Chapter 2

I heard the buzzer through a mind fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.

God ... What had I done last night?

That was my first coherent thought of the day, always a bad sign. The sheet was hopelessly twisted around us, tight and deliciously warm. Us? Someone was next to me, I could feel that skin, soft and smooth and not mine. Who was that? I couldn't remember and it hurt to try and the door wouldn't stop buzzing.

I licked my lips, and the hair in my eyes was irritating. My hair felt too long, too black, and too frizzy from a long night of abuse. My scalp hurt. I had to roll over, pushing and working with my arms to free myself and I managed to get one leg out, over the edge of the bed, the mattress exposed, and then the other. I pulled the sheet, blinking at the soft, sleepy moan as my companion, whoever it was, resisted.

And the buzzer was buzzing.

I wrapped the sheet tightly around me, hugging it to my breasts and walked down the carpeted hallway, rough and tingly to my bare feet. I needed to pee, but that could wait. I was sore and tired and my head hurt from the buzzing. That had to stop. Everything else could wait.

"Shit!" I banged my toes on my purse hard, kicking it three feet down the hallway. It was a light, leather thing with a heavy, metal thing inside. It hurt and I frowned at it for a second, pressing my left foot down on my injured right toes, as if that might help.

I finally moved, although I'd just about changed my mind by then. I took a few steps, gingerly, and reached down and unsnapped my purse, feeling inside for the thing, the gun that had hurt my foot. I probably wouldn't have thought of it if I hadn't kicked it, or maybe I would have. It felt good in my hand, like a big black aspirin, my 9mm Advil ready to cure my ills. My head was pounding and I put the barrel to my temple.

"Bwoooosh..." I whispered and smiled and pushed the gun into my sheet, cold and close to my tummy.

I leaned up against the door, big and stainless and bolted and alarmed so that the lights blinked at me. Safe, they said, green and white, blinking. Buzz all you want, the lights said, you can't come in, and I looked and listened, and leaned against the door holding my gun and naked in my sheet.

"BUZZZZZZZ..."

"What?" my voice was soft and dry, cracking. I had my face against the intercom, eyes closed. Just breathing.

"Sister?" It was a boy's voice, a child's voice, soft and wondering and afraid of doing what it was doing. But more afraid not to. "Father Lyons sent me. I ... I have a letter. Some money too."

"Julius?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the boy didn't answer anyway. I probably hadn't pressed the speak button.

I opened the door, pushed the buttons so the lights turned red and I wasn't safe, not anymore. The whole world could come in if it wanted, if this boy were lying. I was too tired, too wrapped up and still in my bed to care. The whole world would have been a fitting intrusion, I thought, but it was only a speck. Only the boy.

"Sister Ellen? Are you alright?" He stared at me, awkwardly and with good reason, I suppose. He dressed in black, like all good boys, starched and shiny with it, the way a cheap wool blend gets when it's been ironed too hot for too long.

I stood aside, squeezing the grip of my Beretta hard, but not the trigger. I just caressed that little bit of metal in my mind and kept my finger along the slide, straight and safe.

"Yeah," I mumbled and he got the idea, sliding past me, pressing his back to the doorway lest he touch me with the hem of his tunic.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Sister, but Father Lyons told me to keep ringing the bell until you answered," he said, talking so quickly I thought I'd throw up. "He told me to give you this. Are you..." he glanced around nervously, seeing nothing but the antiseptic white of my little foyer, " ... Are you sure you're alright, Sister?"

I looked at the envelope he held in his hand and nodded. "I was sick," I told him. "I'm better now. James, right? Brother James?" I kept my arms folded in my sheet, leaving him like that, with his hand outstretched foolishly, holding the oversized envelope.

"Yes, uh, James Mayfair, Sister." He looked over my shoulder, like I wasn't even there. "Father Lyons said..."

"Your third year?" I cut him off.

"No, Sister, um, fourth. I'll be ordained next summer."

"Then it'll be Father James, will it?" I smiled, even though that hurt a lot.

"Y-Yes, Sister." He pushed the envelope out a little farther, hoping beyond hope I'd realize it was there and take it.

"Ellen? Where you at, baby? What time is it?" a voice, a deep manly voice echoed down the hall suddenly and I took the envelope, wondering why I was playing games with this boy.

"You'd better get back to your classes." I wasn't smiling anymore and James had finally found my face with his eyes.

"That ... That's a man?" my wide-eyed visitor asked; whispered really.

I nodded, pulling the envelope into the folds of my sheet. I was pressing the gun between my breasts with the other hand and the sheet came loose, threatening to fall off my left shoulder and completely away. I made a little twirl with my wrist and hugged myself, more to save the boy from embarrassment than any useless sense of modesty I might have possessed.

"But you're a nun!" He sounded like he'd just fallen into a big hole.

"I'm not that kind of nun, James," I nodded, for no real reason, it certainly didn't reassure him. "Go on and tell Father Lyons I got his message."

As James left, closing the door behind him, my previous evening's guest emerged from the bedroom, dressing slowly as he walked down the hallway.

"Shit, I'm running late," his voice was muffled slightly as he pulled his sweater over his head and I wondered if I'd ever see his face. It made me smile and I almost started towards my kitchen, just so I could avoid him entirely and punish myself with doubt.

But I didn't and Cameron's great shaggy head, all blonde and rugged emerged, popping onto his wide shoulders as he pulled his sweater into place. Cameron, my hero from Boston, how could I have forgotten him.

I didn't say anything as he found his boots and sat on the floor like a 30 year old boy tugging them onto his feet. "I gotta get over to Quantico, but I'll be back in town later tonight. How about dinner?"

I nodded, still wrapped like I was going to a toga party and hiding my gun and Lyon's package.

"Good." He kissed me and I gave him a cheek, thankful he didn't have time for a hug. "Sorry about this, Ellen." He gave me a little look and a half-smile as he left, and who knows? Maybe he really was sorry, but I'd already half-forgotten him anyway.

Three minutes later I was sitting on the floor in front of my refrigerator, the sheet bunched around my hips as I sat cross legged. I had furniture of course, but I liked that spot. It was warm from the little compressor that hummed, heating the freon and pumping it around the big plastic box. It vibrated softly and made me feel safe, a little less alone maybe. The Beretta was on the table, but the envelope was open now and I pawed through its contents slowly while I drank instant coffee.

It wasn't much, just a handwritten note from Cardinal Beschi telling me I had reservations for a flight to California that afternoon. Some cash money to pay my way. A few printed pages and some photocopied faxes. After three months of sitting around, playing dead, I finally had a job. I guessed I wasn't going to make dinner with Cameron. I pursed my lips, thinking that was probably all right. He'd been a good fuck, but once was enough. He was a little too soft for my taste.

" ... The Rosarium, because of its interweaving of soul and physical alchemy, was of particular interest to the psychologist Carl Jung..." Howard glanced at me as I opened the door, " ... who perhaps quoted from it in his writings upon Alchemy more than any other single text."

He was my grad student, one of several, and Howie was a morning person, or so I told him. That was why he got to give my lectures after one of my rough nights. I'd paged the boy about one in the morning, while Cameron had been pressing his cock into my womb, to tell him he was taking my freshman psych class.

It was nice having tenure.

I walked past the students, most of them boys and attending the seminary, but a few others who weren't and they were easy to pick out. They were the girls. Whoever had the insane idea of opening a catholic seminary school to females was either brilliant or a supreme sadist ... Or a brilliant sadist, and most likely a Jesuit.

If I'd been born with a cock I'd have been a Jesuit, most likely. I'm not sure my basic outlook on life would have changed a great deal with my gender. I'd always enjoyed being a tomboy, much more male in my instincts and interests than female, and when I'd become a nun it seemed to confirm my family's worst fears, that I was a lesbian.

That probably would have been a blessing, if it were true, because I was a lousy nun. That was a fact quickly recognized by the church after I got pregnant. It wasn't an immaculate conception, I assure you. I was something of a prodigy at that time, getting my PhD in psychology at the tender age of twenty-three and I'd been published with works on Masonic Catechism, Cabalism, and particularly the Phenomenology of Self and Jung's associations with Symbolic and Practical Alchemy.

I'd come to Cardinal Beschi's attention as a twenty-one year old grad student and in between college courses, I attended schools of a very different sort. I had the appearance, the intelligence, and most favorably of all, the morals and faith required to attend to the more mundane needs of Mother Church. I won't pretend it wasn't enjoyable. I embraced my new role fervently and the idea of committing such grievous sins as I did was like an elixir to my soul. Seduction, terrorism, murder ... I had a genuine talent for those things and I enjoyed them all. I did political work for many years, which was interesting but utterly predictable, and only later was I read into the darkest heart of the church.

My position then was Professor of Psychology at Georgetown and the associated St. Thomas Seminary. I was also the Pope's Profiler, for those who enjoyed gossip and clever sobriquet. But I'd never met the Pope and it seemed pretty unlikely I ever would; a much better appellation for me would have been Rome's Troubleshooter. I consulted with the FBI and Interpol on violent crimes, particularly those involving cults or having some religious significance, but my real job was much more practical than that.

When circumstances conspired to inflict grave damage upon the church, I made sure they didn't.

I'd missed the news, of course, being fairly busy the night before, but it was all in my email anyway. I had messages from Quantico, the Violent Crimes people wanting my opinion. I ignored those until later. The Cardinal's office had sent me all the data, both condensed and raw, and I read through it slowly, drinking that crappy coffee that Chris liked, designer coffee from West Africa or something.

"You got Sex Ed, by the way," I told Chris without looking at him. He was another one of my grad students. Carolyn, my third and last, was talking on the phone.

"Freud?" Chris groaned. "Why me?"

"Cause your coffee sucks," I chuckled, rolling my chair across the thin carpet to Carolyn's desk.

"Uhh no ... because ... no ... oh, shhh ... wait..." she caught sight of me, since I was right next to her.

"Boyfriend?" I asked and she gave me a little look. Carolyn was 25 and very cute and she'd been trying to break up with this guy for two weeks. It was driving us all a little crazy.

I took the phone from her and hung it up.

"See how easy that is?" I shook my head. "You got Ethics tomorrow and..." I pursed my lips, " ... Structuralism on Monday, the notes are in my desk."

"Ethics tomorrow?" Carolyn lifted her eyebrows.

"Just give 'em something to argue about. What the hell's wrong with you guys?" I rolled back to my desk. "Bunch of whiners ... Oh, and you got my schedule if I'm not back by Monday."

"What am I gonna do with it?" Carolyn asked.

"Divvy it up," I laughed at her. "There's three of you, handle it."

"Carolyn's in charge?" Chris dropped his head.

"It's a girl thing," I shooed him away.

"Slave," Carolyn giggled, sticking her tongue out at the man.

I spent an hour on my computer, drinking coffee and eating aspirin. I had the good stuff, the original reports. The two police officers had been killed with fingernails and teeth. Bite marks measured on the cop in the car matched those found on a kid up in Oregon. The guy on the roof was different.

Suspect number one, a white teenage prostitute stopped for questioning by an undercover vice cop and his partner. She's short, slight of build, with blonde hair and dressed like a prostitute. Duh, I rolled my eyes, wondering if they'd have stopped a girl scout selling cookies. Probably not. They try to detain her and she disables one cop and kills another before anyone has time to draw a weapon or call for backup.

The cop in the car, officer Jakobs with nine years on the force and two in vice, had died quickly, bleeding out from his neck as both his carotid artery and jugular vein had been severed. He had deep wounds on his chest and arms and he'd basically lost eighty percent of his blood within thirty seconds and by that time, according to the reports, the attack had been long finished. They estimated the girl had been inside the car for about 7-12 seconds total. A couple math geniuses had figured that out by determining how fast and far the car had traveled. So they could have been wrong.

The other cop, Ramirez, six years on the job and a year in vice, had sustained life threatening injuries to her left wrist. Her hand was basically severed by several sharp objects consistent in size and shape with fingernails. She fired one .38 caliber round from her service pistol, which was pretty good considering she was going into shock, and supports the timeline established, before a second assailant basically decapitated her with a single blow to the neck from behind. Again the wounds were consistent with fingers, although the coroner had no explanation.

Body evidence was found at the scene, on the sidewalk and on the unmarked police car, and it screened negative for drugs, chemicals, or anything else for that matter. It was identified as blood plasma, except it had no blood components in it. No platelets or cells. It was just raw plasma and nobody could figure where that had come from, unless the girl had been carrying an IV around with her. That seemed doubtful.

After killing Ramirez, suspect number two, described as a tall, thin, caucasian woman with blonde or brown hair, picked up her friend and ran away. End of story. Witnesses said the woman was running like "Jesse Owens on crack" to quote one of them.

"Hmmm..." I rubbed my eyes. It was pretty straightforward, I thought. California had a vampire problem.

And that made it my problem because the Catholic Church in all her wisdom does not endorse the idea that vampires exist in anything but myth and legend and bad Hollywood movies. But we knew better, meaning we very select few. Faith is a tricky thing. There is no one more fervent in belief than the newly converted and no one more bitter than those who've lost their faith.

If the existence of vampires was revealed then there would be two possible recriminations against the church, both of them bad. Either the church had no idea of their existence, and so it was fundamentally fallible, not to mention vulnerable; or the church had known all along and hadn't told anyone. That led to all kinds of possible allegations including conspiracy, which was always a favorite arrow of our enemies.

"Extension 0124 please..." I held the line until Dr. Sweeny answered, the FBI profiler on the case. "Hey Phil, it's Ellen."

"Sister Ellen." I could hear his smile and he knew why I was calling. "What do you think?"

"The fingernail thing bothers me," I told him. "I didn't see anything about broken nails..."

"Yeah, we were..."

" ... I break a nail shopping for lettuce."

" ... looking at that. Talked to a guy up at Hopkins, says it can't be done," Sweeny was saying. "We're thinking gloves, blades shaped like nails, something like that."

"Teeth look strange too. You guys checking dentals?"

"Every dentist from San Diego to Seattle," Sweeny chuckled wryly. "We got a lot of manpower on this. There's some guys in Frisco who can put dog teeth, like canines, into a person's mouth. They do horns too."

"Yeah, I've heard of that." I glanced at my notes. "How about that plasma, sure it's blood? Didn't come from someplace else?"

"It's blood, yeah. But it's necrotic, that's why we didn't see anything the first time through the lab. The cells are there, but they were dead. Had to eyeball it to figure that out. Stupid computers."

"That's weird." I reached for my cigarettes.

"Yeah, we're not sure what that means," Sweeny said. "Got any thoughts?"

"On the blood?" I chuckled, blowing out blue smoke. "Nope. I think we're looking for more than two though."

"Yeah."

"Couple girls?" I twisted in my chair. "Doesn't work for me, I'd look for a boyfriend, just one probably. Three is a significant number, four's a bad one, unlucky. You know."

"We were looking at that, yeah." That was a favorite phrase with the FBI these days.

"So, my first choice is he likes to play vampire, dopes up his girls. They were on something. Sends them out to make some money on the street. Not sure about the blood. Any other connection with Oregon? Those two guys know each other? Our guy might know them; a guy on a roof isn't exactly random."

"Premeditated, yeah. We're working on it..."

We talked for about forty minutes and I was just trying to give him doubts and suspicions. I didn't need the FBI looking for vampires. They wouldn't find them and if they did more people would die. It would make a bigger mess for me to clean up. Violent Crimes looked at their database too much anyway. Sweeny was good, they all were over there, but it took a leap of faith to get to the right conclusion, and so they were playing the odds and I was just reinforcing that.

"Who's the SAC out there?" I asked finally.

"Jack Burnett, you know him?"

"Nope," I shrugged to myself. "I'm flying out this afternoon, just to sniff around. Can you get me in, save me some time?"