it every day. Good thing I have Lyric. She’s a million times more appealing than ichor. But still...” He heaved out a sigh.
Kaz had never touched drugs or alcohol, himself. Too many bad memories harbored by those illicit substances. Vail’s sigh said so much that didn’t require words.
Kaz understood addiction because his father was an alcoholic. Okay, so he didn’t understand it, but he did know it when it hit him in the face. The bastard was always ready to punch him whenever he got wasted, which had been all the time. Kaz hadn’t seen him in almost fourteen years, and had no desire for a reunion anytime soon.
“Now that I let my mind wander,” Vail started, “there is a vamp chick who slinks about under the radar. Always into something new. Not attached to a particular tribe, though she does tend to date tribe leaders. She deals dust and has been known to do wet work, as well.”
Sex, drugs and murder? Sounded like a piece of work. “Name?”
Vail held up his palm between the two of them. “There are only two or three vamps who have permission to deal dust in this city. Give me your word that this information did not come from me.”
Kaz slapped his hand into Vail’s in a gentleman’s agreement. “You have my word. I know you supply me with information because you care about your breed. You don’t want to see any of them addicted to the stuff.”
“The vampire’s name is Switch,” Vail said. “I don’t know where to find her, only that she moves around. She’s tall and slender. Aggressive, but attractive in a hooker kind of way.”
“Great. That describes half the female vampires in Paris.”
“Yeah, but you should be able to pick her out by her hair. Half black, half pink, like some kind of cotton-candy machine gone over to the dark side.”
A distinguishing hairstyle? Perfect. It would give Kaz a place to start.
“So you know the names of those two or three who sell the dust? They would be the ones giving Switch the work, right?”
“Yes, but...I don’t have names. Isn’t what I’ve already told you enough?”
It would be a start. “Thanks, Vail—er, Dark Stranger. Give my regards to your wife.” He recalled the Order notes he’d reviewed before coming here tonight. “Did she just have a baby?”
“Our second,” Vail offered with a note of pride. “Sweet little girl. I love her, even when she wakes in the middle of the night yowling like a banshee. Yeah, I’ll tell Lyric you said hello. If you need me...I’ll find you.”
“Cool.”
At the thought of a vampire baby, Kaz quelled the shudder that wanted to give his bones a good shake. Then he prayed he wouldn’t have to stake the little flesh pricker someday.
After shaking Vail’s hand, Kaz got out of the car, stroked the smashed front panel and walked away, hands in his coat pockets, without giving the vampire a glance back.
He lived on the left bank, far from the eighteenth arrondissement. Hopping onto the Metro at the Blanche station, he settled in for the ride.
Once home, he activated the inner wards by closing the four sliding locks on his front door. The Order ensured all their knights’ homes were warded against vampires, werewolves and sometimes, if the knight requested it, witches. Between that and some personal wards he’d had tattooed on his body, Kaz felt relatively safe, even knowing the city of millions was populated with tens of thousands of paranormal critters.
Standing before the living room wall, plastered with a large Paris city map, he darted his gaze from the red pins, which indicated the location of tribal nests, to the white— individual vamps, to the few green pins—known wolf packs.
Plucking out a silver pin from the nearby pin box, he poked it in place in the eighteenth arrondissement.
“Zoë,” he muttered. A smile was unstoppable.
* * *
“Will you find the source of the Magic Dust, little one?”
Coyote flinched at Riské’s use of the possessive moniker. Yes, she was small. But she was anything but little.
“It’s tainting our supply,” Riské continued. The faery elder’s feather headdress listed in the summer breeze that always surrounded him, even on brisk winter nights. “The idiot bloodsuckers are selling on our turf. This mortal realm is convoluted with lacking intelligence and those who would sell their very souls for another coin in their pocket.”
“I’ve Whim sniffing out the trail,” she answered, preening her left wing over her shoulder. Living in the mortal realm zapped her vitality, and she was ever concerned about her faded wings. “He’s an excellent tracker.”
“And what about the other one who is often stumbling about in your wake? Ever? Sever?”
“His name is Never. And he does not stumble. He’s an ace marksman. My secret weapon.”
“I thought you were my secret weapon?”
“I am, mon Grand Sidhe,” she said, using the respectful title. Lately, Riské had been ignoring her for his many other consorts. She was fine with that. The sidhe lord was a fickle lover. She preferred those with a bit more devotion— and vita, which could restore the color to her wings that living in the mortal realm had drained. “I suspect the dealer is a vampire.”
“Of course.” He said it as if admonishing her for stating the obvious.
“I don’t want to unsettle the fragile balance we have with the vampire community,” she said.
“See that you do not. But do not allow this one who deems to step on my feet one moment longer of triumph. I will not accept failure from you, Coyote.”
Meaning, he’d strike her dead with a look that could stop her heart if she returned without the vampire’s head. Easy enough. Coyote always got her man. Or vampire. She just had to let loose her hounds, Whim and Never, and follow the trail.
Chapter 3
The knock at the front door was accompanied by a yelp.
Zoë smiled with self-satisfied glee. “I do love a well-tuned vampire ward.”
She grabbed the plastic kid’s lunchbox from the living room table and strode to the door with the usual spring in her step that the yelp always produced. The autumn sky was dark, promising imminent rain. Most vamps could handle the sunlight for a short time, though they did tend to grumble about it whenever anyone would listen.
A flash of pink swept before the narrow window that paralleled each side of her front door.
“Fashion nightmare,” Zoë muttered before she swung open the door to grant her visitor a Cheshire Cat greeting. “You again, and looking so bright and cheery.”
“Witch, your wards hurt.”
“That’s the purpose. You have my phone number. You can call when you’re walking up the sidewalk and I’d meet you at the door.”
The vampiress, tall and lanky, and built like a rock star with a permanent heroin hangover, cocked a hand to one hip, and swept back the pink half of her hair with a tilt of her head. Sunglasses concealed what Zoë guessed was a dagger gaze. She held out a waiting hand.
She was annoying, but also strong, and Zoë had no intention of pissing her off. The woman had visible muscles revealed by a sleeveless plaid shirt spattered with black ink and skulls. She wore enough silver jewelry to kill a werewolf just by being in his vicinity. And besides the head of hair that was half fluorescent pink and half Hell black, she sported a chain of earrings along each ear, henna tattoos all over her arms, a thick silver ring that looked like—and probably was—brass knuckles, and a visible knife blade sticking out her hip pocket.
Despite her many vampire