Blood of Eden

by Tami Dane

Genres: Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

This mind-blowing new series introduces Sloan Skye, an ambitious intern at the FBI's paranormal unit, where the usual rules of crime fighting don't apply. . . Sloan has a sky-high IQ, a chaotic personal life, and a dream: to work for the FBI. Her goal is within reach until an error lands her with the FBI's ugly stepchild: the new Paranormal Behavioral Analysis Unit. She'll get to profile criminals, but the pool of suspects is a little more. . .diverse. Yet even as Sloan tackles her first case--a string of victims, all with puncture wounds to the neck--she can't silence her inner para-skeptic. To catch the killer she'll have to think like one. That means casting aside her doubts, and dealing with bizarre nightmares that started with the job. But the strangeness is only beginning, as Sloan pieces together the shocking truth about a case that's more personal than she ever would have guessed.

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Rotten eggs and sulphur. Oh, the sweet stench of home.

The gray cloud of parfum d’sewer rolled out of my apartment door as I juggled my keys, two mocha lattes—heavy on the whipped cream—and bagels. Standing in the hallway, I shouted, “Is it safe to come in, or do I need my gas mask?”

That was not a rhetorical question. My roommate, Katie Lewis, was playing with chemicals again. And I was guessing this morning’s experiment was an epic failure.

She’d converted our kitchen into a chem lab last year. Made sense, since neither of us cooked food. Since then, I’ve learned to live with safety gear at the ready, at all times. Splash goggles. Gas mask. Fire extinguisher. Fabric deodorizer. It goes without saying, Casa Skye/Lewis isn’t the average home of a couple of grad students. But every now and then, having a chemist at my beck and call, 24-7, came in handy. Especially now that Mrs. Heckel in 2B has stopped reporting us to the DEA. We’ve been raided twice.

“Sloan?” Katie was sporting her everyday wear—apron, goggles, heavy rubber gloves ... and slippers with stuffed Albert Einstein heads on the tops. It wasn’t a look every girl could pull off, but she did—and still managed to look cute. If she wasn’t such a sweetheart, I might have hated her for it. “Did you happen to get cream cheese? We’re out.”

“Sure did.” Taking my cue from Katie, who wasn’t wearing her gas mask, I hurried inside and shut the door. “Whew, whatever you just blew up reeks. Do you have the exhaust fan going?”

Grimacing, Katie waved a hand in front of my face. “Yeah. The smoke should clear up in a few minutes. Sorry.” She slid her goggles to the top of her head and swiped one of the coffees from the cardboard tray.

“Did you figure out what went wrong this time?”

“Not a thing. It was supposed to do that.” Katie took a slurp and smacked her lips. “Mmm, good coffee. They used just the right amount of chocolate this time. Not too little, not too much.”

“Good.” After I set my coffee and the bag of bagels on the coffee table, which served double duty as our dining table, I headed straight back to my room. I checked the clock on my nightstand. It was a twenty-eight-minute drive to the FBI Academy. That left me exactly four minutes to finish getting ready.

“Are you geeked about your big day?” Katie hung back, standing just outside my bedroom as I rushed around, digging out my laptop case and tossing the essentials into it. Pens, notebook, spare change, cell phone, Netbook.

“I can’t tell you how nervous I am.” I sighed. “I gotta pee again. This is the third time in an hour. I swear, I have the bladder of a sixty-year-old mother of twelve.”

“I’m so excited for you!” As I shuffled past her, toward the bathroom, Katie caught my shoulders and gave them a quick shake. “My best friend’s working for the freaking FBI. You’ll tell me absolutely everything, right?”

“Sure, I’ll tell you everything that isn’t classified.” I dashed into the bathroom and took care of my personal issue, hoping I wouldn’t get the urge to go again in the next three minutes.

“Call me later,” Katie yelled through the door.

“Will do.” I dropped a throwaway toothbrush into my purse, zipped it shut, and, heading out into the hall, scooped up the laptop bag I’d left next to the door. Racewalking across the living room, I slung my bag over my shoulder and grabbed my lukewarm mocha latte and a dry bagel while on the way to the exit. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” Before heading out, I doused myself in Febreze.

Katie pushed her goggles in place and headed toward the kitchen. “You have nothing to worry about.”

I’d heard that before, exactly one minute before the last explosion. And the one before that. What can I say? We both like to live a little dangerously.

With not even a second to spare, I yanked open the door and almost crashed into my mother, her hand raised to knock. She was wearing her threadbare hot pink bathrobe—and God only knew what underneath. Two different shoes poked out from beneath the ratty hem, and her hair—today it was the shade of a new penny—looked like it had been styled with an eggbeater. A huge suitcase sat next to her feet, and an unlit joint as thick as my thumb was protruding from the corner of her mouth.

Nothing new there.

I grinned, plucked the joint out of her mouth, and dropped it into my purse. “Hi, Mom. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Honey, I need your help. The power’s out in my building again and the landlord says it’s my fault. He’s exaggerating, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed.

“It’s not my fault the building’s wiring is outdated. I was just trying—”

“It’s okay, Mom. You can stay with us until it comes back on.” I gave her a peck on the cheek and handed her my coffee as I hurried past. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. It’s my first day with the FBI. There’s bagels inside. Your favorite. I’ll call you later.” After ditching the contraband in the scraggly shrubs next to the building’s main entry, I sprinted out to my car, my laptop case bruising my hip and my empty stomach rumbling. I hit my mom’s landlord’s phone number on my cell, programmed on speed dial, prepared to give the usual “it’ll never happen again” speech.

I’d already handled my mother’s little problem and was in the middle of an emergency handbag repair—making creative use of a couple of paper clips and a broken pencil—when my new boss, Special Agent Murphy, finally emerged from his office. “There’s been a mistake,” he informed me. “We won’t be able to use you this summer... .”

Of course, there’s a problem. There always is. The question is, what can I do—

“We’ve selected another intern... .”

Another intern?

“I’m sorry.” Murphy scowled and glanced down at his cell phone. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

I should have known it was too good to be true. But after two decades of dreaming and studying and hoping, I—Sloan Skye, the only offspring of a schizophrenic philosopher-self-proclaimed inventor and delusional biology professor—wanted to believe I’d landed the internship of my dreams. I didn’t expect it to blow up in my face my first day on the job.

As I struggled to recover from the bomb that Agent Murphy had just lobbed my way, Gabe Wagner—who should have been doing grunt work for some senator in DC, not anywhere near the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia—came strolling by.

That was it; I knew exactly what had happened. His internship had fallen through, so somebody had pulled a fast one on me.

Again.

As a few choice expressions played through my mind—all of them involving specific anatomical parts and physically impossible actions—I gave Gabe, my frenemy since freshman year, a blindingly bright smile. “Hey, Gabe, does this mean the dream job with the Waste Management Department is still open?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that one’s been filled. Sorry.” Looking as evil as ever, Gabe sauntered within reach, but I resisted the urge to snap his neck like a toothpick. “Why? Were you interested in applying?” Lucky for him, I possessed an iron will, an allergy to prison air, and—I’d never admit this to Gabe—I secretly enjoyed our little verbal tussles. They made life interesting. “If you’re really hard up, I could ask my dad to pull a few strings, get you an interview at the meatpacking plant in Baltimore.”

Argh! Animal guts gives me hives.

“Gee, thanks. I’d love to spend my summer elbow deep in pig intestines, but I’d hate to impose. I’m sure Senator Wagner has more important things to do, like slip his pet pork barrel projects into the latest bill the Senate’s debating. You never know, that nineteen-million-dollar study on cow flatulence might solve the energy crisis someday.”

Murphy returned, giving each of us a bland look. “Good morning, Mr. Wagner. I’ll be with you in just a moment, if you’ll wait over there.” He motioned toward a grouping of chairs a few feet away, next to a table with a coffeepot, cups, and a mug full of primary-colored swizzle sticks. Once Gabe was out of my reach, Murphy turned to me. “Miss Skye, I tried to call you this morning, after I discovered the administrative error, but it was too late. We’re looking into something else for you. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something.”

Translation: Don’t call us. We’ll call you.

“Thanks, Agent Murphy.” I fought to look cheery, but I knew I wouldn’t fool anyone, especially Gabe. I was, without a doubt, the world’s worst actress. In my defense, I don’t think even Reese Witherspoon could have pulled this one off.

Feeling a little defeated, I slumped into a nearby chair. It rocked back, almost dumping me on the floor. Not to sound like a pathetic whiner or anything, but this was unbelievably unfair. It’s not that I expect life to be one big wonderful world full of happiness and justice for all, but I’d been preparing for this job my entire life. And when I say “entire life,” I’m not exaggerating. As I lay in my crib, my mom fed my brain a steady diet of everything from analytic philosophy to quantum physics, a thick joint tucked between her lips and a cloud of pot smoke circling her head like a halo. As a result, not only had I memorized the work of just about every major player in the world of psychology by the time I’d graduated from elementary school—Freud, Jung, Adler, just to name a few—but I could square eighteen digit numbers faster than most people could add two. And I could recite the Divine Comedy ... in Italian. “I’ll just mosey on home and wait for your call. Thanks again.”

“Good luck with the job hunt.” Gabe waved from the coffee stand. “Call me if you want me to hook you up.” He had the nerve to actually waggle his eyebrows.

I threw up a little in my mouth.

What a day. Thanks to Gabe, I was not only out of a dream internship but out of a steady paycheck as well. I received an annuity payment every fall, which kept us afloat for the year and helped pay my tuition. I had my dad to thank for that. But I’d promised to pay my mom’s landlord a thousand dollars to cover the damage she’d caused. My bank account was on the brink of imploding. How would I pay next month’s rent? Electric bill? And, more important, how would I take care of Mom? SSI barely kept a roof over her head, even when she wasn’t causing minor catastrophic damage. If I didn’t subsidize her pathetic income, she’d end up living under a bridge, smoking marijuana and talking to invisible zombies ... again.

Damn it!

All of my dreams for the summer—kicking ass and taking down bad guys, anyone?—were slipping from my grasp. But I have never been the kind to stand in stunned silence and let everything fall apart. I had to do something.

But what?

I looked down at my hands, and just like that, I had an idea.

Lucky for me, Gabe was called away to handle some super-important, top-secret intern stuff before I had to throw myself at Murphy’s feet and beg for a job. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I muttered, “In case the other thing doesn’t work out, I’m pretty handy with a broom.” Sweeping the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s offices was better than the alternative.

“Oh?” Murphy glanced at the paper clips in my hands, then at my cheap Prada knockoff purse, its broken strap dangling off a nearby desk like a dead eel.

“And a vacuum,” I added, hoping I was making my point clear. For a guy who puzzled together clues on a daily basis, Murphy seemed to be having a hard time getting my drift.

“Yeah.” He nodded, glanced at his phone again, and lifted a finger. “Just a minute.”

“Sure.” I beamed a silent thank-you, hoping I’d soon be the recipient of some good news. Anything, and I mean a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g, would be better than last year’s summer job, cleaning behind a pack of greasy, belching, middle-aged mechanics who thought the word “wash” had a letter r in it and a high-school diploma constituted an advanced degree. I have never been an intellectual snob—it’s a lot more fun laughing at people who think they know everything—but come on. There was only so much a girl could take.

I’d been lucky to get that job last year, even with two bachelor’s degrees and a master’s in the works. And this year, things were even worse. The guy who was sweeping my uncle’s garage this summer had a master’s degree in mechanical engineering.

I finished up my handbag repair, and was about to tackle the broken chair, which posed a genuine threat to national security, when Murphy returned with a woman who looked like an older version of myself. The agent’s dull brown hair, the same shade as mine, had been scraped back from her face and tied into a tight knot at her nape. Her nondescript polyester suit had fashion disaster written all over it, just like mine. And little-to-no makeup enhanced her unextraordinary features—also, sadly, just like mine.

“I think we’ve found a solution to our problem.” Murphy motioned to the woman. “This is Special Agent Alice Peyton. She’s chief of a new unit in the FBI, and she could use your help.”

Yes, yes, yes, the angels were singing! And I was ready to join them in a lively round of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”

I had no idea what kind of work Chief Peyton’s unit was involved in; I didn’t care. All that mattered was I had a job, and it was within the hallowed halls of the FBI Academy. Gabe hadn’t ruined my summer, after all. And dear old mom wouldn’t be sharing the overpass with Crazy Connie, the bag lady—who wasn’t crazy at all, if you ask me.

Sane has always been a relative term in my world.

I cranked up the wattage of my smile and offered a hand to my soon-to-be boss for the summer. “Sloan Skye.”

“Alice Peyton. It’s good to have you with us.”

“Glad to be here.” That was no lie.

Murphy turned my way. “Special Agent Peyton will take care of transferring your paperwork. I hope you have a good summer, Miss Skye.”

“I will now. Thank you.” I shook his hand.

Chief Peyton motioned toward the elevators. “Let me show you where you’ll be working. We’re one floor up.”

“That would be great. I’ll get my things.” As I snatched up my purse and laptop case, I caught Gabe’s openmouthed gawk. I couldn’t help noticing he held a coffee cup in both hands.

Within Gabe’s earshot, Chief Peyton said, “I’m hoping you can do more than fetch coffee. Do you have a valid passport?”

Karma was my new best friend.

I tossed Gabe a little smirk. “You mean I’ll be traveling with the unit?”

“Of course, Skye. Wherever we go, you go too.” Chief Peyton stopped in front of a bank of elevators. “Speaking of which, Skye is an unusual name.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, statistically speaking. According to GenealogyToday-dot-com, it was the sixty thousand one hundred eighty-fifth most popular surname in the ...” I’m doing it again. “... Sorry, I get a little carried away with statistics sometimes... . Um, I was told my father was Scottish.”

“I thought he might be. What does he do?” Chief Peyton pushed the elevator’s up button.

“Well, my father’s dead. He was a professor at the University of Richmond.”

“I’m very sorry.” When the elevator door opened, Chief Peyton motioned me in first, then followed.

I stepped toward the back of the car. “It’s okay. He died when I was young.”

She hit the button for the third floor. “I see. He was a professor of ... ?”

I wondered for a second or two why Chief Peyton seemed to be taking such an interest in a man who’d been dead for more than twenty years. But I quickly shrugged it off as small talk, her way of making me feel more comfortable. “Natural science—specifically, biology.” I left out the part about how he’d been shamed into giving up his position at the university after publishing an article arguing for the existence of fictional creatures—vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and goblins, that sort of thing. I was fairly certain that would be low on Chief Peyton’s need-to-know list.

“That’s very interesting.” As the elevator slowly rumbled up to the third floor, Chief Peyton began explaining, “The PBAU is a brand-new unit within the FBI. We’ll be handling our first case this week, and we’re very fortunate to have you on our team.” When the car bounced to a stop, she motioned for me to exit first, then followed me out.

Wondering what the acronym PBAU stood for, I headed straight for the open area where the unit members’ desks sat in tidy rows. It was exactly as I’d imagined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, aka BAU, would look. Semitransparent half walls separated a half-dozen identical cubicles from each other. And around the back ran a raised walk, which led to a couple of rooms closed off from the main space. But this wasn’t the home of the BAU; it was the PBAU. And instead of a bustling room full of busy agents, it was eerily silent.

“I’m very happy to be a part of the team. I’m eager to get started,” I said.

“We’ll be meeting for our first case review in a few minutes. I want you to join us.”

Join them? I almost giggled like a little girl, I got so excited. I never giggled, not even when I was five and I’d built my first robot, using Legos and a few electronic bits I’d “borrowed” from various sources around the house. Mom didn’t need that old drill, anyway. Or the toaster. We never ate toast. And the computer ... it had been useless, outdated, and begging to become spare parts for Heathcliff, my new best friend. “Sure.”

My new boss tapped the back of a chair, tucked under a nearby cubicle desk. “This’ll be your work space. We’ll get you a computer, supplies, and phone by the end of the week.”

“I get a desk of my own?” I peered at the inhabitants of the adjoining cubicles, thinking I’d introduce myself, but both had their backs to me.

“Sure. Of course you get a desk,” Chief Peyton answered.

“Well, thanks. Don’t worry about the computer. I brought my own.” I lifted my computer case.

“We’ll need to have it checked for security before you can log into our system.”

“No problem.” I set my case on my desk and unzipped it. “This is great. It’s like I’m a permanent part of the team.” Trying not to think about the fact that this whole thing sounded too good to be true, I tried the chair out for size. It was a perfect fit.

“Perhaps you will be someday.” Chief Peyton patted my shoulder, then announced, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Case review in five minutes. Let’s take it up in the conference room.”

Scuffling and chatter followed; in less than five, I was introduced to the three other members of the PBAU.

Of course, there was Chief Peyton. Also on the team were Special Agent Jordan Thomas, Special Agent Chad Fischer, the media liaison, and Special Agent Brittany Hough, the computer specialist/techie geek. They had all transferred to the PBAU from other units. That meant I was the only clueless newbie. Each greeted me with a friendly smile and a handshake.

Finally, with the introductions over, we all took our seats. Standing in front of a whiteboard, Fischer taped up a color photograph of a dead body. Fischer launched into his presentation. “The Baltimore PD is asking for our help solving a suspected murder case. At this point, all indicators are pointing to a nonmortal suspect... .”

Did he just say “nonmortal”? No way.

“... Bite wounds on the victim’s neck suggest we may be looking for a vampiric predator... .”

Vampiric?

“... It’s too early to say what the cause of death is, but local law enforcement doesn’t want to wait. The media’s hot to cover the story, and they can’t be held off for long.”

Had Chief Peyton known all along who my father was and what he’d researched?

No. Okay, maybe. Crazier things have happened.

“... It appears to be a single vampire killing, blitz attack. We don’t know much, but one thing is certain. This unknown subject—unsub—won’t stop until we catch him.”

They all looked at me.

What were they expecting? Should I have whipped out a wooden stake and led the charge, yelling, “Die, you bloodsucking bastard”?

My phone, set on vibrate, started buzzing.

“Skye, what are your thoughts?” Chief Peyton asked.

“Well ...” Lucky me, not only was my mother calling, asking me to solve another crisis, no doubt, but it also seemed I’d just been dubbed the FBI’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer. There was only one problem. My mother had taught me plenty—Latin, vector integral calculus, quantum physics. For some silly reason, though, she’d eschewed vampire psychology and comparative biology of shape-shifters.

I didn’t know a Sasquatch from a yeti.

When no coherent response came from my direction, Chief Peyton turned back to Fischer. “I agree. If the unsub is a young vampire on a feeding frenzy, there will be more. And soon.”

Vampire. They were actually thinking this crime was the act of a vampire?

Again, I should’ve known it was too good to be true. This had to be some kind of joke. A freaking brilliant, absolutely hilarious one. Gabe Wagner was behind this. It had his name written all over it.

“Not only must we profile our killer’s personality, but also his species,” Chief Peyton said.

Species? God, this was good. Anytime now, one of Gabe’s’s friends was going to pop out of a corner and shout, “You’ve been punked!” Then everyone was going to laugh, including me. And then I’d be escorted to my real boss, and I’d find out I don’t get a nice desk and my own computer and phone, but rather a rusty old file cabinet, a yellow legal pad, and that crappy broken chair, shoved into a supply closet.

“Excellent point,” Fischer said. “The being’s physical characteristics will influence his behavior as much as psychological factors.”

Yep, any minute now ...

My phone, sitting in my lap, started vibrating against my leg.

Gabe?

No. Mom again.

I ignored the call and played along with Peyton’s game, nodding at the appropriate moments, raising eyebrows, and scribbling notes on the pad of paper that I’d dug out of my laptop case.

Very interesting. The body had bite marks on the neck.

Oh, yes. Fang marks were most definitely a sign of a vampire attack.

It appeared blood was missing from the victim’s body, but if so, the body hadn’t been completely drained.

Hmm. “Perhaps the unsub had been interrupted midfeed-ing. Cena interruptus,” I offered.

Everyone concurred with a nod.

Okay, this practical joke was stretching on too long. I leaned back and tried to peer around the corner. I didn’t see any sign of Gabe or his posse. Where was he? This had to be a joke. It couldn’t be real.

I checked my phone, thinking maybe I’d missed his call. Nope. Nobody had called but my mother.

At the end of Fischer’s presentation, the team members stood, each one giving me a look as they filed out of the room. Finally Chief Peyton walked to my side of the table, pulled the chair out next to me, and sat down. “We’d like you to come with us.”

“You would.”

“To Baltimore. We’ll be leaving in just over an hour.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t know.” I am so rarely struck completely mute, but this situation had done just that. There were so many questions clogging my brain, I couldn’t think.

“This case is local, but I should mention, every member of my team has to keep a ‘go bag’ with them at all times, stocked with the basics—a couple changes of clothes, toothbrush, makeup, hairbrush—”

“Excuse me, but what exactly does PBAU stand for?” I asked.

“Paranormal Behavioral Analysis Unit. Like the BAU, the mission of the PBAU is to provide behavioral-based investigative support to local FBI field offices. Unlike the BAU, the cases we are called to assist with all involve acts of violence that have some tie to the unknown, the paranormal, or the occult.”

Seriously?

I couldn’t help asking, “You don’t really believe there are Edward Cullens running around, chomping people in the neck. Do you?”

“Not the kind of vampires you see in movies, no. Of course not.” Finally this very sensible-looking woman was saying something reasonable. I pulled in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. “I have yet to see a vampire that sparkles,” she added, looking dead serious. “Now, come on, I’ll tell you more in the car. I thought we’d all drive together. It’ll give us a chance to discuss the case.” She checked her wristwatch. “Time’s tight. We need to get going. Sunset’s a few minutes after nine tonight.” Not waiting for me, she headed for the conference room door.

I followed her. “Is it too dangerous to be outside after dark?”

“We’d like to get as much time as possible at the crime scene during daylight hours. It’s hard to see after sunset.”

Why did I feel like I’d just said something totally stupid? “Gotcha.”

She waved Jordan Thomas over. As I’d noticed earlier, he was the closest to my age. Fischer and Chief Peyton were older, thirties, maybe early forties. I’d noticed another thing about him too—he wasn’t hard on the eyes. He had nice ... glasses. “JT, I need you to give Skye a rundown of our policies and procedures before we leave.”

“Sure, Chief.”

Chief Peyton tapped my arm and looked me straight in the eyes. “Are you with us, Skye?”

That was the fifty-thousand-dollar question, wasn’t it?

The way I saw it, I had two options: either forget about an internship with the FBI, and let my mom down; or chase imaginary monsters.

When I looked at it that way, spending three months profiling vampires and werewolves couldn’t be any worse than emptying Porta-Potties in the county parks. And that I’d done, for more summers than I cared to remember.

I shrugged. “Sure. I’m in.”

“According to Wikipedia, a vampire feeds on a mortal being’s life essence, which is most often defined as blood,” Fischer recited as Chief Peyton navigated her black government-issue Suburban through thick Baltimore traffic.

Chief Peyton flipped on her turn signal and changed lanes, somehow defying the rules of geometry by wedging the huge vehicle into a space the size of a Chevy Volt. “I think we all know this. But I suppose I’d better ask, since this is the team’s first case, does anyone not have a rudimentary grasp of vampire legend?”

Riding shotgun, I raised my hand, hoping I wouldn’t be the only one. About a half minute later, I learned I was. And I couldn’t help laughing at the irony. Throughout all my years in school, that had never happened. Not even after skipping one grade in elementary school, one in middle school, another in high school, and starting college at the age of fifteen. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know something that everyone else did.

I was both amused and mortified.

If Chief Peyton was disappointed in my lack of knowledge of supernatural beings, she hid it well. “I guess we’ll start from the top, then.” She pointed at the file sitting on my lap. “Skye, you’ll need to review everything in that file. I hope you’re a fast reader.”

“I am,” I assured her.

“Excellent. Fischer, continue.”

Sitting directly behind Chief Peyton, Fischer read from a book. “‘While ancient cultures all had some form of vampire-like creatures within their legend systems, the being most commonly associated with the word vampire has roots in eighteenth century Eastern European lore. This being is commonly described as ruddy or purple-ish in color, bloated—’”

“Not skeletal and pale, like Bram Stoker’s Dracula? Sorry for interrupting,” I interjected, somewhat confused by the difference between the vampire I was vaguely familiar with and the one Fischer was describing. I’d caught maybe twenty minutes of Dracula playing on television one Halloween. To say my exposure to vampire legend was limited was a gross understatement.

“Don’t apologize. You’re a part of this team for a reason, and I want you to keep asking questions. Questions lead to answers. Or, in some cases, more important questions.” After a beat, Chief Peyton continued as she cut across. . .