“She’s going to go see him.” I sucked in a terrified breath. “She’s going to see him and he’s going to figure out what she is.” I crumpled the paper and yanked the door to Nina’s bedroom open, then sighed.
To call Nina’s bedroom a “bedroom” is a radical misnomer, but I could never get used to saying I share a one-bedroom, one-showroom apartment. Having no use for a bed (being a nonsleeping vampire) and needing a ridiculous amount of closet space (being a fashion-whoring vampire), she had expertly turned the entire room into the kind of walk-in closet that would make any fashionista worth her Jimmy Choos weak in the knees. Every item of clothing—from Old Navy today to 1800 antique—was cataloged, grouped by decade, and kept in pristine condition.
And then there were the shoes.
Nina was obsessed with the evolution of shoes and maintained that her affair—and nauseating procurement of shoes—was nothing less than an anthropological, sociological study. She kept a scant collection of greased Victorian boots and bootlets with their delicate buttons from ankle to toe; there was a selection of saddle shoes and Sandra Dee cotton candy-colored pumps, which bled to an earthy collection of shaggy boots and love-beaded sandals (two pairs complete with Woodstock mud). Then came the chunky platforms, the 1980s color blocked pointy numbers, the 1990s fashion flats, and finally a selection of sky-high stilettos, peep-toe booties, and sexy strappy numbers emblazoned with names like Manolo and Louboutin. Her shoe collection alone was worth more than my car and made my current selection—a pair of shaggy Payless Shoe Source slippers in a leopard print—seem that much less exotic or cute.
It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. The torn-out article emblazoned with Harley’s smug, smiling face was pinned to Nina’s wall. I groaned, and my stomach churned as I thought about poor, battered Bettina, Sergio, and Mrs. Henderson—somewhere. Mrs. Henderson was one of the most annoying clients I’d ever met, but I certainly didn’t want her—I gulped—dead.
I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Nina, shifting my weight from foot to foot and muttering, “Come on, Neens, come on... .” When the last ring bled into Nina’s voice mail—her gleeful, recorded voice telling me to leave a message—I felt the lump form in my throat. I choked out, “Neens, it’s me. Call me right away.” I paused, then added, “Love you” before hanging up.
I traded in my slippers for boots, shrugged into my coat, snatched up my shoulder bag, and charged into the hallway, where I stopped dead, frowning.
It was the middle of the night and that meant that Nina was at Poe’s.
The vampire coffehouse.
Though I spent forty hours a week surrounded by all manner of the undead, being the only breather in a vampire haven wasn’t exactly tops on my bucket list. I bit my lip and then dialed Alex, squeezing my eyes shut when his voice mail clicked on, sternly telling me to leave a message or dial 911 if this was an actual emergency.
I considered it.
Then I rushed across the hall and sucked in a deep breath before hammering on Will’s door. He was a breather, but still ... two breathers in a vampire bar were better than one, right?
When he didn’t answer, I felt the sting of tears burning my eyes. My best friend could be in serious danger, and everyone I knew—and everyone I knew who owned weapons—was out.
They’d better be planning a surprise party for me.
It was a quick drive to Poe’s, which was tucked between an empty storefront and a Chinese herb shop at the beach end of Clement Street. I had never actually been there before. When I stood out front, I realized the dreary, hand-painted Poe’s sign—complete with a beady-eyed raven—did little to quell my angst.
Ditto with the blacked-out windows.
I paced for a few minutes and left pleading voice mails on everyone’s phones for a second time—something between “I really need your help” and “If I die at the fangs of a rogue vampire tonight, it’ll be on your shoulders.” (Rogue being UDA speak for a nonadherent client.)
Then I called the only other person I could think of... .
“Sophie was right to call Steve,” Steve said with an authoritative pat of my hand while I desperately tried to breathe through my mouth.
Trolls in general—and Steve, in particular—have a very distinctive smell. It’s distinctly horrible. Like an unholy combination of sewer rot and ripe blue cheese. And although Steve was the last person on my call list—and generally the first on my “stay far, far away from” list, I did have a soft spot for the little moldy man ever since he had been instrumental in saving my life. Besides, being a troll, he would give me some badly needed Underworld cred and we should fit right in.