"Official guardian angel business, dear. We got a job to do."

Together they reach Mummy's bathroom. Angie makes sure the seat is down and points in a wide circle at the blue plush carpet all around the toilet. "Try not to get too much in the bowl, manly man," Angie says. They close the bathroom door, sealing him inside.

The girls laugh, listening. Behind Angie's head Sara sees the tips of her white wings. Pinning Angie against the wall, Sara sinks her teeth deep into Angie's throat.

Gray. All gray.

But she's seen so much. Done so much. Felt and dreamed so much. Why does a gray nothingness fill her with such unspeakable, icy, curdled horror?

Can't wake up. Of course. But why no vampires? Why no city? No sky, no ground, no ... me.

Her eyes widen. She knows why.

"All right, Morticia. I'll see you again tomorrow night."

Sara smiles as Benny climbs out of her new Porsche. Multi-kilo deals every night now and he still only knows that silly club nickname. Of course, Sara will never know whether "Benny" is his real name, either.

She takes her pipe from her purse and warms the bowl for another hit, keeping the flame hidden down low. She always parks close to the front entrance now, paying a bouncer handsomely to watch the car whenever she happens to be inside.

The high is muted by the heroin in her bloodstream but at least the paranoia is under control.

Go inside. Leave the pipe and go inside.

She pries it loose with her other hand. The sleepy c.o.ke bugs travel sluggishly through her veins as she opens the door and floats toward the club.

The couple grams in the bottle can get me through. For now.

She dials her own number from the payphone in the club's vestibule area, punching in her code when her machine picks up. No messages. She fishes for coins in her purse, finding just enough, and calls Miguel. It rings and rings. The answering machine picks up.

"I just checked my machine and you hadn't called," she says. "You said you'd be getting some more and I just set up something pretty big ... wanted to know if I could stop by tonight-"

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Jesus. You sound like s.h.i.t."

"Yes," he says. "So tired, my friend. And cold. I got a fever, I think, but I feel so cold."

"Mmm hmm. It's called blood poisoning, dear. I told you you had to be more careful with needles."

So much for fighting the coca, Miguel.

"Uh, look," she says. "You said you'd get it. I need it. You got it?"

He wretches. "No. Can't tonight."

"No! I need it tonight, see? I've got to be a consistent source or they'll start getting it someplace else. Just let me go instead of you-"

"No. That is not possible. You can call me later. Maybe I feel better then, set up something. I don' know."

"Fine." She hangs up.

There is an empty table toward the back of the club. She sits, fishing her cigarettes from her purse. She lights one, setting the pack on the table and staring ahead at the place where she'd first sat with Alexander and Neil. The purse goes onto her lap- n.o.body will see her reaching into it if she suddenly needs the gun.

The heroin fades from her system in little flutters, like a candle burning out. The crash looms. Powder might put it off until she can get something to even herself out. She fishes the snort bottle from her purse and takes a couple toots, watching the humans on the dance floor.

Animosity and jealousy seep toward her from the crowd. People surge before her, an endless churning of fresh faces, fresh blood.

How many have my product pumping through them right now? Or at least Miguel's. How many got it from someone else?

She takes a few more snorts, tilting back her head to make sure it all stays in.

"May I see the bottle, miss?"

A cop. Obvious from the voice, although she keeps her eyes turned away from him. She stands, pretending not to know he is there, stuffing the bottle into her bra between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as the purse slides off her lap. The crowd closes around her. She makes it a few more steps before the cop pushes through. His hairy hand grabs her shoulder and holds her.

She sits on the hood of the unmarked police car. The detective wears a sport coat from one of those stores that sells tools and cheap furniture; it looks like it was woven from strips of waxed paper. He nods as he speaks to her, peering down as if she's a naughty five-year-old.

"How'd you get in there with no I.D, honey?"

She shrugs. Someone in the crowd might have found her purse by now, becoming the proud owner of a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic and the keys to a Porsche Turbo full of cash, but not her I.D.

All this for two grams, you stupid pigs? Give me a blood test and you'll probably get another two grams.

"Well, whattaya think, Officer Johnson?" the plainclothes cop asks. "You're the arresting officer. I'm starting to think we'll need to take her downtown. She can have someone bring her I.D. down there so we can book her for real."

He keeps glancing at her as he talks, like he's trying to make sure she's listening.

I get it, I get it. Why chase the Baby Doll Killer or the Tylenol murderer when you can grab snort bottles in nightclubs?

"I'll let you make the call, detective," the uniformed cop says. The detective sits next to her on the hood.

"What's your name, honey?" His voice is calm and father-like.

"Tish." She tugs at her long black sleeve, making sure it covers the pinholes in her arm.

"Where are you from, Tish?"

"Wilmette."

The detective exchanges a knowing look with the uniformed officer. They both roll their eyes. "Yeah, we've seen a few girls from the suburbs like you lately. You probably just came into the city, dressed up all wild and looking for excitement, isn't that right, Tish?"

"Uh huh." She says it in a desperate voice, with drooping ba.s.set-hound eyes. It might help convince them of the innocent little girl bit, but really she is just coming down again.

"But now I think you see that this isn't just a game, Tish. Isn't that right?"

She stays silent. It will be a bad crash.

"Tish, listen to me. We're going to have to take you downtown. What you've got in that bottle ... that ain't kid stuff. You're really in some hot water, sweetie."

The confinement, the strip search, the other inmates. The horror of a night without cocaine. The coming down, not just from c.o.ke but from heroin and everything else floating in the veins ...

The cop sighs dramatically, just like Mummy used to. "Why did you have so much of it, sweetheart? Did you borrow that bottle from somebody else? Your boyfriend, maybe?"

Sara says nothing.

"Listen. A nice girl from the suburbs wouldn't do so good with those monsters in jail. And we don't have your I.D, so you'd have to sit in there until you could get someone to bring it in for you, because they'd have to record the arrest- and that'd be public record ... just a big mess." He shakes his head and sighs again. "Look. We want the big guy, okay? The one dishing out this c.r.a.p to girls like you." He pauses. "I know you think he's your friend. But he's not your friend."

Sara's body starts to deflate.

"If you help me get him, Tish, I can put in a good word with the prosecutor. Maybe we wouldn't even pay attention to you at all, if you know what I mean. Of course, if you don't help me, I'm going to have to tell him that you were uncooperative."

The detective lowers his voice. "The more you help us, the more we'll help you, all right? We want the big guy, honey. The one you got this stuff from. If you give me a name, I'll tell the prosecutor you're a nice girl. If you help me a little more than that, I'll help you a little more, too. It's either him or you."

She is a vampire, controlled only by the evil that sustains her. Miguel knows that. There is nothing else.

She wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, taking a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't like this tote bag thing, Tish. Somea the other officers think you're tryin' to pull something."

"My dress is too tight and too low for me to wear a wire. You said it yourself." Her voice is too desperate, her words too quick.

"All right. All right. Just do the deal and then come back out. You're gonna do just fine. We gotcha a good chunk of money there, sweetie, so you ought to be able to bring us something. The bigger deal you set up, the lighter we'll come down on you. All right?"

She nods.

"Good."

She starts toward the building. Her steps falter, half-shuffling. Her blood thins out as she comes down, every heartbeat pumping away a little more of the c.o.ke energy and comfortable heroin cloud.

Quick, heavy steps catch up with her. The detective's arm wraps around her shoulder as he brings his face close to her ear. "Oh, and I gotta tell you one more thing, honey. There are cops all around here. So don't try anything like running away. That would be a big mistake, okay?"

She nods again and resumes her walk through the darkness.

CHAPTER 17.

The Difference Between Alive and Undead.

SHE SHIVERS AND sweats, waiting for the door to open. Her knees shake. Blood thumps at her temples.

Nervousness. And coming down. And being sick with myself for being in this situation.

The door inches open. She tries to smile but her eyes are welling with tears.

"Uh, hi," she says, her voice shaking.

The door opens a little farther. Iggy stares at her with a twisted, closed-lipped smirk. He says nothing.

Last time was more than a year ago. He should suspect. And he'll kill me ... or worse, he'll send me back out of here with nothing and the cops will take me and throw me in a cage and I'll be locked up and no more feeling all right no more making the hurt go away no more no more no more.

Iggy opens the door wider still, smiling icily. "Come in."

The transmitter sits in the tote bag, on top of her panties, on top of her dress, on the floor next to her head, illuminated by the red heat lamps. He sits in a chair, staring down at her and licking his lips as she writhes on the floor. He has one foot on the other side of her head, stuffing his long-nailed toes into her mouth. The other foot is snaking between her legs, exploring. Her stomach is still heaving, trying to empty itself when really it has been empty for years.

"Yes," he says. "Just like that. Don't close your legs around my foot, you stupid c.u.n.t. Suck it. Suck that toe. Bob your head back and forth like it's a c.o.c.k."

His voice is hoa.r.s.er and raspier than ever but the cop said the transmitter was pretty sensitive.

"Get up on your feet," he says. Turn around. Point that little a.s.s at me."

His fingers prod her roughly. She stays silent except for a few gasps. She pulls away as he forces a few more fingers inside. He spanks her hard, several times, and the sound echoes around the bas.e.m.e.nt. He spins her, pushing her hips down and forcing her to her knees.

"Get my d.i.c.k out," he says. He reaches for his gla.s.s pipe.

She undoes the greasy zipper and flops it out, wincing. He slaps her.

"Wipe that s.h.i.tty look off your face and get busy," he says. He raises the pipe to his lips. She stares into his eyes.

Hit me again. A few more times. Warm me up some more.

He sets down the pipe, exhaling with an annoyed hiss. He grabs her by the hair, slapping her with his palm and then the back of his hand, again and again, holding her face still to absorb the blows. Her nose bleeds. Her cheeks sting.

She keeps her eyes locked on him, taking slap after slap. Her vision blurs. She lowers her eyes. He stops slapping and pulls her face into his lap.

She puts the limp little worm between her lips, moving her head up and down. He flicks the lighter and sucks vapor. Her saliva dribbles down into his pants. He holds his breath. She tries to keep her lungs as empty as she can.

Finally he yanks her hair, whipping her head back. He exhales into her face. She straightens up as tall as she can, sucking at his lips for the vapor. He laughs. He shoves her head away from him, hard.

She falls to the floor, landing stiff-armed to avoid crushing the tote bag. He stares at her, satisfied, enjoying his high. She reaches for her clothes.

"Stop. I didn't say you could get dressed yet. Stay like that. On the floor, b.u.t.t naked, just like that. Yeah."

She stays like that. He stares for about five minutes and then finally looks away. She gets herself dressed again. "Can we do business now? I don't want to stay down here all night."