A Touch of Dead

state.”
    “So this is a case of hero worship gone crazy?”
    “You have such a way with words,” Pam said admiringly.
We were outside Eric’s office, and we could both hear him bellowing inside.
    “He’s not happy with the new bartender. He thinks there are not enough bottles of the blood the count is said to prefer, according to an interview in American Vampire .”
    I tried to imagine Vlad Tepes, impaler of so many of his own countrymen, chatting with a reporter. I sure wouldn’t want to be the one holding the pad and pencil. “What brand would that be?” I scrambled to catch up with the conversation.
    “The Prince of Darkness is said to prefer Royalty.”
    “Ew.” Why was I not surprised?
    Royalty was a very, very rare bottled blood. I’d thought the brand was only a rumor until now. Royalty consisted of part synthetic blood and part real blood—the blood of, you guessed it, people of title. Before you go thinking of enterprising vamps ambushing that cute Prince William, let me reassure you. There were plenty of minor royals in Europe who were glad to give blood for an astronomical sum.
    “After a month’s worth of phone calls, we managed to get two bottles.” Pam was looking quite grim. “They cost more than we could afford. I’ve never known my
maker to be other than business-wise, but this year Eric seems to be going overboard. Royalty doesn’t keep forever, you know, with the real blood in it . . . and now he’s worried that two bottles might not be enough. There is so much legend attached to Dracula, who can say what is true? He has heard that Dracula will only drink Royalty or . . . the real thing.”
    “Real blood? But that’s illegal, unless you’ve got a willing donor.”
    Any vampire who took a human’s blood—against the human’s will—was liable to execution by stake or sunlight, according to the vamp’s choice. The execution was usually carried out by another vamp, kept on retainer by the state. I personally thought any vampire who took an unwilling person’s blood deserved the execution, because there were enough fangbangers around who were more than willing to donate.
    “And no vampire is allowed to kill Dracula, or even strike him,” Pam said, chiming right in on my thoughts. “Not that we’d want to strike our prince, of course,” she added hastily.
    Right , I thought.
    “He is held in such reverence that any vampire
who assaults him must meet the sun. And we’re also expected to offer our prince financial assistance.”
    I wondered if the other vampires were supposed to floss his fangs for him, too.
    The door to Eric’s office flew open with such vehemence that it bounced right back. It opened again more gently, and Eric emerged.
    I had to gape. He looked positively edible. Eric is very tall, very broad, very blond, and tonight he was dressed in a tuxedo that had not come off any rack. This tux had been made for Eric, and he looked as good as any James Bond in it. Black cloth without a speck of lint, a snowy white shirt, and a hand-tied bow at his throat, with his beautiful hair rippling down his back . . .
    “James Blond,” I muttered. Eric’s eyes were blazing with excitement. Without a word, he dipped me as though we were dancing and planted a hell of a kiss on me: lips, tongue, the entire osculant assemblage. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. When I was quivering, he assisted me to rise. His brilliant smile revealed glistening fangs. Eric had enjoyed himself.
    “Hello to you, too,” I said tartly, once I was sure I was breathing again.
    “My delicious friend,” Eric said, and bowed.

    I wasn’t sure I could be correctly called a friend, and I’d have to take his word for it that I was delicious. “What’s the program for the evening?” I asked, hoping that my host would calm down very soon.
    “We’ll dance, listen to music, drink blood, watch the entertainment, and wait for the count to come,” Eric said. “I’m so glad you’ll be here tonight. We have a wide array of special guests, but you’re the only telepath.”
    “Okay,” I said faintly.
    “You look especially lovely tonight,” said Lyle. He’d been standing right behind Eric, and I hadn’t even noticed him. Slight and narrow-faced, with spiked black hair, Lyle didn’t have the presence Eric had acquired in a thousand years of life. Lyle was a visiting vamp from Alexandria, interning at the very successful Fangtasia because he wanted to open his own vampire bar. Lyle was carrying a