Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

Claire remembered the iron cross in the ceiling above Vampire Number Two. Peter’s father . Maybe in the old days they had worked. When people had faith.

“Why were you planting evidence to frame your wife for murder?” Jackson asked Claire’s husband as Nash looked on, seemingly oblivious to the one-way mirror where Shiflett and Claire observed. Jackson leaned across the table and glared at Peter. Peter was still cuffed, his ankles still manacled.

“I want a lawyer,” Peter said to Nash. Ignoring Jackson.

“Dream on,” Nash said, moving toward him. “You’re not even human. You have no rights.”

“Escalation is consistent with serial murder,” Jackson said, still looming over the perp. “I would assume you were building up to killing Claire.”

Peter—the vampire—looked up at Jackson and smiled thinly, and Shiflett caught her breath.

“I can’t believe it’s the same guy,” she said. “He was so . . . elegant, you know. He just charmed me. Like in those Stookie Stackhouse books.”

“Sookie,” Claire said faintly, her eyes riveted on Jackson as he gazed levelly at Peter. He was too close. Being in the same room with Peter was too close.

“Maybe you were going to make it look like a suicide,” Jackson continued. Knowing him as well as she did, Claire detected the tremor of fury in his voice as it crackled through the interview room speaker. “She murders all those girls out of, say, jealousy, then takes her own life.”

Peter just chuckled. Then he said, “I could rip out your throat right now, if I wanted to.” He looked at Nash. “Both of you. You’d be dead before you knew I’d done it.”

Shiflett took an involuntary step backward, but Claire moved protectively toward the mirror.

“I don’t think you can,” Jackson retorted, remaining where he was. “I think that vampire super-strength thing is just a myth.”

“One way to find out,” Peter said, and Claire thought about her weapon. Nash and Jackson were unarmed. For obvious reasons, you didn’t take guns into interview rooms. But she could shoot Peter through the mirror.

And if it came to that, she would.

“Maybe younger vampires are stronger than older vampires,” Jackson said, still not backing down. Claire wanted to press the speaker button and tell him to move away. “You were pretty young when you staked your father. But it’s been a few centuries since then. Since you’re so old now yourself . . . maybe you don’t have it anymore, Count Dracula.”

Peter shifted in his chair, guilt and rage pouring off him. That was the crime he was upset about—killing his father. “My father? I don’t know what you’re—”

“We read your diary, scumbag,” Jackson said, holding up a photograph of the cover of a plain brown leather journal.

Peter quietly stared at the picture in Jackson’s hand. Claire considered that Peter’s prints on it probably glowed after an application of Luminol. The thought made her tremble.

“ And we’ve got custody of Daddy Dearest in the Salem crypt,” Jackson said.

Peter visibly reacted, looking frightened.

“I’m so freaked out,” Shiflett muttered. She looked at Claire. “Not meaning to be rude, but was anything different . . . anatomically? I mean, was there anything about him that struck you as odd?”

Claire shook her head. That answered one question: The cop hadn’t slept with Peter. Claire was glad . . . for Shiflett’s sake.

“So the stake, Peter. If we pull it out, does your dad come back to life?” Nash asked, walking toward him. Adding a little pressure.

And Claire cracked a little smile. Because the question coming as it did after the cop’s question, plus Peter’s name, made it a doozy of a triple entendre.

“Why should I tell you?” Peter asked.

“Because we’re going to shove one into you,” Jackson said. “As big as a goddamn turkey baster.”

Claire snickered. Shiflett looked at her with astonishment. Claire shrugged.

“FBI humor,” Claire said.

“But how can you laugh ? You’re married to him,” Shiflett said. “You lived with him, and had sex with him, and all that time, he was a vampire. And he was murdering girls. Sucking out their blood.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Claire said. “Anyway, we hardly ever had sex.”

“Good.” The cop blanched. “If anything like that ever happened to me, I don’t think I’d come out of it okay.”

“Then you’d better not ever get married,” Claire said, and this time she chuckled.

“Ha-ha,” the cop said weakly. “Wow.” Then, “So, you want to go out for coffee once this is done?”

“Sure, but I need to make it a quickie.” Claire actually winked.

This time the cop smiled back, just a little. A little was good.

“I’ve already made calls,” Peter said. He lifted his chin and looked straight at the mirror. “I have relatives, Claire,” he said. “I have brothers .”

“ Love the flaccid posturing,” Jackson said.

“Bring it, sucker ,” Claire said back at Peter, wondering if he had super hearing or eyesight. Maybe he could see her standing there. She hoped he could. “ I’ve got eleven VSI agents backing me up.”

And as soon as Peter was history, and forensics school was over, damn straight they were all moving to Washington, D.C., to work in the basement of the Hoover building. Laughter and all.

And somehow . . . Jackson.

Thomas E. Sniegoski is a New York Times bestselling author of the young adult series The Fallen as well as the popular urban fantasy books featuring angel-turned-private-investigator Remy Chandler. The Fallen: End of Days is the latest in the Fallen series, and In the House of the Wicked , the next of the Remy Chandler books, was released in August 2012. Tom lives in Massachusetts with his long-suffering wife, LeeAnne, and their French bulldog, Kirby. Please visit him at www.sniegoski.com.

NOW

The trees bordering the winding back road bent in the breeze, forming a natural canopy that prevented the light of the nighttime heavens from reaching the road below.

Still, it seemed darker than usual in Tewksbury, Massachusetts.

“Bascomb Road should be right up ahead,” Remy Chandler announced. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat, peering into the night, straining to find the street sign that would signal his destination.

“Yep, here we are,” he said, taking a right onto Bascomb and then a quick left into the parking lot of his client’s property.

There was a shifting of weight in the shadows of the backseat, and Remy gazed into the rearview mirror to see Marlowe’s dark brown eyes staring back at him.

The Labrador retriever whimpered, his eyes temporarily leaving the rearview mirror to take in his surroundings.

Remy pulled the car into a space in front of a large wooden building, his headlights illuminating a handcrafted sign that read, KINNEY KENNELS AND OBEDIENCE SCHOOL.

“You ready?” Remy asked, putting the car in park.

“No,” the dog answered in the language of his species, eyes once again meeting Remy’s in the mirror.

Eyes filled with the question of why it was necessary to come to such a horrible place.

NINE HOURS AGO

Remy sat behind the desk in his Beacon Street office putting together an expense report for a client whose job he had finished the previous week. Marlowe snored in the grip of sleep, lying on the floor beside Remy’s chair, flat on his side with his legs stiffly outstretched as if he’d been tipped over.