caves. After a long second I receive the answer to my ping. He's on the penthouse floor.
I quickly withdraw the mind probe. Although I'm tempted to peek inside his mind to see what he has in store, I decide against it. While Estes might not be a natural-born sensitive, the drug and electroshock therapy he underwent as a teenager seems to have activated dormant esper talent. That would explain some of his success at spotting and hunting down his prey. Only poets, drunks and madmen can see into the Real World, and Jack Estes is certainly no Shelley.
I circle the building, checking to see if it has an exterior fire escape, but it's too new and too tall. I duck around back, scoping out the service entrance. I'm in luck. The security guard is seated on an upended plastic milk crate, quietly enjoying a blunt as he contemplates the early morning sky. I step out from behind the industrial-strength dumpster and move towards him, hands in my pockets. He lifts his head in surprise, his eyebrows rising quizzically. I reach inside his mind and massage the occipital lobe, effectively rendering myself invisible to his mortal eyes. With another mental shove he doesn't even register me lifting the plastic keycard off the clip on his belt. I stroll past him and into the nerve center of Estes' building. I head straight for the service elevators, which, unlike those open to the public, lack surveillance equipment.
The elevator doors open silently onto the penthouse foyer. Like the ground floor lobby, it manages to be tastefully appointed while betraying absolute no sign of individuality.
The double doors of the penthouse boast an electronic lock, and I slip the magnetic keycard into the slot.
The light atop the lock blinks red then turns green, and I push the door open. I stand in the doorway and smile humorlessly before taking a single, deliberate step forward.
I look about the cavernous living room with its luxurious carpets and expensive, modern furnishings.
Estes is nowhere to be seen. Everything is angles and highly glossed surfaces; designed to be looked at and never used. It is not a home, but merely a place to stay. I find it far too exposed for my tastes. I prefer keeping a low profile, and I usually doss down in raw industrial spaces, since I have little need for most human comforts.
I pause to inspect a wall-sized bookcase, only to find that the books aren't real - just spines pasted over two-by-fours.
My eye is drawn to the only sign of disarray in the entire room: a jumble of old vinyl forty-fives atop a stainless steel and glass coffee table. I pick up the first record, studying the logo dominating the left side
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) of the label: a line drawing of a heart pierced by a knife, the hilt to the right, and the blade to the left. I paw through the singles until I find another, earlier recording, with the name "Jack Music" printed in Art Nouveau script on the label. I put it aside and return my attention to the pierced heart logo. Something tells me that the symbol must hold some meaning to the vampire Estes called Blackheart. I carefully set aside the forty-five and resume my survey of the room. My gaze stops at the oaken doors at the far end of the room.
Upon entering the darkened room, I am instantly bathed in an artificial dawn. The light reveals a smallish antechamber lined floor-to-ceiling with full-length mirrors. I stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by my twins, shaking my head at his naiveté. Vampires avoid mirrors, not because they cast no reflection, but because they see their true selves. They see what they once were and what they have become.
Once, not too long ago, it used to frighten me to look at myself in the mirror. But I've learned to accept what I see. A multitude of Sonjas reach out in my direction, but all I touch is silvered glass.
I reach out and push one of the mirrors. A latch clicks and the
I quickly withdraw the mind probe. Although I'm tempted to peek inside his mind to see what he has in store, I decide against it. While Estes might not be a natural-born sensitive, the drug and electroshock therapy he underwent as a teenager seems to have activated dormant esper talent. That would explain some of his success at spotting and hunting down his prey. Only poets, drunks and madmen can see into the Real World, and Jack Estes is certainly no Shelley.
I circle the building, checking to see if it has an exterior fire escape, but it's too new and too tall. I duck around back, scoping out the service entrance. I'm in luck. The security guard is seated on an upended plastic milk crate, quietly enjoying a blunt as he contemplates the early morning sky. I step out from behind the industrial-strength dumpster and move towards him, hands in my pockets. He lifts his head in surprise, his eyebrows rising quizzically. I reach inside his mind and massage the occipital lobe, effectively rendering myself invisible to his mortal eyes. With another mental shove he doesn't even register me lifting the plastic keycard off the clip on his belt. I stroll past him and into the nerve center of Estes' building. I head straight for the service elevators, which, unlike those open to the public, lack surveillance equipment.
The elevator doors open silently onto the penthouse foyer. Like the ground floor lobby, it manages to be tastefully appointed while betraying absolute no sign of individuality.
The double doors of the penthouse boast an electronic lock, and I slip the magnetic keycard into the slot.
The light atop the lock blinks red then turns green, and I push the door open. I stand in the doorway and smile humorlessly before taking a single, deliberate step forward.
I look about the cavernous living room with its luxurious carpets and expensive, modern furnishings.
Estes is nowhere to be seen. Everything is angles and highly glossed surfaces; designed to be looked at and never used. It is not a home, but merely a place to stay. I find it far too exposed for my tastes. I prefer keeping a low profile, and I usually doss down in raw industrial spaces, since I have little need for most human comforts.
I pause to inspect a wall-sized bookcase, only to find that the books aren't real - just spines pasted over two-by-fours.
My eye is drawn to the only sign of disarray in the entire room: a jumble of old vinyl forty-fives atop a stainless steel and glass coffee table. I pick up the first record, studying the logo dominating the left side
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) of the label: a line drawing of a heart pierced by a knife, the hilt to the right, and the blade to the left. I paw through the singles until I find another, earlier recording, with the name "Jack Music" printed in Art Nouveau script on the label. I put it aside and return my attention to the pierced heart logo. Something tells me that the symbol must hold some meaning to the vampire Estes called Blackheart. I carefully set aside the forty-five and resume my survey of the room. My gaze stops at the oaken doors at the far end of the room.
Upon entering the darkened room, I am instantly bathed in an artificial dawn. The light reveals a smallish antechamber lined floor-to-ceiling with full-length mirrors. I stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by my twins, shaking my head at his naiveté. Vampires avoid mirrors, not because they cast no reflection, but because they see their true selves. They see what they once were and what they have become.
Once, not too long ago, it used to frighten me to look at myself in the mirror. But I've learned to accept what I see. A multitude of Sonjas reach out in my direction, but all I touch is silvered glass.
I reach out and push one of the mirrors. A latch clicks and the
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