They watched the rest of the film in horrified silence. The tableau was repeated three more times—the vampire arriving at the scene, carving open the flesh of the dead. The dancing figure in black, fangs and lips growing bloody again and again. The only reason she recognized the bodies was because she’d been at each scene. The killer had been very careful not to show the victims’ faces outright.

They scrutinized the repetition, looking for anything that might reveal the killer’s identity. The editing was superb, cutaway shots of deepest black inserted at the perfect time to obscure the identity of the film’s star. There was never more of the murderer shown than the leering mouth, and that hand draped in black clutching the knife.

Taylor had Daphne rewind and forward the film several times—it seemed like the act of licking the wounds was the same every time. She didn’t know what that meant. Had the killer only licked the wound of Jerrold King, or all the victims’? She filed the thought away.

It wasn’t until Brandon Scott’s scene that it all changed. Brandon was caught by surprise, obviously changing to go for a run. He turned to face the camera, shouted “No” several times, then was attacked with a fury. The cat-o’-nine-tails bit into his flesh again and again, his hoarse cries became begging screams.

The shot faded into a haze, and it was over, Brandon Scott’s shrieks of agony settling into a silence that echoed through the conference room. Brittany Carson’s attack had not been documented.

They were all dulled for a moment, absorbing. Taylor was the first to regain herself.

“That’s it. We have to get this video down from the site now,” Taylor said. Lincoln would be able to handle that. “How many people have seen this?”

Daphne pointed to the counter. “It’s going viral. It’s only been up since late last night, and we’re already at five hundred thousand views.”

McKenzie glanced at the page. “Can you tell who posted it?”

“I was looking at that before you came. There’s no real way—the user name is generic, letters and numbers, nothing personal. This is the first video posted using that name, there are no identifying details. Obviously, the company will have more information.”

“Lieutenant?”

Greenleaf was still sitting, his face pale.

“Yes?”

“Was that, I mean, could that?” He breathed out in a great gust. “Was that real?”

Taylor was suddenly very conscious of where she was. They were sitting in the conference room of the statewide newspaper, owned by a national media conglomerate, Gannett, and this would be mind-blowing, startling news that would capture the headlines for days. A scoop like this could sustain them for weeks.

“I’m not sure,” she said carefully. “It seems this video has some elements of reality to it. But David, don’t run it. Please.” The Tennessean had a robust online community with breaking news updates sent to computers, phones and PDAs all over the city. A rallying cry like this would force the video even further into circulation. Then again, maybe it would crash the server and they’d have half their work done for them.

Greenleaf didn’t look her in the eye, but nodded. She hoped that meant he’d sit on it, at least until they could get the video taken down.

“Thank you. Daphne. David.” Taylor shook hands with Greenleaf, who was actively sweating. She couldn’t blame him—that would have horrified anyone. She was feeling rather sick herself. There was no doubt about it—the video most certainly was real.

Taylor and McKenzie took the security films with them, headed to the CJC. Tim Davis had the letter in evidence and was bringing them a copy with his results. Taylor had phoned ahead to Lincoln, warning him about the video upload. He said he’d get right on it.

Taylor was still a little shaky. She slid behind the wheel and turned to McKenzie, watched him placidly click his seat belt home.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t remember a murder case that had an accompanying video. Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked.

He nodded. “Once, unfortunately. This guy in Orlando was making snuff films in his basement. He killed three girls before the Orange County Sheriff’s Office got to him. But those were getting sold on the black market, through the fetish sex clubs, not being broadcast to anyone who wanted to look. And I didn’t see the victim at the scene where it took place, either. It’s not without precedent—we’re living in our very own brave new world.”

McKenzie had jotted down the symbols from the letter and was staring at them with an intensity that she thought might burn a hole in his notebook.

“What do they mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I think they’re meant to be pagan, or at least symbolize the occult—that much I can tell you.”

“Really? So they match with the pentacles?”

“Yes, to an extent. Here’s the irony. The pentacle is a symbol of protection. It’s a sign of unending life, the cycles of the year, the interconnectedness of the universe. It doesn’t represent evil, and it’s not meant to invoke fear. It’s a very misinterpreted symbol.”

Taylor glanced over at him. “McKenzie, how do you know that?”

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed loudly. “Listen, this is going to sound ridiculous, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I was kind of into this stuff when I was in junior high. And high school.”

“You were a Goth?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. I got into it to avoid dealing with my sexuality. It was a great release, and there were a lot of other kids who were confused, as well. We did a bunch of experimenting, and I ended up with…quite an education.”

“Renn, you never cease to amaze me. So you can be our resident expert in all things occult?”

“I guess. But do we have to tell everyone? I feel sort of dumb about it.”

“We’ll see how dumb you feel when you’ve helped close seven murders in one fell swoop, okay? Tell me more about the video. You said the pentacle was for protection. The victims certainly weren’t protected, so maybe they were meant for the killer’s security?”

“It’s much more than that. The fangs were real. Whoever starred in the film had them created, filed, lengthened with bonding agents to look that way. There are dentists that will do that kind of work. We should take a still shot around to some of the local cosmetic dentists and see if any of them recognize their handiwork. We’re dealing with someone who believes they are a vampire. Most are content to role-play—there are very few genuine sanguine vampires out there. Combine that with the symbols—this is someone who is trying out several different religions, trying to find their place.”

“Sanguine?”

“Blood drinking.”

“Right. So this was a religious killing done by a blood-drinking vampire?” she asked, her sarcastic incredulity ringing though the car. Hell, she didn’t believe in vampires. Or witches, for that matter.

“No. It doesn’t feel like we have a true believer on our hands, someone who is against the pagan world and trying to make a point. This feels more like seeking to me. Someone searching for answers, for their place in the world. The symbols from the letter are old markings. A couple of them are obvious—the pentacle again, the moon and sun represent the seasonal cycles of the earth, the cross and the thunderbolt. The inverted triangles and the circle with the cross inside, they may mean something else. It could be a bunch of drawings meant to look like pagan symbols, too. They may mean nothing to the killer, outside of looking interesting. You never know.”

“So if the symbols aren’t meant to portend evil, what the hell is this self-described vampire doing sending letters with them? And why does it say ‘we’?”

“More than one, probably. A coven. If you could drop me at the library, I bet I could find their meanings quicker.”

She turned the ignition over, edged out onto Broadway. “Sure, but why not look online?”

“Well, I could, but I’ve got a hunch about these. Have you ever heard of the Strega?”

“No.”

“Stregheria, or Italian witchcraft. It’s an earth-based religion, pagan to its core, probably the oldest of the pagan religions that’s still practiced today. Nature is life, and magick, spelled M-A-G-I-C-K, is knowing how to control the interconnectedness of all the natural forces of life. Strega look for ways to manipulate the earth through their worship. It’s a positive journey. They aren’t worshiping the devil or anything like that. No animal sacrifices to dark angels. Not anymore, or at least not publicly.”

She glanced over at him, saw he was trying to tease. It didn’t work, they were both too rattled. McKenzie continued, looking out the window.

“Some of these look suspiciously like Strega symbols. We’re talking mythology worship here, the polytheistic society. Earth, moon and stars, all represented by the different Gods and Goddesses.”

“Let me guess. You speak witch, too?”

He shot her a look, saw she was teasing him back. “You’re funny. Didn’t you study the classics in college?”

“I took a class in mythology to satisfy one of the liberal arts credits I had to take, but that’s it. All I remember is Zeus and his lightning bolt and something about the Tower of Babel.”

“Poor you. It’s very cool stuff. All of the pagan religions are based in polytheistic pantheon worship. The Christians had to work within the confines of the pagan structure when they converted the masses. That’s why Catholicism has so many pagan rituals. The incense, the candles, the feast days, the saints. Mary correlates to the Goddess, Christ to the God. The saints are also a direct corollary to the pantheon of Gods and goddesses. They represent the same things, protection for specific parts of life—crops, welfare, war. It’s fascinating, actually.”

“Honey, we’re in the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. They didn’t teach us about that. It is interesting, but what does it have to do with this case? You think we’re dealing with pagans? I thought you said sanguine vampires.”

He sighed. “I’m thinking that there’s more to all of this than meets the eye, and I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

“Well, I think we’re dealing with crazy people, people who took it upon themselves to kill seven children. I can get all romantic about the old ways too, but that’s not going to solve this case. I have to produce a suspect, and fast. Which means regular old police work instead of a history lesson.”

“Let me go do some research. The killer might be in an altered state, especially if he’s under the influence of drugs. We can’t forget that someone shot the video, and that shakiness means handheld camera. We’re certainly dealing with more than one person.”

“Great. Just what we need.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the killer in the video is the person Lincoln saw in the videotapes we took from the scenes last night. God. We have seven dead, one clinging to life, a letter from someone claiming to have killed them and a film of the whole event. Vampires and witches running amok in Nashville. This will definitely make the national news,” she muttered, turning onto Eighth Avenue, then onto Church.

She stopped in front of the Nashville Public Library. The soaring three-story stone edifice with its Roman columns seemed overwhelmingly prescient. Great, she was going to be seeing symbols in everything now.

A homeless man wandered near the car and glared at her, then turned back to his meandering shuffle, across to the park to join his cronies. The irony wasn’t lost on her—the library and its traditional representation of enlightenment and education being watched over by the forgotten people.

“Do you still want to go with me to Hillsboro? I can pick you up on the way.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll call you in a bit. This shouldn’t take me long.”

He climbed out of the car, already lost in his world. He disappeared through the ornate doors and she sighed. She didn’t know why, but seeing him walk away reminded her of Memphis. James “Memphis” Highsmythe, the Viscount Dulsie, special liaison to the terrorism Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico for the Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard, to be precise.

Baldwin had seen Memphis in Quantico last week, moving into his new office. She hadn’t told Baldwin that Memphis had also been in touch with her.

Memphis had been good for the past few weeks. After their interlude in Florence, a kiss that stayed with her for days after, she’d received a few discreet texts and e-mails, nothing that couldn’t be shown to Baldwin if the question arose. But yesterday, before she’d been publicly reinstated, a bouquet of white roses had appeared on her desk. The card simply read, Love, M.

She’d gone through all of the appropriate emotions, and the not so appropriate ones, as well. Love, M, indeed. It would have been fine—nothing—really, if Baldwin hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t said anything, but clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscle jumped deep in the flesh. She hated Memphis for upsetting Baldwin, hated him for being so arrogant as to send her roses with a card that read, Love. But she was happy at the same time, and didn’t understand what that meant.

She got mad thinking about it again, slammed the car into gear and pushed the accelerator harder than necessary, making the wheels squeal under her as she shot away from the curb. Distracted, she barely watched the lanes in front of her, crowded with tourists intent on crossing the streets against the lights to enjoy a few hours of entertainment on Lower Broad. She finally got fed up, cut across to Union Street and flew up Fifth, wrestling all thoughts of Memphis back into their appropriate place. She couldn’t keep doing this, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. She didn’t want him. That should be all that mattered. Yet thoughts of him kept crowding in at the most inopportune moments.

She wanted to talk to Sam about it, but Sam was already upset and attuned to the breach in Taylor’s mental protocol. They’d assiduously avoided the topic after Sam bitched her out for flirting with Memphis at an autopsy. Taylor’s face burned at the thought of their fight—she hadn’t been consciously flirting and was hurt that Sam had implied otherwise. But now, after Memphis told her so starkly what he was feeling, now that they’d had some physical contact, regardless of how minute it was, she didn’t know how to put her emotions into words for her best friend.

And since Sam was pregnant again, she’d be drawing in, focusing on herself and her family. Taylor’s silliness wouldn’t be of importance. She suddenly felt isolated, alone, for the first time in several years. Truth be told, she didn’t have that many friends who she felt she could talk to, not about matters of the heart.

Nothing to be done for it, then. Shrugging to herself, she chalked it up to being lucky to be found attractive by two men, and left it at that. Baldwin was the better of the two, the one she wanted to be with forever, and she certainly didn’t plan on endangering their relationship because another man had a little crush on her.

Thinking about other men invariably led her to Fitz, and she reminded herself to call the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation again. Surely she’d find someone there who could listen to her side of the story, who would be willing to put pressure on the Coast Guard, or search the ports, something, anything, to help her find him. She felt her blood pressure rise thinking about her theory—that the Pretender had taken Fitz—and felt better. Fired up. Worrying about Fitz was much more important than worrying about Memphis.

She passed the offices of Channel Five, wondered what they were cooking up today. The Green Hills Massacre, they’d called it this morning, with shots of Taylor speaking at the press conference. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever felt more pressure to move forward on a case than she did at this moment.