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.