The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

But I’d never forgive myself if the man died because I got icky about touching his hair, so I pushed it back over his shoulder. Then I jerked back with an “Oh!”
    “Holy shit,” said the drunk kid. “Are those . . . ?”
    “The kiss of the vampire,” Goth girl whispered reverently.
    On the side of his neck were two red puncture wounds and a small trickle of blood, still shiny. Too shiny, actually. I reached for the mark. Goth girl yelped. I peeled off the sticker and held it up.
    “Performance art advertising. Everyone suitably impressed? Ready to go for drinks at Vamp Tramp? Buy two, get this free.” I waved the “vampire bite” sticker, then nudged the fallen man. “Show’s over. Get up.”
    He didn’t move.
    “Listen, asshole, my friend just called 911 for you. You’re going to have some explaining to do, so get up and start now.”
    I booted him in the side. Still nothing.
    “The bite marks are fake, but I don’t think the lack of consciousness is,” said a voice behind me, with a rapid-fire accent that reminded me of a recent trip to Northern Mexico.
    I turned to see a man in a suit striding down the alley. Another man stayed on the sidewalk, eyeing the filthy alley as if hoping he wouldn’t have to come any further.
    “Miguel Carter,” the first man said. “FBI.”
    He flashed a badge so fast all I saw was a blur. Nice try, buddy. I’d worked in advertising long enough to know a marketing ploy when I saw one. An elaborate and clever marketing ploy, but a ploy nonetheless.
    “Can I see that?” I asked.
    He handed me the badge. I inspected it, acting as if I had the foggiest clue what a real FBI badge looked like. I did know what an FBI agent looked like though, and whatever agency hired this guy had paid some serious bucks to get an actor who could play the part. He was in his thirties, dark hair and eyes, wide shoulders, square jaw. They’d added glasses, to give him that extra touch of intelligence, lift him above your average city cop. He wasn’t a typical gorgeous actor, but he had that Clark Kent geek-cute thing, the kind that makes you think, “Hey, big boy, let me rip off those glasses and—.”
    Damn, it really had been too long.
    I handed Carter back his badge. “So the FBI is taking 911 calls now?”
    “No, I’m sure the local police and ambulance are on the way. I was in the area and heard there was a problem.”
    “In the area? Let me guess. At Vamp Tramp? Investigating, oh, let’s see ... A string of murders possibly related to the vampire subculture.”
    The surprise on his face looked almost genuine. The guy was good, I’d give him that. I knelt beside the “unconscious” man and touched the side of his neck.
    “This one’s still got a pulse, Agent. Seems you got to him in time. Good work.” As I stood, I slipped a card from my wallet and pressed it against his palm, then lowered my voice. “It’s a good guerilla marketing campaign, but the scenario needs work. Tell whoever’s in charge to give me a call. I can help them smooth over the rough spots.”
    I walked back to Tiffany. As I approached, she shook her head. “Can’t resist being a smartass, can you, Mel?”
    “What? I offered my services. They do need to work out the scenario a little better. FBI has a certain cachet, but it would raise fewer questions if they just said they were city cops.”
    “But someone in the crowd might know the city cops.”
    “True.”
    “Also true that you were being a smartass, proving you saw through their act.”
    I glanced over my shoulder. Carter the FBI agent was still studying my card and frowning, trying to figure out where his performance had gone wrong. I smiled and continued walking.
    We still went to the bar. My curiosity was re-piqued now. Would there be more of the show we’d just seen? A full viral performance-art campaign? Was it working? What were people saying?
    I got the answer to question two as we reached the door, and found a line-up stretching around the corner. We got waved past it. OK, Tiffany got us waved past it. The bouncer took one look at her - blonde hair, high heels, low neckline and impressive cleavage - then he glanced at the line-up of middle-aged gawkers with cameras and teen goths with fake ID and frantically gestured us past the rope, as if terrified we’d see the line and keep walking.
    Inside, it looked like a vampire bar. Or Hollywood’s Euro-trash version of one. Lots of dark corners, blood-red velvet and lighting