Ravenous

was still in the picture. She was just fishing for information.

Grandma set the knife down carefully. 'I like him, and I've known him from long before your mother was born, but I'd be careful. Vampires aren't like us.'

'He's a good partner.'

'Of course he is, but I know what it's like working with the vampires. The rush reminds me of that first whiff when I open a box of dark chocolates. There's so much sweet potential there, but also one helluva stomachache.'

'Alessandro is not the bonbon in my life, dark chocolate or otherwise.' A horrible idea slithered into Holly's imagination. 'Alessandro wasn't your bonbon?'

'Heavens, no. I never once took off so much as a corner of the foil wrapping. I was in love with your grandfather, and that was that. I had the power to be immortal, but he was human, so I chose to be mortal as well. I gave up using the high magic that kept me young.'

'Couldn't have been an easy decision.' There's the understatement of the decade.

'Choices are easy if you know your own heart. I knew mine.' Grandma gave a sly smile.

Holly's cell rang, which gave her an excuse to dodge that look. 'Holly Carver.'

'It's Conall Macmillan.' The dark, strong voice was immediately recognizable.

'Detective. What can I do for you?' What now? He kept me at the crime scene for hours. What more could he possibly want to know?

'Something, um…' He stalled, sounding uncertain. 'I'm wondering if you could answer some questions for me. I need some advice. Nothing related to the Flanders case.'

Holly relaxed a little. 'How can I help, Detective?'

He cleared his throat. 'Call me Mac. Can we meet?'

Anxiety shot back up to the red zone. 'Okay. Sure. Where?'

'Uh… look.' There was another awkward pause. 'This is more personal than anything else. I'm home today… Uh, can you come over? Coffee? I can cook if you want dinner. But if that doesn't work for you we can meet wherever you want. Soon, I hope.'

That rambling didn't sound at all like the Detective Macmillan she had met. Personal? Dinner? What should she make of this?

'Um, I guess so,' she replied. 'Are policemen allowed to break bread with… what would I be—a subject matter expert?'

He gave a short laugh. 'Sometimes they even let us go to places with real tablecloths. Listen, if you're okay with it, do you mind coming to my place? I wouldn't normally ask, but what I want to talk about is kind of private.'

Uncertainty coagulated in Holly's stomach. 'Okay. Where do you live?'

He gave her an address.

'How about eight thirty?' Holly asked. 'I've got a few things to do that I can't put off.'

'Then let me make you dinner. I'm a really good cook,' he said. 'You won't regret it.'

She caught a note of unguarded enthusiasm. It was reassuring. 'Sure. Why not?'

'Look, I appreciate this.'

'You're welcome.'

'Perfect. Later.' He hung up.

Holly frowned at the phone, then set it down on the table. Not twenty-four hours since breaking up with Ben, she had an invite that sounded oddly datelike. A pang she couldn't name sliced through her. Guilt? Sorrow? Apprehension?

While she'd been talking, Grandma had opened the paper to read the headlines. 'Another murder. They think it's a vampire doing the killing,' she said, scanning the lead story. 'How many is that so far this month?'

She passed Holly the newspaper section. She read quickly and then turned the page to scan a related article. A photo made her start. They'd caught Macmillan, all raincoat and wavy hair, in a candid shot outside the Flanders house. 'Well, speak of the devil.'

'Who's that?' Grandma asked.

'Detective Macmillan.'

'You know him?'

'That was him on the phone.'

Grandma looked slyly curious. 'What's he like?'

Holly hesitated. 'He's okay.'

'You think he's cute,' Grandma answered with an amused air.

'Do not.' That was a lie. He was good-looking.

'What does Ben think of him?' she prodded.

Holly bit her lip.

'What's wrong?'

Holly sighed. As much as she wanted to avoid the Ben topic, the cat was out of the proverbial bag and already hair-balling on the carpet. 'Ben and I broke up.'

Grandma sat very still for a moment. 'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'He can't handle the witch thing.'

'Idiot.' Grandma tipped her ash. 'I never liked him anyway. Where does this Detective Macmillan fit in?'

'He's invited me to dinner. Business.' Holly set the paper on the table.

Grandma studied the picture and raised an eyebrow. Taking a long drag, she exhaled slowly and eyed Holly through the wreathing smoke. 'Uh-huh. Wear something nice.'

Chapter 12

The sun's last death gilded the belly of the clouds, darkness rising like water over the downtown streets. Alessandro strode toward Omara's hotel, making plans. It was early for his kind to rise, just dark enough for comfort, but he loved this hour when the night was new and the sidewalks jammed with life. Even after hundreds of years, he needed that sense of a fresh start.

He ran across the four-lane street, dodging cars. The line for the movie theater spilled over the curb, forcing him to swerve. When he regained his path he stopped cold, nearly forcing a skateboarder to run him down. Fixated on a new sight, Alessandro barely noticed.

John Pierce of Clan Albion was parking his silver-gray convertible down the street. All Alessandro's loathing of the vampire surged in, followed by a rush of curiosity. Why is that worm on the streets at this early hour? Usually a waster like Pierce would still be in bed.

Alessandro melted into the mouth of an alleyway that ran between two stores. Behind him was all Dumpsters and mildew, before him a panorama of bright lights and hustle. As usual he stood on the threshold, part of neither scene.

Oblivious to surveillance, Pierce checked his hair in the rearview mirror. His suit was pale gray, probably hand-tailored, if one judged by the fit. The vampire was dressed to kill.

At first he thought Pierce might be visiting Omara, but Pierce walked the other way, hands in his pockets, and turned the corner. Alessandro prowled after him.

Am I wasting time? Am I suspicious simply because I despise him? Maybe, but not so long ago Alessandro had been obliged to behead Pierce's brother. The execution had been a sign of the changing times. Stephan Pierce had beaten a local mechanic to death for ruining the engine of his Jaguar. Once, whipping or beating a peasant would have been an acceptable response to poor service, but for better or worse, times had changed.

Clan Albion hadn't. In their arrogance they barely acknowledged their own queen, much less the authority of human police and judges. Nevertheless, human law demanded the execution of Stephan Pierce for the wanton murder of the mechanic. The trial—with mortals only, as no supernatural accused stood before a jury of