The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

wheeled to face me, snapping out a brusque, “Stay here.”
    “But—”
    “I mean it. Stay here. Get a drink. I’ll be right back. I’m ...” He hesitated. “I’m just going to check on her.”
    As he hurried off, I strained to hear what he was saying into his cell over the noise of the crowd.
    “He’s here,” he said. “And he took a girl already.”
    Oh, shit.
    There was no performance-art ad campaign. Carter was FBI. He was investigating crimes connected to Vamp Tramp. He’d played along with my misconception to keep a low profile while he stalked a killer. A killer who’d just taken my best friend into a dark alley.
    I tried to tell myself I was leaping to conclusions. Maybe this was all part of the performance.
    Right, a performance for one. A performance that barrelled through some serious ethical boundaries.
    Maybe Carter really was just smitten with Tiffany and wanted to cut in before she got busy with another guy.
    So, he’s willing to make a fool of himself over a girl he’s only glimpsed from afar? In a romance novel, maybe. But life, sadly, did not follow the rules of fictional romance.
    I called Tiffany. Her phone rang twice, then came on with a message that implied she was out of range, which wasn’t possible. I tried again. Same thing. As I was leaving a frantic message, I noticed my shy admirer from earlier, checking me out again. This time, when I caught his eye, he didn’t look away.
    Great timing, buddy.
    I hung up and looked around. Admirer-guy had apparently consumed his share of liquid courage and was now lifting a glass and pointing at me, asking if he could buy me a round. Maybe the sane thing to do would be to accept - relax, have a drink, let the cops handle the situation. But if anything happened to Tiffany, I’d never forgive myself.
    When my admirer started heading towards me, I held up a finger and pointed towards the hall leading to the ladies’ room, telling him I’d be right back. Then I took off down that hall to the exit door at the other end.
    I eased open the rear exit door and listened. That’s become instinctive for me — listening where other people would look. The alley was dark and silent. Anyone else going out for a smoke must have heeded the fire escape only sign and stepped out front.
    I eased out. With no sounds to go by, I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. A scattering of stumpy white tubes, like garden grubs, littered the ground. Cigarette butts. I knelt and touched the ends. All cold.
    When something rustled to my left, I peered down the dark alley. Another rustle, then a scratching noise. I started walking. The clicking of my heels echoed through the silence. I slid them off and tucked them behind a trash can, then took a few careful steps, getting used to the feel of cold pavement under my feet before setting out.
    I followed the rustling to an alcove stuffed with boxes. It only took one rodent squeak to tell me I didn’t need to investigate further.
    As I pulled back, I noticed a scrap of blue fabric peeking between the boxes. It was a gorgeous deep blue shade that I’d been admiring all night on Tiffany. Her new dress.
    I quickly moved the boxes, ignoring the outraged squeaks. There lay Tiffany, curled up on her side. Heart hammering, I dropped to my knees and checked for a pulse. It was there, and strong, just like the man in the alley. And, like him, she had two puncture wounds on her neck, one smeared with fresh blood. But when I touched hers, the blood came off. And the puncture wounds didn’t.
    I shot to my feet and fumbled for my phone. No signal. I was in the middle of the goddamned city. Why couldn’t I get a signal?
    I hurried down to the alley, waving my phone, desperately trying to get a connection. At the click of heels on pavement, I wheeled to see a woman walking out from another bar exit, an unlit cigarette dangling from her hand. She was about forty, with red hair and a sophisticated, feline sleekness that made me instinctively straighten and tuck my hair behind my ears.
    Catching the movement, she turned and gave a brief nod. Then she glimpsed something behind me, her green eyes narrowing as she frowned. She glided over, saw Tiffany and whispered, “Dear God.” Turning to me, she snapped, more than a little accusingly, “Have you called 911?”
    “I—” I lifted my cell. “I can’t get service. I was just going to head inside. Can you wait with her while I . . . ?”
    She already had her cell out and was