Rounding the corner of the creaking staircase, I catch a violet glimmer on the floor below. Leaning over the handrail, I search the stairs winding around the pit to the lobby four floors down. Decay and rot flow down the steps. Dampness rises up the well. Thumping music permeating the walls nearly drowns out the carnal sounds of lovemaking. Nothing stirs on the stairs.

Reaching into my coat, I wrap my fingers around the handle of my gun strapped under my arm. Tingles race down into my legs. It isn’t nerves, or the sinking feeling in my gut that holds me. I know it’s him. His scent rides on a wave of mold.

It’s not amnesia. That’s for damn sure. Maybe Steve doesn’t have memories of his own, instead surviving on the memories borrowed from others. Like his knowledge of history, and how he knows how I like being kissed. And backwards. Except for the borrowed memories, everything seems new to him. He doesn’t remember our past because it’s in his future. Like him wearing a modern suit over a century ago, appearing out of nowhere to rescue Yasmine. The creepiness of it all sends shivers down my arms.

The dead should stay dead and out of my head.

I listen to the gasping breaths, squeals of delight, and bedposts banging the wall behind me. If Steve is here, he is on the other side of the shadows. Purple Hell. Stepping away from the handrail, I lean against the wall letting the beat creep inside. The booming electronic music upstairs works into the wall shattering bliss. I consider slipping inside, watch the sweaty bodies move to their music, listen to their heartbeats. Laughter rumbles upstairs. Hunger calls.

The room is three doors from the stairs. Music thunders within. There’s a party here nearly every week, and plenty of tasty morsels. Without knocking, without opening the door, I step into the shadows, my foot passing through the ethereal door. It’s a trick Steve taught me. Glancing around the rising purple mist, I search for him. Nothing, not even one of those creepy shadow things. I slip inside the smoky den.

The chatter roars fighting the blaring stereo system for attention. On the table near the door, sticky pizza leaves cheese trails back to stained boxes. Beer bottles in hands, they chat in small groups taking chugs between chortles or drags on cigarettes. On the sofa, two topless women bounce and dance spilling beer. Orange and yellow auras rise from their warm flesh.

Intoxication makes it easier, but too much alcohol spoils the meal.

Riding the edge of shadows in and out of the silence, I make my rounds. Stepping back into the world, music thundering, I let a man catch a glimpse of me. Gliding behind a woman in dark clothing, I slip back into the silence. Drifting deeper into the shadows, their forms pale into ethereal, nearly frozen shapes. Selecting another, a topless girl on the sofa, I position myself in her line of sight and return, the thud of music and laughter slamming my ears. She spots me and returns my smile, then turns her attention back on her dance partner. Looking at the other topless girl, I recognize Sabrina painted in dark mascara and black lipstick. What is she doing here? Slipping back into the shadows, I continue browsing the selections nearly frozen in their time. Finding potential targets at the back, I return to the world.

In the corner, a man leans in close to a woman talking her up and out of her blouse hanging from her shoulders. His finger traces the black strap onto lacy fabric. She bats his hand away and grins into a giggle.

I lean against the wall between the amorous couple and door opened a crack. Tapping my leg and nodding my head to the beat, I scan the room. A girl topples backward off the couch knocking a lamp over. Laughter erupts, and several men raise their bottles in a cheer. Taking advantage of the distraction, I push the door open and peek inside. A bathtub rests along the wall on the far and toilet on the near side. Empty. Turning my attention back to the party, I find the couple in the corner hugging each other. The woman runs her hand over the prickly unshaven face while the man watches me.

I smile.

He nods.

They tell me their names. Monica is a student of economics, and Tim enjoys riding dirt bikes. I tell them I’m looking to party and motion at the bathroom door.

“Three hundred,” says Monica. Her grin could melt a man. “For the both of you.”

Tim steps back, and his jaw drops. “You’re a hooker?’

The night is looking up. I consider offering another location, somewhere discreet, but my gut churns telling me to get on with it. I’m not like one of those girls that tries to call it cravings or other pretty words. This is an addiction, and I damn well need satisfaction. Feeding is messy, and the tub will do nicely.

After Tim storms off, I separate my prey from the herd leading Monica into the bathroom and close the door. I slide the lock home and turn around finding the woman dropping her skirt. I tell her I like to bite.

“Okay,” says Monica, laughing. “But I’ll have to ask for extra. You know, marks and all.”

Clearly the prostitute isn’t knowledgeable of my kind, so I’ll have to work my dance. Removing my coat, I nod my head to the beat pounding the apartment. I slip the holster off my shoulder and set the gun in the sink.

“Are you a cop?” Monica stands there holding her breasts in her hands. “You look like a cop.”

“No,” I say, smiling. “Self-defense. And I have a permit to carry.” It’s true. I’m fully registered, but not with this gun. I hold up a pair of hundred-dollar bills and drop them on the edge of the sink.

Monica climbs into the tub, starts the shower, and begins dancing to the music. Turning in the spray, she wiggles and grooves. At my age it’s hard to tell, but the girl appears young with tits too perky and flesh too tight. Scrawny, for my taste. And my bite. Fleshy is less painful for the victim, and easier on me.

A knock rattles the door.

“Occupied,” I say. Setting my hands on the sink, I hang my head. Sometimes it takes concentration, especially when the hunger is this bad. I need to focus.

“Hello?” It’s Sabrina. She knocks again.

Monica continues grooving in the shower.

Looking at my hands, I see a wristwatch on my left arm. A man’s accessory and it looks similar to Steve’s old analog watch. I stare at it trying to recall putting it on. Did he leave it the other night? On the nightstand. That must be it. Having a thing for a mark is bad for business. A thing for a dead guy could be considered crazy under normal circumstances, but there isn’t anything normal about Steve.

After the third knock, I spin around and throw the door open.

Bouncing on her toes, Sabrina holds her crotch in one hand and covers her bare breasts with the other. “Sorry,” she says. The girl seems a foot shorter somehow. Spotting Monica in the shower, her face sours. “I really have to pee.”

A familiar chuckle catches my attention, and I search the crowd spotting Zee standing beside the pizza table. Talking to three young men, swaying in his strange way, he waves a wired tray of glass vials around. After Sabrina squeezes inside, I hold the door nearly closed and peer through the crack watching the old Itoril talk the men up. One of the men holds a vial up in the light. The contents appear a milky.

Keeping my eye on Zee, I ask Sabrina about the skinny man in leather.

“Vampire ice,” says Sabrina. “It’s bullshit, but that’s what he says.”

Closing the door, I lean against the wall.

Panties hanging around her ankles, Sabrina sits on the toilet with her hands cupped over her breasts as if shyness has overcome her. She tells me about how Zee is spreading word about some guy named Julio.

The only sensible reason is that Zee is trying to pin the venom thing on Yasmine. On the other hand, coming around my hangouts makes it look like he’s trying to get me into trouble. It’s no secret this is one of my stops.

Monica laughs and says, “Steve Reynolds told me Necropolis has vampire ice. I thought it was some new drink, not a party drug.”

I give Monica my confused, but very concerned look. Steve would never spread rumors. Besides, how does she know Steve?

Monica stops wiggling, and shrugs at the door. “Torx, I mean. He likes to go by Torx.”

It’s too much of a coincidence that the kid renting this apartment shares a name with Steve. Is this where it started? Shaking my head, I turn my attention back on the vials of whatever concoction. I need to talk to Zee. Put off snacking and deal with this fake venom issue.

“Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers. “How about we go back to my place? The three of us.”

Monica shakes her head and frowns.

Standing, Sabrina snaps her panties in place and returns to cupping her breasts. Seeing the sour expression dipped in fear on her face as she passes, I feel my gut drop. The girl is acting peculiar. Icy prickles race into my legs.

Looking at the watch, I find a masculine hand. Touching my head, I feel short prickly hair. His hair. In a step, I’m standing before the mirror and into the face of Steve Reynolds and his menacing blue eyes. I grab the gun from the sink. Stumbling back, I’m consumed by Purple Hell, the walls turn misty as I pass through, and a violet storm of clouds erupt overhead. Catching my footing, I spin around on the cracked desert landscape, and come stomping back onto the carpeted floor of the apartment meeting the sound of breaking glass.

Beside a pizza box, smashed clear shards rest on the moist table. The stuff smells a little like vinegar mixed with some chemical, nothing like venom. And my hand on the glass shards. It’s my hand, slender fingers and all dripping blood from a cut. The wristwatch is gone as well. Catching my eye, I see it. A dark shadow, a wraith, sits at the table staring at the smashed vials.

Rising violet smoke surrounds me, Purple Hell swallows me whole, the silence slamming down.

My scream beats the walls, and I open my eyes to near darkness, and the smell of my satin sheets soaked in sweat. Throwing off the covers, I grab at my head finding strands of long hair. Slapping my hands over my chest, I squeeze my breasts confirming they are mine. I sit alone in my bedroom with a groggy weight pulling my head down.

My hair, my boobs, my bed.

Feeling doubt creeping under my skin, I race across the bedroom, throw the door open, and take the stairs three steps at a time feeling the cool air rushing over my damp flesh. Lucifer leaps out of the way, his white fur glowing on the dark staircase. At the end of the hall, my bare feet slip on the cold tile as I grasp for the sink. Latching on, I pull my face to the mirror.

In the darkness, I can see my aura glowing from my arms. Hotter than normal, it almost appears violet with a touch of red instead of the cool blue. I find my face in the mirror. Auras never reflect, but I imagine my face on fire burning red. And it’s my face, my dark eyes looking back at me. I brush my hair back and touch my breasts making sure I’m real.

My hair, my face, my boobs. I run my tongue over my teeth feeling the comfort of my slender canines.

My fangs.

Leaning over the sink, I look closer at my eyes. “Steve,” I say to the reflection. “Are you in there?”

None of this makes sense. Back at the apartment, was that his memory? No, it had to be mine. Somehow, he’s in my head. That’s all. Before I met Steve I didn’t know how to find Purple Hell, but now it finds me transferring me from one place to another like a bad dream. Steve is pulling me over.

My thoughts return to twenty years ago, Steve laying on the checkerboard floor. At the end of my sword, his body fades into violet smoke leaving a pool of blood behind.

Something moves in the reflection, and I spin around finding the wraith standing in the doorway. The creature is all shadow with deep purple accents, but I can make out the tie and the buzzed haircut of Steve, dark tendrils rising like smoke. From the dark pits of his eyes, nebulous violet smoke pours out curling around his head. A yelp escapes my throat, and I tumble over, the cold tile slapping my flesh.

Light explodes, and I smash my eyes shut. Sabrina’s voice, a whimper of concern crawls closer. She asks if I’m okay. I nod my head feeling my insides sloshing around. Pulling my eyes open, I see Sabrina in her pajamas kneeling beside me. Orange radiates off her flesh, and her heart pounds like a drum. The doorway behind her is empty.

“You look terrible,” says Sabrina, shaking her head. “Do you need a bite?”

I do. My gut feels empty, my tongue is dry, and my hands shake like an addict.

“But not my arm,” says Sabrina. “My arm is still sore.” She pulls her pajama bottoms down. “How about my leg?”

“Steve,” I say. I grab her leg feeling her warm thigh. The sound of her heart pounds into my head. I’m uncertain how much I might be able to restrain myself. “Where’s Steve?”

Sabrina scrunches her face. “Who?”

“Steve Reynolds.”

“Torx?” Sabrina crawls out of her pajama bottoms and tosses them on the floor behind her.

“No, the guy that was here.” Looking up, I find confusion on the girl’s face that sends my gut lurching. “Tall, buzzed hair,” I say, describing the wraith I just saw. I leave out the smoky tendrils and glowing violet eyes, and get back to the man.

“He was shot. We took care of him, and he stayed with me after I got sick.”

Sabrina shakes her head. “Sorry, Kandy. You’ve never brought a guy home.”

Of course she doesn’t remember. With so much of my venom in her, Sabrina doesn’t remember much of anything anymore.

Resting my face on her warm thigh, I kiss her flesh. “What about at Torx’s place? Do you remember seeing me there?”

“Sure.” Sabrina leans back on her elbows. “I don’t know why you bother when you have me. Don’t you love me?”

The sound of my fangs breaking flesh crawls into my head before Sabrina’s scream fills the bathroom. Cool toxins flow out, warmth rushes inside. Some of it gurgles out from under my lips, and I chase it with my tongue feeling my insides heat into a raging fire. As I lay there lapping blood from Sabrina’s thigh and off the gritty tile, I can’t help but wonder if Steve is sharing this memory with me.

I always knew there was something terribly wrong about him even before I bit him. He looks and smells so human, but his blood is death.

The rain comes and goes like a blues musician plucking away at the guitar searching for the right sound. It patters on the roof, trickles down the window. At the the other end of the block, across the street at Necropolis, people wait in line as the doorman checks their passes. In the dreary night, their forms glow orange like an aura, all except the doorman. His Itoril body radiates a cool blue.

Above the club, somewhere behind the glossy windows within the dimly illuminated apartment, the owner, Yasmine, plans her transition into the role of magistrate years ahead of schedule. Stratton almost seems flummoxed by the sudden change of heart among key elders. It’s her particular charm. As a babe, her lust for blood overwhelmed her glamour leading to a public execution. Maybe it was the threat of burning alive, or lessons from other Itoril. She has grown up considerably since that night.

The night I first saw him. What did Yasmine call him? Ezekiel. He had that same damn suit and tie he always likes wearing.

The car rocks and settles on its springs.

Glancing over at the passenger side, I see him. Like the other times over the last few days, he just appears. At the kill, twice at the house, he rises out of the shadows like a ghost. His aura appears so human. Steve. He calls himself Steve Reynolds.

Trying not to bring attention to his sudden arrival, I stare at the gauges behind the steering wheel. The fuel marker shows the tank on its last quarter. Searching for something to say, I realize I’m already blabbing about my job.

I tell him I always expected some honor maintaining the law among Itoril.

Spotting Steve staring out the windshield at the building across the street, I follow his gaze finding a light on in the apartment over the club. Yasmine insists on romancing the youth with vampire fantasies risking everything. For this, the magistrate fears her. And loves her for her boldness. Glancing back, I find Steve watching me.

His gaze pierces into me, but I hold on trying to make sense out of his blue eyes.

“This is a man’s world, Steve,” I say, only half paying attention to the conversation. “And the Itoril men want to make certain it remains that way.”

“Didn’t females once rule Itoril?”

A smile robs my composure. The man can’t remember where he lives or anything from his childhood, but he remembers history lessons and other silly facts about the world. He knows it well, or at least as well as I do.

Those ancient women were monsters and deserved to die.

“Why don’t you retire?”

Losing myself in his eyes, I force my gaze down at my hand squeezing the steering wheel. I feel him as if he’s inside my head.

Death is the only retirement. It’s the way it’s always been with executioners, and the only way I’ll have it.

I realize I’m rattling on again, something about my old club turning into a record store. He asks me about the quiet place. That’s what he calls it. Purple Hell is a better name. There are things in there, hidden in the depths. Usually I just feel them, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of their smoky shapes. He wants to know how many Itoril can get there.

“Not many,” I say. Closing my eyes, I picture the faces of the ones I’ve met with the skill. Stratton’s bodyguard, Xavier, is a master. Zee can get lost in there for a bit. There was another man I saw once in there. “Some Itoril can appear to move fast for a short period, but very few know about the quiet place. I didn’t before I met you.”

Steve screams, a painful howl.

Opening my eyes, I find I’m alone in the car.

Peering through the raindrops on the glass, I find the illuminated window above Necropolis. A dark shape moves before the light; someone stands at the window. Not Yasmine, it’s a man’s form. Steve is likely working for her, if not for her charm then her money.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I tug an envelope out and study the blue seal, the jagged crack cutting through the impression of three crossed swords, the symbol of the magistrate’s office. Sometimes they arrive directly from the magistrate. Other times Zee delivers them as he did this one twenty years ago. Pulling the card out, I read it for the fifth time this week.

Steve Reynolds a.k.a. Ezekiel.

Whatever the reason, it may have been forgotten, but law is law and the execution order still stands. How does one kill a ghost? I push the card inside the envelope and shove it in my pocket.

I curse at the rain, and turn the ignition. The engine erupts, cylinders pounding into a roar, music to my ears. Slipping into gear, I work the throttle controlling wheel spin, and drive frightening clubbers off the street. I flash my headlights at a man lumbering on the crosswalk against the light. He doesn’t respond, so I push the throttle eliciting a roar that gets the jaywalker’s attention.

I curse at the man.

Leaving the lights off, I wind my way into the bad part of Roseland. Passing streetlamps are yellow clouds like dragon’s vapor. I curse the lights. Slamming my fist on the steering wheel, I yell an obscenity. A heavy lump slides into my gut. Accelerating onto the freeway, I speed around cars listening to their blaring horns receding behind me. I drive, water howling in the wheel wells, my car tearing up the night.

I curse Steve Reynolds.

The dead should stay dead.

Turning the corner into a short hall, Steve steps into the shadows. Peering through the walls, he finds the room with the door on the opposite side. It is a closet full of the ghostly shapes of brooms, mops, and dust bins. A shelf against the near wall holds boxes of cleaning supplies. Concentrating on the memory, he passes through the wall like a ghost.

Out of the violet gloom, a familiar form appears. Dressed in his dark rockstar clothes, Zee faces the other way with his feet wide apart. In his left hand, he holds a gun aimed out the crack in the open door. Finger squeezes trigger, a flicker ignites.

Steve lunges smashing into Zee’s backside. Arms wrapping around, he grasps for the hand holding the gun. Chin against leather, he gazes over the shooter’s shoulder down the length of the extended arm. Beyond the gun, out the door, a wraith occupies the hall.

The creature is shadow, dark wisps flowing behind. Even without color, there is no mistaking the suit. Swinging to the side, the slender necktie erupts into smoke. Feet dissolve into nothing, smoky wisps climbing legs up over the hand holding gut. Erupting from the eye sockets, violet smoke flows back around its head. The wraith dissolves into the shadows.

Pinning Zee against the doorjamb, Steve pulls on the leather coat swinging the lanky man twirling around back into the closet knocking brooms over, a mop bucket rolls and bounces off the wall.

A gunshot smashes the air, and a box tumbles off the back shelf spilling green cleanser crystals onto the floor. Another gunshot, duller. The third shot sends tissue paper flying off the shelf.

Steve falls back into the shadows, silence surrounding him, but his ears continue ringing. Slipping from his grasp, Zee slides down fading into a ghostly figure, boots slipping on the floor kicking the etherial mop bucket. The lanky man sits on the floor at Steve’s feet, and the gun rests discarded between the outstretched legs. The world returns in a dull roar.

The Itoril coughs, the sound muffled behind the ringing. “Shit, man,” says Zee. He coughs again. “That hurt.”

Glancing at spilled cleaners, at the scattered paper, at the shelf where the packages fell from, Steve realizes the shooter is on the other side of the wall. He spots three pinholes of light.

Reaching into his jacket, he draws his gun and pushes the safety off. Aiming at the wall, he fires repeatedly. Boxes scatters, papers flutter, and holes appear in the wall as the hollow point bullets scream into the hall on the other side. The gun kicks hard, but he keeps firing a swath of pinholes across the back wall. Julio delivered.

Emptying the gun, he steps into the shadows. Ringing fills his ears. He strides into the shelf and melts through the wall. Pulling the empty clip from the gun, he shoves it into his pocket and snatches the other. In the hall by the dressing room, he glances around and spots ghostly forms on the other side of the dressing room. Popping the clip in place, he storms the dressing room, passes through the wall and onto the stage.

Sin crouches against the bars, fear on her etherial face. Sitting calmly in her seat, the Yasmine ghost watches Sin.

Slow strides carry Steve out the open door into the front hall passing two men running in slow motion. They don’t seem to notice him, a ghost blurring by in their perspective. He walks through the beaded curtain and finds her.

Like a dark queen in her long black dress, Kandy stands at the center of the checkerboard floor. In her right hand she holds a pistol. In her left hand, she wields a sword, curved blade pointing to the side.

Ghosts are immune to bullets. As long as they stay in the quiet place, it is a stand-off, their guns aimed with conviction waiting for the other to return first. Timing is everything. What about the sword? It’s for fighting within the shadows of the world. In this battle, Kandy has the upper hand.

There are no words in the quiet place, no sounds except for the fading ring droning inside his head. Kandy’s eyes blaze, both with the iridescence of the Itoril blood seething inside her and the killer instinct burning inside.

Steve recalls the other night, sharing a bed with the killer. It seems strange that the woman before him is the same woman caring for Sabrina. The same woman that took his hand and helped him find the quiet place. Her face tells him that this moment on the chess board is business.

One foot over the other, Kandy takes a step closer.

This has to stop. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Slowly, he lowers his gun and shakes his head.

Gun held steady, Kandy inches closer.

Steve returns to the world, and Kandy fires her gun. Instincts pull him back as he watches the flicker, the bullet escaping in slow motion and fading away. Timing the passing of the ethereal bullet, he aims his gun and pulls the trigger as he returns to the world. Leaping diagonally closing the distance, Kandy fires again. Bullets strike the walls behind both of them cracking stone walls. In a zig-zag dance, the two close in on each other as they fire their guns.

A sting blazes inside his chest, and he tumbles sideways falling onto the floor. Another sting strikes him in the side. Twisting around on the floor, he fires his gun repeatedly, the explosions filling his ears. The killer comes at him like a blur, and he keeps shooting until the hammer clicks.

Standing over him, Kandy aims her gun at this chest and raises her sword. Her chest heaves, and blood runs down her leg onto her black slipper.

“Please, Kandy.” It feels like something slams him in the chest, and he clamps his hand over his heart feeling the moist slop soaking his shirt. “Kandy?”

The killer bites her lip and shakes her head. “By order of the magistrate, I hereby end your miserable life.”

The sword slashes down blurring into a ghost, and Steve realizes he’s in the quiet place. He feels his arms reaching out for Kandy, but his limbs do not move. His thoughts extend out, and he lets his hunger take control. The sword reappears slicing through wisps of violet turbulence of the shadow world.

He swims into her thoughts and drinks her memories in. Like bubbles floating up around him, memories drift by. Touching them releases their bundles, moonlight glimmering off the lake, the musty scent of autumn, and sound of a beating heart. The scent of cinnamon beckons a campfire and the taste of blood carries a warm wind. He dives into the abyss, drinking it all in.

The smell of burning wood, pine and ash, rides the wind. A spark breaks the darkness, and a pop disrupts the silence. From the depths, mumbling whispers rise into rabid howls, shouts call for pain and death. The spark erupts into a flame, a hungry blaze reaching for the twilight.

Gathered in a semi-circle, men dressed in cowboy hats and dingy overalls shake their fists and shout. Women wearing long dresses, several in bonnets, join the men. They scream blasphemes at the top of their lungs. At the focus of their relentless clamor, a young woman struggles against the bounds holding her to a post. Her free foot kicks at the wood piled around her, dust and paper swept away by the warm breeze. The smell of oil rises. Beside her, a woman in a dusty blue dress waves a burning torch as she shouts leading the crowd in a chorus of contempt.

Witchcraft and devilry, their accusations ride the wind.

The torch bearer turns to the prisoner, her expression dark, the icy glare of a killer. Kandy.

The prisoner thrashes around, her golden hair flying about her dirt covered face. She pulls at the rope tearing the sleeve from her dress. She spits and shouts, cursing the people. Younger, but there is no mistaking her curving form and deep blue eyes: Yasmine.

Kandy circles around touching the torch to paper and oil. Flames rise, flickering, dancing, puffing smoke taken by the wind. As the crowd roars with delight, Yasmine gazes over, tears streaming tracks down her dusty face. The fire eats at the end of her dress, a flicker climbs up the middle, and the garment billows up, cinders flying away.

Yasmine cries, heaving fits, her face wrecked in anguish. No words on the wind, no voice, just the pleading face, but he hears her call.

Ezekiel, my angel, rescue me from this nightmare.

Spotting a knife attached to the belt of the nearest man, he pulls the weapon from the sheath and strides directly towards the prisoner. Like a ghost he passes through the burning flames, the pile of wood, and returns. Heat blazes. He slices through the rope and scoops Yasmine into his arms, and crashes through the pile kicking wood. Dropping Yasmine onto her feet, he grasps the top of her dress and rips the fabric open releasing the flaming dress floating to the ground.

Lifting the young Itoril, he carries her into a violet storm of light and shadow. Smoky mists rising, another memory slips inside pulling the young Yasmine from his grasp. Diving into the abyss, he grasps at memories bubbling all around. Latching onto one, he drinks it in finding the smell of rain and leather, the soft driver’s seat of Kandy’s car.

“They told me I’d find you here.”

“Ah, Mister Reynolds,”says Detective Silver, waving his hand. “I’m taking one last look before we release the scene.”

“I remember what happened.”

“Excellent.”

Steve gazes down at the dance floor where Julio stood, at the nearby stone column. The stains are gone, but he spots an open folder in the detectives hand where a photograph reveals the blood.

After the talk with the magistrate about collective decisions, Fate and her tapestry, it feels as though he has been running on rails since the beginning.

Given the expense and complication of producing vampire ice, the venom issue must be a plot to convince the elders that they need change. That part seems straightforward. He has not seen any vampire ice. The vials at Torx’s apartment could have held anything, and Torx gets his fix straight from Kandy. The forgetfulness nature of venom takes care of the rest. It’s Stratton’s other implied message that chills his bones. Will the magistrate accept his end?

He clears his throat. “I was hit on the head.”

His notes mention how Julio describes the incident. Two ghosts, a spray of blood from nowhere, and then nothing. There are very few that fit the description. Maybe Zee, but two others were present during the crime. Kandy and the wraith circling around the chaos, somewhere on the other side of the shadows.

“Do you remember who attacked you?”

He shakes his head as the image of Kandy striking him burns his soul. “Like a ghost.”

Silver points at the dance floor. “What about the other victim?”

“Sorry. I wish I could be more help. I just wanted to let you know what I recall.”

Silver nods. “Come by the station tomorrow. We have a lead on your identity.”

“Truly?”

“I haven’t had a chance to review it yet, but it sounds promising. We’ll try to clear it all up together.”

Steve wishes the detective good luck and climbs the stairs to the exit. The night air greets him with a chill. It feels strange that his own life might be within grasp, but his true identity is stranger still. He is a memory thief. Walking towards the Sanctuary, he flips through his notepad, scanning the pages.

There is no bottled venom, or vampire ice as the kids refer to it. Torx and Sabrina get their drug straight from the fangs. Given the memory loss symptom of the drug, and with a little psychological nudge, Torx would believe he accepts deliveries from Julio or others at Necropolis pinning Yasmine as the supplier. Is Kandy behind it? It almost seems that way, except she is a traditionalist with no interest in politics. And she is a killer. No matter how much she hates the idea of a young female magistrate, she would never take part in political treachery. A killer kills, and for Kandy, Yasmine is not much of a challenge. No, it seems more likely that someone takes advantage of Kandy’s lust for blood and her willingness to exchange a hit of venom, an activity frowned upon, but not necessarily illegal. More likely someone is trying to frame Kandy.

That leaves two other suspects: Stratton and Zee. The magistrate seems hell-bent on proving a point to the elders, and the wobbly bandmate shows up at interesting places including Torx’s apartment and popping out of a closet at the Sanctuary with a gun.

Among the pedestrians on the sidewalk ahead of him, he spots a slender shadow defying the light, a wraith. The creature turns its head, gazing back. Wispy smoke reveals shapes of its slender nose and broad chin. The eyes are dark pits. The wraith turns away, continuing its march.

Glancing back, Steve finds the same street full of pedestrians from memory. This is the place the wraith followed him, only now in front, a memory within a memory. Could the wraith be his shadow? It seems impossible, but there it is right where he remembers walking. As if reading his thoughts, the creature glances back a second time just as he had done before in its place

A chill shakes him right to the core.

Instead of paying the doorman, Steve steps into the quiet place and slips into the Sanctuary of Sin. Beneath violet clouds, he passes through the ethereal walls and finds his way to the dressing room. He returns to world standing behind Sin.

Wearing only black shoes, Sin stands bent over a table gazing into a brightly lit mirror. She applies lipstick smacking her lips together.

Gazing at the smooth curves over her backside, at her breasts hanging over the table, he feels embarrassment wash over from walking in on someone in a compromising position, into her private life. She hums a tune beyond her own awareness as she reaches behind and scratches her buttocks. It could be worse had he caught her on the toilet, but not as terrible as the thought crossing him.

Drink in her memories.

A beautiful young woman, an exotic dancer entertaining Itoril, must have interesting memories. Nasty thoughts come rushing in. What she likes during sex, her bathing preference, even her favorite foods seem like tantalizing appetizers on the way down, deep into her secret place. It’s all there for the taking.

Stealing memories isn’t just wrong, consumption means they also become part of him. All the secrets, the fear, the good and the bad become his memories like Torx, the original Steve Reynolds the drug addict, and whatever other memories are already mixed inside. All those secrets become his burden.

The dancer’s gaze meets his in the reflection. Holding the lipstick before her face, she watches him for what seems like eternity. The urge to consume her memories erupts, and he tastes them like the scent of home-baked goodies floating in the air. Going to school, eating strawberry ice cream, and hugging a stuffed toy bear. What would it be like to have a daughter? Go trick-or-treat. Watch her grow up, become a women. Would it even be possible to follow the transition? With all the memories getting mixed up distorting time, the only way might be to take in the memories and watch them like a movie.

Just one drink.

Devour her memories and know what growing up is like.

A shudder rushes down his spin, and he bites his lip holding back temptation.

The dancer spins around. Taking no effort to cover up, she stands there looking her intruder over. Her eyes flash to the closed door and back. “How did you get in here?”

“My apologies.” Taking in a deep breath, he quiets the urge. He glances down at her bare breasts, and pulls his gaze back up. “At the end of the first song, you must tell me to get the hell out.”

Her face contorts into confusion.

Counting five hundred-dollar bills, he sets them on the table. “That’s all. Just tell me to leave.”

Turning to the door, he grabs the knob. It refuses him. Realizing the problem, he pushes the button in the center popping the lock. He exits into a dim hall and closes the door to Sin.

Palm to his head, he wipes sweat.

The original plan likely involves the shooter surprising him inside the room, but Sin’s warning changes that. Using himself as bait might allow him to surprise the shooter, unless of course, the shooter has already thought of that. Or Kandy. What if the shooter is bait? Tracking down Kandy and getting caught wearing a different suit is too much of a risk.

Waiting is a risk. Kandy or the shooter may come along at any minute. He has the ability to walk through the shadows. Can he move forward and find the right moment in time? That’s just it. Time. Nothing slows down in that other world. It’s perception. Like visiting the memories of the dancer, all he has to do is find the right one. The memory of the shooter waiting in the room. That he can work with. It’s right there in memory.

Following the note from the bike messenger, Steve finds a tall glass building, headquarters of Stratton Enterprises. He avoids security by stepping into the quiet place. No sense in turning over his gun. He nearly expects to dive underground to some secret dungeon, but the elevator carries him to the upper penthouse. The outer offices offer a view of city lights glowing within the drizzling haze. A guard opens a door into the core of the building, a dimly lit windowless vault.

His shoes tap on the black-and-white marble. Itoril seem to have admiration for checkerboards, or maybe his own interpretation of memories makes it seem that way. Standing against the wall, shady looking men in dark outfits watch him cross the room. Or it feels like they watch. It’s hard to tell what they gaze at through their dark glasses.

“Welcome to Roseland,” says a man, rising from behind a large oak desk standing on a dais. “I’m Charles Stratton. Magistrate.”

Steve inclines his head.

“Mister Reynolds,” says the magistrate. He pushes his golden hair from his shoulder and shakes his head. “It is customary to greet the magistrate and ask permission for operation within his domain on arrival. Yet, I hear you have been working within my city for several weeks.”

“My apologies.” Uncertain if he should bow, he nods. “I’m unfamiliar with many of the Itoril customs, and well, I’m not Itoril.”

“Of course. You seem quite human.” Stratton touches his finger to his chin. “How is it that Yasmine knows of you, and I do not?”

“Yasmine claims I saved her life when she was young. To my embarrassment, I must admit that I don’t recall the event.”

Stratton chuckles. “She’s not a forgettable woman.”

“Please, Magistrate Stratton, you have me at a disadvantage. I know nothing of what Yasmine may have mentioned, and I’m in need of education on Itoril politics.”

“Of course,” says Stratton, nodding. He glances over at the guard near the back corner, and sits. “Honestly, Yasmine has told me very little about you. Including the details about your business here in Roseland.”

“I’m investigating a matter.”

“The slaying of Itoril,” says Stratton, his eyes narrowing. He glances over at the same guard. “For venom.”

Heap of dark hair hanging over his shoulders, the guard stands motionless. Unlike the others, he doesn’t hide his eyes behind dark glasses. Instead, he stares at the checkerboard floor.

Stratton throws his hand at the air. “We are conducting our own investigation. You need not worry. This matter is in capable hands.”

“That might be the problem.” Plucking his notepad from his pocket, Steve flips to the most recent entry. “Your capable hands is the subject of my inquiry here tonight.”

Standing, Stratton leans over placing his hands on his desk. “Do you dare?”

“I do indeed, sir. Isn’t the magistrate’s office most capable of carrying out such a crime?” Pen extended, he points at each bodyguard ending with the one in the corner. “Extensive protection. Resources. An executioner at ready, and I assume a team to handle cleaning up. Wouldn’t you say all the necessary resources are here?”

Stratton’s blue eyes burn red.

Touching pen to paper, Steve sketches Stratton’s pose capturing the hands on table, face of stone, and those fiery eyes. The sketch is crude, and more than recording the moment, he wants it to appear as if he has much to note.

“Hugo,” says Stratton, snapping his fingers.

From the center of the west wall, the largest guard steps out of line.

“What does one do when the accused is the magistrate?”

Face going slack, Hugo gapes at the floor. Biting his lip, he looks up and faces the magistrate. “Go to a higher authority.”

“No, Hugo.” Stratton shakes his head. His eyes cool, and he stands up straight. “You’re dismissed.”

Head hanging, Hugo clomps out of the room.

“Someone else,” says the magistrate. He nods at another guard. “You. What’s your name?”

“Travis, sir,” the guard says, stepping out of line.

“Travis, what do you do if the accused is the magistrate?”

“Sir,” says Travis. He coughs. “Challenge the magistrate.”

Stratton nods. “And in such a scenario, I have no doubt I would lose that challenge to such capable hands.”

Travis nods and steps back in line.

Steve waves his pen in the air. “I’m not here to challenge you.”

“No,” says Stratton. He tightens the knot on his necktie. “You’re merely pointing out the subject of this meeting. And to answer your question. Yes, I have all the necessary resources to carry out such a terrible crime and keep it secret from my superiors.”

Feeling eyes watching him, Steve glances to the corner finding the guard staring directly at him.

“These are trying times,” says Stratton, folding his arms. He gazes up at the dim globe lights in the ceiling. “Our numbers grow larger as each generation grows weaker. The youngest barely pass for Itoril. Shades of their ancestors.”

Glancing, Steve spots the guard shaking his head at him. He turns his attention back on the magistrate.

“The elders are divided,” says Stratton. He looks down at his empty desktop. “Some wish to eradicate these shades. Protect our interests through cleansing.”

Steve jots down notes. Genocide is a last resort of the desperate.

“Yasmine has made the case to not merely blend in with society as many of us have done, but to bring humans into our world starting with the youth. Embrace change using the vampire mythos. ‘Make it cool to be a vampire’ as she likes to say. As you might imagine, this angers many of the elders.”

Finishing his note, he glances to the corner finding the guard watching the floor.

Stratton glances at the corner and back. His face sours. “Yasmine sympathizes with tradition, but she recognizes that the world changes. The younger a person is, the more open she is to change. And Yasmine is quite young.”

Steve nods.

“Travis,” says Stratton.

Travis steps out of line.

“Tell me the name of the man standing in the corner behind me.”

Leaning to one side, Travis peers around the desk. Eyes squishing down tight, he searches the corner.

Glancing, Steve spots the man without sunglasses still looking at the floor. He looks at Travis’s puzzled face. Glancing back again, he finds nothing obstructing the view. Travis should see the man in question.

Travis shakes his head. “Sir?”

Studying the man in the corner, Steve spots a dark haze. The man stands just beyond the edge of shadows, which means he likely cannot hear the conversation. There are only a few Itoril with Kandy’s skill, and it makes sense that the magistrate employs one as a personal bodyguard.

Noticing all eyes in his direction, the man steps out of the shadows. Stammering, the other guards glance around before standing at attention.

Stratton glares at the guards. “All of you remain here with Xavier. Mister Reynolds and I will step outside.”

Outside the large office, a woman works at a desk near the window. Spotting the magistrate, she excuses herself and scurries to the elevator.

“I thank you, magistrate, for the demonstration.” Steve glances out the window finding panels of light filling the shorter building across the street. Hanging from the clouds, tendrils grasp at the buildings. “I expected you would have someone, besides Kandy, with similar skill.”

“You are a security risk.”

“Should I assume my name is on your executioner’s list?”

Stratton laughs. “Please. You’re a risk, but not a danger. I mean look at you performing a service for Yasmine. You’re a business man, Mister Reynolds.”

“A working man is a safe man. Is that your position?”

“I’ll be honest, Mister Reynolds,” says Stratton. Lowering his head, he gazes at the ground and takes a breath. Returning his gaze, his expression turns grim. “Fear is a terrible sickness. You’re not human. You’re not Itoril. Nobody knows much of anything about you, and that frightens some. I must say, there are those that have pushed me in the past, but I have never entertained the execution option to merely put unwarranted fears to rest. As long as you aren’t a threat to Itoril, I never will.”

If the magistrate lies, he hides it well behind a perfect poker face.

Inclining his head, Steve says, “I thank you for your honesty.”

“I apologize. You didn’t come here asking about politics.”

Steve shakes his head. “How difficult is it to bottle venom?”

“A challenge, even assuming one is skilled enough to capture a mature Itoril and extract it from his living body. Expensive, even. You see, there are two chemicals which combine during the bite, and once mixed, quickly loses potency.”

“So, one would need to store these chemicals in separate containers.”

“And one must be kept at body temperature. It’s possible, Mister Reynolds, but a losing business plan.”

Nodding, Steve jots a note as he speaks. “It would be easier for an Itoril to offer such services straight from the fangs.”

Stratton laughs. “Yes. That sort of activity is frowned upon, but it happens.”

He recalls Sabrina in the shower offering her arm to Kandy. A young woman trying to forget her past lives with an Itoril exchanging blood for a hit of memory loss.

Steve shakes his head. “I imagine such a symbiotic relationship is inevitable given an Itoril with a strong taste for blood.”

“You’d make a great executioner.”

“You already have a great executioner.”

“I’ve sensed for some time that Kandy grows tired of her position, but she keeps at it. She’ll never give in until her replacement takes the position from her. But I’m not speaking of myself. You’ll make a great executioner for Yasmine.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re her sponsor.”

“Of course. It’s no secret. We’ve won over some of the elders, but many hold onto their old ways.”

“You don’t think she’s too young?”

“I never planned on giving up this position so soon, but in any case it’s not about what I think, Mister Reynolds. It’s about Fate.”

“Fate?” He touches pen to pad, but stops uncertain what to write.

“Fate is the voice of everyone. Plotting a course through politics. Picking out clothes for work. Decisions. Listen to them and you will hear Fate. Certainly each decision on its own merit, there is free will, but all of them together creates a tangle we cannot, and sometimes dare not, escape from.

“If you could see the future, such as your own death.” Stratton shakes his head. “No. Honor, accepting death, and all that gets in the way. If you could see the death of a loved one, like a child in a terrible accident, would you try to change it?”

Taking a deep breath, Steve nods. “Naturally, but if I change the outcome then I never truly see the future.”

“Fate is cruel. If all the collective decisions lead to that death, then trying to change a few decisions will not alter the outcome. This is like this venom issue you find yourself mixed into. I saw the signs many years ago. The fading of each generation. The struggle between the elders, some holding onto the past while others condemn the future. I saw this time coming, and I have a prediction for you, Steve Reynolds.”

Lowering his notepad, Steve looks into the blue eyes finding fear.

“Very soon, Yasmine will become the first female magistrate in centuries. The youngest ever to hold the position. And the venom issue will go away.”

“You must have a strong suspect.”

“That’s part of her cruelness.” Stratton’s expression turns cold, and the room seems to drop a few degrees. “No matter how long I stare at her tapestry, I cannot make out the threads.”