Mia wanted sex after that.

We stayed at a cheap and dirty motel, and she was experienced in bed. It pleased Mia that I was so inexperienced, I think; that she was my first fuck. She was in awe of me, and I could do no wrong. It was a strange feeling.

Mia liked to smoke, sixty or more a day, one after the other. And while she smoked and lay beside me on the bed, she said, "You're nothing like what I expected. Don't get me wrong, I don't know what I was expecting. Something different, I guess."

I'll never know how Mia found me; I never asked. But her expectations, I suppose, explain in part why you haven't caught me to this day. You're always looking for the wrong type.

"Tell me about Max," Mia said.

I remained silent, and perhaps she thought her forwardness offended me. The truth is I hadn't known what to tell her. For whatever reason, Mia quickly changed the subject, and that was when I learned how much she liked to talk. She told me all about herself. She told me that she was a killer, just like me, and the police had been chasing her for a long time.

"Of course," she said, lighting her third cigarette off the butt of her second, "everyone thinks I'm this copycat killer – you know, some nutter who's inspired by one mass murderer or another. The police are fucking idiots. They don't know their arses from their elbows. The only thing they've got right is that I'm female. But they don't realise I've been the only killer all along. I've never copied anyone in my life. I'm much older than anyone realises, and as for that nickname they gave me, well ..."

On and on she went, pausing now and then to draw smoke from her cigarette.

You know Mia. You let the press name her Lady Bathory because her victims are always found in bathtubs, drenched in their own blood. You say she thinks she's a vampire, one who incapacitates her victims with drugs. You say she's a copycat killer because her modus operandi seems the copy of a string of unsolved murders dating back fifty years or more. But Mia was adamant; insisted you've only ever been chasing her.

Even now that doesn't seem likely, but who can say for sure?

"The police got my motives right, though," Mia told me. "I mean, of course I'm not a vampire, not in the classic sense. I can eat and drink anything I want - except rum and seafood, they make me sick - and all that holy crap and sunlight malarkey is just stupid. I'm not super-strong, either, which is why I use drugs on people. But I do drink blood to stay young, to stay alive. I look and feel fantastic all the time. It's funny – I don't particularly enjoy the taste of blood, but you just get used to stuff, right? Really, I only have to drink it once a year, maybe twice. When I feel the itch, you know? I suppose I do it more often, because, if I'm honest, I like the power, the thrill of being higher on the food chain. How often do you kill people?"

Technically, I've never killed anyone, but Mia had been desperate to talk about Max, so I felt obliged to give an answer. "Once a month."

"Once a month!" Mia spluttered. "But ..." and I could see her eyes doing the maths.

More than two years you've been looking for me. That's over twenty-four victims.

Mia said, "The police say you've only killed ten," and I shook my head. The truth concerning my body count delighted her more than anything. She laughed with a bright sound, and covered my face in kisses.

"This is why you need to be with me," she said. "We understand each other more than anyone can. We're a perfect match." She straddled me, and the heat of her crotch gave me an erection, but when she said, "I can't believe I'm actually here with the Skin Mechanic," the very mention of that name left me impotent.

Mia rubbed herself against me and said, "Tell me more about Max."

But I couldn't. I just wanted to sleep. Because, strangely, I wanted to see if Mia would still be there in the morning.

.