The next evening, Michael and I were on our way to the Hotel Sorrento after work—
“Excuse me? Do you mind moving your seat up more, Drew? I’ve got such long legs; they can be a nuisance sometimes.”
Right. Not just me and Michael.
Sarah must have had some sixth sense that something was happening tonight, because she had come up with an excuse to come to our floor to talk to me specifically. “Drew, it’s been a couple days since I went over to Antun’s.” She lifted her phone from her pocket, cocking her hip to one side. “Do I need to remind you what’s at stake here?”
Relax, Drew. She won’t do it, if only for Michael’s sake. Just breathe.
“Okay, you want in? We’re meeting with another vampire tonight right after work. That’s not too short of notice, is it?” I internally winced at my own bitchiness, but she was under my skin.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Of course not. I’ll see you after work then.” She turned and left the office, waving at Michael as she walked to the elevator.
As soon as she was out of sight, Michael pinged a message through the chat system, asking, “Everything alright?”
I typed back, “Sarah’s coming with us tonight.”
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up. But let me rephrase: are you alright?”
I sighed. “I am, or I will be. She just gets under my skin, you know?”
“I know. I’m here.”
I looked up at him through my window, and he held up three fingers. I love you. I sent back a number three in the chat system, sending my love back at him. We had picked sending messages in threes to tell each other those three words when we couldn’t say them aloud at work.
The rest of the workday was uneventful, and now, the three of us – not just two – were headed to the hotel that Razvan was staying at. The Sorrento was one of the city’s older hotels, and when we pulled up to the entrance on Madison Street, a valet walked up to the car.
“Would you like me to park that for you?” he asked, offering one half of a claim ticket to Michael.
“Uh, sure. Thanks,” Michael said a little cautiously. The three of us got out of the car and walked inside, leaving the car in the valet’s capable hands.
The lobby was full of dark wood paneling on the walls; the ceiling a creamy white broken up by wood crown molding. It was giving off classic Italian mobster vibes to me, for some reason, and I tried not to feel conspicuous in my very simple work outfit. I’d tried to dress it up with a jacket but even then, I looked rather ordinary, especially in comparison to Sarah in her pencil skirt and heels. I couldn’t help my scowl as she walked ahead of me.
You’re already tall, you don’t even need heels, bi— Ugh, keep it together Drew. You know it’s not even about the heels…
Antun and Syla were in the lobby waiting for us.
“Razvan gave me his room number. He’s already expecting us, so I guess we just go.” Antun had seemed unnerved when talking about the criminal psychologist, and it looked like he was getting his mask into place now.
Right. This guy’s a shrink. I don’t need him getting into my head.
We rode the elevator in tense silence. Sarah didn’t even bother trying to be cute in front of Michael right then, thank God. My stomach was already flipping for some reason, and I didn’t need my lid flipping as well.
We exited the elevator, congregating in front of a hotel room door. Antun only needed to knock once, when Razvan unlocked the door. “My guests, please come in.” His gaze alighted on Sarah, a brow raising. “You are an exception in this group, aren’t you,” he stated more than asked as she walked through the threshold.
When the door closed, she bluntly stated, “If by that you mean I am not a vampire, that is correct.”
“But you’re not a human either,” he pressed, as if seeing if he could get anything more from her.
Sarah smiled, “No, not human, either.” But she didn’t explain further. She seemed to be keeping her cards close to her chest around this stranger.
Razvan smiled genially back at her. “And your name?”
“I’m Sarah,” she replied easily, holding out a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
He gripped and gave her hand a solid shake before turning to Michael and I. “Antun I know, and I’ve met Syla and now Sarah, but what are your names?” he asked.
Michael simply stated his name, as did I.
Razvan nodded before sweeping an arm toward the room. “Please, everyone, have a seat. Would anyone care for a drink before we get started?” He walked over to the wet bar, pouring himself a glass of water from a clear carafe. Everyone else declined, and he raised his glass as if to say, Don’t mind me, then.
Taking a sip, he walked over to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. The dark wood theme continued in here as well, and without the light of a fire to warm the tones, the room felt moody and cold despite the lights being on.
It didn’t even look like anyone was staying at the suite, so devoid was it of anything personal. The only indication that this was anyone’s room were a couple of suits and plain white button-down shirts hanging in the closet, just like the three-piece suit he wore now.
The man held a centuries-old calm that I knew was mistaken for only maturity among others. But we knew better, at least about that. I hoped.
Drew, just because he somehow creeps you out already does not make him instantly guilty. Chill out.
I rolled my shoulders after I sat on the couch beside Syla. She sat between Sarah and I, thankfully acting as a buffer. Though I wished Sarah had sat somewhere else so that Michael could’ve sat next to me. That was probably her plan all along. I somehow managed not to growl my annoyance with her aloud as I watched Michael take up a leaning position on the wall beside the couch on my side.
Antun had taken the remaining chair, set across from Razvan’s. “To cut to the chase, Razvan, we know that you are one of Davor’s progeny. But for the sake of those who weren’t at the station, do you mind talking about what it is that you do?”
“Certainly.” Razvan settled back into the chair. “I work as a criminal psychologist, normally for Astoria and surrounding areas, but I was asked to help on this case here. Hence,” he gestured, “my quarters. Thank you for meeting me here, by the way. I appreciate the discretion.”
“Discretion benefits all of us right now, doesn’t it?” Antun countered. His knees were crossed and his hands relaxed on the arms of the chair. “Why don’t we discuss why we’re really here?”
Razvan smiled, but it lacked any warmth. It was like seeing a puppet smile, revealing nothing from his dark eyes.
“Serial murder,” he began without preamble, “rarely begins as chaos. Most killers start with an internal logic. The violence makes sense to them long before it becomes visible to anyone else.” He leaned forward, grasping the glass he had set on the coffee table. “The killer believes they are correcting something. Restoring balance. Punishing corruption. They often see themselves as judges rather than criminals.”
“Do you think the killer is targeting a specific type of person? The police haven’t been able to find any connecting factors between the victims,” Antun posed, eyes flicking to us for the briefest moment.
Razvan’s face was placid as he looked at him, assessing, before he continued, “You’ve surely noticed the… unusual method of killing. A very specific method, for a very specific type of person.”
“You believe the victims are vampires, too?” I asked, my voice sounding too unsure in my own ears.
“The pattern fits, though… They could’ve burned the whole body, why just the head?” Antun posed.
Razvan settled into his seat, getting comfortable. “Burning of the face specifically could symbolize erasing identity. The killers who mutilate victims often have a philosophical narrative, making the killer feel more justified,” the doctor replied.
“Could the burning of the face mean shame or identity destruction, not just erasure?” Syla posed. “Or do you think the killer believes they are cleansing something?”
Michael, with a tone of skepticism, interrupted with his own question. “Are you over-intellectualizing a murderer here, though? These victims are real people, not just psychological patterns.”
Syla suggested, “Maybe the killer feels like they are protecting society?”
Michael shook his head. His brows drew down and a furrow creased deep between his brows. Arms folded, he asked, “Does any killer really believe they are doing good? What if the killer simply enjoys violence?”
“Do predators really need justification to act?” Sarah countered. “From what I’ve heard and seen myself, I wonder if the killer is testing themselves or targeting a weakness perhaps,” she interjected.
Do killers ever regret what they do? The question hung in my mind. Do I regret what I did?... No, not really. He was a bad man who needed stopped.
My own thoughts froze for a moment as that realization sunk in. Do killers always start with a justification? Just like I did? But then… What does that say about me?
“Either way, whatever the motive, things are bound to escalate,” Antun stated, bringing my mind back to the conversation at hand.
I glanced around at everyone. Antun was watching Razvan carefully while Syla leaned into the psychological analysis. Sarah seemed to be watching the doctor more than the conversation. Razvan almost felt more like a lecturer than a detective. No, not a lecturer; his eyes were too observant. More like a priest at confession, listening intently to every word being said before declaring doctrine.
“Escalation happens when the original act no longer satisfies the belief driving the killer.” Razvan took a quick sip of his water before continuing. “That often means the killer is seeking something they haven’t achieved yet. The killer might be trying to perfect the act.”
“You make it sound like escalation is always inevitable,” Antun argued. He sifted forward in his seat, legs uncrossing. “I’m wondering whether escalation suggests frustration or failure. Perhaps escalation is a sign of the killer beginning to lose control.”
“From what I’ve seen in my… several years of criminal psychology work, killers tend to escalate because their belief system demands proof. Once someone believes they are justified, each act becomes a reinforcement of that belief.” Razvan sat comfortably, his legs crossed at the knee and his hands folded together in his lap. “Escalation can occur when the killer needs stronger evidence to satisfy themselves.”
“Might the killer be creating a pattern intentionally? I wonder if the mutilation suggests symbolic meaning, but escalation may be part of a ritual of sorts,” Syla interjected. “Predators build narratives that fit their worldview; there must be some kind of narrative that the killer is following.”
“What if escalation means that their belief isn’t working?” Sarah flipped her hair over her shoulder as she turned to Syla beside her. “What if it actually shows that the killer isn’t as confident as they appear?”
Razvan’s eyes lingered on her before he agreed, “There is that possibility.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Doubt and conviction can exist simultaneously. The escalation may be an attempt to silence their doubt. Or perhaps they are trying to prove something to themselves.”
Michael looked increasingly uncomfortable with the philosophical tone of the meeting, fidgeting from where he leaned against the wall. I for one felt like I was being analyzed, picked apart, and studied until my nerves felt raw. Razvan’s quiet intensity made my stomach knot up.
“The violence isn’t the interesting part about these cases.” Razvan seemed to be almost enjoying the intellectual discussion. Antun continued to quietly study his face and body language. Syla was leaning forward beside me, her analytical interest obviously piqued.
“Easy to say it isn’t interesting when you’re not the one being attacked.” Michael’s arms were crossed, the vein in his jaw popping out as he clenched his teeth.
“Allow me to rephrase that,” the doctor reassured. “Violence is common; history proves that. The act itself tells us very little. What matters is the reasoning that allows someone to commit it. Predation is ordinary. Restraint is rare.”
“So, you’re suggesting the belief system is the real key – meaning if we understand the belief, we can predict the next act. But what belief would justify something this extreme?” Antun asked. “If violence is secondary, where should the investigators actually focus?”
Her chin in her hand, Syla replied, “People who see themselves as righteous rarely think they’re violent. They think they are necessary. Punishment and justice blur easily in their mind, so the killer might believe they are fixing something.”
Sarah, quietly ambiguous, shifted on the couch, crossing her legs the other direction and watching Razvan with her wolfish stare. “Predators don’t usually question the act itself. Once something becomes acceptable, it stops feeling extreme. Instinct can justify a lot if you let it.” Her gaze wandered to the window and the city beyond. “A predator that hesitates doesn’t eat. Maybe the killer stopped seeing this as violence at all.”
That was a frightening thought, that the killer might not view their violence as something bad or wrong. What if that was what we were really facing? I still felt like violence was wrong, that didn’t change. If anything, my own experience cemented the wrongness of the act in my soul.
“On the topic of predators,” Razvan stood, going back to the carafe and pouring himself another glass of water as he spoke. “Every ecosystem has predators. Predation is not evil; it’s functional. The question is not whether a predator kills. The question is whether they understand not to. Control is the only thing separating a predator from a monster.” He walked over to the window, casting a casual glance over the city. He sipped from his glass; his blank face gave nothing away at all.
Syla’s brow furrowed and she argued, “But predators don’t choose their nature. A wolf doesn’t wake up one day and decide not to be a wolf. You can’t discipline instinct out of existence – nature eventually wins.”
Razvan nodded, acquiescing to her points before giving more of his own. “Instinct explains hunger, but it does not excuse excess. A predator that cannot restrain itself destroys its own territory.” His eyes turned to her. “Nature provides the impulse; discipline determines the outcome.”
“Instinct isn’t always weakness,” Sarah murmured. I wondered if she was thinking about that man who had attacked her the other night. Her instincts had definitely saved her then. “Sometimes instinct is the only honest thing left. Control can become another kind of illusion. Predators don’t debate their nature. Sometimes knowing when to stop is instinct too.”
Sarah certainly fit under the predator category as a werewolf, just like we likely did as vampires, as much as I hated to admit it. But were we still predators if we didn’t act on it? My confusion warred with my guilt.
“You’re talking about people like they’re animals,” Michael almost growled. He straightened his back. His hands fisted as he uncrossed his arms. “Predators, ecosystems… that’s a pretty cold way to describe murder. Humans are supposed to be better than that. We’re not just instincts and territory. People can choose not to be predators.”
Could we, though? Choose not to be predators as vampires? My stomach clenched.
Antun stood as well, walking to the other window on the opposite side of the fireplace from where Razvan stood. “Let me get this all straight: in your view, the killer failed to exercise discipline. Would that suggest impulsiveness or conviction, though?”
He sighed, hands going into his pockets. “Is this someone losing control or someone embracing it? Which would make them more dangerous?”
What if the person thinks they are showing restraint? What if they believe their violence is controlled? Questions of my own swirled in my mind before starting to come from my mouth.
“How would someone know then they’ve crossed that line?” I asked aloud. “If someone believes the act is justified, would they even see it as losing control?”
There was a pause as everyone considered. Everyone but Razvan, who merely took another sip of water. “What causes someone to lose control?” he asked the room after a moment.
After thinking for a moment, Michael spoke up. “People lose control when they stop seeing the other person as human. When someone convinces themselves that the victim deserves it. When empathy disappears, the line disappears with it.”
He swallowed, and I wondered if his mouth was as dry as mine. It made sense, as much as I hated to admit it. Had I stopped seeing Nikola as human? The more I pondered, the more my soul sank. Had I ever seen Nikola as human? Or had I always viewed him as a monster, as less-than human despite how ordinary he looked.
Syla sat up as she stated, “Sometimes, people don’t lose control. They just stop pretending they have it. Some predators enjoy power more than the act itself.” Her fingers fiddled with the thread bracelet, almost like she was counting the knots like rosary beads.
That fit Nikola to a T. A hundred years with him – I couldn’t begin to imagine the horrors she must have seen, must have endured.
“Once someone realizes they can hurt others without consequences, that realization changes them. Control fades when someone starts believing they deserve that power. The danger isn’t losing control. It’s deciding you don’t need it.”
That made sense too. God, this was terrifying. I felt like I had more questions than answers at this point.
Beside Syla, Sarah uncrossed her legs and recrossed them at the ankles. She argued, “Predators lose control when they start fighting their instincts instead of understanding them. Hunger ignored too long tends to break loose eventually. Control fails when someone pretends they aren’t capable of the act. Instinct doesn’t just disappear because someone wants it to. The ones who lose control are usually the ones who thought they never would.”
Fuck – that last sentence. I never would’ve imagined myself killing anyone, yet I had. Was that me losing control? What does that say about me? My stomach fell even further, reaching somewhere near the basement of the hotel. I felt nauseous but only crossed my arms in front of myself, as if that would do anything to help.
Antun turned toward the window. “Control breaks down when belief overrides consequence – when someone becomes convinced they’re justified. It breaks down once someone believes the rules don’t apply to them, when ideology replaces judgment.” He turned away from the window to look back at the rest of us. “The moment someone stops questioning their own actions, control is gone.”
The dangerous certainty of his words made the skin up my back prickle with goosebumps. Razvan’s eyes turned toward me, and I realized everyone else had given their thoughts. Shit, I don’t know. My uncertainty came through in my words.
“Maybe people don’t realize they’ve crossed the line until it’s already behind them, or maybe they convince themselves they haven’t. It feels like the real danger is how easy it is to justify it afterward. Maybe… the scariest part is thinking you’re still in control.”
Razvan didn’t say anything. No one did, leaving the room eerily quiet. His reflection on the glass behind him was dark and looming, making him look more ominous. He simply watched me as he took in the words I had said.
He nodded. “Indeed. Your answers were… interesting. Most people answer that question with more confidence,” Razvan stated plainly as he looked at me. “Your uncertainty suggests reflection. People who question themselves often exercise greater control than those who never do. But self-doubt can also become… paralysis.”
It was like he knew; I did feel paralyzed. I didn’t know what to think anymore. Part of me really wanted to justify what I had done, the way I had done it. But did that make me more than a monster? Crossing into predator territory? But my friends – they were good people. Our monstrous condition didn’t make them predators in the sense that Razvan was talking about. But none of them had killed Nikola. That was all on me.
“In any case, our killer,” he walked back to his seat and tapped on the files, “does not appear to suffer from doubt. The precision of the killings suggests conviction. Conviction can be very dangerous.”
He turned away from me, but it was as if he was reading my thoughts. “The most dangerous predators are not the ones who enjoy violence. They are the ones who believe it is necessary.”
Glancing at the others, I realized that while Razvan as a psychologist had likely already learned a lot about us just from our discussion, we’d learned almost nothing about him. What had I learned about him from this meeting? That he understood the mind of a killer? That was basically it. And that wasn’t comforting in the least.
Syla looked quietly disturbed, as if she wanted out of here as badly as I did. Sarah’s mask was still in place, her acting skills frighteningly impressive. Antun looked thoughtful, and as I glanced up at Michael, I saw his unease clearly in his eyes.
“Let’s call it food for thought,” Razvan suggested as he turned back to the window.
Antun turned and stood behind the chair he’d sat in earlier. “Thank you for your time and insights, Dr. Ilijev. We certainly have a lot to think about.”
No kidding. My mind was awhirl with guilt, wondering if I deserved any joy after taking a life. Michael’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, and he nodded his head toward the door. The weight of his hand should’ve been a comfort, but at that moment, with everything running through my mind, it felt like the weight of the world.
