You’d think by the time a guy had earned immortality, he’d tire of copying his butt on the office copy machine.
Not so.
I was pulling out the third paper jam of the morning—and tossing fistfuls of copies of a weird combination of butt cheek and hoof—when Nina poked her head in, scanned the room and asked, “Is she gone?”
I flopped back into the sea of crumpled paper and blew a few strands of my hair (done up in Clairol’s Red Hot Rhythm) out of my eye. “Who?”
Nina shimmied into the copy room and straightened her vintage boat-necked Balenciaga dress. She had paired this little number with black and purple lace tights and those peek-a-boo booties that made me look like a poor lumberjack and supermodels (and vampires) look amazingly chic.
I guess living through two world wars and umpteen clothing revolutions would pique your fashion sense.
“What do you mean, who? Mrs. Henderson. This dress,” Nina did an elegant twirl, “is not only vintage, it’s irreplaceable. I wore it when I nabbed a bite of John Lennon.” Nina batted her lashes and grinned, her small fangs pressing against her red lips.
I cocked an eyebrow and Nina blew out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine. It was Ringo. So, is she gone?”
Mrs. Henderson—the UDA’s resident busybody dragon and all-around most obnoxious client—and Nina have a bit of a history together. One that most often left Nina nicely singed from head to toe, her vintage couture du jour in ashes, and Mrs. Henderson hiccupping smoke rings and apologies.
I looked down at my watch. “Oh my gosh, I’m totally late. Thanks for reminding me.”
I thrust the last of the hoof-and-butt Xeroxes into Nina’s hands and beelined to my desk—hopping over the burnt-hole remains of a wizard who blew himself up and averting my eyes when the fairies from receiving headed down the hall. Lorraine—resident witch and finance whiz—tried to stop me by waving a folder full of invoices in front of my face, but I was able to dodge her, thanks in part to the seminar that HR held on “Respecting Your Co-Worker’s Personal Space.”
I flopped into my ergonomically questionable chair and eyed the clock, blowing out a deep, comforting breath and lacing my fingers over Mrs. Henderson’s files. In addition to being a fire-breathing, St. John’s Knit–wearing dragon, Mrs. Henderson was a divorcée hell-bent on squeezing her cheating ex-husband for every last dime. As our agency detected all supernatural movement within our region, Mrs. Henderson dropped in monthly for updates and liked it especially when we were prepared for her with Mr. H.’s paycheck stubs and warm, fuzzy stories about his current financial woes.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. H.’s statements were still safely tucked into my file folder and Mrs. Henderson was nowhere to be found.
I buzzed the reception desk and Kale answered—I could hear the murmur of the iBud she kept continually tucked in her left ear. “Reception,” she said, “what can I do you for?”
“Hey, Kale, it’s Sophie. Did Mrs. Henderson call in? She’s almost twenty minutes late for her appointment.”
I heard Kale muss some papers on the other end of the phone and then the snap of her gum. “No, nothing. Are you sure she was scheduled today?”
“Positive. It’s the fifteenth.”
“Ooh, alimony pick-up day. She’s usually a half hour early.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“’Kay. Oh!”
I rapped my fingers on my desk, suddenly impatient. “Yes?”
“Um,” Kale started to stutter and drift off and I could almost see her biting her lower lip, curling the telephone cord around her finger.
“What about Vlad?” I asked.
Vlad was Nina’s nephew—current UDA employee, leader of the San Francisco chapter of the Vampire Restoration and Empowerment Movement, and permanent fixture on our couch. He had the bright eyes, video game fetish and disdain for folding clothes that most sixteen-year-olds had.
Except that he was 116.
“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”
Kale had been in love with Vlad since he first blew into the city—moody, restless, and dressed like Count Chocula. The Vampire Restoration and Empowerment Movement (VERM for short and for annoying Vlad incessantly) required that its adherents stick to the “classic” dress code of the fearsome vampires of yesteryear (more Bela Lugosi, less Edward Cullen) and also preached a staunch code against non-demon mixing. That left Kale—a Gestault witch of the green order—to pine relentlessly and call me on numerous occasions to ask about Vlad’s dating status.
“No, Kale, I don’t think so.”
She let out a loud whoosh of relief. “That’s what his Facebook status said. I just wanted to make sure. Bye Sophie!”