Hannah Jayne: Under Attack

I leaned forward in my seat. “There’s a whole staff? I thought it was just one guy.”

Nina shook her head. “Nope. Latest intel says it’s a whole staff.”

“Intel?”

“Pierre overheard it in the restroom.”

“So it’s reliable.”

Nina nodded.

I sat back, considering. “Wow. So, what did you hear?”

Nina sat on the edge of her desk. “Well, first of all, they’re pro-vamp.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah, from what I heard, the new management team is actually all vamp. All men, too, I think.”

“You must be in seventh heaven.”

Nina looked stunned. “Are you kidding? Vamp men can be such control freaks. And they are so twelfth century when it comes to women in the workplace! Mark my words: This new head-honcho guy thinks he’s going to have all the women here wrapped around his bloodless little finger. No way. I’m going to let him think he’s the boss and then show him who’s really in charge here.”

“And I’m guessing that would be you?”

“Of course it’s me!” Nina exploded. “If that vamp thinks I’m going to give him one extra inch”—she held her thumb and forefinger the appropriate distance apart—“well then, he’s got another thing coming.”

“Noted,” I said, pushing open the office door. “Whoa!”

A swarm of UDA employees ambled down the hall outside Nina’s office door. Nina poked her head over my shoulder and frowned. “What’s going on?”

Pierre, our resident centaur/file clerk, paused in front of us. “Didn’t you hear? Staff meeting. They’re introducing the new management.”

Nina and I shared an eyebrows-up glance. “Really? Already?”

I stepped out into the crowd and Nina followed behind me, hiking up the green satin skirt on her evening gown so she showed an extra inch of firm, pale thigh.

“I thought you were against wrapping people and things around fingers.”

Nina grinned salaciously, repositioning her breasts. “I said he couldn’t wrap me around his little finger. I didn’t say anything about what I’d wrap him around.”

I giggled and linked arms with Nina. We stepped into the demon stream, found Lorraine in the crowd, and glommed on to her.

“So, is there a big announcement or just an intro?” I wanted to know.

Lorraine shrugged, her thin shoulders dusting the bottoms of her dangly jade earrings. “I don’t know, but I heard reorg.”

Nina and I gulped.

“I swear, if I get moved to licensing, I am so out of here.” Lorraine’s emerald eyes were wide and defiant—with just a hint of worry.

Licensing was the bane of the UDA employee’s existence. The licensing department handled all new demon breeds, half-breeds, and cross breeds, plus was the dumping ground for newly made vampires, werevamps, and werewolves. Newcomers—licensed or otherwise—had the tendency to fly off the handle, testing their new powers in weird and damaging ways, which was why the licensing department had an unlimited budget for new waiting-room chairs, curtains, and carpets, since they were set on fire, chewed, or torn on a regular basis.

“You’re accounts receivable. There is no way the new management is going to demote you to licensing,” I told her.

“I don’t know,” Lorraine said, hugging herself with crossed arms. “I heard these guys are pretty shrewd. They really like to shake things up.”

“Please,” Nina said, checking her eternally perfect cuticles. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I have been through so many reorgs. Hell, most of these guys have no idea what they’re doing anyway. They’ll bring in a couple of old buddies from their pre-vamp college days, add a few big-busted breather girls for fang candy, and fire the mail guy so it looks like they’re doing something.” Nina yawned as if the whole situation bored her. “We’re probably dealing with some pasty, round, Pillsbury dough-vamp on a power trip. Small penis, big car, everything back to Hell-on-Earth normal in five days, guaranteed.”

“I hope you’re right,” Lorraine said, rubbing her arms.

“Shh,” I hissed. “Here they come.”

The whole of the staff straightened as the back-office doors slid open and the new head of the UDA stepped out, flanked on either side by well-dressed henchmen whose dark eyes scanned the assembled crowd, their faces betraying nothing.

One of the henchmen stepped forward, straightening his impeccable tie. He leaned against the podium, cleared his throat into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Dixon Andrade.”

There was a smattering of polite applause as Dixon stepped forward, looking all at once politician slick and businessman savvy.

To say Dixon was a commanding presence was an understatement. He was at least six feet tall with strong swimmer’s shoulders and a long, lean body that gave the impression of careful control. His longish brown hair was carefully slicked back from a wide forehead that was punctuated by thick, dark eyebrows that seemed very comfortably formed into a constant V of consternation and distaste. His pale skin was taut and perfect; his square jaw was set hard but offset by ruby red lips that were pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the UDA staff. Suddenly, his lips broke into a welcoming grin, and a slight hint of color washed over his cheeks.

“So this is the San Francisco staff of the Underworld Detection Agency. Nice-looking group of demons.” Dixon nodded slowly, appraisingly, as the crowd hummed, pleased. I just swallowed and did my best to fade into the background.

It’s not that I was any way ashamed of my non-demon status, nor was it much of a secret around the office—I tended to stick out like a sore thumb, as I routinely bypassed the freeze-dried blood in the office vending machine and opted for the Rice Krispies Treats and Kit Kat bars. I just considered that until the new management got to know me, it might be best to blend into the whole of the group—which is not that easy, considering the majority of the group sported horns, fangs, or hooves. I sported a dress with a slobber stain and a Swatch watch.

“Now I know a lot of you might be worried about a so-called shake-up around here. I am here today to put you all at ease. I know my predecessor, Pete Sampson, ran a tight ship around here and you all have the profit margins”—Dixon held a thick stack of documents aloft—“to prove it.”

A whoosh of relief whipped through the crowd and suddenly the UDA employees were showing signs of everyday life: Pierre was shifting from hoof to hoof, bored. Kale, the mega-pierced apprentice witch to Lorraine was batting her eyes at Nina’s nephew Vlad, who was working hard to ignore her. Eliot, a newly hired werevamp was nonchalantly texting on his iPhone.

“Now, now,” Dixon went on, pale palms up to appease the crowd. “That doesn’t mean there won’t be some changes. Nothing drastic, I assure you. But I do want to get a feel for what you all do around here.” Dixon stressed certain words like an overly sincere politician. I didn’t warm to him.

“I want to know you, your job descriptions, what a day in the life is like for you as a UDA employee.” Dixon flashed a brilliant grin, his teeth impossibly white, his incisors sharpened to terrifying points. I felt my eyebrows shoot up and I stole a glance over at Nina.

Her eyebrows were raised, too; her dark eyes were wide as saucers and transfixed—but it wasn’t the surprise of seeing a pair of sharpened fangs.

It was love.

Pure, unadulterated, “I’d follow you anywhere, Dixon Andrade” love.

“Aw, geez,” I muttered under my breath. “Nina!”

She was leaning forward on her toes, her sky-high Manolo Blahniks raising her up four inches already. Her hands were clasped in front of her heart and every inch of her was still, waiting, watching, like a cat ready to pounce.