Fine. Sorry. I collected myself, took in a deep breath and wrote: So, how, exactly, does this operation work?
We’re more efficient now, he wrote. And we have a consistent, steady supply of blood.
Are all of your “suppliers” willing suppliers? I asked.
I’m not going to lie to you, Sam. Not to you, not ever. Some of our sources will never know what happened to them.
These would be your fresh sources?
Yes, Sam, he typed. Those who provide blood straight from the vein, if you will.
Where do you find these sources?
Same place, he typed. They are simply led to a special room...
Where a vampire is waiting.
Yes.
Who feasts from the victim, and then compels them to forget.
Yes, but those are only rare occasions. Mostly, we collect blood in these facilities. It’s win-win, Sam. No bodies, people get paid. Everyone is happy.
I should have been repulsed, disgusted, alarmed, or at least concerned. I was none of these things. I was, if anything, greatly intrigued. And I didn’t even think it was her who was intrigued. No, the person I was now, the thing I had become, saw the useful practicality in Fang’s enterprise.
And, I reasoned, was my arrangement with Allison much different? She permitted me to drink from her, not for monetary gain, but for extra-sensory gain. To increase her sixth sense. We, in effect, used each other. If there was ever a codependent relationship, this was it.
Yes, for vampires to exist, we needed blood. But we didn’t need to kill and draw attention to ourselves. Fang had figured out an efficient enterprise. I admired him for it.
Lord help me, I admired him.
I have to go now, Sam.
Okay, I wrote. Talk later?
Of course. Goodnight, Moon Dance.
Goodnight, Fang.
And with that, he signed out.
Chapter Eleven
I was back in the City of Corona.
This time, I was at the Corona Police Department. The city, which boasted more than a hundred and fifty thousand people, also had, unfortunately, a thriving homicide department.
Detective Jason Sharp was exactly that: sharp. Or, more exact, angular. His young face segued into a pointy chin. His cheekbones were to die for. At least, for a woman. His nose was long and arrow-like. He looked a bit like a drawing come to life. He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt buttoned snugly at his throat. His Adam’s apple rested directly on top of his collar. It bounced and bobbed seemingly with a will of its own. Next to his Adam’s apple was a thick, carotid vein. It pulsed every now and then. But that might have been my imagination.
Detective Sharp was busy bringing up a file on his computer screen. I couldn’t see his computer screen, although I could see it glowing in his eyes—eyes that flashed and darted in their sockets like butterflies on crack. If I had to guess, I would say Detective Sharp had some serious A.D.D. going on. My son’s eyes darted around like that, scanning everything, seeing everything, absorbing everything, reading everything. I always suspected my son had A.D.D. My son was a gamer. I wondered if Detective Sharp was a closet gamer, too.
I said, “You’re new to the case.”
“Yes.”
“Who was the original detective?”
“Renaldo,” he said.