Hi all. Thanks as always for the reviews, I enjoy reading them. Oh, and thanks to whoever mentioned Hrithik Roshan. He's very pretty! Hope you enjoy...


Doldrums


I prepared the donor's neck and bit down carefully. Swallowing as soon as the blood welled up, I nicked my tongue and licked the neat punctures closed before I turned back to the smartly dressed brunette observing us under the cold fluorescent lighting.

"The whole process is no more uncomfortable than donating to the Red Cross," I said.

The donor, Gloria, nodded and grinned. "Only we get steak dinner and chocolate cake as a reward instead of tea and cookies."

Gloria was a good choice for tonight's demonstration, her natural setting was perky.

"And you're happy with the conditions here, Miss Hernandez?" asked the brunette, scribbling in her notebook.

"Yes, ma'am," Gloria replied enthusiastically. "The pay is great, it's just a few hours a week and I can study here."

The brunette switched off her recorder and closed the notebook with a decisive snap.

At last.

Fucking bureaucrats. Small-minded petty bureaucrats. And this one worshipped the god of tick-boxes. I could tell, after enduring her excruciatingly meticulous attention to detail for the last two hours. If she parroted one more federal regulation… I would bet my right fang she had her eye on a promotion. She reeked of ambition.

I walked her out to the lobby. Keeping the sarcasm out of my voice I said, "If you have any more questions, you have my number."

The BSA representative for Baton Rouge smiled. It didn't reach her eyes or counter her air of polite, professional detachment. Poised for disapproval at the slightest provocation, I was sure.

"What you've done here is very encouraging," she said. Clutching the folder of medical records and insurance forms I'd provided to her chest like a talisman, she held out her hand.

I shook it, conceding the point. We were expected to fit into her world, not her into ours.

"It's been a positive first visit, Mr Northman. Good evening."

"Goodnight, Ms Lindenberg."

I watched her leave before I turned to Dolores Winterbourne, the 'house mother' I employed to manage the in-house donors. In contrast to the slender form of the BSA official, Dolores was a buxom matron in her fifties but she was just as ruthless in the pursuit of her duties. Not much got past her.

Unlike Ms Sally Lindenberg, Dolores, who could pass for Creole, was not as human as she looked. Her ancestry made her blood unappealing to us and her will inflexible. She had a natural resistance to glamour, a quality essential for dealing with those of my retinue who might wish to circumvent the rules I'd put in place for the donors.

She was also a qualified nurse, which came in handy for the health checks that had so impressed Ms Lindenberg. Dolores screened the donors for Sino-Aids and silver for our protection; and disease, anaemia and drugs for theirs. She came recommended by Ludwig, whom she had worked for in Shreveport, before moving here two years ago to be near her son.

Not that anyone here knew she had a family. That had been something she insisted upon. I wasn't sure whether that was to protect them or protect her reputation as a hard-headed bitch. Either way I was happy to play along.

"Thoughts?" I asked her.

"She's a stickler for the rules. With no sense of humour. Might cause problems."

I nodded in agreement. "She could not find fault tonight."

"Of course. I run a tight ship."

"You do. She will contact some of the donors. Interview them alone."

"They won't say anything out of line," Dolores said confidently.

She had a right to that confidence. She vetted all the donors personally and thoroughly, and kept an eye on them during their short shifts. Sunset to midnight – for which they were compensated generously, including a health insurance package.

None of the vampires here needed nightly sustenance. The older ones hardly used the donors, preferring to make their own arrangements off-site. We kept bagged and synthetic in stock. Between that and rotating their shifts, the donors weren't over-used.

Keeping them healthy and wholesome was essential. I had registered the place as a vampire-owned business, which meant regular inspections. Subjecting ourselves to the BSA's scrutiny was part of a wider strategy to convince the authorities we could police our own feeding. It was that or the human government would be driven to more extreme interference. None of us wanted that.

Dolores had recruited college students rather than rednecks. Gloria, for instance, was studying biology, and her textbooks had been spread over one of the tables when I showed Ms Lindenberg the donor lounge. Most of our donors were intelligent, hard-working and open-minded. They appreciated the pay and the perks, but they weren't enamoured with the fanged.

A different class of meal to the usual 'fangbanger'. One that would be treated with more respect.

No bite marks. Goro had approved of that – he was a fastidious feeder. That was second nature to those of us who had spent centuries leaving no trace of our meals. If any balked at returning to that after a few heady years of marking their prey freely, tough. The orgy of excess was over. Call it the price of progress.

Glamouring the donors was restricted to emergencies too, and even then as minimally as possible. With the BSA breathing down our necks we couldn't afford to lobotomise the livestock. No more Gingers. That did pose a security risk, but that was why the donors were only here for a few hours after dark, and were kept to their area on the first floor.

They had a cafeteria they shared with the other breathing staff and their own lounge, with three small side rooms for feeding. Those rooms were white and sterile, impressing upon everybody that this was a clinical transaction. Of course, there was sometimes more to it than blood, we were vampires. But any other fluid exchange had to be voluntary on the donors part, and privately arranged so we didn't fall foul of anti-prostitution laws.

Besides they were all here to work, breathers and vampires alike. Playtime should be on their own time.

And I was not wasting my time on petty disputes over donors, a frequent hazard amongst possessive creatures such as ourselves. Dolores kept a sharp eye out for problems of that nature, and my retinue had been warned that if they developed a favourite, the human would be removed from the general pool and become their responsibility.

Neb and Oskar had similar regimes for the donor pools in their main offices, but Pam and Rasul didn't. Area 4 had too few vampires, and Fangtasia wasn't the blood- and flesh-market it once was. Private arrangements, away from the BSA's watchful gaze, were the rule in their areas.

We recommended three reputable agencies to resident vampires seeking a reliable meal. I used them occasionally when we needed extra donors. One had started as a way to treat the injured – meals on wheels, vampire-style – and specialised in good quality blood from healthy, mature well-fed humans. Ludwig had used the service when I was injured and I discovered from Rory that the diminutive doctor part-owned it. Ludwig vetted the clients, only taking on vampires who would respect the donors wishes on glamouring, usually minimal, and 'extras', usually not on offer.

The other two were traditional escort-style agencies supplying young, attractive donors who were willing to provide more than blood off the books as it were. All the agencies were expensive, especially for the newly-turned, but it was another way to demonstrate we were capable of abiding by the law, drinking only from the willing. And, in return for the business, the agencies reported vampires who mistreated their meals to us for punishment, not local law enforcement.

Our punishments were worse.

For those who still preferred blood and thrills from free-range sources, I instituted harsh penalties for coercion, abuse and accidental drainings. We needed to keep such incidents to a minimum.

Mickey had made an excellent example a month into my reign. Salome staked him herself, disgusted by the state of his latest human punching bag, and by his betrayal. Bill's secret database had confirmed my suspicions: Mickey had been feeding financial information about the Seven Veils to de Castro.

Fortunately for me, Salome suspected Mickey bore me a grudge and had told him nothing about my plans to evict Felipe from Amun. She was furious when I showed her proof of his disloyalty. The brutal beating of his human had provided an official explanation and his final death served as a convenient deterrent for such behaviour.

Inconvenient 'accidents' were becoming rarer. All in all, the system was working smoothly. It was all very… organised. Progress marched on and we had to adapt. If that meant dealing with irritating pen-pushers like Ms Lindenberg once a quarter, so be it. The endless forms and paperwork certainly ate up the hours.

The intercom on my desk squawked to life barely half an hour after I'd returned from the gala, snapping me out of downtime. Networking with the locals in the late August heat had left me craving peace. Charming the mayor was a work in progress. Agonizingly slow progress.

Geraldine's voice intruded. "Mr Northman, are you free? Miss Kingfisher is here, asking to see you."

"Send her in, Geraldine."

I was curious. Rory never came here. Either I went to hers, or we met at the clinic or Sanctum.

I hadn't seen her since Connal's temper tantrum a month ago, despite making two trips to Shreveport to see Pam. My child was still angry with me for the Tennessee débâcle. Not that she brought it up when I saw her. That suited me, but things had been tense. We stuck to official state business and I came straight back without calling on Rory as I usually did.

Rory walked in wearing a navy pant suit and a heavy silver necklace. A sensible precaution. My retinue knew she was off-limits, but this was still the lion's den. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, giving her a severe look. That unsettled me more than the silver. It wasn't… her. I had gotten used to seeing her relaxed, at ease. Perhaps this visit was official.

She looked curiously around my office and commented, "Nice place."

"Pam found a good interior designer." I was sceptical at first, but Emmett had created the sense of uncluttered space I wanted. "Sit, please."

She took a chair, crossing her legs gracefully. "I heard about Sookie. I was surprised."

Irritated, I didn't reply. No-one had brought her up for weeks, and I would rather it stayed that way.

She added, "I spoke to her, you know. That night at Sanctum."

"Good for you." Why were we still talking about her? I asked curtly, "Did you need something?"

"No time to chat, Eric?"

Annoyed by the soft look in her eyes, I gestured at my desk. "I'm busy. And you didn't come for small talk."

"If the mountain won't come to me…" She shrugged. "You didn't drop in to see me."

"I didn't realise I had to." She didn't fucking own me. "What do you want?"

She regarded me steadily for a few moments, her clear green eyes far too perspicacious for my liking. "To discuss a favour of sorts."

I raised an eyebrow and shot back, "Will you release me from your mark in return?"

It came out bluntly, with none of the usual teasing between us.

Her eyes flashed. "No. This will benefit you more than me."

"Then how it is a favour?" I snapped.

"You are in a foul mood. Is that why Cataliades has had enough of you?"

That was none of her business. Fucking nosy fae. I said evenly, "He mentioned retiring."

She arched an eyebrow, as if it was obvious I was sidestepping the truth. Maybe it was, maybe they'd spoken and she knew exactly why he was quitting on me. They were both half-demons, who knew how long they'd known each other, what ties were between them. How much they gossiped about me. Like everybody else.

"Get to the point, Rory."

"Ariadne asked me to recommend a replacement to you. Sebastian Mithradates. Her cousin."

"Tell Cataliades. He's putting together a short list."

"Sebastian is a brilliant lawyer, but Cataliades is reluctant to put him forward."

She was wheedling a favour, trying to bypass the lawyer. My fangs itched but I held them back. I sneered, "This is a legal matter. Why would I take your advice? Or is this the first down payment on my thanks? Is that how it is?"

Her eyes darkened and the air crackled. She stood abruptly, spearing me with a fiery glare. "I would never dishonour that gift by using it for petty interference in the running of your kingdom. Sebastian is simply the best candidate. But if you trust Cataliades to look after your interests, by all means take his advice."

She stalked to the door, but she couldn't resist a last shot. "Insult me all you want, Eric. You can't destroy what exists between us. Or ignore the woman you're trying so hard to forget."

I growled angrily, but she was out the door before I could spit out a reply. I hurled the nearest thing – a stapler – after her and it broke against the wall with a satisfying crunch.

Infuriating woman. She just had to get the last word.

And she was right, damn her. I didn't trust Cataliades over Rory, that was the fucking problem. But there was no way in hell I was going after her to ask what the fuck was going on, let alone admit I had been bad-tempered and unreasonable.

I took a minute to calm down, and then reached for the phone.

"Cataliades. How goes the short list?"

"Your majesty. I have three possible candidates for you."

"Anyone who stands out above the rest? Like, say, Mithradates?"

There was a pause. "I had discounted him, but the boy is talented. What he lacks in experience he more than makes up for in brilliance."

"You would be comfortable staying on to show him the ropes?"

Another pause.

I prompted, "Is there some friction between you?"

"No. Not at all. It… Well, to be blunt, I anticipated you and Sebastian might butt heads."

I kicked my feet up on the desk, leaned back and frowned at the ceiling. I had only met Mithradates once, and he hadn't even spoken.

"How so?" Some conflict of interest with Ariadne?

He cleared his throat. "I believe he has an… interest in Miss Kingfisher. A personal one."

Ah. I hadn't corrected his or anybody else's impression that I was involved with Rory. Personally involved. He assumed I wouldn't trust a lawyer who was a rival for her affections.

Rory had wanted a favour, on behalf of a potential suitor. She was looking out for her own interests, not mine. Feeling strangely disappointed I said coldly, "I see. Did Miss Kingfisher ask you to put him forward?"

"No. I haven't spoken to Miss Kingfisher in some months." He sounded surprised, and more than a little amused. He thought I was jealous, given the next thing he said was meant to reassure me. "As far as I am aware, Miss Kingfisher isn't even aware he is carrying a torch for her, the boy is so self-contained. Sebastian told me himself, when I interviewed him."

"Ah." That was honest of Mithradates.

"He would very much like to work with you, but he felt his interest in her might… prove problematical, shall we say. He assured me he would never act on it while she was otherwise involved. But I agreed it was a potential conflict."

"If not for that, would he make the short list?"

"He would be my pick, Eric. He has the most potential. He's young, only two hundred, and modern in his outlook. He would be the best fit for what you're trying to achieve."

"Send me his details." I thought it over. "And bring him to our next meeting."

If he was curious, Cataliades kept his questions to himself, saying only, "As you wish."

I hung up and stared at the ceiling.

Our tango had given everyone the wrong idea about my relationship with Sorcha, a charade she had only engaged in because it benefited me. I had no idea if she reciprocated the half-demon's affections, but I did know her sense of honour would oblige her to fix the situation so neither the lawyer nor I missed out on what promised to be a mutually beneficial association.

Clearing up a misunderstanding to get me the better candidate was to my advantage. Not a favour for herself.

Even if she favoured the demon, it was the first time she had asked anything of me. Whereas she had aided me significantly several times: Nadia's trial, with Bartlett, with Bill.

Fuck. I'd been an asshole. I ought to apologise. My teeth gritted at the thought.

I met with Cataliades and Sebastian in September, and found I liked the quiet, circumspect half-demon. Sebastian didn't waste words, a trait I always valued, and he had an eye for innovative ways to use the law to my advantage. Rory was not mentioned, but the thought of that apology I owed her nagged at me. Sebastian politely bowed out early so we could discuss him.

"I think we can work together," I said, pleased.

Cataliades shut his briefcase with a snap. "He's a good choice, Eric. I'll bring him up to speed in the next month, and make myself available to him in an advisory capacity for a few more."

"Good. I think that will be all, Desmond."

"Thank you for being gracious about this, Eric."

"I won't deny I'm sorry to lose you. Your help with Alabama was invaluable. But with your reputation, no-one ever underestimates you."

He chuckled. "There is that. Sebastian is a fresh face. He has the element of surprise." He paused and peered at me. "Is… everything well with you?"

"Of course." Why wouldn't it be?

"No matter."

He bowed and I frowned after him as he left. What had he seen in my face? Goro had eyed me curiously earlier that night too, but I'd ignored it. Concerned, I slipped into my private shower-room and looked in the mirror.

I was pale. Too pale.

Shit. I hadn't fed for a fortnight. Not since the demonstration for Sally Lindenberg and that was a scant mouthful. It wasn't like I had many opportunities to feed. I had been busy, focused on the kingdom. I didn't feel particularly hungry but I heated some bagged blood from the mini-fridge and drank it quickly. That chore completed, I sat heavily behind my desk and wondered who else had noticed.

Pam and Oskar had offered me warm meals when I visited their areas. I'd brushed it aside. Because they would be female. Even here, where I could drink from a male without Pam questioning me, I hadn't fed.

That was fucking ridiculous. It was too late to rectify tonight, but starting tomorrow I would feed regularly. I couldn't afford to look weak.

The lone female donor was occupied when I went downstairs. Relief turned quickly to annoyance with myself.

That was becoming a familiar state. I picked the male I'd tasted a month earlier. Benjamin, a solid two hundred fifty pound wall of muscle. On a sports scholarship, I recalled vaguely. Football perhaps, given what he was watching on the big screen TV.

I followed him into the side room and sat beside him on the hard couch, ignored his offered wrist and indicated his neck. He swallowed nervously, but let me pull him towards me by his shoulders. He tensed when I licked, but I ignored his qualms and bit, feeding deeply and rapidly. He relaxed, letting out a soft moan, but tensed again when I sealed the punctures with a firm swipe of my tongue. When I pulled back I discovered he was staring at the bulge in my pants.

"Blood is all I require," I assured him, making a mental note to have Dolores remind him that reaction was automatic. Benjamin wasn't the sharpest sword in the armoury.

"It sure don't look like it," he mumbled.

I toyed with the idea. "Is that an offer?"

He stammered a reply, his accent reminding me of someone I wasn't supposed to be thinking about. I cursed internally. Covering up the urge to leave with a leer and a gesture at my lap I said, "This is not for the inexperienced. You've been with men before?"

His eyes widened. "In the showers... fooling around... but not... No."

I chuckled and adjusted myself. "Never mind then."

He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted a little, drawing my attention to his own bulge. Ah. I'd misinterpreted his nervousness. He was uncertain, not uninterested.

"I… If you want I could–"

I cut him off, possessing neither the desire nor the patience to guide a fumbling innocent out of the closet he was lost in. "I have a meeting."

"I get it. You don't do black guys," he said sullenly, sensing the dismissal for what it was. "But you picked Gloria and she's…. Dolores said y'all are flexible. I thought you wouldn't care."

"I don't." I didn't point out that Gloria had only ever fed me, or the very obvious fact that she was a woman.

"Oh. Okay then," he mumbled, looking sheepish.

I followed him back into the lounge and motioned Dolores into her office with me, closing the door. "Benjamin. Five ounces. And an insight into why he's here."

Dolores made a note of the blood – she kept track, Benjamin would have a fortnight off after that quantity – and asked, "Was I right, earning extra cash to buy grades?"

Dolores liked to know what motivated her charges but Benjamin had frustrated her. He claimed he'd applied on a dare, and stayed when he realised he could earn good money. She didn't believe a word of that, but she assessed him as dim and harmless. And we didn't have a lot of donors his size.

"Our linebacker signed up to explore his sexuality." In a situation where he could renounce responsibility, pretend he'd been overwhelmed by our famously seductive allure.

"I knew there was something," Dolores said, shaking her head. "Kid has a hard row to hoe in his career."

"Make sure no-one exploits his desire to experiment."

"Wilco."

"Don't tell Goro. He'll eat him alive."

She laughed heartily at that.

A fortnight later I met with my two oldest sheriffs in the Mausoleum, as Oskar had officially named his offices. He'd even put up a sign for the tourists.

After we'd finished the agenda Neb, in his quiet way, asked us to watch a recording of a chat show that had aired earlier that week. It was an odd request from the Egyptian. I was intrigued. The debate was crudely captioned: Wolf in sheep's clothing or Man's best friend? It went downhill from there, starting as a semi-rational debate and ending in a near mass brawl.

Oskar snorted as the credits rolled. "I see why they call it trash TV."

I couldn't dismiss it so lightly. Neb hadn't brought it to our attention so we could comment on the abysmal quality of the show. "Who told you about this, Neb?"

"Mattias's second, Beth. The wolf who was no fan of the traitorous tiger. You were right about her."

"A good ally?"

"Yes, and a clever one. She has her eye on the future. It is often that way with women once they have children. Even wolves."

Oskar interjected, "It's the pack first with them, cubs or not. Wolves are all short-sighted."

Neb answered mildly, "Personally, I have no grudge against our furred friends. I might feel otherwise if I had survived the Purges. But times change."

He didn't belabour the point.

The Purges that swept Europe in the thirteenth century, one of the darkest periods of our history, had been one of the most convincing arguments against the Revelation. They were clandestine vampire hunts, carried out under cover of the Inquisitions by a secret order of Black Friars who called themselves, ironically, the Hounds of God.

There were no shapeshifters amongst their number, but their hunts were guided by witches high up in the church of Rome. Witches with a grudge against vampires. Piggybacking on official Inquisitions against so-called heretics, the Hounds scoured large tracts of southern France, Spain and northern Italy for our kind, staking and burning whoever they found.

When later Inquisitions turned to witch-hunting, there was a certain schadenfreude in it.

In those times of fear and hysteria, shapeshifters who were exposed to the humans faced certain torture and a brutal death. Many packs betrayed vampires they had sworn to guard to the Hounds, rather than go down with them. Oskar had been forced to flee too many times. I had a narrow escape or three myself.

After the Purges most vampires considered wolf packs traitorous scum. It wasn't a stretch for vampires of our age to imagine packs turning on us again to protect themselves from human zealots. Especially once organisations like the Fellowship blossomed into existence.

Neb was saying, in his careful way, that if we couldn't put aside that bloody past, the closer ties we were forging with the packs were meaningless. He had a point, but it didn't make letting go of centuries of justifiable prejudice any easier. Shapeshifters weren't all traitorous, but the stench of bad apples lingered down the centuries.

I sat back, thinking over the programme we had just watched.

Since the Reveal, scientists were desperate to investigate shapeshifter biology, to find out if their strength and rapid healing could be harnessed for medical and other purposes. Serious newspapers had speculated on everything from shapeshifters providing cures for cancer to them being a route for deadly animal diseases to jump species, breed new plagues.

The audience on the chat show was more rabid. Twoeys should be micro-chipped. Not allowed near children. Forcibly tested for rabies. Muzzled. Neutered if they refused to register.

Fools. Fear of that sort of response was what kept them from registering in the first place.

I gestured at the blank screen. "You think these few rabble-rousers are significant?"

Neb nodded. "A spark is enough to light a powder keg. And Beth told me this is part of a broader trend. I have collated some other examples." He handed me a flash drive. "It appears to be disparate individuals, but there maybe a guiding hand."

"The Chosen?"

"Perhaps. There are other suspects. The more outrageous ideas humans hear, the more accepting they become of moderate change."

That gave me pause. "Someone with a political agenda, then. Not the extremists. That is not good."

Oskar scowled. "Who cares. Are our fortunes that tightly bound to those of the shapeshifters?"

I pointed out, "Any laws brought in against the two-natured can be easily extended to us."

"Very easily," Neb said. "Share this with Bartlett, Eric. He has other sources. He might spot a pattern."

I raised an eyebrow at Oskar and he shook his head. Neither of us had told Neb I shared information with Bartlett. When I looked at the Egyptian, he was faintly amused.

"I have known the Crow for longer than you have lived."

Really. How much longer? Neb was old enough to have known Bartlett before he turned. He could confirm what I suspected about Bartlett's origins, but only if his loyalty to me was greater than any tie between them. I didn't fancy testing that. Not yet. It might reveal my hand to soon.

"It seems Bartlett's web extends further than I supposed," I said nonchalantly. Oskar barked a laugh at my bluntness.

Neb shook his head, smiling. "Bartlett encouraged me to support you, it is true, but I don't report to him. I took the post because you are a king I can support, and your agenda is a sensible one."

I regarded him silently, unsure whether that was enough.

He shrugged. "You and Bartlett are on the same side. And Mississippi and Texas, I assume?"

I nodded.

"Good. There is strength in numbers. You are wise to make allies where you can." Hearing my continued reservations in my silence, he added, "It is also wise to keep your child close. You have been fair to Salome over the years."

I blinked at the implication.

He was her maker? Salome told me when we first met that no man commanded her and I assumed her maker was female. Neither of them had ever acknowledged their relationship. That he did so now relieved some of my doubts. Except…

"Mickey," I said.

"A mistake. One who would have been better left as human. I should thank you for giving her a reason end him."

"Ah."

He smiled. "Daughters are always trouble. But you didn't hear that from me."

I smirked, agreeing. Oskar, predictably, did not.

After a lengthy conference call to Bartlett and Stan about the trouble brewing for the shapeshifters, I had a lot on my mind. September flew by.

I had little interest in the donors, but I forced myself to pick females in an effort to desensitise myself to the inevitable reminders of Sookie that came with their warmth. Only taking blood from them, I buried myself in the minutiae of running a state rather than their bodies. When I needed to silence my mind I practised kata in the empty dojo. When I needed to burn off frustration I sparred with the wolves or Goro.

An unscheduled turning demanded my attention at the start of October, delaying a planned trip to Shreveport which I'd already put off once. The maker was young, too young to raise a newborn without incident. And worse, happened to be one of my guards. The youngest, most insignificant guard, more of a dogsbody, but still. It reflected badly on me.

Turning currently required permission from me or a sheriff, as a surfeit of newborns would do us no favours with the BSA. This particular turning would have been denied because of the maker's inexperience, the human's youth and the lack of discipline in both.

I did, however, allow some accidental or emergency turnings to stand on a case by case basis. Provided we were notified immediately and the maker agreed to my terms.

The maker in this case had thrown herself on my mercy as soon as the callow youth of nineteen had risen. Her story was that they had exchanged blood – that alone told me she was impulsive as he was so young – and when he subsequently had a skin full and wrapped his expensive sports car around a tree she felt his pain, rushed to his side and gave him blood to heal, not intending to turn him.

She was lucky there was supporting evidence. Although pictures of the crumpled shell of his burnt out car did little to convince me he had the survival skills he would need as a vampire.

He was a liability but ending him would bring complications. His parents, his moderately rich well-connected parents, suspected he had been turned. His body was missing and they knew he was involved with a vampire. They said as much to the police, so covering it up was not a simple matter.

Reluctantly I agreed to let him live. On the condition that his maker submitted to whichever older vampire I assigned to mentor her and the newborn – her own maker was finally dead. Until then they were to stay at the house.

His family were told what had happened and, in return for their agreement not to make waves, they would be allowed to see him once he was more than a mindless pair of fangs. That might take a while. When he heard he would be 'forced' to spend time with the couple who raised him, who were devastated by his disappearance, he had a petulant tantrum and smashed up his room.

It was hard to believe he was the same age as Pam was when I turned her.

After two stressful nights co-existing with a very temperamental newborn and a maker too hesitant to use her power to command him, I was ready to stake them both.

Oskar called in the nick of time. Milena, who had been looking for a way to prove her loyalty since her offer to hunt the tiger had been declined, was on her way to take the annoyance off my hands. The pair would be better off in New Orleans anyway. The police force was better equipped to handle newborns and the city was more tolerant of them.

Milena was just what the fractious pair needed. Within ten minutes of her arrival, she had a stake to the newborn's chest, and was demanding a blood exchange with the maker so she would have influence over both her charges, proving to me she wouldn't take any shit. I was quite happy to enforce her requirements and even more so to see the back of them.

I had barely pressed my grateful ass into my chair when Pam called.

She had a problem and needed to see me at once. It was too late to reach Shreveport. I re-arranged my schedule for the third time that week and set off the following sunset. When I arrived at Fangtasia, Pam was in foul temper, further darkening my mood.

Maxwell and Indira were waiting in her office. Just wonderful. Police and press were involved in whatever screw-up had Pam so pissed.

My Area Investigators – and in Area 5, that was Maxwell – were expected to liaise closely with local law enforcement. That went both ways: offering assistance with vampire-perpetrated crime, and reporting drainers and attacks on vampires. I also expected my sheriffs to appoint someone to handle public relations, issue press releases and the like. Indira had a way with words and was Pam's choice.

The problem, Pam explained, was a murder in Bossier City. The victim, a human pastor of the fire and brimstone variety, had links to the Fellowship. Normally we would be quietly pleased about his death, but he died violently, in suspicious circumstances. Pam's old contact at Shreveport PD had called Maxwell to the scene once he clapped eyes on the body.

The pastor's throat had been torn out and he had been stabbed and bitten many times.

Not by vampires.

Maxwell had pictures. We all agreed the bites, distinctly animal in nature, meant a two-natured culprit. Or several of them.

The police had no clue to the actual murder site – the unlucky pastor had been dropped on his own front lawn, at night, from an as yet untraced vehicle driving at speed. So no chance of an ectoplasmic reconstruction. And no scent to follow: the naked corpse had been soaked in disinfectant, lending credence to a culprit or culprits well-versed in both human and supernatural investigation techniques.

Maxwell had called Indira in because not all of Shreveport's finest welcomed his involvement. One of the detectives complained that Maxwell had access to the crime scene, insinuating he might tamper with the evidence. Kim Rowe was mentioned. There was still speculation that I was to blame for her death and had wriggled out of the consequences. Indira was concerned that the disgruntled detective might leak the bite marks on the corpse to the press, and drop Rowe's name, hoping they would scream vampire and whitewash.

Pam was furious that they might drag my name through the mud, but I was more concerned the press might cry wolf.

The two-natured were not equipped to deal with the fallout.

No surprise there. Eight years after the Revelation and we were just learning how to turn public opinion our way some of the time. It was an unruly beast to steer. The shapeshifters had no hope of controlling it when they were still relatively disorganised.

However, what really rang alarm bells in my head was the similarity to another murder. One Stan had mentioned. In Houston, during that mess with the Chosen, Tooth 'n Claw and the FBI.

One of the human fundamentalists had been strung up in a tree, naked and mutilated. No bites, but the same lack of forensic evidence, the same careful covering of their tracks. The same message writ large in blood: Mess with the two-natured, die horribly.

The gutter press would have a field day if they linked the cases and caught a whiff of that.

I told Indira to do what damage limitation she could, for fang and fur. Maxwell gave me a copy of his files and promised to keep me updated. He didn't hold out much hope of finding the killer.

Once they left, I sprawled on the couch and asked Pam, who was leaning against her desk, if she'd spoken to Herveaux. She let rip a string of curses.

"He wouldn't countenance any of his pack being involved. Fucking arrogant jackass. Insisted it must be a lone wolf and then had the gall to accuse me of covering up for Mark, as if he would ever–" She stopped abruptly.

"Mark?"

"Shit," she muttered, her shoulders slumping. "Remember that lover I took to get over Miriam?"

I frowned. "He's a lone wolf?" That was... None of my business. I clamped down on my distaste as soon as I picked up her rising defensiveness.

"Yes. A wolf," she said stiffly. "He runs a shooting range. Ex-marine, a sharpshooter."

"Did you check him for fleas?" I said teasingly, keeping my feelings light.

She groaned, but felt relieved. "This is why I don't tell you these things."

"Payback's a bitch." I could get some mileage out of this. "Oh, were you his bitch? Or did you get him a collar, put him on a leash?"

She glared at me, but only for show. "Shut up."

"I don't think so." Not after all teasing I had endured from her. Not when she'd forgotten she was angry with me for the moment. To be perfectly frank I was extremely glad of that; there was a reason I'd put off visiting. I smirked at her. "Did you do it doggy-style?"

She shook her head sadly. "Lame. My maker is so lame. That joke is as old as you. Can't you think of anything original? And he's a wolf, not a dog." She added with a leer, "A very big wolf. Proportionate too."

"Is there a wolf-style? Wait a minute." I pretended to think, and continued with relish, "I remember now. Wolves lock together after mating. That must have been awkward. You're not one for post-coital snuggling, as I recall."

"Fuck my undeath," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough to be sure I'd hear it.

"Unless you really liked this Mark. Tell me, was there romance? Did you howl at the moon together on long winter nights?"

She rolled her eyes at me. Then she grinned. "I might have chased him through the woods once or twice. That was worth wrecking a pair of pumps."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. They get very riled up in their natural habitat."

She said it with a straight face, but after a second we both burst out laughing.

At least we could put the tension aside long enough for that. I needed it, there had been precious little laughter in the last month. Unfortunately, the mood turned sombre again once I told her about the Houston murder.

"You think we might have a rogue wolf, out for revenge?" she asked, pensively.

"Perhaps. Joseph suspected the Houston victim was connected to that house fire." The late unlamented Joseph, whose dossier on the Chosen had not been as helpful as I first thought.

"The human deserved what he got then," she said coldly. She had seen the aftermath of a house fire when she was human, and it had given her a lingering distaste for them. Especially as we could be killed that way just as effectively as humans.

"Shall I speak to Stan, find out what he knows?" she offered.

"Yes. I'll speak to Russell, see if he's had anything similar. And Rita." I side-eyed her. "Are you still fucking Stan?"

She shrugged. "On and off. Are you seeing Rory tonight?"

"Wasn't planning to." I was in no hurry to face her after our spat.

"Trouble in paradise?" Pam asked lightly.

I lifted my head off the couch to look at her. "Pam. We're not fucking."

She was disappointed about that, but she covered it. "I don't suppose she was lying about not swinging my way, was she?"

"You're welcome to take a shot, but don't expect any sympathy when she fries your ass."

She chuckled. "She is pleasantly feisty, isn't she?"

I decided it was time to leave before she extolled more of Rory's virtues. She could be pitifully obvious sometimes, and the hard sell was beginning to piss me off.

It wasn't happening.

And I was beginning to wonder if Pam knew something I didn't. She and Rory talked.

If Rory wanted more than I could offer… I didn't relish the idea of disappointing her. Ever since we shared our histories, I felt intensely protective towards her. So much so that I'd been tempted to ask Sebastian what his intentions were.

Rory would definitely roast my ass if I did and she ever found out.

Hm. But if I let the half-demon know I wasn't standing in his way… He would distract her from me, and it would make up for me being an asshole. Two birds, one demon. Win-win.

And I wouldn't actually have to apologise to her.