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“There’s a guy in Laramie who makes them,” Ben said. “Been doing it for years.”
“Everybody get them from this guy?”
“No. Other people make them. There’s a community out there—Cormac’s not the only one who does what he does.”
I should have known that, but it was still a sobering thought. Shining a light into this shadow world didn’t illuminate much of anything. It only made more shadows. Darker shadows. All this time, all these miles, I was still ignorant.
“Community, huh? Is there a union? Conventions?”
He just smiled.
I picked one of the silver bullets from the box and held it in my bare hand. Instantly, it started to itch, and a rash developed, splotchy red. I kept it in my palm, letting it burn.
“What are you doing?” Ben said.
I didn’t know. Letting the pain grow, I stared at the shining capsule in my hand. It gleamed, brighter than the ones we’d spent on paper targets, like a bit of frozen mercury or a piece of jewelry, beautiful almost. Like magic. This little thing could kill me. And I held it, inert. Like playing with fire.
Ben picked it off my hand and slid it into the clip. I rubbed my hand on my jeans. Slowly, the pain and the rash faded.
“Maybe we won’t have to shoot anyone,” I said. “Maybe they’ll just leave. Maybe I can convince them to leave town, leave us alone.”
Ben took a long pause before saying, “Maybe.”
“I don’t want to have to shoot anyone, Ben.”
Another long pause. “Then it’s a good thing Dack and I are around.” He packed the guns into the trunk and went to the driver’s seat.
“This’ll work,” I said as we drove away.
“Yeah,” Ben said.
Neither one of us sounded sure.
Finally, it was time.
Rick settled into the chair in the studio. He looked distinctly nervous, his gaze unsettled, his skin too pale, even for a vampire. I wanted this all to be over just to see Rick back to normal. I was used to seeing him confident and even amiable.
At least he was back to the suave Rick I was used to, all polish and expensive clothing.
“I’m only here because I have nothing to lose,” he said.
“Oh, don’t sound so glum. This’ll be fun!”
Matt back in the booth didn’t look so sure. Rick also looked skeptical.
“Humor me a little longer,” I said. “Then it’ll be all over.”
“I leave it to you. You’re the professional.” He put on the headphones, glaring at me. “I have a small request, though. You need to call me Ricardo.”
“That your real name?”
“It’s a Master’s name.”
And that was another thing about vampires: Why did they have such a problem with nicknames? “Whatever you say.”
Nothing more than sheer, pigheaded enthusiasm was carrying me along at this point. Show business, baby. Matt counted down, and the music cued up.
“Good night, everyone, and welcome to The Midnight Hour. It’s vampires again tonight. It might sound like I’ve been doing a lot of shows on vampires lately, but that’s just the way it goes. There seem to be a lot of them around at the moment. This time it’s vampire politics. Like any other community, they have their leaders, their followers, their structures, their organizations—and their problems. Here to help us talk about vampires’ wily ways and notions is a very special guest: Denver’s own Master vampire, Ricardo.”
