My style is di bomb digi bomb dideng dideng digidigi
Oo-oo Oo-oo OoOoOo Oo Oo
Car rude boy no play with di bomb dideng dideng digidigi
Oo-oo Oo-oo OoOoOo Oo Oo
The nonsensical lyrics of the Teddybear’s Cobrastyle jerked me out of the kind of sleep where you’re all warm and cozy with a light sheen of sweat on your brow. The deepest and most fulfilling sleep I’d had in weeks.
I reached over to the side table, grabbed my cell, and gave the screen a poke to turn the alarm app off. The song would reverb in my head for the rest of the morning, like it did every weekday, but it was catchy enough not to drive me completely crazy.
Before I could even think about getting out of bed, the cell chirped twice … an incoming call from Mom.
“Hei, Äiti (hello, Mother), how’ya doing?” My voice came out as a scratchy mess from a throat full of sand.
“Hei, Kalevi (Hello, Kalevi). I am well,” she returned much more energy than I felt. “I woke you up?”
“Good guess, Äiti. It’s morning.”
“It’s eight o’clock there. You should be awake already.” She sounded disapproving, making me feel about an inch tall, an ability she always used with the practical ruthlessness of a person who believes she’s right.
“I know, Äiti, I know. Late night, that’s all.” And I was going to be late for work. Oh, well … wouldn’t be the first time.
A different voice came online. Pekka Hakala, my father. “Kalevi, you hip deep?” Fifty-four years old, an ex Marine and still tougher than bad beef jerky, my dad had the body of an athlete half his age. He knew what I did for a living, and so did my mom. Both had Interdictions to keep them quiet. As far as I knew, they were the only outside people in the last hundred years who had knowledge of the Bureau.
“Not yet, Dad, just doing research on a sick bastard of a serial killer.”
“That Organ Donor fella I heard about on the Nightly News?”
“That’s the scumbag.”
“But I thought you looked into … other things?”
I sighed, which made a whooshing sound in the cell’s speakers. “I still do, Dad. I have a feeling about this case. My gut tells me it may fall into my jurisdiction.”
Then he said what I knew he’d say. The thing that a father worried to death for his only surviving child would utter. “Son, don’t you think it’s time you got out?”
I gave him the same answer I’ve given dozens of times. “Not yet. I still haven’t found a way to kill it.”
Exasperation roughed his voice. “It’s been twenty years …”
“And I’ve only been in the Bureau for ten. I’ll stay in for as long as I need to.”
“Lord knows I want you to, son. More than anything, but this is Iku-Turso we’re talking about.” Desperation crawled into his words.
“It’s a monster, Dad, not a god. I kill monsters for a living.”
“But ten years, Kalevi. I know the attrition rate at your job. The fact that you’re alive still amazes me.”
This conversation, repeated so many times, still twisted and pulled my guts like fishhooks. For some reason, maybe fatigue, this time it really pissed me off. However, I kept my tone respectful. Big and tough as I may be, Dad could kick my ass any day of the week and twice on Saturdays. “Enough, Dad. I won’t quit. Not ever. Not until I find what’s needed to kill Iku-Turso.”
Long pause. “Okay, son. I love you.” Another pause. “Please be careful.”
Something stung my eyes and I wiped away a bit of moisture. “Always am, Dad.”
There came muffled voices and Mom’s worried tones caressed my ear. “You be careful and come to visit, okay?”
“Yes, Äiti, I will.”
“Näkemiin, Kalevi.” (Goodbye, Kalevi.)
“Näkemiin, Äiti.” (Goodbye, Mom.)
Click and the line went dead. I love my folks, but so many feelings get stirred up when they call that it’s hard to carry on with the rest of my day. Right then what I needed most was a nice, scalding hot shower that would bring me into sync with the rest of the day.
Fiery needles stung my skin and turned it bright red, the water rushing its way over my body in streams that both caressed and scalded. I stood there, getting hotter and hotter, breathing in the steam that cleared my head and chased away any vestige of lingering hangover.
One and a half bowls of Lucky Charms later, I dressed in a soft pair of khakis, a blue polo bearing the Izod alligator, and a cream-colored sport coat. I had to admit, I looked pretty snazzy. I drove slowly to work, the Honda purring along Chambers Road nicely, passing about a zillion other Hondas and quite a few Subarus—seemingly the State Car of Colorado. The late May sky shone bright blue with hardly a wisp of cloud. Everything looked so bright and cheerful in total contrast to my mood. Even the smog seemed less oppressive and brown. If a blue jay decided to land on my shoulder when I exited the car, I was going to draw my Lahti and blow its little birdy brains out. I wasn’t feeling very Zippity-Doo-Dah.
“Hello, grumpy,” Patricia snorted as I swung through the door. “Get up on the wrong side of the blonde?”
I hefted my briefcase that contained the files printed out the night before. “Woke up on the wrong side of studying,” I said defensively, dropping the case and laying hands on the desktop. “You know me and research. I’m an action man.”
Pat’s Mac pinged. “Well, ‘action man,’ your Green Pea is chewing the walls in your office, waiting for your lazy butt.” Her smile broke through like the sun through dark clouds. “Funniest damn thing I’ve seen all month.”
My answering grin matched hers tooth for tooth. “The only good thing about training Green Peas is torturing them.”
Mood much lightened, I trotted into my office, holding up a finger to forestall any explosions of feminine wrath.
“Pop quiz, hotshot,” I rapped. “A serial killer is leading the FBI and the DPD around by their noses. After a body is found, he calls up to tell them where the organs are. He could leave them someplace public, or at a hospital, but doesn’t. Why? Oh, by the way, I see three of the weapons Alex gave you. Deduct two points. Do better next time.”
Ariel shut her mouth with a snap and I knew it cost her dearly not to spew molten anger all over the room. Instead, she considered the question for a few seconds before speaking. “It’s about the Organ Donor?”
I nodded.
“Then it’s not our jurisdiction,” she said primly.
The look I tossed at her should have burned a hole through her skull but she remained unimpressed. “It’s my jurisdiction if I decide it is. Now, answer the damn question.”
“You want to know why he calls the cops?”
“Yeah.”
She tapped a forefinger against her chin. “He just wants to jerk the PD around.”
I shook my head. “Too simple. He goes to the effort of buying disposable phones to make the calls and leaving calling cards handwritten in crayon. Why? It doesn’t jibe with me. A smart killer doesn’t take that many risks.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe he’s not that smart.” Ariel frowned. “But he is,” she continued. “He’s smart enough to dump the bodies in public and not get caught. Not by traffic cams or ATM cams. Nobody sees this guy.”
“Exactly,” I stated emphatically. “He’s so damn smart he shouldn’t take extra risks. So why do it?”
The gears in her noggin were churning full bore as she considered the problem and I took the opportunity to study her. Ivory blouse, black jacket and slacks (with ankle holster, I noted), hair pinned back, exposing a broad forehead and oval face. A damn fine looking woman, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted like that. You get too close to someone, a partner, a friend, lover, whatever, and you’ll find it’s a one-way ticket to Deadsville … population: you.
“I wish you wouldn’t stare at me,” she commented with surprisingly little heat.
“I’ll stare, I’ll curse. Hell, I’ll sing the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ if I want, woman. If you can’t work under pressure, then get thee gone. You’re of no use to me.”
“A distraction!” she blurted.
“So, I’m distracting you—”
She shook her head. “Not you, Mr. H, the Organ Donor.”
“Go on,” I urged, intrigued.
A bit of a smile curled the corners of her mouth and she dimpled prettily. “He wants the DPD and the Feebs to run around chasing their tails. When he calls in, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that it sends everyone scrambling.” Her brow furrowed. “If he had them distracted, then he could focus on something else, some other sort of illegal activity; that might be the reason he takes the organs in the first place.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t make sense. We can’t apply logic to this nutjob.”
Of course! I smacked myself on the forehead in sudden insight. “Actually we can,” I uttered breathlessly. At her confused look, I smiled. “ ‘Nuts’ doesn’t mean dumb. There are plenty of variants of crazy.” My smile must have resembled a shark’s. “Think about it. Sure he/she/it is crazy, but it takes a lot of careful planning, intelligence, and research to carry off the murder of half a dozen people without getting caught. Plenty of smarts and enough control to plan something else. Something unexpected.” Mentally I added to her tally of notches because, according to the reports Ghost had secured, Ariel had offered more insight in three minutes than the BAU had presented in weeks. She was rising pretty high on my Respect-O-Meter.
Excitement burning in my chest, I turned to my Mac and clicked on an icon in the dock. When the blank document appeared, I began to type furiously. “You,” I told Ariel. “Get to go to the head of the class, hotshot. I like you. You might just live past Friday.”
I could almost feel the heat of her appreciation and knew that if I turned around I’d see a face full of dimples. We all like to be appreciated. “Listen, Pea, while I do this, let’s see how well you paid attention in class.”
“Pardon me?”
“I will if you pass, Pea. Tell me … who founded the Bureau in America?”
Her answer was prompt. “George Washington, 1789.” I guess she had paid attention to the briefings.
“What was it called?
“The Committee of Unnatural Affairs.”
“Who’s been read in on the Bureau and its mandate?”
“The President, Vice-President, Secretary of State, the Joint Chiefs, and the directors of all the major law enforcement alphabets.”
“Okay, hotshot,” I threw over my shoulder as I typed. “You obviously know the hierarchy. Goody for you. Let’s move on to practical application. What is magic?”
A very long pause. So long that I nearly turned around. Finally, “Magic is a force or forces that have no explanation as to—”
“Beeep! Wrong!” I stopped typing and swiveled in my chair, crossing my arms. “Magic, my dear Green Pea, is science by other means. We have twenty magicians and a roomful of eggheads in R&D back in DC trying to figure it out.”
I chuckled at her look of incomprehension. “Listen, Pea, magic follows the laws of physics, the Laws of Conservation of Energy, Cause and Effect and all the rest. In fact, it won’t be too long before we understand it fully.” I started counting on the fingers of my right hand. “One: magical energy is everywhere. You find it in people, animals. It can be found in special places, such as Easter Island, and you can even generate a large amount by such means as murder—what’s known as Necromancy.” My second finger went down. “Two: the use of magic comes from the will to use it and the ability to tap into it. Runes, jujus, candles and pentagrams are all tools to help the mind focus on what it wants. A magician Shapes the spell in his or her mind and releases it. Three: what you can do with it is directly proportional to the energy it is supplied with, i.e., … use a little magic energy, do little things … use a lot, do a lot. Four: it’s genetic; not everyone can do it. If your mom could, chances are fifteen percent that you can. We know; our lab has isolated the gene. Really cool stuff, by the way.” One finger left. I saved the middle one for last. “Five: if you don’t try to understand it, learn to recognize it, it will kill you. Sooner rather than later. We take on a lot of magic users who think they should run things. They’re our number one source of headaches around here.”
Her face screwed up like she’d tasted something sour. “Magicians, really?”
“Really and truly. There’ve been magicians on this planet as long as there have been humans. Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Graham Bell, Henry Ford, JFK …”
“JFK?”
“Hmph. For some reason, all the Kennedy boys were, except for JFK Junior. It passed him straight over; all he got were the looks.” I paused for a second. “It seems that all magicians are highly intelligent, or that magic increases intelligence. Maybe ambition has something to do with it, but if you look at all the great men and women in history, and all the infamous ones, many were magicians. Spooky, eh?” She should have been briefed on magicians as part of her orientation, but that never happened. Someone wanted to throw her into the shark tank to see if she’d swim or become breakfast. I had a strong suspicion that she’d take the sharks on, bite for bite.
The soles of her shoes made a soft whish whish whish as she began to pace. “This is strange, but looking at it cockeyed, it makes a bizarre sort of sense. If you accept magic, you have to accept magicians.”
“It gets weirder, trust me.” With a flourish I finished my typing and sent the interdepartmental email winging its way through cyberspace.
“How? How does this get weirder?” she muttered.
If she had looked up, my smile might have scared her out of her wits. “Hitler was a magician.”
Instantly she stopped. “Okay, now I know your razzing me, I just know it. No way!” Her voice carried equal amounts of resentment and wrath.
Time to hit her hard. If you can’t take the heat … “What do you think the death camps were all about? One of the greatest sources of magical energy is death, the more sudden, the greater the output of energy. Kill a lot of people, generate a lot of energy. Auschwitz, Bergen Belson, Sobibor, Treblinka … they were some largest magical batteries known to mankind. All used by Hitler to fuel the continuation of the Third Reich.”
Ariel took a deep breath, and I could see the wheels spinning in her head as she crossed her arms defensively. “So he killed all those poor Jews for his own agenda?”
“You think that’s bad? Six million people were exterminated, sacrificed so that madman could prosecute his war. But look at Josef Stalin … eighteen million people killed in his pogroms. It’s the main reason Russia held Stalingrad, the deaths of millions of people.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Ariel waved her hands in the air. “He had those people murdered to stop the Nazis?”
I shook my head. “Only partly. He stored a lot of magical energy away to use when needed. Like you’d charge up a car battery.”
“But how?”
“Oh, several ways. Gems are the best, the more perfect, the better. A magician can access the magic stored in a gem. Artifacts work, too; they’re one of the main reasons the Nazis looted Paris. Gold and silver can be used, but only the purest and only if they’re Shaped in such a way, like the gold filigree on a Fabergé egg, and so on and so forth.”
“This job gets stranger and stranger,” she muttered. “It sounds like the biggest conspiracy theory in the world.”
“Sure it does; it’s the world’s biggest secret,” I said. “The World Under, the unreal world, is far bigger, and far more dangerous, than you could ever imagine.” I made a mental note to ask BB who handled her orientation. He or she needed a swift kick in the fundament.
Strength and iron resolve shone bright from her deep eyes. “How do you handle it? You’ve been doing this ten years.” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Booze,” I answered. “Booze and women. Lots and lots of both.”
Maybe a minute passed as she calmly absorbed all the information I’d thrown at her. Another notch up, she was proving to be resilient. If she kept earning notches left and right I’d have to actually to consider her as something besides useless. “Why didn’t they tell me during orientation?”
“They should have told you some of it—about some of the creatures of the World Under.” She nodded. “Good. I have no clue why they didn’t read you in on magicians; maybe they needed to see if you could hack it. Maybe somebody is screwing with you.”
Ariel took a deep breath through her nose and her lips gave the tiniest quirk of amusement. “And what’s the verdict?”
“You might avoid being a corpse for a while.” There was hope.
“Gee thanks.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not, but however she felt now I was at least reasonably certain she could watch my back without accidentally shooting me in the ass. There was some real mustard in that lady, a core of toughness and granite that you can’t learn; you’re born with it.
“Hello, Kal,” came the buzzing voice from the tiny speakers in my Mac. I jumped, while Ariel’s head nearly bumped the ceiling. “Oh, I hope I didn’t startle you two?” Despite the concern expressed in the words, the tone remained flat, neutral.
“It’s okay, Ghost. Glad you came. What have you got?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ariel stiffen up like a two-by-four. Curious.
“Kal, can you ask that woman to leave?” If I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn that Ghost sounded disdainful of our DEA transplant. Curiouser and curiouser. Without a word she stood, back ramrod straight, and huffed out of the office.
I kept my voice as neutral as Ghost’s. “Not a way to make friends.”
“I don’t need friends like her.” Cold, cold cold. I imagined I could see my breath steaming in the still air of the office. His voice became marginally warmer as he continued. “Kal, that was very clever addressing the inter-office email to ‘Deus Ex Machina’. That is the first time anyone has ever done that. Obvious, though.”
A compliment? Sort of, but I let it slide. “Did you get the autopsy reports I asked for?”
“Incoming to your printer right now.” On cue, the printer dinged and began chugging out papers into the tray. The autopsy reports, complete with pictures. Funsville.
“Great. Thanks, Ghost.”
“Kal,” he buzzed.
“Yeah, Ghost?”
“That woman …”
“Ariel?”
“Yes, that one. I don’t like her.” And with a soft click from the speakers he was gone.
Harsh words from electronic eidolon. What was it about Ariel that cheesed off the local genie?
“Green Pea!” I roared. “Get in here!”
Ariel stomped back into the office, her coffee with a hint of cream complexion tinged with red. Wordless, she took a seat.
“What’s your gripe?” I asked, pulling a few photos from the printer and staring intently at them. One was of Krouse lying on his back on surgical steel autopsy table, torso cut open from crotch to throat, the sternum cracked open like a nut. Pink flesh the color of Hubba-Bubba bubble gum ridged the edges of the wound. Even with the grainy quality of the photo it was easy to see that the entire torso was hollow, scooped out like a melon. Pretty disgusting, but I’ve seen much, much worse.
“I … don’t like that … thing.” Icy revulsion laced her words.
I spoke softly, enough that she had to strain to hear. “There are a lot of things about this job that bite the big one. If you can’t handle it, tell me now because if you ever allow yourself to be pushed around like that again by a Supernatural, I’ll kick your behind so hard you’ll be wearing your butt cheeks for earrings. Got me?”
She mumbled something unintelligible.
Once again I kept my voice soft, even though the anger inside boiled the liquid in my eyeballs. “I said ‘got me?’ and I expect an answer, so sound off like you know what a pair feels like.”
“Got you.” Her anger matched mine. Good. Anger I could use.
I stood and leaned over the desk, wagging a finger at her. “Always remember … the World Under, the world below, or adjacent to, ours doesn’t get to push us around. We do the pushing. We are the 800 lb gorilla, not them. Never, ever, forget that.”
The nod she tipped me was almost imperceptible, but enough of a concession at that point, so I scooped up the rest of the report from the printer and motioned her to join me at the desk. I split the pile and handed her half. “Read. Tell me if you see anything unusual.” After a moment of consideration, I added, “And by that, I mean ‘stranger than usual in this case.’ ” She nodded quickly and we both dug in.
Reading the autopsy reports was a lesson in gruesome. Someone had expertly hollowed out all the victims’ torsos like canoes with a knife, or in this case, a scalpel. Whoever had done the job most likely had medical training or had practiced with a blade often enough to become proficient. A bone saw was used to cut through ribs and sternum. Even more gruesome.
As I was flipping through the pictures, Ariel let out a hiss, the sound whistling through her nearly perfect teeth.
“What?” I asked, dropping the photos on the desk.
She handed me what looked to be the ME’s notes on victim #2, one David Bellingham. “Look here, where it says ‘Cause of Death.’ Is this what you were looking for?”
My eyes swept back and forth as I read, my pulse hammering faster and faster as I grasped the implications. Bellingham had died of exsanguination—he’d been bled out like a hog at butchering time. His carotid artery had been severed with one clean slice by a horribly sharp blade and there wasn’t an ounce of blood left in him. “Well, crap and fried eggs,” I breathed. How could I have missed that? I cursed myself for twelve kinds of fool.
Ariel’s smile became triumphant as she handed me the ME’s report on victim #3, Arlo Doyle. Same cause of death. Same type of wound. Dry as a bone, not a drop left. I grabbed for the photos on my desk. My eyes widened as I laid the photos of all the victims in a row on my desk.
“Look here,” I said excitedly, pointing at the ankles of victim #4, Henry McFadden. “At the ankles. See there, the marks? What do you make of that?”
She tapped a plum-colored fingernail against her front teeth. “Ligature marks.”
“Yeah, ligature marks. But what do they tell you?”
“He was restrained. He’s a big guy, a leg breaker according to records. He needed to be tied up.”
I held up two photos. “Then look here. There are more marks around the victims’ ankles than the wrists? Why, why are the bruises more severe around the ankles? And the slices to the carotid? Why there? Why not the brachial artery, or the femoral? Think … those facts … put them together.”
Slowly understanding lit up her face and a sort of sick horror suffused her voice. “More marks, larger on the legs … throat cut … bled out … oh damn! He hung them up by the ankles and butchered them like … like …”
“Like hogs,” I finished.
“Yeah, like hogs.” She wobbled for a second, knees nearly giving way, but to her credit she remained upright. Score another point for the Pea.
“Okay, pop quiz, hotshot,” I drawled. “Why would the Organ Donor kill his victims by draining them dry?”
“He needs the blood. Or he uses it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I nodded, slightly sick to my stomach. “He needs the blood.” I ran my hands through my hair, resignation leeching through me. “We have a Renfield here.”
“A what?” asked Ariel uncertainly.
“Jesus, lady, you were doing so well there for a while. Now I have to deduct a few points. Haven’t you read Dracula or seen the movies? Even the crappy one with Keanu Reeves?”
“I don’t watch movies and the only books I’ve read are nonfiction.” Her look challenged me to smart off at her, which I felt might be a poor choice on my part.
Deep breaths. Two of them, filling the lungs, easing my frustration. “Renfield was a character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. An inmate in an asylum who ate bugs, birds, whatever he could get his hands on to try to absorb their life force. Dracula, you have heard of him?” At her nod I continued. “Dracula enters the asylum and offers the madman an endless supply of little beasties to eat in exchange for worship. Basically, Renfield becomes Dracula’s slave. I believe the Organ Donor is a Renfield, a vampire’s slave or servant.”
Long, delicate fingers covered Ariel’s mouth as she gagged for a second or two. “Oh lord, that’s just gross. Stoker must have been insane when he wrote that.”
I shook my head. “Not insane. He was a good agent who wrote a great book.”
The sound of her jaw hitting the desk was priceless and I hid my grin behind my hand. “We got someone here collecting blood for a vampire. A Renfield.” It was hard, but I kept my amusement at her discomfiture out of my voice. “I knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.”
“What?”
“Little while ago there was a zombie problem. Not a big one, but enough to bring the Bureau to Denver. But there is never just one Supernatural occurrence. If you see one, then you know more are coming. It’s a domino effect. The World Under is funny that way.”
She pulled at her lower lip, an adorable affectation that made me want … hurriedly I derailed that thought. For me, that way led to madness. “Two questions, Kal. One: how do you know it’s a Renfield and not just a lone vampire and Two: isn’t this a permanent field office?”
“Good Lord,” I groused. “Don’t they teach you Peas anything anymore? With only 50 agents in the Bureau, and about the same in support staff, we go where the action is. The only permanent office is Warehouse in D.C., and to answer your first question: no, a lone vamp wouldn’t be making this kind of media splash. They tend to keep to the shadows and nibble at the edges of society; they don’t even think like humans. But when they employ a Renfield, it’s usually someone crazier than a bedbug. Although this kind of attention is normally counter to their motives.” I held up the photos. “I think this is plenty crazy, don’t you?”
Before she could answer, there came a tap-tap-tapping at my door. “Nevermore!” I called.
Alex popped through. “Very funny, Kal every time.” Despite the sarcasm, he looked bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
“Wow … someone’s feeling his oats today. I hope she let you sleep,” I commented dryly.
He had the good grace to blush. “I had Ghost check all the police reports from the cities where the bodies were found and I think I’ve got something.” He spared a wary glance at Ariel.
“It’s okay, Alex, you can talk in front of the Pea.”
Licking his lips, he continued. “The fourth victim was found on Arapahoe Road, in Englewood, one of the main arteries running through the Denver metro area. About a mile east of there a jewelry store reported a robbery.”
My ears perked up and Alex gave me a knowing look. “That’s right,” he continued. “Three man-made rubies, 1.5 carats each, all three perfect.”
Ariel pursed her lips. “And?”
“And a store not far from the first victim reported the robbery of a two-carat diamond, clarity I.F.”
“I.F.?”
“Internally Flawless,” I answered before Alex could open his mouth. He stared at me, eyes wide. “What? I know things.” My return look contained a wealth of smugness.
“How come DPD or the feds never put these two things together?” Ariel asked.
“Because whoever took the original gems replaced them with very good replicas. So good that no one looked at them twice until customers showed interest,” Alex replied excitedly. “The robberies were discovered almost a full week after the two murders.”
I pursed my lips while an ugly idea nibbled at the edges of my mind. “Alex, those stores … were they local, part of a chain? Big? Small? Get me the details.”
“What’s going on?”
“I think the Organ Donor is a Renfield and, quite possibly, a magician.” It almost hurt me to say it. If it were true, I could be facing a whole passel of trouble and would need backup. Yesterday.
Color drained from Alex’s face. “Holy crap! A Renfield who’s a magician? You think it’s because of the stolen gems?”
“What else could it be? He or she is trying to store up a lot of energy for his or her master. A vampire/magician combo makes me sick to my stomach.” A thought occurred to me. “Set up a call with BB; I need to talk to him.”
“You got it.” He left looking shaken … not stirred.
“Couldn’t the vampire be the magician?” Ariel’s question startled me.
“Wha—? Oh, no. Vampires don’t have the gene for magic. Their main advantage is being incredibly fast and strong.”
Forget the Twilight movies or the Lost Boys. Heck, forget Dracula. First thing an agent learns about vamps is that they are a completely separate species from old Homo Sap. They resemble albino humans and are highly allergic to sunlight (however, they don’t burst into flames; that’s a myth) and have a literally insatiable thirst for blood. To them, human hemoglobin is prime rib, lobster thermidor, and fettuccine alfredo all rolled up into one. We are just meals-on-heels to them.
I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temples. “So our Renfield is a magician or is working with one. He’s stealing rubies and diamonds so he can store magical energy. The question is, what for?”