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year calculus paper in the spot. He was taking this evening sociology class because he'd overheard two jocks in the cafeteria mention it was a great way to meet girls. So far, he wasn't having much luck. Straightening his new leather tie, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't ask for a jacket.

    As he slid into his seat, his attaché jammed between two chair backs in the second row and jerked out of his hand. Bending to free it, his mechanical pencil slid free of his pocket protector and rolled back into the darkness.

    "Oh, fuck," he muttered, dropping to his knees. He'd been experimenting with profanity lately, hoping it would make him sound more macho. There'd been no noticeable success.

    There were legends about what lurked under the seats in York University lecture halls but all Norman found, beside his pencil-which he'd only had since Sunday night and didn't want to lose-was a neatly rolled copy of Wednesday's tabloid. Clipping the pencil back where it belonged, Norman spread the paper on his knee. The professor, he knew, would be up to fifteen minutes late; he'd have plenty of time to read the comics.

    "VAMPIRE STALKS CITY!"

    With trembling fingers, he opened it to the story.

    "Get a load of Birdwell." The thick-necked young man elbowed his companion. "He's gone white as a ghost."

    Rubbing bruised ribs, the recipient of this tender confidence peered down at the solitary figure in the third row of the hall. "How can you tell?" he grunted. "Ghost, geek; it's all the same."

    "I never knew," Norman whispered down at the black type. "I swear to God, I never knew. It wasn't my fault."

    He . . . no, it, had said it had to feed. Norman hadn't asked where or how. Maybe, he admitted now, because he hadn't wanted to know. Don't let anyone see you, had been his only instruction,

    He peeled damp palms up off the newsprint and raised them, smudged and trembling, into the air as he vowed, "Never again, I promise, never again."

    The gong sounded for another order of Peking Duck and while it reverberated through the restaurant, a mellow undertone to the conversations occurring in at least three different languages, Vicki raised a spoonful of hot-and-sour soup to her lips and stared speculatively at Mike Celluci.
    He'd been almost charming for this, the first half hour of the evening, and she'd had about as much of it as she could take.

    She swallowed and gave him her best don't give me any bullshit, buddy, I'm on to you smile.
    "So. Still holding tight to that ridiculous angel dust and Freddy Kruger claws theory?"

    Celluci glanced down at his watch. "Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds." He shook his head ruefully, a thick brown curl dropping down over his eyes.” And here I bet Dave you couldn't last a half an hour. You just lost me five bucks, Vicki. Is that nice?"

    "Quit complaining." She chased a bit of green onion around the edge of her bowl. "After all, I'm paying for dinner. Now, answer the question."

    "And here I thought that you were after the pleasure of my company."

    She really hated it when his voice picked up that sarcastic edge. Not having heard it for eight months hadn't lessened her dislike. "I'm going to pleasure your company right into the kitchen if you don't answer the question."

    "Damn it, Vicki." His spoon slammed into the saucer, "Do we have to discuss this while we eat?"

    Eating had nothing to do with it; they'd discussed every case they'd ever had, singly and collectively, over food. Vicki pushed her empty bowl to one side and laced her fingers together.
    It was possible that now she'd left the force he wouldn't discuss the homicides with her. It was possible, but not very likely. At least, she prayed it wasn't very likely. "If you can look me right in the eye," she said quietly, "and tell me you don't want to talk about this with me, I'll lay off."

    Technically, he knew he should do exactly that-look her in the eye and tell her he didn't want to talk about it. The Criminal Investigations