I'm Gonna Need Some Stitches "Vamps don't get sick," I said. "They may go nuts at the least provocation, but they don't get sick." Air currents buffeted the small jet; I held on to the phone and the seat arm with white-knuckled grips. Inside me, Beast was purring, enjoying the ride entirely too much for a creature who used to be afraid of flying. Static fuzzed the connection, but I made out the words " - two of these did. And maybe the third one, don't know." If Reach didn't know something, it was better hidden than the identity of Kennedy's killer - assuming that there really was a coven of blood-witches on the grassy knoll. Conspiracy theorists have a consensus on that, but there never was any evidence to back it up. "I'm still searching," Reach said, "but it looks like the masters of the city of Sedona and Seattle are still showing signs of malaise. Boston's MOC has vanished, and rumor has it the suckhead's dead." Malaise, I thought, unamused, reading the description of their symptoms. It was a heck of a lot more than malaise. In spite of what I'd said, the vampires were sick - maybe dying. "Give me details." "According to my latest timeline, this vamp came out of nowhere two months ago and vamps started getting sick, which should be impossible, I know," he agreed. "Once they were sick, they