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creature
who could have granted her death wish, not just in a pleasurable
manner, but also in a way that wouldn’t have spelled karmic
disaster for her Akashic records.
    Lita and Jenny started to wonder where the
hell Alexi might have disappeared. To the bar? No, it was way after
the last-drink bell. To the loo then?
    The mysterious creature, feeling high and
unreal, as ever after feeding, thought that three drained corpses
at three Second Look gigs were more than enough to attract the
police’s attention. Blame it on the rock band for having such a
tasty following. Maybe, she mused, she’d let herself be tempted by
the green-mohicaned woman at their next London gig. Before moving
on swiftly. This Sid could provide her with a very enjoyable
challenge and give greater climax to the blood drinking.
    The intended prey, feeling high, too high,
higher than whatever normal was (was it the electrifying
combination of the music and the voice, was it the anti-depressant
she took daily to prevent herself from carving senseless lines all
over her body, or was it the energy of the crowd enclosed in the
closed parallelogram of the pub invading her aura, once again?
She’ll really have to do something about it), feeling kind of
manic, contemplated Terri actively greeting friends and groupies,
signing white T-shirts. Dawn had left the stage. The writer’s mind
amused itself with a new idea, a new short story to write. Ah, to
kill again. After all, being a writer was about playing at being
god. All-mighty power over every character. A bounty hunter might
shoot to death a werefrog, and consequently being killed by a
werescorpion. The idea simply delighted her. But this was mere
child’s play that she could write easily and lightly. The Great
Work was still to come. Second Look would unintentionally provide
the ideal soundtrack. And unknown to everyone, a creature of
darkness would hunt among the exalted groupies.
    For Sid, playing with monsters was the
equivalent of playing with genders.
     
     

CHAPTER SIX

    This was no ordinary murder case; it had
“serial killer” written all over. Third victim with the same
baffling blood loss. And puncture marks on the neck. Two. It could
have been an animal, a wild beast. But there was no sign of
struggle, no chewing of flesh. Where was the blood? Vampire bats
were too small for such amount and generally stuck to cattle, in
Central and South America. He would probably get another repeat
forensic report: spacing between punctures corresponding to spacing
between human canines. Very sharp canines. He knew better than
letting his imagination take off on a flight of fancy. He didn’t
believe in monsters. He believed in human monsters: it was all in
the mind. Or another bad penny novel.
    D.I. Madison sighed and scratched his neck at
the base of his short, blond hair. His pale, blue eyes, paler than
his blue suit, scanned the light-flooded pub where various people
were waiting for his blessing to pack up and go home. He sighed
again and granted them his assent with a shooing motion. The staff
had been the only ones left by the time some unsuspecting drunk had
stumbled over the corpse, screamed uncannily and fainted, in the
car park.
    Once again the death was frustratingly
pointing at a rock band called Second Look. He already knew what
they would say when interviewed. This M.O. was doing his head in.
It was the kind that could make or break a career. For Madison,
despite his still young age, no cracking would mean a breaking,
regardless of his allies in superior hierarchy. The nephew of
another high-ranking cop shot in the line of duty, an exceptional
cop himself, he loved his job.
    A constable, first officer on the scene,
broke his train of wandering thoughts, confirming that no one had
noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary. Except maybe for
the bunch of women who had searched and enquired about a missing
friend in the crowd of punters before leaving the premises, still
friendless.