La Vida Vampire

I did the intelligent, mature thing. I crossed my eyes at him. “I meant did you trace Yolette’s first husband.”


“Yolette Marie Girard Fournier wasn’t married in the States. No marriage license application on file.”

“Girard? How did you get her maiden name?”

“Her passport.”

“Ah, of course. Did you trace Millie?”

“Not far enough. I got a street and unit address, so I figure she lives in a condo.”

“Wow, single homes don’t have unit numbers? They teach you that in detective school?”

“You have an unvampire headache from your fall, or are you just being bitchy?”

“Where does Millie live?”

“In Captain’s Harbor. I got her deceased husband’s name, found his obit and their marriage application.”

“But you can’t trace her relatives?”

“I’ll pick up there tomorrow while you work with the artist on the sketch of Gomer.”

“She might be on my tour again tomorrow. We could question her then.”

“We could, huh? Is that the royal we, Princess? Didn’t you tell Maggie you wouldn’t give a weekend tour?”

“You’ll be there, and Millie already likes me.”

“No. You’re not trained in interrogation techniques.”

“So coach me,” I said before I clearly thought that through. Spend more time with Saber? Maybe not. He gave me a long look, one that warmed and darkened his eyes. My skin tingled, and the faint bouquet of my own pheromones tickled my nose again. Time for a subject change.

“Fine, question her yourself, but you have to admit it’s a good opportunity to do it casually.” I tapped my lecture printout on the table to straighten the pages and rose. “If you’re finished with my computer, I have a chair to design.”

“One more question.”

“What?” I said through clenched teeth.

“If I fall asleep, you promise you won’t leave the condo?”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

“What are you doing after you finish your design?”

“Watching my Magnum marath—Oh, wait. I forgot to pick up the mail. I’ll be right back.”

I dashed into my room to get my keys and back out to find Saber waiting at the door.

“What, I can’t get the mail by myself?”

“You can, but you’re not going to. I’m coming with you.”

Please don’t, I wanted to say, but I rode the elevator down with him, staying as far away as I could without being too obvious.

The mailboxes were around the corner from the elevator near the tenant entrance, where they were convenient for the mailman. I sped toward them but stopped short when I heard the unearthly caterwauling.

“What the hell?” Saber said behind me.

In unison, we sprinted to the leaded-glass door and looked out to find Cat yowling and pacing around a man crumpled facedown on the tiled landing outside. A man whose face was turned from us but who was dressed pseudo black ops, like Victor Gorman had been just hours ago.

The smell of blood was thick and sharp and far too strong.



I try to face the challenges of afterlife head -on, but, except for the first month out of my box, I ’d never had a week as confusing as this one. Or one less fun.

I guess I’d been in denial about the faint musky scent being my own pheromones, and I ’d still like to deny that. I sure hadn’t given much thought to Cat suddenly showing up—and showing up so often.

Now it was time to pay attention.

So, while I waited in the Flagler Hospital ER for Saber and Detective March to bring word about Gorman ’s condition, I considered it. Or rather, her.

Cat had prowled around Gorman’s prone body twice more before she gazed straight into my eyes and that sense of magick had scraped my skin like extra coarse sandpaper. This was obviously no common house cat, but was Cat a shifter like Triton—sometimes in human form, sometimes in animal form? Or could magical animals themselves change sizes the way I was certain Cat had that first night in the fog? I didn ’t know enough about shape-shifting in general to hazard much of a guess, but I could boot up my computer and find answers pretty darn soon.

If I got out of the hospital before I had to meet the sketch artist at the sheriff’s office. Not five minutes later, I heard footsteps, Saber’s voice and March’s along with the St. Augustine officer who ’d been assigned to wait to talk with Gorman.

I jumped up from my seat as they trooped in, and Saber motioned me to the deserted hallway.

“Well?” I prompted, looking in turn at each of their haggard faces.

March looked at the St. Augustine uniformed officer, whose name badge read MICHAELS and got a small nod.

“Gorman will make it,” March said, “but he won’t be talking to us tonight.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d held. “How bad is he?”

“He has a pretty good concussion,” Saber answered, “cracked ribs, contusions, and possible spleen damage.”