Keeper of the Dawn

them another victim.

“If you think of anything else—that drug would have been good to know about—please notify us immediately,” Brodie said, his tone critical.

The fact that the victims so closely resembled his own race had to be unnerving for Brodie, Mark realized.

“And just how was I supposed to put that in the report?” Brandt demanded. “I had a call in to the station, but even then, I have to be careful.”

“Of course,” Mark said quickly, to smooth the waters.

“I do my part here, but the Others on the force have to do their parts, too,” Brandt said. “So you’ll inform me if something comes up that I should know?”

“Of course,” Mark assured him.

A few minutes later he and Brodie were back out in the California sun. Mark was glad. No matter how well it might be maintained, the morgue always smelled of chemicals on top of death.

“Transymil,” Brodie said. “That’s not good. Not good at all.”

“It almost certainly means that someone local is manufacturing it, which is bad enough, but now that our cultists have gotten their hands on it...”

“You don’t think the members themselves are the ones manufacturing it?”

Mark thought for a minute. “No, actually, I don’t. I think the head of the cult and his followers are here in L.A. You’ve got to be up in the mountains to cultivate the plant, and you need privacy to transform it into liquid.”

“True,” Brodie agreed. “So, let’s hit the streets. We’ll find some junkies and see what they know.”

“I have some friends in Vice—I can give them a call,” Mark suggested.

* * *

Alessande walked aimlessly around the eclectic living room of Castle House. She knew that everyone was hovering to see to her safety, and it made her feel restless.

She paused, looking at Sailor. “I think Regina intended to audition for Death in the Bowery and that she was the one who left the screenplay there—right before she was taken.” She resumed her pacing. “And I think I need to audition for that role.”

Declan shook his head. “You might be recognized.”

“Okay, aside from you taking that risk, you think she spent the evening at the House of Illusion, bought gas —and decided to break into the old Hildegard Studio to read a screenplay?” Sailor asked incredulously.

“No,” Alessande said. “I think she met someone at the House of Illusion—someone who gave her the screenplay and sent her to the Hildegard Studio.”

“Why send her to an empty studio?” Barrie asked.

“Maybe they said they’d meet her there. Maybe they suggested that she could practice there in secret.”

“And maybe,” Rhiannon said, “some other person with nothing to do with any of this left the screenplay there.”

“Both options seem a little far-fetched to me,” Declan said thoughtfully.

Rhiannon let out a deep sigh of frustration. “I have to go—I’m playing at the Mystic Cafe this afternoon.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Mick told her, and offered her a smile of encouragement. “The local Others know it’s owned by the Keeper of the canyon werewolves, so a lot of them feel comfortable there.”

“And, at the moment—given what went on at the Hildegard tomb the other night—we need to look at all the Other races, including werewolves,” Declan pointed out.

“I’ll keep my eyes open and see what I can discover,” Rhiannon said. She hesitated. “I also got asked to play tonight at the House of Illusion.

“Jerry feels bad about the killings and their connection to the House of Illusion,” Rhiannon said. “I’m sure we can go to him for help, see if he remembers Regina or the dead women.”

Alessande knew Jerry Oglethorpe, the owner, and the rest of the L.A. Otherworld were rocked by the recent spate of murders.

“So that’s where we’ll begin tonight,” Sailor said, looking at Alessande.

Alessande smiled. “All right. I’ll get online and find out where the auditions will be held.”

“Well, since I’m really an actress, not a waitress,” Sailor said, catching Declan’s gaze and continuing, “I’ll audition, too.”

As Rhiannon had told them earlier, the auditions were next week, but every minute that went by, Alessande feared Regina was in greater danger. “I’ll let you know about dates and times,” she said.

“I doubt if they’re going to hold open auditions for the main roles,” Sailor said. “I have an easier way. I’ll call my agent.”

* * *

“On the street, we’ve been calling it XF. It’s one hell of a scary drug and it’s showing up in more and more places,” Janet Scaly, an undercover cop in Vice, told Mark and Brodie as they gathered around her desk in an isolated corner of the precinct. She was a little pixie of a thing—literally. She really was a pixie. Barely five feet, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, she had a gamine’s face, which made her perfect for Vice. Her size was deceptive, and she frequently worked undercover, because she looked like a runaway waif ready to play her guitar for money.

“Our chemists tell us that it’s from a rare plant that originated in Eastern Europe, and it’s still relatively new here, so a lot of Others don’t know about it yet. Given where it originated, the vampires seem to be the ones growing it.” She looked at Mark apologetically. “No insult intended, it’s just, you know, it is from their part of the world. Anyway, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re trying to find the source and stop it.”

“How is it being used on the street?” Mark asked.

“Date rape—it’s the newest date rape drug,” she said. “A few drops in your drink, and you’re rendered anything from unconscious to unable to function, depending on your body weight. Pretty scary stuff—we had one junkie die. I think XF was the major factor, but it was hard to tell, there were so many drugs in her system. Sad. We’re here in the city where dreams come true—but so do nightmares.”

“Do you know who’s selling the stuff?” Mark asked.

She gave him a long, dry look. “If I knew, don’t you think they’d be under arrest?” She shrugged. “Hang out around the Hotel Clinton—it’s a pay-by-the-hour. We found the latest dead junkie there in room 333.”

“Thanks,” Brodie told her. “Sounds like a little surveillance is in order.”

They left Janet and the station, and headed down to the seedy area that hosted the Hotel Clinton. Brodie flashed his badge at the desk manager, who barely looked up as he nodded.

Mark sat in a chair and picked up a newspaper, and Brodie headed across to a worn-out sofa that faced an ancient TV.

They waited, and they watched.

* * *

“It’s my understanding that you’ve already done some screen work,” Lisa Morgan, a talent agent at the ITC Group, said to Alessande. “Who represented you?”

Alessande looked over at Sailor sitting next to her, thankful they could get in the very same day to see Sailor’s agent and mentally crossed her fingers that the woman would take Alessande on. “I’ve only done extra work, actually. But when I heard there was an open call for this film, I had to give it a try,” she told the woman.

Lisa Morgan was perfect for Hollywood. Her age was impossible to determine, but she had obviously had work done on her face—the telltale stretching was there. But it had been good work, and she cut an impressive figure. She wore a tight-fitting business suit, the skirt short but not too short, and four-inch heels, and her expertly dyed hair was swept up in a sleek chignon. Alessande made a point of catching her eyes to read her mind, hoping to learn something useful.

I’m not at all sure about this... The woman is really tall. And I don’t know... They’re friends, both wanting to read for the same role. Hmm. What the hell...maybe...

“All right. Let me see what you can do.”