George Martin: Down These Strange Streets

But when she spoke, her voice was steady enough. “I was going to the refrigerator,” Diantha said, still making the effort to speak slowly. “You guys were out of Sprite, and I thought it would be all right if I checked to see if there was more in the refrigerator. Ismelledtheblood—”

Dahlia held up an admonishing hand, and Diantha slowed down. “I yelled because I smelled the blood as I stepped in it.”

“Not before?” Most supernaturals had a very sharp sense of smell.

“Smell of vampire had deadened my nose,” Diantha said.

That made sense to Dahlia. Though the scent of vampire was naturally delightful to her, she had been told many times that it was overwhelming to other supernaturals.

“Was the blood still running when you came in?” The thicker trickles from spurting arteries were barely moving down the shiny surface of the appliances, and the cast-off drops that had been slung away when the throat had come out were beginning to dry at the edges.

“Little,” Diantha said.

“Was anyone else here?” Katamori said.

Diantha shook her head.

The two vampires glanced at each other, eyebrows raised in query. Dahlia couldn’t think of any more questions to ask. Evidently Katamori couldn’t, either.

“Diantha, in a second you can move.” Dahlia and Katamori closed in on each side of the body. “All right,” Dahlia said. “Step out of the blood. Take off your shoes and leave them.”

The half-demon girl followed Dahlia’s instructions to the letter. She perched on the wooden table to remove her red high-tops. She placed her stained shoes neatly side by side on the floor. “Stayorgo?” she asked, looking much more cheerful now that she wasn’t so close to the corpse. Demons didn’t often eat people, and proximity to the body hadn’t been pleasant for her.

“I think you can go,” Dahlia said, after a moment’s thought. “Don’t leave.”

“Gobacktotheparty,” the girl said, and did so.

By silent agreement, the two vampires bent to their task. With their excellent vision and sense of smell, they didn’t need magnifying glasses or flashlights to help them analyze what they saw.

“The human donors came into the kitchen and ate and drank,” Katamori began. “A vampire shepherded them.”

“As always,” Dahlia said absently. “And that’s a vampire we need to talk to, because somehow this human got left behind, or he hid himself. Obviously, the shepherd should have noticed.”

“A werewolf came through here, probably after the death. Perhaps more than one werewolf,” Katamori continued. He was crouched near the floor, and he looked up at Dahlia, his dark eyes intent. His black braid fell forward as he bent back to examine the floor, and he tossed it back over his shoulder.

“I don’t disagree,” Dahlia said, making an effort to sound neutral. Any trouble that involved the werewolves would involve Taffy. “I think we should tell Joaquin that the shepherd needs to come here now, or as soon as he’s returned.”

Katamori said “Yes,” but in an absent way. Dahlia went to the swinging door. As she’d expected, one of Joaquin’s friends, a wispy brunette named Rachel, was waiting in the hall. Dahlia explained what she needed, and Rachel raced off. Cedric had forbidden the use of cell phones in the mansion, and Joaquin had not rescinded that rule yet, though Dahlia had heard that he would.

In two minutes Gerhard, the shepherd of the evening, came striding down the hall to join Dahlia. She could tell by the way he walked that he was angry, though he was smiling. That perpetual smile shone as hard as Gerhard’s short corn-blond hair, which gleamed under the lights like polished silk. He’d lived in Rhodes for fifty years, but he and Dahlia had never become friends.

Dahlia didn’t have many friends. She was quite all right with that.

“What would you like to know?” Gerhard asked. His German accent was pronounced despite his long years in the United States.

“Tell me about taking the humans out of here,” Dahlia said. “How did you come to leave this one behind?”

Gerhard stiffened. “Are you saying I was derelict in my duties?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened,” Dahlia said, not too patiently. “Your execution of your duties is not my concern, but Joaquin’s. The man is here. He isn’t supposed to be. How did that come about?”

Gerhard was obliged to reply. “I gathered the humans together to leave. We came to the kitchen. I followed procedure by showing them the food and drink provided. After ten minutes, I told them it was time to go. I counted as we left, and the number was correct.”

“But here he is,” Katamori said, straightening from his crouched position by the body. “So either your count was incorrect, you are lying, or an extra human took his place. What is your explanation?”

“I have none,” Gerhard said, in a voice so stiff it might have been starched.

“Go to Joaquin and tell him that,” Dahlia said, without an ounce of sympathy.

“Well, then.” Gerhard became even more defensive. “This man and I had come to an arrangement. I left him here because upon my return we were to spend time together.”

“Though he had already donated this evening,” Dahlia said.

“His name was Arthur Allthorp. I have been with him before,” Gerhard said. “He could take a lot of . . . donation. He loved it.”

“A fangbanger,” Katamori said. Fangbangers, extreme vampire groupies, were notorious for ignoring limits.

Gerhard gave an abrupt nod.

Neither Dahlia nor Katamori remarked on the fact that Gerhard had initially lied to them. They knew, as did Gerhard, that he would pay for that.

“He was my weakness,” Gerhard said violently. “I am glad he is dead.”

This sudden burst of passion startled Dahlia and disgusted Katamori, who let Gerhard read that in his face. Gerhard whirled around to leave the kitchen, but Dahlia said, “What time did you leave with the humans? Was anyone in here with the man Arthur when you took the others away?”

Gerhard thought for a second. “I bade them get into the vans at ten o’clock, since that was the time appointed by the agency that sent them. There was no one in here. But I could hear people coming down the hall as I waited for the other donors to exit. I’m sure one of them was Taffy.”

Dahlia would have said something unpleasant if she’d been by herself. As it was, she was aware of Katamori’s quick sideways glance. Everyone in the nest knew that Dahlia and Taffy were friends, despite Taffy’s unfortunate marriage. Dahlia’s own brief marriage to a werewolf had been forgiven, since it had lasted such a short time. But Taffy showed every sign of continuing her relationship with Don, and even of being happy in it, to the bafflement of the other vampires of Rhodes. “We’ll have to find Taffy and Don and ask them some questions,” she said. “Gerhard, would you request this of Joaquin?”

Gerhard gave a jerky nod and barged out the door, shoving it with such force that it was left to swing to and fro in an annoying way.

Dahlia turned her attention back to the spray of blood on the fixtures and the blood pooled on the floor, still wet. “In my experience,” she said to Katamori, “it takes over an hour for blood to begin to dry. Given its tacky quality and the low temperature of this room, I believe the body has lain here for at least thirty minutes, give or take.”

Katamori nodded. They were both experts on blood. They looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall. It read ten forty-five.