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  When Terri finished screaming, “Think twice before you jump”, or dive, the mesmerizing creature decided to close her net. Her eyes smiled for Alexi only, beckoning her, creating a path across the dancing crowd, like the ocean opening to power. And Alexi followed obediently, oblivious to the exalted audience, followed her doomed fate.

  * * * * * * *

  The singer was always in motion, jumping, dancing, seducing the crowd, with her voice and with her sensual moves. Her wildness was a sweaty affair. She picked up a pint glass of water, emptied it over her head and shook the wavy snakes of her red hair, spraying water all over the place, over the first row of delighted dancers, and over Dawn’s keyboards, who didn’t swear nor really complain, equal to herself. She attempted to sponge the puddles of water with a sheet of paper but had to give up. She had only two hands to keep on playing the wild music and sing the backing vocals.

  Sid watched the action, her eyes seeing it in slow motion, like so many years ago she had seen her friend Annick breaking the safety glass of the alarm system in a subway political action.

  Her vision went back to normal as suddenly. She sighed and stopped dancing. She couldn’t help being the good person she was, despite her permanent state of mania. She forked out part of the toilet paper forever lining her deep pockets and dried up the top keyboard, careful not to modify the settings. Even if she felt in the middle of a personal vendetta with this band. But she was not about to let them know. Not yet. The musician smiled her thanx, unaware of her effect on Sid, unaware of Sid’s sudden confusion, unaware of Sid’s inner turmoil. Should she hate Second Look? Should she love them? Should she feel resentful? Should she feel grateful? Because of them, she was losing her musical thread and couldn’t figure out if it was a blessing or a curse. Or maybe the curse was in the multiplicity of her talents…

  The show went on.

  * * * * * * *

  A parking lot backed the pub. The moon was magnificent in its fullness, adding to the natural power of the gypsy-eyed woman.

  Alexi felt mesmerized and couldn’t mind. The beautiful creature smiled at her, showing canines slightly longer and sharper than human. Alexi didn’t notice or didn’t understand. Desire was burning her inside out, spilling breathlessly between her lips. She painfully longed to taste the red, tantalizing lips and let her fingers wander down the pale skin of the smooth stomach. The subject of her desire smiled even more broadly, showing even more canines and, maintaining the veil of illusion over the victim’s mind, she swiftly bit the tender skin in the curve of the neck. The sweet and rich blood started to flow across her greedy tongue, satisfyingly. Vegetarian’s blood was always sweet, while meat-eater’s was slightly bitter. She’d always had a sweet tooth.

  Alexi never knew that her blood was drained out of her body. She felt greater pleasure than she ever imagined possible, while her life left her, gently sipped away.

  * * * * * * *

  That night, Second Look didn’t perform Predator, Lita’s favorite number. They were too short of time. The crowd wanted more. But pubs always closed, regardless.

  Sid contemplated the audience, exchanged glances with the gypsy-eyed woman. Of course, she could only see a blurred image of the eyes enhanced with kohl. She looked away, not knowing that this slight physical defect had prevented her from experiencing the encounter of a lifetime, with the only creature who could have granted her death wish, not just in a pleasurable manner, but also in a way that wouldn’t have spelled karmic disaster for her Akashic records.

  Lita and Jenny started to wonder where the hell Alexi might have disappeared. To the bar? No, it was way after the last-drink bell. To the loo then?

  The mysterious creature, feeling high and unreal, as ever after feeding, thought that three drained corpses at three Second Look gigs were more than enough to attract the police’s attention. Blame it on the rock band for having such a tasty following. Maybe, she mused, she’d let herself be tempted by the green-mohicaned woman at their next London gig. Before moving on swiftly. This Sid could provide her with a very enjoyable challenge and give greater climax to the blood drinking.

  The intended prey, feeling high, too high, higher than whatever normal was (was it the electrifying combination of the music and the voice, was it the anti-depressant she took daily to prevent herself from carving senseless lines all over her body, or was it the energy of the crowd enclosed in the closed parallelogram of the pub invading her aura, once again? She’ll really have to do something about it), feeling kind of manic, contemplated Terri actively greeting friends and groupies, signing white T-shirts. Dawn had left the stage. The writer’s mind amused itself with a new idea, a new short story to write. Ah, to kill again. After all, being a writer was about playing at being god. All-mighty power over every character. A bounty hunter might shoot to death a werefrog, and consequently being killed by a werescorpion. The idea simply delighted her. But this was mere child’s play that she could write easily and lightly. The Great Work was still to come. Second Look would unintentionally provide the ideal soundtrack. And unknown to everyone, a creature of darkness would hunt among the exalted groupies.

  For Sid, playing with monsters was the equivalent of playing with genders.

  CHAPTER SIX

  This was no ordinary murder case; it had “serial killer” written all over. Third victim with the same baffling blood loss. And puncture marks on the neck. Two. It could have been an animal, a wild beast. But there was no sign of struggle, no chewing of flesh. Where was the blood? Vampire bats were too small for such amount and generally stuck to cattle, in Central and South America. He would probably get another repeat forensic report: spacing between punctures corresponding to spacing between human canines. Very sharp canines. He knew better than letting his imagination take off on a flight of fancy. He didn’t believe in monsters. He believed in human monsters: it was all in the mind. Or another bad penny novel.

  D.I. Madison sighed and scratched his neck at the base of his short, blond hair. His pale, blue eyes, paler than his blue suit, scanned the light-flooded pub where various people were waiting for his blessing to pack up and go home. He sighed again and granted them his assent with a shooing motion. The staff had been the only ones left by the time some unsuspecting drunk had stumbled over the corpse, screamed uncannily and fainted, in the car park.

  Once again the death was frustratingly pointing at a rock band called Second Look. He already knew what they would say when interviewed. This M.O. was doing his head in. It was the kind that could make or break a career. For Madison, despite his still young age, no cracking would mean a breaking, regardless of his allies in superior hierarchy. The nephew of another high-ranking cop shot in the line of duty, an exceptional cop himself, he loved his job.

  A constable, first officer on the scene, broke his train of wandering thoughts, confirming that no one had noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary. Except maybe for the bunch of women who had searched and enquired about a missing friend in the crowd of punters before leaving the premises, still friendless. Unfortunately the info was within the vague boundaries of a sketchy description applying to quite a number of the London population.

  Madison sighed for the third time. In a few hours, he’ll have to get into the now routine knocking on three doors. “The shiny saddle of a repetitive loop”, he muttered for himself.

  * * * * * * *

  Terri Harley opened the door with bleary, brown eyes and a dark mauve toweling robe covering her with one size too many. Madison noticed she had hardly slept. Possibly an insomniac. She stood there staring at him for a full ten seconds, her brain slowly registering the situation, a cog creaking the next one into working gear, before letting him in. Her slippered feet shuffled to the kitchen. He followed. Terri’s partner, Justine, a willowy beauty with dark hair, waltzed out of the bathroom, fully made-up and decently outfitted, and joined them.

  “What’s up?” She enquired, seriousness darkening her eyes.

  “Gimme coffee and ask
him,” Terri slouched on a countertop.

  “I’ll need to see Dawn Ferndale, too.”

  Dawn, in between homes (the water pipes of her new house were currently attended by an army of disagreeing plumbers), happened to be squatting Terri and Justine’s spare room.

  * * * * * * *

  He questioned the singer first, playing the loop of sentences accordingly punctuated. At what time did you arrive? At what time did you leave? What about your crew? Dawn Ferndale? Your partner? Who did you talk with? Then, he outed the victim’s weekly travel card dutifully sealed in an evidence bag, that he had previously stashed in an inside pocket.

  Recognition flooded Terri’s still sleepy eyes. Yes, she knew the woman, a regular groupie, often attending Second Look’s gigs with a bunch of similarly looking friends. No, she didn’t know her address or any specific particular. Alexi wasn’t the kind of groupie always queuing to chat with Terri or Dawn.

  Damn it! Terry worried for the safety of her fans. Third death in the audience. Third murder. Madison hadn’t mentioned the mysterious and complete lack of blood in and out of the corpse. Sucked dry… This detail hadn’t been released to the press for any of the cases. He dreaded the imagination of the media.

  The keyboard player walked into the kitchen, pale green clothes hiding her curves. Her eyes met Madison’s without flinching and she poured herself a mug of hot and strong coffee, not bothering with sugar or milk.

  “Look!” Terri almost shouted. “Someone was killed again last night!”

  Dawn stared at the photo pass but offered no pearl of wisdom. D.I. Madison asked Terri to leave the kitchen, guessing she would squat behind the shut door with Justine. Having been in charge of this serial case since murder one, he needed no second sight to know Dawn would give only laconic and succinct answers. Like the singer, she had noticed nothing different, she could yield no light over the frustrating case.

  In turn, Justine corroborated the statements of the band, the complete waste of his time, and provided names and addresses of friends who could vouch for her own whereabouts at all times that night, minus a window of five minutes when she would have needed super-speed to commit the crime.

  D.I. Madison left, none the more knowledgeable. On his way to South London where the crew resided, wasting more petrol and more time on the futile wild goose chase, he started to wonder. Ok, he had three murders. Same M.O. Assumption: same killer, or killers. This killer could be anyone, yes, but not necessarily one close to the rock band or a groupie. The gigs could be just a convenient killing ground, a smoke screen to distract the police. What if the culprit was no stranger to murder? On a hunch, Madison picked up his mobile phone, not waiting for the next red light, to auto-dial and talked to one of his detectives, ordering a research of all unexplained murders for the past year within London and its extended suburb. Maybe, just maybe, the whole sad story had nothing to do with Second Look and Terri and Dawn were just plain unlucky.

  In the meantime, he felt very glad the morning rush hour was over.

  INTERLUDE (By courtesy of the author Sid Wasgo)

  THE BEAST(s)

  (To Terri and Dawn, “Second Look”, respect)

  The two friends would often go for long walks at night, favouring dark backstreets. Pat, long blonde-haired, was, and had always been, the sensible one, the wise one, and the great listener. Gill, wild character with freckles and thick curly hair falling disorderly down her shoulders, was, and had never tried to be otherwise, the big mouth, the troublemaker, and an all-over-the-place kind of person. And they both liked the dark backstreets for their quietness and the possible dangers that always made their days and nights. Then, and only then, Pat would let her composure go, becoming as wild as Gill, and even more lethal.

  They would walk and talk. Well, Gill would do most of the talking. Pat would make all the appreciative noises expected from her, occasionally pointing out the points Gill would miss almost deliberately, almost checking if Pat was still with her and not gone on a mind trip to a different planet. But Pat was always there, attentive and cunning.

  They loved the full moon, even if they didn’t really need it. The rounder the satellite, the more manic their behavior. Gill, increasingly bouncier. Pat, more tightly in control of herself.

  It was such a night. Full moon, huge and round, filling up the whole sky with the sheerness of its size and its rings of light. So bright, so mad. They just loved bathing in its intense light. They felt almighty.

  Cobbles running under the heavy soles of their New Rock boots. Lampposts hardly lighting the streets. Sounds resonating fantastically in the silence surrounding their conversation, Gill’s constantly manufactured diatribes. Tonight she was on and on about the town policies on parks and playgrounds, locked up at night, from what? The subject was as good as any. Especially when walls and fences couldn’t stop them.

  Most of their nocturnal debates were as pointless as they were enjoyable. They would only stop when Pat would eventually point out their total pointlessness. Usually around dawn. She was, and had always been, extremely patient with her best mate. She knew better anyway than interrupting Gill.

  A flask of whisky passed between them would add to the sharing and the specialness of the night.

  Gill was rather bouncy, regularly shifting shapes. Which one was the real one? They didn’t even know themselves. Pat was more contained. Her eyes were the only things she could never control. They had gone a dark and shiny black, intensity and brightness spilling out.

  Gill croaked deliberately loudly before shifting back to her human shape. She loved this kind of acting out. She went back to her subject of the night, switching suddenly to the increasing daily presence of ravens in the aforementioned town parks and playgrounds. Pat grunted appreciatively. And both went silent. Their acute sense of hearing had isolated the still distant sound of a footstep. Like heavy boots. They looked at each other, Gill with a new, amused smile slowly raising the corners of her mouth, Pat with an eyebrow rising interestedly. She playfully made her shoulder joints click. The clicking was not human, even if she kept her shape. Gill swiftly turned into a majestic red-spotted green frog the size of a pony and leapt delightedly. Entertainment was on its way.

  Entertainment? Certainly not the middle name of the human being approaching them. The frog leapt forward once. The human being kept approaching. Not taller than Pat. A blue mohican proudly erect, skulls and daggers bleedingly tattooed down the right arm, the left arm exhibiting scars, white straight lines from shoulder to elbow like notches on the handle of a cowboy gun, and then, two ugly jagged scars down to the wrist. Combat trousers, as dark as the night, two hunter knifes hanging from a studded leather belt. A confident pace. A female human with a crossbow in her hands. The sure shot caught the throat of the magnificent red-spotted green frog in the middle of the next leap.

  Bewildered, the frog fell to the ground, croaking lamely. Fatally wounded. It slowly changed back, body swapping its heaviness for female hips. Blood came out of the no longer smiling mouth, life gone out of Gill’s eyes. Pat was on her knees, a hand holding Gill’s right hand, an arm under the motionless head. She looked at the stranger, shaking her head:

  “You killed her!”

  “It’s my job, sweetheart. I’m a bounty hunter. Werefrogs are dangerous monsters. She was about to attack you. You should be grateful!”

  “She was my mate!”

  The smirking bounty hunter, still bouncing with satisfaction on the balls of her feet, was now at touching distance. She never read the danger in Pat’s eyes. The tail of the giant scorpion struck her between the eyes, lethal and unforgiving.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Riding the bus had never been Sid’s favorite idea of getting from point A to point B. She discarded public transports as unreliable and uncomfortable. It was an observation based on personal experience. Cycling would have been more of her taste, in a small town. She vaguely remembered being 9 or 10 and riding a vaguely green bicycle round and round her neighborou
gh, hours on end. And then she stopped, stung by the absurdity and uselessness of the wistful activity: in her solitary world, she had imagined she was training for cycling championships around the world, but in the real world she was never gonna do that. Consequently the bicycle forgot itself in a desolated corner of the parental garage and its vague green turned into a definite rusty.

  Motorbike was her favored means of transport.

  (She had actually been riding the top deck of a bus, hating it for all its lack of worth at rush hour, when it had trundled past a plethora of two-wheels sporting big engines. One of them had winked at her with purple and yellow stripes, and Sid’s heart had jumped back at it with painful longing within its ribcage. Mercilessly the bus had taken her away, but the exile could only be temporary; Sid Wasgo had returned to the scene of the crime the very next day. She didn’t touch, she stared intensely. She had no money, she had no license. At the time, in between monthly gigs and rehearsals, she hated herself as a temp worker and her co-workers disliked her green mohican. So the hate lessened. What had been a survival mode transmuted into a means to an end. Within a year or so, she had the license, the insurance, the purple and yellow winker had been sold, and Sid was riding her dream bike: a shiny black and bright red version of the purple and yellow Kawasaki Eliminator.)

  But on that day of reminiscing, the misfit with the freshly greened mohican was traveling by bus. Let’s face it: riding a motorbike, even a Kawasaki Eliminator 250, was not ideal with a freshly tattooed and thus sore leg tightly covered with thick leather. Otherwise, she would have timed the route to perfection instead of arriving early, but early enough to be ushered by Pam the receptionist-cum-piercer into the cubicle where Jessie, her friend and tattooist, was applying the finishing touch to another masterpiece on the back of Elizabeth Ashtead, an acquaintance and colleague of Sid, from the acoustic scene.