The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

super-hearing. They recommended the support group and I thought, Cool - I can meet others, then learn about my powers and how to improve them. Not exactly. As I discovered, it really was a support group - a place for half-demons to angst about the nasty blow life had dealt them.
    Blow? Hello, super powers? They should have been celebrating winning the genetic lottery. Instead they whined about not fitting in, about having demon blood, about their slutty mothers screwing the forces of evil. I say, “Go for it, Mom.” She’d been single and I’m sure the demon was damned hot — metaphorically speaking, I hope.
    I didn’t last long in the group, just long enough to meet Tiffany, who was every bit as puzzled by the “woe is me” sentiment. I also met Jason, my first supernatural boyfriend, who - as it turned out - wasn’t even a half-demon, but a druid who infiltrated the group to pick up chicks. And so I was introduced to the wonderful world of paranormal romance.
    “It must get lonely being a vampire,” Tiffany mused as we walked down St James Street. “Just think of it. Centuries of watching everyone you love grow old without you, die before you.”
    “That’s romantic?”
    “Sure, don’t you think so?”
    I wasn’t touching that one.
    We passed a trio of wraithlike Goths, sticking to the shadowy edge of the sidewalks as if the streetlights would reduce them to dust motes. They took in our clubwear with sniffs of disdain. I returned the favour.
    At least we seemed to be in the right neighbourhood. Which begged the question: how much of a secret was this place? Those kids were not supernaturals — we just don’t call attention to ourselves like that. If everyone knew about the bar, that meant the chances of it really being what it claimed were next to nil. And just when I was starting to think this night might turn interesting. I swallowed a bitter shot of disappointment.
    “Maybe the books are wrong,” Tiffany piped up. “But I bet they got one thing right. What a vampire really needs is a mate. A life-mate. Someone he can turn. Someone to share eternity with.” She gave a mooning sigh, as if being asked to join a life of blood-sucking was more romantic than being serenaded by the Seine. “Can you imagine? Centuries together, bonded by love and—”
    “Haemophilia? Please don’t tell me you—”
    “Oh, look. There it is!”
    She pointed to a sign on the corner. A neon sign, flashing first vamp, then changing to tramp. Vamp Tramp? Wasn’t that from a book?
    This did not bode well. Forget the unoriginal name. The flashing neon screamed “fake” even louder. In a world where supernaturals still hid their true nature with Inquisition-era fervour, neon-signed vampire bars were . . . unlikely.
    Oh, who the hell was I kidding? This place was going to be as authentic as chicken balls. One double-shot of disappointment to go. And add a big chaser of head-slapping duh. There were maybe twenty vampires in the whole country. Did I really think they’d band together and open a bar in my home town?
    It was then, when I’d fully convinced myself the place was a fake, that I saw the guy lying face down in the alley. A small crowd stood around him like a prayer circle.
    When I started towards the man, Tiffany grabbed my hand. “For once, Mel, don’t get involved. Let someone else handle it.”
    That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone thinks, Let someone else handle it, and no one does.
    I shouldered past yet another Goth girl, this one so pale she lit up the alley like a flashlight.
    “Has anyone called 911?” I asked.
    Everyone looked at the person beside them, as if to say, “You called, didn’t you?”
    “I think some old dude went to call,” said a kid so wasted he addressed the Goth girl behind me. “Or maybe he was just looking for another place to crash. I think this guy stole his spot.”
    I thought he was joking. One look at his face said he wasn’t.
    I turned to Tiffany. “Call 911.” When she hesitated, I said, “Fine. I’ll call and you can check him.”
    She pulled out her cell phone. I crouched beside the fallen man.
    “You’re not supposed to move him,” said a middle-aged guy beside me.
    Oh, sure, now he was Mr Helpful.
    I tried to get a pulse at the man’s wrist, but I’m an ad-copy writer, not a nurse, and I couldn’t find the right spot. To get to his neck, though, I had to push aside his long, stringy hair, which was why I’d started with the wrist.