“Shh,” I hissed. “Here they come.”
The whole of the staff straightened as the back-office doors slid open and the new head of the UDA stepped out, flanked on either side by well-dressed henchmen whose dark eyes scanned the assembled crowd, their faces betraying nothing.
One of the henchmen stepped forward, straightening his impeccable tie. He leaned against the podium, cleared his throat into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Dixon Andrade.”
There was a smattering of polite applause as Dixon stepped forward, looking all at once politician slick and businessman savvy.
To say Dixon was a commanding presence was an understatement. He was at least six feet tall with strong swimmer’s shoulders and a long, lean body that gave the impression of careful control. His longish brown hair was carefully slicked back from a wide forehead that was punctuated by thick, dark eyebrows that seemed very comfortably formed into a constant V of consternation and distaste. His pale skin was taut and perfect; his square jaw was set hard but offset by ruby red lips that were pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the UDA staff. Suddenly, his lips broke into a welcoming grin, and a slight hint of color washed over his cheeks.
“So this is the San Francisco staff of the Underworld Detection Agency. Nice-looking group of demons.” Dixon nodded slowly, appraisingly, as the crowd hummed, pleased. I just swallowed and did my best to fade into the background.
It’s not that I was any way ashamed of my non-demon status, nor was it much of a secret around the office—I tended to stick out like a sore thumb, as I routinely bypassed the freeze-dried blood in the office vending machine and opted for the Rice Krispies Treats and Kit Kat bars. I just considered that until the new management got to know me, it might be best to blend into the whole of the group—which is not that easy, considering the majority of the group sported horns, fangs, or hooves. I sported a dress with a slobber stain and a Swatch watch.
“Now I know a lot of you might be worried about a so-called shake-up around here. I am here today to put you all at ease. I know my predecessor, Pete Sampson, ran a tight ship around here and you all have the profit margins”—Dixon held a thick stack of documents aloft—“to prove it.”
A whoosh of relief whipped through the crowd and suddenly the UDA employees were showing signs of everyday life: Pierre was shifting from hoof to hoof, bored. Kale, the mega-pierced apprentice witch to Lorraine was batting her eyes at Nina’s nephew Vlad, who was working hard to ignore her. Eliot, a newly hired werevamp was nonchalantly texting on his iPhone.
“Now, now,” Dixon went on, pale palms up to appease the crowd. “That doesn’t mean there won’t be some changes. Nothing drastic, I assure you. But I do want to get a feel for what you all do around here.” Dixon stressed certain words like an overly sincere politician. I didn’t warm to him.
“I want to know you, your job descriptions, what a day in the life is like for you as a UDA employee.” Dixon flashed a brilliant grin, his teeth impossibly white, his incisors sharpened to terrifying points. I felt my eyebrows shoot up and I stole a glance over at Nina.
Her eyebrows were raised, too; her dark eyes were wide as saucers and transfixed—but it wasn’t the surprise of seeing a pair of sharpened fangs.
It was love.
Pure, unadulterated, “I’d follow you anywhere, Dixon Andrade” love.
“Aw, geez,” I muttered under my breath. “Nina!”
She was leaning forward on her toes, her sky-high Manolo Blahniks raising her up four inches already. Her hands were clasped in front of her heart and every inch of her was still, waiting, watching, like a cat ready to pounce.
“He. Is. Beautiful,” she said, her voice coming out high-pitched and breathy.
“I intend to get to know each and every one of you, and to do that”—Dixon’s eyes scanned the crowd—“I am hoping to enlist the help of the Underworld Detection Agency’s human resources staff.”
Nina thrust her chest out with so much pride that I thought her rib cage would come sputtering out of her. She offered a brilliant, toothy grin—her fangs not nearly as spiked as Dixon’s—and raised one thin arm, waving proudly, Nadia Comaneci-winning-the-gold style. I felt myself cringe, and I was vaguely concerned that Nina might explode with a supernatural combination of horniness and joy.
“I am thrilled to be of service, Mr. Andrade,” Nina purred, her voice a sweet, tender pitch that was usually reserved for puppy dogs and enormous favors.
I leaned forward, whispering in Nina’s ear, “I thought he was a useless Pillsbury dough-vamp?”
Nina looked at me incredulously. “Can’t you see? He’s brilliant!” Nina’s eyes went from stunned wonder to naked want. I thought I saw a drop of saliva teeter on her lower lip.