La Vida Vampire

“Did you get any particular vibes from this Holland guy?” she asked when I finished.

“Psychically, no, but he’s lying about something.”

“Did you ever sense danger directed at you?”

“No, but seeing the gun gave me second thoughts. He just doesn’t feel right.”

“Sounds like this guy is on something like a hate -crimes task force. An undercover fed,” my ever-practical Maggie said, taking the ice to the sink. “The best thing to do is stay alert when you’re out, and keep your phone charged and with you.”

“You need to do the same. Neil’s gonna have a fit when he finds out Holland knows where we live.”

“No, he won’t, because we aren’t telling him. He’ll just get his shorts in a bunch and drive me crazy, and I don’t have time for that right now. Speaking of which, I need to get to work.”

“Tonight?”

She nodded and crossed to the couch to snag her samples with her good arm. “The Jax Beach restoration client—the one who’s fired four interior designers—changed her mind about colors and fabrics. Again.”

“So you’re stepping in?”

“I have to. Until she settles on colors, I can’t order the kitchen tile.”

“Want some help?” I carried a second load of materials to the kitchen table.

She cocked her head. “No homework? No tests tonight?”

“Nope. My landscape test is tomorrow night. I’ll take it after bridge club.”

“In that case, go change, and let’s get crackin’.”



Cosmil stood in the plaza across from Francesca’s building beside the remnants of an old town well. Pandora in her housecat form sat on her haunches at his side, her tail swishing the grass. The man who’d walked with Francesca crossed the street to the plaza and paced between two benches as he pushed buttons on his cellular phone. Only yards away, it was not difficult for Cosmil and Pandora to overhear.

“I saw Miss Cesca home like you asked, but she spotted my gun. I’m sure of it.”

A woman’s voice floated through the airwaves, but the words were indistinct.

“Yes’m, she got away from me as fast as she could. She’s not likely to trust me now.”

The woman spoke again, briefly.

“All right. Maybe I’ll tell her I’m a PI, but it’ll have to wait. I have another case to take care of in Daytona.”

With a last “Yes’m,” the man disconnected his call, gave his phone a resigned look, and punched another set of numbers. Cosmil heard one word, “Report,” before casting a shield around Pandora and himself to protect them from the malefic energy lashing through the line.

“I’ve searched the beach house, but not the car.”

An angry voice whipped through the phone.

“No opportunity. I’ll try again and search the other man’s place tomorrow.” He paused, listened. “The Marinelli woman has nothin’ to do with it. Yes, damn it, I’m certain.” He paused again to listen. “Then send someone else to do the job. I’m doin’

what you want and nothin’ more.”

A growl so loud emanated from the phone, Pandora raised her hackles and flattened her ears. A spate of angry, unintelligible words shot through the device, then silence. The man folded the phone closed, cursed, and strode out of the plaza to disappear around the corner.

Cosmil glided to the sidewalk and looked up. Low lights shone through the sixth-floor windows where Francesca and the other woman lived.

I can find that man and kill him quickly.

Cosmil glanced at Pandora, then back at the light. “No need. He is not the threat, and Francesca is safe enough for now. We will not interfere.” Francesca’s silhouette passed by the window. “Not yet.”

The second voice. Who was it?

Cosmil grimaced. “One of the true monsters, my friend. Come, I have spells to prepare.”



We worked only an hour on the new presentation board. Maggie refused to labor any longer on it—not when she was sure the client would change her mind a half-dozen more times. I refilled her ice bag, insisted she take a pain reliever, and sent her to bed.

After I repacked Maggie’s materials, I soaked in a long, hot bath and thought about Holland. Maybe he was on an undercover sting of the Covenant. If so, whatever evidence he was looking for, I hoped he got it soon. Either way, I ’d be calling the cops if Holland came near Maggie or me again.

I slipped on a St. Augustine nightshirt and memory foam dolphin slippers and e-mailed the tour company about passes for the writers, with three more for Shalimar Millie and her friends.