Gigi's sideways mouth dipped as she whispered, "I think so."

Collateral damage, Dawn thought, as there was with all wars.

Bile inched up her throat. All of them were just the smoking aftermath of a war.

"The weight," Dawn finally said. It was hard to talk because of the smell. "How did you survive the weight in your soul when others didn't?"

Gigi started, then rested her gloved hand over her chest. It only confirmed to Dawn that the soul stain really was there.

"It stays with an ex-vamp," Dawn added, "as if you never deserved to be human again anyway. It destroys."

Her voice choked off, and it wasn't just because of the charnel house odor.

Roberto adjusted his slipping mask as he walked closer to Gigi. "You can tell her, darling. Tell her what kept you going after you turned human again."

Dawn had already a.s.sumed that the masked people around her were servants. The star was still the queen who held court, just like in the Underground. But with the way the old, grotesque woman glanced at Roberto, Dawn could see that there was an imbalance of power here.

Things weren't the same as they'd been in Hollywood...

At Gigi's hesitation, Roberto sighed, as if resigning himself to speak for her. "Naomi and I were so happy to get jobs at the Bahia, because Gigi used to work here. We collected old dresses of hers, even put up a web site..."

The numero uno fans exchanged fond glances.

"And, what do you know," Roberto went on. "While Gigi was Underground, waiting until she could resurface, she'd kept tabs on all her press - which she still got, even if she'd been dead for a few decades. Servants would print out reports for her and bring them below ground, where she'd read about the continuing devotion of her fans. She was so close to her release date. Did you know that? She'd waited such a long time..." He swallowed. "It's only natural, when she turned back human, that she tracked us down, using our site information. She knew we would still love her, no matter what misfortunes she'd endured."

So the undying devotion of fans had kept Gigi alive this long. Maybe the other stars hadn't connected to that - remembered that in their urgent anguish - as this star had.

Dawn focused on the third man, still silent under his mask. Still wary, as if he expected her to attack him. She didn't feel her revolver on her, and she was sure they'd taken the other weapons she'd strapped on, too. The knife. The throwing blades she hadn't used in such a long time.

Roberto turned toward Gigi, who'd lowered her head, as if in shame.

"When she came to us," he said, "she was a gray, shriveled thing, wearing a ripped evening gown. I found her backstage one day, watching us. At first, we thought she was a street person who'd wandered in, but..."

"But," Naomi finally said, "Roberto recognized her. And after she told us what she'd been through, it just broke our hearts. She never said it outright, but we knew she'd want us to look at her as if she was just as beautiful as she'd always been. So we took care of her, dressed her in her favorite outfits, fed her, adored her."

Like their own Gigi doll, Dawn thought. A fan collectible.

"She never wanted to come home with us, though," Naomi continued. "She likes it at the Bahia, so we made a home in this old storage room. Steve-" she nodded at the third man- " is another fan who helped with the web site. He's her guardian now. I'm afraid he overreacted when he found you chasing Gigi."

Steve didn't give any sign that he'd heard or was even a part of the conversation. He just kept staring with those dark eyes at Dawn.

"We didn't intend to make her a legend again," Roberto said. "Not this way - with her as a *ghost.' But then we realized that this is what Gigi needs - a legend that keeps growing. So we make up stories about seeing her. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes," Naomi added, "Gigi gets out on her own."

The old woman kept peering at the ground.

"Just like another Underground," Dawn said, her voice a rattle. They were keeping Gigi alive because that's what fans needed. Fans who could never let go.

Across the room, Gigi finally raised her face, meeting Dawn's gaze. Darkness filled her eyes, and Dawn saw the mortification of a captive.

Are you here to kill me?

The woman's question took on a whole new meaning, and deep within Dawn, she felt the burden - the sorrow and confusion after everything Gigi loved had been taken away and gnarled into an existence she'd never expected.

Her admirers loved her, and it had kept her going, all right. But these fans loved her too much.

Naomi abandoned the circle to stand next to Gigi, leaving a bigger hole that revealed the source of the room's stench.

A half-gnawed corpse hanging from a series of pegs driven into the wall, its face chewed, its stringy hair matted with gore, its entrails squiggling out of its bared stomach.

Dawn gagged again. Then the dragon's blood jerked on her skin, under it, as if it was yelling that she didn't need anyone to rescue her from this. She didn't need anything but what she had inside of herself - the power and anger she'd quieted within herself in an effort to keep the blood away from her soul stain. She couldn't allow the dragon to join with the darkness to resurrect itself within her.

She sucked in breaths, thought of ocean waves. Thought of Costin, who'd always kept her in control.

Breathing.

Breathing.

"One thing we know for sure," Naomi said, "is that Gigi's going to stay happy. And we'll do anything - anything - to make sure she's always that way."

The gutted body next to Naomi told Dawn the rest. Gigi, the ex-vampire, still liked her blood, and Dawn might just be her next meal if the fans could find a way to cover up their own hunting. And her fans would always indulge her, just as long as she kept touching them with her stardust.

While Naomi kept petting Gigi, the star watched Dawn, as if she was pleading with her.

Then Gigi spoke. "The only time I'm not watched is when I can escape to the theater, but they always catch me..."

"Gigi," Roberto said soothingly, "we're just keeping you safe."

Dawn kept sucking in the diseased air, not only to calm herself, but because she'd heard the agony in Gigi's tone. Felt the despair, just like it was her own.

As it sc.r.a.ped through her, from her awakened dragon-blood skin down to her soul, something consumed the room like a flash and bang of lightning, obliterating Dawn's vision.

Then it all went into fast-forward.

Nothing but a field of white from the flash bomb - footsteps ... running ...

It was Kiko - shoving a gun into her hands while Dawn heard Naomi, Roberto, Steve, and Gigi calling out to each other in their own temporary blindness. She could hear him c.o.c.king a pistol while Dawn's vision gradually turned to color, then solid images, again.

The first thing her gaze latched onto was her partner. "Don't move," Kiko said, aiming at the fan club, cool and collected. They'd dealt with a h.e.l.l of a lot worse on hunts.

The devotees had their hands up, but Gigi...

Gigi was turning around, toward a table where Dawn's confiscated weapons lay.

"Stop moving!" he yelled. Then to Dawn, "Are you okay? A showgirl saw you and I-"

"Gigi's not a ghost," Dawn said. "She's human."

Kiko looked sick about that. But Gigi had heard Dawn, too, and her gaze drifted to the corpse on the wall, then back to Dawn and Kiko.

Human? she seemed to ask.

Gigi was already reaching across the table for Dawn's revolver. Dawn felt like her own soul was lead, an echo of what was in Gigi, and she couldn't call out for the star to stop because she knew what would make the ex-Elite truly happy now.

Knew all too well.

Before anyone but Dawn understood what was happening, let alone why, Gigi shoved the barrel into her mouth.

Later, Dawn could have sworn that a smile appeared on Gigi's ravaged face in the half-second before she pulled the trigger.

Chris Marie Green is the author of the "Vampire Babylon" series, which includes Night Rising and A Drop of Red. In 2011, Ace will publish her new postapocalyptic urban fantasy western noir "Bloodlands" series. She has a website at www.vampire-babylon.com Former Hollywood stuntwoman Dawn Madison is currently in retirement from vampire hunting and resides near San Diego. Kiko Daniels, who lives nearby, runs a paranormal detective agency with his partner, Natalia Petri.

Under the Hill and Far Away: A Black London Story.

by Caitlin Kittredge.

A shadow fell across Pete Caldecott like a bird flickering across the sun. She looked up from her drink, and immediately wished she hadn't.

The Fae was a head and a half taller than she was. Pete was short for a human, so that likely made him short for a Fae. He tilted his head when Pete made eye contact. "Madam Caldecott?"

Pete straightened up, fixed him with her worst copper stare. "I think you have the wrong Madam Caldecott, mate."

The Fae spread his hands. "No, miss. I'm quite certain it's you she wants." He had pupiless eyes, silver. Beautiful, if you were into that Tolkien bulls.h.i.t. Or Shark Week.

Pete deliberately put her eyes back on her pint. The Lament was theoretically a neutral zone in the Black, the ebb and flow of magical London that existed out of most people's sight. No fighting, no magic and no Fae.

Pete told it, "I'm waiting for someone."

"Sir Jack Winter." The Fae inclined its head again. It looked a bit like David Bowie and a bit like it wanted to turn her into a skin handbag. Pete felt the back of her neck crawl and a faint scent of orchids and earth crawled up her nose. The Fae had its magic up - it would have to, to cross the iron bands in the Lament's door and the a.s.sorted protection hexes that surrounded the pub like a coc.o.o.n of ethereal razor wire. To penetrate it, the Fae was stronger than any Pete had ever seen. Not that her experience with Fae was vast.

"It's none of your b.l.o.o.d.y business," Pete said, "but, yes."

"He won't be coming," the Fae intoned. "Madam Caldecott..."

"Look, if you insist on speaking to me, lay off of that before I call the bouncer and get you thrown right the f.u.c.k out," Pete ordered.

"Petunia," the Fae tried, her given name looking like it caused it - him? - pain. "I bear a request from the Senechal of the Seelie Court. I need you to come at once."

The Fae reached for her, and Pete lost what little patience she had for the creatures. "You lay that pretty hand on me and you're getting a pretty stump back," she said, swatting. Contact with its skin sent a spiraling jolt of power up her arm and into her heart. Pete didn't make it her practice to cause a scene in the middle of pubs - at least not when she was sober - and when the Lament's few patrons looked over, she felt herself flush. "Look, I'm sorry," she said. "But here, you don't just swan in and grab people..." she waited for the Fae's name.

"You can call me Rowan," it said. Pete crinkled her nose.

"That's a bit swishy for a strapping thing like yourself." The expression on Rowan's face showed he had no idea what she meant. Pete sighed. "Rowan, what do you want? You're making me conspicuous."

"You must come," Rowan said. "If I don't deliver you..." The magic about him changed subtly, a darkening, a chill across Pete's bare skin. "If I don't," Rowan whispered, "they cut off my head."

Pete blinked. "How medieval," she said dryly. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Don't you know?" he said. "Seelie Fae can't lie. We are bound by blood. Our very nature forbids it."

That caused Pete to consider. Jack, the one with actual experience of the pasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, had only spoken of Fae in the most dismissive of terms. She had no idea whether to trust Rowan or laugh at the audacity of his put-on.

"They told me you were smart," Rowan said. "That you were a detective."

Pete took a sip of her dark beer. "Used to be. Not any more." It was hard to reconcile murders and robberies and the orderly procession of the Metropolitan Police with magic and curses and a place like the Lament Pub. Too hard. Six months next week, she'd been off the job.

"That's why they want you," Rowan continued. "The puzzle. The b.l.o.o.d.y business. Human eyes are needed."

Pete raised her eyebrow at that. Rowan was growing more fidgety by the second, like a first-former itching to tattle on a cla.s.smate. "Come out with it!" she said.

"A murder," Rowan said. "It's the first in ... well, a very, very long time, even for us. Honor killings are one thing. Duels. a.s.sa.s.sination. But this..." He scrubbed his hand against his forehead. "It has no sense behind it."

Pete sighed. "You look for murder to make sense, you might as well be looking for meaning in *Whiter Shade of Pale'. Don't Fae have ... I dunno, investigative types?" The idea of Fae police, in everyday Met uniforms, made her smirk a bit. Most of the Black was lawless as the American West, and it was by pure meanness and cunning that you kept your blood and entrails inside your body. Jack had taught her that. Where the f.u.c.k was Jack?

"We used to have Inquisitors," Rowan said. "But the Queen disbanded them, long ago. It's said ... they said Petunia Caldecott was the cleverest human in the Black. And this needs a human's eyes."

Pete looked at the door again, at Rowan's haggard face, and finally back at her mostly-still-full pint gla.s.s. "Fine," she sighed, tossing down a few pounds for it. "Let's have a look at your corpse, then."

They left the Lament, which opened onto an alley that was never in the same place twice. Rowan visibly relaxed once they were outside, and Pete felt him shift something, the enchantment that had allowed him inside in the first place, though his magic still p.r.i.c.kled her. "Have you ever visited Faerie?" he asked Pete. His voice was stronger, with the clearbell-like quality she a.s.sociated with Fae.

"Never have, never wanted to," she said. Feeling in her pockets for her pack and a lighter, she lit up, inhaled, and added a small blue cloud to the low wet fog that fell around them like frayed lace.

"This way," Rowan said, starting down the stairs of a long-abandoned tube station. In the light world, it would be full of people, buskers, newsagents. In the Black, it was boarded up and painted with graffiti in a dozen arcane languages, the steps slippery and the air dank. Pete hesitated on the top step.

"If this is a setup to get me eaten by something nasty, I'm going to be very b.l.o.o.d.y upset with you, Rowan."

Rowan held out his long pale hand, the color of a drowned man's. "I mean you no harm. I swear."

Pete didn't take his hand, but she did take the first step down to the tube platform. A shadow pa.s.sed over the clouded moon, and for a moment there was perfect blackness. Something whistling and unearthly breathed in her face.

Pete's cigarette went out.

When she could see again, she was in Faerie.

Pete didn't know what she'd expected, exactly - perhaps some Froud-esque fantasy of pixies at play under giant, Alice in Wonderland mushrooms. Or perhaps a palace of tall, pale, ridiculously good-looking Fae straight out of h.e.l.lboy. She'd expected soft things, silver eyes, the scent of elderflower.

Faerie was hard, instead. It was brick and iron, blackened to the same color by soot and grit. A sign was worked into the tiles of the tube station, in a language that looked like twisting vines to Pete's eye.

Rowan slowed when she did. "Is something the matter, Lady?"

"It's, um..." Pete gestured at the wood track, broken and empty. "You have the tube here?"