LITMIR.BIZ

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      This one is for you, though I’ve never known your name,

      You, gentle-voiced spirits who whisper to me,

      Who speak louder in case I didn’t hear,

      Who shout if I remain unmoved,

      Who kick my shins until I either bleed,

      Or take heed.

      This one is for you. You, eternal muses

      Who shake me from the depths of sleep with an idea, A scene,

      A story that must be told, You who drag my mind away from conversation, And put that blank stare in my eyes, and silence my lips, So that friends and family think me rude and inattentive, Because suddenly, I can hear only you!

      This one is for you,

      Goddess of the Storytellers of old,

      You who make me run stop signs,

      And leap up from a public meal,

      My exclamation nonsensical to any who might hear

      As I race off to find a computer,

      A pad and pen,

      An eyeliner and napkin,

      Anything! Anything to capture your whisper, your breath, My inspiration.

      This one is for you.

      Hell, they all are.

      Prologue

       Summer, 1959

      “The guy actually pissed himself, I scared him so badly,” Bridget said, laughing as they cut through the alley, jumped up onto the skeletal remains of a fire escape and swung inward through the broken window to land on the floor far below. The abandoned warehouse’s floorboards were cracked from these oft repeated impacts. But it was home to the Gang of Five.

      Edge loved the kid. But he wasn’t happy with her right now. He tousled her Orphan Annie curls, knocked the matching barrettes askew. Twelve years old when she was made over; twelve she would remain, even though she’d been undead for more than a decade now. He’d found her on the street, wandering, alone. Orphaned by her maker, just as he’d been. Just as they all had been.

      “So who the hell was he?” he asked.

      Shrugging, Bridget climbed a ladder to the loft-like second floor, where they always met after a day of scavenging to divvy up the take. Edge didn’t climb, he jumped. When he landed, a little cloud of dust rose up.

      “Nice entrance,” Ginger said without getting up from where she sat on the floor, her voice dripping sarcasm. She dressed all in black, kept her short hair and dagger-sharp nails that color, too, as if trying to live the cliché. She brushed the dust from her black jeans as if he’d put it there deliberately.

      “Quit your bitching, Ginger,” Bridget snapped.

      “Watch your mouth, pipsqueak.”

      Bridget spun on her, and Ginger leaped to her feet.

      “Hey, hey, knock it off!” Baby-faced Scott got to his feet, as well, putting himself between them. “Come on, what’s your problem, anyway?” He was skinny but strong. As strong as any of them were, at least, which was damn strong in comparison to humans. As vampires, they were kittens. “Fledglings” was the term Edge had heard older ones use. Both Ginger and Scottie had been undead for less than five years. She’d been eighteen, and he’d been a year younger, when the change occurred. Babies. But that was why they needed each other. And why they needed him.

      Ginger and Bridget didn’t show any signs of backing off. Scottie’s blond, blue-eyed head and rail-thin build were hardly any more intimidating than his butter-soft voice.

      “Settle down,” Edge said. He said it sternly. “Now.”

      Blinking guiltily, the females parted. They always followed his orders. Edge hadn’t applied for the job of leader of this little gang, it had just fallen to him naturally. He was the oldest. He’d been twenty-three when he was made over, which was older than any of them had been. And he’d been a vampire longer than any of them. Twelve years now. The hideout was his own. They’d just sort of … followed him home, one by one, until he had this gang of homeless vamps. A natural progression, he figured. He’d been part of a street gang in Ireland, the year he’d been transformed. Though that gang had been different. Homeless toughs, each trying to out-tough the others. This little group … damned if they hadn’t become almost like—a family.

      Edge loved them, every one of them. He took care of them. And they looked to him to lead, trusted him to protect them, for some reason. His age, his experience, he didn’t know. It was just the way things had worked out.

      “So where’s Billy Boy?” Ginger asked. “He should have been back by now.”

      Bridget shrugged and opened her backpack. “I took a mark all by myself today,” she said, dumping out the contents. A wallet, cuff links and expensive watch fell out onto the floor.

      “And as I’ve already reminded you, Bridget,” Edge began, “you’re not supposed to—”

      “Hell, Edge, I’m not really twelve, I only

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