by Sierra Dean
I was waiting for Holden to elaborate on whatever Sig had told him in their nightfall meeting. It didn’t escape my attention, though, that in order for Sig’s message to have arrived before nightfall, he would have been awake during daylight hours.
Most vampires sleep like the dead whether they want to or not. It was only the very old or the very powerful who could escape the daylight death. I was sometimes able to rouse myself in the morning thanks to my mixed blood, but I couldn’t go outside, so there wasn’t much of a point. For Sig, a full vampire, to be awake during the day meant he was either much older or stronger than I’d once assumed him to be.
We crossed the street on a Do Not Walk, narrowly avoiding an overzealous cab, and Holden guided me onto East 33rd by placing his hand on the small of my back and motioning me in the appropriate direction. We must have looked for all the world like one of those beautiful couples people love to hate. He made us pretty, I just helped make us a pair. It didn’t hurt that the dress gave me the illusion of being more stunning than I actually was.
When we were angled the right way, his hand lingered below my shoulders in a protective gesture. His fingers were level with my hair, and from time to time he would catch and hold one of the curls for a second, then release it.
“You realize we’re almost there, don’t you?” I asked, running out of patience.
It wasn’t his touch that bothered me. It was the delay in his narrative. Vampires have no sense of urgency, which drives me mental. They’ll forget what they’re saying and muse silently to themselves for hours if you don’t remind them to resume their story. I guess living for centuries must make time feel different.
He dropped his hand, as though touching me was part of his distraction, then licked his lips as he prepared to speak.
“It would seem, according to the West Coast Tribunal, one of their rogues has crossed into our jurisdiction.” His hands were now stuffed in the pockets of his gray dress pants. Summer or not, Holden Chancery would never be caught dead in shorts. Climate control isn’t really an issue for vampires.
Plus he was already dead.
“Oh?” I didn’t want to say too much, just wanted him to continue speaking.
Holden reached into his blazer and withdrew a familiar white envelope. The paper was a heavy linen finish and smelled sweet but faintly peppery. It was closed with an honest-to-God wax seal, stamped with Sig’s personal insignia.
My heart always caught with butterflies when Holden brought me one of these deliveries, and tonight was no different. With the slightest tremor of excitement, I took the envelope and held it close for a moment. Here it was, the promise of the hunt. The reward of the chase. The killer inside both my monsters lived for this.
I got down to brass tacks. “How much?”
“Ten.” Thousand. Wow, this guy must have been pretty naughty. The average rogue was worth five hundred if they were part of a sect, a thousand if they ran solo.
Yup. I’ve killed vampires for a mere five hundred dollars. But considering rogues would always be an issue, and I had a menacing reputation to uphold, five hundred bucks for a night’s work wasn’t too shabby. The most I’d ever earned on a single job was ten thousand, so this was a pretty nice number to hear again.
The warrant in my hands would cover almost seven months of rent.
Or five months and some new clothes to replace what Holden had insisted I throw out.
I popped the seal with a satisfying crack and was unfolding the paper when Holden’s attention shifted. A second later I knew why.
“Secret?” The voice was low, comforting and masculine without being overwhelming. It did happy things to parts of me I rarely acknowledged. He also didn’t stumble over my name, so he scored points early in the game for that. With a name like Secret McQueen, it was easy for people to make a mess out of it.
I turned away from Holden, the envelope still in my hand, and was pleasantly surprised by what greeted me.
Detective Tyler Nowakowski lived up to Mercedes’s designation of handsome. He was tall, at least six foot two, and lean without bending towards lanky. His eyes were a little too large, but it gave him a look of attentive curiosity. In contrast, his mouth was small, giving his face the appearance of an inverted triangle. His nose and jaw were strong, alluding to the Slavic heritage hinted at by his name. His hair, short and black, was styled with a minimal amount of gel.
He wore dark jeans, about half a size too big, based on how low they had fallen on his narrow hips, and he’d topped it with a white dress shirt fresh from the dry cleaner. I could smell the chemicals under the scent of his nice, but inexpensive, cologne.
Tyler looked at Holden apprehensively, and his thick black brows drew closer together. When he looked back to me, they went the opposite direction, and I accepted I’d made the right choice in agreeing to wear the dress.
“Yes. Secret. That’s me,” I managed to reply, struggling to shove the envelope into my purse.
Why are clutches so small? What’s the point of carrying a bag if all you can fit into it is your cell phone and a lip gloss? I could have found room for those in my bra.
Feeling foolish, I stuck my hand out to him and flashed him my brightest smile. “You must be Tyler. Cedes has told me all about you,” I fibbed.
“Likewise.” He shook my hand, and while I could tell the firmness of my grip surprised him, I was pleased he matched it in return. More points for Detective Tyler. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“What?”
Holden cleared his throat dramatically behind me.
“Oh, him?” I gave a dismissive wave at the vampire, who proceeded to stand next to me, far too close, and offered his own hand to Tyler.
“Holden Chancery,” he said, and Tyler winced when Holden shook his hand. “Secret and I are—”
“Work colleagues.” I wasn’t sure what Holden was up to, but I wasn’t about to let him ruin my night. Not now that I saw what I had to look forward to.
The bewildered look on Tyler’s face softened, but he didn’t totally relax. A good detective never takes anything at face value, and Holden had placed his other hand on my back again, which wasn’t very businessy of him.
“Holden was just leaving.” I stared at the vampire with pointed ferocity.
“I don’t know.” He eyed the fetching brunette hostess standing inside the door. “This place looks pretty tasty.”
He released Tyler’s hand, and the detective flexed it next to his side, making me wonder how hard Holden had squeezed. I would have expected this kind of a territorial pissing contest if Holden had been a werewolf. Not that I knew any werewolves personally, but the theatrical masculinity seemed to be more their style.
Vampires were a little more cut and dry about claiming their property. All one had to do was announce that someone belonged to them and boundaries were respected.
But I sure as hell didn’t belong to Holden, or to anyone else for that matter. I also doubted Holden declaring mine right before Tyler’s and my date would have gone over well.
I gritted my teeth into what could have passed for a frustrated smile, but below the register of human hearing I growled at my liaison. I may not have been a huge fan of my furry brethren, but sometimes my lupine DNA really pays off. Vampires can snarl, but no one growls like a werewolf.
“Sadly, I have a date elsewhere.” He stopped touching me and tipped an imaginary hat towards us.
The whole encounter had been entirely unlike Holden. He had been almost…playful. He was usually so serious. His unusual behavior tonight made me wonder about the envelope in my purse. My new target had to be good.
“Good night,” Tyler said with more politeness than I would have managed.
I stepped away from Holden and was about to speak to Tyler when the vampire got in his last word. “Don’t forget to have a look at the contract, Secret. Wouldn’t want that one to get away.”
I turned to say something that promised to be painfully clever, but
Holden was already gone.
Chapter Three
I liked Tyler Nowakowski.
I liked that he laughed easily, his smile was genuine and he never smelled like he was lying. He talked with his hands during his stories, and his eyebrows were enthusiastic exclamation points when he told a good punch line.
He wanted very much for me to like him, and his efforts proved to make me like him that much more. It was nice to be thought worthy of the effort.
He mentioned that they called him Novak at the station because his Polish last name proved cumbersome for a few officers, and the name had stuck. I gathered he was giving me permission to do the same, but the faint blush on his cheeks made it obvious he didn’t love the nickname.
“I think I’ll keep calling you Detective Tyler.”
His smile deepened, and he reached across the table to take my hand. I didn’t pull back, so he launched into a story about a drug dealer he’d busted as a rookie, who had tried to hide out at a kid’s birthday party by stealing a clown costume.
His delivery was so motivated, and the story so fluid, I could tell he’d told it a dozen times before, probably on other dates. In spite of that, I found myself giggling when the crook tripped over his own floppy shoes and got hauled in.
A pleasant sort of silence settled between us, and I grinned at him like a love-struck teenager. He began to say something when his phone rang, and he was forced to let go of my hand to answer it.
“Nowakowski.” He listened and frowned, then smiled at me, both embarrassed and apologetic. He mouthed the word sorry, then got up and left the room.
I should have been proud of him for not being one of those dicks—no pun intended—who had cell conversations at the dinner table. But I couldn’t overhear the discussion if he wasn’t here, and I wanted to know if he’d arranged for a safety call from a friend.
When it became apparent Tyler wasn’t coming straight back, I picked up my purse and pulled out the envelope Holden had given me. With the seal already broken, it was easy to open the rest of the way. Inside was the usual stiff card, handwritten by Sig in his elegant, slanted script. It took me a second to absorb the name, and when I did, I laughed out loud at the absurdity.
Charlie Conaway.
Certainly it was just a coincidence that the West Coast rogue I’d been asked to kill had the exact same name as the biggest movie star in Hollywood.
I looked inside the envelope, and my heart sank when I saw something else wedged within. I slipped out the thin piece of paper, a clipping from a tabloid magazine, and placed it next to the card on the table.
There he was, pearly white teeth grinning wolfishly, his eyes hidden behind très chic Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Hollywood vamps love Wayfarers. It was their demented nod to the vampires in Bret Easton Ellis’s The Informers. The man in the photo looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week and wore a loose knit cap over his brown hair. He was flirting with some girls outside The Ivy at night.
Charlie Conaway.
This guy, according to any entertainment magazine or show out there, was only supposed to be in his twenties, but had a net worth of over forty million dollars and was the beloved star of a pair of moony vampire dramas, ironically enough.
I was almost insulted that he was a real vampire. Maybe the council wanted him dead for giving them a bad public image. I wouldn’t put it past them.
I did wonder what he’d done to incite their wrath, but the creed of a council assassin was simple—ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do or die. It’s a bit more dramatic when they take the die part as seriously as they do. But Conaway was a high-profile target, which explained the high payoff. Perhaps his popularity really was their concern.
Fame was power, and if there was anything vampires craved as much as blood, it was power. So, periodically, a vampire would step into the spotlight, claim a little fame, then vanish. For Holden it had been his job at GQ. For Charlie Conaway, it was becoming the biggest movie star in the world.
Most mysterious Hollywood deaths have a supernatural explanation. Marilyn Monroe, for example? Not a vampire, but I knew where you could find her most Friday nights, alive and well, and she hasn’t aged a day.
Conaway wouldn’t be the first high-profile rogue to come from the West Coast. There had been a rogue in the Hollywood Hills during the sixties who gained a lot of notoriety among the vampire community and had to be taken out because he was a wee bit too enthusiastic about his collection of actresses.
The vampire got away with his escapades for over a decade because he was systematic and almost totally untraceable. He would find an actress who was past her prime and in the twilight of her career. These women were usually unstable to start with, so when he used the thrall to further corrupt their weak minds, the results were disastrous. The vampire’s long-term hold on his chosen victims manifested itself as erratic behavior and was often blamed on alcohol or drug addiction.
When he got tired of feeding from, or playing with, the current object of his desire, he would dispose of her. The West Coast Tribunal had to cover up almost a dozen such messes. Some, like Diana Barrymore and Marie McDonald, actually committed suicide after being abandoned by their supposed master. Others, like Dorothy Kilgalen, Barbara Bates and most famously Dorothy Dandridge, were already dead, and their passings were covered up as suicide so as to not implicate the vampire community.
Poor Linda Darnell had it the worst of any of them. She was so badly broken by the vampire, her house was set on fire to rid the council of the problem. Too bad she’d still been alive at the time.
The result was always the same, though—someone famous died in an incredibly suspect way. The vampire was put down before the Manson family started their reign of terror, otherwise I would have had my suspicions about his part in that.
Some in the vampire community liked to invent rumors, too, speculations about stars they believed to be among the undead. I didn’t know how many times I’d heard stories about a vampire Elvis, but I’d believe that one when I saw it.
But Charlie freaking Conaway? How was I supposed to kill my generation’s Harrison Ford?
“Whatcha got there?” Tyler asked, rejoining the table.
“Just something Holden gave me.” I didn’t see the need to lie if I could avoid it.
“Charlie Conaway?” He looked over at the card and photo. “I liked him in that movie about the con artist.”
“Con Long Gone,” I recalled. “Yeah, it was definitely better than those vampire movies.”
Tyler snorted. “Vampires are so cliché. Hollywood needs a new horse to beat to death.”
Well, Conaway was going to see his curtain call pretty soon, so in that sense, Tyler would get his wish.
“I always preferred movies from the fifties and sixties myself. Or the old Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn ones.” I folded up the card and put it back in my purse. Cary Grant the vampire would have been awesome, I mused.
Tyler wasn’t so easily sidetracked. “What are you doing for Charlie Conaway?”
“He’s in town for something. We’re on retainer to make sure none of his more…enthusiastic fans cross the line.”
“I thought you worked for a pest-control company.” His voice did nothing to hide that he knew it was total bullshit. Keats and McQueen Private Pest Control was what Keaty and I had printed above the door of our office to detract from unwanted business.
“If you think that, Mercedes wasn’t very forthcoming with you.”
“She might have said something different.”
“And what did she say?”
“I’d like to hear about your job from you.”
Sneaky. I sipped the water we’d been provided, the outside of my glass dewed with condensation from being ignored for so long. “I’m a private investigator. I do a little retrieval work on the side.” It’s amazing how honest you can be if you tweak your language a certain way.
“Retrieval?” Tyler wore a grin he was trying unsuccessfully to hide.
/> “I guess you could call me a part-time bounty hunter.” I set my water back down and pushed a bit of gristle through a pool of au jus on my otherwise empty plate while I judged his reaction. He didn’t laugh, so kudos to him for that.
“You don’t, um, look…” He struggled to find a polite way to phrase it.
“Don’t see a lot of little blondes running around snatching up fugitives?”
He tapped his nose, then pointed to me. I’d hit it right on the head.
“Well, Detective Tyler, there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
“Now that I believe.”
It was my turn for a phone to interrupt things. I heard it buzzing incessantly in my bag, but I didn’t need to check the screen to know who was calling.
Excusing myself from the table, I headed to the ladies’ room, feeling a little high on the success of the date thus far. I owed Mercedes a giant present. And probably an apology. The ladies’ room was empty, so I didn’t bother going into a stall before pulling my cell phone out of my purse.
Dialing Holden’s number by heart, I checked under the stalls as it rang a second time, just to be sure I was alone. The fourth ring sounded louder, and the fifth sounded downright stereophonic.
Shifting my gaze to the mirror because I didn’t want to turn around even though I knew what to expect, I still let out a sharp yelp of surprise to see Holden standing behind me in the reflection in the mirror. On the far wall of the washroom a tiny window was ajar, and I was pretty sure it had been closed when I came in.
“Son of a—”
He silenced his phone and walked to the bathroom door, locking us in.
“Enjoying your evening?”
“As a matter of fact I—”
“Have you looked at the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I turned around and stared at him, slack-jawed. And what? I shrugged with my hands open, palms up, and looked at him like he was crazy. He’d given me a job; I would do it. That’s what I did, and it’s why the council kept me around even though they considered me a lesser citizen for being only half-vampire. With the exception of Holden, none of them knew about my werewolf blood, and it was better for everyone involved that it stayed that way.
