Miriam intended to capture the monster that was tracking her and feed off him, maybe even feed him to Leo; she wasn’t sure. That depended on Leo. She was a tiresome little thing, truth to tell, but pleasant to have around and very eager.

Sarah, by contrast, was that most dangerous of slaves—one who did not understand the real meaning of servitude. An evil old Roman emperor, Septimius Severus, had once asked Lamia, “As all the world is my slave, why is it that only I am not free?”

Contained in those words was the ironic essence of the relationship between slaves and masters. Sarah was a poor slave because she thought of herself as a captive. Leo would be a good one because she would always look upon her accession to the blood as an achievement, not an imposition. This was why Miriam had been so careful to let her make a clear choice.

As Luis opened the door to the club, Miriam gave a tweak to the little rod in his pants. “Leonore,” she said, “will go to you in the Pump Room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I really gotta do him?” Leo whispered.

“Leo, I’ve serviced Luis dozens of times myself. You’ll enjoy it.”

“But I’m not a whore, Miriam. I’m . . . one of you.”

“And we are objective about sex. It’s a commodity just like booze and drugs. Sex is part of this business. Leave your emotions out of it, and your ego. Sex isn’t the sort of Blue Broadway that the average Jill imagines, my dear.”

Sarah laughed. Miriam wondered what she found funny, let it go. She strode across the glittering bar that was the club’s first and most public room, calling out, “The front’s to be open tonight, Bill.”

“You want the sign up, ma’am?”

“I want the sign.”

Sarah came hurrying along behind her. It was only ten, so there were few people here. “That’s a bad idea,” she hissed.

Miriam stopped, turned to her, put her hands on her shoulders. She had not understood the notion of the tar baby. “He’s going to find us. But he must do it on his own, and the sooner the better.”

She went to Bill, who was digging behind the bar for the small brass sign that said on it only, “Veils.” This sign was placed on the door. Beyond that, they never went. “William, love, there’s a good chance that a man will come in looking for Ellen Wunderling.”

“That again! Don’t they ever give up?”

“He’s not a cop. I want him drugged a little. Offer him a drink. Lace it with—I don’t know—something that’ll relax him, make him a little hallucinatory, perhaps. Ask Rudi. But be careful with him.”

“Oh, yeah, you bet.”

“What’s the crash so far?”