They sat at the table with the unconscious woman. Turner inspected his fingernails, wondering if a manicure was a pressing priority. Caravaggio leaned forward to move a strand of Leandra's hair away from her face. This light touch caused her eyelids to twitch. Caravaggio waved a hand to garner Turner's attention. She groaned, attempting to wake as she tried sitting up in her chair. The manacles chaining Leandra's wrists to the table prevented her from rubbing her eyes.

She focused on the two men before noticing her handcuffed state. "What...?"

"In case you weren't sure," Caravaggio said, "yes, we're fucking vampires."

She blinked several times, fighting the sedative's effects. "Wait, what? I... I don't understand. What's going on?"

"You killed one of us," Turner said, gesturing to indicate the room "so this is your place of judgment."

"Judgment? Wait. No, no, no. I wouldn't do that. I loved him. I wanted him to turn me into one of you."

"No, you didn't." Caravaggio scoffed. He put his feet on the table and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Okay, first off, are you seriously trying to convince us that he was great in bed?"

"Of course," she stammered. "He was so experienced, so gentle and loving."

"Yeah. I call bullshit on that one. You see, your only experience with us is based on him, and when we showed up, you expected us to be the same as that bitch. You grabbed his hands," Caravaggio said, hooking a thumb at Turner, "to see if they were cold, and his wrists to see if you could find a pulse. Yes to both, because we can control that shit."

"He believed he was dying," Turner added, "and exhibited symptoms suggesting the same. When we are first enhanced, everything heightens; every taste, smell, pleasure, and pain. To keep cuts and bruises from being agony, we learn to temper those feelings, disassociate from our nerve endings, feeling nothing."

"When it comes to sex, though, that's totally different." Caravaggio grinned. "When you want it, you're turned on, and the dial goes to eleven without thought. It's a sexual experience beyond anything, like LSD and Ecstasy all rolled into one, and we got about as much control as someone on that shit. It's fantastic, sure, for us. For other people, things are over in a minute, and they're like, 'What, that's it?' That's if they survive, when they almost never do. When you're with a human and you've hit sexual nirvana, you're tired, not thinking right, you've got the munchies, and look, there's something to eat right below you. I can't tell you how many hotel rooms I've destroyed that way. So, in short, it's not great for other people, but as I always say, fuck other people."

"Now," Turner said, "we could entertain the thought that in his few decades, he learned to control himself, developing patience and technique. Maybe. But there's no way that he was thinking about anyone but himself while in the grips of a full-blown depression."

Caravaggio shrugged. "The sex was terrible. End of story."

Leandra shuffled in her seat. "Okay, maybe it wasn't the best, but I didn't care about that. I loved him, and I didn't want to defame his memory."

"Puh-lease," Caravaggio snorted. "That's not why you said it. You figured we were vampires, so you said sex with vampires was incredible. You were stroking our egos. And you didn't love his ass."

"I did. He was my whole world."

Caravaggio groaned. "Lady, let me ask you, you ever heard of the hormone, prolactin?" With her shaking head as a response, he continued. "It's one of my favorites. Most things in vampire films are bullshit, but one thing's real. Those scenes where people run for their lives because we're chasing them, that happens, but not why you think. We're faster than humans and don't tire easily. Whenever I chase someone, the reason I don't catch them immediately is because I don't wanna. The longer they run, the more adrenaline. It's like turning blood into an energy drink, so I always let them run first. Sadness is the same way. Say one of us was mad at a guy, so our friendly neighborhood vampire slaughters his entire family. The family man's tears contain prolactin."

"Amongst other chemicals," Turner said.

"Yeah, but they're too hard to say." Caravaggio looked at Leandra. "Point is, when someone cries because they're sad, they make prolactin, which has a particular smell. At the police station, my brother here sat directly across from you. I was inches away when I gave you that drink. Nothing. It was an act, a great one, and we might have believed it if we weren't in the same room, but we were. You lied. You killed one of us, and you're gonna die because of it."

She tugged against her restraints. "You can't do this."

"We aren't the ones doing it," Turner said. "That will most likely be someone else. This room isn't part of a building. It's a portable set erected in a warehouse." Turner watched as she stared about, perhaps noticing a door in each wall for the first time. "Behind three of those doors is another room of this size with another table and a chair. On each table, there will be a copy of our report."

"And let me tell you," Caravaggio inserted, "it doesn't look good for you. The file is really biased against you. We made sure of it."

"Right now," Turner continued, "several of us are flying into town. After a period of isolation, three will be randomly summoned for your judgment. Each one will enter an adjoining room from a different entrance, where they will wait. After being granted time to review the evidence, one door will open, and the one inside will decide if you should die."

"I don't," Leandra whimpered. "I didn't do this."

"They will have some time before the next door opens. If all judges decide that you deserve to live, you go free. Otherwise, you will be killed in however manner the individual deems fit. The randomness ensures no one ever knows who was first, second, or third, to protect the judge from any possibility of retaliation."

Caravaggio leaned towards Turner. "Well, there won't be any retaliation. You offed her girlfriend."

Leandra's eyes widened. "My what?"

"Your lesbian girlfriend. We found her; we killed her. We doubt you told one of your regular friends, and your only close relatives were your parents, who you might have told on your little trip, but they're dead, too."

Her head shot up to face Caravaggio. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, we couldn't be sure you didn't tell them something or hid something in their home on your little trip, so to make sure, we had their house burnt down with them in it." Caravaggio hooked a thumb in Turner's direction. "That's a trick I learned from him."

Leandra wailed and leaned over to bury her face into her hands. Turner watched with clinical interest while Caravaggio rolled his hand between himself and the woman, taking a deep, dramatic breath as he did so. "You see, that's what I'm talking about. Prolactin."

"You're monsters." She raised her head, attempting control, but her chin quivered. "You're nothing but monsters."

Turner considered a moment. "By your definition, probably, but you killed one of us, so you drew first blood. As you are the same type as us, most likely, your punishment will probably be that you will get your wish. You will be altered to become one of us. You'll start to die, and the part of us we introduce will fight back, keeping you going."

"Those heightened experiences I mentioned," Caravaggio said, "the one who elevates you will make you feel every cut, every bruise, every tear, every bite, and there will be a lot of cuts and bruises and tears and bites. You'll remain conscious through the entire process, just like going to Hell. You never hear of anyone passing out in Hell from the pain. You'll feel every second in refined detail, and it will become your strongest memory for the rest of your really short life. And the person that is doing all this to you, you'll love them completely, and anything they say, you'll do. They will torture you, leaving nothing but pieces, and when they're done, they'll plunge the stake, slowly, so you can feel your soul torn out of your body, and then, and only then, will you be killed."

"I didn't kill him," she whimpered, holding out her hands, palms up. After rubbing her face on either shoulder, she looked back and forth between them. "I don't know who this other person was, and I didn't want Leonard killed. It was someone else."

Turner raised an eyebrow. "Then why did you start going to a new gym all of the sudden?"

She rubbed head against her shoulder, her shirt sleeve wiping away a tear. "I wanted to make sure I lost weight before I changed. Maybe get more muscular."

Turner looked to Caravaggio, whose own confusion was quickly replaced with a smile. He rapped Turner's arm with a light backhand. "It was on one of those shows. A fat tub of shit remained a fat tub of shit."

"It doesn't work that way," Turner told her.

"Well, I don't know. I was going off what he said. You said he was crazy, but I believed him." She paused her blubbering for a moment, attempting composure. "Okay, I admit. Was I super in love with him? No, but he promised immortality, living forever. That's worth more than money. Who wouldn't want that?" The men stood in unison and began their exit from the room. "Why would I pick that over money?"

"Because you saw him, what he looked like before he changed, and the after," Turner said without looking back.

"I don't understand. What does that mean?"

Caravaggio stopped in the doorway, and gave her one last look. "Because given the choice between either a million dollars, or else living forever, but believing that living forever meant turning into a whining, impotent douchebag, they take the money. Every fucking time." With that, he shut the door.

***

Turner and Caravaggio parted ways as their rules decreed. They would avoid each other to await a call, though the odds were low that either would be chosen. At two that morning, Turner received the call.

***

A car dropped him back at the warehouse at a different entrance than that of his earlier arrival. A simple corridor led him to his own room with its own chair and table. The only difference from the one Leandra was in and his were two lightbulbs over the door; one yellow and one green. He sat and perused their file, reassured that their evidence was overwhelming in its damnation. He had to have been there hours before a chime sounded and the yellow bulb illuminated, announcing a five-minute warning. Turner stood and removed his clothing, folding everything neatly on the table; his pants, undergarments, and his shoes with the socks tucked inside. His suit jacket earned a draped position over the back of his chair. There was no reason to sully his good clothes with her blood. He stood nude by the door, wondering if he would be the first inside, or if there was any chance others had reached a different conclusion.

The green light lit, a buzzer moaned, and Turner opened the door.

He had not been the first.

On the table, Leandra's body lay splayed, pieces removed. Her rib cage had been cracked open and bent outward like wings sprouting from the sides of her chest. The judge's breaking of her left foot allowed some of her toes to touch her heel. From his vantage point her jaw had been wrenched down out of its socket, and the bottom of her tongue had been bitten off. In one hand rested her eyeball, and from the damage to her face and the skin under her nails, it had obviously been self-removed. Other parts were more gruesome.

He assumed none had been consumed, for most abided by that unwritten rule of decorum. Death was certain, but there was no stake present, as it was probably in a landfill or river by now. If Turner stayed longer, examined the remnants in-depth, he might have been able to identify a signature of the one who had cast judgment. Based on the little he had seen, it hadn't been any of his brothers. Henry would have been hesitant to do malicious harm to a woman, and it would have been over quickly; Martin would have applied precise, surgical cuts that would have maximized her suffering; and if it had been Caravaggio, she would have been violated more.

Turner left and shut the door.

***

Six hours later, the call went out that they had freedom of movement once more. Caravaggio contacted Turner for a post-mortem. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have to see Car unless another case arose, but Turner was curious as to the summons. They met at a café a few miles from the office.

"So, all quiet?"

Car's question was technically beyond the bounds of what was allowed, but Turner let it pass. It was his job to pretend he knew nothing, and there was a chance that Caravaggio was acting as well, for his could have been the door before or after Turner's. "Got a call from Martin. He's in town; wants to meet up."

"Ain't that a coincidence?" Caravaggio looked into his cup. "So, do you think there's any chance she makes it?"

Turner shook his head. "No chance. The evidence is too damning."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He picked at the edges of his paper cup. "I've been thinking. Whatever happens there doesn't get talked about."

"That's right," Turner said sternly. "We don't. Talk. About it. No conversation. End of conversation."

"That's not what I mean. I'm not talking about that bitch; fuck her. I mean, in general. Anyone that goes to judgment never speaks of it again, right?" Turner nodded, so Caravaggio continued. "You know that point when it first starts and whatever's asked, whatever secrets you have, you spill. Don't you think that in that last moment, they would ask, 'Did you do it?' What if she says she didn't? What if she didn't do it? What if we got it wrong?"

"It doesn't matter. It was about justice. She spoke about our business to complete strangers; for that, she deserved to die, but we were prohibited by his contract, which makes her untouchable. The exception is if she kills one of us. We couldn't kill her for one transgression, so we punish her for another, whether she is guilty or not. That's justice; our justice."

"I suppose," Caravaggio said with a shrug. His next sentence was interrupted by his phone, and Turner's sounded as well. Caravaggio was quicker at opening his encrypted app, and after a moment, he clapped and cheered. "Hot damn. Ding, dong, the bitch is dead. Good day."

Turner entered his acknowledgment of his message stating Leandra was deceased, and the announcement deleted itself. He put his phone away. "Justice."

"Yeah, hopefully we were right, and there's no maniacs out there trying to kill us off. You know, besides the usual suspects." He looked at his brother. "Hey, you wanna go out? I found a nice jazz club, very retro, only the oldies." At Turner's initial hesitation, Caravaggio added, "I looked it up. Only thing that kills the authenticity is the fact that it's a non-smoking venue."

Turner wavered before shrugging. "What the hell. We had a good day today."