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hallway, blocked into the little closet space.
    From the blur of movement I saw, it seemed some of my friends ran into the hallway, grabbed the Wendy, and dragged her in. A rush of air and light enveloped me as the door swung away, slammed shut. Dana Hernandez flipped the little hotel-room U-bolt closed and glanced at me. “Duck tape!” she yelled. Then she jumped into the melee in the center of the room.
    The duck tape (often miscalled “duct tape,” but Google it if you do, you’re wrong) was in a paper bag along with some good Swedish-made scissors to cut it with. The gap between the door and the carpet was just enough that it needed the tape; I’d been assigned it. I knew its importance. But just now, with Sven’s desperately pumping legs sticking out of Wendy’s mouth, I had to look.
    They have to give up part of their human appearance when they eat us, of course. The Wendy’s face and neck were distended like that of a boa constrictor eating a goat. Sven’s legs went slack; I’d just seen his moment of death. But my friends grabbed at his legs; being human, they had to try. It unhid its claws and swiped at Jamal; his face was opened up to visible teeth and gum. My friends stabbed her, they pressed crucifixes against her, they looped rope around her, looking for any one of the tricks that, without any predictability, would work.
    But I had to do the goddamn duck tape.
    I turned away just as the tips of Sven’s Nike Air Jordans disappeared down the Wendy’s throat.
    One strip, covering the space between the door and the carpet. A strip above it, a strip below it, sealing and securing.
    * * *
    Poor Sven. He’d had to play out that other story that the outside world didn’t realize was based on Roanoke Society activities.
    The Stranger in the Bar story.
    You know the one: it’s become such a stale old wheezer that it can’t be published in magazines anymore, only broadcast. It goes like this:
    Niles Cadbury hoisted his Tom Collins as he scanned the crowd. Some beautiful women were here tonight. Niles loved beauty. He took beauty. Even if it didn’t want to be taken.
    At the end of the bar was a good-looking blonde who was getting very unsteady and was laughing way too loud. If he could just separate her from her friends and get her into a cab, he could do what he wanted. And Niles Cadbury liked to play rough.
    “Hey stranger, buy me a drink?”
    Niles looked over in surprise. How had this sexy redhead come to sit down beside him without him seeing her? Her swept-up hair was even redder than her lipstick.
    Almost the color of blood.
    (They get back to some hotel room, where inevitably, the misogynist gets his comeuppance.)
    He sat back on the bed, watching as she shrugged off her dress. It hit the floor, and she kicked it aside.
    “Tell me what you want,” she breathed, as she stepped out of her high heels.
    Niles Cadbury didn’t like to put on the romantic crap any longer than he had to. He would tell her, in the crudest terms, what he wanted. If she didn’t do it, he would grab her and beat her until she did.
    He was an expert at it.
    “I want you to suck me dry,” he growled.
    Her smile widened into a strangely oversized grin. With a shock, he saw that two of her teeth ended in long, sharp points.
    And her eyes … Her eyes were red, glowing coals!
    “Gladly ! ” she snarled. She jumped on him before he could scream.
    The Wendys were the basis for the mythical vampires, of course.
    * * *
    Our screams would lead to no assistance. This was the Fleabag du Fleabag . No one cared. Loud rap blared from a room down the hall; there were shouts of argument from the floor above, unrelated to us.
    The Wendy’s mouth was as wide as an HDTV now. It was barely keeping its human form. It chewed Jamal and Dana at once. Half a dozen knives and hatchets stuck out of her, but she still kept going. If we’d been able to surprise her and bag her head before she opened her mouth, none of this would have happened.