“If Chesa were human, I’d probably diagnose her with some form of dissociative identity disorder. Her body language, her intonation, everything shifts at random. One moment she’s pacing like a tiger, looking out as if she can smell my blood even through the barrier. The next she’s rocking and banging her head against the wall, a violent self-stimming behavior that reminds me of severe autism. I’ve documented at least four distinct patterns of behavior and body language.”

I stared at Chesa, trying to fit the pieces together in my head. “What species is she?”

“Manananggal,” said Granach.

“Really?” I pressed against the door, my other concerns momentarily forgotten. “That would explain the blood at the waist, but what is she doing in Detroit?”

“What’s a manananggal?” asked Lena.

“A creature that originated in the Philippines,” I said. “Natural, not book-born. She’s not exactly a vampire, though she does feed on blood. And organs. And the occasional unborn child. At night they sprout wings, and the upper part of the torso separates from the lower, allowing her to fly and hunt.”

“Not in there,” said Granach. “We keep the air pressure too low.”

Chesa slammed her head against the door, making me jump. Smudge flared hot. I patted out the sparks on my jacket. “What have you tried to get her to talk?”

“Hypnotism had no effect,” Granach said sourly. “Nor did drugs or torture.”

“None of them affect whoever is controlling her.” I cupped my hands to the door, studying the gold irises that flexed around her cross-shaped pupils. “What about her blood? Can’t your readers sort through her thoughts?”

“We’ve tried. They followed her memories through the streets. She was attacked during the daytime. From the speed and power, we assume it was another vampire. There was pain, a falling sensation, and then . . . nothing. She has no recollection beyond that moment.”

“The one thing the murders have in common is rage,” said Doctor Shah. “Fury like that doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

“They hate us,” I agreed, remembering Ray’s apartment. “This is personal.” If Gutenberg was responsible, how long had this hatred been building beneath the surface, and how had he managed to hide it from those around him?

I knocked on the cell door. “Hi, there. Alice here says you have no memories, but I’m betting you remember me.”

Chesa sank back slowly. Her arms and shoulders shivered, reminding me of a bird ruffling her wings.

“Looking at the murders suggests we’re dealing with a serial killer,” Shah said. “A serial killer wants power. The thrill of playing God.”

“That could be any Porter,” I said dryly.

“Why do you think they keep me on staff?” she countered, matching my tone.

“Touché.” I reached deep into my pockets to grab a copy of Heart of Stone.

“You were searched,” Granach said darkly. The guard moved toward me, but she held up a hand. “How—”