Vampire King of the Goth Chicks by Nancy A. Collins

than servitors. They don’t seem to have the predator’s gleam in their eyes, nor is there anything resembling a killer’s caution in their walk or mannerisms. As they stroll down the darkened streets their chatter is more like that of mischievous children out on a lark — say t.p.ing the superintendent’s front lawn or soaping the gym teacher’s windows. They certainly aren’t aware of the extra shadow that attached itself to them the moment they left the Red Raven with their fresh pick-up. After a ten-minute walk they arrive at their destination: an abandoned church. Of course. It’s hardly Carfax Abbey, but I suppose it will do. The church is a two-storey wooden structure boasting an old-fashioned spire, stabbing a symbolic finger in the direction of heaven. The feeling of ill-ease rises in me again. Vampires dislike such obvious lairs. Hell, these aren’t the Middle Ages. They don’t have to hang out in ruined monasteries and family mausoleums any more — not that there are any to be found in the US, anyhow. No, contemporary bloodsuckers prefer to dwell within warehouse lofts or abandoned industrial complexes, even condos. I tracked one dead boy to ground in an inner-city hospital that had been shut down during the Reagan administration and left to rot. I suspect I’ll have to start investigating the various military bases scheduled for shutdown for signs of infestation within a year or two. As I watch the little group troop inside the church, there is only one thing I know for certa