She considered her options carefully. What image did she want to present tonight? She was going to tap a sources for information as well as a meal this time. She hadn't asked for any favors before, and this was a delicate matter. Naresha had no doubt that slight suspicions could be taken care of with partial truths and liberality, but it was better to not rouse suspicions.

She dismissed the red satin sheath as too flashy. The charcoal grey business suit was too conservative for Crowley's unless she wore the severe jacket with a skirt that ended two inches below her butt and a pair of fuck me heels. Was there any such thing as trustworthy goth?

At last she chose a mannish cut black shirt, the kind Hollywood gangsters wore, and a pair of black jeans so tight that it was a good thing she didn't need to really breathe. She would normally have worn open toed shoes to show off her freshly lacquered toenails. There were a lot of folks at Crowely's, men and women, who were passionately interested in feet. But tonight she went with plain flat heels. She added a belt with a pentagram buckle, and a tiny cross of white gold. It was a shame about that allergic reaction she had to silver. Silver was so decorative.

At last she sat at her vanity and studied herself, then began to apply makeup. Not quite Kabuki style tonight, she thought. Something a bit less stark. She applied a pale foundation, then powdered it smooth, and considered the effect. It would have amazed an onlooker to see how accurate she was without an actual reflection. They wouldn't know that she did see herself.

A goth was expected to be pale, but it was better to have the world at large think she achieved that through artificial means. If she always wore makeup there would be no questions about why she had no color.

She used three different shades of grey around her eyes, till they almost seemed to spark in dark hollows. The final touch was maroon lipstick, a compromise between red and black.

What looked back at her from the mirror was a modern version of an old fashioned silent screen vamp. The idea made her grin wickedly at her own reflection. "Kiss me, my fool." she whispered. Acacia had known what she was doing when she gave her the name. Naresha, ruler of men. She slipped keys, cash, ID, and a credit card into her pockets, murmuring "Too true, big sister. Too true."

Before she left, she checked the trunk of the Lexus to make sure that Acacia hadn't forgotten to tell her about anything. It looked clean, but she decided to tell Nana to get it detailed tomorrow. They were just awfully clever about fibers and hair and such these days. They could take a tiny drop of blood and tell to withing a gazillionth point the probability that it had come from a particular individual. Naresha considered herself a connoisseur of the warm red stuff, and she couldn't do that.

In the car she took her time getting settled comfortably, making sure the seat and mirror were exactly as she wanted them. Tremble had given her an advance copy of Restless Dead's soon to be released CD. She lit a cigarette that smelled faintly of cloves and examined the case. It showed a deformed baby dressed in a pink jumper, floating in a jar of formaldehyde. Tremble, crying bloody tears from what looked like empty eye sockets, cradled it in her arms. The title, Save or Sacrifice, and the band's name was spelled out in razor blades, knives, and broken glass. Looked promising.

She popped out the disc and slipped it into the player, turning the ignition. The big engine was so quiet that she wouldn't have known it was on except for the slight vibration.

The whine of the electronic keyboard was so subtle that, for the first few seconds, she wasn't sure if she heard it or was imagining it. It gradually grew louder, from a mosquito hum to wind soughing through trees. It wandered up and down the scale in minor keys as it built. At last the lyrics started. Tremble, whispering the words.

"Little baby, born too soon.
Maybe born too late.
How could God send you to
Such a world of hate?
Didn't he know that I
Cannot keep you safe?
Why did he trust me with
Such a tiny waif?"

A wall of sound blasted out from the speakers. Thundering drums, howling guitars. A base line that made the windows vibrate. Tremble's voice soared with it.

Naresha checked the play list. "Crib Death Blues." The next one was "Death of a Christmas Angel", the one about Jon-Benet Ramsey, she supposed. Then there was "Candy Man", dedicated to Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corel, the Texas mass murderers who'd buried their twenty-odd teenage victims under a boathouse. When they released this at the beginning of their next tour, it was going to be huge. Naresha could hear the civil suit lawyers screaming already.

She took a final puff and ground out the cigarette. Before she put the car in gear she fastened her seat belt. Not that she cared so much about the laws. What was another ticket, more or less? But going through the windshield was a real pissy experience. She'd done it once about five years after she turned. She'd been stunned into unconsciousness, and hadn't woken up till she was on a gurney in some pissant town morgue.

There she'd been, face mashed into a gooey mess, and some pimple faced necrophile attendant had one hand on her tits and the other down his pants. Actually, it was good he was right there because she really needed a boost to get enough strength to make it home before sunrise. Surprised the fuck out of him when she sat up and tore out his throat. Generally she tried to avoid killing her prey, but he deserved it and she just wasn't feeling all that patient and forgiving.

Anyway, she'd made it back home before the bones started to set. Nana had helped her push everything back into place, molding her face like modeling clay. In fact, she'd given herself higher cheekbones, so it had worked out alright. But it took nearly a week to heal, and it was an absolutely shitty way to get cosmetic correction.

When she pulled up in front of Crowely's, one of the doormen came over to open her door. "Hey Naresha! Where you been?"

"Seeking decadence in all it's many forms, Boris." She handed him her keys, and a fifty dollar bill.

He tried to hand the money back. "You know you don't have to do that."

She tucked her hands behind her back so he couldn't force it on her. "I know. But I also know your pay isn't nearly enough for what you do."

He grinned. He was at least six foot four, and around two hundred and forty pounds of bone and muscle. He was quite handsome, despite the fact that his nose had obviously been broken once or twice and a thin white scar ran across his forehead just below his hairline. It was his size and the scar that had earned him the affectionate nickname of Boris, in honor of Karloff's most famous role. "Then hire me to work for you. You can afford me."

"I may very well do that some day."

"Promises, promises. I'll take good care of the Lex."

"Just remember to put the seat back when you're done. The last time I felt like a kindergartner sitting in Daddy's chair." While Boris parked her car, the other man swept the door open for her with a ceremonious bow. "Hello, Cerebus. How they hanging?"

"Tight and high now that you're here, pretty lady." He was much smaller and thinner than Boris, but anyone who thought he'd be the easier one to deal with would be in for a nasty surprise. He was the fastest, toughest mortal Naresha knew.

"Shameless flatterer. I do love that in a man." She slipped him a bill also as she passed. It was good to have the local muscle on your side. "Has Goth Cop shown up tonight?"

Goth Cop was Randal Turner. He worked in the records division. of the biggest precinct in town. It was said that when someone had told him his career stall might be due to his outside interests and perhaps a more mainstream lifestyle might kick it into gear he'd replied that he saw nothing at all normal about wearing shirts with polo players, or alligators, or someone else's name on them, and playing golf every Sunday. It was also rumored that the brass was reluctant to pressure him because he sometimes worked as a liaison between the force and the goth subculture.

"Not yet, oh regal temptress. If he shows, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

The front room of Crowley's looked like a cross between a posh men's club and a Victorian fantasy whorehouse: all rich, polished woods, gleaming brass, and wine-red velvet draperies. It was the entire bottom floor of the building. No walls broke up the space, but here and there different type pillars supported the second floor. The pillars ranged from classic Greek marble, to stark cement cylinders, to rough tree trunks, bark still intact. Different cliques` favored the area around different pillars. Naresha didn't limit herself to any one group, but the person she was looking for favored the antebellum area, so that was where she headed.

There were several love seats, chairs, and small tables around a stately white column that could have come directly from Tara. A half dozen men and women were already gathered there, and she was greeted enthusiastically. Naresha distributed hugs and kisses, then smiled pointedly at a thin young woman in what looked like a shroud till she got up and offered her place on the white satin love seat. "Thank you, Vanessa. You're too kind." And I display very well against white, she thought as she sat.

A dark skinned man with blue streaked, ice white hair offered to get her a mint julep. She shook her head. "Make it a Flaming Yellow Snow." While he was gone, she talked about Save or Sacrifice. Someone said that they hoped that Restless Dead wouldn't lose their edge with notoriety, and end up playing the David Letterman show, or doing commercial jingles. Naresha opined that there was very little chance of that.

The streak haired man returned, and handed her a tall glass. It was filled with shaved ice and a yellowish, fizzy liquid. There were bright red dribbles of liquid running down the inside of the glass, making a red cloud at the bottom. "Go easy on that. I watched the bartender make it, and it looks like it can kick ass and take names."

"What is it?" asked Vanessa, curiously.

"My own invention, dear." Naresha sipped delicately through a thin straw. "Everclear, ginger ale, lemon, sugar, and triple sec for the flame effect. And it can, indeed, kick ass."

"I'll have one of those."

Another girl, this one in a black boustier trimmed with blood red lace, said, "Van, you've never drunk anything stronger than a spritzer before. Are you sure you want to start with that?"

"Sure. I'm all grown up now, right?"

"Yeah, but you don't know how you'll handle it."

"Go for it, kid." said Naresha. "Remember the club motto. Do as thou will shall be the whole of the law." She was right in thinking this would make Vanessa determined to have the drink. She was so desperate to do something wicked and dangerous and bad for her. Far be it from Naresha to discourage that impulse. Humans behaving badly could be quite funny. "Lambert, you asshole, be a gentleman and get Vanessa a drink. Hell's bells, she shouldn't have to ask. I'm ashamed of you."

Blushing to the pale roots of his hair, the man who had gotten Naresha's drink brought one to Vanessa, mumbling apologies. "Niceties, Lambert. Niceties. People just don't try these days." She watched as Vanessa sipped her drink. Her thin little face crinkled. Naresha said solicitously, "Too strong? Perhaps you aren't quite ready for it yet. We could send it back and get you a Shirley Temple."

Vanessa steeled herself and took another, deeper sip. Her voice was froggy when she replied. "No, I'm fine. It's good. Just a bit... uh..."

"Intense?"

"Yeah, intense."

"Don't worry. The second one goes down much smoother."

The talk turned to the usual channels. The newest Anne Rice novel was mentioned, which brought up the eternal debate about just who should play Lestat, and whether casting Tom Cruise had been a mistake or a stroke of genius. This led to the different vampire mythologies, and which one was 'right': the ancient folklore, the Victorian ideas of Bram Stoker, the Universal monster version, Hammer's, Anne Rice's, or the psychological explanation. All had their champions.

"Personally," drawled Naresha, "I don't believe one can be too careful. I say go the whole nine yards. Carry a crucifix, holy water, garlic, wolfsbane, a mirror, and a bible. Keep on hand a supply of stakes, mallets, and edged instruments to remove head, hands, and feet. Then have fun explaining it to the next cop who stops you."

"Some cops are more understanding than others." Randal Turner, lean and intense in pure white, strolled over to the group. His clothing seemed almost iridescent in the gloom. Naresha silently acknowledged someone else who knew how to display themselves to advantage.

He was in his early thirties, but looked younger. His hair, worn as long as the department allowed, was a thick, rich chestnut. Even in the dim lighting of Crowley's, red glints were evident. Naresha knew women who spent hundreds of dollars in an attempt to have hair like that. But there was nothing feminine about Randal.

Vanessa was chewing shaved ice that had a higher alcoholic content than anything she'd ever had. Her voice was blurry, tongue anesthetized with the cold, when she said, "What are you doing in that color?"

He cocked his head at her, eyeing her windings. "You're not exactly wearing Laura Ashley yourself."

"This is a shroud. Shrouds are supposed to be white."

"I'd say that it's Chinese mourning." said Naresha. The other's looked confused. "Those characters embroidered on his shirt are the script for 'death', 'awaken', and 'eternity'. And white is the traditional funereal color."

"What characters?" The others peered more closely at Randal.

He moved the material of his shirt, so that the light picked up the faint outlines of the symbols, done in white silk thread. "You have a good eye. Most folks don't see those, even in bright light. And I'm surprised you recognized the signs."

She shrugged negligently. "I have a smattering. I've used those in some of my own designs." She drained the last of her drink and said, "Care to buy me another one of those?"

He smiled at her directness. "My pleasure."

She got up. "Just tell Luca at the bar one of the same, and bring it over to the booth. We can have a cozy little chat."

There were booths against the wall. Like the pillars and furnishings, they reflected different styles and atmospheres. Naresha chose one that was of dark, polished wood, with brass accents. The seats were tufted white satin, and the privacy drapes were the same material, pleated. It looked like the inside of a giant casket, which was exactly the intention.

When Randal arrived with the drink, he slid in on the opposite side. "Now, why don't you tell me why I'm being honored with a private audience?"

"Dear, dear. Working with the police has made you a cynic."

"I was a cynic long before I went into the academy."

"It's just possible that I want your company?"

He nodded. "Yes. It's possible. But you usually want something."

"How sadly I am misjudged." Her voice dripped with mock sorrow.

"Naresha, you are the single most manipulative person I've ever met, male or female. You make Machiavelli look like a Quaker minister. I find that fascinating, so don't let me down now by not having an ulterior motive."

"I love it when you talk dirty. All right, if you must skip foreplay." She drank half of her cocktail in one long draft. She felt the ice and fire move into her sluggish veins, giving her the momentary illusion of something resembling life. It wasn't as good as blood, but it was nice. There were advantages to having enhanced senses. "Tell me, does it still irritate you that they won't let you work homicide?"

The muscles in his jaw tightened. "Yes. Pisses me off would be a better term. Records are vital, I know, but no one I know ever joined the police to shuffle papers. And it doesn't matter to them that I might be good. "Having a member of a culture that the average citizen perceives as morbid and possible dangerous working murders wouldn't project a serious and caring image to the public." His voice was a viciously dead on imitation of the condescending, smarmy tone of so many bureaucrats, impressed with their own position, adopted with anyone under their supervision.

"I applied for robbery, B and E, even auto theft and bunco. They just don't want me in the public eye. Well, I lie when I say there are no opportunities. Vice is drooling to get me as an undercover. But the idea puts a bad taste in my mouth. It's like they're saying, 'Hey, you're weird! We can use that!'"

"But you don't feel that what you're doing now is direct enough."

He nodded. "I know records have to be meticulous to keep a defense lawyer from getting some scumsucker off on a technicality, but it's hard to feel a sense of triumph because you got all the Is dotted and Ts crossed."

"Does it frustrate you that there's so much concern about the details that sometimes the hurtful people get away with it?"

"Of course it does."

"How would you like a chance to help make a real difference? To protect someone in danger, and maybe bring a killer to justice?"

He studied her silently for a long moment. Most people would have been uncomfortable with his probing gaze, but Naresha merely returned it steadily, waiting for him to speak. At last he said, "I've heard rumors that you and your sisters are operating a sort of half-ass detective agency. Does this have anything to do with that?"

"We never do anything half-ass, Randal, I assure you." She didn't seem the least offended. "And it's not a detective agency. That would involve all sorts of licenses and permits and regulations. We have as little to do with official channels as possible. Once you seek their sanction, you're under their thumb." For a second her sapphire eyes were as cold and flat as the stone itself. "We aren't going to be under anyone's thumb, ever again."

"If you're not detectives, what are you?"

"Problem solvers."

"Pro bono?"

She shrugged. "It depends on the situation. It's not like we need fees to pay our bills."

"What is it you want, exactly?"

"I want you to break the law."

"And what do I get?"

"You mean besides the satisfaction of helping the vulnerable and punishing the wicked? And screwing the system?"

"Yes."

She drank some more, watching him over the rim of the glass. "There is that little matter you mentioned before."

He took a short, sharp breath. "You said no before."

"That's because you don't fully understand what it involves. I think very carefully before I do that. There are a lot of responsibilities on both sides. It would be simpler," she smiled, "if you just wanted to screw me."

"I wouldn't mind that as well."

"One thing at a time. You know, I can't help but imagine the reaction at your job if they ever found out you have a blood fetish."

"I know. I guess I could understand. Blood drinkers have a bad reputation. I hate those fucking murderers who drink their victims' blood. I've never hurt anyone, it's always by mutual consent. I'd never forcibly take someone's blood."

*That*, she thought dryly, *is because it's a choice for you, not an imperative.* Aloud she said, "I like you, Randal, so I'm going to do something very rare. I'm going to warn you."

"That you'll try to use the sharing to control me? I know you well enough to realize that. And you should know that it won't work with me."

"No, you don't know me. You know what I've shown. And it will work, Randal. If you drink my blood you will do as I wish, at least for a while. It's not arrogance that makes me say that, it's simple fact. Don't take what I'm offering unless you're sure you're ready to pay the price."

He didn't believe her, she could tell by the look in his eyes. So be it. Disbelief was one of her greatest weapons, and he would learn. "When?"

She finished her drink. "Draw the curtains."