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and just beneath that, the scent of death.
    Vampyre swarmed the dank, shadow-filled alley. Two stood side-by-side, one tall and thin, one short and stocky, comparing notes in hushed tones while a third crouched near the victim snapping photos from various angles. Off to the side, two more waited beside a gurney, silent and 29

     
    still as statues. A short distance away, another Vampyre paced the scene, stopping now and again to lift a piece of rubbish with a gloved hand, sniffing like a bloodhound hot on the trail.
    His long overcoat flapped at his calves as he skulked from one item of interest to the next. He wore his long hair skimmed back in a tight ponytail at the base of his skull. When he turned back toward the victim, the dim light above the door cast an eerie pall on the agent’s meticulous, expensive suit.
    Cole cleared his throat. The pacing Vampyre retrieved another piece of trash, inspected it, then placed the crumbled piece of paper back in the exact spot he’d picked it up. He eyed the paper for a second, shifting it a fraction of an inch before moving to join Cole and Styx.
    His gait was slow and easy, conspicuously unperturbed considering the corpse on the ground only a few short feet away. Despite his impeccable stature, the agent’s eyes reminded Cole of a basset hound. Big, brown, and sad. As he reached them, he held out a gloved hand.
    “Cole, sorry to have to do this here…” Cole glanced at the rubber glove, then up to the absentminded agent.
    Frowning, Crispin peered down at the glove on his hand, as if forgetting how it had gotten there. “Right, right,” he murmured as he withdrew his hand, nodding a distracted greeting to Styx.
    “Close call with this one,” Crispin mumbled in bland tones. “We’ve been staking out every night club inside city limits for the last several weeks.
    It’s stretching us a little thin. Happened to have an agent close by when the call came in. Young Human male found the body about an hour ago.
    The agent convinced him she’d only passed out 30

     

    and sent him on his way.”
    The tall, thin Vampyre approached them.
    “We’re all done here, Agent Crispin.” Crispin nodded dismissal, and the two with the gurney moved in.
    Cole stepped forward, interrupting their work.
    “Mind if we take a look at things first?” Crispin gave an indifferent shrug, waving the gurney back. Cole and Styx began their own search. Styx wandered around the alley with deceptive nonchalance. His body was relaxed, but Cole knew his eyes and nose were on high alert.
    Cole sauntered to the body. Crouching beside it much the same as the TFRA’s forensic photographer, his eyes drank in every detail.
    Blonde, five-five…maybe five-six, one-ten dripping wet. His nostrils flared, pulling in the scents of the alleyway, but too many Vampyre had tramped through to isolate a specific scent.
    He could smell the blood congealing in her hardening veins, and he was willing to bet his last Grammy the cause of death was a broken neck.
    With the back of his knuckle, he turned her head to the side. Puncture wounds.
    And the number three.
    He added the letter ‘c’ to his list. ‘Because I c…’ The killer was sending them a message all right. He looked up to Crispin, requesting, “Age?
    Occupation?”
    “Twenty-two…” Crispin glanced to Cole, his stare vague, then his gaze dropped back to the notebook in his hand. He flipped through several pages before muttering, “The female was a receptionist at Phoenix Records.” Cole’s eyes slid to Styx, a grim frown settled between his brows as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Another common tie. In one way or another, every victim had a connection to 31

     
    the music business. A studio manager, a DJ, and a studio intern. An assistant events producer, two back-up vocalists, a publicity assistant, a road crewmember, and now a receptionist.
    Crispin meandered over to stand beside the victim, giving the body one last dispassionate