“They’re not targeting the powerful,” he said. “They’re targeting the connected. Vampires with bloodline relevance—those whose lineage traces back to specific families, specific eras.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this isn’t random violence.” He looked at Solange Vidal’s frozen face, at the expression that spoke of betrayal as much as terror. “Someone is sending a message. And they’re using your dead to compose it.”
He called Delphine from his car at two in the morning, parked on the shoulder of the West Bank Expressway with the AC fighting a losing battle against the heat. He had not planned to call. His hand had made the decision before his mind caught up.
She answered on the second ring. “Bastien.” No sleep-rough confusion—she’d been awake.
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“You didn’t wake me. I was reading.” A pause that held no pressure. “Where are you?”
“Algiers. Work.”
“Two bodies?” Her voice was careful, the precision of someone choosing what to ask rather than what she wanted to ask.
He went still. “What makes you say two?”
“You sound the way you do when you don’t want to confess how bad something really is—like you’ve just realized something terrible.” She was quiet a moment. “Also, you called me at two in the morning from Algiers, and it’s been over a full day since I heard from you. So… Two?”
“Two,” he said.
“Same method?”
“Yes.”
He heard her move—the sound of papers, something being set aside. “Any connection between the victims?”
“Distant. Both bloodlines tracing to the territorial period.” He found himself watching the bridge lights reflect off the river, the water carrying their shimmer downstream toward the Gulf.
A rustling sound—she was at her desk, he realized, not in bed at all. He should have anticipated this. “Hmm. If you can textme the bloodline information I can look for documentation or history at the Archive.”
Bastien sat with that for a moment. The bridge stretched before him, empty, the city glittering on the other side.
“You already have an idea who might be next,” she said.
“I have a suspicion there’s a list.”
“And you have two victims.”
“Yes.”
The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It had the quality of two minds moving parallel—hers through the documentary record, his through the geography of what he’d witnessed. He found he did not want to end it.
“Be safe,” she said finally. “Whatever this is, it’s likely been planned for a long time considering your victims. People who plan things that long don’t leave room for interference.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.”
“Mmm.” He could hear her skepticism clearly, even through the phone. “Call me when you’re back across the river. I don’t care what time.”
After she hung up, he sat in the dark thinking for another five minutes. Then he started the car and drove back toward the Quarter.
The killer knew vampire law. The killer knew vampire history. The killer possessed knowledge that should have died in 1891 and records that should have burned a century before that. He’d let Delphine know this later when he had a bit more information himself. If he could keep her separated from any potential danger, it would always be his first choice. While her researching skills were above all, he didn’t want to give her the bloodline names or any information unless it became critical.
