by Hannah Jayne
The cop’s eyes locked on mine, and I sucked in an excited breath, and felt myself smooth my wild hair—and curse myself for another day of slept-late ponytail style. I straightened the hem on my black pencil skirt and dabbed on some lip gloss before I realized that I was primping.
“You love him,” Nina hissed, her long black hair falling over one angular shoulder. She grinned at me, her eyes coal black and deep set, her mouth open, tongue playing with one razor sharp fang. “You so love him,” she sang, twisting a red pen in her pale, slender fingers.
I rolled my eyes and fought to keep my grin welcoming and professional as the zombie at the front of the line frowned, checking her pockets for her paperwork.
“It was here a moment ago,” she groaned. “I know it was. Ooh!”
“Pardon me,” the cop said, his voice smooth and deep. “May I? I’ll just be a minute.” His dark eyebrows rose up kindly, and it seemed even the zombie went weak-kneed and stepped aside, offering her place in line.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I can’t seem to find my papers anyway. Sometimes I lose my head when it’s not screwed on tight,” she drooled, her milky white eyes locked on him.
“Thank you.” The cop nodded to the zombie and then turned to me. “Hello,” he said, inclining his head of dark curls toward me. “Do you know where I can find Mr. Sampson?”
I had an image of myself climbing up onto my desk, covering the cop’s chiseled jaw and high, rose-colored cheeks with kisses, my fingers tangled in his mass of silky dark curls as my body pressed against his, fitting into the curves of his chest, of his trim, taut stomach, our hearts beating passionately as one….
Instead, I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I smacked it shut, blinking dumbly into the cop’s kind—but confused—face.
Nina shoved me, her bloodless hands cold on my arm. “Sophie works for Mr. Sampson,” she said. “She can take you right to him. She was just going there right now as a matter of fact. Weren’t you, Sophie?”
I tried to glare at Nina, but she was already engrossed with a hobgoblin who was slobbering all over her desk.
“Yes,” I finally forced, “I can take you to see Mr. Sampson.”
I looked up into the cop’s beautiful blue eyes, and although I had no idea what swooning was, I was pretty sure I was doing it. I started to think of the two of us, hands joined, spinning in a meadow somewhere while the theme to Love Story played in the background.
“Miss?” The cop blinked at me, and I felt my face flush.
I did a mental head slap and decided that I really needed a hobby. And a boyfriend.
The cop frowned and leaned closer. “Are you okay?”
That’s the thing about redheads. That’s the thing about having milky-white skin. Every time I blushed or flushed even faintly, I’d go tomato red from my toes to my eyebrows. Think third-degree sunburn. Not exactly the cute, pink-faced tinge of an embarrassed brunette.
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
I took a few deep breaths to steady myself before going to join the cop on the other side of the partition.
“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. The top of my head barely cleared his shoulder and he stooped a little bit.
I took his hand—it was large and cool, his palm rough—and shook. “Um, hello. Hi. I’m Sophie. Sophie Lawson,” I said, pulling out all the stops in my impressive vocabulary.
“Are you Mr. Sampson’s secretary?”
I raised one annoyed eyebrow. “I’m Mr. Sampson’s administrative assistant.”
“Oh”—he raised both palms placatingly—“right, of course.” His sinful eyes traveled to my vacated frontcounter spot.
“I was just filling in,” I said quickly.
“Right,” the cop said. “Not really work for an administrative assistant.” His grin—framed by full lips that made my mouth water—was wide and a little playful and just the tiniest bit smug.
“And you are?” I said, extracting my hand and crossing my arms.
“Hayes. Detective Parker Hayes. Police Chief Oliver”—Hayes’s blue eyes slid skyward—“sent me down here.” He grinned again. “I didn’t even know here existed.”
“Yeah,” I said, turning on my heel, “follow me.”
I tried not to pay attention to the hard set of the detective’s jaw, to the way his dark hair snaked over his collar, to the slight scent of juniper and Ivory soap that surrounded him. I’m so not doing this, I murmured in my head. Not interested at all. And then, when we turned a sharp corner and Detective Hayes’s hand brushed against mine, I thought, Well, maybe just for a second. We can just be friends, right? We should be friends.
I was about to name our firstborn when Detective Hayes fell into stride with me. “So, you work down here all the time?” he started.
I nodded. “Four years now. Forty hours a week.” I grinned. “Give or take.”
“Give” meaning there were always an extra couple of hours tacked on around the full moon when I needed to double-check Mr. Sampson’s chains and drop off a takeout box full of rare—as in raw—filet mignon. “Take” meaning there were always an extra couple of hours taken for lunch when Nina sniffed out yet another designer’s sample sale in China Basin and dragged me down to try on armloads of skinny jeans and boho shirts at ridiculous discounts.
Hayes looked around. “Don’t you find working here kind of … odd?”
“No more strange than any other office job,” I said, nodding to Pierre, a centaur who also did the filing.
Hayes paused. “Okay, like that,” he said, gesturing back to Pierre, his voice lowered. “How does a—a—”
“Centaur,” I supplied.
“How does that get to work in the morning? It’s not like he can hop on BART.”
I snorted. “Of course not. Pierre drives a Chevy.”
Hayes rolled his eyes, and I grabbed his elbow, leading him in a wide berth around a group of fairies and one pixie gathered around the water cooler.
“Just keep walking and don’t make eye contact,” I told him under my breath.
“Okay, wait. I might not know a lot about this stuff, but you’re telling me to avoid them?” He looked back, eyeing the pink-and-pale-green-clad diminutive group, their voices high-pitched and impossibly sweet as they chatted. “You can’t tell me you’re seriously afraid of Tinker Bell over there. What’d they do? Get fairy dust in your eye or something?”
I kept walking but faced Hayes. “Fairies are mean. Everyone knows that.”
Hayes remained unconvinced. “Mean? They’re talking about cookies!”
I stopped dead in my tracks as the fairy chatter died. “Uh-oh,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Fairies are very private. When disturbed by gawkers—”
“I wasn’t gawking!”
“—or intruders, they can react very violently.”
“Them?” Hayes swung around to the tiny, sweet-faced group, their wings twittering, littering the gray, industrial carpet with sparkly crumbles of pixie dust.
I grabbed Hayes by the arm again and yanked, hard. “Run!” I shouted in midstride, as the fairies—eyes narrowed, apple cheeks angry and flushed—flung themselves through the air toward us. Hayes and I ducked into an empty conference room, and he leaned against the door, doubled over, hands on knees. “Fairies are mean,” he said, grinning. “Who knew?”
“They’re a complete HR nightmare. Anyway, you should lock your doors when you leave here. And check your shoes. They can be surprisingly sinister.”
“I can’t believe you don’t find this the least bit weird,” Hayes was muttering as I made sure the coast was clear.
We stepped into the little foyer that housed my desk, a half-dead spider plant, and a red velvet fainting couch that Nina used for the (more than) occasional vamp nap. I gestured toward the closed door to Mr. Sampson’s office.
“Here we are,” I told the detective.
I knocked twice and then clicked open the door, poking my head into Mr. Samp
son’s office. “There’s a Detective Hayes to see you, sir.”
Mr. Sampson looked up, his brown eyes velvety and inviting. He raked a large hand through his blond hair and then patted it back in place, cocked his head, and smiled at me, holding one finger up.
“Not a problem,” Mr. Sampson said to no one, his voice throaty, rich. “We’ll get that taken care of right away. Thank you. I’ve got an appointment right now. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go. Yes—” His dark eyebrows rose, his eyes finding mine. “Certainly. I’ll have Sophie look into that.”
A rush of heat washed over me as I watched my name roll off Mr. Sampson’s lips. I clamped my knees together and vowed to give up reading romance novels for good. Really—my hormones had gone into overdrive.
I suddenly had an image of my grandmother shaking a bejeweled finger at me (and they were all real jewels, by the way), saying, “Sophie Lawson, you are completely man hungry.” Which is not entirely true. I’m just a firm believer in appreciating your surroundings. And it doesn’t hurt if your surroundings have chiseled chests and happen to look excellent in an Armani suit … right?
Mr. Sampson looked at Detective Hayes and then tapped the flashing blue earpiece clipped to his ear. “Okay, good-bye,” he said, before pulling the earpiece off and dropping it into a desk drawer. “Detective,” he said, “so sorry about that. Come on in.”
I nodded curtly at the detective and turned on my heel, but Mr. Sampson stopped me before I reached the door. “Sophie, why don’t you stay, too?”
I led Detective Hayes into Mr. Sampson’s office—a huge, groaning room with cinnamon brown walls and soft cigar chairs set around Mr. Sampson’s elegant, enormous desk. The office could house any other upscale male executive—the impeccable, masculine décor, the walls laden with gold-embossed awards and framed degrees, the bookshelves lined with impressive leather-bound books, and the requisite crystal clock with ticking gold innards. Against the back wall there was a set of heavy metal chains, the innocent, brown paint covering a reinforced cement wall with steel rebar the size of bridge supports. Okay, that part might be slightly different from other offices.
Detective Hayes’s eyes went wide as he stared at the chains, and Mr. Sampson followed his gaze, grinned, and shrugged lightly. “Occupational hazard. Why don’t you have a seat, Detective?”
Hayes and I settled into identical plush leather cigar chairs opposite Mr. Sampson. I stifled a delighted Carrie Bradshaw grin and made a mental note to tell Nina about the hot-male sandwich I found myself in: Pete Sampson with his miles-deep, chocolate brown eyes, close-cropped ash blond hair, and GQ model build; and Detective Parker Hayes, rich blue eyes, chiseled jawline sprinkled with stubble, Roman god nose—I’d leave out the part about him being smug.
It’s not that I was particularly man crazy (except for the hormone thing); it was more that when you worked in an office where the general male populace either smells of graveyard dirt or has a horn where no horn should be, it’s rather exciting to be the bologna in a mostly normal hottie sandwich.
I crossed my legs at the ankle and tried to nonchalantly study Detective Hayes’s severe profile as his eyes slowly scanned the office. He didn’t say anything, and a muscle twitched against his well-defined jawline.
“Sorry,” he finally said, tearing his eyes from the chains. “I don’t mean to stare.”
“It’s still daytime,” I told the detective. “You’re fine.”
I watched Detective Hayes force a smile and then paste on what must have been his professional face. “Sorry,” he said again to Mr. Sampson. “All this”—his blue eyes trailed the office, the chains—“just caught me by surprise.”
Mr. Sampson leaned back in his chair, his mouth curling up into one of his seductive, easy grins. “Understandable. Not a lot of people know about us down here. So, what is it that I can help you with? Chief Oliver said there is a case the force could use our assistance with?”
Detective Hayes cleared his throat and set his hat on his knee. “Right. Chief Oliver would have come himself but”—again, his eyes went to the chains—“he’s leading the task force up top. He said you two were close.” It was almost a question, and I knew what Detective Hayes was getting at: How is it that the San Francisco chief of police could buddy up with the sometimes-werewolf head of the Underworld Detection Agency?
“They went to college together,” I blurted.
Detective Hayes blinked at me. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Sampson smiled kindly at me. “Sophie means that Chief Oliver and I went to college together. We were roommates, actually. While our careers generally no longer intersect, it happens occasionally. So, Detective Hayes, exactly how do you and Chief Oliver think UDA can be of service to the police department?”
“Well”—the detective licked his lips, looking from me to Mr. Sampson—“there’s been a murder.”
I yawned and settled into my chair.
“Forgive me,” Mr. Sampson said, his voice smooth and melodic, “but this is San Francisco. Saying there has been a murder is akin to saying there is fog, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Hayes nodded as a blush of pink crawled over his cheeks. I sucked in a hollow breath as my heart thumped.
“But this one is different. A businessman—an attorney, actually. Murdered in his office. And all his blood had been drained.”
Chapter Two
“Vampire,” I whispered, raising one alarmed eyebrow.
“That was our first thought, too,” Hayes said, his blue eyes intent on mine. “Well, not our first, but …”
Mr. Sampson and I nodded.
“But there are no puncture wounds on”—Hayes absently gestured toward his neck—“the body.”
Mr. Sampson looked unconcerned and began to shuffle papers on his desk. “The old puncture wounds on the neck have become rather archaic and cliché. Very Bela Lugosi. Everything evolves.”
“It happened in broad daylight,” Hayes went on, and Mr. Sampson paused.
“That’s a bit odd, but not impossible. Sophie, why don’t you get the file of active vampires within the city limits for the detective?”
I stood up and then sat down hard when the detective said, “Wait. There’s more.”
Hayes reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and began reading from it. “Eight days ago there was another murder. A drifter, we think—we haven’t been able to ID him yet. White male, midthirties, pretty physically fit. His throat was torn out.”
I gulped. Somehow, I find the walking dead far less frightening then the dead dead.
“His limbs were basically shredded.”
Mr. Sampson straightened.
“Claw marks and”—the detective’s voice dropped—“bloody paw prints surrounded the body.”
“Paw prints?”
Hayes swallowed and nodded. “Large. Canine or”—his eyes flashed—“wolf, maybe.”
“That’s not possible,” I said, surprised at the shrill sound of panic in my voice. “I chain up Mr. Sampson every night, and there are no other active werewolves in the vicinity.”
Mr. Sampson’s mouth was set in a hard, thin line. “Go on,” he told Detective Hayes.
“A woman—a known drug user, so not entirely reliable—said she saw the murder. Well, sort of. She was in the upstairs window when she heard the vic scream. She said it was bloodcurdling, not like the usual screeches and howls on the street. She went to the window within a second or two and the vic had already been torn apart. Then she saw what she described as a large dog running off the premises.”
“A dog?” I said, leaning forward.
Detective Hayes nodded at his notebook. “Like I mentioned, the body was pretty badly torn apart. But … and I’m sorry, but this is pretty gruesome—the victim’s eyeballs had been removed.” Hayes wagged his head. “We haven’t recovered them. Whoever did this removed them and kept them.”
My stomach lurched and I gasped. “He took the eyeballs? That’s
disgusting!”
Mr. Sampson looked at me sharply, and I felt myself redden, embarrassed. “I mean …” I sucked in a breath and then pushed it out, shaking my head. “No, really. That’s just completely disgusting.”
Detective Hayes looked at me, his blue eyes sympathetic. “We see a lot of odd things in the city, a lot of murderers who take things—souvenirs—from their victims. Usually jewelry, an item of clothing, a driver’s license. But this—” He slowly shook his head, lips pursed. “This is extreme. Unsettling.”
I chanced a glance at Mr. Sampson, who had his fingers laced together, his brown eyes set hard. “And what about the second murder, the attorney? Were there any witnesses?” he asked.
Hayes shut his notebook and tucked it back into his chest pocket. “That’s just it. No witnesses on the second murder even though it happened in a busy office during the day. No one saw anyone go in, no one saw anyone leave. There were security cameras everywhere.”
“And?” Mr. Sampson raised an interested eyebrow.
“And there is nothing on them.”
Mr. Sampson pushed out a long sigh.
“So we’re dealing with a rogue vampire and an undocumented werewolf?” I swallowed heavily, my stomach starting to churn. “Good grief.”
“Actually”—Detective Hayes sat on the edge of his chair—“that’s why I’m here. We’re not sure what we’re dealing with, although we’re growing increasingly certain that it isn’t human.”
“Why is that?” I knew it wasn’t my place, but I was interested—arms-crossed, edge-of-my-chair interested. “Why can’t it be human?”
“I suppose it could,” Mr. Sampson supplied, “but that would be unlikely. Especially with the bodily harm in the scenes you described. Was there any blood lost on the carpet, Detective? Any blood lost anywhere around the second victim?”
Hayes shook his head. “Not a drop.”
“And the other victim?”
“He was a good-sized man. If the druggie—uh, witness—was right about the time of the scream and the time she saw the body, only seconds passed. One scream and the man was shredded from head to toe. That’s not easy to do in such a short amount of time. And given the amount of destruction? I’d call it very nearly impossible.”