Max made an elaborate gesture with his hands and said something in Latin.

“Oh, please don’t bother with all that, Dr. Zadok.” Thack took a seat as he waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not at all traditional—much to my family’s dismay, I might add.”

“Oh?” Max paused midgesture.

“No ritual greeting,” Thack said. “I beg you.”

“As you wish.” Max asked, “Have you come here to deal with this matter?”

“God, no.” Thack grimaced. “I came here because a client of whom I am very fond had a fit of insecurity and insisted I sit through this dreadful play.”

“Thack!”

“I told you how I felt about this sort of thing,” he said to me. “I loathe these revolting vampire stereotypes! Even so, I never suspected just how awful Daemon Ravel would be in his role. Leischneudel has explained why—sort of—but that’s no excuse. The people who paid four hundred dollars to see Ravel’s performance today must be feeling positively suicidal after sitting through it.”

“That’s what the scalpers are getting now?” I said in astonishment. “Four hundred dollars?”

“Never underestimate the commercial power of having your lead actor charged with murder,” Thack said dryly.

“He hasn’t been charged yet,” I pointed out.

“After that performance,” Thack said, “he certainly ought to be.”

Nelli sneezed twice more, then she laid down on her side with a weary moan. Her eyes looked a little bloodshot.

Thack glanced at her. “Your . . . small horse seems to be ill.”

“I think she’s allergic to something in the theater,” I said.

“And what happened to your face?” Thack asked, studying my colorful injuries with appalled concern, now that my heavy stage makeup had been removed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll explain later.” I pulled myself together and stared at my agent in amazement. “Thack! You’re a . . . a . . .” Though we were alone and behind a closed door, I lowered my voice. “A vampire?”

“Not a practicing one.” He said to Max, “Since I get the impression you know something about these matters, Dr. Zadok—”

“Please call me Max.”

“—let me state clearly that I lead a fully integrated life here in New York. I gladly shed all that Lithuanian business when I left home, and I am not equipped to deal with whatever may be happening here.”

“What do you mean, ‘not practicing’?” I demanded.

“Don’t give me attitude, Esther. I happen to know that you only go to Temple twice a year—and only then if your mother nags you.”

“You’re saying it’s voluntary?” I asked. “You can choose whether or not to be a vampire?”

“No, alas,” Thack said. “Like being Jewish, it’s something decided by birth. But you can at least convert. I, on the other hand, am stuck with being a vampire until I die.”

“If I converted, my mother would die,” I said. “Noisily.”

“However, I can choose whether or not I practice vampirism,” Thack said. “And like you, darling, I choose not to practice unless my family nags me enough on special occasions.”

“Vampires have special occasions?” I blurted.

Thack seemed a little miffed by my question. “Everyone else has special occasions. You don’t think we’re entitled?”

“And on these special occasions you . . .”

“Drink human blood? Yes.” Seeing my reaction, he sighed and said to Max, “You see? This is exactly why I never tell anyone about my family background.”

“Shackleton is not a Lithuanian name,” Max noted.

“As I said, I left all that behind me when I left Wisconsin.”

“There are vampires in Wisconsin?” I gasped. “I’m from Wisconsin!”

Still lying on her side, Nelli wheezed a little. We all looked at her.

Then Thack said, “I legally changed my name when I came here. William Makepeace Thackeray and Sir Ernest Shackleton are two of my heroes. Isn’t New York the place to reinvent oneself? I wanted to live unfettered by all that ... vampire stuff. It is so not me.”

“I always thought Thackeray Shackleton couldn’t be your real name,” I admitted.

“It is my real name,” he said firmly. “Just not my given one.”

“Well, you and Daemon Ravel certainly have something in common.”

“Oh, please,” Thack said in disgust. “If he’s a vampire, then I’m Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Actually, I meant the name thing.” I explained briefly about that. Then I noted, “You seem positive he’s not a vampire. Can you sense other vampires? Can they sense you?”

He gave me an exasperated look. “No. And we don’t wear secret code rings or special badges, either, Esther.”

“I was only asking.”

“But no way is Ravel a vampire! We do not call attention to ourselves—let alone alert the media,” Thack said. “Even the most orthodox vampires keep a very low profile. It’s how my family, for example, have survived for centuries as practicing vampires—including my two little nephews, whom my brother is raising traditionally, back in Wisconsin.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Your family is originally from Lithuania?”

“Yes.”

“So vampires immigrated here?”

“Is that a problem?” He looked insulted. “Everyone else gets to immigrate and pursue the American dream, but vampires should be kept out of the country?”

“Well . . .”

“This is why—this is exactly why!—I never talk about my background.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said. “I’m just a little . . . never mind.”

“Hmph.” He frowned. “What were we just talking about?”

“Daemon Ravel.”

“Oh, yes. What a ridiculous name,” Thack sneered, blissfully unaware of the irony of his criticism. “But it certainly goes with his absurd pretensions.”

“I agree he’s absurd,” I said. “But I don’t believe he’s the killer.”

Thack said to Max, “You really think a vampire is the guilty party?”

“Having had time since this afternoon to contemplate our scant information, yes, I am inclined to think so,” Max said.

“Where are you getting this scant information?” Thack asked curiously.

“A confidential source on the police force,” I said.

“The same one whom Daemon Ravel’s own personal tabloid menace is using?”

“No,” I said with certainty.

“If this is vampire business, then what’s your involvement?” Thack asked Max. “Zadok isn’t a Lithuanian name, either.”

“I am the local representative of the Magnum Collegium.”

“Which means?”

“I deal with mystical problems.”

Thack nodded. “Ah, that makes sense.”

“Really?” I blurted.

Both men looked at me.

“Never mind.”

“I also used to be a vampire hunter,” Max said.

“But you’re not a vampire?” When Max shook his head, Thack whistled, evidently impressed. Then he frowned and asked, “Is that even allowed?”

“Not anymore,” Max said. “Based on my experiences, though, I am convinced that the killer is not undead.”

Thack nodded. “Although I wasn’t very attentive to my grandfather’s teachings about these things, I think you must be right, Max. An undead monster would be noticed before long. They’re not exactly stealthy, I gather.”

“Moreover, an undead creature would inadvertently create more undead, at least in some instances. Which would also not go unnoticed,” Max said. “I believe the murderer is a living vampire.”

“Living vampires don’t infect their victims with vampirism?” I asked.

Max shook his head. “The living create another vampire only by sharing their blood. When they prey upon people, the victims stay dead.”

“Do you think the killer is an illegal made vampire?” Thack let out his breath in a rush. “That’s a scary thought. Aren’t they dangerously unstable?”

“They can be,” Max said.

Nelli gave a little groan of discomfort.

“When you say ‘illegal,’ you mean not authorized by the Council of Gediminas?” I guessed, absently patting the dog’s side as she lay by my feet.

“Yes,” said Thack. “I’ve heard that getting a permit from the council to make a vampire is slightly harder than getting a papal dispensation from the Vatican. So if he is made, he’s probably illegal.”

“He?” I prodded.

“Legal or illegal, the vampire would have to be male,” Max explained.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me that in addition to hereditary vampirism being strictly a male gig, only males can become made? That is so unfair!”

“Don’t look at me,” Thack said. “I told you—I turned my back on all that. Apart from drinking a little blood to keep my family happy on the rare occasions when I visit them, this all has nothing to do with me.”

Dragging the discussion back on topic, Max said, “We must also consider the possibility that the killer is a rogue Lithuanian.”

“They have those?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Max. “It’s the sort of problem the Council of Gediminas was founded to regulate.”

“You really know your vampire history,” Thack said, clearly impressed.

“What exactly is a rogue Lithuanian?” I asked Max.

He gestured courteously to Thack. “As the only vampire present, perhaps Thackeray would like to explain.”

Thack grimaced. “It’s sort of a power-mad addiction to blood that drives a vampire to kill—and keep killing.”

“Aren’t all vampires, by definition, addicted to blood?” I asked, hoping not to offend him again.

“No, of course, not.” He added, “Ah, I mean, hereditary vampires aren’t.”

“Certainly the undead are,” Max said to me, as if trying to encourage a slow student. “You are correct about that.”

“And made vampires are addicted, too. Which is precisely why making one is so strictly regulated,” Thack said. “When you make a vampire, you are, for all practical purposes, creating an addict. So it’s just not a good idea.”

“But the made don’t have the same needs as the undead,” I guessed—otherwise, Max’s long-ago Serbian acquaintance Bosko would have been exposed as a vampire almost immediately upon becoming made.

“No, their need is typically much more moderate,” said Thack. “I believe that feeding once every week or two can keep a made vampire sated. Is that correct, Max?”

“Yes. Unlike the undead, the made eat normal food and drink normal beverages, after all. Human blood sustains only their mystical aspect.”

“And when they feed,” Thack added, “the made don’t need anywhere near the quantity of blood that the undead do. So if they become killers, it’s mostly due to lack of discipline or lack of guidance.”

“How much blood do they need?”

Looking to Max for confirmation, Thack estimated, “Perhaps the equivalent of a wineglass every week or so.”

“Oh!” I said in surprise. “Well, that’s not very much, is it? Even I kind of believed Daemon’s claims that he was getting quantities like that from sexual partners.”

“That ludicrous poseur is correct only in the sense that real adult vampires often do get their sustenance from an intimate partner.” Thack added with disdain, “But it’s not done as a sex sport between virtual strangers who then go around bragging about it.”

“If you don’t have fangs ... Er, you don’t, do you?” I peered into Thack’s mouth, wondering if I could have somehow missed this during the three years I had known him.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He opened wide to show me his excellent and perfectly normal dentition.

“She is not to blame,” Max said to him. “I hold fiction writers responsible for such misconceptions.”

“I blame Hollywood,” Thack said darkly.

“And Van Helsing is not that similar to me,” Max added to no one in particular. “Not his speech patterns, certainly.”

“Without fangs,” I said quickly, “how do you extract human blood?”

“Well, if you’re modern and civilized, you do it with a hypodermic needle and a syringe.” Thack shuddered with distaste as he continued, “But if you’re a stubbornly orthodox family that cherishes all that self-aggrandizing guff about being descended directly from Gediminas himself, then you do it with a ritual vessel of some sort—usually silver or pewter—and a very sharp blade.”

“Ouch.”

Max said, “Mothers, sisters, wives, and friends of the family are the usual donors.”

“Oh, great, men do the cutting and the drinking, and women get to be the donors,” I said in disgust.

“Men can be donors, too,” said Thack. “It’s just that a woman can’t be a—”

“Vampire. Uh-huh.” I folded my arms and scowled at my companions.

“I didn’t make the rules,” Thack reminded me. “And the rules were made in the fourteenth century, after all.”

“Hmph. Well, all I can say is, there must be a lot of anemic women in Lithuania. And Wisconsin.”

“We really don’t drink that much,” Thack said.

“A wineglass every week or two is a lot of blood for a woman to—”

“Ah, that’s for a made vampire,” Max said. “And they’re very rare, after all.”

“Oh? So how much does a hereditary vampire drink?”

“It depends on how orthodox he is,” Thack said. “I, for example, haven’t had a drink of blood in about two years.”

“You can survive that long without blood?” I asked in surprise.

“Hereditary vampirism isn’t about needing blood,” said Thack. “We don’t wither and disintegrate like the undead or go into withdrawal and fall into a decline like the made if we don’t get blood. We just lead normal human lives without it.”

“Then why drink it?”

“Well, partly to honor the ancestors and keep the old traditions alive.”

“Ah.” Being Jewish, I knew something about that.

“And partly because drinking human blood enhances us. A vampire’s metabolism transforms blood into mystical energy. By consuming it, we improve our strength, speed, and agility, and our senses become keener.”

“That seems very desirable, Thack,” I said. “Why don’t you drink blood more often?”

“I live and work in Manhattan,” he pointed out. “I don’t want a keener sense of smell—in fact, in summer in New York, I’d pay real money to disable the ordinary sense of smell I’ve already got, thank you very much. And if my hearing got any better, I don’t know how I’d manage to sleep in the city that never sleeps.” Warming to his theme, Thack continued, “Since—much to my parents’ disappointment—I did not choose a career as a hockey player or a Navy SEAL, I also don’t feel a burning need for enhanced strength, speed, and agility. What am I going to do with that, for God’s sake? Leap onto the roof of a subway train to catch a ride when the cars are all full? Tackle waiters and physically force them into submission when I want my check now, please?” He shook his head. “Look, I can see why a medieval warrior king might have wanted these ‘gifts,’ but I really think it’s time to put all this stuff behind us. It’s not the fourteenth century anymore, folks! Vampirism in the modern world is like a Humvee in the suburbs—I mean, please. Are you taking the children to preschool or invading the Middle East?”

I shrewdly sensed that my innocent question had aroused longstanding grievances and incited a habitual rant.

“If a hereditary vampire doesn’t need blood to survive,” I said, deliberately changing the subject, “then how does that power-mad murderous addiction that you mentioned occur?”

Thack took a deep breath and regrouped. “It usually happens when someone decides he does want to be a medieval warrior king, and there are no elders around to stop him.”

“Pardon?”

“The individual in question,” Max said, “may be inherently bloodthirsty and lack guidance.”

“Vampires can be bad seeds, just like anyone else,” said Thack.

Max continued, “Or an individual may crave enhancements and empowerment beyond what is normal among orthodox hereditary vampires.”

“And for that, he needs a lot more blood than normal practices allow,” Thack said. “More blood than a cooperative donor can afford to lose. After killing donors who expected to live through the ritual, he’d move on to killing unwary strangers—including ambushing his prey, if need be.”

“Eventually, the enhancements endowed by so much blood,” Max added, “mean that only the classic methods of dispatch would be effective in stopping such a vampire.”

“Fire or decapitation,” I said faintly.

Thack nodded. “Me, you could kill any old way. But a hereditary vampire who, in defiance of all norms and values governing the community, has been drinking liters of blood from his victims?” His expression was grave. “Very hard to kill.”

I looked at Max, my heart thudding in alarm. “In other words, a rogue Lithuanian is a really bad thing.”

“So is a made vampire who’s run amok,” said Thack.

“No wonder the Council of Gediminas has been needed all these centuries.” Battling the undead was just one of their crucial roles.

“If our theory is correct, then this individual, whether made or rogue, must be stopped,” Max said. “This vampire will keep killing—and the rate of the murders will accelerate.”

“Addiction,” Thack said to me. “The more he drinks, the more he’ll want.”

Max said, “The most recent victim was the first to be fully exsanguinated. I suspect that indicates that the vampire’s thirst is increasing.”

“Oh, God, I hate this,” Thack said with feeling. “I love theater. Art. Wine. French-Asian fusion cuisine. The Baroque composers. Cashmere and linen. Sondheim musicals and Shakespeare in the Park.” He shook his head, his expression distressed. “Bloodthirsty murder does not belong in the same world with such wonderful things.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Max agreed. “Yet here it is. And our duty is to eliminate it.”

Thack said, “Our duty? Look, Max, I told you, I am not equipped—”

“You are a Lithuanian vampire whose heredity goes back centuries,” Max said. “Given the current inexplicable absence of another of your kind, I implore you not to walk away from this situation while the innocent are unprotected and the killer is at large.”

“Oh . . . damn.” Thack obviously felt cornered by this supplication.

Really scared by their theory, I said, “Couldn’t the killer be a homicidal mundane person who knows how to exsanguinate his victims?”

“Do you have any idea how much blood the human body contains?” Thack said. “It’s a lot more than the tidy demi-bouteille you see on Crime and Punishment. If the killer isn’t a vampire in an advanced stage of addiction, then what the hell is he doing with all that blood?” As he pulled out his cell phone, he added quickly, “And before you speak, that was strictly a rhetorical question. I’m freaked out enough already. I don’t want more psychotic images entering my head.”

“You’re phoning someone?” I said incredulously. “Now?”

“I’m calling my Uncle Peter in Wisconsin. He’s peripherally involved in council politics, and he’s also done a little vampire hunting.” Thack dialed the number, then held the phone to his ear as he met Max’s gaze. “I’m way out of my depth here. We need help from someone who is equipped to deal with this before anyone else gets killed.”

Max nodded. “Excellent.”

There was a knock at the door.

Waiting for someone to answer his call, Thack said, “That must be Leischneudel. I told him we’d stop by his room to collect him. The poor kid must think we forgot and left without him!”

“Oh!” I flew to the door and flung it open.

Daemon was standing there.

Behind me, I heard Thack say into his phone, “Uncle Peter. Yes, it’s me. Yeah. Fine. No. Listen, we have a big problem here.”

“Hi,” I said without enthusiasm to Daemon. “What do you want?”

“Just seeing who’s still here,” he said. “I . . .”

We heard sprightly footsteps coming this way, accompanied by the sound of cheerful humming. We both looked down the hallway—and I was surprised to see Bill approaching.

He was smiling and there was a lively bounce in his step. “Esther. Daemon.” His smile became a delighted grin. “Great show today, guys! Loved it. If only every performance were that entertaining.”

Daemon closed his eyes and lowered his head, looking like he might start weeping. I smiled wanly at Bill, who was still humming as he passed us and continued bounding down the hall.

“I think I prefer him when he’s depressed,” I said.

“What are you doing now?” Daemon asked. “I don’t really feel like being alone.”

Chilled by the implication that he thought I would spend time with him, I said, “You have a gazillion fans outside the stage door. Go hang out with them.”

“Not tonight,” he said tragically. “I really can’t face ... Some of them aren’t very ... Victor says there’s grassfeet ... grass ... grass-fiti—”

I realized he was drunk. “Graffiti?”

“Thank you. On the side of the theater. Did you hear it with your own eyes?”

“Uh, no. And I’m busy right n—”

“Murderer.” He swayed a little on his feet. “That’s what it says. They think I killed that girl.”

“Oh, only a few of them think that,” I said dismissively. “The rest of them still love you. Go outside. You’ll see.”

I tried to close my door. He leaned against it, folding his arms as he continued morosely, “They think I could kill someone. Me! I was almost a vegetarian! Though, okay, that was really more about getting laid by—”

“I can’t talk right now,” I said, trying to nudge his body weight off my door so I could close it.

Behind me, I could hear Thack explaining the situation to his uncle. Nelli sneezed a couple of times. Max promised her they’d leave here momentarily.

“And that performance.” A tall man, Daemon lowered his head to confide in me. I noticed that his breath stank of whiskey, not Nocturne. “God. I think my career could be over after that.”

Since I was still aromatic with liniment and ointment, his irritated eyes started watering as soon as he got that close to me. I noticed that his pink nose was running and quivering, too. I took a couple of steps back, not wanting the romantic prince of the night to sneeze on me again.

“Well, we certainly shouldn’t do it twice, but everybody has a disastrous performance once in a while. That’s live theater.” I shrugged. “It goes with the territory.”

I could afford to be philosophical about it since, through no fault of mine, today’s show had been a dismal flop well before I inadvertently triggered Daemon’s allergies—and then, at least, we woke up the bored audience.

“The police think I killed her, too,” Daemon said sadly. “But you don’t think that, do you?”

“Not really. Is Victor still here? He should probably help you get home. You seem a little—”

“Hey, there are visitors in your room!” Daemon said, cheering up. “Introduce me.”

“No, you’ve already met—”

Daemon sneezed messily as he shoved his way past me and entered my dressing room. He greeted Max and spoke earnestly to Thack, evidently not noticing that the agent was on the phone. Then Daemon sat down near Nelli—and sneezed again. As he wiped his nose with his black silk sleeve, I recalled that the dog was another of his allergies.

Thack gave me an exasperated look. I shrugged and spread my hands, indicating that I had tried to get rid of our unwelcome visitor.

Daemon launched into a long, rambling monologue about how misunderstood (and also how wonderful, caring, and special) he was, punctuated by sneezes and sniffles, while Nelli lay nearby, occasionally wheezing. Max and I ignored Daemon and waited for Thack to finish his call. He stood with his back turned to everyone and was talking in a low voice.

When he was done, he turned to face us, started to speak, then gave Daemon a doubtful stare.

The actor broke the expectant silence. “I need to go out somewhere. I feel suffocated here.”

“That’s because you apparently can’t breathe,” Thack noted, eyeing Daemon’s red-rimmed eyes and runny nose.

“Hey, we should all go out together!” Daemon exclaimed. “Wanna go out somewhere?”

Seeing a chance to get rid of him, I said, “Good idea. Go get ready.”

“I’ll tell Victor to have the brought car round.” He paused, evidently realizing that hadn’t come out quite right. “To have the round car br . . .”

“Yeah, I get it.” I hauled him out of his chair and steered him toward to the door. “Go do that.”

As soon as he was gone, I turned back to Thack. “Well?”

“My uncle will call Vilnius right away. It’s some ungodly hour early tomorrow morning there, I guess. But there’s an emergency number that’s answered around the clock, for obvious reasons. He’ll get back to me later, after he talks to them.” Thack continued, “Uncle Peter agrees it sounds like there should be a vampire hunter on the scene. He says that an exsanguination murder is bad enough, but now that it’s tabloid fodder—well, the council will be shitting kittens.”

“And there’s an image I don’t want in my head,” I said.

“He also said, Max, that you need to back away from this and go home,” Thack said apologetically. “Something about the Treaty of Gediminas? He said that since you’re in the Magnum Collegium, you’d know what the means.”

Max sighed deeply. His expression was troubled, but he nodded his head. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”

“I don’t,” said Thack.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

My eyes met Max’s, and I nodded. I would call him later and let him know whatever Thack found out.

Max wanted to honor the treaty, and he knew better than anyone why its terms had been negotiated this way. But, in the absence of a Lithuanian vampire hunter taking charge of this situation, he couldn’t bear to stand by idly while Evil menaced the people of New York.

“Nelli is physically distressed here,” Max said, rising to his feet. As if to back him up, the familiar sneezed again. “We should go home.”

I gave Max a hug, promising casually to talk to him soon. Thack shook his hand, expressed pleasure at having met him, and ruefully acknowledged that Max had placed Thack in the unusual position of doing something that would make his family proud.

Leischneudel appeared in the doorway just as Max was departing. He greeted Max and Nelli—who sneezed.

“I think your dog is sick,” Leischneudel said with concern.

“I’m taking her home now,” said Max.

“I think I’m going to go home, too,” Leischneudel said apologetically to me and Thack. His pallor and the dark circles under his eyes were noticeable as he explained, “I’ve scarcely slept the past two nights, and I think I’ll collapse facedown in my dinner if I go out now.” He added happily to Thack, “I’ll see you at your office for my appointment later this week.”

“I’ll see you then,” Thack said. “Nice performance today—despite everything.”

“Thank you.” Reminded of that farce, Leischneudel covered his face with one hand and started laughing helplessly again. I realized he did seem overtired.

I also recalled that the vamparazzi would still be outside in force, since Daemon hadn’t yet left the theater. So I suggested that Max and Nelli walk Leischneudel to his cab, along with the Caped Crusaders who would be waiting outside the stage door for him. Obviously grateful for the company, since I wasn’t going with him, Leischneudel was chatting pleasantly with Max as they left.

I turned to Thack. “So I guess it’s just you and me for dinner.”

“No, I’m afraid we’re doing to have to . . .” He swallowed and continued with obvious difficulty, “To accept Mr. Ravel’s invitation to join him.”

“What? No! Why?” I had never spent any of my personal time with The Vampyre’s star, and I didn’t intend to start now.

“Uncle Peter says that since the cops and the media seem to think Daemon is the killer, he wants me to stick to him like a burr until we have instructions from Vilnius.” Thack sighed unhappily. “So that’s what I’ll do. My uncle isn’t really the sort of person you argue with.”

“Oh. I see. All right.” My own course of action was obvious to me. “You know, Thack, I’m quite tired, too. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go home and—”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Thack said sternly. “You and your friend got me into this, Esther. So you’re coming, too. I will not spend the evening on my own with that appallingly clichéd—Ah, Daemon!” Without missing a beat, Thack smiled as the Vampire Ravel appeared in my doorway. “There you are! Are we all ready to leave? Good, good. Where we shall go?”