Acacia: Thorny

by Scribe

Acacia Akuji: eldest of the 'Three Sisters'.

Acacia is a vicious, psychotic, man hating, stuck-in-the-sixties go-go chick. Of course, being a vampiric werecat with multiple personalities probably doesn't help her dispostition...

The three sisters are asked to locate a missing young woman before the stalker who has threatened her life does. It all seems to be connected to the gruesome murder of the girl's parents some twenty years ago.

Acacia: Thorny

by Scribe

Chapter One
Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Wrong Line

After a week of humiliation and abuse, Todd had finally reached his last assignment for Hell Week. After tonight, he would be a member of his chosen fraternity, guaranteed to be included in all the 'in' activities. All he had to do was find a street hooker, have sex, and return with her panties.

He had come prepared. There was a small assortment of condoms in his wallet, along with a hundred in cash. He figured that should cover a quick blowjob with some left over for the panties if the whore demanded compensation for losing her undies.

The problem was finding a pro. One girl he'd approached in a bar last night had dumped a king sized frozen margarita on his crotch, almost causing hypothermia. There were sure to be plenty of working girls downtown, but that still presented a problem.

He'd grown up nearby. Pastor Benson and the Mission Society frequented the main sin streets, handing out pamphlets, picketing controversial movies, and annoying the winos with offers of food instead of the change they could use to buy some more Mad Dog.

There would be the prim, beehive coiffed ladies who'd drilled him on bible verses he couldn't understand, and the grim faced deacons who'd thumped him on the head when he dozed off during service. If any one of these saw him in such a place without a leaflet explaining the need to repent, the surety of Hell if you didn't, and how to gain Eternal Salvation, they'd be sure to report it to his parents. That would mean the end of his enrollment at the public university, and his entrance into a Bible College.

That was not going to happen if he could help it. So here he was, cruising the fringes of the more popular areas. Pickings were slim, though. This area was the turf of the hookers who couldn't make it in the high traffic areas. They were too old, too fat, too skinny, too far gone with drugs, even misshapen or disfigured.

He'd started to pick up one that had a nice figure, and moved with the spring of youth. She was wearing her long brown hair Veronica Lake style, sweeping over the right side of her face, a nice touch. When she leaned in to negociate, the tresses swung away, and the dash lights had illuminated a face out of a horror show.

The left side was pretty, even beautiful. She wasn't long out of highschool, and there was probably a picture of her somewhere at her senior prom, smiling under a rhinestone tiara as Princess Somebody or Duchess Someone. But the right side...

Todd was forcefully reminded of the Batman villain, Twoface. It was a shiny, twisted mass of raw scars, not old enough to have paled to white. It looked as if, from brow to chin, that part of her face had been slathered with gobs of pink and red wax, then left to harden. The most disturbing thing was the carefully applied mascara, shadow, and fake lashes on the right eye. It had been pulled almost shut by the healing scar tissue, and it looked as if she were giving a hideously knowing wink.

When he suddenly fell silent, she gave a nervous, high pitched laugh and touched the rough surface of her cheek. "Learned not to hold out on my old man the hard way. I didn't think he'd use Liquid Plumber over a measly fifty, but his dealer had been cutting his shit more and more..."

Todd hit the gas, almost knocking her down in his haste to escape that awful image. He heard her purse thump against his trunk as she flailed at his car, and wondered vaguely whether the paint was scratched. Her voice lifted in an outraged, hurt shriek that faded as he pulled away. "It's not catching, motherfucker!"

When Todd slowed down at last, he realized that he'd driven even farther into the industrial area that surrounded the city than he'd intended. He wasn't far from the docks, in an area that seemed to consist of nothing but warehouses, junkyards, and metal shops. Here and there he'd see the glimmer of an arc welder beneath a garage door, and suspected there was more than one chop shop flourishing in this area. Other than that, it was deserted.

About half a block up, he saw someone emerge from the shadowy doorway of a building. They started up the sidewalk, away from him. He could tell by the swing of the hips that it was a woman, and he eased up beside her hopefully. A nearby street lamp was miraculously unbroken, and he got a good look at her.

She looked in her early twenties, old enough so he'd not have to worry about statutory problems, not yet to hag stage. She was around 5'6" or 7". She moved with the thoughtless, fluid grace of a ballerina, but she was more solid than slender, her legs lean and muscular. He could see a lot of those legs.

That was another thing that piqued his interest. The way she was dressed, she had to be a hooker. No one dressed like that if they weren't, and it wasn't Halloween, or Los Angeles.

She was wearing a lime green polyester mini dress shorter than the ones worn by that skinny lawyer babe on tv. It had circular cut out pockets in front, backed by hot pink fabric the same color as the trim and her fishnet stockings. Underneath it she wore a long sleeved knit shirt in narrow black-and-yellow bumblebee stripes. She had on knee high black patent leather boots, which matched the enormous shoulder strap purse she carried over her shoulder. The ensemble was finished off by a heavy gold chain belt. When he thought about it later, he decided that she looked like she'd come straight out of an Austin Powers movie.

He pulled up beside her and tooted his horn. She stopped beneath another street lamp and turned toward him as he slowed to a stop. He liked what he saw even more. Her face was angular, but pretty, the smooth skin ivory pale and perfect. Her hair was cut short, shorter even than most boys' these days. It was a sleek chocolate brown with strands of cream colored blond streaked through it. She was wearing round framed white plastic sunglasses, and her pearlized lipstick was so pale that her mouth was barely discernable in this light. She was frowning.

"How much?" he called.

Dark eyebrows rose over the white plastic rims. "How much what?"

Great, she was going to be coy. "Just some french. How much?"

Her ghostly lips formed a circle. "Oh, I see." Then her mouth relaxed into a smile, but it wasn't a friendly smile, or even a diplomatic business smile. It was tartly amused. "Frat boy's out tomcatting, looking for some pussy?"

"That's right, and I can pay for it."

She took a couple of steps toward the car, boot heels clacking hollowly, echoing even over the thrum of his idling motor. "I cost dear."

"Twenty." This was what the anorexic with the bad skin had offered outside the arcade an hour ago.

She laughed, a sound like his mom's crystal wind chime made, twirling in a lazy breeze. "Boy thinks he'll get filet for hamburger prices. Or are you so inexperienced you don't know the going rate for luxury goods?" She took off her glasses and regarded him with brilliant sapphire blue eyes with a faint, exotic upward tilt. Now the smile was openly derisive.

"Alright, fifty. But you gotta give me your panties to take home."

She laughed again. "What's the matter? Your little sister catch you sniffin' her bicycle seat and tell Mommy?"

Todd could feel his face turning red, the anger and embarrassment building up inside. He didn't handle ridicule well. It had even gotten out of hand once or twice. His younger brother had learned to tread softly after a couple of bloody noses. And there was the time his junior year, when his girlfriend wouldn't stop teasing him about his voice breaking during his talent show solo...They'd broken up, and she told everyone she got the black eye when she tripped backstage in the dark.

"Seventy-five, and you don't have to be such a bitch."

The smile widened, but it was no longer amused. It was like she was baring her teeth. "Wrong species, honey. Why don't you get your little ass back to suburbia before someone eats you, and not in a way you'll like?"

He made a final effort. "One hundred." Surely no hooker on earth would turn down a hundred for a quick blowjob.

"There's all kinds of ways of taking payment. You can't afford what I need."

"Bullshit!" No street tramp was going to turn her nose up at him like this. If she didn't want to give it up, he'd take what he wanted, and save the cash. He slammed the car into park and started to open his door. "Get in the car, slut. I'm gettin' some pussy tonight, whether you..."

He didn't see her move. He played it over and over in his mind for years afterward, but he honestly didn't see her move. It was just zip, like a transporter or something. One second she was just off the curb, the next she was beside his car, reaching in.

A hand far too rough and strong clamped down on his throat, pinning his head back against the seat. Her eyes widened, and the pupils narrowed, elongated into vertical slits. "You want pussy, boy? Oh, I can give you pussy." He cried out as what felt like needles pressed, barely puncturing his skin.

He threw a fist at her, but she casually batted it aside with her free hand. Now her eyes glowed, shifting from blue to red. "Problem is..." her voice had sunk to a husky growl. "I don't like to hunt too close to my own turf. Of course I could always make it look like a mugging." He felt a sharp point drawn lightly over the pulse in his neck. "One little slice here, over the artery. If I go deep enough it would only take three or four minutes for you to bleed out."

He lifted his legs and tried to kick her away. She gave a slight jerk, grunting a little from a blow that should have knocked her into the gutter. Her grip tightened a bit, and he felt warm blood trickle down in several places. "Now that was stupid. What if my nails had slipped, hm?"

"Please." He was crying, crying like he did at that evening service when he finally made his formal profession of faith at eight. The church elders had given such a vivid description of Hell that it had frightened him into a fit, and his hysterical tears were mistaken for a manifestation of the Holy Spirit. He cried now because once again damnation seemed like a very real, possible thing.

"Say you're sorry, shithead."

"I'm sorry oh god I'm so sorry please please please don't hurt me I don't wanna go to hell I'm so sorry..."

"That'll do." She shoved him back. "If you come back down here again, I'll eat your eyes, take off your head, and leave it on your gearshift. That'll make a nice news clipping for Mom and Dad's scrapbook."

She sauntered around the front of the car. In the headlights, he could see that her nails were at least an inch long, funny he hadn't noticed that before. At first he thought the tips were polished a bright red. His stomach lurched when he realized that it wasn't enamel, but his blood. As she crossed the street and continued on her way, he slammed the car into reverse and made a screeching turn, bumping up on the sidewalk and narrowly missing a telephone pole. Then he roared off as fast as he could, laying rubber for several yards.

He never went back to the fraternity. His roommate watched in sleepy puzzlement as Todd crammed his clothing into suitcases and plastic bags. He left his textbooks and told his roommate he could keep the radio, then drove directly to his home. He arrived at two am.

His father started to scold him for his inconsideration, then took a good look at his pale, trembling son. He took him in, sent Todd's mother back to bed, and called the pastor. Todd spent the rest of the night locked in the study with the preacher who'd thundered brimstone and sang salvation to him three times a week since he was a toddler. When he emerged the next morning he was calmer, but still haunted. He agreed to enroll the next semester in the Bible College, then go on to a seminary.

He'd told Pastor Benson a lot. Most of what had happened, in fact. But there was one thing he didn't tell him, one thing he never told anyone. Not his parents, not the therapist he visited for a time, not even the girl he eventually married and had children with. He didn't even tell God, though he was sure He knew about it.

What Todd never spoke of was the fact that, when the woman had walked in front of his headlights, she hadn't thrown any shadow. None at all

Chapter Two
Prey Targeted

It would have been quicker to take the car, but Acacia liked to walk. She never had to worry about finding parking, or having the Lexus vandalized or towed. The police didn't generally search every car they took in, but there were occasionally things in the trunk that a forensic expert would find fascinating, so it was better not to chance it.

One advantage of driving was that you didn't have as many close encounters with ass holes like that frat boy. But she smiled, remembering how he'd blubbered. *Little bastard probably needed clean boxers by the time he got home.* She'd come close to doing exactly what she'd threatened. She could tell by his scent he intended to rape her, and that put him in the category of prey.

She'd held off, though. It was just too damn close to home, right on her own doorstep. She'd have had to move the car, and Acacia didn't like driving someone else's car, especially when she had their remains stuffed in the trunk. Awful hard to explain at traffic stops if something leaked out of the trunk. Besides, there was something else on the schedule tonight.

She had a feeling that this was the night she'd finally find Mercy's old man. Mercy, also known on the street as The Incredible Melting Whore, didn't know she'd engaged Acacia to take care of her problem. Mercy thought that she'd just been bullshitting in a bar with another, more exotic form of hooker.

For some reason, certain prostitutes bragged about the tortures their pimps put them through, wearing the burns and welts like badges of honor. *Maybe it's like the dueling scars all those swashbuckling motherfuckers had in the old movies.*

Mercy probably didn't even see it at a problem. She seemed to think it was understandable, if a bit harsh, for Slick *Oh, damn, that is so original, almost as inventive as Cool.* to pour drain cleaner on her face for daring to hold out on her earnings, just so she could try to fix the tooth he'd broken. He'd said why worry about a broken tooth? Just be sure to pull her lips over her teeth when she gave blow jobs.

From that moment on Slick was dead man walking. It wouldn't do much good, of course. Mercy would find another Slick, or Slim, or an Easy Money, or perhaps a Bubba. Women like her always did. But it would be one less piece of trash in the world, and a good meal for Acacia.

It hadn't been easy, though. Acacia had shadowed Mercy for nearly a week. The poor bitch had to work till the crack of dawn to make enough to keep from getting the shit kicked out of her, and that meant that Acacia had to call off the search before she went back to her crib. Slick was a poor imitation of a real pimp. He never stirred his lazy ass to check on his woman during her shift.

But there was word of a big shipment hitting the streets tonight. That meant every junkie for miles around would be out, trying to score. Slick wasn't likely to be patient enough to wait for Mercy to bring her take home. No, he'd be around somewhere, waiting to confiscate the money.

If she'd been smart, Mercy would have been working the docks. There were always some crewmen around, bored, horny, and not too picky. It didn't pay as much, but it was steady. Instead, she'd moved in a little closer to the main drag, desperately hoping to catch some overflow business.

That was dangerous in several ways, and being picked up by the cops was the least of it. The downtown pimps and whores were very territorial. If you didn't have an arrangement you were likely to end up in the emergency room, dripping through your fingers while they filled out forms.

Mercy had set up shop across from an all night diner, which was just about perfect. Acacia took a booth where she could have a more or less clear view through the fly specked window. She used napkins and some of her complimentary water to swab up the remains of whatever the previous diner had dripped on the sticky tablecloth, and ordered pie and coffee.

That was one of the advantages of being a hybrid, she mused. She wasn't limited to a liquid diet, she could still enjoy human food. Not that the food here was that enjoyable. The lemon meringue pie was as tart as her own personality, the meringue was the consistency of foam rubber, and the crust was almost as tasty as damp cardboard. The coffee wasn't a total loss. It had a nice coppery taste, a pale imitation of the metallic undertone in fresh blood.

She sipped the thick brew, watching as Mercy managed to coax an obviously drunk fat man into the alley. He emerged in five minutes, struggling with his fly. She was disappointed when he didn't catch himself in the zipper.

Another hour passed. The waitress started to say something to Acacia, probably a remark about not renting booth space. Acacia looked pointedly around the diner, empty except for a newspaper vendor grabbing a chili burger before picking up his load, and gave her two dollars. "Help yourself to a piece of that industrial waste you're passing off as pie." The waitress left, blushing as she tucked the bills in her apron pocket. Acacia wasn't mad at her, as she'd waited tables in places like this more than once. It paid shit and you were everyone's doormat and draft animal.

Another man approached Mercy. This one was younger than the first, no more than late twenties. He was pretty tall, at least six-four. Long arms and legs, big hands...He'd probably done well in high school basketball, dreaming of the NBA. Then he found out he was up against guys a head or more taller who could leap like gazelles.

Again Mercy went into the alley, but this time the guy shoved her in. Acacia sat up alertly. If it wasn't Slick, it might be someone else who needed killing. They came out again in a moment. The guy was counting money, and Mercy was rubbing her arms, the unmarred side of her face scrunched like a child trying not to cry.

He finished the count, shook it at her, then slapped the side of her head hard enough to make her stagger on her high heels. Mercy talked silently, spreading her arms to indicate the empty street. He raised his hand to slap her again, and she cringed. Instead he smiled, and took her chin in this hand. He spoke slowly and deliberately, holding up the cash as if as an example. When he released her, she nodded eagerly, and he stroked the hair that fell over the ruin that he'd made of her face.

Acacia heard a grating sound, and looked down. Her nails had extended full length, and she'd unconsciously torn rips in the oilcloth. She retracted them quickly, and put on her shades. Her eyes had probably switched, too, and she didn't want the waitress or customer to notice anything unusual.

Slick was moving off down the street. She grabbed her bag, tossed a tip on the table, and left the diner. The only question was whether or not he'd try to score right away. He might want to get a pre-fix buzz. She didn't want to make contact in a bar. Most bartenders wouldn't remember if the pope had dropped by in full holy regalia, but she was bit...distinctive.

Acacia followed easily. From her biological father she'd inherited natural stealth, and her sire had enhanced that gift with his Embrace. A mortal never heard her coming unless she intended them to, or she was very, very careless.

Slick was impatient. No socializing for him tonight. He walked quickly to where the streets were still alive with pedestrians and cars. Hookers trolled under the watchful eyes of pimps more conscientious than Slick. Customers wandered in and out of bars, massage parlors, and peepshow arcades. There was at least one all night comic book shop, doing a brisk business even at this late hour.

They passed Crowley's and The Decadence Boutique, respectively a goth club and a sex emporium, both favorites of her sister, Naresha. There was also Bounty, a nature/health food store. It was one of the few places Milda, her other sister, would leave the sanctuary of their home to visit.

Slick immediately began to pester anyone who looked like they might be holding. It said a lot about his unreliable nature that he didn't have a regular supplier. Most ignored him, not about to acknowledge someone so blatant in their need. You had to be wasted on your own product not to at least attempt to hide your dealings. One fourteen year old, wearing the badge of a junior Street Prince, laughed in his face when Slick showed him his funds. Slick started to retaliate, but thought better of it when the kid's older, bigger mentor got out of his car, where he'd been supervising the young entrepreneur.

It was beginning to look like Slick wasn't going to find anything at his price, so she'd have to take him straight instead of doped. That didn't bother her. He wouldn't be much of a challenge either way. Slick must've been pretty massive at one time, but the drugs were wasting him away. His clothes bagged, and the skin on his arms looked loose, as if there was no longer enough muscle mass to stretch it taut.

She positioned herself against a wall by the entrance to a closed pawn shop. She crossed her arms and thrust one hip out carelessly, then fixed her eyes on Slick. *See me. Look over here, scumsucker. I'm your meat, a woman alone. Come try to sink your claws in. Let's see what happens when you find yourself on the other end.*

Chapter Three
Contact

She reached out toward him with her inward being. Her talent for this was much weaker than some, but it was enough. Slick got that tight scalp, somebody's-watching-me feeling, and scanned the area quickly. He wasn't holding, curse the luck, but the tracks on his arms would be enough to get him run in. But there were no cops around. He located the source of the stare a few yards away.

*Not bad.* Looked like one of those goofy Laugh-In chicks. Probably had a peace sign tattooed around her bellybutton. It was typical that Slick was going by her style. Anyone who took a good look at Acacia could tell she had no use for peace, symbolic or otherwise.

She was scoping him big time. He tried to straighten from the slump shouldered posture that had become natural and swaggered over. The old charm was working. He saw her almost invisible lips curl into a smile. If he'd been able to see her eyes behind the sunglasses, he wouldn't have been so sure of his irresistability. "Hey, baby. Whassup?"

"Taxes, the price of gas, and possibly the jig."

Slick blinked. His wits hadn't been that swift to begin with, and the shit he shot into his veins had slowed them down to a crawl. "Uh... you shouldn't say jig right out in public 'round here. Some of the niggers might get mad and jump you."

"I'll remember that."

"What's your name, darlin'?"

"Acacia. That means thorny."

His eyes widened in surprised delight. "Horny?"

"Thorn-y. Prickly, stickery. Like a cactus or stinging nettles."

"Aw, why'd your mama give you such a mean name?"

"She didn't, I chose it myself. I'm a great believer in the meaning of names. Take yours, Slick. There's slicker than snot, slicker than shit..."

"Hey!" It finally dawned on him that he was being insulted.

"What's your real name, then?"

"Brendan, like that Encino Man dude."

Her dark penciled eyebrows rose sardonically. "Now that's appropriate. It means stinky hair."

"You made that up."

"If I was making an effort to insult you, I could do better than that. No, Smellylocks, that's the real translation. Before you get all pissed off and do something even stupider than normal, I have what you need."

Chapter Four
The Lure

Hope replaced the anger. At last, someone ready to deal. Even better, someone just begging to be ripped off. Judging from the size of that bag she was carrying, he might end up with a good wad of cash, as well as some free dope.

He'd tell her that he didn't want to make the buy out on the street, and get her in some back alley. It never occurred to him that she might suspect his intentions, that she'd already seen he was so desperate he'd have scored under the nose of the chief of police himself.

"Yeah? He expressed casual interest. "Is it good shit?"

"I can honestly say that you've never experienced anything like it, and never will again."

"Cool. But I don't want to buy here. We need somewhere more private."

"Of course. Where there's no one but you, and me, and the moon alone sees. Follow me."

Slick would have preferred to choose the location, but from the way she was moving it was clear that it was either follow, or be left. She seemed to just flow down the sidewalk, weaving her way through the knots of people without a second's hesitation or a single collision. Slick was clumsier, and earned a few curses.

She turned a corner. In his haste to catch up, he blundered into a makeshift stand, made of a board propped across a couple of boxes. The pirated video tapes that the street vendor had been selling scattered. The seller would have thrashed Slick, but he was too busy trying to wrestle a copy of The XXXmen away from a delighted leather queen.

When Slick made the corner, she was already halfway down the block. He sprinted, feeling the burn in his lungs and thighs even after so short an effort, and caught up to her. "Whoa, slow down. What's your hurry? Your old man got you on a time table?" Pretty clever way of finding out if she was taken, he thought smugly.

"The only time a man was ever essential to my existence was the night my mama got pregnant." Uppity bitch. He was going to enjoy taking her down. Maybe he'd mark up her face a little, to remind her of her place in the scheme of things.

They turned another corner, and another. Slick wasn't observant at the best of times, and he had no idea of where they were now. He'd started to feel nauseous, the first stage of withdrawal. He needed a fix soon.

She ducked into an alley that was really no more than a space between two massive buildings. And Slick hesitated. He couldn't have chosen a better place himself. It was narrow, dim, isolated, and one way. The other end was a blank brick wall. But now that he faced it, he was reluctant to enter. It looked disturbingly primeval, like some ancient cave.

He could see the woman, her green dress was almost flourescent. She was tapping one patent leather shod foot impatiently. He called "There's rats in there."

"I can tell. Come on, Greasy. You may have the rest of your life to waste, but I'm in a hurry." He entered the alley, deciding to remove a few of her teeth as well. "Step to the rear, please. I'm going to make sure we aren't disturbed."

Slick walked to the back, and heard a grating, squealing sound. He watched in astonishment as Acacia finished moving a commercial trash dumpster across the mouth of the alley, blocking off the exit. That thing was almost as tall as she was, and solid metal. Was it on rollers, or something?

Several alley cats boiled up out of the dumpster, where they had been scavenging. They disappeared like smoke, except for one exceptionally tattered old tomcat. He teetered on the rim, puffed up like a feather duster, hissing defiance.

Acacia made an odd chirruping noise, and the cat's ears flicked forward with interest. He seemed to deflate, his tail curving into that button hook shape they make when the cat is curious. Acacia made the noise again, and extended her hand. Slick was looking forward to seeing the damn cat take a chunk out of her. Instead, he sniffed her fingers, then arched his head up under her palm to be stroked. He started to purr, with a sound like a badly tuned engine. Acacia leaned down and whispered to him. The beast looked over her shoulder, straight at Slick, and it opened it's mouth, showing sharp yellowed fangs. Then he turned, leaped, and was gone.

"Whoa, close one. I thought Sylvester was gonna rip you up."

"His name's Morgan, and he had a right to be angry when I invaded his territory. But he gave me permission to do business here."

"Well, hot damn, Mr. Kitty approves. Can we get to it now?"

"I think we should."

"Great." He pulled out his knife, opened it, and said, "I want whatever you have in the bag, bitch."

Chapter Five
Confrontation

She didn't seem scared, she didn't seem angry, she didn't even seem surprised. "To quote Mick, you can't always get what you want, but sometimes you can get what you need. You may want money and drugs, but you don't need them."

"The fuck you say! I'm startin' to hurt, and I need them both, bad. So gimme your purse, and I'll only cut you a little." It was a lie. He intended to put a pattern on her face like the one carved on Pinhead in Hellraiser.

"No, you don't need them." She sounded patient, like a kiddie school teacher showing a retard how to tie his shoes. "You don't need them because you're not going to live long enough to require them. What you need, Slick, is to die, and I can take care of that."

She dropped her purse, and his eyes automatically followed it. Good, she wouldn't be able to pull a weapon. "Kick it over here."

"Are you kidding? That's patent leather, and I don't want to scuff it. You aren't listening, Slick. I said I'm going to kill you."

He sneered. "Yeah, right. You're gonna break my neck."

"Actually I thought I'd tear you up some and let you bleed to death. I don't feel like breaking your neck, it's too quick and clean."

His voice rose in anger. "I ain't playin' with you, girl."

"But I'm playing with you." And she pounced. That was the only word for it. She didn't run, or dive, or jump. She pounced. Slick whipped the knife up, aiming for her hip. He didn't want to kill her, at least not right away. A good gash in the meaty flesh along her hip should take the spunk out of her.

But she twisted sinuously, and the blade missed it's target. At the same instant her hand flashed past his face, and there was a sting on his right cheek. Instinctively he clapped his free hand to the hurt. When he drew it away, there was a thin red smear on his palm. The bitch had drawn blood! Was she armed after all? There was still no weapon in evidence, so she must just have caught him with a ring.

"All right, you get one. But that's it. This shit has gone on long enough."

"Oh no, baby." Her voice was throaty, with an odd vibration to it. "Believe me, it's just starting."

Her arm swung so quickly that he didn't realize what was happening till he felt the burn on his left cheek, and saw her pulling back. This time the blood flowed thickly, and it felt like she had applied a brand to his face. He might even need stitches.

"What the fuck was that?" Slick yelped. "You got a razor or something?" He hated razors: nasty, efficient things.

"No, nothing man made. Nothing..." She held up her hands, backs toward him, fingers spread and wriggling, like a woman showing off her new set of acrylics. "...unnatural." She said the last word with a giggle that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Christ, those things were an inch, inch and a half long. Why hadn't he noticed that? And they weren't rounded into ovals at the tips, they were needle sharp, and curved like fish hooks. That couldn't be right.

She was talking, as if answering some protest he'd made. "I know, I know it seems unfair. I have ten... Well, twenty, but I'm not taking off my boots, and you only have one. But hey, you're bigger than I am, right?"

Numbness had been creeping over Slick, but some deep rooted survival instinct finally reared up. If he went for her while she was distracted, he might have a chance. He lunged, just as she said "...right?", this time aiming for her soft belly, intending to open her up.

Again she seemed to shimmy out of the way, but he flailed as he staggered with his forward momentum, and the blade sliced into her right side, deep. He pulled back, waiting for her to collapse, or grab for her wound so he could get in a few more stabs.

She didn't do either. She plucked at the rip in the neon green polyester, spreading it. He could see a long gash, dark on her pearl white skin. It was slowly oozing something that looked like blackberry jam.

"Son of a bitch! This was one of my favorites, and it's ruined! You can't patch polyester without the seam showing." She kicked him in the crotch.

Slick dropped the knife and grabbed his basket, slowly sinking to his knees. It hurt so bad that he couldn't even scream. It felt like one of those big firecrackers he used to bomb mailboxes when he was a kid had exploded in his pants. As he fell on his face and began vomiting, he wondered if they made steel toed patent leather boots. It felt like they did.

She put a foot on his shoulder and pushed him over on his side. "Don't choke on your own spew, dickhead. That's too easy." She squatted beside him, and he had a clear view up her dress. Her thighs gleamed like white satin through the garish pink net. She did not keep her knees together, like a lady, and Slick saw that she was wearing cheerful paisley panties.

"You think this is happening because you tried to rob me, don't you?"

"Didn't mean it, " he croaked. "Take my money."

"You mean Mercy's money." Two quick slashes, opening the skin on his forehead and chin to the bone.

"Shit!" he wailed. "I'm sorry! I'll let the bitch go, I promise."

"Too late for that, Slickster." Before he could move she straddled his chest, knees pinning his arms on either side. He bucked frantically, but she just swayed easily with his motions, refusing to be unseated. She pulled off the sunglasses, eyes closed, and folded them, slipping them into one of the round front pockets of her dress.

Then she opened her eyes slowly, and they were red. Not blood shot, but red, and glowing like fresh embers. She smiled, showing far too many teeth. Even the ones in front, the incisors, that were supposed to be flat were sharply pointed. As he watched, she curled and stiffened her fingers, and another half inch of nails slid out. Slick felt his bladder let loose. "Since you took off half her face, I think it's appropriate that you lose all of yours."

Now Slick did scream, as she set to work with a will. She cuffed and slapped his unprotected face, each blow ripping skin and muscle. The blood splattered in gouts and ribbons on her dress, the red on green resembling a painting that might have hung in a Soho art gallery during Warhol's heyday.

Then, abruptly, the weight was gone. She was gone. Slick lost no time in rolling to his knees and crawling toward the alley entrance. Maybe it wont be too bad, he thought through his pain. Maybe if I get to the emergency room they can stitch it up, give me something for the pain...The damn dumpster was across the alley, blocking his escape. Groaning, Slick hauled himself up and shoved it.

It didn't budge. Trying to wipe blood out of his eyes, he threw his entire weight against it, and it didn't even tremble. It was like trying to push his way through a solid wall. But she'd moved it earlier, made it look like she was pushing a shopping cart.

There was a feral hiss, and she sprang out of the shadows along the wall. She landed on his back, sinewy legs clamping around his hips, arms going around his neck, and claws finding his face again.

Slick staggered back, the creature never pausing in it's assault. The bright copper taste of blood flooded his mouth as she tore through his cheeks. Then she was off him again. This time he tried to slide between the wall and the dumpster, but the gap was too narrow. He grabbed the rim and tried to heave himself over, feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal.

A taloned hand slammed down on his right shoulder, knocking him to the ground and amputating his ear in the process. That was when Slick realized that whatever this was had been toying with him, allowing him to think he had a hope of escaping.

He slumped to the filthy concrete, back against the dumpster. "Please." It was a thick gurgle. He spat out a wad of blood, but his mouth filled again instantly. He just let it dribble down his chin as he begged. "I took care of her. She wanted to, I swear. She was proud of how she could earnbefore... before..." He trailed away in dismay, realizing what he'd been about to say.

"You put her on her knees in every way possible, Slick. She's out there walkin' and talkin' and pumpin' warm blood, but she's deader inside than I am, and I'm pretty damn dead." She rolled her shoulders, like a boxer warming up before the bell rings. "Last dance!"

Her hands were a blur of motion. Gobbets of flesh and scraps of skin flew. The nose went, the eyes went. She hooked a nail in either corner of his mouth and jerked outward, giving him an unnatural ear-to-ear grin. Then she sat back on her heels and watched him, head cocked sideways in intense interest.

His chest rose and fell weakly for another minute or two. Once he managed to lift his hand to his cheek. When he touched his teeth through the gaping hole, his hand dropped back. Finally he was still. She leaned a little closer, delicate nostrils flaring as she sniffed. Then she nodded and stood up. "I'd tell you to say hello to Satan, but I seriously doubt you had enough of a soul for him to bother with you."

Chapter Six
Sanitation and Celebration

"Now, let's see." She examined herself thoroughly. Her legs were all right till she got home, the stockings camouflaged any blood stains. The dress was a total loss, though. She sighed as she stripped it off. It really had been a favorite, an original. Sure, Naresha could whip up a copy for her, but it just wasn't the same.

The shirt was salvageable. She could cut off the sleeves and wear it as a shell top, but she stripped it off, too. Then, naked save for her panties, hose, and boots, she groomed her upper body as much as possible.

She licked her arms and hands clean, paying particular attention to the nails. She made sure there was no blood or bits of skin trapped. Milda had sent along a couple of washcloths soaked in one of her concoctions, and they served as high tech wet naps. She didn't know what the stuff was, but it soaked up blood without smearing it. She vigorously scrubbed her face, neck, and hair. Since there was no mirror available to check, she had to be careful about missing any spots.

When she was done, Acacia stuffed the ruined clothes and used rags into a plastic bag, which would just fit into her purse. But first she extracted a tightly wrapped packet about the size of a trade paperback. Breaking the seal, she shook it. It rustled and crinkled, then unfolded like an origami sculpture being undone. When she smoothed it out, it was a dress. The paper was a little sturdier that the stock used for grocery bags, and covered in a design that mimicked tie-dye.

As she slipped into it, Acacia reflected that it would suit nicely, as long as there wasn't a rainstorm. That had happened once. The dress had melted in the downpour, and she'd had to streak home. It gave several bums another story to tell that no one would believe.

Slinging the now heavier purse over her shoulder, she walked back to the dumpster, and leaped to the top. She balanced for an instant, tossing a disinterested glance back at the cooling meat on the cement, then walked delicately around the rim to the other side and dropped down.

Her stride was brisk as she exited the alley and headed back toward the more populated area. 'Cat People' was going to be on Creepy Cinema tonight, and she didn't want to miss it. She enjoyed it immensely, even if she couldn't understand why the leading lady was so obsessed with that drippy guy. She'd make some popcorn, with plenty of butter. One terrific thing about her metabolism, she didn't have to worry about getting fat.

She started humming. By the time she was moving through the street hustlers and tourists, she'd started bopping to the beat in her head, shimming her shoulders and hips as she bounced. She drew grins and head shakes. One laughing seventeen year old hooker followed her for a few yards, imitating her movements clumsily.

Acacia laughed with her, did an expert pony step around her that the girl had no hope of copying, then gave her a brief but fervent kiss. The girl blushed for the first time in a year, and watched the strange, vibrant woman dance on down the street, singing, "There she was justa walkin' down the street, singin' doo wa diddy diddy dom diddy doo..."

Chapter Seven
At The Lair

Milda slipped on one of her loose, flower print granny dresses, and came out of her bedroom and followed the sound of the television down to the family room on the first floor.

Each sister had her own level in the converted warehouse: Naresha at the top, Milda on the second, and Acacia in the basement. The ground floor held the offices and Nana's living quarters. The girls often hung around Nana's floor, just enjoying the sense of closeness it gave them.

Acacia wasn't in the room, but as usual had left the television on. Always energy conscious, Milda switched it off just as someone carrying an axe was lunging across the screen. Acacia loved that kind of movie, and Naresha found them amusing, but they just weren't Milda's cup of herbal tea.

Milda retrieved a greasy bowl and empty Pepsi bottle from the coffee table and took them into the kitchen. Sometimes Acacia gave the lie to that 'cats are neat freaks' line of thinking, but Milda couldn't get angry with her for it. She knew Acacia was the toughest of them all, but in some ways she'd just never grown up.

Milda rinsed the plastic bottle and put it in the proper recycling bin, and quickly washed the bowl. She decided to make some brownies for a surprise for Nana's breakfast, and started the oven. As it preheated, she assembled her utensils and ingredients. Flour, butter, eggs, sugar, cocoa, vanilla, salt, baking powder...She opened a tin canister decorated with sunflowers and paused, studying the baggie of hashish inside.

Nana preferred the regular kind of brownies, not the 'fortified' kind. And since she was in charge of the household during the days, it made sense. So she'd make two batches of brownies, one with and one without. In this household they'd know very well that the 'with' did not refer to chopped walnuts.

Milda sifted and mixed, never measuring anything and never getting more or less that a fraction of a gram off what she was aiming for. Soon the thick fudgy batter was spread in two pans and popped into the oven. Just as she closed the oven door, she heard the front office bell.

Naresha and Acacia usually handled the clients, but there was no reason why Milda couldn't do the first interview. She went through to the front door, and checked the security monitors mounted on the wall. They gave a view of the front doorway, and views up and down the surrounding street.

The woman was dressed in a Kmart special dress, cheap but scrupulously clean and ironed. Her salt and pepper hair was cut in a style that was meant to be short and sleek, but it had begun to grow out. She had smoothed back the ragged edges as much as possible, but her mousse was fighting the humidity.

She had to be a customer, Milda decided. No one would come to the lair seeking directions or a phone. There wasn't a sliver of light visible anywhere to indicate that it wasn’t abandoned. Every opening but the door and vents had been covered or painted over long ago.

The woman was glancing up and down the street nervously. Wise woman. This wasn't an area to be out in alone at night. That usually weeded out the clientele that wasn't serious.

Milda punched in the code, then said her name, and the system disengaged, letting her unlock the door. "Hello. Please come in."

Chapter Eight
The Client

Stephanie Bradshaw looked dubiously at the young woman, then at the brass plate beside the door. 'Three Sisters' and below it, in smaller letters, 'Problems Solved'. This must be one of the sisters. I wasn't actually expecting nuns, thought Stephanie, but I certainly wasn't expecting this.

It was a slightly chunky young woman, dressed in what she called a pioneer dress, the kind you saw on Little House on the Prairie. But instead of the usual sunflowers or daisies, it had a pastel print of lavender flowers against a soft grey background. It made Stephanie think of misty spring dawns, very quiet and still.

And it suited the young woman well. There was a calmness about her that was soothing in itself. Her long hair, the color of old pennies, framed a gentle, pale face and flowed down to where Stephanie supposed her bosom began. Behind Ben Franklin glasses, her warm blue eyes were serene. "My god, " thought Stephanie. "What commune did this earth mother escape from?"

"Ma'am? In or out, please." Stephanie hesitated. "It couldn't hurt to talk about your problem. You're under no obligation, you know."

Stephanie entered, and the girl locked the door behind her, rapidly punching numbers on a keypad. There was an answering buzz, and the girl slid home a very solid looking dead bolt. "Come back to the kitchen. I have something in the oven. Besides, it's much cozier than the office."

Stephanie expected an echoing cavern, or an airless, cramped office. Instead she found herself in an entryway that rose three stories. A wide wooden staircase, with beautifully carved newel posts and a wide, shining banister, climbed to her left. An unlit room was through an archway to her right. The furnishings were shapeless lumps in the gloom, but she could see the faint glow of a computer monitor in it's depths.

"This way." The young woman started briskly down the hall that stretched before them, almost disappearing into the shadows. Stephanie hesitated again.

"Miss? It's very dark. Do you think you could..."

There were two brief gleams of light at the end of the hall, and Stephanie caught her breath. Then the hall was illuminated as the hippie girl pushed open a swinging door. "I'm sorry, I forgot. I'm so used to this place that I hardly need any light to get around."

Some of the stiffness went out of her spine as Stephanie looked again at the bland face and mild eyes. The glasses, of course. She'd seen a reflection off the rimless spectacles. She hurried down into the kitchen.

It was warm, and it smelled wonderful. The kitchen was another surprise. It looked like a grandma's kitchen, if grandma worked as a caterer. There were two stoves, with ovens and a huge side-by-side refrigerator complete with in-the-door water and ice dispenser. Acres of counter space held a built in cutting board and marble slab, and what looked like every electric cooking gadget known to man.

The walls were painted a warm yellow, and there was a yellow and white checkered curtain over the sink. The walls were rimmed a little over head height with shelves laden with country knickknacks, and just below them hung framed prints of bucolic scenes and hand done needlecraft. When invited, Stephanie sat in an elegantly sturdy chair at a round table made of blonde oak.

"Care for something to drink? I was just about to make some tea."

"Whatever you're having would be fine."

The woman's almost invisible lips turned up in a wry smile. It was a shame she didn't wear any make up. A little color, and she might be almost pretty. "Are you sure? I'm going to be having lemon grass and ginsing. Nana has some Earl Grey, or Naresha has an excellent espresso blend. And if you're off caffeine, there's a little red wine, and Acacia's Tang."

Stephanie assured her that Earl Grey would be fine. The woman took two miniature china teapots from a cabinet and pulled two tea balls from a drawer. She scarcely looked what she was doing, but she moved with the casual assurance of someone who knows every inch of their environment. This was obviously her room.

"My name is Milda Akuji. As you've probably guessed, I'm one of The Three Sisters." Her nose wrinkled. "The very junior partner, as I am so often reminded. Acacia and Naresha aren't available right now, so you can tell me what your problem is, and I'll pass it on to them."

As she spoke, she was spooning loose leaves into the silver tea balls and screwing them shut. A kettle on the stove started to whistle, steam jetting. She poured boiling water into each pot, then dumped it in the sink, warming the china as Stephanie's own mother used to. Then she filled the pots, dunked in the tea, covered them, and brought them to the table. "You should let that steep for at least three minutes, more if you like it strong. Sugar, milk, or lemon?"

"Sugar."

"Ah, a fellow addict." Milda pushed a bowl of lump sugar, complete with tongs, toward her. "Let me check my brownies. They should be about done, and they turn into cardboard if they overcook."

"My name is Stephanie Bradshaw."

Using a potholder decorated with dancing cows, Milda removed a couple of large pans, then shut the oven and turned it off. "Stephanie... Stephanie... That would be... garland. Garland or crown." She set the pans on trivets and came to the table, pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Excuse me?" Stephanie was beginning to think that this was a huge mistake. She should have known better when she heard that these 'problem solvers' didn't do business in the daytime.

"I need to let those cool a couple of minutes, then I'll get you one. It tears them up too badly if I do it while they're hot. You'd have to eat it with a spoon." She sipped her tea. "Your name."

"Miss Akuji, I don't understand."

Milda snorted with laughter. "Miss Akuji! Please, no outdated, socially designated titles. Just Milda. Your name means a garland, or a crown. My sister, Acacia, is very particular about names. You can't be around her long without learning some definitions."

"Miss Milda... Sorry... Milda, I'm not sure now that this is the right, uh, company for me."

She nodded. "Because I'm such a ditz." She didn't seem in the least insulted. "Don't worry, I only handle records and research and such. Acacia and Naresha handle the field work. Just tell me why you're here, and we'll go on from there. I can't even guaranty you that we'll take on your problem. The final decision isn't up to me."

"Alright. Like you said, it couldn't hurt to talk. First off, do you believe in ESP? I don't mean like reading minds, or projecting thoughts. I mean sensing events that will happen, or have happened." She gazed at Milda defiantly, obviously expecting a negative response.

Instead, Milda nodded. "Sure. I have a few friends who are whizzes with a pack of tarot cards." Stephanie had expected to have to give a long, persuasive argument, as she had before, with little success. After all, it had taken her years to accept the reality of certain things. "Have you sensed something that you wanted to prevent, or something that had already happened?"

"Both. But it's not me...I'm not the one who has the power. It's my niece, Bethany."

Chapter Nine
Exposition

"Her folks were killed when she was five, and I've raised her since then. I officially adopted her, so her last name is Bradshaw, too. My sister had married Greg Oliphant. She and her Greg were both murdered."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Milda laid a comforting hand on Stephanie's arm for a second, her fingers warm from holding the hot mug of tea. "I know how devastated I'd be if anything happened to my sisters."

"Thank you. I was the one who found them. Bethany was supposed to spend the weekend with me, and I went over in the morning to pick her up. They didn't answer the door, but I had a key."

Tears welled up in her eyes suddenly. Milda fetched a box of tissues with a floral needlepoint cover and offered them. Stephanie took one, gratefully, and mopped away the tears that had overspilled. "Sorry. It's been almost twenty years, and it still gets me sometimes. Something was blocking the door. When I managed to shove it open, I found that it was Rowan, my sister. She'd been beaten to death."

The horror of the memory overcame her, and she put her face in her hands, weeping. She had recognized Rowan by the tee shirt she was wearing, a ridiculous thing featuring a chorus line of high kicking iridescent lizards. They had to use fingerprints for the formal identification. She'd been battered so badly that even dental records were useless.

As she told this, Milda silently cut the brownies and brought her one on a china plate. Stephanie almost said something sharp about trying to treat grief with pastry, but stopped short when she saw the sympathetic pain in Milda's soft blue eyes. "I know it sounds silly, " her host said apologetically. "But try that. Chocolate releases endorphin in the brain. Women have sensed that instinctively for ages."

Stephanie nibbled to be polite, then found herself wolfing the brownie down in four bites. It was fantastic, almost dissolving on her tongue. There was a rich spiciness she couldn't identify. What's wrong with me, she wondered. One second I'm crying, the next I'm wanting to get a recipe from a Woodstock refugee. "It's very good." She felt calmer now. "But unusual. There's a spicy taste I can't quite identify."

"Must be the cinnamon and nutmeg. Old family recipe, very secret. You said your sister's husband was killed also?"

Stephanie pulled her mind back to why she'd come. "Yes. The police think he committed suicide after killing Rowan."

"You don't believe that?"

Stephanie shook her head. "Greg could be a creep sometimes, but he loved Rowan. There had been a few fights where things got out of hand. Rowan gave as good as she got, though. She got a black eye once, but he ended up in the emergency room when she pushed him into their closet mirror. But that was years before. After they had Bethany, Greg went for counseling. There hadn't been any physical stuff for over three years, Rowan would have told me."

"Anyway, Greg was in the living room, dead from a single gunshot to the head. They did all sorts of tests. No fingerprints on the gun other than his, powder residue on his hands and around the wound, right angle for self infliction. But Greg wouldn't have done that. He was a rabid Catholic. He wasn't afraid of man nor beast, but he most definitely feared Hell, and he was convinced that anyone who committed suicide was going to spend eternity 'in the flames that burn, but do not consume.' If he had killed Rowan, he'd have either disappeared, or just sat and waited for the police."

"What about the little girl?"

"I ran through the house looking for her. That's what alerted the neighbors, me screaming my head off. I caught hell from the cops for disturbing the scene."

"She'd hidden?"

"Yes. Well, " Stephanie hesitated, then said "Maybe. There was an old broken chest freezer in the pantry. Someone finally thought to look in there." Milda drew her breath in sharply. "No, she was alright. Physically, anyway. The drain plug had been left out, and she'd had enough air. But she was in shock. We never figured out whether she'd hidden there, or whether she'd been put there. The cops figured either Greg wanted to kill her, too, but couldn't bring himself to shoot or hit her, so he left her to suffocate, or he put her in there so she wouldn't witness what happened to her mother. Any way, it was ruled murder/suicide, and I got custody of Bethany."

"So you believe that someone killed your sister and brother-in-law, and you want us to find them? That's a pretty cold trail. I don't believe we could promise results, and the murderer may be dead already."

"He isn't. I do want you to find the killer, but not to bring him in for the murders. I want you to stop him from killing Bethany."

Chapter Ten
The Problem

"You said it's been twenty years. Why are you worried now?"

"A few months ago, Bethany began to act nervously. She'd double check all the locks every time she passed them, closed the drapes whenever I opened them. Instead of jogging in the park in the morning or the evening, she started going to the gym on her lunch hour."

"Did she start bringing in the mail, and insist on answering the phone?"

"I see you can tell where this is leading."

Milda nodded. "Fairly typical pattern. She's being stalked, right?"

Stephanie sighed. "I don't know how I could have been so oblivious. It's obvious... now. But I didn't figure it out till after she'd moved out into her own place. That was two weeks ago. I came home from work and found her gone. There was a note on her bed."

Miss Bradshaw removed a folded sheet of stationery and handed it over. Milda opened it. A span of beach, in soft focus, decorated the top, with sea shells spilling down one side. The handwriting, in felt tip pen, was careful and rounded, in neat lines. 'Steph, Please forgive me for doing it this way. You would have insisted on knowing where I am going, and I can’t risk endangering you. I’ll be in touch. Love, Bethany.'

"She’d been planning this awhile." Milda handed back the page. "Unless she's absolutely cold blooded. She took pains when she wrote that, choosing her words to tell enough, but not too much. No sign of haste or carelessness. She must care very much about pleasing you."

"She always pleased me, just by existing. But yes, she's very thoughtful. That's how I know she must be really frightened, she knew how much this would upset me."

"I might not have figured out what was going on if these hadn't come in the mail last week." She handed over three envelopes. They all bore the same street address, but two were designated for Bethany Pierce, and one to Stephanie Bradshaw. They were all sympathy cards. 'On the Death of Your Parents' said one. No return address, no signature. The second one offered 'Condolences for the Loss of Your Loved One.' Again no return address or signature, but a carefully block printed message inside said, "Shame about your aunt."

The one addressed to Stephanie was equally bare of information, but much more personalized. Inside 'God Called Her Home' was a note in the same generic printing. 'Little early for this one. I hope you kissed her good-bye, bitch.'

"I took it straight to the police, of course."

Milda blew air between compressed lips, making a raspberry sound. "And they told you there wasn't anything they could do. There had been no real threat. She'd made no complaint. She was a grown woman, it looked like she'd just decided to break out on her own, and you should just wait, she'd probably be in touch. Maybe she was shacked up somewhere with a guy."

"One of them told me," said Stephanie sourly, "That she was going to resent me for trying to interfere in her love life."

"As Acacia says, it's hard for some of them to see past their belt buckles."

"Your sister sounds a bit cynical about men."

"That's like saying Hitler found Jews a bit annoying. Naresha agrees with the shortsightedness, but claims that some of them are able to see as far as her backside, anyway. Men amuse Naresha. It's just how the cops operate. Since there's no indication that Bethany was forced or coerced, they're not interested."

Stephanie's hand trembled as she took another sip of tea. "She's in danger, " she said flatly. "One of the detective's suggested that the cards were just a nasty prank. The people who do things like that get their jollies from imagining how frightened their receivers are, and almost never actually do anything. I told him that the operative word was 'almost'. Could he promise never? So, I filed a missing persons report."

"What that means is that if they find an unidentified body matching her general description, they'll call you. Since she's an adult, and there's no evidence of kidnaping or assault, they're not going to expend a lot of time and money on this." Milda said gently. "The next step for most people involved in this sort of situation is to hire a private investigator. We are not licensed investigators, Stephanie. We don't advertise as such, we don't advertise at all. People find us through various means. How did you find us?"

"I have a friend, Lorraine..."

"Oh, Mrs. Boudreaux. How is her little girl, Michelle?"

Stephanie smiled. "She calls herself Nikki now, and she's doing fine. She hated having to cut off her braids, but her mom gave her a permanent, and she loves her curls."

"Yes, it was a shame to have to do that. Her hair was so beautiful and long. But she needed a drastic appearance change." Temporary custody of Nikki, nee` Michelle, .had been awarded to her father after a nasty custody battle, despite the fact that she desperately wanted to be with her mother, and there were suspicions about her father's relationship with her.

Lorraine Boudreaux had worked for Naresha as a plain seamstress, basting together test models of her fashion creations. Naresha had noticed how troubled she was, and cornered her, demanding to know what was wrong. The upshot was that Milda had met with Michelle and spoken to her privately.

She'd come out of the interview grim faced, and the sisters agreed unanimously that the courts were not to be trusted to pursue this matter. On her next weekend visit, Lorraine and Michelle Boudreaux had simply vanished. Linda and Nikki Broussard moved into a small house several states away. Linda had a job in a Three Sisters factory, and Nikki settled into school. Both had ID, school, doctor, and work records more complete and detailed than most families.

Andrew Boudreaux had nagged the police and ranted at his lawyer, but not a trace of the runaways could be found. Then Andrew informed his lawyer that he had a tip that they had gone to a family cabin in an isolated stretch of woods, and he was going to get his daughter. No, he wouldn't inform the police and let them deal with it. No, he wouldn't wait for his lawyer to accompany him.

The next day there had been an item on the second page of the news telling how one Andrew Boudreax had died in the first known mountain lion attack to have happened in over one hundred years. His body was found at his cabin, and glimpses were caught of the escaping big cat. It would be hunted down, captured, and relocated. But somehow the cat's trail was lost, and it was never found. Tourists were cautioned for the rest of the season.

"So you understand that we operate outside the establishment?"

"The establishment hasn't done me much good in this case."

"I just want you to be clear. If we decide to take your problem on, it may involve some things that are not strictly legal." Her smile was wry. "In fact, our problem solving often involves things that are not by any stretch of the imagination even remotely legal. But we get the job done."

"That's fine with me. If it means Bethany's safe, I'm willing to go to prison." She paused, then said bluntly, "I'm willing for you to go to prison, too."

Milda nodded, as if this were perfectly reasonable and acceptable. "There are a couple more conditions that may not be fine with you. You might want to consider them before I take your problem to my sisters."

"I don't have much money now, but I have a couple of bonds, and I can set aside part of my salary..." Milda was waving at her to stop.

"Money is the least of our worries. You'll pay whatever you can afford. These are much more important and complicated than finances. First, you don't question our methods. In fact, you don't question. We may tell you what's going on, but don't expect a detailed report, and there are a lot of things you'll be better off not knowing."

"Second, if we tell you to do something, do it. Immediately and exactly, with no questions or protests. We involve our clients as little as possible in what we do, but sometimes we can't avoid drawing them in. If it's important enough for us to give you direct orders about it, it's VERY important. Last, and I want you to think very carefully about this... You can't call it off once it's been set in motion."

Stephanie thought about this. Milda was watching her gravely, any trace of silliness gone. What did she mean, it can't be called off? Why would she try to stop their investigation before Bethany was safe?

Then she thought, who's definition of safe? The police's, mine... or their's? Even if they caught the man frightening Bethany, what would come of it? As far as she knew, the most he could be charged with so far was terroristic threats. He might not even get jail time, if he had a clean record. The law worked with someone who had no evil intentions, regretted what he'd done, and had no intention of trespassing again. It didn't do much good with the ones who only regretted being caught.

With the Boudreaux's, the judge had said that there was no evidence that Andrew was physically hurting Michelle. He'd made a favorable impression on everyone, and Michelle had been hesitant and confused in the two sessions she'd spent with the child therapist. It was decided that her mother was unduly influencing her, and the father couldn't be punished with the loss of his daughter just because he MIGHT be molesting her. If Lorraine and her daughter had been caught, the girl would have gone back to her father, while her mother went to jail.

But since Andrew had been mauled to death, there was a good chance that the interest in the two escapees would taper off. If they surfaced later, Michelle might have to spend some time in a foster home, but in all likelihood final custody would be awarded to her mother, since no absolute decision had been reached in their case. Andrew's death had been very convenient.

Stephanie looked at Milda. Milda looked back, poker faced, utterly silent. Stephanie understood now. That look said, "Be sure. No backing out. If we take this on, we finish it, with or without your help and approval."

Speaking carefully, Stephanie said, "I believe whoever did this is a danger to Bethany, and possibly myself. I believe it's connected with the death of her parents, despite how outlandish the police think that is. If you catch this person, I want you to do whatever you think is most effective. I won't try to back out."

"Good. I'll present this to my sisters, and we'll get back to you, one way or the other. I'll tell you right now that you have my vote."

Stephanie felt some relief. It was good to have someone taking her fears seriously. "Thank you."

"De nada. I still have to get approval from Naresha and Acacia. It's unanimous, or it don't fly around here, but I think you have a good chance. Let me call a cab to take you home."

"Oh, it won't work. I couldn't get one to bring me. They won't come to this section of town after dark."

"This one will." She finished dialing an old fashioned black rotary phone. "Hello, Penny? Yeah, it's me. I need a pickup at our place. Thanks."

She hung up as Stephanie shook her head in amazement "But I offered to pay extra, and he insisted on dropping me off blocks away. And you didn't even give them the address."

"Didn't have to. We own the company, they know where we are."

Chapter Eleven
Middle Sister

Just as Nana was finishing breakfast, the front bell rang. Brushing brownie crumbs tidily into a paper towel, she went to the door and checked the security camera. A young man was outside, dressed in the familiar brown uniform of a parcel delivery service. She could see a van parked at the curb behind him. Ah, yes. They were expecting a delivery today. Good thing, too, as the stock was running low.

She opened the door and greeted him cheerfully. "Good morning, Kenneth. Still on this route, I see."

"Yes, ma'am, Miz Crockett." Kenneth handed her the clipboard so she could sign for the package. He indicated a large Styrofoam cooler near his feet. "It's heavy this time. Want me to carry it in for you?"

"Very thoughtful of you, dear, but I can manage. Just set it inside the door, please."

He heaved the cooler up with an audible grunt and placed it in the hallway. "There you go. You get at least two of these a month." He didn't speak the question, but it was there in his voice.

He had to get curious, sooner or later. They'd have to switch delivery services now. "Supplies for my granddaughter, " she explained. "She does research here at home. Here you are, dear." She handed him a ten.

"Aw, you shouldn't, Miz Crockett. We're not supposed to accept tips."

That's never stopped you before, she thought. "I insist. Buy yourself lunch, my treat."

"Well, what the company don't know...Thanks."

He slipped the bill into his pocket. "See you next time."

"Looking forward to it." She shut the door and reset the system, making a mental note that she needed to speak to the suppliers about finding another method of delivery. She'd better do it soon. There was no telling how long it took to set things like that up. Perhaps a private courier this time...

Nana bent and took hold of the cooler. She stood up with is smoothly, and carried it down the hall to the kitchen without any sign of strain. Yes, it was rather heavy this time.

She set the cooler on the table and unsealed the lid. "Now, where did I put the gloves?" She sometimes wished that the girls had taken her in a few years earlier. Perhaps then her memory wouldn't slip like it did. Then she told herself that was nonsense, she'd always been a tiny bit absent minded about small things.

She located a pair of work gloves that had never done much actual labor in the junk drawer. Nana took off the lid, then slipped on her gloves, surveying the contents of the cooler. Nestled in among blocks of dry ice were at least two dozen IV bags of whole blood, as dark as cranberry juice. She put about half in the refrigerator, using one of the vegetable bins. The rest she took into the pantry and stored in the chest freezer, being careful to put them beneath the few that remained, frozen into solid blocks, gruesome ice cubes.

Back in the kitchen, she opened a large can of tomato juice and decanted it into a plastic jug. Getting one of the bags from the refrigerator, she snipped a corner off with a pair of kitchen shears, and emptied it into the juice, deep red blending into bright red. Nana stirred it briskly with a whisk, then capped the jug and placed it in the refrigerator.

After washing the whisk and rinsing out the bag and the can, she used the shears to cut the bag into small scraps, turning it into plastic confetti. The confetti went in the trash, and the clean can went into the proper recycling container. Milda would scold her deaf if she just threw it away. They'd had a hard time convincing the environmentally conscious Milda that they couldn't recycle the bags, too. People did check what was collected, at least on a sporadic basis, and they couldn't risk someone starting to wonder why their donations regularly included what could only be classified as medical waste when they weren't a hospital or clinic.

The rest of the housework didn't take long. It never did. All the house mates were relatively neat, though Acacia had a tendency to drop her clothes on the floor, and the vanity table's could be a disaster if she or Naresha were in a hurry to go out. There was never much to pick up, and the vacuuming and dusting was done on a rotating basis, so that every part of the house was attended to on a regular basis. One advantage was that there were no windows to wash, since they had all been covered years ago. Speaking of windows...

Nana opened a cabinet near the sink, exposing a VCR. There was a stack of boxed tapes beside it. It was a nice day outside, so she settled on 'Spring, Fine, Country', and popped it into the machine. Closing the cabinet, she opened the curtains over the sink.

The view from there should have been of the rubble littered lot next door. Instead, looking through the panes set in the white wood frame, she saw an expanse of green lawn, with a bed of blooming rose bushes in the foreground, and a thick growth of trees in the background. As she watched, the petals of the roses stirred a bit in an unfelt breeze, and a tiny humming bird flitted into view She got a cup of coffee and sat down, watching the jewel colored creature darting among the branches, dodging thorns.

She sipped, thinking of how amazing technology was, and how sweet the girls were. Back in the seventies she had mentioned wistfully that she missed being able to gaze out her kitchen window. She had known something was up from the amount of whispering and giggling going on, but she had been totally surprised when they presented her with the gift. It was one of those Betamax things and a deluxe portable color tv for the kitchen counter. When she pushed play on the Betamax, the tv had come to life, showing a scene of gently falling snow. She had cried at the thoughtfulness.

The tv had gotten larger, the Betamax had given way to a VCR. Two years ago the portable tv had been replaced by a flat wall mounted high-resolution model, which was hung in a window frame, and covered by panes and a curtain. The illusion was now complete.

Nana spent most of the afternoon on a piece of lace Naresha had requested. She designed mostly goth clothes, and she was working on a wedding dress for one of her best clients. Tremble, the lead singer for a group called Restless Dead, was getting married on stage at a major concert in a couple of months. It was going to be broadcast live over MTV, and a video would be marketed. Naresha was already well known among goths, and now she might even become famous in the mainstream.

The man who'd called from People magazine couldn't understand why she refused to be interviewed. She'd fobbed him off with the excuse that she followed an ancient belief that the camera captured the soul. "I couldn't very well tell him, Well, you see, I'm a vampire. While that business about us not casting reflections is total bunk, part of the legend that we can't be photographed is true. We can be photographed, but it shows us dead.

"I still say you should do an interview with the World Weekly News," Acacia had advised. "No one would believe it, anyway."

Nana was turning out yards of lace in black silk thread. Some of it was in intricate floral patterns, some of it was like dark cobwebs. Naresha had sketched the patterns, and she worked them. Every Naresha Akuji piece was original. That's why they were so expensive.

Just after dusk, Naresha lounged into the kitchen, yawning. "Morning, dear heart, " Nana greeted her. "Going out tonight?"

Naresha gave her a cool, dry peck on the cheek. "Mmhmm. I haven't been to Crowley's for ages. They'll think I've joined a convent, or something." She got a glass from the cabinet, and went to the refrigerator. "I must admit the older orders have a certain sense of style in their habits. Basic black and white, sweeping skirts, wimples to frame the face and long veils down the back."

She found the jug of spiked tomato juice and poured herself a glass. "And, of course, some of the ancient convents are very goth. Bare stone halls, tiny cells, candles, crucifixes on the wall."

As she sat down, Nana was shaking her head, smiling. "When I think of how most people would react to hearing a vampire talking about crosses as an interior decorating motif..."

"If it makes them happy, and careless, let them keep on believing. And it does work for some, if they were very, very religious before they were embraced. Of course, that means they're in the minority." She sipped the juice. Nana cleared her throat. "I know, I know. But Milda won't mind me having a tiny glass, you know that. Besides, I'm famished."

Nana let the matter drop. Naresha was right, Milda had a hard time denying anyone anything. Naresha sometimes took advantage of that. She was still sweet, but it was never disputed that she was the most self-centered of the trio. Nana watched her fondly as she drank her breakfast, and read the paper.

Naresha was the middle sister. She had the same blue eyes, the same pale mouth as her sisters. But Naresha's mouth was, by turns, sulky and sensuous. Her eyes were generally half closed, as if in lazy contemplation. Her hair was glossy black, worn in a short, smooth cut with bangs straight across her forehead, and wings of hair sweeping up to brush her cheeks. Rather like the silent film actress Louise Brooks, who had been popular when Nana was very young.

"We had a visitor last night, " Nana commented. "Milda was in the kitchen, so she took care of it and I didn't bother to get up. I believe it was a client."

"It was." Naresha folded the paper and set it aside, draining the last of the thick red liquid. "Milda hunted us down and told us about it. We'll be taking her on. This one may prove rather interesting. It isn't a simple domestic or con job. It's a bit of a mystery."She gave Nana a brief rundown of the facts. "So someone has been stalking the girl, most likely the murderer himself."

"Or herself." Nana corrected.

"Or herself. ' The female sex is capable of anything the male sex is except peeing standing up without making a mess, and getting a woman pregnant' Acacia Akuji, quote." She bent over Nana, and ran a hand under the spill of lace. It felt weightless, and her hand was clearly visible through it. "That is absolutely lovely. Your best work yet. Wait till I show it to Tremble, she'll want to write a song dedicated to you. Of course, you'll either be dead and rotting in it, or come to some gruesome end."

"Tell her to make me a killer granny, dear. I can do someone in with knitting needles and poisoned cookies."

Naresha laughed heartily at that. No one looking at Nana would believe she was capable of anything more violent than pruning a rose bush. And no one ever would believe, as long as she and the girls weren't threatened, and no one dug too deep in the flower bed at her old home.

Naresha went upstairs to the top floor to prepare for her evening out. She moved with languid grace, always conscious of how she appeared. Milda, bless her, was a bit of a klutz, and Acacia always seemed about to jump out of her skin with energy. Despite the physical similarities, it was hard to think of them as a single person, so Nana had never tried.

Chapter Twelve
Night Out

Naresha opened the door of Closet One and clicked on the overhead light. This was the largest closet, and held the actual clothes. Closet Two was only the size of a large bathroom and held the accessories. Even with the bright crystal shaded bulb overhead it seemed dark in the closet, perhaps because the majority of the clothes hung on either side were black. Here and there were splashes of color, all jewel bright. No pastels for Naresha. "Bloodless", was her stated opinion on pale shades. "Make most people look anaemic, or like they should be chirping 'Good Ship Lollipop' and tapping with Bojangles Robinson."

She considered her options carefully. What image did she want to present tonight? She was going to tap a sources for information as well as a meal this time. She hadn't asked for any favors before, and this was a delicate matter. Naresha had no doubt that slight suspicions could be taken care of with partial truths and liberality, but it was better to not rouse suspicions.

She dismissed the red satin sheath as too flashy. The charcoal grey business suit was too conservative for Crowley's unless she wore the severe jacket with a skirt that ended two inches below her butt and a pair of fuck me heels. Was there any such thing as trustworthy goth?

At last she chose a mannish cut black shirt, the kind Hollywood gangsters wore, and a pair of black jeans so tight that it was a good thing she didn't need to really breathe. She would normally have worn open toed shoes to show off her freshly lacquered toenails. There were a lot of folks at Crowely's, men and women, who were passionately interested in feet. But tonight she went with plain flat heels. She added a belt with a pentagram buckle, and a tiny cross of white gold. It was a shame about that allergic reaction she had to silver. Silver was so decorative.

At last she sat at her vanity and studied herself, then began to apply makeup. Not quite Kabuki style tonight, she thought. Something a bit less stark. She applied a pale foundation, then powdered it smooth, and considered the effect. It would have amazed an onlooker to see how accurate she was without an actual reflection. They wouldn't know that she did see herself.

A goth was expected to be pale, but it was better to have the world at large think she achieved that through artificial means. If she always wore makeup there would be no questions about why she had no color.

She used three different shades of grey around her eyes, till they almost seemed to spark in dark hollows. The final touch was maroon lipstick, a compromise between red and black.

What looked back at her from the mirror was a modern version of an old fashioned silent screen vamp. The idea made her grin wickedly at her own reflection. "Kiss me, my fool." she whispered. Acacia had known what she was doing when she gave her the name. Naresha, ruler of men. She slipped keys, cash, ID, and a credit card into her pockets, murmuring "Too true, big sister. Too true."

Before she left, she checked the trunk of the Lexus to make sure that Acacia hadn't forgotten to tell her about anything. It looked clean, but she decided to tell Nana to get it detailed tomorrow. They were just awfully clever about fibers and hair and such these days. They could take a tiny drop of blood and tell to withing a gazillionth point the probability that it had come from a particular individual. Naresha considered herself a connoisseur of the warm red stuff, and she couldn't do that.

In the car she took her time getting settled comfortably, making sure the seat and mirror were exactly as she wanted them. Tremble had given her an advance copy of Restless Dead's soon to be released CD. She lit a cigarette that smelled faintly of cloves and examined the case. It showed a deformed baby dressed in a pink jumper, floating in a jar of formaldehyde. Tremble, crying bloody tears from what looked like empty eye sockets, cradled it in her arms. The title, Save or Sacrifice, and the band's name was spelled out in razor blades, knives, and broken glass. Looked promising.

She popped out the disc and slipped it into the player, turning the ignition. The big engine was so quiet that she wouldn't have known it was on except for the slight vibration.

The whine of the electronic keyboard was so subtle that, for the first few seconds, she wasn't sure if she heard it or was imagining it. It gradually grew louder, from a mosquito hum to wind soughing through trees. It wandered up and down the scale in minor keys as it built. At last the lyrics started. Tremble, whispering the words.

A wall of sound blasted out from the speakers. Thundering drums, howling guitars. A base line that made the windows vibrate. Tremble's voice soared with it.

The last word was drawn out in a screaming wail. Tremble had taken operatic training, and she had power. The music crashed, she repeated the chorus. It died down slowly. Tremble's voice grew soft, thoughtful, regretful, but chillingly calm.

Naresha checked the play list. "Crib Death Blues." The next one was "Death of a Christmas Angel", the one about Jon-Benet Ramsey, she supposed. Then there was "Candy Man", dedicated to Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corel, the Texas mass murderers who'd buried their twenty-odd teenage victims under a boathouse. When they released this at the beginning of their next tour, it was going to be huge. Naresha could hear the civil suit lawyers screaming already.

She took a final puff and ground out the cigarette. Before she put the car in gear she fastened her seat belt. Not that she cared so much about the laws. What was another ticket, more or less? But going through the windshield was a real pissy experience. She'd done it once about five years after she turned. She'd been stunned into unconsciousness, and hadn't woken up till she was on a gurney in some pissant town morgue.

There she'd been, face mashed into a gooey mess, and some pimple faced necrophile attendant had one hand on her tits and the other down his pants. Actually, it was good he was right there because she really needed a boost to get enough strength to make it home before sunrise. Surprised the fuck out of him when she sat up and tore out his throat. Generally she tried to avoid killing her prey, but he deserved it and she just wasn't feeling all that patient and forgiving.

Anyway, she'd made it back home before the bones started to set. Nana had helped her push everything back into place, molding her face like modeling clay. In fact, she'd given herself higher cheekbones, so it had worked out alright. But it took nearly a week to heal, and it was an absolutely shitty way to get cosmetic correction.

When she pulled up in front of Crowely's, one of the doormen came over to open her door. "Hey Naresha! Where you been?"

"Seeking decadence in all it's many forms, Boris." She handed him her keys, and a fifty dollar bill.

He tried to hand the money back. "You know you don't have to do that."

She tucked her hands behind her back so he couldn't force it on her. "I know. But I also know your pay isn't nearly enough for what you do."

He grinned. He was at least six foot four, and around two hundred and forty pounds of bone and muscle. He was quite handsome, despite the fact that his nose had obviously been broken once or twice and a thin white scar ran across his forehead just below his hairline. It was his size and the scar that had earned him the affectionate nickname of Boris, in honor of Karloff's most famous role. "Then hire me to work for you. You can afford me."

"I may very well do that some day."

"Promises, promises. I'll take good care of the Lex."

"Just remember to put the seat back when you're done. The last time I felt like a kindergartner sitting in Daddy's chair." While Boris parked her car, the other man swept the door open for her with a ceremonious bow. "Hello, Cerebus. How they hanging?"

"Tight and high now that you're here, pretty lady." He was much smaller and thinner than Boris, but anyone who thought he'd be the easier one to deal with would be in for a nasty surprise. He was the fastest, toughest mortal Naresha knew.

"Shameless flatterer. I do love that in a man." She slipped him a bill also as she passed. It was good to have the local muscle on your side. "Has Goth Cop shown up tonight?"

Goth Cop was Randal Turner. He worked in the records division. of the biggest precinct in town. It was said that when someone had told him his career stall might be due to his outside interests and perhaps a more mainstream lifestyle might kick it into gear he'd replied that he saw nothing at all normal about wearing shirts with polo players, or alligators, or someone else's name on them, and playing golf every Sunday. It was also rumored that the brass was reluctant to pressure him because he sometimes worked as a liaison between the force and the goth subculture.

"Not yet, oh regal temptress. If he shows, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

The front room of Crowley's looked like a cross between a posh men's club and a Victorian fantasy whorehouse: all rich, polished woods, gleaming brass, and wine-red velvet draperies. It was the entire bottom floor of the building. No walls broke up the space, but here and there different type pillars supported the second floor. The pillars ranged from classic Greek marble, to stark cement cylinders, to rough tree trunks, bark still intact. Different cliques` favored the area around different pillars. Naresha didn't limit herself to any one group, but the person she was looking for favored the antebellum area, so that was where she headed.

There were several love seats, chairs, and small tables around a stately white column that could have come directly from Tara. A half dozen men and women were already gathered there, and she was greeted enthusiastically. Naresha distributed hugs and kisses, then smiled pointedly at a thin young woman in what looked like a shroud till she got up and offered her place on the white satin love seat. "Thank you, Vanessa. You're too kind." And I display very well against white, she thought as she sat.

A dark skinned man with blue streaked, ice white hair offered to get her a mint julep. She shook her head. "Make it a Flaming Yellow Snow." While he was gone, she talked about Save or Sacrifice. Someone said that they hoped that Restless Dead wouldn't lose their edge with notoriety, and end up playing the David Letterman show, or doing commercial jingles. Naresha opined that there was very little chance of that.

The streak haired man returned, and handed her a tall glass. It was filled with shaved ice and a yellowish, fizzy liquid. There were bright red dribbles of liquid running down the inside of the glass, making a red cloud at the bottom. "Go easy on that. I watched the bartender make it, and it looks like it can kick ass and take names."

"What is it?" asked Vanessa, curiously.

"My own invention, dear." Naresha sipped delicately through a thin straw. "Everclear, ginger ale, lemon, sugar, and triple sec for the flame effect. And it can, indeed, kick ass."

"I'll have one of those."

Another girl, this one in a black boustier trimmed with blood red lace, said, "Van, you've never drunk anything stronger than a spritzer before. Are you sure you want to start with that?"

"Sure. I'm all grown up now, right?"

"Yeah, but you don't know how you'll handle it."

"Go for it, kid." said Naresha. "Remember the club motto. Do as thou will shall be the whole of the law." She was right in thinking this would make Vanessa determined to have the drink. She was so desperate to do something wicked and dangerous and bad for her. Far be it from Naresha to discourage that impulse. Humans behaving badly could be quite funny. "Lambert, you asshole, be a gentleman and get Vanessa a drink. Hell's bells, she shouldn't have to ask. I'm ashamed of you."

Blushing to the pale roots of his hair, the man who had gotten Naresha's drink brought one to Vanessa, mumbling apologies. "Niceties, Lambert. Niceties. People just don't try these days." She watched as Vanessa sipped her drink. Her thin little face crinkled. Naresha said solicitously, "Too strong? Perhaps you aren't quite ready for it yet. We could send it back and get you a Shirley Temple."

Vanessa steeled herself and took another, deeper sip. Her voice was froggy when she replied. "No, I'm fine. It's good. Just a bit... uh..."

"Intense?"

"Yeah, intense."

"Don't worry. The second one goes down much smoother."

The talk turned to the usual channels. The newest Anne Rice novel was mentioned, which brought up the eternal debate about just who should play Lestat, and whether casting Tom Cruise had been a mistake or a stroke of genius. This led to the different vampire mythologies, and which one was 'right': the ancient folklore, the Victorian ideas of Bram Stoker, the Universal monster version, Hammer's, Anne Rice's, or the psychological explanation. All had their champions.

"Personally," drawled Naresha, "I don't believe one can be too careful. I say go the whole nine yards. Carry a crucifix, holy water, garlic, wolfsbane, a mirror, and a bible. Keep on hand a supply of stakes, mallets, and edged instruments to remove head, hands, and feet. Then have fun explaining it to the next cop who stops you."

"Some cops are more understanding than others." Randal Turner, lean and intense in pure white, strolled over to the group. His clothing seemed almost iridescent in the gloom. Naresha silently acknowledged someone else who knew how to display themselves to advantage.

He was in his early thirties, but looked younger. His hair, worn as long as the department allowed, was a thick, rich chestnut. Even in the dim lighting of Crowley's, red glints were evident. Naresha knew women who spent hundreds of dollars in an attempt to have hair like that. But there was nothing feminine about Randal.

Vanessa was chewing shaved ice that had a higher alcoholic content than anything she'd ever had. Her voice was blurry, tongue anesthetized with the cold, when she said, "What are you doing in that color?"

He cocked his head at her, eyeing her windings. "You're not exactly wearing Laura Ashley yourself."

"This is a shroud. Shrouds are supposed to be white."

"I'd say that it's Chinese mourning." said Naresha. The other's looked confused. "Those characters embroidered on his shirt are the script for 'death', 'awaken', and 'eternity'. And white is the traditional funereal color."

"What characters?" The others peered more closely at Randal.

He moved the material of his shirt, so that the light picked up the faint outlines of the symbols, done in white silk thread. "You have a good eye. Most folks don't see those, even in bright light. And I'm surprised you recognized the signs."

She shrugged negligently. "I have a smattering. I've used those in some of my own designs." She drained the last of her drink and said, "Care to buy me another one of those?"

He smiled at her directness. "My pleasure."

She got up. "Just tell Luca at the bar one of the same, and bring it over to the booth. We can have a cozy little chat."

There were booths against the wall. Like the pillars and furnishings, they reflected different styles and atmospheres. Naresha chose one that was of dark, polished wood, with brass accents. The seats were tufted white satin, and the privacy drapes were the same material, pleated. It looked like the inside of a giant casket, which was exactly the intention.

When Randal arrived with the drink, he slid in on the opposite side. "Now, why don't you tell me why I'm being honored with a private audience?"

"Dear, dear. Working with the police has made you a cynic."

"I was a cynic long before I went into the academy."

"It's just possible that I want your company?"

He nodded. "Yes. It's possible. But you usually want something."

"How sadly I am misjudged." Her voice dripped with mock sorrow.

"Naresha, you are the single most manipulative person I've ever met, male or female. You make Machiavelli look like a Quaker minister. I find that fascinating, so don't let me down now by not having an ulterior motive."

"I love it when you talk dirty. All right, if you must skip foreplay." She drank half of her cocktail in one long draft. She felt the ice and fire move into her sluggish veins, giving her the momentary illusion of something resembling life. It wasn't as good as blood, but it was nice. There were advantages to having enhanced senses. "Tell me, does it still irritate you that they won't let you work homicide?"

The muscles in his jaw tightened. "Yes. Pisses me off would be a better term. Records are vital, I know, but no one I know ever joined the police to shuffle papers. And it doesn't matter to them that I might be good. "Having a member of a culture that the average citizen perceives as morbid and possible dangerous working murders wouldn't project a serious and caring image to the public." His voice was a viciously dead on imitation of the condescending, smarmy tone of so many bureaucrats, impressed with their own position, adopted with anyone under their supervision.

"I applied for robbery, B and E, even auto theft and bunco. They just don't want me in the public eye. Well, I lie when I say there are no opportunities. Vice is drooling to get me as an undercover. But the idea puts a bad taste in my mouth. It's like they're saying, 'Hey, you're weird! We can use that!'"

"But you don't feel that what you're doing now is direct enough."

He nodded. "I know records have to be meticulous to keep a defense lawyer from getting some scumsucker off on a technicality, but it's hard to feel a sense of triumph because you got all the Is dotted and Ts crossed."

"Does it frustrate you that there's so much concern about the details that sometimes the hurtful people get away with it?"

"Of course it does."

"How would you like a chance to help make a real difference? To protect someone in danger, and maybe bring a killer to justice?"

He studied her silently for a long moment. Most people would have been uncomfortable with his probing gaze, but Naresha merely returned it steadily, waiting for him to speak. At last he said, "I've heard rumors that you and your sisters are operating a sort of half-ass detective agency. Does this have anything to do with that?"

"We never do anything half-ass, Randal, I assure you." She didn't seem the least offended. "And it's not a detective agency. That would involve all sorts of licenses and permits and regulations. We have as little to do with official channels as possible. Once you seek their sanction, you're under their thumb." For a second her sapphire eyes were as cold and flat as the stone itself. "We aren't going to be under anyone's thumb, ever again."

"If you're not detectives, what are you?"

"Problem solvers."

"Pro bono?"

She shrugged. "It depends on the situation. It's not like we need fees to pay our bills."

"What is it you want, exactly?"

"I want you to break the law."

"And what do I get?"

"You mean besides the satisfaction of helping the vulnerable and punishing the wicked? And screwing the system?"

"Yes."

She drank some more, watching him over the rim of the glass. "There is that little matter you mentioned before."

He took a short, sharp breath. "You said no before."

"That's because you don't fully understand what it involves. I think very carefully before I do that. There are a lot of responsibilities on both sides. It would be simpler," she smiled, "if you just wanted to screw me."

"I wouldn't mind that as well."

"One thing at a time. You know, I can't help but imagine the reaction at your job if they ever found out you have a blood fetish."

"I know. I guess I could understand. Blood drinkers have a bad reputation. I hate those fucking murderers who drink their victims' blood. I've never hurt anyone, it's always by mutual consent. I'd never forcibly take someone's blood."

*That*, she thought dryly, *is because it's a choice for you, not an imperative.* Aloud she said, "I like you, Randal, so I'm going to do something very rare. I'm going to warn you."

"That you'll try to use the sharing to control me? I know you well enough to realize that. And you should know that it won't work with me."

"No, you don't know me. You know what I've shown. And it will work, Randal. If you drink my blood you will do as I wish, at least for a while. It's not arrogance that makes me say that, it's simple fact. Don't take what I'm offering unless you're sure you're ready to pay the price."

He didn't believe her, she could tell by the look in his eyes. So be it. Disbelief was one of her greatest weapons, and he would learn. "When?"

She finished her drink. "Draw the curtains."

Chapter Thirteen
Bonding

Randal pulled the satin draperies closed. The interior of the booth became even dimmer. A tiny wall sconce, with a tear shaped bulb screened by a milky glass globe etched with lilies, cast a flickering glow as weak as a candle. "Let me see your teeth."

She leaned toward him, her face ghostly in the dark. Amused, Randal opened his mouth. When she took his chin in her hand, her touch was startlingly cold. She peered into his mouth with the studied concentration of a trader estimating the age on a horse she was thinking of buying. He was startled when she ran one slender finger over the edge of his teeth. She shook her head. "Just as I thought. Hopelessly dull, even the eyeteeth. Not a proper ripper in the lot, let alone anything to puncture with. I'll have to do the honors. Roll back your sleeve and give me your hand."

"I have a pocket knife."

"Don't be ridiculous. Knives are very unsanitary. I promise you, despite what your health classes have taught you, you're much less likely to get an infection from my bite. At least the kind of infection they're talking about."

Randal unbuttoned his cuff and rolled the sleeve up over his elbow, then held out his hand. Again he was startled by the coldness of her touch when she grasped his writst. She turned his palm up, and examined the inside of his forearm. "Mmm, look at that." She traced her finger along a faint blue line that ran under his skin, up toward his elbow. He shivered at the light, tickling touch, and felt a stir of desire. He never would have thought of that area as an erogenous zone.

"Good veins, close to the surface. You'd have had an easy time as a junkie, Randal. This is going to sting."

"I know. I've done this before."

"Not like this, you haven't." Her grip on his wrist tightened, and she bent her head down. Dark painted lips parted, and he saw a momentary glint of teeth. There was a sharp pain in the fleshy heel of his palm. He flinched instinctively, but she held tight, and he couldn't withdraw his hand from her mouth. Then he didn't want to.

Her lips pressed over the painful place, and he felt the drawing sensation as she began to suck. He couldn't tell if the damp, slightly greasy feel was from her saliva, her lipstick, or his own blood. He began to get an erection. He reached out to touch her hair. Her mouth never lost contact, but her free hand flashed up and caught him, pushing his hand back. She tilted her head slightly so that he could see her eyes, and there was dark warning in them. He settled back, and watched the smooth white column of her throat pulse as she swallowed.

After a moment she sat back. There were a few paper cocktail napkins on the table, left by earlier patrons, and she took one of these and pressed it against the seeping wound in his palm. "Hold that for a minute or two. It won't take long to stop." She took another napkin and carefully blotted her mouth, using delicate dabs that removed the red droplets gathered at the corners, but didn't smear her lipstick. It was a very practiced motion. She ran her tongue over her teeth and said, "Nice. You've been taking iron, haven't you?"

His forehead puckered. "I was anaemic when I was little, so I do it as a precautionary measure."

"It gives a nice body. Has it stopped bleeding yet?"

Randal removed he napkin and was surprised by what he saw. The inch long slit in his skin was already clotted. He dropped the blood spotted napkin on the table, and Naresha took it and slipped it into her pocket, along with the one she had used. "Now you," he demanded. He was half hard already.

"Patience. Give me a moment more for your blood to get into my system. You'll enjoy it much more, I promise you." She reached over and began to roll his sleeve back down slowly, inch by inch. Randal had never thought that having a woman dress him would be sexy, but it was. She buttoned his cuff, and lightly stroked the cut. He fought the impulse to close his hand around hers. "You can put something on that when you get home if it will make you feel more secure, but you don't need to."

It might have been his imagination, but her touch felt a bit warmer. "Tell me what it is you want. I'm assuming that you want me to steal records." Randal knew he should have asked this question a long time ago. Naresha had that effect on people, muffling their good sense.

"Nothing involving any current cases. You won't have to worry about it endangering any prosecutions. In fact, it's been marked as solved."

"Then why are you interested?"

"That's not part of the deal. The less detail you know, the better off you are. I think it's time now." She rolled up her own sleeve with deft precision. The flesh she bared was as pale as moonlight against the dull black of her shirt. She turned her palm up, and ran her fingers along her own arm, just as she had done his. He imagined what it would feel like if he had done it, how smooth the skin would have been. He knew that was why she did it, to fire his imagination, stir his desire. It worked.

She bent her dark head again, and set her teeth against the heel of her palm. He saw the white skin dimple, then she made a small motion, and bright blood welled up. She drew back, licking her lips, and curving her hand so that the blood oozed down into the shallow cup she made. It began to collect in a small puddle.

She looked up at him. His gaze was fastened on her wound, his face flushed. His breathing had speeded up. Men, she thought, with a mixture of fondness and contempt. "Be sure, Randal. Be very, very sure."

He was hoarse. "I am."

She offered her cupped hand. "Then drink."

He dipped his head, and sipped. He'd never known a man named Slick, but the taste of blood filled his mouth just as it had the other man's before he died. But to Randal it was not the harbinger of death. It was a powerful, life afferming erotic thrill.

Randal lapped the small palm clean. His tongue followed the trickle of blood back to the seeping wound, and he fastened his lips over it and began to suck. He was too aroused to notice the thick consistency. Naresha hadn't taken enough blood from him to fully uncongeal her own. It would have weakened him enough for him to notice, and perhaps become alarmed.

Naresha knew he was becoming more excited. His scent was almost strong enough for a mortal to recognize. She let him have a few more swallows, then said. "Enough."

He didn't want to stop. Randal grabbed her wrist and held her firmly, determined to have more. He was shocked when her free hand lashed out and smacked his face with stinging authority. "I said enough."

He looked up, and she gazed back with calm assurance. Even though he was aching and unfulfilled, close to the edge, he found himself releasing his hold. She used the last napkin to blot her wound, and no more blood oozed out after she did. Then the soiled napkin joined the other in her pocket.

"I need copies of all the files on an apparent murder-suicide that occured about twenty years ago. The Oliphants, Greg and Rowan."

"If it was a murder-suicide, what's your interest in it?"

"Put them on a disk or CD. I'll meet you here tomorrow night, or send my ."

"Look, if I'm going to risk my job and possibly my freedom, I want to know why."

"Because you made a deal."

"I'm not so sure I want to go through with it."

He expected her to get pissed, but she just gave him a pitying smile. "If I can't make it, one of my sisters will get in contact with you." She smoothed her sleeve back down and opened the draperies, then slid out of the booth.

"In fact, I'm sure I don't want to go through with it." Her assurance angered him, and he wanted to unsettle or anger her. He wanted her to insist, so he might be able to bargain for another session. But she just walked away, going back to the group they'd left. She'd wait a long time for that information, he decided.

They made room for her once again on the loveseat, and one of the men lit a cigarette for her. She jetted the fragrant smoke through her nostrils, and it swirled up before her face. "My god, what are those?" asked Vanessa in a slurred voice. Naresha noticed that there were two glasses on the low table before her.

"My own blend. I have them made up in a little tobacconist shop downtown. I ran across a wonderful blend in Morocco five or six years ago, and fiddled with it a little." She took another drag. "Horribly bad for you, I'm afraid. Absolutely loaded with nicotine and tar and other abominable substances."

"Aren't you afraid of getting cancer?"

Naresha smiled benignly at Vanessa. "No. That's one of many things I don't worry about." She tapped a dark red nail against the side of one of the glasses. "Did you drink both of those all by yourself?"

"Yep." She swilled down the last half ounce or so in the second glass, and began to crunch ice. "You were right, the second one did go down smoother."

"Amazing how our intolerance of the taste of alcohol fades in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed."

Her eyes were blank. "Uh, yeah."

"Don't tease her, Naresha." scolded a plump redhead with a pierced tongue. "It's your fault she's drunk."

"Me?" She spread her fingers against her chest in a gesture of astonished innocense. "I wasn't even here."

"You know very well that you teased her into drinking those. She took it as a dare."

"Then it's her fault. All I did was have a drink."

"I wanna 'nuther one." Vanessa announced

. "No damn way, " said the redhead. "You'll pass out. Either that, or you'll throw up on the way home, and I'll have puke stink in my car forever."

"You can' tell me what to do!" Vanessa's defiance might have been more impressive if her expression wasn't so blurred and unfocused. "I'm grown up, dammit. I can get drunk if I wanna."

"Well, then, you can find some other way to get home. If you have another of those, I'm not driving you."

Vanessa leaned on Lambert's arm, and gazed up at him with moonish seduction in her eyes. "Gimme a drink, an' I'll let you take me home."

He pulled away. "Forget that. You live across town from my place."

Hurt, she stood up, swaying slightly. "Well, then fuck you! Swell bunch of friends I've got. I'll get it myself." She started for the bar, listing a little to the side.

Naresha's eyes, glittering with speculation, followed her to the bar, where she began to wheedle and cajole Luca, who shook his head steadily. She finished her cigarette and stood, saying, "I'm going to go rescue Luca before he has his ears chewed off."

At the bar, Vanessa had an unattractive whine in her voice. "But I'm over twenty-one, see?" She waved a laminated card at Luca, who ignored it.

His voice was still patient. "And I told you it doesn't matter how old you are. That's not why I'm refusing you service."

"It's not after hours, I know that. Look." She thrust her hand out, indicating a watch on a black ribbon band.

"That's not why, either. For the last time, I can't serve you because you're already drunk. If you go out and get yourself pasted by a truck, your survivors could have this whole place in their pockets and my ass behind bars."

"What's wrong, Vanessa?" Naresha leaned on the bar beside her, offering an interested look.

"This prick won't gimme another drink. I'm an adult, damn it! I can get drunk if I want."

"Of course you can. Why, that's the whole point of attaining your majority, isn't it? The right to fuck up your body and life if you want to. Luca, doll, give her another."

"Naresha, look at her."

"Don't worry, daddy. I'll shepherd her home and make sure she doesn't end up in a ditch or an alley."

"Are you sure? I don't want her to get alcohol poisoning off my shift."

"Nonsense, it would take at least five of the Snows to accomplish that for someone her size. You be a good girl, and let Auntie Naresha give you a ride home, and the nice man will fix you another drink, okay Vanessa?"

Vanessa was having trouble focusing on her. "A ride? Don't you have a Lexus?"

"Yes. A comfy Lexus with leather seats that go all the way back, so you can have a nice nap on the way home."

"Sure!" She slapped the bar. "Load me up, Luca."

"Yes, load her up. Then I'LL load her up."

Shaking his head, Luca mixed the drink, finishing it with a cherry garnish, then served it with an ironic flourish. Vanessa sucked the potent cocktail down like it was lemonade. *My, my,* Naresha thought. *Such a head you'll have in the morning, little girl. It would be a charity if I removed some of that from your system.*

"Wasteful child." With two dark nails Naresha tweezed the stem of the cherry and lifted it out of the glass. She shook it in mock sterness at Vanessa. "Don't you know there are poor drunks in China who'd give their back teeth for a nice, alcohol soaked Maraschino?"

She opened her mouth and let the bright red little ball rest on the tip of her tongue for a moment. Luca was watching her with an appreciative smile, Vanessa with fascination. Naresha set the cherry between her teeth, and plucked it neatly from the stem. She held it there, then closed her lips and chewed slowly, with great relish, her blue eyes burning into Vanessa's own.

Luca's eyebrows climbed. "I didn't know you liked cherries, Naresha."

She didn't look at him, keeping her gaze on Vanessa. "Filthy minded man." she said casually. "Remind me to chastise you some time in the future."

"It would be my pleasure."

"Yes, it would." Naresha took Vanessa's arm. "Come along, Vanessa. Let's get you home... and to bed."

While Boris fetched the Lexus, Naresha kept Vanessa from either collapsing or wandering into the street, much to the amusement of Cerebus. Naresha didn't mind. She enjoyed watching mortals when they were inebriated. *Mortals behaving badly. Gotta love them.* Such loss of control was also so convenient.

Boris helped her bundle Vanessa into the passenger seat, and strap her in. "You sure you don't need any help getting her home?"

She stroked his cheek. "No, precious. I can handle her quite nicely tonight." Her nails touched his skin, scratching lightly and suggestively as she smiled. "But perhaps you can help me with her some other night, hmm?"

Boris watched her as she sauntered to the driver's side and got in. He wondered if Vanessa had any idea what she was getting in to. Probably not. As the Lexus pulled away from the curb, he shrugged. If you can't run with the big dogs, stay under the porch. He went back to his post, and spent the rest of his shift contemplating the interesting situation Naresha had hinted at.

Naresha had gotten the address from Vanessa at the first light. "Here, Vanessa. Let me make you more comfortable." She touched a control on the dash, and the passenger seat slowly tilted back till it was nearly horizontal, with Vanessa giggling like a little girl on a carnival ride.

Vanessa spotted the moonroof and said, "Hey, why don't you open that? Some fresh air might wake me up."

"It might at that." Naresha turned on the heater instead. "But you don't need to wake up. You're planning on going straight to bed, aren't you? Just relax."

The car grew warm as she drove through the near deserted streets. As they passed under street lamps, she'd glance across at her passenger. Vanessa had fallen into a sleep that was almost a stupor, due to the alcohol and warmth. Her face, slack and innocent in sleep, looked very young.

They reached the right block, and Naresha parked in a shadowy stretch halfway down from the proper address. There were still dim lights in the upstairs windows of the townhouse. Mommy or Daddy was still up. That meant that any business or pleasure would have to be limited to the car. But that was alright. As she'd told Vanessa, the Lexus was quite comfy.

Naresha cut the engine, knowing that Vanessa would not awaken. As deep in the alcohol haze as she was, she'd have to be purposefully awakened. Naresha made herself comfortable, pulling down the console that turned the front into a bench instead of individual seats. She lit another cigarette and sorted through her CDs, considering. At last she chose one and inserted it, lowering the volume to a whisper. She listened to the first track as she smoked and wathced Vanessa sleep. It was an instrumental, slow and subtle. The crooning of the saxophone was especially effective. Very sexy, the saxophone.

When the second track was ready to cue up, she ground out her cigarette and opened the moonroof. A light, cool breeze drifted in. Naresha leaned over Vanessa, and pushed her hair back from her forehead, as gently as a mother with a sleeping child. "Vanessa? Vanessa, wake up."

Vanessa stirred sluggishly. Eyes still closed, she mumbled, "Are we home?"

"No, we're not quite home yet." It was just as well Vanessa didn't see Naresha's smile just then. "Open your eyes and see how beautiful the sky is.

" Vanessa opened her eyes and stared up. Her eyes widened. Naresha knew how it would look to her, the beauty somehow magnified by her alcoholic haze. It would be like jewels scattered on dark velvet. The singer's voice was like dark velvet, too. A rich, smooth alto. The song was called "Seducer."

"No one understands you, baby, do they now? No one tries to see the you that's real, that's deep inside."

"Listen to the music. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

Oh, this was going to be too easy. There was hardly any need to exert an effort to move her into a hypnotic state, as drunk as she was. There wasn't even any need to be subtle. Naresha could have just fallen on her and taken a good meal, perhaps had a bit of sex into the bargain, and all Vanessa would remember in the morning would be a confused hodgepodge of images and sensations, and she wouldn't be sure if any of it was real or imagined.

But Vanessa hadn't done anything to anger her, and Naresha tried to limit her cruelty to those who actually deserved it. Occasionally Naresha found herself wondering if there was such a think as a semi-sociopath. If there was, then she had to be the poster child.

Naresha sang softly with the music. "You could have the love you need so easily, if you'd just give up your foolish pride and let me in. Because I know you..."

Naresha reclined her own seat as the chorus played, and the singer's warm voice pulsed.

"I know your pain. I know your hopes and your dreams. I know the deep and the dark of your soul. I know you're not what you seem and I want you..."

She turned on her side, facing Vanessa, watching and assessing. "The sky is so deep," she whispered. "You can get lost in it, Vanessa. You can fall up into it, and just keep falling, falling, lost in the stars."

"People gonna tell you what you want is wrong, try to make and mold you into what they think they need."

"So much emptiness. So much beauty, drawing you in. Spiraling, swirling. It makes you dizzy, doesn't it? Maybe you should close your eyes." Vanessa closed her eyes obediently. "Don't look, just feel it. Feel it as it spins you so slow. Floating away. Perfectly at peace, but all of your senses alive, more alive than you've ever known. Feeling everything."

"Cut you with their scorn if you dare to break away. Beat you with their guilt till your soul is bruised and bleeding, but..."

Naresha stroked Vanessa's bare arm, enjoying the smoothness of her skin as much as she had enjoyed the rougher texture of Randal's skin earlier. "Feel everything." Her voice was ghostly, but it drifted through Vanessa's consciousness, persuasive. "And everything feels good."

Naresha moved till she was above the girl's supine body, supported on her hands and knees. From a distance, the car would have looked empty. Naresha leaned down to her, putting her lips against the pale shell of her ear and whispering with the song. "I know your pain. I know your hopes and desires, their like mine. Walk with me now through the fire to a place where love can be free. Let go the world and give in to me...You know you want to give in to me..."

Her hands moved through the windings of the sheet with unhasty dexterity, till she encountered warm flesh. Vanessa groaned at the touch, eyes still closed.

Naresha let her tongue trace the curve of Vanessa's ear, savoring the taste that was so familiar, yet always different, the taste of human skin. Vanessa began to shake, and Naresha couldn't help a low, murmuring laugh. *Oh, Vanessa,* she thought. *You're so transparent, bless you. You're going to be some lucky woman's faithful little bitch some day, once you decide what you really are. Maybe this will help you along.*

Naresha wedged one knee between Vanessa's thighs, pressing firmly against her pubic mound. The dark, rough texture of the jeans stood out starkly against the soft whiteness of the shroud. She cupped her hands over the small mounds of the girl's breasts, and felt the prod of nipples, already engorged and stiff. Hmm, a fast starter, this girl. She must have been feeling a bit of sexual build up even during the ride.

The music continued, the chorus replaying. Naresha pressed her knee forward, and squeezed. Vanessa groaned again, her head lolling. Her hands lifted, as if unconsciously, but they settled on Naresha's thighs. Naresha laughed again. She began to rock slowly, her knee shifting and grinding into the tender fork of Vanessa's crotch. Vanessa's hips began to move. Her legs lifted, and her thighs embraced Naresha.

Naresha grinned down at the writhing girl, who never opened her eyes. *Tomorrow you're going to tell yourself, "Oh, I was so drunk last night.* Naresha thought. *"What did I do? I'd have never done that if I were sober." And you'll be looking for me the next time you go to Crowely's. Maybe Boris and I will take you home, and further your education.*

Naresha jerked her knee roughly, thrusting against Vanessa as hard as any man would, obliging the unspoken but blatant invitation to ravish. Vanessa's breath was coming in hitches. Her slender fingers groped blindly, pushing between Naresha's legs, pressing upward. Naresha allowed it, even feeling an answering tingle. But there wasn't time for a full course experience, either in sex or feeding. The parents might look out the window at any time, and notice the Lexus.

Vanessa's blood was running high now, pounding in her veins with the heat of arousal, and Naresha couldn't wait any longer. She gripped Vanessa's breasts tightly and rammed against her as she lowered her head to the girl's neck, and let her teeth slice into the soft flesh.

Vanessa wailed softly, shuddering convulsively as the pain mingled with the first orgasm she'd ever had. But the pain faded quickly--the warm pulse of the orgasm continued.

Naresha fed, gulping down great moutfuls of rich, hot blood. It was spiced with the liquor the girl had consumed, and heady with the sexual hormones that were pouring into it. Oh, this was good! Better than she had hoped. And it would be very easy to just go ahead and drain the girl, here and now. In fact, she'd die happy.

But Naresha pulled back. She wasn't going to do that, she wasn't going to let herself do that. Vanessa didn't deserve it, and Naresha wasn't going to give in to the impulse and become a monster. She took a last, long sup, then gave the wound she'd made a cleansing lick, beginning the rapid healing process. By dawn, Vanessa would just feel embarassed by a particularly livid and sore hickey.

Sighing in satisfaction, she gave each breast a delicate thank you kiss, then covered them again. She moved a little, and replaced her knee with her hand, pressing and massaging, feeling a seepage of warm liquid through the cloth. Vanessa quivered again, and moaned. "Care for some dessert, darling? " Naresha murmured, giving a forceful probe. Vanessa wailed quietly and spasmed again.

A few moments later Naresha helped a wobbly legged Vanessa out of the Lexus and supported her up the walk. Vanessa fumbled with her key till Naresha took it away and unlocked the door, cooly amused at the parody of old world gentilty: opening the door for your date. Vanessa took a step into the dim hallway, and turned back to Naresha, starting to speak. Her eyes were soft, her mouth loose and moist.

The overhead light snapped on. Naresha hissed quietly at a sudden stab of pain as her sensitive eyes adjusted to the flash. A middle aged man, wrapped in a bathrobe, was at the foot of a staircase. A woman, similarly garbed, peered down from the landing.

"Vanessa?" he said. "We were worried. Are you alright?" Vanessa could only gulp. Although she'd lost over a pint of blood moments ago, she managed a creditable blush. The man looked past his daughter to Naresha, and Naresha saw herself through his eyes. Dark and pale in edgy harmony, expensive clothes, and her nipples making tiny points against the black silk front of her shirt. She gave him a slow, cat like smile. "Who are you?"

Naresha's smile broadened. "Sappho." Then she turned and walked back to the Lexus without a backward glance

Chapter Fourteen
Acacia Out

Nana heard Acacia before she saw her. That, she knew, was only because the child felt comfortable and safe here, on her home ground. When she chose to, she could slip through the world as silently as... Nana smiled to herself. Well, as silently as a cat wearing carpet slippers.

Now she heard her voice filtering up from the basement, coming closer as she climbed the stairs. It was some catchy, bouncy tune about just not being able to get enough. "We slip 'n slide as we fall in love, an’ I just can't seem to get enough..." The basement door swung open, and she almost skipped into the room. "Hey, Nana!"

Nana watched affectionately as she bounced around the kitchen, still singing. She was wearing what used to be called 'baby doll' pajamas: barely there bloomers and a loose, fluffy top with cap sleeves and a deep ruffle at the yoke. With her normally sleek caramel-and-cream hair sleep tousled, she looked about sixteen years old. But Nana knew she had been just over twenty-one when she was Embraced.

Finally Acacia trailed off, and threw herself into a chair, grinning at the older woman. "Ya know, not all of the newer groups are totally lame. Sometimes they come up with something decent to dance to. I heard that on a clothing commercial."

"My, you're in a good mood this evening."

"Yup." She jumped up again, and dug in the cabinets, coming up with a box of Brown Sugar-Cinnamon Pop Tarts. "Nana, did you know that they package these things in twos, but claim that one is a serving?"

"You've mentioned it, more than once," she replied placidly.

Acacia took out a package and ripped it open with small, sharp teeth, then dropped the pastries in the toaster and pushed the plunger. "Yeah, well, I'm convinced that was thought up by a man. I hardly think a woman would be that idiotic." She went to the refrigerator and opened it, then paused, frowning. "Although, judging from some of the assholes they hook up with, I can't be sure."

"Well, dear, you can't compare practical matters with affairs of the heart."

Acacia brought out a tub of soft margarine and a quart carton of milk. "Practical, huh. The human race as a whole is not practical. If they were, the poor would have eaten the rich a long time ago. Guess I shouldn't complain, though, since I qualify as rich."

"Yes, but I think almost all you young people get a bit of Communist in your soul at some point. But once you find out that it means sharing your things, well, it peters out pretty soon."

The pastry popped up, and Acacia dropped it on a plate and slathered it with margarine. She plopped back down at the table and took a hefty bite. "Anyway, the good mood is due to the new case. I been getting bored as hell."

"I thought you were taking care of that matter for... what was her name? Charity? Faith?"

"Nah. Different virtue. Mercy." Acacia opened the carton and drank from the spout.

"Casey! What have I told you about that!" Nana scolded.

Acacia grinned at her, licking off a white moustache. "Don't, you should pardon the expression, have kittens. I don't intend to leave any, so no one is gonna catch my cooties."

"What are you up to tonight, dear?"

Acacia sucked a smear of grease off her finger. "I gotta go collect some info at Crowely's. Naresha set it up with some guy called Randal." She scowled. "Couldn't she find a lesbian cop to pump for information? She knows how much I hate having to deal with those jerks. Cops are bad enough. Male cops piss me off royally."

"Male anything pisses you off, Acacia."

She sighed. "True. That's why I'm so interested in that cloning garbage they have going on these days." Her blue eyes sparkled. "Just think of it, Nana. If they figure it out, we won't even need 'em to reproduce any more!"

"Really, dear, even you wouldn't do away with all of them, would you?"

She shrugged. "I guess not. Only because it would hurt Milda's feelings, and Naresha would get bored. But I'm all in favor of shipping 'em off to an island, or something." She licked one finger and began chasing crumbs around the table.

"Don't eat those. Get a rag and wipe them up. I swear, you're so uncivilized sometimes." Acacia burped, and grinned at her. But she got the rag and cleaned the table.

"Anybody need anything while I'm out?" She shook the rag into the sink, rinsed it, and hung it neatly over the sink divider to drain.

"Check the board, Casey. That's why we have it."

She slapped her forehead dramatically, drawing a smile from the older woman, and went to the dry wipe note board hung beside the refrigerator. Yes, there were items needed. Naresha, in her lovely copperplate hand, had requested the latest issues of Bizarre and Tangled Webs, a goth literary magazine. There was a short list of health food items in Milda's careful, round, childish hand.

Acacia memorized the list quickly. That was one thing she didn't have trouble with. All three sisters could absorb information like a sponge. She scrubbed the board clean, then added, "Will do," in her own spiky scrawl. A graphologist might have detected certain similarities in all three scripts, but the layman would never have dreamed that they were written by the same hand, and that with the person not consciously trying to disguise the source.

Acacia went back to the basement to prepare. Most of the basement was exactly what one would have expected, given the outside appearance of the building. It was large, grimy, and poorly illuminated. One would have expected to hear the scuttle of rats moving behind the looming boxes and discarded objects of furniture. That wasn't the case. The basement, like the rest of the building was completely rodent free, perhaps the only such structure on this side of town. All three of the girls, like Kitten before them, loved mousies, and ratties were fine with them, too.

One corner of the underground space was different, though. It was clean, if a bit cluttered, and brightly illuminated. The space was defined by a large shag rug in shades of avocado, sage, and forest green. Naresha, when she had first seen it, had remarked that she hadn't seen carpeting like that since the last cheesy seventies porno movie she'd watched.

There was a single bed, covered with a bed set that was a wild, pop art jumble of primary color sixties images: go-go dancers, race cars, record players... A nearby enameled dresser echoed the color scheme, each drawer a different color, and their knobs contrasting colors. Nana teased that she almost needed to wear sunglasses when she straightened up.

The walls were covered with posters, an eclectic selection that included several framed originals of sixties rock venues. But there were also kittens, smiley faces, and several of semi nude young women that would not have been out of place on the walls of most adolescent boys. A psychiatrist might have found these the most telling, if Acacia would have consented to even enter the same room with a known psychiatrist.

Acacia, as usual, went directly to her music center. It contained a record player, cassette deck, 8 track player, and cd player. The record player was used strictly for her long playing albums. All her 45s were in the 1958 Wurlitzer jukebox beside the music center.

*Let's see... Something from '67, I think. That was the worst thing about the 'away time' in the facility. I missed three years of prime music. Yeah, sure, I've caught up with it, but it just ain't like hearing it for the first time on the radio or in a club. Oh, here's a good one!* She punched B-17, and Tommy James and the Shondells started up with 'I Think We're Alone Now.' She sighed happily, starting to move to the beat. She had little use for men, but she had to admit that some of those motherfuckers could make music!

Naresha had her closets, but Acacia hadn't felt like bothering. Instead there were several long, commercial clothes racks. And while Naresha's wardrobe had been a study in somber, Acacia's was a concert of color.

She sorted through her clothes, singing along softly under her breath. She felt like she ought to at least try to halfway conform to Crowely's unspoken dress code. She had a lot of respect for the goths. The closest thing was 'the little black dress' that Naresha had insisted she have. ("We may have a funeral to go to someday, darling." "Or a wedding," Acacia had replied, showing her own concept of tragedy.)

That should do. She added soft leather boots that came up over her knees, and a large peace symbol on a long strand of jet beads, and felt that a suitable compromise had been reached. Luckily the goth makeup wasn't too far off what she favored herself, since white was the preferred shade of lipstick after maroon and crimson. But she didn't bother with the heavy pale foundation and powder. What she was was what they got, like it or lump it.

She examined herself in the mirror, then got a pair of scissors and evened up a few ragged ends on her hair. She carefully gathered every strand of the clippings, added them to what she had cleaned out of her brush, and burned them in a small metal dish kept strictly for that purpose. The ashes went down the toilet. There were certain people... well, beings, who could do major unpleasant things with a few strands of hair, or a fingernail clipping.

Acacia enjoyed the sound her boot heels made, first on the steps, then on the sidewalk. The rapping was sharp, crisp. She's worn these because she didn't expect to have to be stealthy tonight. She'd have to remember to be extra cautious in her movements, if the need arose.

When she got in the Lexus her delicate nostrils flared. Leaning over, she sniffed at the passenger seat, sifting through various aromas, then sat up with a grin. Naresha must have had a good time last night, judging from the smells of musk and blood.

But when she turned the key in the ignition, and saw the needle in the gas gauge sitting almost on empty, she growled a mild invection at her younger sister. The girl seemed congenitally incapable of leaving more than a quarter tank of gas in any vehicle. *I know she doesn't go all that far. What the hell does she do? Siphon it off? Donate it to charity?*

Acacia sighed gustily. This meant refueling before she got started on her errands. Luckily there were all night places in the area.

As she pulled into the convenience store parking lot, she reflected that this was one modern development that had really benefitted her kind. What had vampires done before when they ran out of gas? But, she reflected as she parked at the pumps and trudged into the store to prepay, self serve was something they could have definitely done without.

She took a quick trip to the cooler for a Jolt cola, not sure if Crowely’s would have any on hand, and added a bag of corn chips and a Snickers bar. The plump woman working the checkout sighed as she rang her up. "It must be nice to be young and be able to eat anything you want."

Acacia grinned. "You know it." She had a soft spot in her heart for convenience store clerks, especially those who worked graveyard. She’d done a few brief stints in the job herself, and knew what sort of crap they had to put up with "I'm lucky. With my metabolism, I can eat anything I want." She remembered worrying a bit of flesh out from under one of her nails two nights before. *And you'd be surprised what all that means.*

Outside she settled the nozzle in the tank and started the gas. Then she popped the top on the Jolt, ripped open the corn chips, and started to snack. That was when she noticed the group of boys hiding around the side of the building, whispering to each other. Uh oh. Young males in a pack. Never a good sign.

Very young males, she corrected herself. None of them were much into double digits on age. *Well*,she thought grudgingly,*I guess they qualify as kittens instead of full grown tomcats. But they're up to no good.*

That was proved when one of them crept around the front, crouched low, and reached toward a display of beer that was piled against the front wall. Stupid idea. Open invitation to beer snatches. It had probably been thought up by a male sales rep, who though it would inspire impulse buys. Impulse, yes. Buys? No.

Well, this wasn't going to happen. But Acacia didn't feel like having to chase down the little snots. And any beer taken would probably be ruined in the process.

So, instead, the boy, who just had his hand on a six pack, heard what sounded like a pit bull growling at him. He froze, and looked up to find a woman standing over him. Where the hell had she come from? She was staring down at him with an expression on her face that made his balls try to crawl up closer for protection.

Her voice was low and raspy, "Have you got any idea how fucking skeazy that is? Are you so low that you'd risk that woman's job so you could get a buzz?" His mouth hung open. She snorted. "Stupid question, I guess. Well, guess what, hairball?"

She leaned over him, eyes blazing, teeth bared in a snarl. "I'm your guardian angel, sent to save you from consigning your own narrow little butt to the eternal flames of hellfire. Though I personally don't think it would be much of a loss. You take your hands off the beer, then you and your candy ass friends go home to your mamas and daddies, who should be keeping better track of you. Do this, and maybe I won't show up next to your bed some night. Now, get out of here." His friends had been peering around the corner, round eyed, and she let them all have just a glimpse of her eyes going feral.

They scattered with screams. Very satisfying. She noticed the clerk peering through the window at her puzzled, and gave her a friendly salute. The gas was just about to run over when she returned to the car. Hm. Still a couple of bucks left on the meter. She shrugged, and got in the car, driving off. Let her keep it as a tip. It wasn't worth the trip back in, and she damn sure could use it more than Acacia could.

Besides, she wanted a chance to browse in the news stand before she went to Bounty for Milda's supplies, and the health food store, though open very late by the standards of such establishments, was not all night.

Chapter Fifteen
Goth Cop and Go-Go Chick

The clerk at Bounty was a bit like Milda. She also wore the long, shapeless dresses, and long shapeless hair, though her's was a rather indeterminate blonde. She also had the same gentle expression, and air of wise innocense. Other than that, the resemblence wasn't too strong. She tended to be chunky, thus disproving the fact that a health food diet would automatically keep one slender.

"Acacia," she greeted the young woman. "How are you, man?"

Acacia grinned. Someone even more hopelessly stuck in the sixties than she was. Very refreshing. "I'm fins, Rainbow. How's Moonie?" Moonie was Rainbow's 'old man', one of the few males Acacia could tolerate for more than a few minutes at a time without wanting to neuter. But then, he'd done such a mish-mosh of brain altering substances in his life that he'd been pretty much reduced to vague, pleasant smiles. Acacia couldn't tolerate the stupid, but she was protective of the harmlessly weak minded.

"Oh, you know Moonie. Been carin' some killer pipes out of that supply of wood you girls sent us. Thanks."

"Da nada. I need to pick up a few things for Milda. She couldn't get out."

"Sure. Want to go ahead and pick up the standing order while you're at it? Save you a trip in a couple of days."

"Not tonight. I got somewhere to go. I can't go dragging groceries with me into Crowley's, and I'd rather not leave stuff in the Lex. No offense meant, but some of that stuff is a little potent, and it's hell to get smells out of that car."

Rainbow nodded agreeably. "Just tell me what you need, sister."

Acacia started to reel off the list. "Lemon grass, verbina, kelp... She said the family size on that. St. John's wort, rose hip tea, some of that oyster shell calcium stuff, annnd... A carob peanut butter bar." Acacia grabbed up said bar, unwrapping it and taking a healthy (literally) bite.

Rainbow smiled. "Sure that was on the list?"

Acacia licked a smear of chocolate substitute off her fingers, grinning. "Naw, but frankly it's the only stuff you sell I actually like."

She waited while Rainbow gathered up her purchases, tapping her foot and bopping in place. Rainbow and Moonie favored that tinkly New Age crap, but hey. She always had a concert going in her mind.

Acacia accepted the bag, then accepted the warm brush of Rainbow's lips on her cool cheek. The sisters had put up the seed money for Bounty years ago, and the aging hippies weren't about to forget their generosity. If they'd ever had children, the couple probably would have named them after one or the other (or, given that this was Rainbow and Moonie), all of the sisters.

These were good people, Acacia reflected. During the wandering times, before The Incident, before The Embrace, people like them had been very good to the sisters.

She dropped the bags off in the Lex, and strolled down to the newstand. It was one of the businesses that never closed, despite the hour, date, or weather. Acacia thought that, at some point in time, it had probably been open to supply smut and racing forms at three am, on Christmas morning, during a hurricane.

There was a walled off section in the back houseing the 'adult' *Yeah, you gotta be real mature to read some of that shit.* material. A Dragon Lady, guarded the entrance, collecting the dollar 'lookiloo' fee and checking IDs. She gave Acacia a yellowed, shark's toothed smile, twiddling fingers tipped with nails almost as long and curved (but not nearly as sharp) as those Acacia could manage.

Acacia occasionally patronized the back room, (it wasn't all het smut back there, after all), but not tonight. It was a little too busy to suit her. Women were infrequent customers, and the goobers sometimes got the idea that she was there to solicit. A couple that had been a wee bit too aggressive had ended up nursing bloody noses, scratched cheeks, and aching balls, then were chased from the establishment by a shrieking and scolding Dragon Lady. She didn't tolerate good customers being harrassed.

She quickly located Naresha's requests, and added a National Enquirer, Soap Digest, and People for Nana. There was something new dealing with astral projection and channelling that Milda would probably get behind, so she included that, too. She carried her selection to the front counter, and Dragon Lady hurried to serve her herself, waving what Acacia believed was a daughter-in-law to take her place.

"Hullo! Long time you not been here," the woman greeted her.

"Yeah, I know. I been kinda busy. How's business? Any more trouble?" One of the reasons Dragon Lady was so fond of the sisters was that they had put the word out that anyone who tried to rob the place would be dealt with--messily. After one idiot who had felt compelled to ignore the warning, and roughed up daughter-in-law during a robbery, was found missing several vital parts of his anatomy, things had been pretty cool.

"No, everything fine. Business good. Put grandkid through college. Ivy league."

"Good stuff." Acacia started to gather up her purchases, but the old lady touched her arm.

"You wait. Got something for you." She reached under the counter, and withdrew what was obviously a magazine, wrapped in tissue paper.

Acacia smiled in anticipation. Dragon Lady handled used magazines, and she kept an eye out for anything from the fifties through early seventies, especially the teen or pop culture magazines. Maybe she'd found another Teen Beat, 16, or Tiger Beat.

Acacia carefully unwrapped the magazine, and gaped. It was a tabloid, and the cover photo was of John Lennon, wearing a WWI basin type helmet. He was wearing those little rimless glasses that reminded Acacia so much of her sister, Milda. "Oh, wow," she said reverently. "A Rolling Stone, issue one! Where did you get this? I've been trying to find one for ages."

The old lady smiled smugly. "I got contacts."

"How much?" Acacia was ready to melt the credit card for this one.

Dragon Lady waved magnanimously. "No charge."

Acacia was stunned. "But... I couldn't do that."

"Sure you do that. Your money no good. Well..." Again she grinned. "For that, anyway. You enjoy."

"Oh, hell yeah! As soon as I read it, it's goin' in it's own little plastic bag. Thanks, again."

The sudden windfall had put Acacia in a good mood. Now she wasn't feeling sour about having to meet with the cop. She was almost looking forward to it. After all, he had the good taste, if not good sense, to lust after her sister. He might not be all bad.

At Crowely's, Boris hurried forward, recognizing the car. When Acacia got out instead of Naresha, his smile remained friendly, but got a bit more cautious. You handled Acacia delicately. *Well,* he corrected himself *you don't actuall handle Acacia. That could get you in a world of hurt.* But she wasn't too bad, as long as you weren't blatantly, offensively macho. "Hey, Acacia. First Naresha, now you. We're livin' right, I guess."

"Hey Boris." She tipped him, like Naresha, though it was more by rote with her. "She's busy tonight. I got someone to meet. Is Goth Cop in yet?"

Boris nodded. *Damn, how can two women be so alike, and so different at the same time? Physically, it's almost like looking at Naresha through a filter. But style and attitude? Different sides of the moon.* "He showed up about twenty minutes ago."

"Thanks." She went to the door. Cerebus bowed low, and she stopped, studying him. Acacia could always appreciate another dangerous predator. "Hi, Dogman."

"Hello, Catwoman. Any dead mousies tonight?"

She showed her teeth in what might pass for a smile. "Not tonight. Couple of rats recently."

"I'd say 'that's my girl', but I'd like to keep my balls attached." They understood each other. He accepted his tip, opened the door, and bowed her inside.

They had 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' on the speakers when she entered. Acacia took a moment to let the beat seep into her bones. It wasn't her usual choice, but it wasn't bad.

She had chosen well on the outfit, fitting right in. She made her way to the bar, ticking her nails on the counter while the bartender finished loading a tray for a waitress. The girl was wearing a skirt that ended just about where her thighs began, and Acacia enjoyed the view. Finally he turned to her, inclining his head respectfully. "Good evening, Acacia. What can I get for you?"

"You still remember how to make a Dead Lab Rat, Luca?"

He smiled. "Of course. I wanted to ask you if I can add it to the official roster of drinks. After someone saw you drinking it the last time, I've had some requests."

"Sure. Fine. Claim it. Enter it in a contest, if you want."

"I wasn't going to mention it, but since you did... There is an original drink competition coming up in November. Regional. I want to enter the Lab Rat and Naresha's Flaming Yellow Snow."

"Yeah, she'd be thrilled. Do one with trail mix or sprouts in it and name it for Milda, and you'll have something from the whole family." She watched as Luca built the drink in the bar blender: vanilla ice cream, vanilla, Ammerretto, half and half. When it was all smooth, he poured it into a tall soda glass, popped two stemless cherries along one side for the eyes, and delicately hung a strip of lemon peel over the other side for the tail. "One Dead Lab Rat. Sure you don't need a straw?"

"Nah." She took a deep drink, leaving a foamy moustache. As Luca watched, her little pink tongue worked industriously, cleaning it away, and he felt his groin tighten, but he knew better. "Goth Cop around?"

Luca pointed. "Over there in the booth. Gimlet."

"Thanks. On the family tab, huh?"

"You got it."

She strolled over to the booth Luca had indicated. Randal Turner looked up as she approached. His eyes flicked over her, but with less of the appraisal than there usually was in a male gaze. Maybe she'd be able to get through this without any nastiness on either side. She gave a mental snort. Well, there was always hope.

Without waiting for an invitation, or even an acknowledgement, she slid into the other side of the booth. Randal looked at her silently, running a finger around the rim of his glass. There was a faint, high pitched ringing sound from the wet glass. Acacia tensed. Randal couldn't see it in the dim light, but her ears flattened ever so slightly against her skull. "Do you have to do that?"

"Sorry." He stopped. "Bar trick." He cocked his head, eyeing her curiously. "Some women like it."

"Some women are deaf," she said shortly.

"You must be Acacia."

"How did you ever guess?"

"Aside from looking like a retouched photo of Naresha? The attitude. It preceeds you."

She studied him a little more closely. There wasn't any disapproval, or sarcasm in his voice. "I'm a legend in my own time, all right. You have something for me?"

He scowled. "I told Naresha I changed my mind about that. I need to see her again."

"Uh huh." Unimpressed, Acacia held out her hand.

"I'm telling you I didn't do it." She tipped her head, smiling, hand still outstretched. "God damn it!" He pulled a CD case out of his jacket and slapped it into her palm. She tucked it in her purse, and he growled. "How did you know?"

"She shared blood with you, right?" He nodded. "You didn't have any choice."

"Oh, come on! You don't believe that bonding-obedience crap, too, do you?"

She had been about to leave, but now she put her purse back down and picked up her drink. "You did it, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah. But that doesn't mean anything."

She drank deeply, and went through the same upper lip cleansing process she had at the bar. Randal watched, appreciative, if still irritated. If it had been Naresha, he would have known that it was being done for effect. With Acacia... Probably not.

"I mean, you really, really didn't intend to do it when she left, right? You were, like, ultra pissed."

"Yeah."

"And you stayed pissed. The more you thought about it, the more it yanked your crank. By the time you got to work, you'd decided that you wouldn't do it unless Naresha did some serious butt kissing?"

He pursed his lips in amusement. "Well, I wouldn't put it like that."

"You wouldn't put it like that, but yeah, you wanted some major lip action on the gluteus maximus. Hey, I can understand. When you get in a position of power, only natural to want to use it somehow." Her smile became even more pointed. "Problem is, you ain't in all that powerful a position. Not with Naresha. You kept telling yourself you weren't going to do it right up till the CD was in the burner and you were hitting 'Copy'. Then you told yourself that you wouldn't hand it over, you'd use it for leverage."

"Damn." he said mildly. "I'm not usually that easy to read."

She shrugged. "You're a man. And..." her eyes glinted red for a split second. "A mortal."

Randal froze. He couldn't have seen what he thought he saw. Her eyes hadn't actually changed. Had they?

Acacia stood up, hefting her purse over her shoulder. She guzzled the last of the drink, letting the two cherries plop into her mouth. Like a small child trying to gross out a companion, she offered him a brief glimpse of the two tiny fruits sitting on her tongue before she closed her mouth and chewed them up, grinning. Randal, for no good reason he could identify, was charmed.

The woman's smile faded a little, and her tone was slightly puzzled. "Ya know, I don't feel the urge to remove any part of your anatomy. That's pretty unusual for me."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be." She twiddled her fingers at him, and started for the door. Billy Idol's 'White Wedding' was just starting up, and she was dancing before she got to the door.

Randal slipped a little further down in the booth, sipping the remains of his Gimlet, and considering. Two of the Three Sisters so far, both intrigueing in their own way. He mentally ran over what he knew about them from gossip, and found that it wasn't a whole hell of a lot.

Well he smiled to himself as he finished the drink. *For a man with access to a computer and the Internet, official records, and passwords... there are ways.*"

Chapter Sixteen
Information

Acacia rather liked the new plastic shopping bags. She could hang all of them in one hand, and have the other hand free to operate. *Of course, the weight of the bags sometimes causes the plastic handles to sort of cut off the circulation in your fingers if you hold them too long, but since I don't have any circulation, that's hardly a problem.* Whistling something by The Supremes, she activated the alarm on the Lexus and went to the door of The Lair. Feeling lazy, she hit the intercom button. "Yo, Milda. Let me in."

After a moment, she heard her sister's voice, slightly fuzzed through the speaker. "You have your key. Let yourself in, you lazy butt."

"Aw, Milda, c'mon. Be nice to big sis. I got your groceries."

"And I'm very grateful, but you know the rules. Let yourself in."

Anyone observing Acacia on the street might have wondered at the one sided conversation she seemed to be having. It never ceased to amaze the sisters how the rest of the world had such a hard time seeing or hearing them when they were together. They'd quit trying to make themselves noticed, allowing one sister at a time to deal with the outside world, while the others watched, and listened.

There was no reply. Acacia, on general principals, laid a couple of kicks on the bottom panel of the door. Fat lot of good it did. The sucker had a steel core, and even an Embraced Malkavian werecat couldn't kick it in. A SWAT team with a battering ram might have had a chance. Then, grumbling, she fished her key out of her purse, punched in the proper code on the security keypad, and let herself in.

As she kicked the door shut behind herself, she heard Milda call from the office, "And reset the alarm!"

"Christ, Mildew, have I ever forgotten? I mean, since that incident with the Assamite..."

"That wasn't an Assamite, Acacia, I keep telling you. It was a Caitiff. If it had been an Assamite, we would have heard more about it after you finished with him. And he wouldn't have been so easy to kill. And we probably all would have been dead..."

"Okay, okay, okay. Sheesh. Lemme put your junk away and I'll be right back." She went down the hall to the kitchen, grumbling. She looked at the empty chair at the table, seeing Naresha calmly smoking one of her clove cigarettes. "You could've let me in."

"And risk the gentle wrath of Earth Mother? I don't think so." Naresha ground out the cigarette. "Did you get it?"

"Of course." She dumped the bags on the counter, and fished in her purse, coming up with the CD.

"Good." Naresha smiled complacently. Then her smile became sly. "And how was Randal?"

"Goth Cop? Pissed and confused, like most of your men."

"The old 'why-the-hell-did-I-do-it?' syndrome, eh?"

"In spades. I think he held out longer than most of 'em, though."

"Why, sister," One dark brow crooked. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say that you almost sounded... admiring."

"The important qualifier here is 'almost,' Naresha. I dunno. I didn't get quite the automatic sub-atomic level, gut reaction hatred I usually feel for a man."

"Now that is interesting."

"Don't start making anything of it. I had a Jolt and a candy bar, and I just got something I'd been looking for a long time. It must've been the sugar rush and endorphin."

"Sweetie, we don't have hormones anymore, remember?"

"Details, details. Couldn't tell from you. You seem to leak pheromones."

"Meow, darling."

They both burst out laughing. Acacia dropped Naresha's magazines before her. "Enjoy. Nice article on intimate body piercing in Bizarre, and don't you even consider it."

Naresha began to leaf through the magazine. "Not without a family conference, love. I promise."

Acacia trotted up the stairs to Milda's level, going into her sister's bedroom. Her eyes glazed slightly for a moment as she stepped over the threshold. When they cleared, they held a serene expression that was totally alien to Acacia, but one of Milda's defining characteristic. She began to strip out of the black dress. "Casey, doll, did you remember my lemon grass? I'm almost out, and I want to do some Thai tomorrow. Can't do Thai without the lemon grass." Her voice was husky.

"Of course I got it, Milda." It took on the ever-so-slightly nasal intonations of Acacia. "Sheesh. You don't think Rainbow would have let me forget, do you?"

All the undergarments joined the dress in a neat pile on the hand-stitched quilt that graced Milda's big bed. She walked to the closet, opened it, and took out another one of the shapeless dresses, this one a soothing blue printed with sprays of baby's breath. Once it was on, she slipped on plain white cotton panties, the sort that would not have been out of place in a 1950's Catholic girls' school. "No, Rainbow wouldn't let you forget, and I'm sorry I hinted that you might." The boots joined the clothes, and the woman put on a pair of plain leather sandals.

"Aw, it's okay, sis. I get distracted sometimes, I know that." She went to the dressing table, which was free of the wide assortment of make-ups that the other two sisters used. This one held natural skin care products, most of them in plain jars and bottles, because Milda had concocted them herself. She lifted a long, dark copper wig off a wig stand and fitted it over her short, streaked hair. Then she picked up the pair of rimless glasses resting on the vanity, and perched them on her nose.

Milda looked at herself in the mirror, adjusting the hair minutely. Then she peered at her reflection, seeing her sister behind her. She smiled. Acacia might be the eldest, but she was such a child sometimes. Turning back to the empty room she said, "All right. Let's go see what we have to work with."

Milda picked up the CD case that Acacia had dropped on the bed and went down the stairs, hearing her sister padding behind her. "How are Rainbow and Moonie?"

"Fine as wine. You need to go visit them pretty soon. You old hippies gotta stick together."

"I know. I just get so caught up in my experiments. I really do need to make time for my friends. They were so disappointed when I couldn't go to Woodstock II with them."

"Did you tell them you were at the original?"

They entered the office, and Milda went to her computer. A screen saver that resembled the 'amoebae' light shows of the late sixties was pulsing on the monitor. As she sat, she said, "No. I didn't want to make them jealous. Besides, they wouldn't have believed me. They would think I was too young."

"Yeah, there's that." The original Woodstock had been only a few months after the sisters had been declared 'sane' and released from the plush asylum that had contained them for the last three years of their lives. They had treated themselves to Woodstock in celebration, going in a specially constructed van that could be sealed tight against entry of both mortals and sunlight.

They hadn't gotten much rest, fighting off their natural urge to sleep in order to listen to the bands inside the dark confines of the van. When the sun set, they roamed the vast camping ground that had been Yeager's Farm. Finding meals had been no problem. Well, if you discounted the difficulty in finding someone who's blood wasn't so full of hallucinogens that the diner would have gone on a trip themselves.

"You could tell them that you were born there," Acacia suggested. She watched as Milda opened the case and slid the disc into the waiting tray.

"They still wouldn't believe me. That would make me over thirty, and I'd have a hard time passing for that." Physically Milda, like the other two sisters, was about fifty-three. They'd stopped aging after their Embrace at twenty-one, and they had been young looking then. "I suppose I could have my parents meeting there for the first time." Milda slid the tray into the computer and began tapping on the keyboard.

"Fair enough. I've told people my mom got pregnant backstage at the Beatles' last concert."

"John, Paul, George, or Ringo?"

Acacia popped gum. "She wasn't sure. They all had a turn."

Milda shook her head, smiling. "You are wicked."

"Yup."

The youngest of the sisters went to My Computer, highlighted 'Drive D:,' and chose 'Open.' It brought up a list of files. "Now then. Mm. Crime scene report, first officer on the scene report, statement of discovery, witness statements, fingerprints, forensic evidence, list of family friends and acquaintances... Oh, there's a good bit here. Shall I begin going over it?"

"Sure. We're takin' the case." She snapped her gum. Her eyes as she gazed at the computer screen were curiously flat. "Unless it looks like the client did it herself and is covering up. Then..." She grinned slowly.

"Stop it, Acacia. You didn't meet her. Don't you trust my instincts?"

Acacia shrugged, and pecked her younger sister on the cheek. "Sure, sis. But you have this nasty tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt. That 'believing-the-best' shit can be way impractical."

Milda's voice was a little hurt. "Well, I'm sorry, but I just..."

Acacia tugged lightly at Milda's hair, shifting the wig slightly. Milda reached up to shift it back into place, speaking in Acacia's voice, "That's one of the reasons we love you, hippie."

Milda began to read files, feeling the comforting presence of Acacia as she peered over her shoulder. In the office of The Lair, a single woman sat before a computer, and held a conversation in two voices. Two of the Three Sisters were working together.

Chapter Seventeen
Visitor

Nana got up early the next morning, wanting a chance to talk to one or the other of the girls before they went to sleep for the day. It was possible to get them awake during daytime hours, but just barely. They were scarcely more animated than those nasty revenant things that they'd had a run-in or two with before.

She checked Acacia's space in the basement. There was a tabloid magazine on her bed, but she wasn't there. Nana went out into the hall, and heard the two voices coming from the front office. She went down, and saw Milda sitting at her computer. She was leaning on one elbow, dark copper hair hanging forward, curtaining her pleasant face as she said, "So they did find some unidentified fingerprints in the house. No matches. Of course, the data bases weren't so good as they are now. I can try running them again. Maybe whoever it was did something in the intervening time, and got into the system."

Her expression never changed, but her voice took on Acacia's drawl. "Hell yeah. Check cop files, FBI, Interpol... Goddam U.N.C.L.E, if ya can."

Milda smiled, murmuring in her own husky voice, "I always preferred The Avengers myself"

"Yeah, Mrs. Peel was a babe in those leather cat suits."

"Hello girls." Nana walked in and pressed a kiss to Milda's forehead. When Milda's eyes flickered toward a certain spot at her elbow, Nana turned a fond smile on the empty air. "Acacia, have you seen Naresha?"

Milda's eyes had returned to the screen, but she answered in Acacia's voice. "I think she took her magazines upstairs."

"Would you go ask her to come down, please? I have a question for her about the lace I'm tatting for Tremble's gown."

"Sure."

After a moment, Nana turned her attention back to the girl at the computer. "How's it going, dear?"

"Oh, slow, Nana, slow. We've never worked with anything this old before. Trail is colder than we are."

"Do you think you'll be able to help that poor woman and her niece?"

"I'm not sure yet, but we're gonna try like hell." Milda blinked, and said in Naresha's languid voice, "What's up, darling?"

Nana didn't hesitate. "On the lace, dear. Did you decide to use that sprinkling of silver sequins with the black, or not?"

"Mm, I think I still want it, but only about a fourth of what we had discussed. I just want it to sort of wink at them, not blind them. We don't want her looking like Cher in the seventies."

"Why not?"

I*t's uncanny,* Nana thought. *You'd almost believe the voice actually came from behind me, by the door, instead of right beside me. I think maybe the girls have been studying, and gained another strength. I know I've heart that there's a talent that let's you throw your voice.* Aloud she said, "Why not what?"

"Why not look like Cher? She was pretty fab back then."

Nana could imagine Naresha rolling her eyes. "You are SO cheesy, love. Milda, pet, turn of that UPV ray or whatever the hell it is emitting thing and go to bed."

"All right." She closed the program. "I'll have better luck hacking into the systems I want in the middle of the night, anyway."

Milda stood up, and raked off her wig, running a hand through the short, streaked hair she exposed. Acacia said, "Did Goth Cop give us everything he had, ya think?"

Naresha drawled, "Of course he did. Stop teasing, you know very well he couldn't balk me by omission any more than he could directly."

"I know. I just like to fuck with you every now and then. Otherwise you'd think I didn't love you."

Nana watched the girl embrace empty air. When Acacia dropped her arms, Nana put a hand where she judged a shoulder should be on 'Naresha'. "It's slow going on that lace, but I think I'll have the draping for the dress finished this afternoon, and I can start on the veil."

Acacia quirked an eyebrow. That meant that Nana's estimate had been a little off. She had probably patted Naresha on the bosom, or missed entirely. But the girls didn't call her on it. Naresha said, "That will be splendid, dear. I'll have Tremble come in for a fitting in a day or so. Bless her, she's so nervous that she doesn't know whether to binge or purge. There's no telling whether I'll have to take it in or let it out by the time the actual wedding rolls around."

All three of the girls said good-night, and wandered out of the room. As Nana expected, she went down to the basement. That meant that Acacia was still in control. Of course, there was no telling WHO she'd wake up as. Acacia, as the eldest, was the one who spent the most time 'out', then Naresha, then little sister Milda. Nana shook her head. Much as she loved all the girls, she had to admit that Milda was her favorite. It was odd to think of her as a 'good soul', when the others insisted so strongly that they HAD no soul.

She did a fast tidy on the office, getting that out of the way before she left the room. It didn't need much. Milda had appointed herself custodian of the room, and she was the neatest of the sisters. Dust scarcely had a chance to settle. Naresha grumbled occasionally that she had to go down into the far corners of Acacia's domain to find a decent cobweb when she needed a bit of gothic inspiration.

The kitchen never needed any attention: Milda kept it even more spotless than the office. All Nana had to do was run a quick dust mop over the hall floor, then polish the banister up to the second floor. *Hm. Pretty shiny. I wonder if Acacia is sliding down it again? I told that girl not to. The last time she broke her neck, she was laid up for three days and couldn't move their head without pain for over a week. It just wasn't fair to the other girls, making them suffer through it with her.*

*Of course, it was their decision,* Nana thought, going into Milda's room. Well, for a wonder the child had left her something to do. She made the bed, wondering if Acacia or Naresha had awakened in Milda's bed. That was usually what happened whenever she found any kind of mess at all in here. As she smoothed out the sheets and spread the quilt, she thought, *They could have just stayed off wherever it is they go when they aren't here, but they just wouldn't let their sister suffer alone. Oh, granted it was more Milda than Naresha, but they both took turns.*

Finished there, she made her way up to the top floor, reflecting that she still didn't feel a strain. Not bad for a woman in her late eighties. *No one ever told me I looked young for my age before the girls.* The thought amused her. Sometimes she was half tempted to give her real age, if she could have remembered it, just to see the reaction.

Things weren't too bad up here. Naresha hadn't made the bed, of course, but it only took a few moments to smooth the sheets and coverlet. Naresha was a peaceful sleeper. She loved to smirk that she slept like 'the dead'. Acacia, on the other hand, showed almost as much energy when she slept as she did awake. Her covers were always pulled out and knotted up.

A bit of straightening to the vanity, a wispy pair of black panties to pick up off the floor, and she was done. *It's almost more trouble cleaning up after myself than it is the girls.*

Nana started down the stairs, reflecting that Acacia would probably be 'off' tomorrow, and she could give the basement a seeing to. Acacia, though the eldest, was the most childlike in her attitude toward order and neatness.

Just as she reached the ground level hall, the doorbell rang. She paused, considering the door in surprise. There were no deliveries scheduled for today, and this wasn't the sort of neighborhood for charity collectors, poll takers, or door-to-door evangelists. Who could it be?

She went and examined the security monitors. The street was clear in both directions, except for the man standing directly in front of the door. He was somewhere in his late twenties, Nana judged, and a good looking young devil. He had reddish-brown hair a few shades brighter than Milda's, and the sort of pale skin Nana had long ago become accustomed to seeing, living with the girls. But since he was out in broad daylight, and he wasn't smoking and bubbling, that meant that he wasn't one of their kind. The day was mild, but he was wearing a pair of very dark sunglasses. That, and his all black ensemble, told Nana that he was probably one of Naresha's friends.

As she studied him, he touched the bell again, giving it two sharp pokes, his wide mouth thinning a little in irritation. *If I don't respond, he's going to lean on that bell, I can tell by looking at him.* Deciding to save her ears, Nana turned on the intercom. "Yes?"

The stranger looked around, and located the speaker over the door. He called, "I'm here to see Naresha."

*No surprise there.* "I'm sorry, she's not here."

Instead of shrugging and walking away, as she had expected, he said, "All right. Can I see Acacia, then?"

Oh, now this was novel--a young man coming looking for Acacia. *Odd, he doesn't look suicidal.* "She isn't in, either."

"Fuck." The word was soft, but audible, and Nana smiled. He raised his voice. "How about the third one, what's-her-name?"

"You don't know her name, and you want to talk to her?"

A sigh. "Lady, I just want to talk to an Akuji. I made a special trip down here. I did some business with them last night, and I just want to talk to someone."

*I really shouldn't do this, I suppose. But I'm awfully bored, and he looks interesting. Besides, he said he had business with the girls. So, he must be...* "Would you be Goth Cop?"

He smiled faintly. "Randal Turner, sometimes known as Goth Cop. That's me."

"Well, I'm not an Akuji, but I am family, and I get messages to them. Will I do?"

"Sure, I'd be happy to meet you." *Whatever gets me into this mausoleum.*

Nana went through the little ritual to open the door, and let him in. As she relocked the door, he studied the security arrangement shrewdly. *Hm. Lot of thought and expense went into this. Most embassies have shoddier systems. What are they trying to keep out? Or maybe, what's so important inside?*

The old dear who'd let him in, a fluffy looking individual in a flowered house dress and a grey pageboy, smiled at him. "I'm Amanda Lewis, but everyone calls me Nana."

"You the girl's grandma?"

"Not really. I'm more of a den mother. Come on back to the kitchen."

She led him into a room that managed to be sunny without any windows. It took him a minute to recognize the setup over the sink for what it was, and he was impressed. It might seem rather frivolous on first glance, but to Randal it said that if these women were willing to go that far to indulge a simple whim, they might be really formidable when it came to something they cared about.

"What would you like, dear? I have some very nice espresso, Naresha's favorite."

"That would be fine." He looked around the room as she set the coffee brewing, noting the cheerfully kitsch decorations. "I'm guessing that this is your room. Neither Naresha or Acacia struck me as being very domestic."

"I'm afraid you guessed wrong. This is mostly Milda's sanctum. She's the homebody of the group, but she lets me use it." Nana put a small cup of dark, fragrant brew before him, and pushed a sugar bowl toward him. He waved it away, sipping the coffee. "I don't see how you folks can drink that stuff without sugar or milk, but I can understand why it wakes you up. It would have to be either that, or kill you."

Randal sucked his teeth. "That's true enough for this blend. Damn! I'm getting a buzz just off those few sips."

Nana nodded. "Naresha likes it strong."

"A few cups of this would have gotten me through all my mid-terms and finals in college, back-to-back."

"Dear, I'm not a stickler for the nicey-niceys, but would you please take off your glasses? I do like to have a good look at anyone I let into my home."

"Sorry, no offense meant. It's just force of habit." Randal took off the shades and tucked them in a pocket. Nana looked at the shifting green, gold, and grey tones of his hazel eyes, and gave a pleased chuckle. He had to smile in return. "What is it?"

"I was just noticing. You have cat eyes."

Randal nodded. "That's what my mom used to call them."

"No wonder Acacia took to you."

Randal peered at her over the rim of his cup skeptically, then lowered it. "I hardly think she took to me."

"Dear, with Acacia it's pretty much either take to you, or take after you, and seeing that you're not marked up, she took to you."

Randal put the cup down again. "I did sort of get that impression. Does she have a problem with cops?" He'd done a search. He couldn't find any record for any of the Akuji sisters. Of course, that was just from trolling the surface. He might find something if he dug a little deeper.

"You mustn't take it personally, dear. Acacia just has... issues, I believe they call it these days. It's not you, it's men in general, and she has her reasons."

"Maybe she should get therapy."

"Oh, she's had that. She's much improved. Now, is there anything you needed to tell the girls, or..." she smiled. "Is this just a social visit?"

"I'm just kind of interested in what they plan to do with the information I gave them. I could get in a lot of trouble if my superiors find out what I did." Nana nodded. Randal frowned, and restated it, hoping she'd get the message. "I took a big risk for them."

Nana nodded again, smiling. "People do that for the girls." She spoke as if it was only to be expected.

"I didn't have to do it."

Nana sat back, studying him. "I thought you shared blood with Naresha?"

Randal felt himself flush He didn't realize that Nana was thinking how nice that looked. The girls never blushed, they just weren't capable of it anymore. Well, not unless they'd just had a whopping good meal. "Yes, I did. But that isn't all that much of a bargaining chip. My superiors already know I'm a little... off."

"That's not what I meant, dear. Naresha wouldn't bother to try to blackmail you with that little nugget of information. She doesn't have to. You would have done whatever she asked." Nana frowned. "Well, possibly short of actual VIOLENCE. The girls have never asked for that, so we're not entirely sure it can be compelled. But the commonly held belief is that it can."

"Compelled?" He rubbed his face. "Christ, you've bought into this 'master/slave' blood-bonding thing, too, haven't you? You all really believe it."

"Of course. I would say that I'm living proof, but it's never really been called into question with me. I've always been happy to do whatever the girls ask, even before we started the sharing."

That drew Randal up short: the image of this pleasant, prosaic woman lapping blood out of Naresha's palm was just too ridiculous. "You mean you and Naresha...?"

"Usually it's Milda. She and I just have a tiny bit tighter bond. We're more alike in personality."

"But you talk about it like it's some sort of a drug."

Nana looked thoughtful. "Yes, I guess it could be thought of like that. It can change your perception, make you do things you normally wouldn't. There are some physical changes, especially if it's long term. And addicting?" She smiled. "Oh my, yes! That's really why you're here, isn't it, dear?" Her voice became gentle. "She won't give you any more, not for awhile yet, anyway. They're very careful about who they bond with. You should be quite flattered that they chose you. They have..." she hummed. "other ways of getting what they need."

"I see."

"No, you don't. You might, though, if they allow you to hang around enough. There are a lot of things about the girls that can't be explained. They just have to be experienced. Not everyone has the... erm--intestinal fortitude to handle it. But I think..." She looked at him consideringly. "I think you might. And with your job, you could be a real asset to the girls."

"You always refer to them together: 'the girls.' I mean, I know that multiples usually are close, but don't they have separate lives?"

He had been half flippant, but Nana's response was serious. "No. Not really, except on a very limited basis. Once again, it can't really be explained. But I think you may have a chance of getting a little closer to the girls. Naresha already likes you, Acacia tolerates you, and Milda..." A fond smile. "Milda, the little sweetheart, likes anyone who isn't a flaming ass hole." When he grinned, she added. "Pardon my French."

"So, no chance of seeing them today?"

"No chance," Nana said firmly. "In fact, you really shouldn't bother coming around during the daytime. I'm almost always the only one here. If any of the girls are present, they'll be asleep."

"Bunch of night owls, huh?"

"Wrong species, dear. But they are nocturnal. I'd also advise you to come early in the evening, just after sunset. That's the time you're most likely to catch one of them in."

"When's the best time to catch all of them together?"

"There isn't a best time for that, not until you know them better."

"You mean they'll meet with someone they don't know alone, but they won't meet with them as a group? Sounds a little backward."

"A bit eccentric, perhaps. But then," the smile was pointed. "The rich can afford to be eccentric, can't they?"

"Sure. As long as they're harmless."

Now the look she gave him was cooly amused. "Oh, I never said that, did I?"

Chapter 18

Asking Around

Randal stood behind Nana at the front door. "So, you'll tell them I came by?"

"Oh, my, yes." She rapidly punched in the code to disable the security system. "They'll be very interested."

There's an advantage to being tall. Randal's eyes narrowed as he watched her finger skim across the keypad, and he memorized the sequence of numbers, tucking it away securely. Randal had the closest thing to a photographic memory that the department had ever seen. Their refusal to let him use it for anything other than scut work was another reason for him to be pissed off at the system.

He bade Nana good-bye and went to the '62 Cadillac hearse that was his pride and joy. The back had seen a hell of a lot of life since it had been retired from transporting the dead. It was amazing the number of women who were turned on by the prospect of doing it in a coffin. He never told them that he'd had it custom built: a standard would have been just too damn narrow. He needed a little space to move.

In the car, he got his notebook from behind the visor and wrote down the security code, just to be on the safe side. He didn't know if he would ever actually use it, but you never knew when a nugget of information like this would come in handy. He'd have to be cautious. There was nothing to say that they didn't change the code every week, or have a different code to reset the alarms. If he was going to go so far as to enter unlawfully, he wanted to be able to leave without making it obvious that someone had been there who shouldn't have.

Tucking the notebook away again, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel idly, trying to decide what to do next. He had a free day, and had actually been hoping to spend it with Naresha. He wondered whether the old lady had been being frank with him, if it was a standard brush-off she gave everyone who showed up at the door unannounced (and that had to happen, with a woman like Naresha), or if it was special treatment because he was a cop.

Randal was used to being treated oddly by the outside world, but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. His clothing and lifestyle choice alienated him from a major portion of society. A large number of those who might have accepted him because of his goth leanings were put off by his profession. He wasn't exactly lonely, but he didn't have a huge circle of friends. He could always use a few more. He started the engine. Especially if they look as good as those ladies, and taste as good as Naresha. Well, if I want to get a little bit closer, I may as well try the old fifties' approach to making the girl interested in you: learn more about her interests.

He went to Wired, the coffee house-cyber cafe a few blocks from Crowely's, and got a biscottie, a cappuccino (no espresso, that cup of amphetamine juice he'd gotten at the Akujis' was still jittering along his nerves), and bought a couple of hours on one of the computers.

He took a soothing sip of the drink, wiped away foam, and opened the CD case he'd gotten out of his glove compartment. Slipping it into the tray, he brought up the information he'd copied for Naresha Akuji. When he'd realized that he'd gone ahead and copied out the information for her, despite his intention not to, he'd made another copy for himself. You never knew what information could be useful.

"Olliphant," he murmured. Long before his time, of course, and not spectacular enough for them to still discuss it at the station. After all, only two bodies: one simple beating and one gun shot. He started reading.

Hm. I'd have thought they'd still be talking about the kid in the freezer, but I guess since she got out of it okay... There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, nothing that stood out. The guy had been known to knock his wife around in the past.

Randal finished his drink and stared thoughtfully at the monitor. Domestic violence accounted for a huge amount of the paperwork that came through his department. A murder-suicide after a history of that hardly raised a blink in the law enforcement community. Maybe in this case it should have? They just say that there were incidents reported, they don't say how many, how severe, or how close to the deaths the last incident was. It's possible for a couple to overcome that type of problem. Not very damn likely, but possible. I think I'd like to do a little digging on the domestics that got called in on those two before the murder.

He was tempted to swing by the precinct and check the data now. But it was his day off, and he never went by the office on his day off. To do so now would be to raise suspicions, and the didn't need that. There'd be time on his coffee and lunch breaks tomorrow. He snorted softly. It wouldn't raise any eyebrows if he just stayed on the computer in his free time. They'd just assume he was downloading porn, like everyone else.

I'll just have to try to find some good snitches who don't know they're being snitches. Where would be a good place to start? Probably back where it all started. He headed toward Crowely's.

The front door was unlocked, but the place seemed almost deserted. He didn't wonder at the lack of security. All but the most ignorant were reluctant to mess with this place. Besides Boris and Cerebus, there were a couple of other equally impressive peacekeepers, and it was well known that they were perfectly willing to pursue retribution off the property.

Add to that the fact that there were a large number of Wiccans, Satanists, and other practitioners of the more arcane arts who loved the place, and were willing to light candles and chant spells, or perhaps take more direct action if their favorite hangout was troubled, and you had a pretty effective word-of-mouth security system. It was rumored that certain elements actively hoped for a break-in, just so they could get a little exercise.

"Hey, Goth Cop." Randal searched the cavernous interior of the club and finally located the source of the voice. Luka, the bartender, was behind the bar, waving at him.

He walked over. "Hey, Luka. How's it going?"

"Just fine. We're officially closed, but for you... Can I get you anything?"

It was a little early in the day for most people, but then, Crowley's clientele were most people. "Just a beer."

"Tap, or do you have a choice?"

"Got anything Japanese?"

"With this crowd and it's funky tastes? You damn betcha." He peered into a large refrigerator. "You have a choice of Sapporo, Yebisu, Asahi, and Suntory."

"Just give me whatever sells the best."

"Sapporo it is. Want it in a glass?"

"Please."

Luka poured, and set the glass before him. Watching Randal sip the pale brew he commented. "This is a first for you. I can understand you not wanting your usual Gimlet this early, but don't you usually go for a draft when you have beer?"

"You're a very perceptive man."

Luka shrugged, smiling. "You're a cop. You should know that according to police drama, the only life form in the universe that has more information than a bartender about everything is a landlady. So why the sudden craving for something more exotic? I have to tell you that if you're looking for something tastier and stronger than American beer, you'd be better off with a Mexican or British. The Japanese pretty much mimic American brews, except for the rice, and I can't actually say that's a plus."

"I just find myself interested in things Oriental right now. You know... Kabuki, sukiyaki... Akuji."

Luka smiled. "Ohhh, yeah. I noticed that Naresha took you into a private booth the other night. Lucky guy. She's got a wide circle of admirers, but she can be a little picky about who she lets get close to her."

"So I'm privileged, huh?" He sipped the beer, and sighed. Luka had been telling the truth: it wasn't anything special.

"A lot of people would says so, yeah. Anything interesting happen?"

"I don't kiss and tell."

Luka's smile was a little feral. "With Naresha, it doesn't have to involve kissing for it to be real interesting. Did she just share with her, or did you exchange?"

Randal sat back a little. "How the hell did you know that?"

Luka shrugged. "It was either that or sex, judging from the look on her face when she came out of the booth. If it was sex, it was pretty damn quiet, and I don't think she'd have been so quick to take Vanessa home."

Randal considered this. The possibilities it raised were intriguing. "You mean she goes both ways?"

Luka pointed, and flicked his finger in several different directions. "Both ways? She goes here, there, everywhere. All that matters to her is if you're good-looking, or interesting. She kinda goes beyond bi. I ain't saying she's, like into bestiality, but..." He grinned, "she's been with Cerebus a time or two."

"Christ, I'm amazed you don't have fights in here every night is she spreads it around like that."

Now Luka frowned. "It isn't like that, man. If you were to call her a slut out loud around here, you'd have about a half dozen of her lovers, male and female, jumping your ass. I've never seen anyone who inspires that kind of loyalty. Even the ones who didn't part totally amicably and still pine after her are defensive. They might mutter to themselves, but they don't let anyone else."

Randal digested this. That was unusual. In his past experience former lovers were seldom very protective of their old flames if the relationship hadn't ended on their terms. "What about her sister?"

"Which one? I haven't met Milda. Story is she doesn't go out much, kinda a homebody. Though I do know that she'll make a run to that grass-and-roots store a few blocks down."

"Grass and roots?"

"Sprouts, alfalfa, ginseng, kelp... You know, 'health' food." He made a wry face on the word 'health'. "If it smells funky or is spelled funny, they sell it. I hear she's a hippie earth-mother type." He chuckled. "Musta been left on the Akuji doorstep as a changeling. That couldn't be much more different than the other girls. I don't see as much of Acacia as I do Naresha, but she comes in occasionally. Likes my drinks, the sicky sweet ones."

"I noticed. She was drinking what looked like a milkshake the other night."

"Try to drink that puppy like a milkshake and you'll be on your butt pretty quick. She invented it, like Naresha invented the Flaming Yellow Snow."

"I guess they have enough time on their hands to be creative. They're rich, aren't they?"

"Oh, hell yeah. I heard that the businesses pretty much run themselves, and the girls are free to do what they like. Naresha designs and seduces people, Acacia dances. Milda potters around the house and cooks."

"I hear they run some sort of detective agency." The smile faded a bit, and Luka's eyes were shrewd. Damn, I won't get much more. He's put his guards up.

"Who told you that?"

"Just talk. Gossip."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what it is. No, they don't run any sort of agency. They help people sometimes, but you're hardly the sort who'd need to go to them."

"Is this one of the subjects that you know a whole lot about, Luka?"

Luka picked up a large, wickedly sharp knife and began to carefully cut a lemon into wedges. "We're really not open right now, Turner. Why don't you finish that up and come back later when we are?"

The gesture was too subtle to be considered an implied threat, but it was clearly meant to put him off. Randal saw that he wouldn't be getting any more today without pushing it, and this wasn't anything that could be dealt with by strong-arm tactics, so he just finished his beer. "How much?"

Luka waved the knife. "On the house. I like having you around. Makes people think twice about pulling shit."

"Thanks." He walked toward the exit. When he glanced back at the bar, Luka hadn't resumed fixing his garnishes. He was gazing off into space with a thoughtful expressing. He'd laid down the knife, and was stroking the side of his throat slowly, his eyes distant and dreamy.

On the street, Randal put his shades on again and stood for a moment, looking up and down the street. "Well," he murmured to himself. "I suppose I could use some vitamins." He hadn't passed anything that looked remotely like a health food store on his way to the club, so he walked up the street in the other direction.

Sure enough he found it. Bounty. A tiny set of metal chimes rang as he opened the door and stepped inside. It didn't have the neat, 'health food is proven by science to be good for you' look he'd come to associate with such places. It reminded him more of an old fashioned general store. Or possibly, he thought as the smell hit him, an apothecary shop.

It was dimly lighted, and the floors were gleaming hardwood instead of the usual tile-over-cement. The shelves were wood, too, several aisles of them, and ranked running up each wall. That had run into some money, Randal knew. He had priced some oak cabinets for his place, and thought better of it. Besides the shelves there were open barrels of various odds and ends. He recognized raw soybeans and dried lentils: others were more mysterious.

"Hey man." The voice was slow, and a little blurred. Randal had to take a couple of steps into the store before he located the source.

The guy sitting behind the counter regarded him with mild, blood-shot eyes. He was probably somewhere in his fifties. His long brown hair was thickly shot with grey, and he wore it in a braid that extended almost to the small of his back. It was matched by an impressive beard that could have used a good trimming. Randal saw such beards on a fairly regular basis: the winos who passed through holding weren't much on personal grooming. Thank God, he must comb it regularly. He doesn't appear to be wearing any of his last meal.

The man was dressed in faded blue jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a fringed buckskin vest. He could have wandered down Haight-Ashbury in the Summer of Love and the only thing that would have drawn comment would have been his age.

Randal came to the counter. "How you doing?"

The man thought about this for a moment. Randal waited patiently for the obviously sticky mental gears to turn. Finally the man said. "Good. Yourself?"

"Not bad, but I've been feeling a little sluggish lately. I want to get a few things to maybe perk me up. Could you help?"

Again he thought. "Probably. We got some killer shit here, man." He paused, then said slowly, "Not that it would really kill you, I mean. I mean, it's all good. You know?"

High. "Yeah, I can dig it." The man smiled at the (obviously to him) familiar phrase.

"Tell me what the problem is, man."

"Like I said, just don't feel one hundred per-cent these days. Or even seventy per-cent. It might have to do with the fact that I started working graveyards recently."

The bloodshot eyes got round. "Oh, wow. Spooky. Are you, like, a caretaker or something?"

"No, I mean that I work the late shift, nine pm to five am. Total reversal, you know?"

"Oh."

"Maybe you have some other customers who have the same problem, and I could try what they do to help me out. Do you have anyone like that?" The man frowned, and seemed to be settling in for another long mental rummaging. Randal decided that subtle was useless here. "I hear that the Akuji sisters are mostly night owls."

A grin split the man's beard, and a spark showed in the dim eyes. "Oh, yeah! They are so cool. Milda especially, but all of 'em are nice. They helped Rainbow and me get this store."

"Did they?" Unusual choice of charities.

He was nodding. "Gave us as long as we need to pay it off, and only take five per-cent of the gross. That's better than Uncle Sam, man."

"They seem to have diversified interests."

"Huh?"

Randal sighed. "They have their fingers in a lot of pies?"

"Yeah, Milda bakes a lot."

Randal looked at him more closely. This isn't a simple high. This is the dude's permanent state. Someone must've dropped a little too much Sunshine back in the sixties. "They have a lot of different businesses?"

"Oh. Um, yeah, I guess." He started to slowly tick off on his fingers. "There's us, and Naresha sews really nice stuff for the weird kids, and Acacia has a record shop somewheres... Just records, no CDs. No, wait, she handles old 8 tracks, too. Says most of the music after they went to cassettes and CDs is crap, anyway. Gotta agree with her on that. Lessee... There's some sort of chemical or pharmaceutical company..."

"Moonie!" Randal wouldn't have believed that Moonie was capable of being startled, but he managed a creditable jump. A plump woman with hair almost exactly like Moonie's stalked in from a door behind the counter. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, just talkin' to the customer, Rainbow. You said I should be friendly."

"Friendly, not blabber-mouthed. What are you doing, flapping your gums about the girls? For all you know, he could be a pig." She shot Randal an apologetic glance. "No offense meant."

He smiled, a little nastily. "No offense taken. Oink, oink."

Rainbow blinked, looking at him more closely. "Wait a minute..." She stiffened. "You're him."

"It all depends on who you mean by 'him'."

"You're that Goth Cop person."

"My fame precedes me." He was a little disgruntled. Notoriety could work against you as well as for you, but he was surprised to see her relaxing a little.

"All right. I apologize for the pig remark. Word is that you aren't as porky as the others, but we're still not going to be discussing our other customers with you. Dig?"

Randal shrugged easily. "I grok." That got a smile from her. "It's nothing hostile, you know. They contacted me to help them with their... troubleshooting."

Rainbow's eyes lighted. "Really?" To Randal's astonishment, she reached across the counter and gripped his hand. "That is so cool! You're doing good things, man." She stood back, saying matter-of-factly, "But we still don't jaw till I have permission from the girls. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

Oh, well. "I could use something for energy, and do you have anything to snack on?"

"Sure!" She bustled from behind the counter. "Let's see, we'll start you off with a B-12 solution and some Herbal Blast capsules. As for a snack..." She gave him an appraising look, and a quick sniff that took him off guard. "You eat meat, and that probably means you like junk food. I'd recommend the toasted soy beans, or a carob-Tigermilk bar." She smiled fondly. "Those are Acacia's favorites, next to Snickers."

Randal followed her as she collected the items from various shelves, reflecting over the people in the Akuji sisters' lives he'd met so far: Nana, Luka, Rainbow and Moonie... And myself, he thought with some surprise. What sort of women, he mused, could interact so successfully with such an odd assortment of people?

Chapter Nineteen
Offering Alliance

Milda woke up just before sunset, as usual. She really wished they had a little more time. She could remember sunsets--they had been nice. Oh, she watched them occasionally on Nana's 'window', but it wasn't the same.

The closest she'd come was a special evening showing at the IMAX theater. The huge screen had filled her vision. She'd tried to filter out the film's narration, and the chilled air, and the people around her, and she'd come close. Those meditation techniques that Acacia thought were so hilarious helped a little. But it still wasn't the same.

She dressed slowly. Even though there wasn't a crack downstairs that might let in a sliver of daylight, all sisters tended to be cautious. Acacia, who was eldest and should have known better, still had a white blur of scar tissue across the back of her left thigh from where she had been careless about checking a door to be sure that it sealed properly in its frame. Unlike the other many wounds that the girls had received over the decades, this one wasn't going to go away. It was a part of their mental pathology that neither Naresha nor Milda saw such a scar on their own flesh, though it was there. After all, it was the same body.

Milda's long, coppery wig had come slightly askew during her day-long sleep, and she paused a moment, looking in the mirror, to straighten it. The girls had never been able to explain why they had reflections when no other vampire did. They had assumed that the other Kindred didn't mention it out of politeness, or jealousy. It never occurred to them that they didn't simply because they didn't SEE the girls' reflections. The times Nana would stand behind one or the other of them as they sat at their vanity, she would see only herself in the mirror, but she never mentioned it, either. If the girls wanted to have reflections, that was perfectly all right with her.

Milda opened her armoire and considered her wardrobe. The standing closet was stuffed almost to bursting. She really didn't need so many clothes, but she just couldn't say no when Naresha or Acacia offered her something. And they DID know her tastes, though Acacia was always trying to tease her into shorter skirts.

*Well, there's one way to avoid that argument.* She put on her most comfortable pair of bell-bottom jeans and a baggy tie-dyed T-shirt. Just a simple one: she'd used bleach on a pumpkin orange shirt, and it had turned out very nicely. She decided to just go barefoot, forgoing the sandals. It was almost the full moon. They no longer automatically went through the change under the full moon, but the feline tendencies were closer to the surface. Since she was the most even-tempered of the sisters she didn't have as much trouble with it as Naresha and Acacia, but it happened, and it was annoying, sprouting those dagger toenails when you got distracted.

Nana came out of her room as Milda came into the kitchen, and gave the girl a kiss. "Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

Milda grinned at her. "If I was Naresha, I'd tell you I slept like the dead. No, it was pretty peaceful." All of the girls still had nightmares, but Milda was troubled by them less than the others. She seemed to be the concentration of all the serenity and emotional evenness of the three sisters.

She was the repository of the Akuji gentleness, and had never been as ruthless as her sisters. She never had to--Acacia and Naresha had been very efficient buffers, and she had been shielded from first hand experience with the nastier aspects of life. Nana wondered how deep the Akuji animal nature ran in this sweet girl. She had a suspicion that if it ever came down to it, a dark vein would be exposed. Nana hoped that never happened. It would hurt Milda so terribly to know that she had that in her.

"What will you be doing today, dear?"

When Milda held up the teapot questioningly, Nana nodded, and the girl began to fix two cups of tea. "I'll do camomile, to help you sleep." She put a kettle of water on the stove and started rummaging in the cabinet. "I'll be on the box again. I want to hack into the Army data base again and check to see if there might be a fingerprint match." She sighed. "Of course, if he did his service pre-Vietnam I probably won't find anything, but it's worth a try, I suppose. I'll have to try another route. They closed up the last gap I slipped through." She spooned tea into a silver ball, then twisted it closed and set it on the counter.

"What about Congresswoman O'Neill?"

Milda frowned. "Yes, I could use her passwords, but I don't want to do that too often. It would be abusing the privilege she's entrusted to us, and someone will eventually catch on if I do it too often. Then they'll question her about the unusual material she's been accessing. She can only use that 'working on a committee investigation' so many times."

There was a thin whistle as the kettle came to a boil. Milda rinsed the pot and set the tea to steep, then got out two pretty china cup and saucer sets. The girls had offered several times to buy Nana a complete set of any pattern that she chose. But Nana had been collecting cup and saucer sets since she was a little girl, and she preferred to use them rather than put them on display. Naresha had said, with only a slight exaggeration, that one could have tea twice a day for a solid year and never use the same cup and saucer combination twice.

This time, since she was feeling particularly girlish for some reason, Milda chose two demitasse sets. One was a square cup and saucer decorated with maroon stripes, and gold and white accents. The other was a fragile, wide bottomed cup in fine, black bone chine with a flower-and-dragon design in raised, muted greys and greens, with matching saucer. She poured the tea while Nana went to the cookie jar.

When Nana set the plate of cookies before Milda, the girl gave her a quizzical look. "The last batch I baked was Tollhouse, and these look like oatmeal." Nana smiled, and Milda returned it. "Nana, you baked! Thank you."

"Try one, dear. I used one of your recipes."

Milda picked up one of the cookies and took a healthy bite. "Oo, you got the texture just perfect! They're crisp at the edges and on the outside, but chewy. And they taste..." She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. Her brow wrinkled thoughtfully above her glasses. Finally she laughed delightedly, and Nana smiled with pleasure. "You used my secret ingredient!"

Nana nodded. "I was worried that there wouldn't be enough dry ingredients if I didn't, and I just didn't feel like substituting coconut." She took a cookie and nibbled.

Milda laughed. "Nana, I thought you didn't like my, um, fortified baked goods."

"I have absolutely nothing against the taste, dear. Nor the effects, truth be told. It's just that I want all my faculties in the mornings. However, since I'm going to bed in a few minutes I see no reason why I shouldn't indulge a little."

The doorbell rang, and Nana glanced toward the front. "Oh, dear." She was wearing her robe, and she instinctively pulled it a little tighter. "I'm not dressed for company."

Milda got up. "The sun's well down now, Nana. I'll get it." She trotted up to the front and peered up at the security monitor. "Oh."

The single syllable was surprised. "Who is it?"

"No one I recognize." She glanced back at Nana. "It's a man." The tone of voice might have been the same as anyone else announcing that there was a giraffe at the door.

"Really?" Nana came to the front as the bell pealed once again. "Mm, this is becoming familiar." The bell rang a third time as she arrived at the door and looked at the monitor. "Just as I thought."

"You know him?" Milda studied the chestnut haired man who was in the process of leaning on the bell. "He looks like one of Naresha's friends."

"He's one of your sister's 'followers'."

Milda looked at him more closely. "He must be very new, I haven't seen him... Oh, is that Goth Cop?"

"I believe so. His name is Randal Turner, and he was here earlier today. I was going to tell you about his visit in a minute or two. He's a pushy young man, coming back so soon," the bell was now ringing continuously, "and he's very persistent. Can you disconnect that?"

"I could, but why don't you just go on back to your room, Nana, and I'll let him in."

Nana frowned. "Should you do that, Milda? You don't know him."

"I don't know most of the people who come to the door. Besides," she studied the image on the screen carefully, "he doesn't feel dangerous. Not in the significant way."

She meant that she got no unnatural vibes from him. He wasn't Kindred if he had visited here during daylight hours, and she didn't get a sense of him being a lycanthrope. Neither was there the odd, disturbing aura that usually hung around practitioners of the magical arts. No, his aura was a pleasant sage green, with pink tints near the rim. He was curious.

"He's the one who gave us the initial information. Maybe he can be of some use. Why don't you go on to bed, Nana?"

"Milda, are you sure about this?"

"Nana, please. You're treating me like a baby again. I know I'm the youngest, but I'm not all that foolish, am I?"

"No, dear. Just a darn sight more trusting than you should be. All right, but just be ready to deal with Acacia if she's upset about this. You know how she feels about men in the house."

"They pollute the atmosphere, yes, I know." As Nana started back down the corridor she pushed the intercom button and said, "You can stop leaning on the bell, Mr. Turner. I'll open the door in a moment."

*

Randal removed his finger from the bell, glancing curiously at the camera overhead. That voice... He was noticing that there were a great many similarities between the Akuji sisters. The voices were rather similar. The biggest difference seemed to be the cadence, though the timbre was also a little distinctive. Naresha spoke in a drawl that seemed sometimes southern, sometimes English. Acacia had the accentless-accent that reminded him of the mid-west, with a hint of nasality. This voice... Just a little husky, and with a touch of Valley girl 'fer shure' in it.

There was the sound of locks disengaging, accompanied by the faint electronic sounds that indicated a sophisticated security system was being disarmed. The door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped back to allow him entrance. All he could make out in the dim hallway was the glimmer of light on a long sheaf of hair, and the glint that indicated glasses.

He stepped inside, and the woman shut the door, beginning to tap in a code on the number pad. Randal saw a light switch beside the door, and flipped it. The passageway was flooded with light. He was startled when the woman at the door suddenly hunched over with a pained hiss, hands clutched

over her eyes. "Hey, you all right?" he asked anxiously, putting his hand on her shoulder.

He was startled by the feel of tensed, wiry muscles under the neon orange material. "Bright!" the woman gasped. "Please..." She reached for the switch, fingers crooked stiffly, but missed it. He heard her nails scratch against the wall.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realized." He quickly turned off the lights, plunging the hall into gloom once again. The woman lowered her hands, looking at him, and Randal blinked as he saw a flicker of red. A moment later he was telling himself that it was an optical illusion, caused by the sudden change from dark, to light, to dark again.

"It's all right. It's just that our eyes are a little sensitive sometimes. I had adjusted to the darkness, and all that light was a little too sudden. There's no harm done. Would you like to come into the kitchen?"

"That would be fine." He followed her down the hall into the familiar kitchen. Inside, she turned to smile at him, and he couldn't help smiling in return. He gave her a quick once over, and said, "Bellbottoms?"

"I'm so glad they've come back into style. All my old pairs... Well, you want to wash them till they're broken in, but they were about to reach the point of disintegration. Would you like some tea?"

He sat at the table. "I'm not sure I should. I'm still buzzing from that espresso I had here earlier."

"You had some of Naresha's blend? I'm surprised you aren't hanging from the ceiling. I just made some camomile. Let's see, I think you look like a mug type person." She peered into a cabinet. "What sign are you?"

"Aries."

She nodded, as if this was what she had expected. "The Ram." She took down a black mug with a gold symbol etched on the side: a line that split at the top to curve down on either side. It was indeed a fair symbolic representation of a ram seen head-on: the bar being the face and the curls the horns. As she filled the mug she said, "Aggressive and self-assertive, with a fiery and highly active personality. Can be accomplishing and very self-confident when positively influenced by the planets."

He grinned accepting the mug. "Sounds like me, all right."

She smiled, sitting and pushing the sugar bowl toward him. "When negatively influenced, can be selfish and impulsive, leaping into situations headfirst, without proper preparation."

He gave a mock wince. "Like coming here without an invitation?"

"Possibly, but by no means assured. I'm Milda."

"I thought you might be." Randal looked at her. At first glance she was rather plain, especially compared to the exotic Naresha and the vibrant Acacia. But further study revealed an appealing serenity in the slightly tilted blue eyes that was absent in her sisters'. Her face looked less angular, perhaps due to the gentle good-nature of her expression. She was obviously younger than the other two, by several years. Randal wondered if she was out of her teens yet. He hoped she was. It made him feel a little odd when he found teenagers attractive.

He considered figuring out a subtle, convoluted way to ask her, then looked again at her open expression. *Fuck it.* "How old are you, Milda?"

She blinked, but the smile stayed in place. "Dear, dear. That sounded like a policeman's question."

"I'm glad you didn't say 'pig'."

"I very seldom make lump judgements. Naresha's interest in you says that you're not one of the common law enforcement herd."

"This isn't for official reasons. It's personal curiosity."

"Ah, curiosity I can relate to." She seemed to think for a moment. "I guess I'm about... twenty."

"You guess?"

"My DOB is a little fuzzy, as it is with all of us." The smile showed teeth: small, white, and a little pointed. "The progenitors weren't very good about things like that."

"You're parents didn't keep track? What were you--gypsies?"

He'd meant it as a joke, but she was nodding her head. "For a good portion of our lives, that would be a fairly accurate term. I don't think we can claim actual blood with the Rom, but I'm personally very fond of them, except that they do have a dreadful tendency to lie."

That surprised him. "That isn't a very nice thing to say."

She cocked her head. "Well, perhaps not with other clans, but they're quite proud of their deceptive nature. Calling a Rom a bit of a liar is considered merely an accurate description. Why are you here, Randal? You've done all that Naresha has asked of you so far."

He considered his answer. If he said he was here just for the company he knew that Naresha would laugh and Acacia would snort. How would Milda react? "Like I said, curiosity. I've met your two sisters, I thought I'd like to meet you." She seemed pleased, but there was a light in her eyes... He couldn't really call it skeptical--it wasn't cynical enough. "And I want to know why you need the information I gave you. Naresha made some rather intriguing noises about justice, righting wrongs, and protecting the innocent. I am a policeman," he waggled his hand, "of a sort."

"You know, Randal, you could be very useful to us. We run a small operation, and I'm always urging the others to let us branch out where we can. It can be done without too much risk. I'd like to tell you a little more, but I'm afraid it isn't solely my decision. I'll have to ask my sisters, and they're not in right now."

Randal made a humming sound, sipping his tea. He'd been watching the place since just before sunset, and no one had entered or exited. Nana had been pretty clear about the girls not running around during the day. Had they just not come home, or was little Milda lying?

He looked at her again. There didn't seem to be a scrap of dissimilation. *But then, I've heard that a true sociopath or a pathological liar can pass a polygraph.* "Ask them for me, would you?"

"Sure."

He stood up, and reached for the plate of cookies. "Mind if I...?"

He was startled when she caught his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. "No, I don't think so. You're driving." He tried to puzzle that one out while she went and dug through the cookie jar. "Here we go." She handed him two home made chocolate chip cookies.

He shrugged, and ate both of them on the short walk to the hall. "Did you bake those?"

"Yes."

"They're terrific! You should market them."

"We do. Those are a home prepared batch of our Premium Blocksters. We use chopped block chocolate instead of chips. Would you mind turning your back, please?"

Randal obliged, and as she punched in the security code he thought, *So, you're a little more savvy than your hippie image would suggest, but it's a little too late, princess.*

She opened the door and stepped aside again to allow him out. Randal paused. He found Naresha exciting, and Acacia interesting, but Milda was... appealing. He reached out and lifted a handful of the heavy copper hair from her shoulder, letting it sift through his fingers. Again he found his wrist taken in a firm grip, and he started to apologize. But she didn't protest, and her smile never faltered. She lifted his hand, turning it, and brushed his knuckles along her cheek. The skin was cool and smooth. She said softly. "Not the hair, Randal. Not till I know you better." She released him, he stepped the rest of the way out, and she shut the door.

He stood there for a moment, thinking. Somehow he wouldn't have expected her to be the type to be fussy about her hair. And come to think of it, there hadn't been the usual whiny, vain 'oh my God, don't mess it up' tone most women used when issuing that edict.

He shook his head. Well, the alternative offered had been very nice. As he was turning to leave, her voice crackled from the intercom. "Randal?"

He turned back. "Yes, Milda?"

There was amusement, but genuine concern in her tone. "You do know enough not to ever try that with Acacia, don't you?"

Chapter Twenty
Escalation

Henry Gallego checked his watch as he made his way upstairs to the Records office. Lately he'd noticed a tendency for his gut to be convex instead of nicely flat, and taking the stairs instead of the elevator up to the third floor was part of his regime. So was the low-fat, sugar-free, decaff latte in the paper sack. The banana-nut muffin sharing the sack was another thing entirely. He hadn't intended to get it, but damn it, they'd been pulling the tray out of the oven while he was in line. What could he do? Maybe he should sue the coffee shop chain for presenting a hazardous nuisance.

The Bulova said that he had a full eight minutes before he had to punch in, and he was pleased with himself. "Punctuality is your friend," his old man had said. It had sounded so damn wholesome and sensible. Of course, then he'd added, "And butt kissing will get you even farther." Smart man, his dad.

He almost dropped the sack when he entered the room and found Randal already sitting at a keyboard. His chin was propped in his hand, his eyes fixed on the glowing monitor before him. He was wearing the regulation black uniform, and Henry reflected that it looked as if it had been designed for him. Randal was a bit of a clothes horse off duty, and a black quasi-military uniform was right up his alley. When Henry wore his uniform he looked like a cop--when Randal wore his, he looked like he was ready to go out to some underground club.

"Randal, what the hell are you doing here?"

Randal glanced at him, then went back to the screen. "I'm on duty today."

"Well, yeah, but not for, like, five more minutes." Another glance, and he knew that it sounded ridiculous. Still, it was remarkable. Randal was never early. His time card would have made Henry's dad proud: it was never punched more than 30 seconds early or late. Randal wasn't going to shirk, but he damn sure wasn't going to contribute anything without being compensated, and that minute here, minute there just kept getting averaged out. He explained that if he clocked in one minute early every day for a year, he would have been screwed out of over four hours worth of pay.

Henry put his sack on his desk, then ambled over and took a peek over Randal's shoulder. Randal didn't move to block the screen, but he said, "Nosiness is not very becomming, Henry."

"I'm just curious as to what would interest you enough for you to come in early."

"Then ask--don't go peeking. Noses that are poked where they shouldn't be occasionally get snapped off. I'm just looking at a few domestic disturbance reports."

"Why?"

"That's another question entirely. You're going to be late if you don't go clock in." Henry swore and ran for the time clock, and Randal went back to his screen.

*There was a history before the Oliphants bought it. Not like some I've run across, but not just lovers' tiffs, either. Let's see... seven, eight, nine incidents. Two of them requiring medical attention. The woman had her wrist bandaged, and the guy had a few stitches in his face. but neither one of them were ever brought to trial. Hmm. I can't say I agree with that, but this was about twenty years ago, and they were just starting to require us to take action on domestics, even if the participants didn't want us to. Things slowed down instead of accelerating, though, and there was nothing for about a year before the deaths.*

He clicked the mouse a few times, looking at some additional files. *They did file assault charges the time he sprained her wrist, but the DA dropped them when they agreed to counseling. Looks like they went to a priest as well as a marriage counselor. Both turned in favorable reports. They might be worth checking on.* He made notes, wondering if a priest would treat counseling like the confessional, and if it made a damn bit of difference when both the people involved were dead?

*

"You asked him in?"

Milda continued crushing the dried basil in the little mortar. "He didn't seem inclined to go away, so I figured I might as well."

Acacia growled, "You could have called me. I could have made him go away."

"Yes, dear, but you might have made him go away in a very permanent manner, considering the moods you get into sometime. There was no harm done." Milda carefully poured the ground herb into a tiny, carefully labeled jar, then screwed on the lid. She was smiling faintly. "Besides, he was very nice."

Her sister snorted. "Sweetie, I love ya, but you are one of the most gullible creatures walking the face of the earth."

"Acacia, lighten up. All he did was have a cup of tea and shoot the breeze. He seems like a really nice guy, and he could be very helpful in our work. You know I've been urging you for ages to get someone on the inside with the police, and he's perfectly situated--records."

Acacia watched as Milda carefully wiped the mortar and pestil, then picked up a bunch of dried chives and a pair of kitchen shears. "Nice? What nice? Okay, I'll admit that he struck me as slightly less obnoxious than the average male, and I'll admit that he could be useful, but why can't we find a nice, buff policewoman instead?"

"Well, last I checked, none had walked in off the street and offered their services. And let's face it, sister dear--law enforcement types don't usually hang around our circles. I suppose you could haunt the acadamy and try to recruit."

"Funny, funny." Acacia was silent as she watched Milda quickly and efficiently snip the chives. Tiny dull green bits rained down into the waiting mortar. "Ya know, I can't decide which smells better--when you bake, or when you prepare herbs. How the fuck do you manage to get those things all the same size?"

"Practice. What about Randal?"

"Oo, first name basis. I dunno--maybe. We'll have to talk to Naresha--he's hers, after all."

"Naresha has never been nasty about sharing. Well, not her followers, anyway. She can get pretty snippy if it's down to the last cup of espresso, if she needs a caffiene fix."

Acacia fished a chive out of the mortar and munched it. "You like him, don't you?"

Milda was not coy. "Yes, I do. He's very handsome, I think he has a sense of humor, and if he wants to help us, his heart must be pretty much in the right place."

"He's a man."

"We've been over that before, dear." She reached out and stroked her elder sister's cheek fondly. "Law of averages. One of us was bound to be straight."

"Huh. Well, I guess it's cool."

"Thank you." Milda's tone was gently ironic.

"Better than you being celibate, I suppose." She made a face. "Dullsville." As she watched her sister seal the chives in a ziplock bag and store it in the refrigerator, her expression softened. She said quietly, "Sometimes I wish I could go back and kill The Bastard again, Mil."

Her sister looked at her with sympathy. "Once wasn't enough?"

Acacia shook his head. "Nope. He committed so many acts of shittyness that each deserved it's own execution. But I think one of the worst was what he did to you."

"Me? Casey, I was the lucky one, remember? I wasn't born till we got away, and at the end..." A tense, pained look flitted across her face. "He didn't really do much more than scare me. You saw to that."

Acacia's expression was sad. "It's what he did to you through Naresha and me." She went to her sister and hugged her, whispering, "Of all the people in the world, Mil, you should be a mother, and he took that away."

Milda closed her eyes, and a faint tremor passed through her body, but her voice was calm. "There's no use cutting ourselves up over what can't be changed." She held her sister for a moment, then pushed her away. "I wouldn't mind so much if I thought there was a chance of adoption, but you know how they put prospective parents under microscopes these days."

"I told you, hon. There are ways. Shit, with our resources, we could..."

"No, Acacia." Milda's voice was firm. "I will not buy a child. I won't be party to someone selling their flesh and blood."

"But it isn't like that, Mil, you know it isn't! Lots of those private adoptions are legit. You'd do the parents and the baby a favor."

"No. Look, I... just wouldn't feel right. Oh, I'd love the baby and care for it to the best of my abilities, but there'd always be that little nag that perhaps they weren't meant..."

"Don't start that 'fate' shit, okay? We make our own fate." She gave Milda another squeeze, then playfully lifted her up and swung her around as the other girl squealed. "Milda an' Goth Cop, sittin' in a tree! k-i-s-s-i-n-g!"

"Not yet, but maybe."

"Good on ya, sis. But I don't know..." she gave Milda another twirl before setting her down. "I'm not sure if you should get laid. If you get any more mellow you'll be in a coma all the time."

*

Stephanie Bradshaw parked in the drive-way, listening dispiritedly as the engine kept chugging long after she'd turned it off. *God, please. Not for another few months, huh? Just till I get that raise at work, then I can see about finanacing another used car. Please don't leave me stranded.*

It finally died. She hesitated, holding the key. Dreading what she might find out, but needing to have some idea of what to expect in the morning, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and turned the key again. It started. She sighed in relief and turned it off again. She probably wouldn't have to beg a ride to work tomorrow.

Stephanie got out, groaning as she straightened up. Those double shifts were playing hell with her, but she needed the extra cash. No matter what the Akujis had said, she was determined to make at least a token payment.

She trudged to the front door, shifting her bag of groceries to the crook of her arm so she could unlock the door. It was depressing--coming home to an empty house. She'd expected to face this somewhere down the line, when Bethany got married and moved out, but she'd hoped it wouldn't be for a few more years.

Inside, she locked the door again, then paused, frowning. *Didn't I leave the light on over the stove? Don't tell me it's burned out again? Damn.* She started back to the kitchen. *Why couldn't it have done that before I left this morning? I could have picked up bulbs while I was at the store.* Stephanie put the bag down on the table and turned to feel for the light switch.

She realized there was something wrong a split second before she heard the scrape of a foot on the tile behind her. There was... The atmosphere was suddenly, subtly wrong. Before she could turn, though, the hand went around her neck, cinching tight against her throat, and the hoarse voice whispered, "Where is she?"

Stephanie screamed. She grabbed at the restraining arm, trying to tear it away. The grip tightened, cutting off her air. "Listen, bitch, I can't find her, and I need you to tell me. If you do, I won't kill you."

She was starting to get dizzy, and there was a buzzing in her ears. *I couldn't speak, even if I wanted to,* she thought desperately. *He's going to kill me, one way or the other.*

She tried stamping on his feet, but that only earned a curse and a further tightening of his arm. Stephanie struggled. She tried reaching back to scratch at his eyes, but he ducked his head tight against her. Her hand struck the bag sitting on the table before her and knocked it over, spilling the contents. Her hands closed on a heavy cylinder, and she swung it up and back.

She connected. There was a thud and the cursing escalated, but the grip loosened--just a fraction, but it was enough for her to suck down enough oxygen to clear her head a little. She swung again and again, battering at her assailant. After three blows she managed to tear loose, and turned.

The figure behind her was not much more than a blur, but she could see well enough to aim for the head, and she struck out again. He ducked, and she only hit him a glancing blow. It was enough. The figure slipped, falling to its knees, and she ran for the back door.

Stephanie reached for the dead bolt, and felt splintered wood. The door opened without her having to unlock it, and she darted out into the night, screaming as she went. *Where? Oh, God, where?* The Beasons on the right were on vacation. *Crandal's.* It had been a long time since she'd climbed a hurricane fence. Her stockings didn't survive it, and she gashed her calf swinging her leg over, but she made it.

She was pounding on the back door when she heard the car engine roar. As footsteps approached hurriedly from inside she thought vaguely, *Well, I know he didn't steal my car--it hasn't sounded that good for years.*

"Who the hell is it? I have a gun."

Stephanie stepped quickly to the side. Douglas Crandal most certainly did have a gun--a wicked Colt-Python that could probably shoot through the door and still blast a hole clean through her. "Doug, it's me--Stephanie Bradshaw. Let me in, quick! Someone was in my house."

The door was opened as she finished speaking. Doug Crandal, a thin, painfully erect man in his mid-seventies, reached out, grabbed her arm, and hauled her into the kitchen with surprising strength. He slammed the door, and turned to her, the kitchen light gleaming off the chrome barrel of his gun. "Steffie, what the hell...?" He took in her disheveled appearance, and his eyes focused on the gash on her leg, dripping blood on his linoleum. "Shit! Did the bastard cut you?"

Stephanie had the phone and was punching in 911. Her voice was shaky, but she managaed to make sense. "I did it on the fence. Christ, Doug, he tried to strangle me." The old man's lips tightened, and he reached for the door. Stephanie grabbed at him. "Don't! I think he left, but we can't take any chances. If he's still there, he knows I went for help, and he'll be ready."

"911. What's you're emergency?"

"This is Stephanie Bradshaw at 2150 Terrell, and someone just tried to kill me. No, I'm all right. I got out of the house, and I'm at a neighbor's. Yes, 2152. Oh, I'm safe, all right. Doug will blow them into the next county if they come over here. Don't worry, I'll have him put it away before the officers come. I don't know if he's still in the house. Maybe not--I think I heard a car. No, I didn't see it, dammit. How soon? Good. What? No, I can't stay on the line. No, I have to call someone else." Pause. "So sue me."

She hung up and began dialing again. "Doug, put that away. The police will be here any minute now."

"I have a permit, this is my own house. Why should I?"

"Because no matter what your rights are, we're about to have cops here, and they will be armed and on nervous alert for anyone who even looks armed." The phone was picked up on the other end. "Three Sisters."

Chapter Twenty-one
Sanctuary

He wasn't in the house. The responding officers searched it and the surrounding neighborhood carefully.

Stephanie sat in Doug Crandal's kitchen, sipping a cup of kick-ass coffee that Doug had insisted on lacing with whiskey. She hadn't protested too hard--her nerves were shot. The policeman sitting across from her was going over the details of the statement she'd given him, and once again he asked, "You didn't see anything that might help us identify him, Miss Bradshaw?"

She said wearily, "I told you--no. It was dark, and he came at me from behind. Hell, now that I think about it, I'm not even one hundred per cent sure it was a he. They whispered--it could have been a strong woman."

The policeman looked doubtful, "It's possible, I suppose, but not likely. These crimes are usually committed by men, unless there's some previous history."

"I told you that they were after my niece." "You said they were whispering. Isn't it possible that they were asking about something else? Perhaps they were demanding to know where you kept your jewelry."

"I told you..."

There was a knock on the front door, and Doug (who had till then been an ardent defender of their local police, but now wasn't so sure) went to answer it. A moment later, a little wide-eyed, he came back to the kitchen. "Stephie, you were expecting someone, weren't you?"

"Yes, I..."

Acacia brushed past Doug. She flicked a scornful glance at the policeman, then went directly to Stephanie. "Hey, lady. I'm Acacia, Milda's big sister, and I'm here to take care of you." She squatted down beside her, taking her hand. "Did the asshole give you a hard time?"

The girl's hand was cold *Does bad circulation run in her family?*, but the concern in her eyes and voice was warm. Stephanie drew a shaky breath. "I'm okay."

"Yeah?" Acacia glanced significantly at the now crusting gash on her calf, then glared at the two men, who began fidgeting. "You positive you don't need a trip to the emergency room?"

"No, it's shallow. It looks a lot nastier than it is."

Acacia looked over at the policeman. Her voice was much colder than it had been when she addressed the woman. "You guys through over at her place?"

"Yes. My partner took fingerprints, and Miss Bradshaw can give us a list of anything that's missing tomorrow. I'd advise you to sleep elsewhere till you can get that deadbolt repaired, Miss Bradshaw."

"Oh, gee whiz, thanks, Officer Friendly. We never would have thought of that on our own."

His expression stiffened. "Look, Miss..."

"I done anything illegal? Last I heard you can't be arrested for attitude." She gave him a pointed smile. "Not legally, anyway."

The officer's expression became even tighter, but he didn't respond. Instead he just handed Stephanie a piece of paper with her report number on it. "Please check in soon, Miss Bradshaw." He left.

Doug Crandal said, "You can stay here, Stephie. I'll fix up the spare room."

"That won't be necessar, Pops." Acacia stood up. "She'll be coming with me. She needs a safe place to stay."

"Now, look here, Missy! I'm perfectly capable of taking care of her."

Acacia glanced at the huge, gleaming gun laying on the counter, the bullets beside it. She cocked an eyebrow at the old man, and there was a grudging respect in her tone. "I suppose you could, Daddio, but she's my client, so she's my obligation. You understand duty, right?" She'd chosen exactly the right tact to take with Douglas, and he nodded agreement.

"Stephie, are you up to going back over to your place to pick up a few things? I think you ought to stay over at the house for a couple of days at least."

Stephanie squared her shoulders. "Yes, I think so."

Douglas picked up his gun and started loading it. "I'm going with you. I can't let you two ladies walk in there unprotected."

Now Acacia seemed amused. She was flexing her fingers. The other two were too pre-occupied to notice, but needle sharp claws were sliding smoothly in and out. "Hey, sure, if it makes you feel better."

They had to go in through the back again, since Stephanie had left her keys in her abandoned purse. She reached in and turned on the light before they entered. Acacia eyed the sprawl of spilled groceries, then said matter-of-factly, "Good thing you didn't buy eggs." She bent down and picked up a can of green beans. Showing it to the other woman she said, "Was this your weapon?"

Stephanie examined it, finding a dent in its side. "I think so."

"Good choice. Easy to use and heavy and hard enough to do some damage." She grinned. "I had a girlfriend once who had a pervert come in while she was pricing groceries at a convenience store. He slapped his willie up on the counter, and she grabbed a can of creamed corn and... well, creamed him." That got a startled laugh from Stephanie, and a wince from Doug. "Yeah, he was still on the ground, clutching himself when the cops arrived. Steph, do you have a picture of Bethany that we can use in our inquiries?"

"Oh, of course." She led Acacia through the house, turning on lights all the way. Doug followed, peering around suspiciously and checking every closet. There was a portrait on Stephanie's bedroom dresser, and she took the picture out of its frame handing it to Acacia. "This was taken last year, when she graduated from college."

Acacia studied it. The young woman had long, curly, light-brown hair spilling out from under the ridiculous mortarboard she wore. There wasn't anything remarkable about her--she was neither ugly, nor very pretty, but there was something appealing about the shy, proud smile. "Nice looking kid. I'll be careful of this. We can run off some copies. Why don't you point me toward Bethany's old room, and you can get packed while I have a look at it?"

"All right," Stephanie led her across the hall. "But it won't do much good. she pretty much stripped it, and..." Her words died into a gasp as she opened the door.

The room was as much of a shambles as it was possible for it to be when there weren't any personal effects to toss about. The mattress had been dragged off the bed. All the drawers of the dresser and vanity were either standing open or on the floor, and a lamp, still glowing, was laying on its side on the night stand.

Acacia said, "I'm going to assume that you didn't leave it like this?"

"Of course not. I haven't been in here for days, and I know I didn't leave that lamp on."

Doug examined the mess. "Steph, maybe that cop was right. Maybe he was looking for something to steal."

Acacia snorted. "He tears up an empty room and leaves the master bedroom alone? Don't think so. Nope, he was looking for something that might tell him where Bethany went." She looked at Stephanie, who was biting her lip nervously. "Don't worry, he didn't find it. Otherwise he wouldn't have been waiting for you. Would you have any of Bethany's clothes--something that hasn't been washed since she last wore it?"

Doug looked interested. "Are you going to use dogs?"

Acacia wrinkled her nose. "Not likely. I doubt the beasts could pick up a trail at this late date."

"Then could you explain...?"

"I could, but I won't."

Seeing her old friend frown, Stephanie said hastily, "I don't think there's anything left. She even emptied the laundry hamper."

"I'll still look. It's hard to get everything when you've lived somewhere as long as she did here. Go on and pack." She looked at Doug solemnly. "You better go keep an eye on her, mister. That sucker could always come back." Crandal knodded firmly and followed Stephanie out. *And now you're both out of my hair.*

Acacia closed the door and stood in the middle of the room. She closed her eyes, lifted her head, and sniffed. The overwhelming scent was simple staleness--the room hadn't been aired since Bethany had left. There were the personal scents of Stephanie and Douglas, but she ignored them. That left two scents.

The first was the stronger of the two. It was more of a reek--heavy with anger and anxiety. That had to be the intruder--the one who had almost certainly killed Bethany's parents. In fact, the smell was so distorted by the hormones that had been pumping through the assailant's body that Acacia doubted she'd be able to recognize the asshole's scent unless they were in nearly the same state.

The second scent, the one that had to be Bethany's, was much more pervasive. It was layered--it permeated the room. Acacia turned slowly, scenting the air. When she found a direction where the scent seemed stronger she followed it toward the bed.

Acacia frowned. *I could understand getting a hit on the mattress--after all, she slept directly on it. But the frame?* She considered it for a moment. *Mm. Maybe if she's like me--not real good about moving furniture to clean.*

Acacia pulled the bed out a few inches from the wall and peeked into the crack. "Aha!" She bent and fished down by the floorboard, coming up with a pair of panties. "Oo, black lace!" *Bethany, I never would have guessed you might be wearing something like this under those funky grad robes.*

She stuffed the underwear into the pocket of the mini jumper she was wearing. *Might be better if they don't know I'm taking a pair of your used undies, doll. I don't want them to get the wrong idea and think I'm stalking your butt instead of trying to save it.*

Doug promised to see to having Stephanie's back door repaired and was persuaded that he didn't need to escort the women to the car waiting at the curb. As they buckled in, Acacia noticed Stephanie admiring the car. "Like my ride?"

"It's fantastic."

Acacia shrugged, starting the engine. "I'd rather have a sports job--they're better for picking up girls," she sighed, not noticing the other woman's startled look, "but Naresha is a car snob. Well, I'm about to let her have this one." She grinned. "I've found the coolest car! It's a '66 Mustang, and it's cherry--sunshine yellow with a black interior. I'm gonna look g-o-o-d in it."

"You look a lot like your sister," Stephanie ventured, "If it wasn't for the hair I'd think you were twins."

"Milda? Yeah, I've heard that before."

"But the hair... Her's is pretty, but yours is so unusual. I've never seen such beautiful shading. I hope you don't mind my asking, but who does your hair?"

"God." Acacia chortled when she saw Stephanie's expression. "Man, I love saying that. I'm the real deal, sister. What you see is what you get."

"I didn't mean..."

Acacia waved away the apology. "Forget it. Look, normally I'd take you to our safe house, but we have someone there now who's a little shy of people she doesn't know. You'd be, too, if your dad had been pimping you since you were eleven. While you're staying at our place we have to have a few house rules. I'm not much on rules myself, but these are gonna be for all our benefits, dig?"

"I understand."

"Okay. Now, it's not like you're gonna be restricted. Heck, you have a life--you need to work. Nana will take you wherever you need to go, and pick you up, too. I guess that POS in your driveway was your car?"

"POS?" "Piece of shit."

Stephanie's voice was wry. "A crude but accurate description."

"We'll see what we can do about fixing you up with something a little less likely to disintegrate into its separate parts."

"I can't afford it right now."

"You can if you go to Akuji Motors, and I can guaranty you won't be screwed over. Next, when you're at the lair you don't open the outside door--ever. If one of us isn't there, and that won't happen often, just pretend you aren't there." She glanced at Stephanie. "I'm not bullshitting about this one, Steph. There's always a chance that something nasty might come a'callin."

"You mean one of your client's psycho ex-husband?"

Acacia's lips twitched. "I know it's hard to believe, but there are things out there even nastier than that. Don't drink Milda's tomato juice out of the fridge, but you're welcome to open a fresh can. Don't poke in the freezer, and stay on the ground floor unless someone invites you to another part of the house. It's not that we're anti-social, but we need our privacy. Okay?"

"More than reasonable." *Though I have to wonder about that 'don't peek in the freezer' caveat. I hope I haven't fallen in with the Chainsaw Family.*

At the warehouse, Acacia took Stephanie's bag and led her to the door, then leaned casually on the bell. In a moment a voice came over the intercom. "Acacia, don't try to tell me that you've forgotten the code."

Acacia winked at Stephanie. "Got someone with me, remember? Wouldn't do to let her learn our secrets."

Stephanie heard a snort. "You're just lazy." There were a few electronic beeps, and the door opened. A pleasant looking woman in her late middle age stepped back to allow them entrance. She smiled at Stephanie as she shut and locked the door. "Hello, you must be Stephanie Bradshaw. Just call me Nana--everyone does."

Acacia handed over Stephanie's bag and headed toward the stairs. "Take Steph into the kitchen and get her some tea or something, huh, Nana? Something nice and hot--her throat may be tender from that shit grabbing at her. She also has a cut on her leg. I'm gonna send Milda down to help her out."

"Come along, dear." Nana led her back to the kitchen and seated her once again at the table. As the older woman prepared tea Stephanie reflected that if her life hadn't been in such an uproar she could easily get to feel very at home here.

She was sipping hot tea laced with honey when Milda came in, juggling a handful of items. She dropped them on the table, saying, "Casey told me what happened, Stephanie. Let me have a look at that cut." Stephanie had peeled off her ruined stockings back at Doug's house. Milda crouched down, her granny dress sweeping the floor, and took Stephanie's foot into her hand. "Nana, could you bring me...?"

"On its way." Nana was running hot water into a basin.

"Stephanie, have you had a tetanus shot recently?"

"I stepped on a tack about four months ago and got one then."

'Good, you won't need to go in for one." She took the cloth and soap Nana brought and used the hot water to gently wash Stephanie's wound. Her touch was firm but gentle. "You won't need stitches." She opened a small, unlabeled jar, then hesitated. "Stephanie, this is my own concoction. It soothes and sterilizes, and I have another that will minimize the chance of scarring. If you prefer, we have an emergency supply of over-the-counter antiseptic, but this is just as effective, if not more so."

"You girls run a pharmaceutical company, don't you?"

Milda nodded. "Besides the more mainstream items we have a line of all natural cures that I've formulated myself."

Stephanie extended her leg. "I trust you."

Milda smiled. "That's good. It will make it so much easier to help you." Milda dressed and bandaged Stephanie's wound. "Now, Casey told me that you have a picture of Bethany? I feel so silly that I didn't ask you for one when we first met. I'm sure you must carry one in your purse."

"Oh, yes." Stephanie took the photograph she'd removed from the frame and handed it to Milda.

Milda studied the picture, then said softly, "She has old eyes." She handed the picture to Nana. "They look as if they've seen much more than a girl that age should have, but I suppose that's understandable, after what she's been through. Do I have your permission to reproduce that so we can distribute them to our people?"

"Yes, of course. Milda, I'm even more worried than I was. If that man was desperate enough to come into my home..."

Milda patted her shoulder. "I seriously doubt that he has the resources that we do, Steph. I believe we'll find Bethany before he does. The problem is, for Bethany to stay safe, we're going to have to find him, too."

Chapter Twenty-two
Goth Cop on Board

Randal powered up his computer and opened the program that gave him access to all the reports that had been filed in the past twenty-four hours. He winced when he saw the number. "Damn, the natives were restless last night, Henry," he remarked. "I'm going to send you about half of these. If I just work on them it could take the whole shift."

Henry powered up his own computer, opening the office network program. "Ready when you are, C.B." "I'll shoot you the ones where they have a perp in custody, to start with. You catch whoever comes up and needs a hand, huh?"

"Randal..." It wasn't quite a whine.

"I have Twinkies with your name on them--IF you take the front."

Henry held out his hand. "Twinkies first."

Randal pulled a package of snack cakes out of his desk drawer and tossed them to Henry. "What happened to that new regime you started?"

"My wife dropped a bag of burgers and fries in my lap last night. She told me that she'd rather have me plump and mellow than thin and pissy." He unwrapped the snack and took a big bite. "Who am I to argue with the woman I love?"

Randal settled down and began to sort the individual files into the proper storage folder--rape, assault and battery, theft, auto theft, DUI, possession of controlled substances...

He was working his way through the assaults when he ran across something that made him pause. *Stephanie Bradshaw? Wait a minute, that was the citizen who found the bodies in the Oliphant case. Yeah, sister of the wife.* He read the report quickly. Glancing at Henry to be sure he was preoccupied, he slipped a floppy into the computer and made a copy of the report, then filed it in its proper section.

He was antsy for the rest of the morning, and when lunch time rolled around he shocked Henry by offering to let him go first. He flipped him a five. "Just bring me something back."

"Be more specific, or don't gripe at what you get," Henry warned.

"Some form of burger, no pickles or ketchup, and onion rings."

Henry smirked. "Onions? Not planning on kissing anyone tonight, Randal?"

"That's why God gave us mouthwash, Henry, and none of your business." *Maybe if I'm lucky,* he thought, calling up the Bradshaw file as Henry exited. *I wouldn't mind doing some serious tongue sucking with Naresha, and I bet Milda would taste like her herbal tea...* He found himself smiling. *with honey. But Acacia... a man could lose a lip.*

He read through the account, frowning in concentration. So, the attacker seemed to have known her, or at least known about her. *One room tossed--an absent niece's. Bradshaw claims the intruder asked for the niece during the attack. The responding officer thinks that, since no specific names were mentioned, the victim must be mistaken, and this is a simple B and E and assault. Who the fuck is this idiot? Even if he doesn't know about the past history...* His frowned deepened. *Okay, what about this niece? Where is she?*

After a moment's thought he did a search on Stephanie Bradshaw's name, and came up with something very interesting--a missing person report. Bethany Oliphant. *Hello! It looks like the Akuji's may be doing more than trying to clear a cold case. I think it's time for another trip out to their lair.*

*

He arrived at the warehouse at sunset, and pushed the bell. There was no response at first, but he was sure someone had to be home, so he leaned on the bell. He had to lean for a long time. He was beginning to think that perhaps he'd been wrong when the intercom crackled. "Hello?"

He didn't recognize the voice. "Hi."

"Look, they're not home. You'll have to come back later."

He thought for a moment, then made a guess, "Miss Bradshaw, right?"

Again there was silence, then, "I told you, they aren't here, and I can't let anyone in."

"I'm a policeman, Miss Bradshaw."

He heard a snort. "Yeah, right."

He took out his shield and ID and held them up in front of the camera. "Honest Injun."

More silence. "Do you have a warrant?"

"No. I'm not here on official business. I'm working with the Akujis on your case." It wasn't entirely a lie--he had gotten the information for them.

"Look, I can't let you in. Not just won't, but can't. They showed me once how to work this system, but it went right over my head."

As they had spoken, the sun had set, the last streaks of color fading from the sky. "When are you expecting them back?"

"Any minute now, darling."

He smiled at the familiar drawl. "Hello, Naresha."

"Hello, Goth Cop. What are you doing here?"

"A name associated with that information I got for you came up. I want to help."

"You do realize," Naresha sounded interested, "that associating with us, particularly as it involves an ongoing case, could be very, very unhealthy to your career?"

"What career? They aren't letting me out of that records room unless I go the haircut and conservative tie route. That isn't going to happen. If they kick me off the force I'll get a PI license."

"Personally I'd advise against it. Deal in licenses and all sorts of nasty authority groups start to poke their noses in your business. Well, Milda and Acacia are, respectively, approving and resigned." There were faint beeps, then a buzz as the door opened.

Naresha stepped aside, dropping an ironic curtsey as he came in. As she reset the security system she said, "You know, Randal, you might come in handy at that. There are things that have to be done during the day, and it isn't always convenient for Nana to take care of them." She leaned back against the door. "Plus sometimes we'd just rather she didn't have to go into certain situations or deal with certain people."

Randal nodded. "She's a nice old girl. I'd be happy to take over some of the riskier projects."

Naresha smiled. "The 'nice old girl' is not to be taken lightly, Randal."

Randal glanced down the empty hallway. "Where's Bradshaw?"

"Back in Nana's room. She isn't very fond of the police."

"Neither am I. So, are you going to tell me what all this is about? I have the feeling that it's more than you doing charity work, trying to solve a cold murder case. I think that missing person report Bradshaw filed and that attack on her in her home are connected to it somehow."

Naresha still smiled, but it was shrewd. "My, it's a bright little thing, isn't it? I wonder if I should have let you in."

Randal stepped closer, moving into her personal space. Most people would have tensed. Naresha remained totally relaxed, keeping her eyes on his face. She was wearing a royal purple peasant blouse that made her eyes seem almost violet. The neckline bared a good bit of her shoulders, but it was shallow. He traced one finger along the neckline. "You can always tell me to go."

"And it's bold, too." She gave him a considering look, then nodded slightly to herself. She reached out with her left hand and took hold of his belt at his right hip, then led him to the stairs. "Let's not stand about in the hallway, darling. Not when there's a perfectly lovely bedroom going to waste."

Randal's mouth was suddenly dry. *Just like that,* he marveled. *I've seen guys bust a nut trying to get her interested in the club. I put a little sweat into it myself, and nothing except that one blood trade, now this.* As they rounded the turn on the second floor and started up to the third he thought, *Shit, what if this isn't what I think? What if she does just want to talk? Wait a minute, if I make it with her, what about Milda?.

Randal thought very, very hard during the minute it took them to get to Naresha's quarters. He decided that as attractive as she was, he'd rather wait for a little while and see what his chances were with Milda. Just outside what he assumed would be her bedroom, he stopped. Naresha tugged lightly, but he didn't move, and she looked back at him questioningly.

"Naresha... Will Milda be home soon?"

That gave her pause, but the look she turned on him was amused. "Darling, do you mean to tell me that I'm being shot down in favor of my little sister?" He shrugged. "I'm not offended, Randal. If it was anyone else but Milda I might be." She tapped his chest with one sharp fingernail. "Just remember two things--Milda does not step into relationships lightly, and Acacia and I are very protective."

"Understood."

"Tell me, would the answer still be the same if I offered to share blood?" Randal was silent, and Naresha nodded. "Good. I know that was a greater temptation than straight sex, and if you could resist that you may be suitable." She turned him around and gave him a small push. "Go on down to the kitchen. Milda will be either in her room or her lab. I'll send her to you."

Randal went down to the kitchen as instructed, but as he did, he wondered. If at least two of them were here, why hadn't one of them come more quickly to investigate who was at the door? He sensed an almost feline curiosity in the sisters--it wasn't natural for them NOT to investigate.

It wasn't more than five or ten minutes before he heard a light tread on the stairs, and Milda appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He could see her smile even through the gloom of the hallway.

The bright lights of the kitchen struck glints off her red hair and her glasses. "Hello, Randal," she said warmly. "Naresha said that you made the connection between the murders, the disappearance, and the assault. That was clever of you."

Randal smiled wryly. "First Naresha, now you. I'm beginning to feel like a kid who just got a hard word correct in a spelling bee."

She smiled. "Then you ought to get a reward." She went toward the counter. "What type of goodie would you like?"

Randal gave a rueful look at the well draped, barely detectable curve of her ass, wondering if she'd be offended or amused if he made a lewd reply. "What have you got?"

There were a good dozen fancifully shaped cookie jars scattered down the long counter. Milda began pointing to each one. "Well, we have our standard chocolate chip, spice drops, sugar cookies, peanut butter, M & M..."

"What?"

"It's basically a chocolate chip cookie with M & Ms instead of chips."

"That one."

Milda went to a cookie jar that was shaped like a fat bellied monk, complete with tonsure. He was smiling, and across his belly it said 'Thou shalt not steal'. Milda brought back a handful of cookies and handed them over.

Randal examined them. Sure enough there were colorful candy nuggets buried in the golden dough. He took a tentative bite and chewed. Then he enthusiastically popped the rest in his mouth. Milda smiled. "I take it you like them. I make them with peanut butter, too. You'll have to try them sometime."

Randal was already finishing up the last cookie. He dusted crumbs from his hands. "I'd be delighted to try everything you're willing to give me."

Milda caught the double-entendre easily, and cocked her head. She said softly, "It's been a long time, Randal. A very long time." She studied him. "It's odd. You're nothing like him."

"Him who?"

Her eyes were soft and sad. "Colin."

"Colin isn't in the picture anymore?"

"No." She was quiet for a moment, then whispered, "He died."

*Wonderful, Randal. Remind her of a dead flame.* "I'm sorry, Milda."

She smiled faintly. "Thank you. It still hurts, but not quite as much as it once did." She straightened, her manner becoming brisk. "If you're going to help us, you should talk to Margaret yourself and get the details." She went to the door at the back of the kitchen and knocked. "Margaret? Can you come out, dear? We have a new associate who needs to be briefed."

Margaret, wrapped in a robe, came out, and Milda introduced them. She went over what she had told the sisters. When she was done Randal shook his head. "They have their heads up their asses. With the evidence of stalking that you have they should be treating this as a kidnapping." He looked at Milda. "What are you girls doing so far?"

"We feel that Bethany probably hasn't left the city. We have a contact at the post office who's going to go through the change of address submissions for the last month and see if they come up with anything. I've also hacked into the electric company's data base, but if she rents someplace where they pay the bills, that won't do us any good."

"I can start going through the list of suspects for the murders."

"I think Acacia and Naresha will want to do that."

"I have no doubt, but since you girls don't do business during the day... I AM right about that?" Milda nodded, an oddly cautious look in her eyes. "It will be easier for me to get to them. It would be better if they didn't know I was a policeman. They'll be less likely to call the station and enquire as to why they're being questioned again."

"Then you'll need something official looking, won't you?" Milda went and rummaged in a drawer, came back, and handed him a small card. It read THREE SISTERS INQUIRIES. "Notice that we don't say investigations."

"Because you're not a licensed detective agency, because that makes you deal with the nasty old power structure. Naresha told me."

Milda folded her hands. "In the event that you are caught or killed, this secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions." She started humming the Mission: Impossible theme. Randal smiled, but Margaret frowned. Seeing her irritation Milda explained, "Please, don't think we aren't taking this seriously. But there's been so much grimness in our lives that we tend to inject humor whenever possible."

Randal stood up. "I'd better go. Miss Bradshaw, a pleasure to meet you. I'll do everything I can to help clean up this mess."

Milda walked with him to the front door and punched in the security code. She reached to open the door for him, but his hand settled over hers. She looked at him questioningly.

There was a light on in the hall now, and Randal looked down at her, studying her face. *They could be triplets instead of just sisters. God, her eyes are so blue.* "I'd like to see you, away from the case."

She gazed steadily back at him. "As I said, it's been a long time. But maybe it's time to move on. I'd like that, Randal."

He reached up and touched her cheek. She turned her head, pressing into the caress like a cat. Randal gently turned her back, then bent down and kissed her. He kept it almost chaste--he didn't try to part her lips, didn't use his tongue. She responded sweetly, swaying against him. For a moment he felt the soft weight of her breasts against his chest, then the kiss was over, and she was smiling up at him.

When he left, she twiddled her fingers after him, like a little girl. He was smiling as he drove away. She was unlike anyone he'd ever met. *But then again,* he thought, reviewing each of the sisters, *aren't they all?*