Temptation Calls
Caridad Piñeiro

To my husband, Bob Scordato, who puts up

with my insanity, makes sure we all aren’t wearing pink

underwear and has always believed in me! Thank you

for your never-ending love and support, Bubba.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 1

Spanish Harlem, 2004

As lives went, both of hers had sucked. Still, life went on and on and on, and everyday things had to be dealt with.

Samantha Turner bore the weight of the heavy grocery bags without complaint. They were for her shelter, The Artemis Shelter, a halfway house where women and their children could heal and find a way out of the abusive relationships in their lives. With her help, many families had already broken the cycle of violence that had cursed Samantha’s long existence. She was finally doing something positive with this life.

A clerk from the local Gristedes supermarket would have delivered the groceries, but after being trapped indoors all day, Samantha wanted to breathe the night air. To savor the activity of the city that never slept. To revel in the city’s humanity so she could prepare for another day of battling its cruelty.

She rounded the corner onto her street and noticed a few youths from the neighborhood and two younger children lingering on the stoop next to the shelter. It was nearly midnight. Too late for them and their hip-hop music blaring from the boom box on the railing.

Despite the distance and the dark, Samantha identified Juan Williams, his little brother and sister, plus an assortment of kids from Juan’s self-made posse. Mrs. Williams worked the late shift at a nearby hospital and Juan was supposed to take care of things when she was gone.

He did anything but.

Samantha quickened her pace. She could get the younger Williams children inside and in bed where their mother expected them to be. It was the kind of thing they all did in the neighborhood, watching out for each other.

In the years since Samantha had brought the Artemis Shelter to this part of New York, life had gotten better for this block and that sense of community had slowly spread to the adjacent streets. Funny that her little point of light came from something darker than most could begin to imagine.

Samantha was halfway down the street when a car came sharply around the corner. Tires squealed as the car swerved, but the noise was not enough to hide the sound of a weapon being locked and loaded. Voices urged on the shooter as he stuck himself out the open window.

So many in harm’s way. Too many.

Knowing even as she did so that it would raise questions she didn’t want to answer, Samantha dropped the bags and accelerated beyond human speed. She grabbed the two youngest children and carried them down the stairs to the shelter’s lower floor. She shoved them into a far corner before returning to street level to help the others.

The loud pop-pop-pop of gunfire erupted in the night. Bullets flew, striking sparks where they hit brick and stone, splattering blood and more where they connected with flesh and bone. The teenagers scurried to get away, their bodies jerking and thrashing as they failed to avoid the line of fire.

As Samantha grabbed one youth, a bullet tore into her upper back and another hit lower, in her side. She kept moving, carrying the teenager to the stairwell while the shooter continued to fire.

Then as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The car peeled away with another angry squeal of its tires and loud rejoicing from its occupants. Anger rose up sharply within her. The animal she’d been for too long wanted vengeance. But the human side of her knew that instead of going for their throats she should memorize the faces of those responsible and note the car’s license plate number.

Besides, Samantha couldn’t chase the car. Others needed her. Even this far down the block, the smell of gunsmoke and blood was strong. Too strong. Samantha battled the urge threatening to overwhelm her.

She took a deep breath. In the distance, a siren was fast approaching. It grated on her sensitive hearing and she reached up to cover her ears.

A familiar hand touched her shoulder.

“The children can’t see you like that,” he said, motioning with his free hand to her face. “And you’re hurt.”

“I’ll be okay, Ricardo, but…Is there anything you can do for the others?” Samantha gestured to the bodies littering the stoop and sidewalk.

Ricardo slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, revealing his naked chest and a low-slung pair of pajama bottoms. He’d clearly run out of his small botanica on the corner of her block without bothering to change.

“I’m not sure—”

“Someone has to see to them and you’re right. I can’t go back now,” Samantha said. She couldn’t afford to have her secret revealed to anyone else. It was bad enough that Ricardo had discovered the truth about what she was so soon after she’d moved to the neighborhood. Right now, there were too many things tempting the animal to emerge—her anger, the smell of the blood and the pain from her injuries.

Ricardo handed her the keys to his place. “Go and rest. I’ll do what I can.”

After quickly giving Ricardo a description of the occupants and the car, she fled to the safety of the botanica. Once inside, the smells of herbs, flowers and candles calmed her heightened senses. She moved slowly toward the back of the shop and to Ricardo’s living area.

She’d been there often. Many in the neighborhood suspected them of being lovers. None could have guessed the true nature of their relationship.

Samantha slipped off his jacket and draped it over a small sofa then she walked to his bathroom to wash the blood off her hands. How many had been killed? She should’ve saved more of them. Guilt flooded her.

But gazing up at the mirror, she saw nothing. No guilt. No anguish. No image. She hadn’t seen her reflection in the one hundred and forty-one years since she’d become a vampire.

She ran her hand over the burning spot high on her shoulder. There was but a half-closed hole beneath her fingers as her body slowly expelled the bullet that had ripped into her flesh.

Farther down, along her side, at the ragged exit wound where the bullet had passed completely through her, the bleeding had stopped. The wound was already beginning to knit.

It would take a little longer, but not much. The healing would leave her weak, but even as a human she’d been accustomed to pain. No matter how much she despised the truth, neither of her lives had been free from violence.

Samantha headed for Ricardo’s rocker. It reminded her of her mother and how she’d swayed Samantha to sleep as a child. She curled up on the rocker’s worn wooden seat. “Maman, will it never end?”

New Orleans, 1860

Please let it end. Let it end soon, Samantha thought as she huddled protectively around her swollen belly, trying to shield her baby.

But the blows didn’t stop. Not for a long time.

He used his fists against her face. He kicked at her, the sharp toe of his polished black boot like a knifepoint as it connected with her arms and back and even with her belly when he found an opening around the defenses she erected in vain.

Samantha didn’t scream. The screams would only make the beating worse. Maybe even hurt others.

Last time she’d screamed, one of the field hands had rushed in to help her. Her husband had beat the man to within an inch of his life and the field hand hadn’t lifted a hand to protect himself. A black man wouldn’t dare harm his white master.

Nor could a Creole woman like Samantha. Many would consider her lucky to have landed a husband like Elias Turner, a handsome and charming sharecropper.

Samantha herself had thought so when Elias had wooed her at the tavern where she worked. It had once been owned by Samantha’s parents, before her father’s weakness for drink had ruined the business and her mother had worked herself to death. As an orphaned servant girl of mixed blood in a city where blood still mattered, Samantha couldn’t have done better than the attractive and prosperous Elias Turner.

What she hadn’t realized was that his captivating smile and charisma hid hands that too easily became fists. Or that Elias would much rather win some quick cash at cards than labor out in his fields. And worse yet, that Elias hated that she was the descendent of slaves, a mixed-blood.

Samantha had tried to make a good home for Elias, hoping that he would change. She prayed her actions would mellow the violence he too often unleashed against her and his slaves. With her careful attentions, their small home gleamed and she always had an appetizing meal waiting for him. In bed there was nothing she wouldn’t do or allow done to keep Elias’s mood good, even though at times what he asked made her feel lower than the cheapest whore in the French Quarter.

When she’d caught him looking at her swollen belly just a few weeks ago, she thought she’d finally seen something there—the start of the change she’d been working so hard to achieve.

She’d been wrong. Oh so wrong.

Elias hated that the child she bore wouldn’t be pure. As he beat her, he spat out his disgust for her and the baby she carried. Accused her of tricking him with her beauty and making him forget she wasn’t much better than his ebony-skinned slaves. When he was finally done venting his anger, he stormed from their home without even a glance back.

Even though he had left, Samantha continued to huddle tightly on the floor, bloodied and in pain. She prayed and fought not to scream as one spasm and then another tore through her. She didn’t want Elias to come back and hit her again because of the noise. She didn’t want anyone else to come in and risk a beating.

With each spasm of pain, Samantha bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting coppery blood and the salt of her tears. Something warm trickled down the side of her face from her brow. Between her legs, she was damp with whatever was escaping her body. It pooled beneath her, wet and sticky.

Samantha beseeched the God who so far hadn’t heard the cries of the women in her line. She pleaded and begged that the child within her would not know this same despair.

Morning fled and afternoon came. She lay there, unable to move. The puddle beneath her was cold now, as was she. She was weak and almost delirious from the agony racking her body.

It was dark when one of the field hands finally found her. As his gentle hands cradled her close, she finally let herself rest.

Cool bathed her forehead. It coursed down her face and along her neck, rousing her. She remembered only vague bits and pieces of the last few hours.

Slowly she opened her eyes and gazed into an undeniably masculine face. His eyes were dark, nearly black, and intense, but somehow comforting. She recognized the face, but it took her a moment to remember—Dr. Ryder Latimer from the plantation down the road.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his tone filled with concern.

Samantha tried to sit up, but pain lanced through her side and lower. She gasped and reached to rub a comforting hand over her belly, only…

“My baby. Is it…?”

“I’m sorry,” he said and abruptly rose from beside her bed.

He strode over to the small cradle at one side of the room and tenderly picked up a tiny quiet bundle. Dr. Latimer gently placed his burden in her hands. “I thought…” He paused, battling with his own emotions before continuing. “I thought you’d want to see her before…This is your daughter.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, stinging against the cuts and scrapes left by her husband’s hands. She let the tears come. Her daughter.

With hands that trembled, she cradled the child to her and lifted away the bit of blanket that covered her baby’s face. So small. So perfect, Samantha thought. She had the shape of her grandmother’s face and maybe her brow. A small thatch of jet-black hair like Samantha’s own. Pale white skin, nearly colorless in death.

In death.

“Why?” Samantha asked, although she knew why. Her daughter was dead because Samantha was too weak to protect her.

“I can call the sheriff. He can—”

“Arrest my husband for beating me?” They both knew nothing would be done.

Dr. Latimer sat down on the edge of the bed. His gaze was somber, but full of anger. “You don’t have to stay here. I have plenty of work at my place.”

“He’d just follow me. Cause problems for you. Even worse, he’d hurt the people here. Better that he hurt only me.” But it hadn’t been only her. She cradled her daughter’s immobile body tight to her breasts. They tingled and, in response, milk began to flow. There would be no mouth to suckle them.

The doctor stood, looking down at her, hesitant. Clearly uneasy. There was more he had to say. Samantha knew it wasn’t good news.

“Tell me. Whatever it is, just tell me now.”

“The birth and the beating. It tore you up badly inside. I’m not sure you can carry another child.”

Samantha closed her eyes at his words. Her daughter dead and any hope for another gone with her. “Maybe that’s for the best. It’ll keep another child from knowing pain.”

He said nothing, just walked to the door of her bedroom. “When you’re ready, there’s a pretty spot over at my place. Beneath a cherry tree and overlooking the river. You’re welcome to it for the child.”

She was touched by his kindness and all that he’d done. “Thank you, Dr. Latimer. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

He hesitated at the door, clearly considering her words. Finally he said, “You can live, Mrs. Turner. Just live.”

And then he walked out, leaving her alone to grieve.

A tear slipped down her cheek, as cold as her memories.

So much killing. So much pain. More than her rightful share in her long and seemingly interminable lifetimes.

Swaying back and forth in the rocker, battered both mentally and physically, Samantha withdrew into herself. Arms wrapped tight around her chest, teeth worrying her lower lip.

Samantha didn’t know how much time had passed when she finally sensed Ricardo’s presence in the room. “You were somewhere else, amiga. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

She stopped her rocking and gave him a tired smile. “Thank you. Are they gone yet?”

He shook his head. “It’ll be a few more hours before the police go, but they’ll be back in the morning to ask more questions.”

That was the last thing she needed—questions that might reveal her secret.

“The groceries are in the kitchen. I put the milk and other things in the refrigerator. I told the lead detective that I was just returning from shopping, but given my current state,” he motioned to his attire, “I’m certain he didn’t buy my story.”

The story wouldn’t hold up anyway, Samantha thought. A visit to the local market would reveal who had made the purchases. “Thanks for trying.” She laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. Beneath her fingers she sensed his blood, pulsing with life, and she shivered in response to her preternatural desire.

“Are you cold?” Noticing her deep chill, he said, “You need to feed.”

Samantha confirmed his observation and Ricardo left the room, returning moments later with a blood bag for her. “Sara just brought this today. I figured the freshest would be best.”

She thanked him before bringing the bag to her mouth.

Already partially in her vamp state because of her actions when saving the children and the wounds she’d suffered, the prospect of a fresh feeding completely transformed her. Her fangs erupted, elongating. Saliva dampened her mouth in anticipation. She placed pressure on the skin of the bag until her fangs punctured the thick plastic. Greedily she sucked down the blood. Energy coursed through her veins, bringing with it warmth and renewed strength. Some blood spilled onto her lips, spicing her mouth with its unique flavor.

Stingy that even one drop should escape her, she licked her lips. She laid her head back against the rocker and took a deep breath, then another. Calm slowly settled within her, replacing her earlier anger and sadness. Her fangs retracted and all other traces of her vampire nature receded. With renewed energy, she could exert control once more.

Meeting Ricardo’s gaze, she smiled. “I’ll return to the shelter once the police have gone.”

“Stay until morning and I’ll walk you back.”

It was an old argument. Whenever she returned from patrolling the neighborhood, she’d go by the botanica to sit, talk and feed if need be. When it was time to go, invariably Ricardo would suggest she stay.

She examined his face in the dim light cast by the lamp on his nightstand. There was no denying he was a handsome man. Hair the color of fertile earth hung to his shoulders in silky waves. Luxuriant green eyes reminded her of the deepest part of a pine forest. Tonight his gaze was tender and filled with concern for her.

But Samantha had no interest in any man. Not even one as incredibly desirable as Ricardo. Men had only brought pain into her life.

“You know there can never be anything between us,” she finally said.

Ricardo reached out to caress her cheek, but she reared away out of habit. She didn’t like being touched.

His full lips thinned to a tight line. “I would never hurt you. I’m not like whoever did this to you.”

No, he wasn’t, she thought. From the moment he’d sensed what she was with his unusual healing powers, he’d been a source of support. But his understanding wasn’t enough to overcome her many years of suffering. She didn’t trust men. Wasn’t sure that she ever would. But worse yet, she didn’t trust herself or the violence buried within her. The demon inside her was always just beneath the surface, waiting to emerge.

She laid a hand on his thigh once more. “I know you wouldn’t cause me pain. It goes against everything you are. But I can’t make the same promise.”

“Querida, you could never—”

“Hurt someone?” she said. She touched her chest. “Inside me there’s violence. I battle it every second of every day. I wanted to kill those boys tonight—the ones who shot Juan and his friends.”

He didn’t say anything, apparently sensing it would only lead to an argument. “I will set my alarm so you can go before sunrise.”

Samantha shook her head. “There’s no need. I can feel the dawn coming. I’ll know when to leave.”

Ricardo nodded. He slipped beneath the covers of his bed. “Buenas noches.” He shut off the light.

“Good night.” She huddled in the rocker again. In the quiet, she heard the susurrus of his breath, deepening as sleep claimed him. The beat of his heart slowed and blood pumped sluggishly through his veins. The smell of him was sumptuous with the life she lacked.

She was still weak from her earlier wounds and the heat of her transformation came upon her quickly, with her awareness of him as prey. Her fangs emerged. Her eyes adapted to the night, allowing her to see every inch of him: the pulse point throbbing along his neck as his head lay against his pillow, the fine network of veins just below his skin.

With her acute senses, the enticing masculine scent of his sweat was strong. The warmth of his skin as alive as if it was pressed to hers. It would be easy to break through that thin layer. Much easier than through the plastic blood bag. And his blood—it would be so hot and fresh on her lips, fill her with an energy the bagged blood couldn’t match.

Samantha hugged herself tight and buried her head against her knees, battling her urges. She had to go. Her control was too weak from all that had happened.

There was still activity outside, but it had lessened considerably.

She concentrated on those outdoor sounds: the shuffle of feet against the sidewalk; the slam of car doors; the rasp of equipment going back into storage areas; the murmur of voices.

Human voices in the night, unsuspecting of what was near.

The sounds became her sole focus, keeping the demon inside her contained until finally, there was silence.

Taking a last look at Ricardo as he slept, she hurried down to the kitchen where she gathered her things and left.

Dawn would not have come soon enough to spare her friend.

Chapter 2

NYPD Detective Peter Daly never made it home after the drive-by shooting. From the moment the call had come in, just past midnight, he’d been on the job.

It was just as well. He didn’t really have any reason to go home.

The sights at the morgue that morning had been grim. Three dead, all below the age of sixteen. Another one in critical condition. Amazingly, three had survived with barely a scratch.

He was still puzzling about those three as he stood on the sidewalk, examining the scene of the shooting once again. The Crime Scene Unit was supposedly finished here, but Peter thought there had to be something they’d missed. Something that would explain how three kids had escaped a fusillade of bullets.

He stepped backward, off the curb and into the middle of the street where the car had paused. With as many rounds as the Tec-9 could fire, you didn’t need good aim. Just point and shoot. That was enough to hit almost anything within close range.

Which didn’t explain how three of the children had somehow gotten away. Nor could the children explain it either. All they recalled was that they were suddenly whisked into the stairwell next door. The hangers-on in the neighborhood, religious semisuperstitious types from what Peter could see, had murmured that an angelita had saved the children. It was a miracle.

Peter didn’t believe in miracles or maybe even Heaven for that matter. But Hell. Hell was right here, he thought as he ambled back to the sidewalk, searching for any clues the Crime Scene Unit might have missed. Along the street and stoop there was nothing. Down in the stairwell of the building next door, he hit pay dirt.

Some drops of blood. Just a few on the top step leading down to the shelter’s lower level. Along the railing, what appeared to be a smear of blood. Removing a kit from his jacket pocket, he swabbed at the drops and the smear, and then safely tucked the evidence away for analysis.

Glancing up at the shelter, he wondered if anyone there had seen anything. Or if someone within had been responsible for the supposed miracle. And the blood.

As Peter turned, he caught sight of the garbage cans. A veritable source of information. He popped open the lid on the first receptacle. Nothing but recyclables. Lifting the lid on the next one, he noted the refuse from last night’s dinner. Taking off his jacket, he undid the cuff on his white shirt and rolled it up. Then he gingerly placed his hand in the garbage—a job he totally hated—and rooted around. Barely below the surface he came across something tucked into a bag from the local grocery.

The santero down the block had claimed to have been shopping. Peter grabbed the bag from the garbage. He undid the tied handles to reveal a woman’s blouse. Easing the blouse out using the plastic of the bag, to avoid contaminating the evidence, he noted the bloodstains and two glaring bullet holes—one high up on the shoulder, the other along the rib area.

Curiouser and curiouser. Peter slipped the blouse back into the bag and returned to his car. He stuffed the blouse into an evidence bag and noted the details about his discovery. Placing the blouse and the swabs in his trunk, he decided to visit the local market to see just who had been shopping last night.

As Peter walked to the Gristedes, just a few blocks away, he was struck by the neat and tidy conditions of this area. There was a sense of safety and community he hadn’t expected in this neighborhood. But then it hadn’t been the least bit safe for those involved in last night’s shooting.

At the market, Peter had no luck with the clerks or manager on duty. The night shift had just left. But the manager offered to let Peter view a tape from the night before.

There was a clear shot of a woman making a purchase shortly before midnight. A beautiful woman wearing a shirt much like the one Peter had discovered in the garbage.

“Do you know who she is?” Peter asked, motioning to the image paused on the screen. Had she been another victim? If she’d been hurt, why hadn’t she shown up in a local hospital?

The manager shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before. Maybe one of the clerks has.”

One by one the clerks were called into the manager’s office and one by one they all failed to recognize the woman in the video. Peter thanked them and added the tape to the other evidence in his car.

Then, figuring he had nothing to lose by following his instincts, he walked up the short set of steps to the door of the Artemis Shelter, identified by a small bronze plaque. Vaguely he recollected that Artemis was a warrior goddess in Greek mythology and wondered who had chosen the name for the shelter and why.

A young black woman with a toddler balanced on one hip answered his knock. “May I help you?” Hostility came off of her in waves.

Peter held up his shield for the young woman to see. “NYPD. I’m here investigating last night’s shooting. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked, maintaining her position smack in the middle of the doorway to bar his entry.

“I just want to ask a few questions. Find out if anyone saw anything last night.”

“Come back when you’ve got a warrant.” She was about to slam the door in his face when he reached out and grabbed the edge of it.

“There’s no need for this. Just a few questions.” Although given all that he’d found between the garbage can and the grocery store, he’d have enough probable cause for a warrant.

When the door fully opened again, the woman from the grocery store stood behind the young black woman. He’d thought her beautiful in the grainy video. Up close, she was stunning.

Jet-black hair fell in thick waves, framing a heart-shaped face with just the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her skin was the palest of café con leche and her eyes were large and a startling shade of crystalline blue. Barely thirty years of age.

Peter felt poleaxed as she focused her cool gaze on him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sofia is just a little protective. What can we help you with?”

Her tones were cultured, with a bit of an accent. Southern, not that he was any kind of expert.

“Detective?”

Embarrassed at his almost juvenile silence, Peter stammered as he said, “I’m investigating last night’s shooting. I’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

“Actually, breakfast is a rather busy time—”

His interest was replaced by irritation. “Miss—”

“Ms. Turner,” she corrected with an almost regal lift of her head.

“Ms. Turner. We can either do this here or down at the precinct, which would take substantially more time out of your busy day.” He took out his notepad from his jacket pocket to stress his point.

The young black woman protested at the same time as the vision of beauty said, “Detective, I’d rather not—”

“Ma’am. Please understand. Between the videotapes from the grocery and your garbage can, I have probable cause. I’d rather not complicate this with a warrant.”

What little color she had fled from her face and for a moment he worried she might faint. Instead, Ms. Turner stiffened her spine. “Sofia. Could you make sure the children are ready for school while the detective and I share a word in the kitchen?”

Sofia nodded curtly and glared at him as she stepped away.

Ms. Turner opened the door wider, giving him space to pass, and held her hand out in invitation. “Please come in.”

Peter stepped inside to a whirlwind of activity. Ms. Turner hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a busy time. Sofia and another woman were handing out lunch bags and checking schoolbooks for at least half a dozen children of varying ages and ethnicities.

Ms. Turner walked down the hall adjacent to the parlor and past stairs leading to the upper floors of the converted brownstone. At the far end of the hall, Ms. Turner took the stairs leading downward and he followed.

On the lower level was a large dining room that opened onto a small, neatly kept courtyard. The tiny patch of grass was a bright green from the spring rains and someone had been busy planting flowers.

The dining room table was still littered with the remains of breakfast. At least Ms. Turner was being truthful about that.

She walked to the kitchen located at the front of the building. There was a door at one end and he suspected it was the one that opened into the stairwell where the children had taken refuge last night. “May I?” he asked and at her nod, he confirmed his suspicions.

When he closed the door, Ms. Turner motioned to the worktable. “May I get you something? Coffee? Beignets? I just made them fresh this morning.”

“Ben-what?” he asked, confused, but he took a seat at the table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.

“French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.

“Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.

Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”

“Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.

As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.

“Would you like some more, Detective?”

A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”

“We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.

“A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”

“I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”

“Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”

“Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”

“Passersby with two bullets in them?”

Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”

He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”

Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”

“You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”

Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down and act as a witness. Or we can go—”

“Down to the precinct,” she finished for him even as she reached for the buttons on her blouse.

“Please turn around, and lower the shirt.”

She did as he asked, revealing the upper part of her back, unmarred except for a myriad of faint uneven lines. Old scars?

She gazed at him over her shoulder and he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. There was so much pain, so much fear and anguish in her gaze she couldn’t hide it.

Without thinking, Peter laid a finger on one of the pale lines. Her skin was as cold as ice.

She wrenched away from him. “Don’t.” She grasped the opening of her blouse as she whirled to face him.

Peter took a step back, shocked at his own actions. At what he was feeling about this woman he’d only just met. He’d had enough of women in his life, after all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Do you need anything else, Detective…? Come to think of it, just what is your name?”

“Daly. Peter Daly from the twenty-third. Who did that to you? Mr. Turner?” Instinctively his hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting punishment on her behalf.

Anger emanated from him. Samantha cringed and stepped away. “It was a long time ago and I’m over it.” Not that she really was. Her reaction to his touch had proven that. “Please. Just go.”

He hesitated, clearly troubled, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Samantha didn’t know how to read his offer. Had she just gone from suspect to victim? If the former, he’d be back.

As for the latter, the good detective was obviously a man used to not only dealing with violence, but meting it out when necessary. And more violence was the last thing she needed in her life. “Goodbye, Detective.”

“Not goodbye, Ms. Turner. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

Any other woman might have viewed a further visit from the handsome detective with anticipation.

It was an indication of the state of her undead life that she viewed it with dread.

Chapter 3

Samantha Turner was a frickin’ saint. Or at least, that’s what most people believed along the block where the shelter was located. The funny thing was, when asked if they’d had any personal contact with Ms. Turner, most said they’d never seen her. The remainder had only seen her once or twice.

The one thing they all agreed on was that the area had gotten better in the three years since Samantha had opened the shelter.

A one-woman frickin’ social improvement campaign.

Peter didn’t know why he was so annoyed about the supposed sainthood of Samantha Turner. Maybe it was because he knew that behind a woman’s beautiful face and virtuous ways was often a soul filled with deception.

His ex-wife had been beautiful. She’d been sweet and oh-so-needy of Peter’s attentions. Warm, willing and waiting for him, even when he’d worked the long hours required of a beat cop. He’d been working his way up the ranks so he could provide for a wife and family. Oh, how he’d looked forward to the day when they could have children and buy that home they’d always wanted.

Peter slapped shut the file on his desk. Glancing into the squad room, he realized no one had even noticed. There was too much going on.

Just as there had been too much going on in his life for him to notice what his wife was doing when he was gone. Eventually she had walked out on him with her lover and their life savings.

Beautiful is as beautiful does.

Samantha Turner was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

How had she come to be where she was? Who had marked her back with those scars?

Criminal any way you thought about it. Which meant there had to be a record of it somewhere. With that information, he might get a more complete picture of the enigmatic head of the Artemis Shelter. Maybe that would help him deal with her, know how to get her to open up and provide whatever information she had about the shooting.

More than anything, Peter wanted to nail those responsible for the killings, but he needed more evidence. So far, he’d been unable to track down the car. The license plate number had revealed that it had been reported stolen a few days earlier. It might not ever be found if it had been turned over to a chop shop. And the descriptions provided by the sole witness weren’t very specific—described a large number of youths in Spanish Harlem.

So, Ms. Turner might be the key to breaking this case and because of that, he needed to know more about her. He went through the various databases available to him, from the local ones to those kept by the Feds. Hours passed. His investigations yielded nothing except a Social Security number and minimal financial information. For anything more detailed, he’d have to ask for help. Escalate the investigation. If she’d been a suspect, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring in others and expose her private life to greater scrutiny. But Samantha Turner wasn’t a suspect. She’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason to sic anyone else on her…yet.

He had a job to do and if he stepped on some toes while doing it, so be it. At least that’s how he felt until he remembered the faint lines on her back and the look she’d given him.

He recognized that almost haunted expression. He’d seen it in the mirror more than once in the months after his wife’s desertion.

So, this time, he would cut Ms. Turner some slack. Respect the pain he’d seen in her eyes. Leave it and her alone.

That’s what Peter told himself as he put his fingers back on the keyboard. That’s what he told himself as he listened to the M.E.’s phone call about the evidence he’d turned in the day before. The blood couldn’t be typed nor could any DNA samples be extracted. Had Peter bagged the evidence properly? Had the materials been close to any chemicals or excessive heat that might have compromised them?

With a tired sigh, Peter answered the M.E. and hung up.

Glancing at his watch, he realized that with little happening in the investigation, he might as well call it a night. Head home to the fourth floor walk-up apartment in downtown Manhattan that wasn’t the house in the suburbs with the neatly manicured lawn he’d always wanted. That thought made him remember the tidily kept courtyard at the Artemis Shelter. Was Samantha the one who’d been busy planting flowers?

She shouldn’t be on his mind. She was just a witness. Not a suspect. Not a victim. At least not on his watch. Whoever had failed her had to deal with that guilt. Not him.

He had enough to handle. He didn’t need any woman in his life, especially one with as many secrets as Samantha Turner.

Which was why he called himself a fool when he drove away from the precinct and headed uptown to ask Ms. Turner a few more questions.

Chapter 4

Samantha was in bed when the call came from her longtime vampire friend, Diego. His youngest charge was missing.

Samantha was weak. Weaker than she should be after multiple feedings, but she couldn’t refuse her friend’s plea for help. Even if it meant going to the downtown vampire club she detested.

The Blood Bank was an odd kind of place, hidden in a dark alleyway and unknown to humans—except those who had a desire to experiment with dark elements. Those people managed, by word of mouth, to spread the news about the club’s existence. As for the demons, they, too, let others know—this was where the normal rules of the human world didn’t apply.

The Blood Bank provided demons with a place to let loose and to feed from the fine stock of blood acquired from a select group of blood banks and butchers. Even, occasionally, from a willing human participant, although the club had strict rules about siring humans on the premises.

The humans, on the other hand, went to the club for many reasons. The naive ones believed the fake vampires put on a good show. Others wanted to believe the vampires were more than actors and got a kick out of possibly mingling with the undead. And finally, there were those true believers who were always ready to search out a chance to embrace the darkness.

A darkness in which she had lived for too long, when what she desired most, like Diego’s poor lost little vampire, was the light. Only all that was light and good was far beyond her reach, Samantha thought, and then for some reason, the good-looking blond detective came to mind. He was as forbidden to her as the light: first for being a human; second for being a man.

As Samantha, Diego and his lover, Esperanza, strolled into the club, the crowd parted before them, as if sensing their inhuman power. All of the booths and tables near the back of the club were filled, but that didn’t deter Diego.

He examined all the spaces and then walked to a booth populated by a group of Goth-looking kids barely out of their teens. He met the gaze of each of them and in a soft voice, which did nothing to diminish the menace behind his words, said, “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”

Two of the three abruptly rose, but one young man lingered, despite the exhortations of his companions that it was time to go. He stared at Diego insolently, the sneer on his face accented by piercings on his upper and lower lips. As he smiled, the sharp points of fangs became visible.

A wannabe, she thought, failing to sense that otherworldly energy that set apart her kind from the many humans within the club.

“Actually, I’d planned to stay a little longer,” the young man said.

Samantha laid a hand on Diego’s arm when he moved toward the Goth. “Please. He’s just young and foolish—”

Diego cut her off abruptly, his normally light blue eyes beginning to glow with the unnatural light of his transformation. “Then he will learn a painful lesson.”

In a blur of movement, Diego sat beside the young man, holding his hand in a viselike grip. Fear appeared in the young man’s eyes as he stared at Diego’s face. Although Diego had yet to morph to his full vamp state, he showed a tiny bit of fang in a display of power.

It worked.

“Please, man. I’m going. I’m gone.”

When Diego released him, the young man scurried away to meet his friends, who had melted into the packed club.

Diego smiled and assumed his human face then motioned for her and Esperanza to join him in the booth.

With a huff, Esperanza said, “I hate this place, Diego.”

Diego stroked her long auburn hair tenderly. “I know, querida. But this is where Meghan is most likely to show up.”

His missing charge, Meghan, being the reason all of them were sitting in a place they generally despised. For vamps like Samantha, Diego and Esperanza, the Blood Bank was a last resort when they needed a real feeding, one not from bags or beef blood. Here, they could occasionally find a human willing to provide them with a quick sip.

Nearly a century earlier, in a club much like this in San Francisco, Samantha had first met Diego and Esperanza. She’d been looking for a vampire she’d suspected of abusing one of the girls in the shelter where she was working as a cook. She’d wanted to make sure he wouldn’t trouble the young woman again, but the vampire had been killed earlier that night in a fight with Diego.

She’d been fearful of Diego’s strength until she’d realized that, like her, he believed in using his power to make things right.

Which was the reason they were all here tonight, Samantha reminded herself as she tried to find the young vampire in the crowd.

Meghan was only twenty-one years old. Forever twenty-one. When they’d first met her two years ago, Meghan had only been a vampire for a few months, which meant she couldn’t tolerate the effects of daylight and missed feedings.

In the vampire world, only the strong survived and strength came with age. If weak vampires survived the usual challenges like sunlight and garlic, they had to keep out of the way of stronger vamps who could, if they wanted, put a quick end to their lives for the slightest of infractions. Crosses and stakes were low on the list of dangers because people just weren’t scared anymore thanks to the proliferation of the undead in the media.

But Meghan, the missing vampire, was pathetically weak. So much so that Diego had taken pity on her when she’d attempted to kill her sire, thinking that would free her vampiric curse. Diego had given her a place to live and offered his human servant as company when Meghan wanted to stay awake during the day like a human. Like Samantha, staying indoors to avoid the strong noon light and slipping outside for a chance at normalcy when the sun was weak.

Meghan had run out on Diego’s servant a few days earlier, and she’d been missing since. This club was the one place Meghan was likely to return to, either to feed or go after her sire once more.

Samantha carefully scoped out the crowd, but there were a number of coeds who matched Meghan’s description—long blond hair, slender, petite and young.

A waitress came by, dressed in a getup that Marilyn Manson would envy—a tight black merry widow and black lace stockings. “May I get you something?”

“A round of blood. Nothing but human,” Diego said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The waitress rushed to comply, returning to the bar that was kept stocked by payments to health inspectors who turned a blind eye to the unusual libations the club offered.

Samantha glanced back at her two friends as they waited for the server to return.

Diego was as stunning as always, in a charcoal-gray silk Helmut Lang suit and black silk shirt that exposed the pale white skin of his chest. His nutmeg-brown hair was down to his shoulders and straight. His eyes were a marvelous blue—clear and bright like an ice-fed mountain stream. He turned heads, but not just because of his looks. There was something almost regal in his carriage. Probably because before he’d been turned, Diego had been a Spanish lord. A betrayal during the Spanish Inquisition had resulted in his imprisonment and torture. It was deep in the belly of a Spanish prison that he’d been “converted”—although not in the way the priests would have imagined.

As beautiful as Diego was, Esperanza was as plain, but with a good, if sometimes selfish, heart. The one thing Esperanza hated was sharing Diego’s attention with the women he’d saved over the years.

Women like the missing Meghan. Women like Samantha.

Strays and lost souls who often frequented places such as the one they were now visiting.

But unlike other clubs with an obvious theme, the Blood Bank had none. Only walls, ceilings and a bar painted black. The booths, chairs and tables—where they weren’t scarred and exposing whatever material was beneath—were, of course, black.

It matched the hair and clothes of most of the people in the place. Or at least, most of the wannabes. Meghan’s blond looks would have stood out, except that occasionally, like tonight, the bar got its share of first-timers who were there to check out the wild stories they’d heard. Unfortunately, most of those club virgins had a tendency to look like Meghan.

“So, do you think she’ll show up tonight?”

“Who knows?” Esperanza replied with an impatient shrug.

The waitress delivered their drinks and hot on her heels was none other than Blake, Meghan’s sire, looking as surly and punk as ever. As the waitress departed, Blake planted his fists on their table. “Wannabes.”

Wannabe humans he should have said, since all of them knew what the young vampire thought of them. Samantha didn’t know anything about Blake’s background, but if he’d suffered even a small bit of the violence that she and her friends had endured during their human lives, he would better understand why they chose not to harm others now that they were virtually immortal.

“That outfit looks like something out of the seventies,” Esperanza taunted, motioning with her head to Blake’s chain-studded black jeans and jacket.

“Well, I think I look right fine.” His words had a hint of a cockney twang to them, an affectation he’d adopted when someone told him he looked a bit like Billy Idol. Samantha almost laughed out loud as he followed his words with an obviously practiced sneer.

Instead, she said, “Meghan is missing again, Blake. Have you seen her?”

“Been there, done that.” He studied her face. “Are you okay, because you look a bit wan.” Then he quickly added, with a wiggle of a pierced brow, “Could help you out, love, if you know what I mean.”

Impatiently Diego said, “Just tell us about Meghan.”

“Little chit was here last night on one of her rampages.” There was a bit of swagger in his stance as he continued, “Think we finally settled things between us. She didn’t seem to mind putting the bite on me in the alley.”

Vampire-to-vampire feeding being the ultimate of pleasures, Samantha thought. Esperanza had the palest touch of embarrassed color on her face while Diego’s showed nothing but annoyance at Blake’s locker room talk. Much like humans, polite vampires didn’t discuss intimate details. Feeding on another vampire was as intimate as having sex—dangerous, mind-blowing, near-death sex.

“That was a risky thing, amigo. With Meghan in one of her states, she could have easily ripped your throat out,” Diego said.

Blake leaned forward until he was almost in Diego’s face. “Jealous, old man?”

In a flash, Diego wrapped his hand tight around Blake’s throat and squeezed hard. Blake fought to free himself, but Diego’s grip was too strong. When he finally released the punk vamp, he said, “Respect your elders, Blake. As for Meghan, she is under my protection. And so I ask, do you know where she went?”

Blake took a step back from the table, rubbing his throat. “I think she wanted a snack after our little get-together. She left with some old dude late last night and didn’t come back.”

“Thank you,” Diego said and dismissed the young vamp with a nod.

Blake hurried off, melding into the crowd on the dance floor as best he could with his shock of pale hair.

“You don’t think she drained the human?” Samantha asked.

“I saw nothing in the news about it.” Diego gave her a long look. “Blake was right when he said you look a little…fragile.”

She shrugged off his concern. “Three children died last night.”

“I heard.” There was understanding in his voice as he added, “And you feel responsible?”

“Wouldn’t you?” After being turned, Diego had seen the change as a way to atone for his earlier selfishness. As his strength had grown, he’d taken in those who were weaker, protecting them when necessary.

“You were hurt, mi amiga.” He covered her hand as it rested on the tabletop, but he didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Sí, you’re very weak. Your skin is chilled. You should have said something.”

Samantha pulled her hand away and hid it beneath the table.

Diego shot her a hard look then tossed down the shot of blood, grimacing afterward.

When Esperanza went to pick up her drink, he stayed her hand. “It’s stale. Let’s find ourselves a snack and after…” He paused and glanced at Samantha, “You can restore yourself from one of us.”

“Diego—”

“Querida, do not argue. You are more frail than I have ever seen you. I imagine you slept the whole day. I know how much you must hate that.”

She couldn’t argue. Lassitude had chased her for the better part of the day, preventing her from assisting the women at the shelter. Instead of a vamp schedule of daytime slumber and nighttime activities, she’d always tried to mimic a more human life. It was necessary if she wanted to run the shelter and help others avoid the violence that had doomed her to her vampire state.

Without answering, she watched Diego and Esperanza go in search of sustenance.

Samantha perused the inhabitants of the club, hoping to spot Meghan, but if the confused young vampire was here, she wasn’t making herself known.

But the others in the building…That was a different story. Samantha could smell them. Their sweat, filled with lust and longing. She felt the warmth of the human bodies pressing close. Their life forces spilled through the place, and mixed within them was the more powerful energy coming from those who coveted that life force.

As weak as she was, Samantha could still feel the auras of the other vampires. Blake. Diego and Esperanza. At least two others working their way through the crowd. She transformed slowly so she could better perceive the other vampires, and as she did so, the crowd parted and Diego approached.

The blood-fueled energy coming off him rolled over her like a tsunami. He’d had his snack and his veins rippled with life. When he stood and held out his hand, his force was almost a physical presence, urging her to rise no matter how much she detested needing what he would give her.

She placed her hand in his. His skin was warm. Pink tinged his normally pale cheeks.

“Are you ready, mi amiga?”

She wasn’t sure she was. It had been quite a long time since she’d fed off a human, but she remembered the power in that kiss. The energy and passion fused to create a state that approached Nirvana. The thrill in subduing someone weaker and taking what they might not want to give. It was that last violent aspect that made her shun feeding on humans, even those who appeared to be willing. Once the first pain occurred, they were never willing.

As for feeding on another vampire…It would be a first for her. She’d never been weak enough to require that kind of sustenance. She hoped it would be the last time. Unlike other vampires who took great pleasure in such activities, Samantha had no interest in continuing with the practice.

Sensing her hesitation, Diego applied gentle pressure to her hand. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

At his urging, they walked to the back of the club to a series of small rooms. Billed as private dining rooms, Samantha could only imagine what was happening within. Vampires feeding on vampires and humans alike. Humans sharing a tryst as they gave in to their darker side.

An unfamiliar vampire appeared before them, blocking their way. He held out his hand and Diego slipped him some money.

The vampire pulled aside a curtain and led them down a dark hallway. He unlocked one room and disappeared.

Diego held open the door for her. “Are you ready?”

Chapter 5

The room was not much bigger than a closet. A small uncomfortable-looking bed spanned one wall and along the other was an assortment of chains, straps and bindings.

“You don’t expect that you and I—”

“No, Samantha. I know what your life has been like. I would never ask you to exchange your virtue for what I offer.” He cupped her cheek, his touch that of a friend and not a lover.

“And you offer—”

“A way for you to quickly rebuild your strength. Otherwise, it may take days and many more feedings before you are right. With Meghan missing, we all need your strength.”

Samantha couldn’t imagine feeling as badly as she had today for several more days. Nor requiring that many more feedings. Her blood supply was hard to come by, and with as many people as there were in the shelter, she risked discovery by feeding too often. “Why are you offering this?”

“I was a selfish and foolish young man. It’s why I am the way I am. But now I wish to help. In exchange, I only want the friendship you have offered for all these years.”

His words brought tears to her eyes. He was one of the few men in her life who’d ever shown her any kindness. He and Ricardo…And the good detective.

Diego brushed away a tear. “I believe you would be more comfortable if we did this standing up, no? Minus the accoutrements, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, watching as he slipped off his jacket and his shirt, revealing his chest and neck to her.

Each muscle on his body was delineated beautifully, as if a sculptor had chiseled the fine lines into the palest of marbles. He was almost too beautiful to be real, and she reached out, laying her hand on his chest just to remind herself that he was.

His skin was still warm from his feeding, but nowhere near a human temperature. Nevertheless, the heat of it blazed against her skin, chilled as she was from the injuries to her system.

Diego bent his head, exposing his neck.

A spark of warmth came to life inside her. She could feel her fangs elongating, slipping downward past the edge of her lower lip. His heartbeat, slow and steady, called to her.

Rising on tiptoe, feeling a bit woozy from the transformation that had drained the last of her strength, she inhaled the scent of him, savored it before she grazed his neck with her fangs. A shudder worked through his body and he grew hard against her.

“Diego, don’t.” Her voice sounded way too feeble to her own ears.

“I cannot help it, mi amor. Por favor, just feed. Before I forget that I am an honorable man.”

Samantha met his gaze and realized the truth of his words. There was only so much he could bear. And she had no choice any longer. A damp sweat had erupted on her chilled skin as her body began to fail.

With a small prayer that they both knew what they were doing, Samantha bit down on his neck and fed.

The rush that had come from feeding on Diego was indescribable. From the first taste of his blood, energy had surged through her, charging every atom in her body with incredible potential. Invigorating all her senses until everything seemed more alive than ever.

She’d taken only a few sips, afraid of the intensity of that kiss. Afraid of the passion that might rise within her. Sexual urges that would need to be assuaged had she fed even a drop more.

She avoided passion. In her life, passion had invariably led to pain. First her husband. Then the vampire who’d turned her. It was why she avoided any kind of involvement.

Once passion entered the mix, everything was sure to change.

Even a hint of desire was enough to incite her fear, which was why she didn’t linger with Diego. When she reached the shelter just past midnight some of the effects of her feeding had worn off, but not entirely. Like someone who was over-caffeinated, she was unable to rest. Unable to remain confined. So she slipped into the night, leaping from rooftop to rooftop as she surveyed her neighborhood to make sure all was right. It was something she regularly did to keep the neighborhood safe. Even though she rarely saw anyone during her solitary patrols, she knew her neighbors believed her responsible for the improvements in their lives.

She paused her patrol after an hour to watch the fast rush of clouds across the face of the moon. A storm was on its way, she could smell it. When the first drops arrived, she turned her face to the sky and let the chill rain wash over her. It cleansed away the smell of Diego and his blood, cooled the heat of her skin from her transformation and the feeding.

The calm lasted only until she returned to the shelter. A flat of bright salmon-colored impatiens and a note from Sofia waited for her on the kitchen table. Detective Daly dropped by with these flowers and some questions.

She didn’t know what to think about the flowers. She took them out to the small brick patio just beyond the French doors to catch the spring rain.

The flowers sat there for the rest of the night and into the early morning while she worked off some of the blood-induced energy by making lunches for the children and working mothers and preparing that morning’s breakfast.

Dawn was just breaking when Sofia came down, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “You’re up earlier than usual.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Thinking about the good detective?” Sofia asked as she made a pot of coffee.

Yes, Samantha thought, but she shook her head. “Nope. Just worried about a friend.” Which wasn’t far from the truth. The night had come and gone with them finding out nothing about Meghan’s whereabouts. It wasn’t like they could go to the authorities for help.

As she’d put the impatiens on the patio, she’d let herself imagine how the good detective might react if she asked for his assistance.

Hello, my friend Meghan is missing.

Any distinguishing characteristics?

Why, yes. Fangs and a bad temper when deprived of blood.

He would think she was certifiable. Not that she cared what he thought.

Then she had little time to think about anything as the morning rush commenced, with the women and kids shuttling in and out of the kitchen, preparing for another day.

He was a stupid fool.

Why had he expected her to be home last night? She was a beautiful woman. She wouldn’t sit around the shelter day in and day out. His cop’s intuition told him there was something about Samantha Turner that was far from saintlike.

He’d felt like a total idiot as he’d thrust the flat of impatiens into the hands of the young black woman who’d answered the door earlier in the day. Her sullen mood had dissipated to some extent, but it hadn’t kept her from issuing a warning. “Ms. Turner has no interest in men.”

With those words, she’d slammed the door in his face and left him pondering all night long the meaning behind them.

Given the nature of the shelter, and the scars he’d seen on her back, it seemed likely that Ms. Turner’s aversion to men had to do with a relationship with one man that had soured her on the species in general.

And you’re about to remedy that? The annoying little voice in his head had challenged him for the entire drive back to the shelter this morning.

He really had no more information than he’d had the day before. Which meant that unless she abruptly changed her tune about her whereabouts on the night of the shooting, it would do little good to see her again.

So instead of walking up her stoop he headed to the end of the block, to the store where his one supposed witness lived and worked.

Peter gazed through the large display window at the various items for sale along with the santero’s services. Rumor claimed he was a healer, although Peter was reluctant to put much faith in gossip. Doctors healed. This guy was probably a con man robbing people of what little they had left from their social security and welfare checks.

Not that Peter could do anything about it, even if that was the case.

As he walked to the door, the sign that said Closed flipped to Open.

Inside, it was not what Peter had expected.

In the anteroom of the shop, one wall held an assortment of candles and books related to various religions. A glass-topped display counter ran along the opposite wall and bore an antique cash register. Within the counter, religious medals and pins made of gold, silver and semiprecious stones gleamed. Behind the register stood the healer himself and beyond him, bookshelves filled with dried flowers and herbs alongside sacred statues and other items of devotion.

“May I help you, Detective Daly?” Ricardo asked.

“Mr. Fernandez,” Peter said with a nod of his head. “I wanted to confirm the information you provided the other night.”

Peter walked into the back room of the shop. Here at the farthest wall, there was a small altar holding a large statue of a saint, although he couldn’t identify which one despite his earlier life as an altar boy. Assorted candles were scattered along the altar, together with an assortment of small bowls and dishes that held an eclectic mix of items—flowers, tobacco and some coins.

Peter motioned to the altar. “This is—”

“To Catholics, Santa Barbara. But to those of us who practice santeria, it is Chango, one of the strongest of the deities.” Ricardo followed Peter then sat in one of the chairs in the back room.

Peter turned to look at him, waving his hand at the woven grass mat on the floor and the chairs circling the area. “What exactly do you do back here?”

“Worship. The Supreme Court says it’s allowed, you know.” As he spoke, Ricardo crossed his arms in a casual stance, but there was some anger in his words.

Peter sat in one of the chairs opposite Ricardo. “Do you do your ‘healing’ here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but knowing he failed miserably.

Surprisingly, the other man took Peter’s contempt in stride. “I’m not asking that you believe, Detective. But I know I’ve helped others with my abilities.”

Peter flipped through his notes before asking, “You say you helped one of the teenagers that night.”

Ricardo nodded. “One of them was still alive when I got there, but bleeding badly.”

“Was it a mystical help or—”

“Plain old medical help. I applied pressure to his wound and tried to do what I could. I was a medic in the army before opening my store.” Peter suspected there was more to that story than he was letting on, not that it mattered to this case.

“And how about Ms. Turner? How did you help her that night?”

“Detective. I’ve already told you. I was the only one on the street that night with the children.”

“Right. So tell me how it is that Ms. Turner was the one who purchased the groceries at the store? Groceries in your possession immediately after the shooting.”

There was no trace of emotion on the santero’s face. Not even a flinch or a narrowing of the eyes. “I went to the shelter. Ms. Turner was already inside when I took the groceries from her.”

“In your pajamas? And you walked right into the line of fire?”

“I’m a healer, Detective. What did you expect?”

He’d expected the santero to do exactly what he was doing, Peter thought. Cover up for Samantha Turner. Peter had no doubt she’d been there that night. Maybe even had a hand in saving the lives of the children who’d survived. But if she had done so, she had to have been injured. The blouse and the blood in the stairwell gave mute testimony to that fact.

“Did you heal Ms. Turner after she was shot that night?”

Shaking his head, Ricardo rose from his chair and motioned for Peter to leave. “I think we’ve exhausted this line of questioning, Detective.”

Peter followed Ricardo back to the counter. “Did you heal her? Off the record.”

Ricardo narrowed his eyes as he considered him. “Off the record?”

Peter nodded.

“What Samantha has, I can’t heal.”

Something akin to dread filled Peter’s gut. “She’s sick? Is it—”

“It’s not a sickness like you can imagine, Detective. It’s in here,” Ricardo said and motioned to a spot above his heart.

“I know she’s had it rough. I saw the lines on her back.”

Ricardo seemed almost physically jolted by that revelation. “She doesn’t show them to many people. She must trust you.”

He didn’t want to contradict the other man by telling him that he’d given Samantha no choice. Not that they were what he’d expected. But having seen them, he’d recognized that she’d entrusted him with something very personal and very painful.

Peter said nothing else, just closed his notepad and headed for the door.

“Detective.”

Peter stopped and turned.

“Don’t make her sorry that she trusted you.”

Chapter 6

The morning sun was still weak and she was still in overdrive from Diego’s blood. Not to mention that a flat of salmon-colored impatiens called to her to be planted.

Samantha let Sofia know where she would be, grabbed a large floppy-brimmed hat and walked into the yard. The buildings nestled close together kept the yard in partial shade for most of the morning. It wasn’t until noon that the sun was high enough to bathe the yard with light.

Perfect timing actually. At her age she could tolerate weak morning sunlight, but not anything stronger. At least, not for long. She hoped wherever Meghan was, she had taken shelter. As young as she was, she could die quickly from overexposure.

She picked up the flat of impatiens and began on the left side of the yard. The sun would bathe that area first as it travelled to the west. The border along this side already held a collection of vegetable plants. The small garden cut food costs and there was nothing like the taste of a ripe tomato picked off the vine.

Small shovel in her gloved hand, floppy hat securely on her head, she worked quickly, transplanting the impatiens from their small plastic containers to the rich earth. As she worked she occasionally glanced up at the sky, keeping a careful watch for the sun.

She had bordered the vegetables when she heard the slide of the French doors. Sofia stood in the courtyard, Detective Daly beside her.

Merde.

“You have a guest.” Sofia didn’t wait for Samantha’s reply. She left the detective to find his own way.

Samantha wasn’t about to encourage him to stay. As he walked toward her, she picked up the flat and walked to the back of the yard to continue with her gardening. She dug a few holes and was reaching for a container when he stood beside her.

“I’m sorry to bother you again.”

She refused to look up. Instead, she slipped a plant in each hole and tamped down the soil around the roots. “I’ve already told you I know nothing about what happened that night.”

He crouched down to her level. “I got a call a short while ago. We found the car and CSU is already working it.”

She finally faced him. A big mistake. Unlike the other day when he’d been looking a little haggard from lack of sleep, he had a fresh-faced glow on his tanned face. His hair—that shaggy streaked blond hair—hung along the edges of his face, itching to be brushed aside. She fought her awareness by saying, “And that’s supposed to mean?”

“We may get some prints or other evidence. But that’s still not as good as an eyewitness.”

She rose and shifted to work on another section of the border.

He followed, but didn’t crouch down beside her again. Instead, he pitched his plea while standing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his serviceable dark gray suit. He jangled his change as he spoke. “Your friend Ricardo wasn’t at the scene. That’s obvious from talking to him.”

She shrugged and continued digging. “Ricardo says he saw the car and the shooter.”

“I never said there was only one shooter.”

Peter watched as his words made her pause. She fumbled with the shovel before resuming her methodical planting. “Ricardo mentioned it to me.”

She was lying. He didn’t need to see her face to know it. He could tell from the tension in her body. The muscles in her shoulders had tightened beneath the pale blue long-sleeved T-shirt she wore with faded jeans that hugged every curve.

“A defense attorney will shred Ricardo’s testimony. That may create enough reasonable doubt for those killers to walk.”

She finally turned her gaze on him. Her earlier flush had faded. Now she looked rather pale. “I didn’t see what happened.”

“They’ll kill again, you know. They’re like animals. Once they get a taste of fresh blood, the urge doesn’t go away.”

His comment made her blanch even more and sway. He reached out to steady her, but she wrenched away. “Don’t touch me.”

Peter gritted his teeth and took a breath. “I’m sorry. Again.”

She glanced down at her hands before looking up at him and then beyond. He followed her gaze, but could see nothing since the sun was coming up over the roof of the building next door. Samantha tucked the last small pack of flowers beneath one of the low-lying bushes then hurried to the house.

Peter followed her, intent on pleading his case, hoping she would admit the truth.

Once inside, she tossed her hat and gloves on a small table then poured herself a cup of coffee. She didn’t offer him one.

Which disappointed him. First, because the lady made a mean cup of coffee. Second, because he knew she was blowing him off. He wasn’t about to let her get away with that. “May I have some?”

A small smile quirked her mouth. “Presumptuous aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

That dragged a chuckle from her. “I imagine you have, Detective.”

“Peter. You can call me Peter. Remember?” he said as he sat at the kitchen table.

Samantha eyed him intently, trying to get a read on the detective. Was the investigation making him linger, or was it something else? Despite her age, or maybe because of it, her womanly intuition was rusty. She intentionally hadn’t dealt with the man-woman game since escaping the vampire who sired her. That had been nearly one hundred and forty years ago.

“Detective,” she said now. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“There’s no need, ma’am. Unless you have more of those square donut things.”

He dragged a smile to her lips again with his honesty and with his boyish grin at the mention of the beignets. Turning from him, she poured him a cup of coffee and microwaved a small pot of milk to warm it. When she placed both before him on the table, she finally answered him, “No beignets today, Detective.”

“Peter.”

“Just some buttermilk biscuits.”

“Homemade?” he asked with hopefulness.

She crossed her arms and smiled. “Are there any other kind?”

“Would you join me if I had one, or maybe two?”

She’d told herself not to encourage him to stay and yet here she was doing just that. And even considering his offer to join him, not that she had need of any food. While she might enjoy the tastes of what she prepared, only blood provided sustenance. Until the sun had entered the courtyard, Diego’s blood had energized her, but now that strength was beginning to fade. Once Sofia left for class and the good detective departed, she’d have to grab a snack from the small refrigerator in her room.

“I’m not really hungry, but I’ll keep you company. It’s the least I can do to thank you for the lovely flowers.”

“No, it was the least I could do to apologize for yesterday. For touching you. I shouldn’t—”

Samantha gave an angry slash with her hand to silence him and looked away. “That’s okay. I’d rather not discuss that.”

She almost jerked back when he cupped her chin and urged her to look at him. “I’m sorry. And you’re cold. Are you okay? You’re pale.”

She hated the concerned look on his face. “I think it’s time you left, Detective.”

He didn’t correct his name again, as if aware that it would do little good. Biscuits and coffee forgotten, he rose, and she walked him to the front door.

“Not all men hurt, you know.”

Samantha gripped the edge of the door, battling for control as anger rose in her. “And you know this because you’re an expert in what men do?”

All boyishness fled from his face. He motioned to everything around them. “I see it every day, Samantha. I know what some men do. But I know there are other men who want to make things right.”

Only nothing could ever be right with me, Samantha thought. No amount of goodness could change what she was or the undead life she lived because of the cruelty of men.

“Goodbye, Detective,” she said and closed the door on him. Hopefully forever.

Chapter 7

The steel chains binding Meghan to the hooks in the cement wall were cold against her skin. The wall was rough against her body. The sicko liked to keep her naked, her feet barely touching the ground.

Meghan pulled at the chains feebly, weak from the need to feed and the daylight that snuck in through the window at the end of the day, searing her skin. She couldn’t recall how many times that sunlight had popped in to inflict its punishment. Had it been two or three days? she wondered.

It was becoming hard to focus due to her waning strength and the fear that touched her during the long bouts of being alone and confined. Fear that would roar to life once he’d come back to play his demented games.

She should have known better than to go with the old man. She’d thought he’d be an easy conquest. The weak usually were.

Only he’d turned the tables on her the moment they’d left the club.

Meghan hadn’t known what hit her. All she knew was that a sudden explosion of pain had brought her to her knees before she lost consciousness.

During her captivity, she’d learned that the perverted ol’ bastard had used a Taser on her. She still bore burn marks from the last time. Which was not good. She wasn’t healing anymore because she was too debilitated.

If the old man took any more of her blood, or played too many more of his sadistic little games, she wouldn’t survive.

Maybe that was for the best, Meghan thought. This wasn’t the kind of life she’d envisioned for herself. She’d been hoping for college in the city followed by a 9-to-5-rush-home-to-the-suburbs kind of life.

Thanks to Blake that would never be. Blake. That skanky-assed punk vampire.

Meghan swore that if there was one thing she’d do before she met her end—the second time—it would be to see that Blake got his for what he’d done to her.

The creak of the door alerted her to the old man’s arrival and thoughts of revenge were driven away by dread. Meghan pulled at her chains, but it accomplished nothing. He smiled at her foolish attempts, and picked up a scalpel.

Meghan bit back a whimper. She hated when he used the scalpel, but she refused to let him know. Her pride was the only thing she had left. Despite her intentions, however, she couldn’t control her involuntary flinch as the old man ran the flat edge of the blade along her midsection.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” he said, bringing his face so close to hers that she had no choice but to look into his cold blue eyes.

“What’s so good about it?” She jangled the chains with what little strength she had left.

“It’s your last.”

Peter holstered his Glock and stepped away from the wounded teenager. Given the extent of the young man’s injuries, he probably wouldn’t survive.

Peter’d had no time for guilt or second-guessing. If he hadn’t shot back, he’d be the one bleeding to death on the floor of the warehouse. And if the teen had gotten away, he would have been free to hurt someone else. The way he’d shot those kids in front of the Artemis Shelter.

Peter took another look around the gang hangout. A few tables and chairs. Beat-up secondhand sofas clustered in front of a state-of-the-art plasma television. Some clubhouse.

“Sorry, Detective. We lost the other suspect about two blocks away.” The officer was winded as he spoke, a testament to the chase he’d given.

“The one you shot outside is dead. He’s one of the perps you were trying to find,” the second officer said.

Two down and one on the loose. And with one perp dead and the other likely to expire, Peter would be up before a review board in the morning. Taking his gun out of his holster, he held it out to the young black officer. She hesitated, but he waved it at her. “You know the routine.”

She took the gun and nodded. “I’ll hold it until CSU finishes.”

“I’d appreciate that. Did you get a good look at the third perp?”

Her answer was interrupted by the growing wail of an ambulance siren. It arrived in a rush of activity as the EMTs tried to stabilize the wounded perp.

CSU arrived minutes after that, as well as his captain. Peter appreciated the older man coming down to the scene to offer his support. “Captain,” he said with a respectful nod.

“You okay, Daly?” The older man reached into his jacket pocket, eased out a pack of cigarettes and offered Peter one.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

Captain Fitzgerald smiled and slipped the pack back into his pocket. “Neither do I, but it helps some of the men, you know.”

Peter doubted a smoke would help him deal with the fact that he’d killed one person and critically wounded another. He watched the ambulance pull away, and then turned his attention to the CSU people who were busy taking photos and gathering evidence.

His captain tracked his gaze and said, “Did you have any other choice?”

Peter replayed that moment in his mind, going over each step the perp had taken. Rewinding the scene in his brain again and again, but no matter what, the outcome was the same. “Perp was firing at us. He had Rodriguez and White pinned behind their car. I had no choice.”

“And the second one?”

“Firing from the doorway. They weren’t going to stop, Captain.” The two teens hadn’t stopped the other night when they’d shot those kids and they’d had no qualms about trying to add a few cops to their growing pile of bodies. The prints they’d found on the van had led them here, to young men who had rap sheets already pages long.

“You’ll have to give a full report in the morning, Daly. Make sure you’ve got your facts straight.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and motioned to the two uniformed officers answering CSU’s questions. “They’ll be able to confirm everything, Captain. I did it all by the book.”

The captain grasped his shoulder in a gesture meant to reassure. “I have no doubt about it, Daly. You always do everything according to regulation.”

Peter nodded, but the comfort from the older man’s words wasn’t enough. Following the rules only made it a little easier to deal with the fact that he’d killed two people. The day that it became easy, he’d turn in his shield.

But for today, just as he had told his captain, he’d had no choice.

Chapter 8

Samantha, Diego and Esperanza swept through the crowd in the Blood Bank, hoping to find Meghan. It had been nearly a week since her disappearance and they still didn’t have a clue as to where she’d gone.

Esperanza thought the young vamp had finally decided to sacrifice herself to the light she loved so much. With a vampire Meghan’s age, it wouldn’t take that long. Just a few hours and she would be dead, drained of her life force by the sun’s rays. Another few hours and all that would be left was a big pile of ash.

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