Dangerous Games

from the caramel cow.

Bob Dunleavy lived in a small house—or town house, as the estate agents liked to call them—a couple of house blocks down from the Springvale police station. Maybe the boys in blue wanted to keep an eye on him. Or maybe Dunleavy figured that he'd fly under their radar by living so close. Though if his record was anything to go by, it hadn't worked so far.

Smiling slightly, I rested my arms on the steering wheel and studied the town houses opposite, not only checking tor indications that Dunleavy was home but also looking for hints about the man himself.

If his house was anything to go by, Dunleavy was a slob. Which pretty much explained his lengthy record—a neat thief was often harder to catch than a messy one.

This section of Springvale was an old, established area and the house blocks around here were large enough to have three smaller houses built on them. Most of the old houses in this street had already been torn down to make way for their smaller cousins, and the 'for sale' signs dominating the front yards of the remaining two suggested it wouldn't be long before the whole street was shared residential.

Dunleavy's town house was the rear one—the one closest to the back fence and the railway lines behind it. It was clearly visible from the road thanks to the fact it sat front-on to the driveway rather than side-on, like the other two. Dunleavy's neighbors had to hate that fact. While their little places were neat and tidy, his was anything but. Talk about bringing the tone of the neighborhood down.

Two of his front windows had been smashed, the holes covered by soggy-looking cardboard that was held in place by long strips of black tape. Scraggy-looking curtains hung sadly from either side of these windows, and were yellowed with age and slashed in places. The other windows were covered by taped-up newspaper. The front door was a mess of peeling paintwork and holes, and even the brickwork looked worse for wear—almost as if it had the dust of eons coating its surface.

I couldn't see anyone moving around inside, even though there'd been bursts of movement evident in the other two town houses. But that didn't mean anything. Dunleavy did most of his work at night, so he was probably asleep right now.

I grabbed my coat and climbed out of the car. The wind hit, pulling at my hair and slapping my skin with its iciness. I shivered my way into the coat and heartily cursed the winter weather. Though at least it wasn't raining yet.

After locking the car, I shoved my hands into my pockets and made my way across the road. A curtain covering a window in the first town house moved, and a face briefly peered through the glass. An older woman, her features pinched and harsh looking. I gave her a smile of acknowledgment and she quickly dropped the curtain back in place.

Maybe the reason Dunleavy had been caught so often wasn't so much a product of his carelessness, but rather his nosy neighbor.

I continued on past the second town house. The eleven o'clock news was blasting out from either a radio or TV inside, and the smell or burnt toast hit the air. I drew it in, savoring the sharp aroma even as my stomach rumbled a reminder it had only had toast for breakfast, and made a mental note to grab a burger on my way back to the Directorate.

There was a small van parked out the front of Dunleavy's garage. A quick look through the windows revealed piles of newspapers, discarded take-out containers and, stacked neatly in a plastic box attached to the van's side, several duffle bags. Dunleavy's tools of trade, no doubt. I climbed the crumbling concrete steps and raised a hand to knock on the door. Only to freeze as a familiar smell spun around me.

Blood. Thick, ripe, and very, very fresh.

And with it came the scent of death and excrement—smells I knew entirely too well.

Dunleavy—or someone else—was dead inside the house.

And Gautier had been here.

Chapter Four

For several heartbeats, I didn't move. Scarcely even dared to breathe as I listened to the wind, sorting through the scents that ran with it, nothing the sounds that ran underneath it. There was no hint of life—or even unlife—coming from this flat. Only from those behind me.

Gautier might have been here, but he wasn't now. I'd feel him—or any other vampire, for that matter.

And while part of the excrement scent was definitely his, there more to the smell than simply his presence. It had a very human aroma to it—and the one thing Gautier had never been was human.

Meaning someone had probably shit themselves inside the town house. Of course, anyone who had any brains would be scared shitless by Gautier. He was one nasty mother.

I stepped back from the door. The lock was in place, and there was nothing to indicate it had been forced in any way. If Gautier had been here, he hadn't come through the front door to get at Dunleavy. Though the only way he could have forced his way through the door in the first place was if Dunleavy had previously invited him in. If there was one rule about vampires that was true, it was the fact that they couldn't cross thresholds uninvited.

'I called the cops, you know.'

I wasn't sure what leapt higher—my feet or my heart—and even as I spun around, I was reaching for the weapon I didn't have. Mainly because I'd taken it off near the coat stand at home last night, and had gone back to pick it up in my rush to get out Kellen's door this morning. Jack would have my hide if he found out.

Thankfully, I didn't need it. The voice belonged to the sharp-faced old woman from the first flat. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing pulse and ignore the fact that it could have been anyone who'd crept up on me. God, I was still so green at this, I was a danger to myself.

'What?' I said, perhaps more brusquely than I should have.

'I called the cops.'

Great. Just what I needed to deal with on top of a possible murder. 'And you'd be Mrs… ?'

'Ms. Radcliffe.' She drew the knitted shawl draped over her frail shoulders closer to her body as the wind gusted again.

'Ms. Radcliffe, I'm a guardian.' When her expression showed little comprehension, I added, 'With the Directorate of Other Races.' I grabbed my badge—which I always carried—and showed it to her. 'I'm here to talk to Mr. Dunleavy, so there was no need to report—'

'Not now,' she interrupted, expression suddenly cross. 'Before. When all that racket was happening.'

'Before when? And what sort of racket are we talking about?'

'Must have been seven-thirty, eight o'clock, something like that. And the noise—' She sniffed. 'Sounded like they were throwing things about and smashing up the place.'

'No screaming? No arguing? Nothing like that?'

'No. They were quiet this time—except for smashing things up, that is.'

'They who?'

'Him and his dirty little piece.'

I raised my eyebrows and somehow resisted the urge to grin at the bristling disapproval in the old girl's voice. 'His girlfriend?'

She sniffed again, and somehow managed to make the sound disparaging. 'If that's what you want to call her.'

'What does she look like?' Not that I actually wanted to know, but I had no idea how good the old girl's sight was. Maybe she'd seen Gautier and didn't realize it.

'Thin, with big tits. Dark hair, dark skin.'

Not Gautier, then. The wind swirled around us again. His scent was fading fast. If I wanted to uncover what, exactly, he'd been up to, I had to get inside. Which meant getting rid of the old biddy—and that obviously wasn't going to be easy.