LITMIR.BIZ

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had been reported stolen a few days earlier. It might not ever be found if it had been turned over to a chop shop. And the descriptions provided by the sole witness weren’t very specific—described a large number of youths in Spanish Harlem.

      So, Ms. Turner might be the key to breaking this case and because of that, he needed to know more about her. He went through the various databases available to him, from the local ones to those kept by the Feds. Hours passed. His investigations yielded nothing except a Social Security number and minimal financial information. For anything more detailed, he’d have to ask for help. Escalate the investigation. If she’d been a suspect, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring in others and expose her private life to greater scrutiny. But Samantha Turner wasn’t a suspect. She’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason to sic anyone else on her…yet.

      He had a job to do and if he stepped on some toes while doing it, so be it. At least that’s how he felt until he remembered the faint lines on her back and the look she’d given him.

      He recognized that almost haunted expression. He’d seen it in the mirror more than once in the months after his wife’s desertion.

      So, this time, he would cut Ms. Turner some slack. Respect the pain he’d seen in her eyes. Leave it and her alone.

      That’s what Peter told himself as he put his fingers back on the keyboard. That’s what he told himself as he listened to the M.E.’s phone call about the evidence he’d turned in the day before. The blood couldn’t be typed nor could any DNA samples be extracted. Had Peter bagged the evidence properly? Had the materials been close to any chemicals or excessive heat that might have compromised them?

      With a tired sigh, Peter answered the M.E. and hung up.

      Glancing at his watch, he realized that with little happening in the investigation, he might as well call it a night. Head home to the fourth floor walk-up apartment in downtown Manhattan that wasn’t the house in the suburbs with the neatly manicured lawn he’d always wanted. That thought made him remember the tidily kept courtyard at the Artemis Shelter. Was Samantha the one who’d been busy planting flowers?

      She shouldn’t be on his mind. She was just a witness. Not a suspect. Not a victim. At least not on his watch. Whoever had failed her had to deal with that guilt. Not him.

      He had enough to handle. He didn’t need any woman in his life, especially one with as many secrets as Samantha Turner.

      Which was why he called himself a fool when he drove away from the precinct and headed uptown to ask Ms. Turner a few more questions.

      Chapter 4

      Samantha was in bed when the call came from her longtime vampire friend, Diego. His youngest charge was missing.

      Samantha was weak. Weaker than she should be after multiple feedings, but she couldn’t refuse her friend’s plea for help. Even if it meant going to the downtown vampire club she detested.

      The Blood Bank was an odd kind of place, hidden in a dark alleyway and unknown to humans—except those who had a desire to experiment with dark elements. Those people managed, by word of mouth, to spread the news about the club’s existence. As for the demons, they, too, let others know—this was where the normal rules of the human world didn’t apply.

      The Blood Bank provided demons with a place to let loose and to feed from the fine stock of blood acquired from a select group of blood banks and butchers. Even, occasionally, from a willing human participant, although the club had strict rules about siring humans on the premises.

      The humans, on the other hand, went to the club for many reasons. The naive ones believed the fake vampires put on a good show. Others wanted to believe the vampires were more than actors and got a kick out of possibly mingling with the undead. And finally, there were those true believers who were always ready to search out a chance to embrace the darkness.

      A darkness in which she had lived for too long, when what she desired most, like Diego’s poor lost little vampire, was the light. Only all that was light and good was far beyond her reach, Samantha thought, and then for some reason, the good-looking blond detective came to mind. He was as forbidden to her as the light: first for being a human; second for being a man.

      As Samantha, Diego and his lover, Esperanza, strolled into the club, the crowd parted before them, as if sensing their inhuman power. All of the booths and tables near the back of the club were filled, but that didn’t deter Diego.

      He examined all the spaces and then walked to a booth populated by a group of Goth-looking kids barely out of their teens. He met the gaze of each of them and in a soft voice, which did nothing to diminish the menace behind his words, said, “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”

      Two of the three abruptly rose, but one young man lingered, despite the exhortations of his companions that it was time to go. He stared at Diego insolently, the sneer on his face accented by piercings on his upper and lower lips. As he smiled, the sharp points of fangs became visible.

      A wannabe, she thought, failing to sense that otherworldly energy that set apart her kind from the many humans within the club.

      “Actually, I’d planned to stay a little longer,” the young man said.

      Samantha laid a hand on Diego’s arm when he moved toward the Goth. “Please. He’s just young and foolish—”

      Diego cut her off abruptly, his normally light blue eyes beginning to glow with the unnatural light of his transformation. “Then he will learn a painful lesson.”

      In a blur of movement, Diego sat beside the young man, holding his hand in a viselike grip. Fear appeared in the young man’s eyes as he stared at Diego’s face. Although Diego had yet to morph to his full vamp state, he showed a tiny bit of fang in a display of power.

      It worked.

      “Please, man. I’m going. I’m gone.”

      When Diego released him, the young man scurried away to meet his friends, who had melted into the packed club.

      Diego smiled and assumed his human face then motioned for her and Esperanza to join him in the booth.

      With a huff, Esperanza said, “I hate this place, Diego.”

      Diego stroked her long auburn hair tenderly. “I know, querida. But this is where Meghan is most likely to show up.”

      His missing charge, Meghan, being the reason all of them were sitting in a place they generally despised. For vamps like Samantha, Diego and Esperanza, the Blood Bank was a last resort when they needed a real feeding, one not from bags or beef blood. Here, they could occasionally find a human willing to provide them with a quick sip.

      Nearly a century earlier, in a club much like this in San Francisco, Samantha had first met Diego and Esperanza. She’d been looking for a vampire she’d suspected of abusing one of the girls in the shelter where she was working as a cook. She’d wanted to make sure he wouldn’t trouble the young woman again, but the vampire had been killed earlier that night in a fight with Diego.

      She’d been fearful of Diego’s strength until she’d realized that, like her, he believed in using his power to make things right.

      Which was the reason they were all here tonight, Samantha reminded herself as she tried to find the young vampire in the crowd.

      Meghan was only twenty-one years old. Forever twenty-one. When they’d first met her two years ago, Meghan had only been a vampire for a few months, which meant she couldn’t tolerate the effects of daylight and missed feedings.

      In the vampire world, only the strong survived and strength came with age. If weak vampires survived the usual challenges like sunlight and garlic, they had to keep out of the way of stronger vamps who could, if they wanted, put a quick end to their lives for the slightest of infractions. Crosses and stakes were low on the list of dangers because people just weren’t scared anymore thanks to the proliferation of the undead in the media.

      But Meghan, the missing vampire, was pathetically

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