They said nothing.

“Is it a cult thing? I did a book on vampire cults in modern times.”

Nothing.

“Come on, guys. You have to tell me something here. What kind of case is it?”

Yanoff glanced over his shoulder to make sure the door was still shut. There was no one visible through the frosted panes of glass on either side of the door. The hallway was quiet.

Schmidt said, “It’s a homicide case, Dr. Swann.”

Swann couldn’t keep the smile from creeping onto his face. “A … homicide case? And you need a vampire expert? Really?”

The two detectives said nothing. Their eyes bored into him and there was not one trace of humor anywhere on their faces.

— 11 —

75 Bedford Street, NY

October 8, 9:46 a.m.

Five Days before the V-Event

Michael Fayne sat on the floor of his apartment, tucked in the corner between the dresser and the wall. It was the smallest space into which he could flee.

On the wall of his bedroom, the plasma TV kept telling him awful things.

Terrible things.

The reporter, that Asian chick, kept saying things that Fayne could not bear to hear. But the remote was on the bed and he dared not move.

He dared not.

“ … sources within the department describe the murder as one of the most brutal they have ever seen,” said Yuki Nitobe. “Authorities have blocked reporters from the crime scene, but in a Regional Satellite News exclusive, we have video footage taken at the scene. We warn viewers that the following image is explicit and disturbing. Viewer discretion is heavily advised.”

Christ, thought Fayne, she’s milking this whole thing for ratings.

He knew that with a disclaimer like that, no one would turn off their sets.

The image popped onto the scene, clearly taken with a lapel or lipstick camera. It was shaky and fuzzy and poor quality, but that gave every gruesome detail a documentary reality.

What it showed was unclear. More of a suggestion of the horror than anything explicit. And Fayne knew that this was even worse. Blood on the walls, a shapeless bulk on the floor, and one outstretched hand laced with a pattern of blood. That would have every viewer conjuring the worst possible images, filling in the blanks, feeding off it as surely as that succubus reporter did.

Fayne jammed his fists against his temples and squeezed his eyes and mouth shut. He tried not to scream.

He tried.

There was no one else at home in his five-apartment condo.

No one to hear the screams that he simply could not stop.

— 12 —

NYPD 6th Precinct

October 12, 6:07 p.m.

One Day before the V-Event

The prisoner stared at the glass, his mouth open, but so far he had not made a single sound since Swann told him what he did for a living.

Usually when he told people that he was an anthropologist, they looked bored. When he said that he was a vampire expert, they looked amused. The kind of amused people looked when they met a grown man who was doing something silly. Hotel staffs look at conferees at Star Trek conventions in the exact same way.

Finally the prisoner closed his mouth, but his eyes were wet with hot tears. His eyes slid away and for a moment he studied the empty air in the far corner of the room, then he covered his face with his hands and bent forward as if he’d been punched in the gut.

Which, Swann mused, was probably a fair assessment.

Swann cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The prisoner just shook his head.

“Really,” said Swann, “I am sorry.”

“For what?” asked the man without looking up.

“For springing that on you. It was clumsy and hurtful, and I apologize.”

Slowly, as if the act caused him physical pain, the prisoner straightened. His face was wet with tears and snot, and flushed with anguish. He sniffed but didn’t wipe his nose.

“Well, I guess we had to put a name on it, didn’t we?”

“We’re not putting any names on anything yet.”

“Sure you are. The cops wouldn’t have brought you in here if they didn’t already know what’s going on.”

“No,” said Swann, “that’s not really true. The police don’t know what’s going on. No one does. They’re trying to understand it.”

The prisoner snorted.

“Come on,” said Swann, “surely you have to agree that this isn’t a common set of circumstances. Not for you and not for the police.”

“Maybe not, but they went out and got fricking Van Helsing fast enough. They must have some idea.”

Swann leaned closer to the glass. “Okay, fair enough. But tell me, Michael — I’m sorry, would you prefer Michael or Mr. Fayne?”

“Whatever. Michael, I guess.”

“Michael, not Mike?”

“Michael.”

“Michael, then. Tell me, Michael, if you were in their shoes, if you were investigating a case like this, what would you do?”

“I’m probably not supposed to answer that kind of question.”

“Why not?”

“It’s entrapment, right?”

“No, it’s not. At least, it’s not any kind of trap on my part, and remember I’m not a cop. I’m here to assess and advise. I want to understand what’s happening.”

“Why?”

“Because it needs to be understood. By the police and by you, I suspect. If you’re having blackouts then you must be very afraid of them. I would be.”

Fayne chewed his lip for a moment, then nodded.

“Michael,” said Swann, “tell me about the last one. The last blackout. The one where they arrested you.”

— 13 —

Tribeca, NY

October 8, 7:16 a.m.

Five Days before the V-Event

The next time it was worse.

Much worse.

He woke up in an alley.

Naked, filthy.

Covered in blood.

Michael Fayne lay there, his body filled with strange sensations. He expected pain. He expected damage. But what he felt was … wonderful.

At first.

Even before he opened his eyes, he was aware that he was not in bed. Not his, and not … anyone else’s. He tried to piece things together. He remembered the last few days, remembered the horror and the shame. The crushing guilt and bottomless self-loathing. He remembered going into churches. Four, five of them. He had no idea what denomination they were. Whoever was open. Whoever had candles he could light.

He remembered sitting in pews. The ones furthest away from the statues of Jesus and the saints. Head bowed, hands clutched together so hard that he could feel his hand-bones grind together. Praying.

Praying.

Begging.

In the silence of those holy, empty places.

Last night he remembered leaving one of those churches. Maybe it was a Catholic church. It was big. One of those cavernous places in which you can feel the breath of ghosts on you. He’d shoved money into the poor box and lit a dozen candles. He’d prayed for hours. Fayne could not remember any of the prayers he’d learned as a kid. They hadn’t mattered enough to him to be committed to memory. He found books in racks on the backs of the pews and read anything he found, opening them randomly. Looking for key words. Mercy. Forgiveness. Absolution.

Redemption.

Fayne remembered leaving one of those books open on the cold, wooden bench. Or … had he dropped it on the floor?

He couldn’t recall exactly, because by then something was happening.

The light was going.

Not ambient light. In fact, Fayne’s eyesight seemed to sharpen. He could see everything, hear everything. Smell every single thing. Even the air tasted different, and the surface of the polished pew was filled with new sensations under his fingertips.

No, it was not his eyesight that was failing.

It was the light inside his mind.

It was changing. Growing weaker. Fading.

Leaving in its place a featureless darkness into which no sight or sound or smell or taste or touch could intrude.

There was a moment of panic when Fayne thought that he was dying.

Don’t let me die with this on my soul, he thought. Or had he said that aloud?

Then there was a moment when he felt like he was leaving his own body. It was like the feeling he sometimes got when he was sitting in a chair and starting to fall asleep. It was a toppling sensation, like his soul was sliding sideways out of his body. Normally he’d awaken with a start, slamming body and soul back into one conscious, unified place.

Not this time.

As the darkness in his mind expanded, he felt himself slip away. He felt his mind slide down into the darkness.

There was a strange transitional moment when he could feel his body begin to rise from the pew. But at the same time it was not his body. It moved without his will, without his control.

No! he tried to say.

But then the darkness took him.

Now he was somewhere else and it was some-when else. The darkness was sliding away, falling from him like a tarp being pulled off of an old car that had been put into storage. His mind awoke, dusty and disused.

In an alley.

He opened his eyes and saw the tall gray-green slab of a dumpster above him. Beyond that were the dirty bricks of a building that rose a dozen stories above him. The black zigzag of a fire escape gleamed with dew in the humid morning.

Everything stank.

Of rotting garbage, of human and animal waste. Of sweat and piss and …

… and …

Fayne’s mind snapped back into its slots with a click, and immediately all of his senses were his own again.

His eyes bugged wide.

The side of the dumpster was not merely gray-green, the bricks not merely a dirty red. Both were smeared with blood.

Not his own, Fayne knew that right away.

He scrambled to his feet. He was naked.

The alley was long, but it opened onto a big street. He could see cars. People. Even this early in the morning.

The sight of them filled him with panic.

How was he going to get home? Naked, covered in …

Then he saw it. Hanging like a piece of trash from under the lid of the dumpster. Bent, but not at the elbow; twisted and broken in ways that were impossible.