The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance (Trisha Telep) (Kitty Norville 0.50)

“Karen! Ohmigod. Are you all right? I heard you were mugged and had to go to the ER last night.”

“I’m a little banged up, but I’ll be OK.” Maybe. I hoped. Assuming Daniel and I could handle Alexander.

“Oh thank God. Well, look, there’s nothing for you here until you come on shift, so take it easy and rest up. Good job on the Ross service by the way. The boss is pleased.”

“Thanks.” Glad he was pleased, but too bad there was no extra work. Oh well.

“See you when you come on shift.”

“Right.”

I hung up the phone feeling a little depressed. I needed to take my mind off of things, distract myself. So I flipped on the television and hooked up the game console. In minutes my mind was off in la-la land, chasing through dangerous mazes collecting weapons and killing aliens.

The more the day wore on, the more tense I became. I’d gotten lucky yesterday. Alexander had been expecting an easy kill and had been careless. Next time he’d be prepared.

I knew that Daniel wanted me to let him take care of it. Fine. I mean, let’s face it, the “creatures of the night” have all sorts of advantages over the rest of us. First, nobody believes they exist; if I asked anyone but Daniel for help, they’d lock me up in the loony bin and throw away the key. Then they have that whole hypnotic-stare, super-strength, gotta-stake-me-and-cut-off-my-head-to-kill-me thing going.

Could I drive a stake through somebody’s chest to save my own life?

Probably. But it wouldn’t be easy. It takes a lot of strength, both of body and will to do that sort of thing.

Cut off the head?

Ewww. Um . . . maybe. But how do you explain it to the police after? “Gee, officer. I’m pretty sure the victim was a vampire ...” Not so much. See previous comment re rubber room with padded walls.

But I’m not the type to just let the man take care of things. I’m not. So I needed to be prepared. I just wasn’t sure how. Last night I hadn’t taken the time to ask Daniel which of the myths about vampires were true and which were, well, myth. We hadn’t spent much time talking.

Not that I regretted any of the not talking. That had been spectacularly wonderful, wonderfully spectacular, and I wanted more just as soon as I could get it, thank you very much. In fact, it had lived up to every single fantasy I’d had about him since our first meeting. But now I had a problem on my hands and I needed to figure out what to do about it.

I grabbed the spare set of keys from their hook and pulled on my jacket. It would take a little time to ride the bus out to the restaurant and pick up my car, but if I left now, I should still be able to get there before sundown. In fact, if I hurried, I might be able to run a few errands before it got dark and Alexander came a-calling.

I hurried.

“What is that smell?” The man changing the tyre was short and bulky, with the beginnings of a gut hanging over the top of his belt. His name was Jack Baker, and I was serving him with a restraining order. He apparently had a habit of beating up on his wife, to which she’d taken exception. I’d serve the papers. It’s what I do. But I’d be careful doing it. Because, while Mr Baker looked innocuous enough, he was plenty dangerous.

I felt bad for his wife, and hoped she didn’t believe that a simple piece of paper was going to keep him away from her. In my experience, most restraining orders didn’t work. But if you’re lucky - very, very lucky - they might result in the asshole going to jail long enough to give you a head start.

“Garlic,” I answered him, because I was going to try to keep this friendly. It probably wouldn’t work, but I was going to try. “I’m planning on making spaghetti when I get home.”

“You cook? You don’t look like the type.” He raised his beady eyes from what he was doing to check me out, his hand clenching and unclenching on the tyre iron.

“I cook,” I answered. “By the way, my name’s Karen. Karen James. What’s yours?” He was busy tightening the lug nuts, and didn’t look up when he answered me.

“Jack Baker,” he answered. Grunting, he finished tightening the last lug nut. “But make the cheque out to Baker Towing.”

“Right.” I dug in my purse, pulling out a stack of papers and setting them, along with my chequebook, onto the hood of the car. I made out the cheque, tearing it out and dropping the book back into the bag. Turning to Mr Baker, I thrust both the cheque and paperwork into his hand.

/> “What the hell?” He tried to shove the paperwork back at me, but I backed away.

“Mr Baker, you’ve been served.”

I climbed into the car, slamming and locking the door before he could react. It was just as well that I did, because when he actually got a glance at the papers I’d handed him, he lost it completely. He swung the tyre iron in a wicked arc, smashing it into the car window, which cracked in a spiderweb pattern. Meanwhile I’d started the vehicle and threw it in gear. I was taking off, gravel spitting from my tyres when the second blow fell with the clang of metal on metal.

Crap. That had been close. Damn it anyway! My poor car. The clients were definitely getting the bill for this one.

I drove west, towards the last rays of the setting sun that were nearly blinding me, checking my rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure Mr Baker hadn’t decided to follow. He might. He didn’t seem like the type to let things go. But luck was with me; there was no sign of a tow truck.

My eyes were on the mirror when Daniel materialized on the seat beside me. I shrieked, and jerked, swerving across two lanes before I got the car back under control.