, the floor above had begun to cave in. Fire had swept over her, fire and the agony of fire.

There had been a tiny s.p.a.ce at the back of the fireplace, where they had pushed the ashes. She'd pulled bricks out and made her way into a brick pipe not more than eighteen inches in diameter, forcing her body into the s.p.a.ce until her joints ground.

She lay with her eyes closed, willing herself not to cry out with the agony of it. If she opened her eyes, all she saw was wet, moldering brick a few bare inches above her face. The whole time she was struggling through the crack, she'd heard Martin screaming and screaming. The only thing the food she'd brought him had done was give him enough energy to die slowly.

They were gaining control over the fire, and above her she could now hear human voices. Water cascaded down.

She heard a sound, very distinct, and very different from the water, or the popping of Martin's hot bones. This sound she heard was breathing - snick snick, snick snick snick snick, snick snick - quick breathing, very light. - quick breathing, very light.

A rat was coming along the tunnel she was in, interested, no doubt, in the scent of raw, bleeding flesh. Or perhaps it was a devotee of cooked food. A French rat might be expected to be a sophisticate.

This rat represented a chance - a small one, admittedly, but its presence changed the odds from nonexistent to . . . well, a little bit better than nothing.

Here, little one, come here, little fruit. "The closer they are genetically to man, the better they are for you. The rats, the apes, the cows, all may be consumed to benefit." So had said the Master Tutomon, her childhood tutor, with his lessons in geometry and languages and survival.

The rat hesitated. She could not see it, but the sound of its breathing and the patter of its feet were clear. It was on her left side, just parallel with her foot. To encourage it to come closer to her hand, she began to wriggle her fingers.

She needed to open her eyes, and she prepared herself as best she could. The s.p.a.ce might be entirely dark by now, and that would be better. The light was much less, but she saw the bricks, so close that they were blurred to her vision. An involuntary gasp came out of her. The rat scuttled away.

She raised her head until it was pressed against the top of the pipe, then looked along her arm. The creature came back. She could just see its interested little face as it went snick-snick, snick-snick snick-snick, snick-snick against her fingertips. against her fingertips.

She stretched her arm, opening her fingers, letting the rat venture closer to the center of the trap. But it came no closer.

The indifferent trickle of water that had been slipping around her body was becoming a steady stream. If this pipe backed up, they would notice. They would send a crew down to unblock it. They would drag her out, even if it tore her to pieces. There would be no mercy. There was never any mercy; that had become quite apparent.

Now, the rat was returning. The rat, in fact, was very close to her fin-gers. Her exquisite nerves communicated the sensation as it sniffed their tips. Finally, it decided to stop sniffing and try a bite of the cool, still flesh that had drawn its curiosity. Instantly, it was in Miriam's hand. It was wriggling and screaming its rat screams - ree-ree-ree ree-ree-ree. She sucked in her breath and moved her arm, drawing the creature closer to her mouth. She had to drag it against her naked breast, and as she did its needlelike teeth slashed the pale skin.

Then the creature was at her mouth. She bit off the shrieking head and drank the body dry, crumbling the remains, which were no more substantial than a little leaf.

The blood of the rat tasted surprisingly good. She could feel it spilling through her. It was going to be useful. But would it be enough for the task that lay ahead?

To continue the motion that her exhaustion had stopped, she had to work her arms over her head and press hard against the edges with her feet. In time, her bones would compress a little more, and she would move a few inches. However, if the pipe got any more narrow, she could be trapped.

Now that she was moving again, the water was sluicing around her, bringing with it bits of spent coal and ash. She pushed, felt more pressure, waited. Nothing.

If she was trapped - her heart began going faster. Harder she pushed, harder and harder. Still nothing. She felt her tongue swelling from the effort. Her bones ground and creaked. Her tongue began to push past the rows of cartilage that filled her mouth, that provided the seal when she sucked blood.

Still nothing, nothing, nothing! nothing! And then - worse - louder voices. Yes, the humans were in the bas.e.m.e.nt, speaking about the slowness of the drain. They must unclog it, of course. They would find within it this strange, distorted being that would slowly return to its previous form, and they would know another secret of the Keepers, that vampires' bones that were not brittle like their own, but pliant. And then - worse - louder voices. Yes, the humans were in the bas.e.m.e.nt, speaking about the slowness of the drain. They must unclog it, of course. They would find within it this strange, distorted being that would slowly return to its previous form, and they would know another secret of the Keepers, that vampires' bones that were not brittle like their own, but pliant.

How would they kill her? Burn her until she was ash, as they had done to her mother? Hammer a stake into her heart until her blood stopped, then let her die over however long it took in a coffin - years, or even whole cycles of years? Or explode her head and dissolve her in acid?

There was a sound, and immediately a dagger of pain shot straight up her spine. The next instant, she slid along the pipe a substantial distance. She could have howled with the sheer joy of it, the wonderful sensation of release from the terrible compression.

The water she had been stopping came behind her, a gushing torrent that swept her down a wider sluiceway. Where she was now, there was considerably more light. It was coming from slits near the ceiling, that appeared at regular intervals. The s.p.a.ce was high enough to stand up in, and she could peer through these slits.

She rose to a sitting position. She was exhausted. A rat was not worth much to her body, and she soon must feed again. She needed a human being.

She drew herself up and up, fighting the great blasts of pain from her tormented body. Finally, she was crouching. To see out, she would have to straighten herself, and she could not until her bones had spread again. She forced herself to try, to hasten the process as much as she could. Agony ran up and down her spine, causing her toes to curl and her lips to twist back. She hissed with it, she stifled the screams that tried to burst out of her throat.

Minutes pa.s.sed. The water, which had been gushing past her knees, subsided to a milder flow. Its acrid stench was replaced by a surprising odor - the scent of a fresh spring. Her kind needed a lot of water and loved fresh water. She was smelling a clean, limestone spring beneath the streets of Paris, in the very sewer. She turned herself toward it and began slowly placing one foot in front of another, walking toward the source. Now she could see that the arched s.p.a.ce widened. To her left and right there were muddy banks. In the water, there swam tiny fish, sweeping along before her like little schools of pale starlight.

This wonderful, entirely unexpected place must be the ancient River Bievre. The rumbling overhead was a street. And indeed, when she finally managed to peer out one of the slits, she saw pa.s.sing tires. As she moved along, the water became better and better. No sewage here at all, just the stream still dancing in its ancient bed of stones.