Colin grinned, baring the sharp tips of his new fangs.

"I'll be happy to kill you, if you want."

Van Helsing frowned.

"The lineage of nosferatu ends now, Mr. Willoughby. No more may be allowed to live. I have severed the heads of the ones inside the house. Only you and I remain."

Colin laughed, blood dripping from his lips.

"You mean to kill me? With that tiny knife? Don't you sense my power, old man? Don't you see what I have become?" Colin spread out his arms, reaching up into the night. "I have been reborn!"

Colin opened wide, fangs bared to tear flesh. But something in Van Helsing's face, some awful fusion of hate and determination, made Colin hesitate.

Van Helsing closed the distance between them with supernatural speed, plunging the knife deep into Colin's heart.

Colin fell, gasping. The agony was exquisite. He tried to speak, and blood-his own rancid blood-bubbled up sour in his throat.

"Not . . . not . . . wood."

"No, Mr. Willoughby, this is not a wooden stake. It will not kill you. But the damage should be substantial enough to keep you here for an hour or so."

Van Helsing drove the knife further, puncturing the back of Colin's rib cage, pinning him to the ground.

"I have been waiting sixty years to end this nightmare, and I am tired. So very tired. With our destruction, my wait shall finally be over. May G.o.d have mercy on our souls."

Colin tried to rise, but the pain brought tears.

Van Helsing rolled off, and sat, cross-legged, on the old cobblestone road. He closed his eyes, his thin, colorless lips forming a serene smile.

"I have not seen a sunrise in sixty years, Mr. Willoughby. I remember them to be very beautiful. This should be the most magnificent of them all."

Colin began to scream.

When sunrise came, it cleansed like fire.

Zen and the Art of Vampirism.

Kelley Armstrong.

Kelley Armstrong's best-selling Women of the Otherworld series was launched in 2001 with Bitten, a novel featuring Elena Michaels-an everyday woman who also happens to be the only known female werewolf. Unlike other contemporary fantasy series with female protagonists that mix in mystery and a bit of romance, the Otherworld books didn't stick with a single lead character (or werewolves or women for that matter). In "Zen and the Art of Vampirism," we meet Zoe Takano, the only vampire in Toronto-until some southern fangsters decide to take over her territory.But don't expect the stereotypical from either the author or her vampire.

Armstrong has been telling stories since before she could write. Her earliest written efforts were disastrous. If asked for a story about girls and dolls, hers would invariably feature undead girls and evil dolls, much to her teachers'dismay. All efforts to make her produce "normal" stories failed. Today, she continues to spin tales of ghosts and demons and werewolves, while safely locked away in her bas.e.m.e.nt writing dungeon. Other than the Otherworld paranormal suspense series, she's auth.o.r.ed the Darkest Powers young adult urban fantasy trilogy, and the Nadia Stafford crime series. She lives in southwestern Ontario with her husband, kids, and far too many pets.

In Miller's bar, the only thing that smelled worse than the bathroom was the clientele. Of the three humans there that night, two were already so p.i.s.sed I could walk over, sink my teeth into their necks, and they'd never flinch. Tempting, but Rudy likes me sticking to beer.

Cultural a.s.similation is a lofty goal, but every minority needs a place to kick back with her own kind, a place to trade news and gossip that wouldn't interest anyone outside the group. For supernaturals in Toronto, that place is Miller's.

The clientele wasn't exclusively supernatural. That kind of thing is hard to enforce without calling attention to yourself, which none of us wants to do. But the ambiance itself is usually enough to discourage outsiders.

Tonight the only sober human was a guy in a suit sitting at the bar, drinking in his surroundings and telling himself that, despite his house in the suburbs and corporate parking spot, he was still a bada.s.s. And as long as he was misbehaving, that j.a.panese girl in the short skirt and knee-high boots looked like just the thing to cap off his evening. I'd already rejected the two drinks he'd sent, but he wasn't getting the message, not even when I openly eyed the blond half-demon girl at the other end of the bar.

While I'd settle for an introduction to the half-demon, what I really wanted was a job. My rent was due, my bar tab was overdue and if I didn't get a gig in the next week, I'd be digging through my stash of goodies, looking for something to fence. I suppose I could return my new red leather jacket and matching boots. Or not.

A job, though, might be forthcoming. The bartender Rudy said a guy had come by last night, interested in hiring me. I don't usually take jobs without referrals, but desperate times . . .

I swore I heard the bells of St. James toll midnight when my guy walked in. If that bit of theatrics didn't mark him as a first-timer, the way he entered did-slinking through the door, looking around furtively, hands stuffed in his overcoat pockets like a perv getting ready to flash. The overcoat didn't help. Nor did the rest of the outfit-skin-tight pleather pants, an open-necked shirt and chains. Someone had watched Underworld one too many times.

Rudy said the guy had introduced himself as Jose. If there was an ounce of Hispanic blood in him, I'd drink cow's blood for a week. Probably christened Joe, but decided it wasn't exotic enough for a supernatural.

He made it halfway to the bar before Rudy pointed me out to him. The guy stopped. He looked at me. He looked some more.

Obviously I wasn't what he expected. Unfortunately, he was exactly what I expected-scruffy, stringy hair, wild eyes. Toronto doesn't get a lot of new supernaturals and those who do emigrate are usually on the run from trouble south of the border. I only hoped Jose didn't want me to fix that trouble for him. I'm a thief, not an a.s.sa.s.sin, but I've had more than one client imply that it shouldn't make a difference. Vampires kill; therefore, they should have no compunction about doing it for money.

Jose walked to my table. "Zoe Takano?"

I motioned to the chair across from me.

"It's uh, about a job," he said.

I motioned at the chair again.

His gaze skittered about the bar. "Shouldn't we, uh, take this outside?"

"Does anyone in here look like an undercover cop?"

He gave a nervous chuckle. "I guess not."

Actually, the hulking half-demon in the corner was one, but we had an understanding.

"Tell me what you have in mind," I said. "Just leave out the details until I've agreed."

It was a theft, something about a ring. I didn't pay much attention because after two lines of his story, I knew there was no job. That's when he turned to call a drink order to Rudy, and his hair swung off his neck, revealing the ghosts of a half-dozen puncture wounds.

Vamp freak.

Just as there are humans who get off on bloodletting, there are supernaturals who do, too. The difference is that supernaturals don't need to find someone to play vampire for them. They can get a real one.

In Toronto, there weren't any vamp freaks. There was no point. I was the only vampire here.

I let Jose natter on, then set my beer aside. "You're right. Let's take this outside."

He jumped up so fast he set the table wobbling. Rudy stood at the bar, scowling, Jose's drink in hand.

"Pay the man," I said.

Jose opened his wallet and stared in confusion at the multicolored bills.

"This one's pretty," I said, plucking out a red fifty. I handed it to Rudy, mouthing for him to apply the extra to my tab. Then I waved Jose out of the bar.

I led Jose to an alley two blocks over. He trailed at my heels even when I said he could walk beside me. Someone had him trained well. I shivered and briefly wondered who.

I got far enough down the alley to be hidden from the street, then turned sharply.

"No," I said.

"No?"

"I'm not interested."

"In the job? I thought-"

He stopped as I moved in, getting so close our clothing brushed. Then I lifted onto my tiptoes. I didn't say a word. Just gave him the look. His pupils dilated. His heart raced, the sound of it echoing through the alley, the sight of it pulsing in his neck making my fangs lengthen. He let out a groan and shifted forward, his erection rubbing my leg.

I stepped back. "That's what I meant. And the answer is no."

"Please? Just a bite. Just a taste."

I swallowed my revulsion. My fangs retracted. As I took another step back, a crackle sounded behind me. A foot treading on trash.

He kept babbling. "I'm a clean-living Druid. Totally clean. No booze. No dope. No cigarettes. I haven't even taken aspirin in months."

"And do you know what all that healthy living is going to get you? A comfy berth in the morgue."

He shook his head. "No, I'm always careful. I know what it feels like when you have to stop. I have a safe word-"

"Which works just fine until it's time for your master's annual kill. That's how it ends, Jose. That's how it always ends. So take my advice and find a human playmate who'll bite your neck for you and-"

I spun, my kick connecting with the kneecap of a hulking figure behind me. Another spin, another kick-this one to the back of her knee-and she went down.

The woman lying on the ground was at least six-foot-two and well-muscled. A flaxen-haired Amazon. Admittedly, I have a weakness for strong blondes, but I knew drag queens who could pa.s.s for female more easily than this woman.

"Brigid Drescher, I presume," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

She snarled, spittle speckling my boots. I bent to wipe it off, then spun fast, fists and foot flying up. The dark-ponytailed vampire sneaking up behind me raised his hands.

"Hey, Hans," I said. "It's been a while."

Forty years, give or take a decade. Last time I saw Hans, he was still going by his real name: John. Now I kicked myself for not figuring out who "owned" Jose. If his rechristening didn't give it away, his costume should have. Last I heard, Hans was on an Anne Rice kick, but apparently he'd progressed to Underworld gear. Either that or he spent his off-hours in a bordello.

As Brigid got to her feet, he turned to her. "I told you there wasn't any use trying to trick Zoe."

Brigid brushed off her leather corset. "I thought you said she didn't fight."

"Only in self-defense. Isn't that right, Zoe?"

I ignored his mocking lilt and managed a perky smile. "You got it. So what brings you two to Toronto?" I had an idea, and hoped I was wrong.

"Jose," Brigid said before Hans could answer.

She snapped her fingers, and motioned the vamp freak to her side. He pretended not to notice and kept slinking closer to me. I sidestepped. He slunk. Sidestepped. Slunk.

Hans laughed. "I think your boy found something he likes better, Brig. Sorry, Jose, but you're not Zoe's type. Or gender."

Jose frowned, taking a moment to get it. Then he smiled and sidled closer.

"Go," I said, flicking my fingers at him. "Shoo."

"Jose!" Brigid barked.

He slid a look her way, shuddered and wriggled closer to me. Brigid strode over and grabbed him, yelping, by the collar.

"When I tell you to come, you come."

His gaze shunted my way, and Brigid's head shot down to his neck, fangs sinking in. I started to say this wasn't the time for a snack. Then Brigid's head ripped back, a chunk of Jose's neck in her teeth, arterial blood spurting against the wall. She dropped him and spat out the flesh. Jose convulsed on the ground, gasping and jerking, hands pressed to his neck, eyes rolling as he tried to stop the flow.

I looked down at him, knowing there was nothing I could do, feeling the old serpent of rage uncoil in my gut. My gaze shot to Brigid but, at the last second, I wrenched it away and turned aside.

"What's the matter, Takano?" Brigid said. "Don't like the sight of blood?"

I counted to five, until the serpent relaxed and slid back into hiding. Then I turned and smiled.

"I have a weak stomach, what can I say?"

Jose lay on his back now, sightless eyes staring up.

"Well, that was a waste," Hans said, stepping away as the blood seeped toward his boots. "You really need to control your temper, Brig."

"Can we get this conversation over with?" I said. "I'd really rather not be found standing over a dead body." I kept my gaze on Hans, my tone light. "And I do hope you plan to clean this mess up. It's terribly bad form to leave bodies in another vamp's town."

"That's what we're here to talk about," he said. "Your town."

"It's not yours anymore," Brigid said.

That's what I was afraid they were here for. Hans and his little gang had lived in New Orleans. From what I'd heard, they'd been thrilled when Hurricane Katrina hit-a chaos-gripped city makes for easy pickings. But after a year, they'd realized trailer park life really wasn't their style. Since then, they'd been hunting for a new place to settle.

"So you're looking at Toronto?" I laughed. "Seriously? Sure, it's a world-cla.s.s city, multicultural, blah, blah. But it's Toronto. There's a reason a third-rate vamp like me lives here. No one else wants it. Long cold winters. Hot humid summers. Smog so thick you can taste it. Taxes are outrageous, and for what? Free health care? Like we need that."

"You aren't going to give us any trouble, are you, Zoe?"

His voice was smooth and soft, but there was an arrogant tilt to his chin and a condescending twist to his words.

For a moment, I reveled in the visions of what I would have done if he'd said those words a hundred years ago. A vampire's invulnerability makes it difficult to inflict any sensation like pain. But there are ways. And I know them all.