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“The Case of the Missing Detective,” murmurs Mina. She’s sitting in the front seat of Dracula’s car this time, next to Quincey. She likes it a lot better.

“It was the night he told you he’d have your friend the next day,” says Quincey. “He was wagering with himself, and I think he bet too much. He’s got some astounding talents, see, but also some peculiar vulnerabilities, and–forgive me–I don’t think he aimed to disappoint.”

“So he’s in trouble? Maybe the same trouble as Lucy?”

Quincey nods.

“Well,” says Mina briskly, “if so, that should save us some time.”


A thud, and a sudden knife in the corkboard, and a cool voice behind her: “What have I told you about showing up here?”

The rat-eating man hisses, then bounds out the open window.

“If I look down onto the street,” asks Mina carefully, “I won’t see anything, will I?”

“You’re quick,” says the newcomer, and ambles up to retrieve his knife. “Next time I may not chase him off. He knows more than he ought to…”

“I don’t believe we were ever introduced,” says Mina.

“Quincey Morris,” says Dracula’s receptionist, “and Miss Murray, I think I need your help.”