Keri Arthur - Bound to Shadows

Thank God the full moon wasn't near. I probably would have been all over him otherwise. My self control was barely hanging on as it was.

"Do you know the name of the man who found the body?"

"His name was Henry Gateway. He's something of a regular here."

"Human?"

"Vampire. He's not in my employ, but I do have his address."

At least that was someplace to start. But that didn't explain Starke's inebriated comment. "Vampires can't get drunk. "

"If they consume enough, any vampire can get intoxicated. Trust me on that. And Gateway doesn't normally imbibe, but he lost a close friend recently." His shrug was elegant.

I frowned. "Wouldn't it be dangerous having a drunk vampire serving the customers?"

"He is extremely popular with our customers." Starke waved his hand airily, the movement oddly sensual.

"Something to with his dark good looks and French accent, I suppose. We keep a close eye on him if he's drinking."

"And you had his address because—?"

"Because, as I said, he's good for business. It pays me to keep him in once piece." He drained his glass then rose. "My presence is required outside. Are there any further questions, Ms. Jenson?"

He was standing right in front of me, which meant I was staring straight at his family jewels. And they were impressive, if that bulge was anything to go by. I forced my gaze upwards, and saw the laughter there. "No, but I'd appreciate it if you could start sending people in. The sooner I interview them, the sooner they can go home."

"Most will not be in a hurry," he said, then bowed slightly. "It's been a pleasure, Ms. Jenson. If you come and see me before you leave, I'll have that address for you. "

"If you just give it to the barman, that'll be fine."

"What, and rob myself of a final glimpse of your beauty? Never."

I rolled my eyes. "You know, sweet talk isn't going to get you anywhere."

"Ah, but you hunger, and that's a start."

"I'm a werewolf. Hunger comes with the territory. But believe me, we know the fine art of self control."

Even if mine seemed to be hanging on by threads.

"It's still fun to try."

"And I think its fun to haul people back to the Directorate and interrogate their asses. But I'm willing to give up my pleasure if you'll give up yours."

He laughed—a warm sound that trembled up my spine. "If there were more guardians like you, Ms. Jenson, I believe there would not be as much disquiet in the community."

He walked out without waiting for a comment, and I sighed in relief. At least I could now concentrate on the business of finding our witness.

My long night did indeed turn into an interminable morning. Over the course of the next six hours, I consumed two glasses of Starke's fine Bollinger then moved on to coffee. Several cups later, I still felt like shit.

There might have been only thirty people plus Starke's bar staff to interview, but they were all reluctant to talk.

I leaned back in the chair and rolled my neck, trying to ease the cramp in my muscles, but it didn't help the tension any more than the coffee helped boost my energy.

I took another gulp of coffee anyway as a tall brunette sauntered into the room. Her clothes looked expensive and there was a lot of gold around her neck and wrist, which set her apart from the others I'd interviewed. But just like them, she plunked down with a decided lack of elegance, shoved her long legs out in front of her, and crossed her arms.

"It's taken you long enough," she said, voice tart and not in the least bit slurred. She had to be the only non-drinker in the place. "None of us had anything to do with that beheading, so this is all just a waste of time."

"I apologize for the delay," I said, picking up my vid phone and setting it to record again. "Once you answer a few questions, you're free to go."

She grunted, but it wasn't a happy sound.

"For recording purposes, can you please tell me your name and address?"

"Is it legal for you to record without asking me first?"

"Yes."

She sniffed. "My name is Mandy Jones, and I live at 14 Lytton Street, Elwood."

Meaning I'd finally found our anonymous caller—and it had only taken me half the damn morning. "How long have you been here at the club, Mandy?"

She shrugged and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a wrist littered with bite marks. "I finished work and came straight here, so most of the night."

"And you haven't left at all?"

She shook her head. "I was about to leave when your lot locked us in."

I picked up my coffee and took a drink. It was vanilla and cinnamon rather than hazelnut, but it was still better than regular coffee. I wondered if Starke had raided his personal stash, because I couldn't imagine them serving it in the bar. It was too up-market for this sort of establishment.

Mandy didn't seem to notice the drawn-out silence. She didn't fidget, either, just continued to glare at me.

Either she was a very good actress, or she actually had nothing to hide.

"Then how did you know there was a beheaded body out in the parking lot if you never left the club?"

"Because he paid me to call."

Meaning this case wasn't as straight forward as it seemed. Why was I not surprised? "Who paid you to call?"

She shrugged again. "He was tall, blond haired, and green eyed. The eyes were contacts though."

I raised my eyebrows. "How can you be so sure?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "I'm an optometrist. I know these things."

Maybe she did. But why would this guy—whether he was the killer or someone else—have paid someone else to make the call? And if it had been the killer, why call at all? That made no sense.

"He gave me five hundred dollars to make that call," she continued. "I wasn't arguing."

Five hundred dollars seemed like overkill to me, and I wondered if it were deliberately done to attract interest. Although why would a killer want to bring attention to his crime? Unless, of course, he was one of those freaks who liked notoriety. "And did you get the cash?"

"Sure." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "I made him pay me first."

"Did it cross your mind that you might have been taking money from a killer?"

She frowned. "Of course he wasn't the killer. There was no blood on him."

I didn't bother pointing out the obvious flaws in that logic. I mean, it wouldn't have been hard to change clothes before he came into the club. I reached out telepathically and scanned her memories. Images flitted—insubstantial wisps of faces and fangs mixed in with resonance of pleasure. She'd talked to several men over the night, and had taken enjoyment from many more. I withdrew, then asked, "Was there anything else about him that stood out? Anything odd?"

She was shaking her head even before I'd finished. "He was average. It was his eyes that made me remember him."

"Do you think you'd remember enough about him to work up an image?" Given what I'd seen in her mind, I doubted she'd remember more than what she'd already said, but it was worth a shot.

"Maybe." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not much of an artist, though."

I smiled. "We'll send someone over to you. All you have to do is describe what you remember."

"That I can manage," she said, nodding.

"Do you know a man named Grant Haven?" I couldn't help adding.

She shook her head. "Why? Is he the one who lost his head?"

"I'm afraid so. He apparently used to work here."

"He might have done. I don't ask their names, you know?"

If it was me, I'd want to know the name of the man I was trusting to provide fulfillment in the form of a bite. But then, regular junkies often didn't know the names of their suppliers. All that mattered was the hit.