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Vampire Games

From the Files of the Otherworlder Enforcement Agency

Entangled Publishing, LLC

For once, it wasn't a nightmare that woke me. The booming knock at my door sounded again and I dragged myself out of bed. I held my gun at my side, out of view, and opened the door a few inches. "Yes?"

The man didn't appear to be armed, I'd give him that. But I was, even if it was my personal sidearm, and knocking so loudly before my alarm went off was almost enough to make me shoot him. But I was a professional. An agent with the Otherworlder Enforcement Agency. And shooting a man for waking me up before dawn would result in a heck of a lot of paperwork.

I hated paperwork.

By the looks of his expensive suit, obviously tailored to his lean frame, he wasn't delivering a package. But he had the slightly pale pallor of a vampire, which meant a standard-issue bullet would probably just piss him off unless I got in a really lucky shot.

My bleary gaze sharpened. Shock hit me as I studied the line of his jaw, and the paleness of his blue eyes. What the hell was he doing here?

"Beatrice?" His gaze slid down my oversized flannel pajamas as if my outfit wasn't quite what he was expecting. "Long time."

"Yeah." I fought the heat flushing my face but lost. What did I care what the bloodsucker thought of my pj's? It was five o'clock in the damn morning. What was I supposed to be wearing? Even agents got cold in St. Louis in March. "Why are you here, Claude?"

The Chicago detective ran a hand through his hair, and for a split second I could feel its softness sliding between my fingers.

"I need your services." He flashed me a grin, and I frowned at his flirting tone. Once upon a time I might have flirted back — okay, I definitely would have flirted back. But it had been a rough couple of weeks. A rough year. Ever since my former partner and I had worked a big case involving succubi being kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder, I'd struggled against dark emotions. I had seen too many horrible experiences, and I hadn't been able to let up or take a break from work for far too long. Lives had been on the line, succubi kidnapped and murdered.

It wasn't unusual for us to go through this kind of thing, hit a breaking point and need to slow down and take some time away. But I didn't like it. I was at my best when I was working, and there was always another criminal to take down.

"What kind of services?"

"Your services as a psychometrist, of course. I have an object that I believe may carry a psychic imprint," he clarified, but his flirtatious grin didn't falter.

"No shit. Here I was figuring you'd stopped by to chat."

"Well, aren't you charming before your first cup of coffee?"

I didn't grin at his joke, but it was a near thing. Of course he was looking for my services as a psychometrist. Investigators didn't show up at my door at this time of night looking to chat. My ability to read the psychic imprints left on objects was at a premium these days. Not that my interpretations could clinch a case. Fact was, half the time my powers didn't work. True emotional trauma had to have occurred near the object for a psychic imprint — unless I was able to read something physically connected to a person, like their hair.

"You're a long way from Chicago."

The vampire was something of a legend among cops. As a member of the Chicago Paranormal Unit, he'd solved several high-profile crimes that had made the national news. And more than that, he was rumored to be high up in whatever private echelon vampires used out of the public eye.

"You're worth the trip," he said. Then, at my glare, he quickly added, "You're the best psychometrist in the Midwest."

"That's bull."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm the best in the country." I gave him a lazy smile. Okay, maybe I was up to flirting a bit, even if seeing him still stung. Claude had shown his true colors long ago. "But that doesn't explain why you're here."

Especially considering that I wasn't, strictly speaking, on duty for the next two weeks — if psych even approved me to come back then.

My gut twisted at the thought, but Claude laughed, and some of my tension released. The man was too damn pretty and, laughing, he was something else. Light brown hair topped his head, cut in a longish way that I suspected was designed to appear messy.

Of course, I knew the muscles that were only hinted at under that jacket were stronger than those of any human. I knew how they flexed and moved in the light. I knew how they felt under my fingertips.

"You are the best in the country. Glad to see you realize it." He stepped forward and leaned on the doorframe, slightly in my personal space, as if casually asking for a date. But I wasn't fooled, and I didn't back up. I could see the wariness in his eyes and the tension in his body. As if he was ready to be attacked at any moment. The Claude I knew was cool and collected — whatever he was here for, it was putting him on edge. This couldn't be good.

"I need a favor. I have some evidence that needs your special touch."

I glared at him. "You ever hear of something called a formal request? Or the fucking phone? Or, I don't know, waiting for daylight?"

"That all sounds terribly time-consuming."

"Well, that's the thing about doing shit the right way —"

"Please. It'll take five minutes. The official paperwork will get to you eventually — you know how long that can take."

I suppressed a sigh. Five minutes? More like two hours of paperwork once the official request caught up to me. But the man had come all the way from Chicago. And it was pretty damned unlikely he'd done that on a whim.

But I was over what had happened between us — not that there had been anything to really get over. And no matter that I jerked his chain now, I was always willing to help out another investigator. Besides, I was stir-crazy. I'd been away from work for two weeks already, and it was likely to be another two before I'd be back on duty — minimum. Annoyance rushed through me at the thought, but I pushed it down.

"Fine. But not here. There's a diner down the road." I gave him quick directions to the twenty-four-hour place. It would be almost empty this time of morning.

He grimaced. "This is kind of private — evidence and all."

"We'll be discreet. Or, we can go to my office. I don't bring my work into my home." Not purposefully anyway. It was my sanctuary. The one place I didn't have to think about death. Didn't have to see it, experience it. Not that my visions didn't follow me here — didn't follow me everywhere. But that didn't mean I had to invite them inside.

He shrugged. "As you wish. The diner sounds good. I'm a tad peckish." He flashed his teeth and headed down the sidewalk.

I glared after him, annoyed at the thrill that ran through me at seeing him. And worse, at the flash of his fang.

The last bit of winter clung to the St. Louis streets, seeping into my bones the second I stepped out of my house. The drive to the diner took less than five minutes — not long enough for the heater in my car to kick from cold to hot.

The diner door dinged as I opened it, then smacked the doorframe when I let it slam behind me. A man dressed in jeans and a heavy flannel shirt occupied one corner booth, nursing coffee. The large semi-truck taking up one side of the small parking lot no doubt belonged to him. I guessed the diner staff must not care about parking this early.

Claude had taken a booth on the opposite side of the diner from the trucker, hidden from view from the front door and off to one side of the counter where the waitress refilled the coffeemaker.

I sat across from Claude, noting he'd made sure to keep his back away from the front door. I was not so lucky. Then again, I wasn't paranoid enough to think someone was going to sneak up on me at this time of the morning. But I hadn't been alive long enough to gather the enemy list Claude probably had. Of course, he knew what I was like in the morning, pre-coffee. He might be right to be nervous.

"What can I get for ya?" The waitress looked like every man's grandma. Glasses perched on the end of her nose, and tightly curled gray hair touched her ears.

"Coffee, please." Claude gave the waitress a world-class smile, and she smiled back at him patronizingly, unimpressed with his good looks.

"Decaf for me," I said. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the air enticingly, but I refused to eat breakfast. That would be as much as admitting that I was up, and I was going back to bed the second I returned home. To sleep.

Hopefully, a dreamless sleep.

The waitress nodded and left, then returned with our coffee and a bowl of various flavors of creamers. I grabbed a couple of hazelnut packets and poured them into my cup.

"Thanks again for your help," Claude said. "How have you been, mon chou?"

"Dump the small talk, Claude." I resisted the urge to tug on my hair. How, after all this time, could the man make me immediately angry? The term of endearment pushed my buttons. It made me wonder what would have happened if things had ended differently. But it was an old wound I wasn't keen to reopen with what-ifs.

He reached for the creamer, his hand brushing mine slightly as I went for the sugar packs. A bolt ran through me, recognition and need merging with regret to form a ball in the pit of my stomach. I stilled, and slowly he pulled away.

"I'm not trying to anger you," he murmured.

"Then dispense with the pretty endearments."

He raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. From the seat next to him, he grabbed a rolled-up paper bag and slid it across the table to me.

"Not so fast. Give me some background info," I said. He frowned, so I added, "It'll help put the images I see into something that might actually make sense." And it would. But mostly, I didn't like to touch shit without knowing what I might be in for. Even for Claude Desmarais.

My resistance seemed to surprise him, but that made sense. Six years ago I'd been a bright-eyed, positive girl without a real clue about the world, and willing to go the extra mile for a smile of approval from a star among cops. And I'd had a hell of a crush. A crush he'd been more than willing to explore after just a bit of convincing on my part.

He was still a legend, and just as striking and ageless.

But I wasn't that girl anymore.

Claude paused for a moment, then nodded — more to himself than to me. "All right. There have been a series of murders back in Chicago. We think it's a serial killer."

"No OWEA involvement yet?" The Otherworlder Enforcement Agency was similar to the FBI in that we mostly waited until locals called us in.

"Not until you."

I grunted, keeping my opinion on the matter to myself. The Chicago Paranormal Unit — or PNU — was a good unit, but the OWEA had more resources.

"People have been disappearing. We've found several bodies thus far that seem related to the same guy."

"How many still out there that might be related?"

"No way of really knowing." He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.

I sipped my coffee, relishing the hazelnut flavoring while I considered what he had said. "How do you know the deaths are related?"

"They were all branded using an honest-to-God branding iron."

I choked on my coffee. Claude handed me a napkin and I nodded for him to continue.

"The brand is in the bag — that's the evidence I need you to touch."

"Wait a sec." I took a deep breath and coughed again to clear my throat. "You managed to get the brand? How the fuck did you do that?"

The trucker passed our table, heading toward the men's room. He nodded in greeting, and I nodded in return.

Claude shrugged and lowered his voice. "Got lucky. The end must have broken off in the fire. We found it settled in some old ash."

I frowned. Something didn't jive with his story. Brands didn't just break off. Not that luck didn't help solve the occasional investigation — hell, routine traffic stops caught a shitload of criminals who'd done far worse. Of course, the vampire wasn't giving anything away. I was willing to bet the man had been able to lie easily since before I'd been born.

Not that he looked it. I was twenty-eight, but looked like I was in my early twenties — despite the stress inherent in my job. Claude looked a few years older than I did. But he had the poise of a much older person. And while I couldn't feel much of the signature vampire fear aura radiating from him, that didn't mean much. The intimidating aura that exuded from vampires seemed to have little to do with their power or age.

"Tell me the rest."

"I'm kind of on a timetable here. Tell you what, read the brand for me and I'll send you the file."

I let out a breath in a big whoosh of air. Truth was, I didn't want to handle the icky brand that had probably been used in some sort of sick, ritualistic murders. I didn't want to watch people die in my head. And I most definitely didn't want to carry that memory with me until the day I died.

But that was the job.

Granted, not a job I was supposed to be doing without authorization, but my skills were far too useful to the OWEA for them to fire me for skirting the line.

I nodded and he slid over the bag. I unrolled the heavy bag. It was a normal evidence bag, but it didn't have the normal tags. No case number. Nothing. That bothered me, so I made a mental note to check up on it later.

Air whooshed in and out of my lungs as I purposefully hyperventilated. I had passed out twice from lack of oxygen during a vision before I realized that such a simple thing could help.

I stuck my hand in the bag and gripped the branding iron.

A loud rush of sound filled my ears, as if I'd just plunged my head into a bucket of water. Inky darkness overtook my vision for half a second, and I fought sudden claustrophobia.

Every time, I experienced the same overwhelming feeling of being trapped in a dark, airless, white-noise-filled room. And I always tried to move — even knowing that movement was impossible.

Then the fear and sensory deprivation was gone. And what replaced it was worse — always worse.

Glowing with orange fire, what could only be the brand filled my vision. The symbol was unfamiliar. Five lines converged into a triangle, with a swirl cutting across the lines. Smaller symbols that looked like eyes peeked out from the spaces in between the lines.

A man's face replaced the brand. He frowned at me, and I had a difficult time focusing on him. My vision blurred. He was saying something, but I couldn't hear him. His frown deepened and he turned away, still talking. He wasn't talking to me. The realization seemed unimportant. Foreign emotions ran through me, too fast to identify them. But fear soaked it all. Fear and almost debilitating panic.

The metal edges of the diner table came into focus first, and I sucked in a breath of air. Then Claude asked if I was all right. I waved him off, trying to get my bearings.

"I'm fine," I managed. I wasn't really. I never was after a particularly violent vision. Not right after. Not even a week after. It took time for them to fade.

Luckily, this vision hadn't been terrible — of course, the initial one usually wasn't. Sometimes I witnessed the torture, the death. But something about this vision felt off. The man's face had almost seemed ... familiar. And a sickness filled my stomach, as if the coffee disagreed with me.

I shook my head. Maybe the OWEA shrinks were right. Maybe these visions were getting to me.

I raked my eyes over the room, over the painfully handsome vampire sitting across from me in the booth, over the old and worn decor of the diner around us, over his tailored suit. I barely allowed myself to blink. It took my body a few minutes to stop shaking, and just as long for the sight of the solid room around me to convince my brain that I was no longer trapped in that cold place with the flaming brand.

Claude waited silently. Too silently. His eyes were on me, and his body betrayed no movement. Vampires did that sometimes. Creepy.

I broke the silence the way I always did, with my first impressions. "I saw the brand, then it went away and a man replaced it — a vampire. He said something — was talking. But not to me — the vic, I mean."

"What did he say?"

I raised my eyebrows at his question, but before I could come up with an appropriately smart-ass reply, he answered his own question.

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Excerpted from Vampire Games by Tiffany Allee, Erin Molta, Robin Haseltine. Copyright © 2013 Tiffany Allee. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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