by Trisha Telep
Adrian wasn’t just gorgeous. He was a real sweetheart, the kind of guy that usually only comes in a much plainer package. Of course, the cynical part of me tried to insist he was an actor, part of the ad campaign we’d seen earlier, but I’d been around enough actors in my career to know Adrian was just what he seemed - a good-looking, small-town construction worker looking for some company in the big city. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the one he’d chosen to play the role of “company”.
We’d been talking for about a half-hour when Adrian took the cigarette from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. He sheepishly joked about the bad habit, then asked Tiffany if she’d like to step outside for some air while he indulged. He was gentleman enough to extend the invitation to me, but in a way that said he was really hoping Tiffany would come alone. Naturally, I was gracious and said, “No, that’s fine.” He promised they’d only be a couple of minutes, and they left out the back hall.
Those couple of minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, then twenty. I tried not to think of how they might be filling those minutes, but of course I did, which only slid my mood dangerously close to self-pity territory.
I sipped the dregs of my beer, and eavesdropped on conversations that cheered me a little as they confirmed that at least I didn’t have the most boring life in the room. Even surrounded by fantasy and opulence, people just chatted about nothing -work, kids, the in-laws, the mortgage payments.
Then I caught something worth perking up for. Two words: “body” and “alley”, spoken in a male voice with a faint New Mexico accent. I rose from the lounge and followed it.
I tracked the voice into a back hall clearly marked NO entry. I entered - and crashed into “Agent” Carter as he left a room. He blinked, then gave a slow, crooked smile.
“Ms . . .” He pulled my card from his pocket and looked at it. “Mancini. Our good Samaritan. You’ll be happy to know the victim is recovering nicely.” He winked. “Suffering only from the lingering after-effects of professional humiliation. I told him you’re in the business.” He waved my card. “But he still takes it personally.”
“I take it that’s the manager?” I pointed at the room he just left, where a gruff voice was on the phone, ordering beer. “I was just going to pop in and give him my card.”
I tried to pass Carter, but he shifted, subtly blocking my path. “I’ll do that for you. He’s in a lousy mood.”
In other words, his employer wouldn’t want me going straight to the client. Understandable, and I didn’t argue, just nodded and made a move to head back into the bar. Again, Carter did that subtle sidestep, not exactly blocking me, but making my exit a little more difficult.
“Do you come here often?” he asked. When I arched my brows, he gave a short laugh. “Sorry, I meant, is this your first visit? In other words, did our little performance work?”
“I was already heading here, but yes, it’s my first time.”
“No offence to my, um, employer, but—” he leaned closer, voice dropping “—there’s a much better place a block over on South. Jazz, good drinks, great food.”
“Sounds more my kind of place.” I paused, then gathered the strength of three beers and asked, “Are you off-duty now?”
His eyes widened behind his glasses and he studied me, as if pretty sure I wasn’t implying what he thought I was. The start of a slow smile, then it vanished in a frown. “If you’re hoping for a job reference, I don’t carry that kind of clout, Ms Mancini.”
“Melanie.” I plucked my card from his hand and tore it in two. “Better?”
His smile sparked. “All right, then. I’m not quite off-duty yet, but if you don’t mind staying here for a drink.”
I didn’t mind at all. He shucked his jacket, loosened his tie and followed me into the bar. My chaise loungue was, of course, occupied. Carter found us a table, and was about to head to the bar when he stopped and looked around.
“Weren’t you with a friend? A blonde?”
Shit. Please tell me that wasn’t why he agreed to the drink.
“She left,” I said, then added, “With a guy.” And for good measure: “I don’t think she’s coming back.”
His chin jerked up, eyes filling with an alarm that doused my last fizzle of hope.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, I ... Was it someone she knew?”
“Just met.”
“What did he look like?”
What, was he trying to scope out the competition? I was tempted to turn and walk away, but couldn’t resist dashing his hopes. Cruel, but he’d just accepted a drink invitation with me to meet my friend. He deserved cruel. I described Adrian in loving detail.
As I did, he fought to hide his reaction, but it seeped through - concern, sharpening to fear. I took some perverse pleasure in the concern, but when I saw that spark of fear, something in my gut said this wasn’t right. Disappointment, I could understand, but not fear.
“Where’d they go?”
“Out back, I think. He wanted a cigarette. What—?”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe a half-hour.” I took out my cell. “She hasn’t texted to say she’s going anywhere, so she must still be out—”
He was already on the move, heading towards the back door, hand pulling his own cell from his pocket. When I took a step towards him, he wheeled to face me, snapping out a brusque, “Stay here.”
“But—”
“I mean it. Stay here. Get a drink. I’ll be right back. I’m ...” He hesitated. “I’m just going to check on her.”
As he hurried off, I strained to hear what he was saying into his cell over the noise of the crowd.
“He’s here,” he said. “And he took a girl already.”
Oh, shit.
There was no performance-art ad campaign. Carter was FBI. He was investigating crimes connected to Vamp Tramp. He’d played along with my misconception to keep a low profile while he stalked a killer. A killer who’d just taken my best friend into a dark alley.
I tried to tell myself I was leaping to conclusions. Maybe this was all part of the performance.
Right, a performance for one. A performance that barrelled through some serious ethical boundaries.
Maybe Carter really was just smitten with Tiffany and wanted to cut in before she got busy with another guy.
So, he’s willing to make a fool of himself over a girl he’s only glimpsed from afar? In a romance novel, maybe. But life, sadly, did not follow the rules of fictional romance.
I called Tiffany. Her phone rang twice, then came on with a message that implied she was out of range, which wasn’t possible. I tried again. Same thing. As I was leaving a frantic message, I noticed my shy admirer from earlier, checking me out again. This time, when I caught his eye, he didn’t look away.
Great timing, buddy.
I hung up and looked around. Admirer-guy had apparently consumed his share of liquid courage and was now lifting a glass and pointing at me, asking if he could buy me a round. Maybe the sane thing to do would be to accept - relax, have a drink, let the cops handle the situation. But if anything happened to Tiffany, I’d never forgive myself.
When my admirer started heading towards me, I held up a finger and pointed towards the hall leading to the ladies’ room, telling him I’d be right back. Then I took off down that hall to the exit door at the other end.
I eased open the rear exit door and listened. That’s become instinctive for me — listening where other people would look. The alley was dark and silent. Anyone else going out for a smoke must have heeded the fire escape only sign and stepped out front.
I eased out. With no sounds to go by, I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. A scattering of stumpy white tubes, like garden grubs, littered the ground. Cigarette butts. I knelt and touched the ends. All cold.
When something rustled to my left, I peered down the dark alley. Another rustle, then a scratching noise. I started walking. The clicking of my heels echoed through the silence.
I slid them off and tucked them behind a trash can, then took a few careful steps, getting used to the feel of cold pavement under my feet before setting out.
I followed the rustling to an alcove stuffed with boxes. It only took one rodent squeak to tell me I didn’t need to investigate further.
As I pulled back, I noticed a scrap of blue fabric peeking between the boxes. It was a gorgeous deep blue shade that I’d been admiring all night on Tiffany. Her new dress.
I quickly moved the boxes, ignoring the outraged squeaks. There lay Tiffany, curled up on her side. Heart hammering, I dropped to my knees and checked for a pulse. It was there, and strong, just like the man in the alley. And, like him, she had two puncture wounds on her neck, one smeared with fresh blood. But when I touched hers, the blood came off. And the puncture wounds didn’t.
I shot to my feet and fumbled for my phone. No signal. I was in the middle of the goddamned city. Why couldn’t I get a signal?
I hurried down to the alley, waving my phone, desperately trying to get a connection. At the click of heels on pavement, I wheeled to see a woman walking out from another bar exit, an unlit cigarette dangling from her hand. She was about forty, with red hair and a sophisticated, feline sleekness that made me instinctively straighten and tuck my hair behind my ears.
Catching the movement, she turned and gave a brief nod. Then she glimpsed something behind me, her green eyes narrowing as she frowned. She glided over, saw Tiffany and whispered, “Dear God.” Turning to me, she snapped, more than a little accusingly, “Have you called 911?”
“I—” I lifted my cell. “I can’t get service. I was just going to head inside. Can you wait with her while I . . . ?”
She already had her cell out and was dialling, shooting me a look that called me an incompetent idiot.
“Yes, I’d like to report an emergency,” she said into the phone.
She went through the process — explaining the situation, checking for a pulse, giving an address. But as hard as I strained to hear the operator on the other end, I couldn’t.
As I walked to Tiffany, I brushed against the woman. She glared and pulled away, but not before I felt what I’d feared -cool skin against mine.
“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” she said as she hung up. “In the meantime, I’d suggest we—”
“No one’s coming,” I said, backing away slowly, like a postal worker facing a Doberman. “There wasn’t anyone on the other end.”
She frowned. Then, without even a ripple to her perfect composure, she nodded. “So your friend isn’t the only half-demon. Auris or Exaudio? I suppose it hardly matters, though it does make this easier. My name is Cassandra DuCharme, and I’m a delegate—”
At a noise from down the alley, my chin jerked up and she stopped talking, her gaze following mine. Agent Carter stepped from a side alley. Seeing me, he pulled up short.
“Melanie?”
Cassandra smiled at him. “Ah, so you couldn’t resist the bait after all. Excellent. This just keeps getting easier. Aaron?”
“Adrian” swung from a recessed doorway behind Carter, grabbed him and slammed him into the wall. Blood spurted. Aaron yanked Carter back, head lolling, nose streaming blood.
“Shit,” Aaron said. “He’s not—”
I bolted before he could finish. I reached the Vamp Tramp back exit. Closed. No handle. I was putting on the brakes, about to find another way, when the door opened and my shy admirer from earlier stuck his head out.
Seeing me, he smiled. “I thought you went out this way.”
I wheeled in, shoving him back inside so hard he stumbled. As I quickly explained that my friend was hurt, I yanked the door shut and made sure it would stay that way.
I pulled out my cell phone. A drunken couple lurched into the hall, screaming the lyrics to “Sympathy for the Devil”. My admirer pushed open the nearest door and motioned me into the supply closet, away from the noise.
I stepped in, my gaze fixed on the display screen on my phone. Full signal. Thank God. I started to dial. Then I heard the soft rustle of fabric right behind me. I turned to see my admirer in mid-pounce. I staggered back. He snarled, flashing razor-sharp canines.
I spun out of the way and slammed my elbow into his nose. A great self-defence move . . . if you aren’t fighting a vampire. He only reeled back, then shook his head and lunged again. I feinted to the side, and grabbed an inventory pencil. I aimed for his eye. I missed, but rammed the pencil into his cheek with such force it broke when it hit bone and I was left holding a stub.
And the vampire? He just reached up, and plucked out the pencil. By the time it clattered to the floor, the bloodless wound was already closing.
I remembered Aaron throwing Carter against the wall, his oath of surprise at seeing blood streaming from his broken nose . . . because Carter wasn’t a vampire, and that’s what they’d expected.
The woman had introduced herself as Cassandra DuCharme. A delegate, she’d said. I now knew what she’d been about to say before I cut her short: delegate to the interracial council, a law-enforcement body for supernaturals. They’d been hunting one of their own — a killer. And I’d been the one to find him. Lucky me.
I’d taken enough self-defence classes to ward this monster off, but that was all I could do, considering the guy was impervious to injury.
My best bet was getting to the door. He knew that, which is why he stayed between it and me. Finally, he got tired of the dance and pounced. I waited until the last second, then spun out of the way. When he tried to check his charge and lost his balance, I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into a wooden crate. I did it again and again, until the wood cracked and split. Still he kept fighting.
I tried backing towards the door, but he grabbed my dress, holding me still. I was about to lunge, praying that the dress would rip, when the door flew open and a voice said, “I’ll take that for you.”
Aaron grabbed the vampire. I didn’t wait to see what he did with him. I raced outside to check on Tiffany and Carter.
They were fine. Sedated, as it turned out. That’s what a vampire’s first bite does, as Cassandra explained while Aaron stashed their prisoner in a safe place. Aaron had bitten Tiffany just enough to put her to sleep, then Cassandra did the same for Carter. They’d wake up soon.
When Aaron returned, he filled me in on the rest as Cassandra waited impatiently.
Tiffany had been right about bars like this being the perfect way to “hide in plain sight” for vampires - at least for one who preferred leaving his dinner pulse free. This guy had apparently hit two other similar bars, the first in New Mexico, where Agent Carter presumably got involved. Aaron and Cassandra had caught up at the second bar. They hadn’t seen their quarry, who was a new vampire, but they had seen Carter - both there and here - and presumed he was their killer.
One thing they did know about their target was that he had very specific taste in women.
“That’s why you brought Tiffany out here,” I said. “As bait.”
“No, she wasn’t the bait,” Aaron said. “You were.”
Great. I’m finally some guy’s “type” . . . and he turns out to be a killer vampire. That’s why Aaron lured Tiffany out, he explained. If I got worried and followed, so would the killer. And if I stayed inside, I’d be alone, giving him a chance to make his move.
“He’ll be dealt with,” Aaron said. “In the meantime, thank you. And Cassandra apologizes for startling you earlier and not explaining the situation before you took off.”
Cassandra’s perfect brows arched. “I do?”
“You do,” he said. “Deep down, you’re very apologetic.”
She rolled her eyes and waved for him to wrap this up so they could be on their way. From the look and smile he gave her, I knew there was no use mooning over this vampire. He was taken, and probably had been for longer than I’d been alive. I wasn’t too disappointed. Here was proof that really hot guys sometimes do go for bitchy women. So there was hope for m
e yet. Just not with this particular hot guy.
As a back-up, though, Agent Carter would do nicely. Very nicely, I decided as I sat in the back of the ambulance with him. He was still groggy, holding his glasses in one hand, his hair and shirt rumpled, looking very sexy, even if he probably felt like he’d been hit with a two-by-four.
He’d confirmed what I’d figured out — that he’d been following the case of a cross-country killer, starting in New Mexico. Just as Aaron had noticed Carter in the last bar, Carter had spotted Aaron, and jumped to the same wrong conclusion - that the other must be the killer. Neither had noticed the relatively nondescript man who turned out to be the real culprit.
I couldn’t tell Carter - apparently human - what really happened. But since he hadn’t seen who’d assaulted him it was easy. When asked about his attacker, I described the real killer instead, knowing others in the bar could confirm his presence and disappearance. Earlier, when Tiffany had woken, I’d told her to do the same - say she had gone into the alley with the blond guy, then headed back in alone and been waylaid by the other man.
As for the unconscious guy in the alley? Carter suspected he really had been a bit of performance art, though the manager of Vamp Tramp had refused to confirm that.
In all this, though, no one mentioned the possibility that a real vampire was involved. To Carter, the explanation was obvious.
“It’s some maniac who thinks he’s a vampire or wants us to. He injects his victims with a sedative, then bleeds them to death. As for what he does with the blood, I don’t really want to know. There are a lot of sick people out there.”
“And now he got away. So what will you do?”
“Stick around the local office for a while, see if he tries again. And, in the meantime—” he gave me his lopsided smile “—I believe I owe you a drink. Are you free tomorrow? I’ll throw in dinner. Least I can do after all this.” When I didn’t answer, the smile faded. “No?”
I met his gaze. “Does the phrase ‘interracial council’ mean anything to you?”