Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

No one went to help the fallen vampire. Possibly they were all afraid that Dahlia would consider them an enemy if they did so.

“She was presumptuous,” Joaquin said after a moment’s consideration, and the room relaxed. Dahlia could tell that more than one vampire would have enjoyed seeing her deal out even more damage to Glenda, but she’d made her point and interrupted Glenda’s accusation.

Joaquin continued, “Do you know who the other vampires were who passed through the kitchen at the vital time?”

“One was Cedric,” she said. “I know his scent too well to mistake it. And I witnessed Glenda following Taffy, Don, Bernie, and Cedric out of the room, but I’m not sure if she entered the kitchen or not.”

Joaquin’s heavy eyebrows flew up in surprise. He looked at his predecessor.

“I walked through the kitchen,” Cedric said. He was leaning against the wall. “I was right on the heels of Taffy and her werewolf, but Glenda went out before me, not after. I wanted to talk to her.”

“Why?” Joaquin said. He looked up at Cedric, whose blue-patterned waistcoat was rumpled up above his belly. Even Cedric’s boots were scuffed, while Joaquin’s loafers shone like mirrors. The contrast could not have been more unkind: Cedric the old catfish, Joaquin the sleek barracuda.

To the side of the room, Glenda moaned as she struggled to her knees to get to her feet. Very quietly, another vampire stepped over to let her drink from him. Dahlia noticed that he was looking as neutral as possible, as if his arm just happened to be in the right place in front of Glenda’s mouth for her to have a healing draft. He even kept his eyes on the floor so Dahlia couldn’t meet them. Dahlia smiled inside. It was good to be feared.

“Why?” Cedric said. “Because I wanted to go outside, and I hoped she would walk with me, for old times’ sake. Because, in case you hadn’t thought of it, this is a very awkward evening for me, and I needed friendship.”

The demons looked amused, the Weres embarrassed, and the vampires all looked elsewhere. An open admission of weakness was not the vampire way. Only Dahlia looked thoughtful.

Joaquin said, “Taffy, what happened out in the garden?”

Taffy bowed her head to her sheriff. “Of course I’ll answer, if my sheriff asks it,” she said graciously, reinforcing Dahlia’s point. “We talked to Bernie, my husband’s enforcer, about his lack of courtesy to one of the demons.” She nodded her head toward Diantha. “Bernie was . . . uncouth enough . . . to make fun of her speech patterns. Don felt the need to teach Bernie a lesson about diplomacy. As you can see, Don made his point.”

Now that danger had passed, Bernie had resumed his hunched-over position. He was clearly uncomfortable. He bobbed his head in acknowledgment, straightened, and winced. “My leader did correct me,” he said.

“While we were in the garden,” Taffy continued, “We remembered it was the site of our wedding, and we celebrated in an appropriate way.” She smiled brilliantly at Joaquin, pleased that she’d phrased it so diplomatically. Taffy had never been subtle.

Don grinned at her and slung his arm around her shoulders. “We had a great celebration back in the bushes,” he said. “Even if it was colder than a witch’s tit.”

The only witch present opened her mouth to protest, but Dahlia whipped her head around to look at the woman in a significant way. The witch’s mouth snapped shut.

“But none of this offers any proof that the human didn’t die at your hands,” Joaquin said in the most reasonable of voices.

“We haven’t got a speck of blood on us, Sheriff,” Taffy said, holding out her arms to invite inspection. “When Don gave Bernie his etiquette lesson, he didn’t break the skin. My husband knows that the smell of blood is tough on vampire sensibilities.”

“Would the killer be blood-spattered?” Joaquin asked Dahlia. “You saw the wound.”

“I’ll defer to Katamori,” Dahlia said. “It’s well-known that Taffy and I are friends.”

“A vampire moving at top speed, a vampire who had performed this kill many times, might be able to avoid the blood,” Katamori said. “Anyone else would have had to change clothes.” He walked over to the couple and examined them with minute care. “I see and scent no blood on Taffy and Don.”

Dahlia’s shoulders might have relaxed a fraction.

Gerhard said quickly, “I’ll smell like blood because I took some from a donor this evening.” It was Dahlia’s turn to work, and she looked Gerhard over from stern to stern. She straightened to tell Joaquin, “He does have a trace of blood scent, and one pinpoint of blood on his collar, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Cedric said, “You may examine me, Katamori,” though no one had suggested this. Katamori glanced at Joaquin, got no signal either way, and moved over to Cedric. He’d give Cedric a thorough examination, Dahlia knew. Katamori had never been fond of Cedric.

“I can’t find any on Cedric’s clothes,” Katamori said. “Though he does smell slightly of blood.”

Cedric shrugged. “I partook of the donors,” he said.

There was a pounding on the mansion’s front door.

Dahlia looked at the clock on the wall, just as a precaution. It was now eleven fifteen. Arthur Allthorp had been dead around an hour. The front doorkeeper for the evening, a young vampire named Melvin, came into the reception room so quickly that he skidded on the parquet floor. “The police are here, Sheriff,” he said to Joaquin. “They say they’ve had a report of a body on the premises.”

“How long can you delay them?” Joaquin snapped.

“Ten minutes,” said Melvin.