Shes here, Mr. Rakovic, said the burly, dark-suited driver into his short-wave radio, but theres a civilian with her. What do you want me to do? Stay put, replied a crackly, yet authoritative voice. Im leaving the central station. Just passing the synagogue. Traffics good. Ill be there directly. If she leaves first, trail her discreetly, and keep radioing me directions. But dont try and take her by yourself, for goodness sakes. I wont, Mr. Rakovic¦ and thank you for your concern. A true Christian, you are, sir. You would know better than I, came the reply, following a derisive laugh, having only been defrocked these three months. But we certainly share a cause. Indeed, sir. These vile abominations¦ corrupters and defilers¦ and the ecclesiastical court accused me of desecrating that grave! Imagine what might have happened if I hadnt beheaded and burned that demonic whore. Yes. We could have taken her alive, and thus been spared this present inconvenience. But spare me the ideology, Serghei. Just tell me if shes still there. Yes, but I think¦ Shes coming out, sir! Where are you? Piata Mare. Ill be there in seconds. Intercept¦ but dont shoot her in the heart if you can avoid it. Shoot to incapacitate. Serghei drew his revolver, checked that it was fully-loaded with sanctified silver bullets, and stepped from his car at the very moment the antique wheelchair; its lovely occupant; and its even lovelier attendant (whom there was no mistaking, in spite of her blue contact lenses) emerged through the shop door. The fair lady immediately fixed Serghei with a hard, emotionless stare, and though his heart skipped a beat, it did not deter him from training his gun upon her. Dont try anything, he warned, fear and disgust struggling for dominance in his voice and expression. These bullets can kill you, so just- Bullets, dear? interrupted the fair lady, calmly, but with an acidic undertone. And where, pray, could you be hiding a gun? Not in those pretty little panties of yours, surely? His hand was empty. How¦ ? He was bitterly cold all over. What the¦ ? He looked down, and regretted it: his body was, inexplicably, that of a pale and shivering girl of no more than fourteen, barefoot and naked, save for a pair of pink satin panties. Looking up, the view did not improve: the lady had left the wheelchair and was advancing towards him, smiling very unpleasantly, and displaying a great deal of fang in the process. Relax, sweetie. Im a very gentle eater¦ as a rule. You might even find this experience quite- Shoot her, you fool! shouted a voice from the window of another black saloon, now pulling up on the other wise of the street, causing the fair lady to pause in her deadly intent, and her helpless little victim to dissolve in tears. But sir, said Serghei, mortified at the sound of his high, girlish voice. Look what shes turned me into. How can I- ? She hasnt turned you into anything, you weak-willed idiot! Shes hypnotising you! The gun is still in your hand! At this point, it seemed to have occurred to the fair lady that the new arrival was a far more dangerous prospect, and she made in his direction, leaving Serghei to ponder his condition. With her concentration elsewhere, he soon began to feel warmer, and to feel a welcome sense of metallic hardness between his fingers. The illusion had, within seconds, passed completely, to his intense relief. Nasty man not like to be pretty girl?