He shakes his head. He is looking at me in a new light, and he doesn't like what he 
sees. My eyes continue to bore into him. A splinter of fear has entered his mind.
  "H-how do you know all these things?" he asks.
  "You admit my facts are accurate?" I mimic him.
  He shakes his head again.
  "Now I allow my voice to change, to deepen, to resonate with the fullness of my 
incredibly long life. The effect on him is pronounced; he shakes visibly, as if he is 
suddenly aware that he is sitting next to a monster. But I am not just any monster. I am 
a vampire, and in many ways, for his sake, that may be the worst monster of all.
  "Someone has hired you to research me," I say. "I know that for a fact. Please don't 
deny it again, or you will make me angry. I really am uncontrollable when I am angry. I 
do things I later regret, and I would regret killing you, Mr. Riley-but not for long." I 
pause.
  "Now, for the last time, tell me who sent you after me, and I will give you a million 
dollars and let you walk out of here alive." He stares at me incredulously. His eyes see 
one thing, and his ears hear another, I know. He sees a pretty blond girl with 
startlingly blue eyes, and he hears the velvety voice of a succubus from hell. It is too 
much for him. He begins to stammer
  "Miss Perne," he begins. "You misunderstand me. I mean you no harm. I just want to 
complete a simple business deal with you. No one has to ... get hurt."
  I take in a long, slow breath. I need air, but I can hold my breath for over an hour if 
I must. Yet now I let out the breath before speaking again, and the room cools even more. 
And Mr. Riley shivers.
  "Answer my question," I say simply.
  He coughs. "There is no one else,"
  "You'd better reach for your gun."
  "Pardon?"
  "You are going to die now. I assume you prefer to die fighting.,"
  "Miss Perne-"
  "I am five thousand years old."
  He blinks. "What?"
  I give him my full, uncloaked gaze, which I have used in the past-alone-to kill. "I am 
a vampire," I say softly. "And you have pissed me off."
  He believes me. Suddenly he believes every horror story he has been told since he was a 
little boy. That they were all true: the dead things hungering for the warm living flesh; 
the bony hand coming out of the closet in the black of night; the monsters from another 
page of reality, the unturned page-who could look so human, so cute.
  He reaches for his gun. Too slowly, much too.
  I shove myself out of my chair with such force that I am momentarily airborne. My 
senses switch into a hyper-accelerated mode. Over the last few thousand years, whenever I 
am threatened, I have developed the ability to view events in extreme slow motion. But 
this does not mean that I slow down; quite the opposite. Mr. Riley sees nothing but a 
blur flying toward him. He does not see that as I'm moving. I have cocked my leg to 
deliver a devastating blow.
  My right foot lashes out. My heel catches him in the center of the breastbone. I hear 
the bones crack as he topples backward onto the floor, his weapon still bolstered inside 
his coat. Although I moved toward him in a horizontal position, I land smoothly on my 
feet. He sprawls on the floor at my feet beside his overturned chair. Gasping for breath, 
blood pouring out of his mouth. I have crushed the walls of his heart as well as the 
bones of his chest, and he is going to die. But not just yet. I kneel beside him and 
gently put my hand on his head. Love often flows through me for my victims.
  "Mike," I say gently. "You would not listen to me."
  He is having trouble breathing. He drowns in his own blood-I hear it gurgling deep in 
his lungs-and I am tempted to put my lips to his and suck it away for him. Such a 
temptation, to sate my thirst. Yet I leave him alone.
  "Who?" he gasps at me.
  I continue to stroke his head, "I told you the truth. I am a vampire. You never stood a 
chance against me. It's not fair, but it is the way it is." I lean close to his mouth, 
whisper in his ear."Now tell me the truth and I will stop your pain. Who sent you after 
me?"
  He stares at me with wide eyes. "Slim," he whispers.
  "Who is Slim? A man?"
  "Yes."
  "Very good, Mike. How do you contact him?"
  "No."
  "Yes." I caress his cheek. "Where is this Slim?"
  He begins to cry. The tears, the blood-they make a pitiful combination. His whole body 
trembles. "I don't want to die," he moans. "My boy."
  "Tell me about Slim and I will take care of your boy," I say. My nature is kind, deep 
inside. I could have said if you don't tell me about Slim, I will find your dear boy and 
slowly peel off his skin. But Riley is in too much pain to hear me, and I immediately 
regret, striking so swiftly, not slowly torturing the truth out of him. I did tell him 
that I was impulsive when I'm angry, and it is true.
  "Help me," he pleads, choking.
  "I'm sorry. I can only kill, I cannot heal, and you are too badly hurt." I sit back on 
my heels and glance around the office. I see on the desktop a picture of Mr. Riley posed 
beside a handsome boy of approximately eighteen. Removing my right hand from Mr. Riley, I 
reach for the picture and show it to him. "Is this your son?" I ask innocently.
  Terror consumes his features. "No!" he cries.
  I lean close once more. "I am not going to hurt him. I only want this Slim. Where is 
he?"
  A spasm of pain grips Riley, a convulsion-his legs shake off the floor like two wooden 
sticks moved by a poltergeist. I grab him, trying to settle him down, but I am too late. 
His grimacing teeth tear into his lower lip, and more blood messes his face. He draws in 
a breath that is more a shovel of mud on his coffin. He makes a series of sick wet 
sounds. Then his eyes roll back in bis head, and he goes limp in my arms. Studying the 
picture of the boy, I reach over and close Mr. Michael Riley's eyes.
  The boy has a nice smile, I note.
  Must have taken after his mother.
  Now my situation is more complicated than when I arrived at the detective's office. I 
know someone is after me, and I have destroyed my main lead to him or her. Quickly I go 
through Riley's desk and fail to find anything that promises to be a lead, other than 
Riley's home address. The reason is sitting behind the desk as I search. Riley has a 
computer and there is little doubt m my mind that he stored his most important records on 
the machine. My suspicion is further confirmed when I switch on the computer and it 
immediately asks for an access code. Even though I know a great deal about computers, 
more than most experts in the field, I doubt I can get into his data banks without 
outside help. I pick up the picture of father and son again. They are posed beside a 
computer. Riley Junior, I suspect, must know the access code. I decide to have a talk 
with him.