It had been hard to leave the warm bed, but it had to be done. Madelyn needed the rest, and he did not want her to wake and follow him, so he put her under a thrall, tucked the covers around her shoulders, and crept out of the room, locking the door as he left.

Wearing only a towel, he walked up to the front office.

Sam was seated in a chair, snoozing.

Even though it was an obnoxious thing to do, Rory rang the bell on the countertop.

“Whoa!” Sam woke with a jolt and nearly toppled from the chair. “What can I do for you?”

“I need clothes for the lady and me. Something sturdy, work clothes for me would be perfect, and boots if you have them.”

Sam rubbed his chin. “The only work boots I got are mine.” He straightened his leg and displayed his weathered boot.

“Those look like they’re about my size.”

“I couldn’t part with them.” Sam shook his head. “I got these broken in the way I like them.”

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for those boots, a pair of pants, and a shirt.”

“Are you bonkers?” Sam’s jaw dropped. “A C note for my old duds? I call bullshit! You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I need some clothes so I can run an errand.”

“At two in the morning?” Sam’s eye’s bulged. “Whatever. I’m not judging. Show me the hundred smackeroos, and I’ll unlace these beauties and turn them over to you. Hell, I’ll throw in a clean pair of socks and skivvies too.”

“Perfect. What about my friend?”

Sam shrugged. “She’s not my size.”

“Could you find something for her to wear? A summer dress and some walking shoes would be enough.”

“I suppose so. It won’t be easy to find women’s clothing in the wee hours.”

“Would an extra fifty make the task easier?”

“Hell ya! In fact, your pretty friend is about the same height as my wife. I’d like to say they had the same figure, but that would be a lie. But I’m confident I can come up with something.”

He turned. “Could you come up with it fast? I’m in a hurry.”

“Sure bet.” Sam was on his feet and searching the next room in a flash.

Rory walked to the Packard and unlocked the trunk. He opened the briefcase with twenty thousand dollars inside it. His gaze riveted on the neat stacks of cash. Bill will never stop looking for this. As long as the money was unaccounted for, Madelyn would remain a target. It was worth spending some of it now to make sure they covered their tracks. He wriggled a stack of twenties loose from the herd and fanned through it. There was a hundred and sixty dollars in his hand and he decided to be generous and hopefully win the man’s silence on their visit to this far-flung location. He walked back into the front office and discreetly set the money on the counter beside the bell.

Sam returned with an armful of men’s clothing. “Try these.” He saw the stack of bills and gasped. “Look at that, Christmas in July, what do you know!”

“There’s a little extra, but I’m going to ask more of you. When the lady wakes up, bring her breakfast. Something good. Eggs, bacon, orange juice, and coffee. Find her some clothes, nothing shabby. If she tries to call a cab, don’t let her leave, got it? I’ll come back for her.”

Sam nodded. “You got it, my friend.”

“That’s not all.”

Sam looked wary.

“After we check out, you have no memory of us ever being here, understand?”

A sneer curled Sam’s lip. “Got it. Married, right?” He winked. “Can’t say I blame you. Hubba, hubba, she’s a living doll.”

The insinuating expression on Sam’s face provoked him. He wanted to throttle the man and shout, She’s mine, don’t even look at her, but he refused to react. “Do you have a phone book?”

“Yep.” Sam reached into a drawer and plopped a heavy White Pages, thick as a Bible, onto the countertop.

Rory thumbed through it, found what he needed, and tore a couple pages out.

“What the fuck!” Sam frowned. “People use that every day. I use it.”

“Stop griping, I paid you plenty. Get a new one.”

“You’re right.” Sam whistled and looked the other way. “Besides, they’re free.”

He folded the pages and gazed into a small bathroom. “Can I get dressed behind the door?”

A knowing look flickered on Sam’s face. “Not welcome back at the room, are you? Lovers’ quarrel?”

He tried not to sound as annoyed as he felt. “She’s sleeping.”

“Ah, you wore her out.”

What was with this idiot? If he hadn’t already sated his needs, he’d bite Sam’s throat just because. He walked behind the counter and gathered the pile of clothing into his arms. “I’m going to put these on.”

He headed into the bathroom, which was a dreary affair with a badly stained toilet and a naked bulb lighting a cracked sink. An attempt to be decorative had been made—the spare roll of toilet paper had been hidden inside a crocheted poodle. Why the toilet paper had been singled out as the one item in the room that needed aesthetic improvement was a mystery.

Sorting through the clothing, he selected a few essential pieces that looked the most likely to fit and put them on. Everything was just a touch too short in length and a bit too large for his tall, slender build, but it would do. Sam had even included a well-worn denim jacket into the mix. He laced the boots and left everything he wasn’t taking with him folded on the sink.

Rory pushed the bathroom door open.

Sam’s gaze scanned him up and down. “Looks like I did right by you.”

Taking long strides, he paused at the office door. “You wouldn’t have a spare map of LA, would you?”

Rubbing his chin, Sam hesitated. “I do. In my glove compartment.” He pointed to a brown Buick parked in front. “Let me get it.” He walked outside.

Rory followed as Sam leaned through the open window of his car, flicked the latch on the glove compartment, and dug through its contents. He seemed to have everything in there except gloves. “Here it is, a map of Los Angeles County. It’s yours.” He handed it to Rory.

“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” An idea came to him. “That phone book that I tore pages from, can I keep it?”

A sputter crossed Sam’s lips. “I guess so.”

“Do you have any more of them?”

Sam appeared confused. He returned to the office, reached under the counter, and retrieved two thick phone directories. “Now you want to tear up the Yellow Pages?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Weird hobby.”

“It helps me relax.” He grabbed the directories off the counter and walked out the door. They weighed a ton. “Just remember, if anyone asks, we were never here. I’ll check back soon, and I just might have a little extra something for you if you play nice.”

Sam clucked his tongue and cocked his hand like a pistol. “Got it.”

He walked to the Packard, but his eyes were on room nine. Was Madelyn all right? Had she stayed asleep? What if she woke up worried about where he was? The temptation to go back to the room and check on her grew, until he reminded himself the window of opportunity was shrinking. If he wanted to save her, he had to hurry. Then it occurred to him that he did need to go to the room. Something important had been almost forgotten.

* * *

THE MAP HAD BEEN HANDY. He stopped in a well-lit gas station and charted his way to 1104 North Mission Road. When he got there, the sight surprised him. He couldn’t put his finger on what he’d been expecting but certainly wasn’t expecting an imposing cherry-red and tan three-story structure covered in decorative molding and cornices that more closely resembled an ornate movie house than a city morgue. He should have known that, even for the dead, Los Angeles was willing to put on a show.

He drove to the back and parked in a shadowy alleyway, turned off the engine, and got out of the car. Now he was back in his element, cover of night, dark buildings, and the peaceful silence of the dead.

“Hey, buddy! What are doing here?” A man in a white lab coat stood on a loading dock, smoking a menthol cigarette. “You’re parked in an ambulance space.”

“I won’t be long.”

“You won’t be long because you’re going to move your damn car now.” As the man drew a deep drag, the ash on the tip of the cigarette flared and lit the lens of his eyeglasses crimson.

Rory strolled closer to the man who was enfolded in a haze of fragrant smoke. “I’m looking for Mr. Alonso.”

The man plucked the dangling cigarette from his lips. “What’s your business?”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“About what? Are you one of those perverts who gets your kicks from stiffs?”

“No.”

“Good, I’m sick of those guys.” He dropped the cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. ”You’re not a photographer, are you?”

He displayed his empty hands. “Do you see a camera?”

“You never know. There’s some sick-ass wackos out there. A famous person dies and all of sudden, the freaks swarm around the back door wanting a farewell souvenir photo of their favorite matinee idol. They stand over the gurney, pull back the sheet, and smile like opossums as the flash goes off. That sort of thing makes me puke.”

With stealth he climbed the steps of the loading dock. The guy didn’t seem to notice that the space between them was shrinking. “Then why do you allow it?”

The man shrugged. “It’s life. Death is part of life. You can go crazy in this job trying to keep them separate.”

Rory moved closer. The man had a pallid, dissipated look one would expect from someone who worked nights and kept company with corpses. “You’re Mr. Alonso, aren’t you?”

“Unless you’re here to collect on my gambling debts—fair warning, I don’t got no money to give—I’m Alonso.”

He dug his hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Mr. Alonso, we can help each other. Would you let me in?”

“What for? I don’t even know you?”

Rory pulled a fat stack of bills from his pocket. “Is five hundred dollars a good enough introduction?”

Alonso’s jaw dropped. A second later, he snatched the bills from Rory’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Don’t-tell-me-your-name.” His gaze focused on the money. “What’s this about?”

“I need a body.”

“We all need some body.” Alonso snorted with laughter. “Morgue humor. It stinks. Get it?”

“I need an unclaimed Jane Doe that no one will miss.”

“We got them! Dozens. What make and model?”

“Midtwenties, brunette, about this tall.” He pointed to his shoulder.

“Height is a consideration? Come on, buddy, let’s not be too picky. She’ll be lying on a slab wrapped in a tarp. It won’t make a bit of difference.”

“I want to take her with me.” God, it sounded awful when he said it. “Actually, I’m only borrowing her. She’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. Can’t say exactly when, but soon.”

Alonso backed away. “Whoa! Stop the press. That’s a whole other deal. Maybe you should go someplace else, like another century where they might overlook that sort of shit.”

“I’ll give you an extra thousand.” He waited.

For a tense moment Alonso looked troubled, but remained silent. “A grand? What are you going to do with her? Wait! Don’t tell me. Just show me the thou.”

“I just showed you five hundred. You’ll see the rest after I get what I came for.”

Alonso’s face twisted. “This is so sick. I should not be doing this. But fucking hell, I need the money. Who told you to come here, anyway?”

Precious time was being wasted. “One thousand. Do you want it or not?”

“Holy crap!” Conflicting emotions crumpled Alonso’s brow as he pushed the back door open. “I’m going to regret it. I can already tell. Come in. Let’s get this over with. Follow me.”

They walked along a buff-colored corridor with paint scratches and skid marks midway up the walls left behind by the countless gurneys rolling through. Unpleasant fluorescent lights hummed overhead like angry hornets. The smell of disinfectant bathed every surface but failed to completely cover the truth of what the building was used for. The place had a nightmare quality about it that could drive even the most stable mind mad.

Alonso strode ahead and looked over his shoulder. “We’re going to the cold room where we store unclaimed.” He pushed on a dented metal door missing much of its paint. “Brace yourself.”

The door opened, and he reeled. There were bodies everywhere on every surface, laid on tables, stacked on shelves. From floor to ceiling, wall after endless wall of buff-painted drawers were filled with bodies. How could so many people go unclaimed? His heart dropped. A task like this could take all night, and he was running out of time.

Alonso slid a rolling ladder across the wall and slowly climbed. He opened a drawer that was halfway up a tall stack. “I got a photographic memory. This dame came to mind first. Jane Doe 611. She came in about two months ago. Pretty. Dark hair. Hispanic. Her body turned up strangled in Echo Park. Probably a prostitute, but maybe not. No criminal record. No name. No one has come looking for her. We couldn’t find squat.”

Rory refused to look at her face. What he was doing was so disrespectful, but there was no other way. “She’ll do. Help me get her into the car.”

Standing atop two tall ladders, they wrestled the body out of the drawer and lifted Jane Doe 611 onto a gurney, then wheeled her to the back of the building and into the parking lot.

It was still dark and the moon had set, but morning wasn’t far away. Rory pointed toward the Packard. “Over there.” He dug the keys from his pocket and opened the trunk. “Hold on.” He held Alonso at bay as he shoved the briefcase and a few other necessary items aside and laid a rough woolen blanket across the floor of the trunk.

They hoisted Jane Doe into the trunk with room to spare.

Alonso winked and held out his hand. “Time to pay the piper.”

“Wait over there.” Rory motioned toward the back door.

Taking slow, ambling steps, Alonso walked to the back of the building, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette case and a book of matches. He lit a cigarette and puffed away, flicking the embers to the ground.

Rory opened the briefcase, took out another fat stack of twenties, and approached Alonso. “Two thousand.” He thrust the bills into the man’s hand.

Smoke floated from Alonso’s gaping mouth. “You’re serious?”

“Completely. The extra money is to cover extra work on your part. And I expect you to be professional and thorough. Tomorrow, I will contact you with a woman’s name and the name of her dentist, understand?”

“Not really.”

“When Jane Doe is returned to you, and she will be, I want you to identify her as the woman I instruct you to.”

“Jane Doe 611 has been fingerprinted, photographed, and—”

Shaking his head, he sighed, “She won’t have fingerprints when she comes back.”

“Oh.” Alonso’s lip curled in disgust.

He used his most intimidating voice. “You will do as I say and never speak of this to anyone.”

Alonso almost chocked on a minty exhalation. “Of course not. This shit makes me look bad. You can believe me when I—”

Rory grabbed Alonso’s wrist and squeezed it hard, almost to the point of crushing bones. “Say nothing, understand?”

“Stop it.” Alonso struggled to break free but couldn’t. “Goddamnit, lighten up!”

Pushing close, Rory got in Alonso’s face. “If you betray my confidence and even think about telling someone about what happened here tonight, I’ll know,” he lied, in his deepest, gruffest voice, and ended with a growl. “I’ll read your mind and come looking for you to rip your fucking throat out.” He willed his eyes to take on the vampiric glow, and allowed his fangs to lengthen. Calm and lethal, he inched forward.

“Oh shit!” Alonso buckled to his knees, quaking. “I’ll never say anything. I fucking swear.” He sobbed.

For good measure, Rory hissed. The poor guy was ready to crap his pants. He released Alonso and left him trembling on the back steps.

The city morgue had left him morally shaken and disheartened. Was this all there was at the end of life, a body for the buzzards to squabble over? He suspected there was more, much more, but it could all be wishful thinking.

It was time to leave. More than anything, he wanted the scent of disinfectant, menthol, and death out of his nostrils. He opened the Packard’s driver door, climbed in, and started the engine.

Alonso had already raced back into the building, slamming the door behind him.

With the window rolled down, he drove back the way he came, turning west onto Sunset Boulevard and following the contour of the Hollywood Hills. He looked for the narrow canyon they had driven up earlier, saw it, and turned.

In spots, the road was barely wide enough for a car of this size. The angle of ascent and the many twisting switchbacks were even steeper than he remembered. All around him was rugged canyon and tinder-dry grass.

On a dark stretch of road, a long-legged coyote darted in front of the car, stopped, and stared back at him. The creature held a limp rabbit in its jaws. To avoid running over it, he hit the brakes so hard they squealed. Bathed in the glare of the headlights, the coyote’s eyes glowed green and seemed to confront him, as if to say, What are you doing in my canyon? I hunt here.

He almost honked the horn to encourage the animal to move on, but thought better of it. Silence and stealth were the tactics to take. Perhaps a fellow night dweller had come to help him by reminding him of his true nature? Once the thought was complete, the coyote padded into the shadows. He turned off his headlights and continued the drive in utter darkness, allowing his instincts to guide him.

The first ridge top was crested. The confines of the canyon fell away. Behind him lay the city lights of Los Angeles. Before him, on the next distant ridge top, sat Dorin’s somber stone castle, without any outward signs of activity within.

The road widened at a turnout; cranking the wheel, he drove in a semicircle and pointed the car downhill. He stopped, drew the brake, and closed his eyes. What was going on inside the castle? All his vampiric instincts screamed that Dorin was alive and resting, perhaps even in a stupor, but he would live. Madelyn had not killed him, and soon Dorin would recover and go to Bill with his assertions that his girl had proven useless in his venture and run off with twenty thousand dollars. Maybe he was wrong, but for Madelyn’s sake, he couldn’t take that chance.

Opening the car door, he stepped out. A fresh breeze blew from the canyon below, carrying the scent of sage on the wind. He walked to the trunk and unlocked it. The next part would be difficult, and he didn’t want to think about it.

Rory lifted Jane Doe into the driver seat and struggled to pull Madelyn’s dress over her head. Madelyn’s shoes were shoved onto her feet, and the white scarf was draped over her head like a shroud. Somehow, in this context the outfit was perfect.

He shredded the directories into pieces in the trunk, and then he opened the briefcase, took out as many stacks of bills as he could fit into a paper bag, but left a good amount behind. The empty spaces in the case were filled with tattered pages from the phone book. Then he twisted the cap off a five-gallon can of gasoline and filled the briefcase with fuel. He soaked the blanket and doused the car’s interior until the seats were drenched and puddles of gasoline shimmered on every surface.

A portion of one of the phone books had been torn away, rolled into a baton, and dipped in gasoline. He gazed at the woman in the front seat. Who was she, and who cut her life short? Had she liked to dance? Did she drink her coffee black with two sugars? Maybe, she even dreamed Hollywood might make a cherished pet of her? A more troubling thought, did she have a child somewhere who would never know her whole story? “I apologize for doing this. But it might give a young woman with a son a chance. I have a feeling you’d be okay with that. Whoever you are—were—thank you.”

It was as sincere a send-off as he could offer the unfortunate Jane Doe. He reached into the cab and released the brake. The car rolled slowly at first, steadily picking up momentum. Following behind, he lit the baton, and the tip flared to life like a torch. He allowed the Packard to bounce down the road, until it was almost out of throwing distance; then he tossed the lit baton into the open trunk and ducked as it exploded into a ball of flames. At a sharp turn, the car careened off the road and plunged down a bumpy hillside, striking boulders and shrubby oaks as it went. It flipped, slid, and crashed onto a rocky streambed below. The gas tank ruptured and a second explosion shook the canyon, sending a pillar of black smoke spiraling upward.

It was done. The Packard would be accounted for with a dead woman in the front seat. Some of Dorin’s charred twenty thousand dollars would likely be salvaged. All in all, Dorin and Bill might be convinced there was nothing left to search for... except him.

He was the problem, and the missing piece of the puzzle that should never be found. A few interested parties would know that a vampire wouldn’t die in a car accident. Dorin Saint Ardelean wanted a business-friendly vampire to create a loyal band of immortals focused on running an empire the way he and the Big Bill Bovens of the world saw fit, and that was a world he wanted no part of.

Slogging uphill, he went back for the brown paper sack filled with money, folded the top over, and carried it under his arm. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he couldn’t give in to it. The car was burning and would be for some time. Soon, the sun would rise, and when it did, someone would notice the smoke. He had to get out of there immediately, so he left the road and started walking cross-country, headed west, through a wilderness of brush. That was the way back to Madelyn. The map of Los Angeles may have burned in the wreckage, but its contents remained in his head. Half running, half sliding, he scrambled down the steep slopes, avoiding the time-consuming switchbacks altogether. Good progress was made. The morning star was still visible in a dark sky when he arrived at a bus stop on Sunset Boulevard.

The bus was slow in coming, or possibly not on duty yet, so he flagged down a taxi.

The driver pulled to the curb, rolled down the window, and looked Rory over with trepidation. “Where to?” His nose crinkled. “What the hell do you do for a living, buddy?”

It was only then that he realized his hands smelled of gasoline and likely worse from handling Jane Doe. “Mechanic. Night shift.” He didn’t even care about how unconvincing he sounded.

Tapping the steering wheel, the driver looked impatient. “Mr. Mechanic, where do you want to go?”

He opened the taxi door and climbed in. “Take me to a used car lot.”

The cabbie brushed his comment off and pulled into traffic. “Ah, trying to put guys like me out of business.” He laughed. “That’s okay. There’s an honest car lot on La Cienega. My cousin works there. He’s a square guy and he won’t sell you a lemon.”

“When does your cousin’s workday start?”

“A cushy sales job like that? I’d say he strolls into work no earlier than ten thirty, maybe even eleven. Lucky bastard.”

“Would you call your cousin and tell him I want to buy a car, now.”

“Now?” The cabbie glanced at his watch. “It’s 4:40. He’s not going to get out of bed for somebody who wants to kick the tires, take a joy ride, and walk away without a sale.”

“If the car runs, he’ll make a sale. Drop me off at the lot and call him.”

“Why not? The car lot’s a mile from here, and there’s a liquor store across the street from it with a pay phone. I just hope you’re not pullin’ my leg.”

He’d never understood that saying.

They arrived at the lit car lot, fluttering with blue and yellow canvas flags. There were several promising choices parked in front, including an elegant wine-red roadster, the perfect color for a vampire—but flashy enough to be memorable, and that wasn’t what he wanted.

The taxi stopped, and he unfolded the paper bag as stealthily as possible and drew a twenty from the stack. Before the cabbie could read him the meter, he climbed out, shut the door, and handed the bill through the open window. “Keep the change and tell your cousin to hurry.”

The driver’s eyes widened. “Sure thing. I’ll drag him out of bed myself.” He hit the gas, made a U-turn, and pulled up to the curb in front of a liquor store, burst out of his taxi like a quail flushed from the underbrush, and ran to the phone.

The urgency in the man’s actions made Rory smile as he walked along a row of cars, examining each with care. He wanted to have his choices narrowed down to two before the salesman arrived. The thought occurred that he’d owned so many things in his life, and even driven a taxi—not because he needed the money, but because he enjoyed being around people, doing something useful and hearing their stories. And yes, every now and then, he’d help himself to a heavy drinker who needed assistance walking up the steps of their flat—but he had never owned a car.

For what felt like a long while, he walked back and forth between the automobiles, looking. This was an amazing opportunity. He was in a new country with broader horizons than anywhere he’d ever lived, and he was buying the means to roam anywhere he damn well pleased. This was true freedom. Through good fortune and bad, he’d risen from the poverty of the old world and was ready to embrace being an American vampire.

A man in a suit with the buttons on his jacket fastened crooked, and his hat slipping off his head, rushed up to him with his hand outstretched. “Hi! I’m Richie Mendoza. I got here as fast as I could. So, you’re here to buy a car? I’ll be damn glad to sell you one!”

“Hello.” He nodded and conspicuously avoided the man’s offered hand.

Richie withdrew his hand. “Where should we start? What’s your budget?”

He didn’t really have one. “I’m looking for the newest car in the best condition.”

“Ah.” Richie blinked. “I thought I heard an accent. Where you from? My cousin didn’t mention no accent.”

Was this really going to be a problem? Here comes the name-calling. “Ireland.”

“Ireland? Buddy, you’re a long way from home. Shouldn’t you be back in Paddy-land helping your own people? The US is flooded with good men, American GIs, who need work. You sure you got money to buy a car?”

“Yes.” Now he was pissed. This sort of crap had happened to him all the time when he was a kid and storeowners who knew he was an orphan expected him to steal, and watched him like a hawk. “Just show me your best car, and fairly new.”

“Define new.” Richie’s arms swept outward as if to embrace the entire car lot. “The US didn’t make new cars during the war. Motor City was busy churning out T-17 Staghound armored scouts to kick Hitler’s ass.” He pointed a thick thumb at his chest. “Drove a Stag myself in Belgium. Ever been there?”

He had. In 1914, he’d left Ireland to serve with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and landed in the dankest trench in no-man’s-land. “Yes.”

“Aside from the dames, who are a pleasing bunch of plump little pigeons”—Richie pantomimed a large bosom—“the place ain’t so nice.”

War, constant shelling, and tanks tearing up the countryside might have added to the poor impression. “I’m in a hurry. Just show me the cars.”

“You’re in luck. I got nothing but great cars on this lot. We send the shills to other lots in poorer parts of LA. Let those folks deal with them.” He laughed. “This is the place to get a good deal too. Like I said, we’re picky as hell. Everybody and his brother has their name on a waiting list to get a new car. As those orders get filled, people are letting go of what they had. Some of these cars were barely driven during the war, what with gas rationing and the mister being away. A few of these beauties sat in a warm garage for the duration. Don’t worry, we cleaned them up and changed the hoses and the oil.” He pointed to the red roadster. “This one came to the lot three days ago. Perfect condition. Somebody loved her. It won’t be here next week. I can guarantee it. Typical sale these days. The widow finally realizes her man ain’t coming back for his baby, and she decides she needs the money more than she needs a two-ton souvenir taking up space in the driveway. That’s when I cherry pick the best.”

“I want it.” The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Richie’s hands rose. “Hold on. Not so fast. We can arrange payments, but I’m not sure you can afford it. Take a look at the ’32 Ford over there. The fender’s dented, but it runs like a dream. That’s what you should be looking at.”

“Give me the keys. This is the one I want.” The convertible was the wrong choice on many levels, too beautiful and impractical, with its flashy white wall tires and only two seats, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how gorgeous Madelyn would look driving it.

“There’s paperwork, you know. We haven’t decided on a price.”

Here comes the jack-up. “What’s the price?”

A smug grin lit Richie’s face. “Twelve hundred.”

It was a nice car. There was a car shortage, but this was robbery. “How much did you pay the widow?”

“No, no, no.” Richie wagged a finger in the air. “Her money was pure profit. I have overhead.”

“Electric bulbs and colored flags?” Damn, he was tempted to bite his guy.

Richie’s expression soured. “Yeah. That’s right. I lease this space, I file the paperwork, and pay to keep the lights on around the clock, and I buy lots of fucking colorful flags. It’s called capitalism, you stupid mick. You got me out of bed for nothing, didn’t you? What a waste. I should have known better.”

“One thousand, cash on the spot. You hand me the ownership receipt.”

“It’s called a pink slip, and you’ll have to file—”

“Fine.” He reached into the bag, grabbed a stack of bills, and plunked it down on the hood of the roadster. “Count it quickly. I want to get going.”

Richie snatched the money, thumbed through the stacks, and whistled. “Let me guess. Robbed a bank or caught a leprechaun?”

Rory ignored the insults.

“Well.” Richie looked pleased despite the reduced asking price. He tucked the money inside his jacket and only then realized it was buttoned crooked. “It looks like we have a deal. Come to my office. I’ll hand over the keys and the slip.”

They approached a tiny building on the back of the lot.

Richie dug into his pockets and withdrew a ring of keys. He unlocked and opened the door. “Come in.”

“Just give me what I need and I’ll be on my way.”

“Fair enough.” Richie pulled a desk drawer open that was filled with tagged sets of keys and hunted through it until he found one set embellished with a red satin ribbon. “Here you go.” Handing the keys over, he lifted his chin. “The clutch is tricky. Don’t crash it into a tree the first day.”

What was with this guy? He just had to be an asshole.

The paperwork was located next and delivered into his hands. Rory opened the paper sack and set the paperwork inside. He’d deal with it later. While his hand was inside the bag, he plucked several twenties free and displayed them to Richie. “Take it.”

Richie looked confused. “What’s that for?”

“That hat makes you look like a pig pretending to be a gentleman. Take it off and give it to me.”

“My hat? What the fuck!”

With vampiric speed, he thrust the twenties inside Richie’s pocket and snatched the hat from his head. He shoved Richie against a file cabinet, tore at his collar, and pinned him. The man was so stunned, he merely gasped with his arms flailing. In a flash, his fangs descended and he bit hard. Puncturing skin with a snarl, he made no attempt to buffer the pain. Richie writhed helplessly as Rory sucked long, warm drafts of blood from his throat, becoming stronger with each swallow. God help him, every now and then it felt good to feed rough. He bit deeper. This is for calling me a stupid mick.

When he was done, he allowed Richie to slump to the floor. He was alive but weak when Rory placed his hands over Richie’s eyes and commanded, “Forget.” Enthrallment spells were iffy. Sometimes they worked, often they didn’t. In this case, he didn’t much care.

Richie slipped into a deep sleep. In a few hours, when he awakened, the bite marks would have sealed and he would likely remember everything but the shock of the actual attack. He’d let Richie puzzle out what happened in between, and doubted a vampire would be blamed for his fall to the office floor after making a fantastic sale. That was the way of things. People just didn’t want to believe that supernatural and uncontrollable forces roamed loose in the world and might disrupt their staid lives at any moment.

He set the hat on top of his head. It fit.