Magic Graves

way he held my gaze had me wondering if he was telling the truth. Good Lord, was it possible that my father wasn't the only vampire in my family ancestry?
    He traced a line in the dry leaves with that long stick, his brow arching in challenge.
    "Haven't figured it out yet?" He gave a mock sigh. "Thought out of everyone, you'd be most attuned to the similarities, but appears not."
    Word games weren't the right move with me. I gave his long blond locks and intentionally outdated shirt a withering glance. "If you're trying to double as Lestat, then sure, you nailed it with the similarities."
    He snorted. "Thick little kitten, aren't you?"
    Something dark dropped down behind him, but before the vampire could whirl around to defend himself, he was enveloped in a punishing embrace. Moonlight glinted off the blade Bones held to the vampire's chest.
    "No one calls my wife that but me," he said in a deadly silken voice.
    The vampire twisted in a futile attempt to free himself, but iron bars would've been easier to pry off. His thrashing drove the tip of Bones's knife into his chest, darkening that white lacy shirt with crimson. More struggling would only shove the blade deeper, and if that silver twisted in his heart, the vampire would be dead the permanent way. He stilled, craning his neck to peer back at the man restraining him.
    In that moment, seeing their faces so close together, the first inkling of realization slammed into me. It seemed impossible, but...
    "Bones, don't hurt him!" I said, reeling at the implications. "I-I think maybe this isn't about Annette's attack."
    The vampire shot me an approving look. "Not so thick after all, are you?"
    Bones didn't move the blade, but his hand tightened around the hilt of the knife. "Insult her again and those will be your last words."
    A pained laugh came out of the vampire. "Here I thought teasing one's relation was normal."
    "Relation?" Bones scoffed. "You're claiming to be a member of her family?"
    "Not by blood, but by marriage," the vampire said, drawing each word out. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wraith, and I'm your brother."

A QUESTIONABLE CLIENT

Ilona Andrews

    The problem with leucrocotta blood is that it stinks to high heaven. It's also impossible to get off your boots, particularly if the leucrocotta condescended to void its anal glands on you right before you chopped its head off.
    I sat on the bench in the Mercenary Guild locker room and pondered my noxious footwear. The boots were less than a year old. And I didn't have money to buy a new pair.
    "Tomato juice, Kate," one of the mercs offered. "Will take it right out."
    Now he'd done it. I braced myself.
    A woman in the corner shook her head. "That's for skunks. Try baking soda."
    "You have to go scientific about it. Two parts hydrogen peroxide to four parts water."
    "A quart of water and a tablespoon of ammonia."
    "What you need to do is piss on it..."
    Every person in the locker room knew my boots were shot. Unfortunately, stain removal methods was one of those troublesome subjects somewhere between relationship issues and mysterious car noises. Everybody was an expert, everybody had a cure, and they all fell over themselves to offer their advice.
    The electric bulbs blinked and faded. Magic flooded the world in a silent rush, smothering technology. Twisted tubes of feylanterns ignited with pale blue on the walls as the charged air inside them interacted with magic. A nauseating stench, reminiscent of a couple of pounds of shrimp left in the sun for a week, erupted from my boots. There were collective grunts of "Ugh" and "Oh God," and then everybody decided to give me lots of personal space.
    We lived in a post-Shift world. One moment magic dominated, fueling spells and giving power to monsters and the next it vanished as abruptly as it appeared. Cars started, electricity flowed, and mages became easy prey to a punk with a gun. Nobody could predict when magic waves would come or how long they would last. That's why I carried a sword. It always worked.
    Mark appeared in the doorway. Mark was the Guild's equivalent of middle management, and he looked the part - his suit was perfectly clean and cost more than I made in three months, his dark hair was professionally trimmed, and his hands showed no calluses. In the crowd of working-class thugs, he stood out like a sore thumb and was proud of it, which earned him the rank and file's undying hatred.
    Mark's expressionless stare fastened on me.