Detective Hanner was a beautiful woman. She was also a vampire. Perhaps a very old vampire.

We talked a little about the case as we sat back in wicker chairs, drinking from gla.s.ses just like regular people. My ankles were crossed and my pink New Balance running shoes couldn't have looked cuter. Detective Hanner was barefoot. Her talon-like toenails came to sharp points. Almost enough for one to lose one's appet.i.te.

Almost.

But not quite. After all, we were both drinking from ma.s.sive goblets of blood. We were sipping casually. Or trying to sip casually. Generally, there were long beats of silence as we each glugged heartily, since drinking blood is really a race against time and coagulation. It was all I could do to not make yummy smacking sounds. The blood was human, that much was obvious. It was also fresh. So very, very fresh.

Straight-from-the-vein fresh.

So who am I drinking? I wondered.

But I didn't ask. Not at the moment. At the moment, I was consumed by the blood, the taste, the high, the joy, the pleasure, the satisfaction.

Detective Hanner and Kingsley had slowly introduced me to the decadent pleasure of human blood. I hadn't liked it, not at first, and each time felt like a depraved journey into ecstasy.

That's a lie. You always liked it. A little too much.

And here I was again, indulging all my cravings with a vampire far older and more experienced than I was. It felt natural, probably the way any addict feels when they tap the needle or pop a cork. Like this was what I was made to do.

But I didn't have to enjoy its thick, sweet texture so much, did I?

Finally, I managed to pull away. I knew some blood was running down the corners of my mouth. Now, as I wiped my chin and licked my fingers, I could only imagine what I looked like.

Like a monster, I thought.

Hanner watched me from over her own goblet, her wild eyes shining with supernatural intensity. I noticed that she rarely blinked, and when she did, it almost seemed an afterthought. A reminder to look human.

I said, "I think our killer is a blood supplier."

She nodded. "It's easy to a.s.sume that."

"What do you know of blood suppliers?"

"Mortal or immortal?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Vampires supply blood to other vampires. Like I just did you."

"Mortal," I said.

She held my gaze for many seconds. I couldn't read her mind, or even get a feel for what she was thinking, but I suspected she was debating how much to tell me. Finally, she said, "Yes, some are killers, although many get their supply from hospitals or mortuaries."

"Mortuaries?"

She nodded. "Of course. Why let all that valuable blood drain away when it could be put to good use?" She held up her nearly-finished goblet. "But fresh human blood is always preferable."

"How fresh?"

"Straight from a living source, even if that living source dies shortly thereafter."

I shuddered. Even though I knew most of this already, it always chilled me to think about it. And a cold-blooded vampire like me is hard to chill. "Why a living source?"

"Because blood is suffused with life force, Sam. Energies that vibrate at the cellular level. The residual energy left behind in animal blood-or that from a human corpse that's been deceased for an extended period-doesn't vibrate at the same frequency. Such blood is not in tune with who you are, Sam."

"So the fresher the blood..."

"The stronger we are. The healthier we are. The more extraordinary we are."

"How many mortal blood dealers are there?"

"Not many."

"Do you know of any?"

She stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. "I have found having a living donor in my house to be more ideal. A ready source, as they say." She grinned. "Sometimes, many ready sources."

I wondered if she used her looks to lure her living donors. Some guys would do anything to be with a woman as beautiful as her. Anything.

As we sat back in the wicker chairs, aglow with fresh blood, I realized that Detective Hanner hadn't really answered my question.

Now, why was that?

Chapter Twenty-three.

My alarm clock blared.

It did this for a full five minutes before I emerged from whatever black abyss I descend into when asleep. Another five minutes before I could move my legs enough to sit up in bed. Truly, I was the waking dead.

As I sat there on the edge of the bed, wishing like h.e.l.l I was back in that abyss, my cell phone chimed with a text message. I flopped my hand onto night stand, felt around until I found my phone, brought it over to my half-open eyes.

A text from Danny, my dear old ex-husband, only not so dear anymore. It was simple and to the point and aggravated me to no end: Coming over. Need help.

"s.h.i.t."

And just as I deleted his message-as I do all his messages-there was a loud knocking sound on the front door.

"s.h.i.t," I said again. Definitely not how I wanted to start my day.

Ever.

I hauled my a.s.s out of bed, stumbled through my room, then plodded barefoot to the front door. Along the way, I grabbed my sungla.s.ses from the kitchen table, put them on, and opened the front door.

It was, of course, Danny. In all his pitiful glory, silhouetted against the glare from the afternoon sunlight. Too much sunlight, especially after just awakening. I backed up, shielding my eyes, feeling like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie.

"Sam, can we talk?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He came in, shutting the door quickly. Danny knew the routine. He'd lived long enough with my condition to know what to do. I felt my way over to the dining room chair and sank down.

"Geez, Sam. You don't look too well."

"Ya think."

Now that he was inside, I took in his unshaven face, wrinkled suit, disheveled hair, and couldn't find the energy to say something about the pot calling the kettle black. Instead, I said, "What do you want, Danny?"

"I need to hire you, Sam."

I nearly laughed. h.e.l.l, I wanted to laugh. Except laughing was for people who hadn't just emerged from the blackest depths. "You're kidding."

"I'm serious, Sam. I need to hire you."

"You, who hasn't paid me a dime of child support in seven months?"

He shifted in his seat. As he did so, I saw that his upper lip was swollen. "I know, Sam, and I'm sorry. This hasn't been easy on me, either."

I didn't want to get into it with Danny. At least not now. h.e.l.l, I had a whole lifetime to get into it with him.

"Fine," I said. "What kind of help?"

"Protection."

"What kind of protection?"

"From men."

"What kind of men?"

He looked away, adjusted his tie, giving his Adam's apple more wiggle room. "They're a gang, of sorts."

"Of sorts? What does that mean?"

Now I saw the sweat on his brow and along his upper lip. I also saw the fear in his eye. He waved his hands weakly. "Thugs. A local street gang, I dunno. They sort of run the area I do business in."

"They beat you up?"

He shrugged, too prideful to admit to being smacked around, but not enough to come to his ex-wife for help.

I said, "And by doing business, you mean that s.h.i.thole where you charge lonely men to look at lonelier women's b.o.o.bs?"

"Yes, Sam. My strip club."

I shook my head sadly.

"What, Sam?"

"You used to be ashamed of your club."

He was pacing now, running his hand through his thinning hair. "Well, I'm too afraid to be ashamed."

"Sit down," I said. "You're making me nervous."

He sat, although his knee still bounced up and down. I said, "They're extorting money from you."

He nodded. "A grand a week. For protection, of course."

"Of course," I said. "So what do you want me to do?"

He frowned a little. He hadn't really thought this through. "I'm not sure."

"Do you want them to stop picking on you?"

"Sam..."

"What?"

"Fine. Yes."

"The price for keeping these boys from picking on you is..." I did some quick math, which, in my groggy state, took a little longer than it should have. I said, "The price is four thousand, two hundred and sixty-two dollars."

"Jesus, Sam. You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Seven months of child support, plus my usual fee. Have the cash here on my table in one hour and you just hired yourself a bodyguard."

He looked down at his hands. His knee continued to bounce. Loose change in his pocket clanged. Finally, he nodded and stood.

"I'll be back," he said.

"We'll see."

He did come back. Funny what a little fear will do to a man. He handed me a white envelope full of money, which I counted in front of him. Once done, I grinned and held out my hand. He looked at it reluctantly, then finally shook it, wincing as he did so.

After all, I might have squeezed a little too hard.

Chapter Twenty-four.