Violets Are Blue

that a vampire can only be killed by a stake, fire, or by destroying its domain, where it sleeps during the day.
    I didn’t believe in vampires.
    I believed in evil, though. I had seen it enough times to believe. The two brothers were twisted murderers. That’s all they were.
    I jumped sideways just before the pickup would have run me down. I rushed down the hillside behind the truck. I was hoping it would flip — and then it did. I felt like shouting.
    The truck bounced heavily on its side, then on its roof — then continued to roll over several times. Finally it stopped, resting on the driver’s side, teetering slightly. Black smoke coiled up from the engine. No one got out at first.
    Then the younger brother climbed out. His face was streaked with blood and soot. He didn’t speak — just glared at us, and then he roared like an animal. It seemed as if he had gone insane.
    “Don’t make us shoot you!” I shouted at him.
    He didn’t seem to hear. He was in a blind rage. Michael Alexander wore long, sharp canine fangs, and they were bloody. His own blood? His eyes were red. “You shot William! You killed my brother!” he shrieked at us. “You murdered him. He was better than all of you!”
    Then he charged — and I couldn’t bring myself to shoot. Michael Alexander was insane; he wasn’t responsible anymore. He kept growling, frothing from the mouth. His eyes were wild, rolling in their sockets. Every muscle on his body was tightly flexed. I couldn’t kill this tortured man-child. I braced myself to tackle him. I hoped I could bring him down.
    Then Kyle fired — once.
    The shot struck him where his nose had been just an instant before. A dark, bloody hole appeared at the center of his face. There was no surprise or shock — just sudden obliteration. Then he crumpled to the ground. There was no doubt he was dead.
    I had been wrong about Kyle — he could shoot. He was an expert, full of surprises. I needed to think about that, but not right now.
    Suddenly, I heard another voice. It was coming from inside the pickup. Someone was trapped. William? Was the brother alive?
    I approached the overturned vehicle slowly, gun in hand. The engine was still smoking. I was afraid the truck might blow.
    I climbed onto the teetering wreck and managed to pull open the bent door. I saw William — shot to death, his face a sorry, bloody mask.
    Then I found myself staring into the angriest, most arrogant eyes. I recognized them immediately. It was almost impossible to shock me anymore, but this was another jolt. “So you’re the one,” I said.
    “You killed them, and you will be killed,” a voice threatened. “You’ll die. You
will
die, Cross!”
    I was looking at Peter Westin, the vampire expert I’d met weeks before in Santa Barbara. He was cut up, injured, and bleeding. But he was in total control, even with my gun aimed at his face. He was cool and superior, so confident. I remembered sitting across from him at the Davidson Library in Santa Barbara. He had told me he was a
real
vampire. I guess I believed him now. I finally found the right words. “You’re the Sire.”

Chapter 92

    I TRIED a couple of sessions with the creepy and surreal Peter Westin that night in the jail at Santa Cruz. Kyle was attempting to get him transferred to the East Coast, but I doubted he would be successful. California wanted him. Westin wore a long-sleeved black velvet shirt and black leather pants. He was as pale as paper. Thin blue veins were visible under the translucent skin of his temples. His lips were full and the pigment appeared redder than most people’s. The
Sire
almost didn’t seem human, and I was pretty sure that was the effect he wanted to convey.
    It was emotionally disturbing and draining to be in the same room with him. Jamilla and I had talked about it briefly, and we both felt the same thing. Westin had none of the usual qualities that we associate with humans: conscience, sociability, deep emotion, sympathy, empathy. His entire persona was that of the Sire. He was a killer, a ghoul, a real-life bloodsucker.
    “I’m not going to try and scare you with interrogation room threats,” I said in a low-key way.
    Westin appeared not to be listening. Bored? Indifferent? Smart as hell? Actually, as the Sire he was an extraordinary person to encounter: haughty, superior, intense, physically striking. He had the most piercing eyes. He’d put on an act for me in Santa Barbara — the harmless scholar with