Demon Angel

least a year. Might still be cursing it, for all I know. If you hadn't been—what, seven years old?—when White killed the first one, he'd probably have tried to get you as an accessory, claiming that was the only way you could have known all that. If you don't mind me saying, you've aged well. You don't look a day over twenty-six or seven." He looked her over, then down at his own solidly fat stomach.
    She smiled and said, "I made a deal with the devil."
    "Heh. Anyway, between Thaddeus White pissing himself and seeing Bowman's glory taken by a bit-of-nothing fibbie— no offense—you made my year. So when you call me and my partner up and say you've got something that might point us in the right direction on a murder that makes White's slice-and-dice look pretty, I'm willing to listen."
    "You may not like what I have to show you."
    He shrugged, and every bit of humor left him. "I don't like any of this."
    Neither did she. His compliments had taken the exhilaration out of the game; she felt no guilt in deceiving him and his partner, just as, sixteen years before, she had no compunction against writing the stack of lies that led them to Thaddeus White. It was unfortunate she couldn't dislike Preston; then it would have been fun.
    But in the face of his respect, it became something she just had to do. At least it was of her own volition, not forced by Lucifer.
    Caused by him, perhaps, but not forced.
    She became hopeful again when Taylor finally came in. Lilith stood, and was subjected to a flat, searching stare followed by a cool handshake.
    She could dislike this woman.
    Then the detective ruined it by turning to Preston and commenting, "You're right: she could kick my ass."
    The older man flushed slightly. "I told you; she has six inches and thirty pounds on you."
    "Oh, at least forty" Lilith said, glancing down at the detective's wrist. It looked as fragile as a swan's neck.
    Taylor sighed. "Dammit." She pulled her fingers through her hair, and every strand of her neat, auburn bob fell back into place. Though Lilith could feel the other woman's weariness, hear it in the hoarseness of her voice, none of it showed on her face or in her posture. "So, Agent Milton—what have you got for us?"
    "Maybe nothing," Lilith said, and pulled a sheaf of paper from the manila envelope. "I received these in my inbox six months ago. Forensics looked over them: no prints, no DNA on the original envelope, and the paper was a brand and weight used by every major print-and-copy store in the region. I've been sitting on them, because though they were a curiosity, they didn't seem to relate to anything."
    Taylor accepted the copies, unclipping them and passing half to Preston. "It looks like an old letter." She flipped through the pages. Lilith waited for a moment. Taylor paused, her breath hissing through her teeth.
    Preston glanced over, his eyes widening. "What the hell?"
    "When I heard the… nature of your victim's death, I thought of these. I see I'm not wrong in thinking they are similar."
    "Where did you hear?" Preston glanced up. "The details weren't released." There was no accusation in his gaze, though Taylor's was suspicious.
    "One of the agents in the Bureau has a brother who works for the ME," Lilith said truthfully, knowing that would be enough. Cops talked to one another, and the method of this murder was a remarkable one.
    Taylor nodded, and squinted down at the page. "I can't even read this."
    "There is a typewritten transcript at the bottom of the stack. A handwriting expert has verified the letter was written by John Polidori, who wrote a popular vampire tale nearly two hundred years ago. You can see his signature on the last page. We don't know who the 'L' in the salutation refers to. And we don't have the original letter, only copies."
    "What does it say?"
    "The text of the letter details a dream that he had, in which he witnessed the end of the world at the hands of huge men with fangs and pointed ears. He calls them 'nesuferit,' probably from a Latin word meaning 'not to suffer.' That drawing is his depiction of the torture they put him through in their attempt to transform him into a vampire, before they finally set him on fire."
    "You've got to be kidding me," Preston said at the same time Taylor exclaimed, "January 4, 1822?"
    Lilith nodded. "The year after Polidori died."
    The detectives exchanged a look.
    Taylor set the letter back on the table and folded her hands. "Is this some kind of sick joke, Agent