“It suggests that there are people who think they’re vampires. Who actually drink blood. If I said, maybe such people drank Ellen’s blood—how do you react to that?”

“The vampire scene is dead.”

“Not for these assholes. They think they’re getting something from the blood—besides AIDS, I mean. Some kind of life force. The soul, I guess.” As he spoke, she thought of how he looked behind a gun. She remembered the hate in his eyes, the eager spark as he killed. This creature loved his work, damn him. When she let Leo feed on him—and she would certainly do that in the end—she would make her go very, very slowly.

“Soul eaters,” she said. “Wow, that’s heavy.”

“I know it’s heavy, but it’s true—I mean, in the sense that it’s what they believe. Of course, it’s all bullshit—”

“Of course.”

“But they believe it, that’s what’s important. You look at the stats. A lot of people disappear without trace, don’t they?”

“I don’t know.”

“In the U.S. in a year, over three hundred thousand.”

“You’re kidding . . . walking out on their debts, or a spouse they don’t like, that’d be most of it, I’d think.”

“There’s plenty of foul play, Miss—what’s your name?” Beautiful, he was. Gracious, not. “Miriam Blaylock.” “Miss Blaylock.” He paused. His eyes were searching hers. How hungry he was. She realized that he was an innocent. Incredibly, his sexual curiosity was that of a boy.

She said, “You look like a soldier.”

“Is that good?”

She laughed, raised her eyebrows, delivered a slowly developing smile. “Is it?”

His left hand came into view as he brushed his cheek with the tips of his fingers. For God’s sake, he thought, let her see there’s no ring. She was talking to him like a person, here. She was being nice to him. He was beginning to think to himself, maybe he should lay off work for a little while. Lie low here in Manhattan. Let some personal life develop for once. He’d been married to the damn Company for too damn long. He was ready for a little real life.

He tried an opening line.“So, how long have you been in the club game?”

She took out another cigarette, offered him one. She lit them both with a lighter that looked as if it belonged on the Titanic. It was tiny, gold, and complicated. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had blown up in her face.

“Lemme see that.”

She handed it to him.

“How old is this?”

“I bought it in a shop. I thought it was cute.”

“Well, it could be dangerous.”