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The cash left her hand easily as Teresa exited the cab. The night was spoiled. Ruined by Connie. Wasted by some blood drunk fledglings—the very reason Brace dragged her away from her comfortable haven yet again. Far from things that actually mattered to her. An emptiness tugged at her, the weight of the shotgun she had left in Connie’s beater. She felt weak, naked, like some slithering thing still shedding its skin. Slamming the taxi door shut, she swallowed the curse that darted across her tongue. Anger wouldn’t help, that was always Connie’s mistake, not hers. And he could sort that out on his own.

Makeshift fencing surrounded the camp, bearing strange symbols and signs warning the uninvited and uninitiated. It was clean, organized in ways that suggested a guiding hand, a puppeteer tugging at the strings of the blood filled marionettes that danced with each deft jiggle of the skeletal fingertips that bound them. Teresa didn’t care for most mortals. She held no particular affection for them. She wasn’t interested in their predictable, pointless ways. But Martha was—she’d always been—as long as Teresa had known her. She befriended them. She twisted their senses until they saw just another harmless old lady. It was a good act, useful with the demands of the Beast, for the endless hunger was always swimming, cutting the black waters just beneath the surface of the blackened soul. Teresa’s kind had no such luck, no such talent. The kine could sense something wrong within her. They tasted some invisible malice in the air when she approached them. No matter what she did to assuage them, the threat she posed would stir some hidden instinct within them.

With each step, more of the camp appeared. Tents rose in measured rows, a collection of material and ramshackle engineering. She could hear people talking. Laughing quietly, speaking in low voices as they sat around. But most were, cocooned in their huts of nylon and polyester, stirring occasionally, filling the air with the disgusting sounds of life. Sickness was unavoidable for those that lived on the streets. Stacked on top of one another, they had little choice; they were welcome in very few places. The tourists didn’t want to see them. Even the degenerate gamblers found them depressing. And most of the vampires preferred to feed on healthier humans, victims tasting less of the hard life they lived, of the filth they were forced to crawl through. Animals lingered, moving through the camp, happy for the scraps offered to them, and the warmth of shelter.

A half-cut piece of plywood held up by rusted hinges served as the gate to Martha’s fiefdom. Sitting in the gloom of flickering camp light was an old man lounging in a folding chair, with a dog lounging at his feet, and a bottle of whiskey tucked into the crook of his arm. He noticed her quickly, raising his head as she looked at her. The animal at his feet sniffed the air, ears falling back as it cowered away from her, hiding behind the man and chair.

“Help you?” he said, his voice filling the air with the smell of alcohol.

“I’m here to see Martha. We’re old friends," Teresa said, doing her best to seem human, trying to recall the meekness she remembered from her youth, the anxiety that grasped at her throat, the fear that set her heart beating. She smiled, forcing the expression over her lips, hoping it seemed no more than nerves. She was too well-dressed to belong in the camp. “She sent me a message.”

“Sure don’t look old,” the old man grumbled, throwing his thumb over his shoulder, “She’s at the fire. I’m sure you can find ‘er.”

“Thanks,” Teresa replied. Emotion faded too easily, too quickly from her face as he pointed to the thumb latch of the gate. The less said the better. People usually knew not to ask too many questions, and whatever story she breathed would be wasted on a man who cared so little about her business. She walked into the camp like she had been there before. She had, of course. She was fond of Martha. She had been younger and brasher then, when they’d first met, and still uncertain enough to be dragged along by the waves that inevitably rose in Connie’s wake. Not that Brace had let her escape him. Sometimes she had trouble figuring out who was tasked with watching who—a troubling thought that she buried beneath deeper thoughts. There was trash scattered on the ground. Trash bags formed a small mound, a neat pile of garbage tucked almost out of sight, behind a pair of gratified Jersey barriers. Cans and bottles were visible within large clear plastic bags. Small profits, no doubt, but worthwhile for the denizens of the homeless encampment.

She approached the main fire of the camp. The roaring flame that grew from a stack of burning wooden pallets, bits of paper and scraps heaped on top, reminded her of some funeral pyre of old. What did Martha burn in there, she wondered. Bodies?

She found Martha sitting alone by the fire, a steaming cup held in her hands, a blanket wrapped around her, a shroud protecting her from the encroaching cold. “Beauclerc was busy, then? Please, sit.” 

“Just me tonight, Martha,” Teresa replied, claiming a wooden crate as her seat. She didn't try to hide the irritation that tickled her throat, the itchy feeling of anger that burned at the back of her hands. Connie. Connie. Connie. He wasn’t even there. He hadn’t even showed. He'd just raced off to get his rocks off or get ashed trying. [b]She[/b] was the one who answered the old hag’s summons. Sulking, Teresa plucked a pack of cigarettes out of her coat and dangled a cigarette towards the fire, waiting for the tip to burn a bright orange before she pulled it back. She took a slow, heavy drag, then puffed out a cloud of smoke as she let her annoyance fade. She looked at Martha—really looked. The elderly vampire seemed worse. More worn and tired than usual. Fresh lines seemed to be carved into her wrinkly skin, tension filling the space around her. Shrugging to herself, Teresa spoke with a subtle hint of kindness in her voice, something that might once have been categorized as affection, when she still walked freely in the sunlight. “You look worse than usual, Martha, trouble in paradise?”

Martha wrinkled her nose at the smell of the cigarettes. “Well, someone is better than no one. A dream. Another dream. Probably who is making your recent mess, Garcia. Tea?”

“No, thanks, can’t stomach it, since the—well you know,” she replied, eyeing Martha curiously. She knew about Martha’s visions. She had relied on them many times. They interested her—the nature of them, and everything about them. Where they came from, how they worked, and what they meant. She tempered her excitement, fighting against the urge to ask too much too soon. It was poor form to play a hand too freely, especially when one didn’t know what cards the other players held. Tossing a broken bit of wood into the fire, Teresa watched it burn, before she continued, “Heard about [b]our[/b] mess, did ya? What’s that got to do with your dreams?”

“Not really. Figured you'd be around. You always are,” Martha said, pausing as she recalled the details of the two and the prior encounter, “They hunt my flock. Two of them. Young, hungry, stupid. Stupid enough to strike twice. You know how it is.”

Teresa listened with growing interest, eager for anything to hasten the hunt, any way to find the thrill killer, and nursing the hope that she might discover something greater, “You learn anything about them? A face? A name? Where they’re from?”

“No faces, no names…a girl and a boy, I think. You know it's never that kind or clear. Was all lions and hyena-laughter, and the last time I saw a lion was…the 50s or so. They'll strike my flock again, though.”

Teresa didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t let the disappointment take hold of her. She didn’t snap at Martha like some part of her wanted to, begged her to. Instead, she shifted closer to the fire, took another drag from her cigarette, and focused on the heat that touched her with each breath. Disappointment lingering between her words, softened as it was. “That’s it? That’s all you got? We already know there’s two of them. Does the Savannah theme mean anything?”

“I don't know. Is that what it's called…haven't seen a Savannah in too many years. I don't know. A desert, oasis, heat…the camp, the sick with us all, that's all I'd guess. I can't choose to see more or less, Garcia, “ Martha leaned back in chair, cradling the mug in hands. They sat silently, Teresa patiently waiting until the old woman let out a long exhale, finally deciding to speak, “How many have they taken?”

“Five, that we know of,” Teresa said—not that anyone cared about the number of bodies. But it was drawing unwanted attention. No, what mattered—what always mattered—was that Brace wasn’t happy staring at the growing collection of headlines he had laid out on his desk. And if Brace wasn’t happy, then she and Connie definitely weren’t going to be.  “They get any of yours?”

“One. Just one. If there’s anything to trust in the dream, it’s the numbers, and Mark hasn’t shown for some time. I haven’t made much of it. Nothing for the flock to do in this.”

“Not a lot to work with, if I’m being honest, Martha. Any chance you can look a little bit further ahead?”

The old crone paused, fingers caressing the mug rim before another lingering breath moved through her. “You’re right. It’s not much. I’ll just…check and see for something else.” 

Teresa waited, eyes alight with curiosity, a greedy glee pushing the corner of her lips into a thin smile. Joy that quickly vanished as Martha folded forward, hands clutching at her eyes and temples, fingers turning white as she pressed her own skull until the brittle bone crackled. She let out a low, pained gasp, her teeth clinching together with a loud clack that caused Teresa to place a hand gently on her shoulder. A useless attempt to stop the shaking—the seizures that wracked Martha’s feeble frame.

“Venice, gondolas and canals and old buildings half-sunk…” Martha said, her voice nothing more than a raspy whisper. Teresa did not move, her hand remaining on the shoulder of the hunched over old woman, who moaned, pain coursing through her from everywhere at once, burning her nerves like a jagged lightening bolt, “I could hear slot machines. Roulette wheels. Old lights that are too bright and glare…a ceiling with a cheap false of…I don’t know. Something old, men naked and posing in a fresco.” 

Falling against the back of the chair, she turned towards Teresa with a thin smile—the rictus grin of a corpse—all horror and pain doled out in equal measure. Martha sighed, her tongue moving against the inside of her cheek, the air between them filling with copper taste. Her voice, although weak, rose as she channeled what strength Teresa could still see within her, “Enough for you, I’d think.”

Teresa nodded, smiling fully, truly, as she sensed the snare tightening around the neck of their prey. “There’s only one place in Vegas with decor that ridiculous, that fucking pompous. They’re at the Venetian."

Kicking her feet out, stretching as she , Teresa pulled out her flip phone and keyed in a new number that she had memorized days earlier.

[i]Our friends are staying at the Venetian. They wanted to say hello.[/i]
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