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Authors: James Patterson
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Maybe they had a lot better things to do while they were in L.A.
There was a special place here where he and Michael often went. It was called the Church of the Vampire, and it was for those who were “searching for the dragon within.” It actually was a church: vast, high-ceilinged rooms filled with funky old Victorian furniture, elaborate golden candelabras, human skulls and other bones, tapestries that portrayed stories of famous old blood seekers. The usual dreaded role-players came to the church, but also real vampires. Like William and Michael.
Exciting, very exotic, sado-erotic things happened inside the Church of the Vampire. Excruciating pain was transformed into ecstasy. William remembered his last visit, and it sent electricity shooting through his body. He had found a blond boy of seventeen. An angel, a prince. The boy was dressed in all black that night; he even had black contact lenses—absolutely gorgeous from every angle. To show William that he was a real vampire, the darling boy punctured his own carotid artery and then drank his own blood. Then he asked William to drink, to be one with him. When he and Michael hung the boy to drain him completely, it was out of love and adoration of the angel’s perfect body. They were merely fulfilling their nature — to be sado-erotic.
William came out of his delicious reverie as the two cops entered a bar called the Knoll. It was just off Sunset Boulevard. Very mundane, a nothing spot. Perfect for the two of them.
“They’re going drinking together,” William said to Michael. “Cop camaraderie.”
Michael snickered and rolled his eyes. “They’re just two old men. They’re harmless. Toothless,” he said, and laughed at his joke.
William watched Alex Cross and Kyle Craig disappear inside. “No,” he finally said. “Let’s be careful with them. One of them is extremely dangerous. I can feel his energy.”
Chapter 27
I FINALLY had a lead, courtesy of Tim, Jamilla’s contact at the
San Francisco Examiner
. The chase was on, or so I hoped. The next morning I drove up Route 101 to Santa Barbara, which is located approximately one hundred miles north of L.A.
It was sobering and a little depressing to watch the sky actually grow bluer as I traveled away from Los Angeles and the copper-gray cover of smog spread thickly over the city.
I was to meet a man named Peter Westin at the Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa Barbara. The library was supposed to contain the most extensive collection of books on vampires and vampire mythology in the United States. Westin was the expert who had been recommended by Tim. She warned me that Westin was thoroughly eccentric but a definitive source on vampires past and present.
He met me in a small private sitting room just off the library’s main reading room. Peter Westin looked to be in his early forties and was dressed completely in deep purple and black. Even his fingernails were painted a shade of mauve. According to Jamilla, he owned a clothing and jewelry shop in a small mall called El Paseo on State Street in Santa Barbara. He had long black hair streaked with silver, and he was dark and dangerous looking.
“I’m Detective Alex Cross,” I said as I shook hands with Westin. His grip was strong, lacquered fingernails or no.
“I am Westin, descended from Vlad Tepes. I bid you welcome. The night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest,” he said in overly dramatic tones.
I found myself smiling at the prepared speech. “Sounds like something the count might have said in one of the old Dracula movies.”
Westin nodded, and when he smiled I saw that his teeth were perfectly formed. No fangs.
“In several of them, actually. It’s the official invitation of the Transylvania Society of Dracula in Bucharest.”
I immediately asked, “Are there American chapters?”
“American and Canadian. There’s even a chapter in South Africa, and in Tokyo. There are several hundred
There was a special place here where he and Michael often went. It was called the Church of the Vampire, and it was for those who were “searching for the dragon within.” It actually was a church: vast, high-ceilinged rooms filled with funky old Victorian furniture, elaborate golden candelabras, human skulls and other bones, tapestries that portrayed stories of famous old blood seekers. The usual dreaded role-players came to the church, but also real vampires. Like William and Michael.
Exciting, very exotic, sado-erotic things happened inside the Church of the Vampire. Excruciating pain was transformed into ecstasy. William remembered his last visit, and it sent electricity shooting through his body. He had found a blond boy of seventeen. An angel, a prince. The boy was dressed in all black that night; he even had black contact lenses—absolutely gorgeous from every angle. To show William that he was a real vampire, the darling boy punctured his own carotid artery and then drank his own blood. Then he asked William to drink, to be one with him. When he and Michael hung the boy to drain him completely, it was out of love and adoration of the angel’s perfect body. They were merely fulfilling their nature — to be sado-erotic.
William came out of his delicious reverie as the two cops entered a bar called the Knoll. It was just off Sunset Boulevard. Very mundane, a nothing spot. Perfect for the two of them.
“They’re going drinking together,” William said to Michael. “Cop camaraderie.”
Michael snickered and rolled his eyes. “They’re just two old men. They’re harmless. Toothless,” he said, and laughed at his joke.
William watched Alex Cross and Kyle Craig disappear inside. “No,” he finally said. “Let’s be careful with them. One of them is extremely dangerous. I can feel his energy.”
Chapter 27
I FINALLY had a lead, courtesy of Tim, Jamilla’s contact at the
San Francisco Examiner
. The chase was on, or so I hoped. The next morning I drove up Route 101 to Santa Barbara, which is located approximately one hundred miles north of L.A.
It was sobering and a little depressing to watch the sky actually grow bluer as I traveled away from Los Angeles and the copper-gray cover of smog spread thickly over the city.
I was to meet a man named Peter Westin at the Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa Barbara. The library was supposed to contain the most extensive collection of books on vampires and vampire mythology in the United States. Westin was the expert who had been recommended by Tim. She warned me that Westin was thoroughly eccentric but a definitive source on vampires past and present.
He met me in a small private sitting room just off the library’s main reading room. Peter Westin looked to be in his early forties and was dressed completely in deep purple and black. Even his fingernails were painted a shade of mauve. According to Jamilla, he owned a clothing and jewelry shop in a small mall called El Paseo on State Street in Santa Barbara. He had long black hair streaked with silver, and he was dark and dangerous looking.
“I’m Detective Alex Cross,” I said as I shook hands with Westin. His grip was strong, lacquered fingernails or no.
“I am Westin, descended from Vlad Tepes. I bid you welcome. The night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest,” he said in overly dramatic tones.
I found myself smiling at the prepared speech. “Sounds like something the count might have said in one of the old Dracula movies.”
Westin nodded, and when he smiled I saw that his teeth were perfectly formed. No fangs.
“In several of them, actually. It’s the official invitation of the Transylvania Society of Dracula in Bucharest.”
I immediately asked, “Are there American chapters?”
“American and Canadian. There’s even a chapter in South Africa, and in Tokyo. There are several hundred
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