La Vida Vampire

He scribbled a note without breaking eye contact. “Go on.”


“Second, Yolette was dead before those punctures were made. Vampires are predators, not scavengers. They don’t shoot people, and break their necks, then munch on them.”

“Shoot them?” March echoed, his eyes narrowing on me.

I realized my goof—giving them more information than they thought I had—and thought fast to cover my tracks. “If what Neil said is right, yes. He told me he felt a bullet hole in the back of her head.”

“He specifically said a bullet hole?”

“I think so. No matter how she died, the point is she was dead before the fang marks were made. No blood flow. No reason to feed off her.”

“Why not?” March asked. “A vamp can suck wounds, right?”

“But they don’t feed that way, Detective. Blood is life. Blood of the dead is just dead. The bites are staging.”

He nodded. “Anything else?”

“On the incident report form, there’s a line to list injuries. Janie and Mick both knew my arm was sore, first from the grabbing and shaking, then from being jerked around in Scarlett ’s. I don’t know if that’s why the tracker stopped working, but Janie insisted we list an arm injury, and now the tour company needs me to sign a medical waiver. In spite of what some people think—” I glared at Saber. “—a trauma to a vampire body has consequences. However briefly it may last.”

I pushed back my chair and stood. “I’ll be here at eight to talk to your artist, but if you have any more questions, contact my attorney. Right now I need to get this tracker implanted and get to work.”

I admit it. I sailed out of the room, out of the building, in, as the Regency novels say, high alt. Even the foul, rainy weather didn’t dim my triumph, though it did make me stop to coax my umbrella open.

Sandy was snug in her trench coat when she caught up with me outside the sheriff ’s department doors. “You did well, overall, but don’t push Saber too far.”

“He deserved it.”

“Certainly he did, but he’s at least a state-if not federal-level cop and an unknown factor. I’ll call a few colleagues in Daytona and see what they know about him.” She gestured at my arm. “Can you get the tracker taken care of today?”

“If an ER doctor can work me in, I can get it done now. If not, it’ll be tonight after work.”

“Good. And, Francesca, don’t worry. There’s no way they’ll railroad you for this.”

Why did that have a “famous last words” ring to it?



I followed Sandy’s midnight blue Beemer south on U.S. 1 until I turned into the Flagler Hospital grounds. There I caught a break because—in spite of the rain—the ER was virtually empty, and the doctor who’d inserted my first tracker was on duty. The procedure had to be documented with photos as well as a written report, so a nurse took digital pictures as the old tracker came out and the new one went in. A few stitches later, a quick test of the device, and I was outta there. At seven fifty, the rain had stopped, but the wind gusted strongly off the bay. At times like those, I wished there was a back entrance to our building for tenants. Since there isn ’t, I parked in my reserved space, sprinted around the building to Cathedral Place, and ran up the stairwell.

Maggie wasn’t home yet and didn’t answer her cell. I left her a message about the interview with March and left another message for Dave at the VPA about the new tracker. Those duties done, I refreshed my makeup, then decided to toss down another six-ounce bottle of blood to speed-heal the new implant into place.

Tonight I’d decided on a Minorcan costume paired with a water-repellent microfiber cape with a hood. The cape wasn’t period-authentic, but it was warm, and I’d had a bad day. Why add to it? With my damp hair twisted into a high bun and my teeth freshly brushed, I left for work at eight thirty.

I arrived at the same substation on St. George Street where music pulsed from the Mill Top Tavern and Mick paced the small plaza dressed in street clothes and a windbreaker.

“God, Cesca, don’t you ever check your damn cell phone?” was his cheery greeting when he spotted me. “Janie and I have tried to reach you a dozen times.”

“I’ve been on the dead run all day.”

“Dead run? Har, har.” He punched me on the shoulder, the good one. “Seriously, answer your cell now and then. We were worried about you.”

“You were?”

“Hell, yes. For some reason we like you.”

I grinned. “Thanks. Hey, you’re not on rotation tonight, are you?”

“No. I volunteered to give you this personally.” He passed me a rolled piece of paper and a pen. “It’s the medical waiver.”

I unrolled the form, scanned it, signed it, and handed it back.

“I’ll take this to the office in the morning,” he said, tucking the form and pen in his windbreaker. “You talk to the cops yet?”

“For more than two hours this afternoon.”