the house.”
“Exactly. Of course, that’s stupid.”
“It’s at least highly unlikely.”
“There’s more.”
Dena swallowed visibly and waited for me to continue.
“I got a note in the mail a little over a month ago, no return address. It was typed, and it contained just one sentence, ‘You reap what you sow.’ And then last night, before the whole glass thing, I got a whole bunch of prank calls. The person calling didn’t say anything threatening. He—or she—just called and hung up.”
“Okay, that’s it. You need to call the police.”
“And tell them what? That someone sent me a note in the mail that is, for all intents and purposes, perfectly benign? That I got a few hang-ups? Or that I found a broken glass in my apartment that may have been knocked over by my cat?”
Dena pressed her palms into her thighs and studied the discarded price tags on the floor. “All of the above?”
“Dena, I told you this because I wanted you to calm me down and bring me back to reality, not so you could further bolster my paranoia.”
“Sophie, if there’s a chance that someone is stalking you, the authorities should be alerted.”
“Great, now we are both being paranoid.” I ran my fingers through my hair, inadvertently tearing it as I went. “Look, I even cut my finger when cleaning up the glass, the way Alicia Bright did.” I held up a bandaged finger for Dena’s inspection. “Do you think that was planned too?”
“Okay, I get your point.” Dena chewed her lower lip. “Still…”
“Dena?” Barbie peeked her head through the door. “Your maaaann is here.”
“Oh good, I do get to meet him.” I stood up and waited for Dena to do the same.
“Sophie…”
“Dena, it’s fine, really. It was the cat. Now come on, you have an introduction to make.”
Dena put her hands on her hips and paused for a moment as she tried to figure out what her next move should be. Finally she shook her head in defeat. “Fine, I’ll let it go for now. Let’s have you meet Jason Beck.” She took my arm and guided me onto the selling floor, and there he was.
Mr. Velvet Pants.
CHAPTER 5
“One look at Kittie’s car told Alicia that there was more to the story than she was letting on.”
—Sex, Drugs and Murder
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Dena did a quick double take. She had every reason to be offended—I was being rude—but what the hell was she thinking?
The freak smiled. “Sophie and I met last night,” he said. “I ran into her at a gallery south of Market.”
“A gallery?” asked Dena. “I thought you were…”
“Going to participate in the vampire games? I did, but I was a little early, so I crashed an opening. It wasn’t worth the effort. The stuff being exhibited was the kind of shit people buy to match their thousand-dollar couch. No message at all.”
Okay, we needed to back up a bit. “The vampire games?”
“Right, let me explain that one.” Dena slipped between Jason and me in an attempt to ease some of the mounting tension. “Once a month a group of people—”
“Vampires,” Jason corrected.
“Right, okay, let’s call them vampire people.” Dena folded her hands under her chin. “Anyhow, a whole bunch of vampire people get together and act out some kind of vampire story. It’s often based on a novel or a movie.”
“Have you read much about vampires?” Jason asked. He stepped to the side so we could have a full view of one another again.
“I’ve read Dracula and The Vampire Chronicles.”
“Then you know a lot about the creatures of the night. I often get to play the part of Dracula.”
“Really.”
“Yes, I am Dracula.”
You are insane is what you are. I examined Jason’s current ensemble. The velvet was gone and in its place were a pair of black suede jeans, a white dress shirt with the breast pocket not so carefully cut off, and the motorcycle jacket from the night before. Dena was right, Jason had a different approach to things.
“Last night, how did you know my name?”
“Well, when I was at Dena’s place I was looking through her bookcase and noticed that she had several titles from you, which sort of threw me off ’cause Dena’s not the type to buy into that whole bestseller thing. She’s more an Anaïs Nin type than a Jane Austen chick. So I got curious and flipped one open and saw your autograph. You wrote a pretty detailed message, so it stuck in my head. I recognized you from the picture in back.”
Dena shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were in the shower,” he explained without bothering to move his eyes in her direction. “I know I came on a bit strong. When I’m in vampire mode I can be a little dramatic.”
“Understandable.” Not.
“I got one of your books this morning. I just started it.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“Your first one. Criminally Insane.”
“Always good to start at the beginning. I hope it’s not too ‘Jane Austen’ for you.”
“No, I’m sure I’ll like it.” He brought his hand up to stroke Dena’s back. “She and I have similar tastes. Although, as a general rule, I’m not all that into fiction.”
“But you do like books about vampires.”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure they’re all fiction.”
“Well.” I tried to choose my words carefully. “Parts of many novels aren’t. The writers tend to use a lot of accurate historical references.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Come on, you read the books. You had to have stopped sometimes and said to yourself, ‘Man, these characters are so real—too real.’ It must have crossed your mind that some of those guys are really out there—that the immortals exist.”
“I’ll concede that some of the writers who wrote on the topic are talented enough to bring their characters to life on the page, but I’m pretty sure it stops there.”
“And why are you so sure of that? Because our current western Judeo-Christian ethic says so? You need to broaden your thinking, Sophie. Open your mind
