She set her fingers on his chest, straightening the collar of his tailored shirt. “That’s okay—I don’t think I could even begin to describe my first impression of you.”

He caught her hands. “But it’s changed?” he asked softly.

“The jury is still out,” she told him. It wasn’t, though. Not really. He was dedicated. He was…noble, even, she thought. He was Elven, she was a Keeper. Elven could be anything, and he had chosen, like her, to protect and serve.

There were a million reasons she should back away. They were embroiled in a horrible situation together, surrounded by death and tragedy, by a threat to everyone and everything they knew, to the entire world of the Others and the city where they all hid in plain sight.

And yet the worst of it was that she was worried not for her world but for her heart and soul.

And not a drop of the fear tearing through her could save her.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of THE KEEPERS: L.A. I hope you enjoy this new four-book foray into the world of the guardians of the supernatural known as the Keepers. Writing these books—joined for this go-round by Harley Jane Kozak and Alexandra Sokoloff, two very good friends—has been a true labor of love.

When Harley and Alex and I began to think about this second go-round, our first concern was…where else? And, again, the answer came to all of us at the same time: Los Angeles, City of Angels, City of Dreams.

And a city where at any given time you might see any kind of performance, any kind of costume, any kind of anything happening right there in broad daylight—or the dark.

I’m actually in L.A. as I write this. Contestants for The Voice are scurrying around my hotel, all of them filled with hopes and dreams. And naturally, to sustain all the dreamers in the city, you have the exclusive clubs, the new “it” places and all the people who own and run them. And then there are those with the true power: the producers, the agents and the directors, who are thrilled—and sometimes challenged—by the choices the producers make.

What better place for a few new Keepers—a bit disconcerted by their sudden call to duty—to govern those denizens wearing masks beneath their masks?

I hope that you’ll have as much fun reading about these new Keepers as we had writing about them.

Thank you, and enjoy!

Heather Graham

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM has written more than a hundred novels, many of which have been featured by the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild. An avid scuba diver and ballroom dancer and a mother of five, she still enjoys her south Florida home, but loves to travel as well, from locations such as Cairo, Egypt, to her own backyard, the Florida Keys. Reading, however, is the pastime she still loves best, and she is a member of many writing groups. She’s currently vice president of the Horror Writers’ Association, and she’s also an active member of International Thriller Writers. She is very proud to be a Killerette in the Killer Thriller Band, along with many fellow novelists she greatly admires. For more information, check out her website, theoriginalheathergraham.com.

Keeper of the Night
Heather Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Sometimes in life we get to meet people and in a few

minutes we feel we’ve known them all our lives. I’ve

known both Harley and Alex now for years, but from

the time I met them I felt that I’d known them since

childhood. To my prized and beloved cohorts on this

Keepers journey, Alexandra Sokoloff and Harley Jane

Kozak. I cannot remember a time when we weren’t

friends, and I certainly can’t imagine not having

you in my life.

Prologue

Perception, to paraphrase the old saying, is nine-tenths of the law.

And so the world happily—well, mostly happily—accepts the truth of that. And, perception, of course, is the main duty of those born to be Keepers and maintain order among the paranormal races.

As centuries slipped by, man became a “show me” species and lost his belief in what he couldn’t see plainly with his own eyes, and that was good for all the decent and law-abiding creatures. As the twenty-first century progressed, populations exploded. Human beings covered the earth, with birth rates at an all-time high.

And other beings flourished, too, learning how to coexist in a world where the magic of the earth and skies was no longer recognized, and human credence was more and more limited to one particular sense: sight. Many people began to lose faith not just in the unexplainable or unknown, but even in their own omnipresent God.

While those of an…unusual bent had once headed strictly to places like New Orleans, where even many among the human population believed themselves to be vampires or other denizens of the night, many places in the world became the destinations of choice for the truly different. The well-known among the races—vampires, werewolves and shapeshifters—were ready to expand their territory, as were Others who had once chosen to remain in their native lands, the Elven, gnomes, leprechauns, fairies and more.

With that expansion came the need for an international council, the first of its kind, to keep order, and Keepers from across the world were selected to meet at a secret rendezvous in order to construct a code that would be universally accepted. They would serve as the last word when it came to events that could disturb the status quo, because even the Otherworld races considered the most vile and beastly in human mythology were trying to blend in and survive.

With so many of the most experienced Keepers serving on the council, some of the most promising young Keepers were thrown into difficult situations with little warning.

And since so many of the paranormal races still liked to settle where the abnormal was the norm, where theatrics abounded, even the most absurd people and situations frequently went unnoticed, it was no wonder that the population of the Otherworld exploded off the charts in one particular place: La-La Land, also known as Hollywood, California.

City of dreams to many, and city of lost dreams for too many others. A place where waiters and waitresses spent their tips on head shots, and the men and women behind the scenes—the producers—reigned as the real kings.

So many of the paranormal races—the vampires, the shifters, the Elven and more—traveled there, and many stayed, because where better to blend in than a place where even the human beings hardly registered as normal half the time? With so much going on, no one set of Keepers could control the vast scope of the Greater Los Angeles Otherworld, and so it was that the three Gryffald cousins, daughters of the three renowned Gryffald brothers, were called to take their place as peacekeepers a bit earlier than had been expected.

And right when L.A. was on the verge of exploding with Otherworld activity.

Hollywood, they were about to discover, could truly be murder.

Chapter 1

There was blood. So much blood.

From her position on the stage, Rhiannon Gryffald could see the man standing just outside the club door. He was tall and well built, his almost formal attire a contrast to the usual California casual and strangely at odds with his youth, with a Hollywood tan that added to the classic strength of his features and set off his light eyes and golden hair.

And he was bleeding from the throat.

Bleeding profusely.

There was blood everywhere. It was running down the side of his throat and staining his tailored white shirt and gold-patterned vest.

“Help! I’ve been bitten!” he cried. He was staggering, hands clutching his throat.

No! she thought. Not yet!

She had barely arrived in Los Angeles. This was too soon, far too soon, to be called upon to take action. She was just beginning to find her way around the city, just learning how to maneuver through the insane traffic—not to mention that she was trying to maintain something that at least resembled steady employment.

“I’ve been bitten!” he screamed again. “By a vampire!”

There were two women standing near him, staring, and he seemed to be trying to warn them, but they didn’t seem frightened, although they were focused on the blood pouring from his wound.

They started to move toward him, their eyes fixed on the scarlet ruin of his neck.

They weren’t concerned, Rhiannon realized. They weren’t going to help.

They were hungry.

She tossed her guitar aside and leapt off the stage. She was halfway to the group milling just outside the doors of the Mystic Café when she nearly plowed into her boss. Hugh Hammond, owner and manager, was staring at the spectacle.

“Hugh,” she said, trying to sound authoritative and confident. “Let me by.”

Hugh, a very tall man, turned and looked down at her, weary amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t a bad sort, even though he could be annoyingly patronizing at times. She supposed that was natural, given that he had been friends with her father and her two uncles. Once upon a time he’d been a B-list leading man, and he was aging very slowly and with great dignity.

He was also the Keeper of the Laurel Canyon werewolves.

“Hugh!” she snapped.

“By all means, Miss Gryffald, handle the situation,” he told her.

She frowned and started to step past him, refraining from simply pushing him out of the way. This was serious. Incredibly serious. If a vampire was ripping out throats in broad daylight, in front of witnesses…

“Stop!” someone called out.

Another man, dark where the victim was blond, not quite as tall, his face lean and menacing, broke through the crowd and addressed the bleeding man. “Give in to me! Give in to me and embrace the night. Savor the darkness. Give your soul to me and find eternal life and enjoy eternal lust. Drink from the human soul, the fountain of delight, and enjoy carnal delights with no fear of reprisal.”

She was ready to shove through the crowd to reach the victim’s side and defend him against the newcomer, but Hugh had his hand on her arm. “Wait,” he whispered. “Rhiannon, take a look at what they’re wearing and how they’re acting, and think about it.”

She was dying to move, but she stood still, blinked and heeded Hugh’s words.

The two young women reached for the victim’s arms, holding him up as the dark man spoke. One licked her lips in a provocative and sensual manner.

“Lord, forgive me,” the bleeding man pleaded. “God, help me, for Drago comes and would have his terrible way until none but monsters walk the earth.”

Drago walked forward threateningly, then stopped suddenly and turned to the crowd. He grinned pleasantly, and menace became humor as he said, “If you want to see any more, you need to listen up.”

Where there had been silence, as if people were frozen with fear, there was a sudden eruption of laughter and applause.

“Thank you! Thank you!” the “victim” announced, lifting his hands to silence the crowd. “I’m Mac Brodie, actor at large. The diabolical Drago is portrayed by the illustrious Jack Hunter, and…” He turned to the sensual vixens at his side. “Erika is being performed by the beautiful Audrey Fleur and Jeneka by Kate Delaney. Please, everyone, take a bow.”

They did. Drago was darkly handsome, and both young women—Audrey, a brunette, and Kate, a blonde—were extremely pretty. They, like the two men, were in Victorian attire, but in their case it was Victorian night attire. Beautiful white gossamer dresses, with gorgeous bone corsets beneath, and silky pantalets.

Mac continued to speak. “Please, join us at the Little Theater on the Hill this evening or anytime throughout the next three months, where we’re presenting Vampire Rampage, which will soon begin production as a major motion picture, as well. We ask that you come and tell us what you think. Shows start at eight o’clock every night except Sunday and Monday, but to make up for that, we do have matinees on Wednesdays. Thank you!”

He bowed low, lifted his head and waved to the appreciative crowd.

Hugh stepped up close behind Rhiannon. “Actors,” he said, sounding tired, as if he knew the profession and its attendant promo stunts far too well—which of course he did. “This is Hollywood, Miss Gryffald. Everyone’s a bloody actor. Get used to it. You’ve got a lot to learn about life out here.” He smiled down at her in that patronizing way that made her crazy, and shook his head. “Looks like your tip jar just disappeared.”

Rhiannon turned quickly toward the stage. It was true. The lovely little tip jar her great-aunt Olga had made for her was gone. Along with her tips. And they hadn’t been half bad today; a lot of people had thrown in bills instead of nickels.

She wanted to scream. Worse, she wanted to run back to Savannah, where so many people—and…Others—survived on the tourist trade alone that they behaved with old-fashioned courtesy and something that resembled normal human decency.

But Hugh was right. This was Hollywood, where everyone was an actor. Or a producer, or a writer, or an agent, or a would-be whatever. And everyone was cutthroat.

It’s Hollywood, she told herself. Get used to it.

Go figure that the Otherworld’s denizens would be starstruck, too.

“I’m calling it quits for the day, Hugh. I’m heading home.”

He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. “Calling it quits? That’s what they sent us? A quitter? It’s up to you, but I’d get up there and play if I were you. You can’t quit every time there’s a snafu. Lord above! We need Teddy Roosevelt, and they send us a sniveling child.”

“I’m not a sniveling child, Hugh. I just don’t see the sense of going on working today. Since there’s certainly no imminent or inherent danger—”

He interrupted her, laughing. “Imminent or inherent danger? The world is filled with inherent danger—that’s why you exist, Rhiannon. And imminent? How often do we really know when danger is imminent? Did you think being a Keeper was going to be like living in a Superman comic? You see someone in distress, throw on a red cape, save the day, then slip back down to earth and put your glasses on? How can you be your grandfather’s descendant?”

Rhiannon felt an instant explosion of emotions. One was indignation.

One was shame.

And thankfully, others were wounded pride and determination.

“Hugh, I know my duty,” she said quietly. “But my cousins and I were not supposed to take over as Keepers for years to come. No one knew that our fathers would be called to council, that the population explosion of Otherworlders in L.A. would skyrocket the way it has and we would need to start our duties now. It’s only been a week. I’m not quitting, I’m adjusting. And it’s not easy.”

Hugh grinned, released her chin and smoothed back her hair. “Life ain’t easy for anyone, kid. Now get up there and knock ‘em dead.”

She looked around the place and wondered drily if it was possible to “knock anyone dead” here. It was basically a glorified coffee shop, but she did need to make something of herself and her career here in L.A.

She’d left Savannah just when Dark As Night, her last band, had gotten an offer to open for a tour. Her bandmates had been incredulous when she’d said that she was moving, and distressed. Not distressed enough to lose the gig, though. They had found another lead guitarist slash backup singer before she’d even packed a suitcase.

Wearily, she made her way back to the stage. Screw the tip jar. She didn’t have another, and she wasn’t going to put out an empty coffee cup like a beggar.

She could not only play the guitar; she was good.

Unfortunately, given the recent twists in her life, it seemed she was never going to have the chance to prove it.

She stepped slowly back up on the stage. Earlier the crowd had been watching her, chatting a bit, too, but and enjoying her slow mix of folk, rock and chart toppers.

Now they were all talking about the latest Hollywood promo stunt.

Rhiannon began to play and sing, making up the lyrics as she went along, giving in to her real feelings despite her determination not to be bitter that she was suddenly here—and with little chance for a life.

I hate Hollywood, I hate Hollywood, oh, oh, I hate Hollywood, I hate Hollywood, oh, oh, oh, oh.

Everyone’s an actor, it’s a stark and frightening factor,

I hate Hollywood….

And I hate actors, too,

Oh, yeah, and I hate actors, too.

Okay, her cousin Sailor was an actress, and she didn’t hate Sailor, although she wasn’t certain that Sailor was actually living in the real world, either. She was too much the wide-eyed innocent despite the fact that she’d grown up in L.A. County—and had also spent a few years pounding the pavement trying to crack Broadway and the New York television scene. Maybe the wide-eyed innocence in Sailor was an act, too. No, no, Sailor really wanted the world to be all sunshine and roses. And, actually, Rhiannon loved her cousin; Sailor always meant well. And now, according to the powers that be, she and Sailor and another of their cousins, Barrie, a journalist with a good head on her shoulders, were to take their place as Keepers of three of the Otherworld races right here in L.A.

Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeaaaah, I hate Hollywood,

And I hate actors, too.

If anyone disagreed with her lyrics, they didn’t say so. No one was really listening, anyway. And maybe that was the point. Easy music in the background while the coffee, tea, latte, mocha and chai drinkers enjoyed their conversations.

Polite applause followed the song. Rhiannon looked down, not wanting the audience to see her roll her eyes.

At ten o’clock Hugh asked her to announce that the café was closed for the night. She was shutting her guitar case when one of the coffee drinkers came up to her, offering her a twenty. Surprised by the amount of the tip, she looked at him more closely and realized that he was Mac Brodie, the actor who had been covered in fake blood earlier.

She looked at the twenty but didn’t touch it, then looked back into his eyes.

Elven, she realized.

Six foot five, she thought, judging that he stood a good seven inches over her own respectable five feet ten inches. And he had the telltale signs: golden hair streaked with platinum, eyes of a curious blue-green that was almost lime. And, of course, the lean, sleekly muscled physique.

She lowered her head again, shaking it. “Elven,” she murmured. “It’s all right. You did ruin my night, but that’s okay.” She made a point of not looking directly at him. Elven could read minds, but most of them had to have locked eye contact, so looking away made it possible to block the intrusion. And, luckily, the process was hard on them, so they didn’t indulge in it frivolously.

“Keeper,” he said, drawing out the word. “And new to the job, of course. Sorry. I saw that look of panic on your face. I’m assuming you’re here for the bloodsuckers?”

She stiffened. In Savannah she’d been a fledgling vampire Keeper, apprenticing with an old family friend who’d kept the city peacefully coexisting for years, but she’d always known that one day she would take her father’s place in L.A.

As she’d told Hugh, this had all been so sudden. There hadn’t been a warning, no “Tie up your affairs, you’re needed in six months” —or even three months, or one. The World Council had been chosen, and in two weeks a core group of some of the country’s wisest Keepers was gone and their replacements moved into their new positions. And there was no such thing as calling the Hague for help. No Keeper business could ever be discussed by cell phone, since in the day and age they lived in, anything could be recorded or traced.

So the new Keepers were simply yanked and resettled, and the hell with their past lives.

“Yes, of course, Keeper for the bloodsuckers,” Mac said, his tone low.

“Some of my best friends are bloodsuckers,” she said sweetly, looking quickly around. She’d been about to chastise him for speaking so openly, but the clientele was gone and the workers were cleaning the kitchen, well out of earshot. Of course, he might know exactly what she was thinking even without her saying it aloud. Some Elven were capable of telepathy even without eye contact, so she braced her mind against him. In fact, she knew she was playing a brutal game. It cost an Elven dearly to mind-read, especially without locking gazes, but it cost the target a great deal of strength to block the mind probe, as well.

There were a lot of Others in L.A. County. One thing they all did was keep the secret that they were…unusual. It was the key to survival—for all them. History had taught them that when people feared any group, that group was in trouble.

“Same here,” he told her. “I’m fond of a lot of vampires.”

She stared at him for a moment. He was undeniably gorgeous. Like a sun god or some such thing. And he undoubtedly knew that Elven usually got their way, because they were born with grace and charm—not to mention the ability to teleport, or, as they defined it, move at the speed of light.

She was annoyed. She had no desire to be hit on by an Elven actor, of all things, but she didn’t want to fight, either. All she wanted was to make her point. “I don’t want money from a struggling actor,” she said. “You don’t need to feel guilty. I’m fine. I work because, Keeper or not, I still have to pay the bills. But Hugh gives me a salary, so go do some more promo stunts. I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he said quietly. “And I’m truly sorry that we ruined the evening for you.” He offered her his hand. “I’m Mac. Mac Brodie.”

She hesitated and then accepted his hand. “Rhiannon. Rhiannon Gryffald.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Gryffald. And am I right?” he asked her.

“About?”

“The vampires?”

“Are you asking me so that you could avoid me if I were Keeper of the Elven?”

“Hey, we Elven have spent centuries keeping the peace because we’re strong, sure of ourselves, some might say arrogant—” he smiled “—and we can talk almost anyone into almost anything. I’m asking you out of pure curiosity,” he told her. “And because I’m trying to make casual conversation—and amends. I really am sorry.”

Rhiannon waved a hand in the air. “I told you, it’s all right. However, it has been a long day, and I would like to go home now.”

“No nightcap with me, eh?” he asked.

He was smiling at her again. And like all his kind, he had charm to spare.

That’s why the Elven fared so well in Hollywood. They were almost universally good looking. Tall, and perfectly built. They were made for the world of acting.

She realized, looking at him, that he was exceptionally godlike. She was surprised, actually, that he bothered with small theater at all. He would have been great in a Greek classic, a Viking movie or a sword and sorcery fantasy. He was lean, but she knew that he was strong—and would look amazing without a shirt.

Then again, he’d announced that the play was going to turn into a major movie. Maybe he was sticking with it for the stardom it might bring.

“No nightcap,” she said. “I’m simply ready to go home.”

“Perhaps you’ll consider letting me buy you that apology another time?”

“Doubtful,” she assured him.

He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Well, be that as it may, you really should come see the show.”

“Thank you, but I really don’t enjoy a mockery being made of my—my charges,” she told him.

He leaned closer to her, and the teasing, flirty smile left his face. He almost appeared to be a different person: older, more confident and deadly serious.

“No, you really should come see the show,” he said. “My number is on the card, Miss Gryffald. And I’m sure you know L.A. well enough to find the theater.”

He turned and walked out the door, nearly brushing the frame with the top of golden head.

Puzzled, she watched him go.

Hugh appeared just then. “Still here? I’m impressed,” he said.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” she told him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. And be on time.”

The man could be extremely aggravating. Werewolf Keepers were often like that, she had discovered. But then, the more experienced a Keeper was, the more he or she often took on the characteristics of a charge to a greater or lesser degree. She suspected that Hugh could become a wolf at the drop of a hat.

With her precious Fender in hand, she left the café. She heard Hugh locking the door behind her.

She headed to the ten-year-old Volvo that her uncle had left for her use, set her guitar in the trunk and started off down the street. Her song really hadn’t been half bad. “Hollywood, oh, I hate Hollywood,” she sang as she drove.

Brodie nodded to the attendant on duty and proceeded down the hallway of the morgue, past rooms where dozens of bodies in various stages of investigation were stored.

That was one thing about L.A. that wasn’t so good. The city was huge, and the number of people who died on the streets, many of them nameless and unknown, was high. Possibly even sadder were the ones whose names were known—but whose deaths went by unnoticed and unmourned.

Of course, the morgue also housed the remains of people who were known and loved—but who had died under circumstances that ranged from suspicious to outright violent.

That night, however, he passed by the autopsy rooms, remembering all too clearly the one he’d entered when he was sixteen, a room filled with corpse after corpse wrapped in plastic shrouds—so many dead. His father had arranged it after discovering that Mac had left a party after drinking. Luckily he had only creamed the garage door. But it might have been a person, and his father had made sure he knew what the consequences could have been.

He reached a door marked Dr. Anthony Brandt, Senior Pathologist.

Tony undoubtedly knew that he was coming. Tony knew a lot. He had an amazing sense of smell that had served him well as a medical examiner. He could smell most poisons a mile away.

Before Brodie could tap on the door, Tony had answered it. “I was expecting you tonight,” he said.

“Oh?”

“We’ve gotten another body that I think belongs to your killer.”

“Where did he leave his mark this time?” Brodie asked.

Tony just looked at him, ignoring the question. “You still doing the show?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“I saw that the cast included a Mac Brodie. That’s you, I’m assuming. Not much of an alias,” Tony said.

“None of the other actors actually know me. Being Mac Brodie instead of Brodie McKay works all right—if anyone looks me up, the captain has made sure that they’ll find my online résumé and all the right information. Makes it easier if someone who does know me calls me either Mac or Brodie.”

Tony mused on that for a minute. “You’re not the only one going by a stage name, are you? I noticed a Jack Hunter in the credits.”

Brodie shrugged. “You’re right—that’s Hunter Jackson. Obviously the cast and crew know who he really is—they’re just sworn to secrecy.”

“So he is the well-known director?”

“Yes. The play is his baby, really. He found the script and decided to produce it, then sell the film rights. The play was written by a friend of his, our stage manager. Name’s Joe Carrie. Nice guy, about forty—and definitely human.”

“So you don’t think he’s our murderer?” Tony asked.

Brodie shook his head. “No, and there’s no proof the killer’s even involved with the play itself. He could just be a theater buff. But the play does seem a solid place to start, at least. So, anyway, what makes you think our killer is responsible for this corpse?”

“Exsanguination, for one thing.”

Tony was an interesting guy; he looked like what you would expect a werewolf to look like in human form. He was big and muscular, with broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. He had a head full of thick, curly light brown hair, and when he was on vacation, he grew a beard that would do Santa proud.

“And?”

“There’s never anything obvious about the marks he leaves behind, but this time it looks like they’re on the thigh. This is one clever vampire. He makes sure that he disposes of the bodies in a way that will lead to the most decay and deterioration in the shortest time.”

“Want to show me the body?” Brodie asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Tony led the way down the hall to one of the autopsy rooms.

It was a large room, big enough for several autopsies to take place at one time. Now, however, the room was quiet and dim, and only a single body lay on a gurney on the far side of the room.

Strange, Brodie thought. He was Elven, although the Elven were pretty damned close to human in a lot of ways, maybe more human than they wanted to be. And he was a detective, often working undercover in some of the grittiest neighborhoods of a tough town where bluebloods crossed paths with derelict drug dealers. But despite both those things, he’d never gotten over the strange sensations that nearly overwhelmed him at an autopsy. Life—flesh and blood—reduced to sterile equipment and the smell of chemicals on the air. The organs that sustained life ripped from the body to be held and weighed and studied. It was just somehow…wrong, despite the fact that the work done here was some of the most important that could be done for the dead and the living both.

Tony pulled down the sheet that covered the victim, and Brodie stared first at the face, his jaw hardening.

“You’ve seen him before?”

Brodie nodded. “It’s hard to tell, really, the body is so decomposed. But I think I recognize him. I think he was at the first performance of the show.”

“Any idea who he is?” Tony asked.

“No, he was just a face in the crowd. Second row center. Have you gotten a hit off dental records? What about fingerprints?”

“Look at the hands,” Tony told him, pulling the sheet down farther.

Brodie did, and he felt his stomach lurch sharply, even though he’d expected the scene that met his eyes.

The killer had chopped off the fingers.

Tony nodded toward the body. “Just like the other two. And here’s what I found—you’ll need that magnifier there.” He pointed.

Brodie picked up the small magnifying glass that Tony had indicated, then walked down to join Tony by the foot of the gurney. Tony slipped on gloves and moved the thigh. The skin was mottled and bruised looking.

“No lividity?” Brodie asked.

“The discoloration and bloating you see are because he was dumped in a pond out by one of those housing projects they never finished off Laurel Canyon—suspiciously near your theater,” Tony said. “But use the magnifying glass and check out his thigh. There are marks. They’re tiny, and they’re practically buried in swollen flesh, but they’re there. And, of course, the body was pretty much drained of blood. There is a slash at the throat, but despite the damage and decay, I believe it was postmortem.”

Despite his feelings about autopsy and corpses, Brodie donned gloves, shifted the dead man’s leg and peered through the microscope, searching for the telltale marks, then looked up at Tony.

“Third body in two weeks with the same marks and same method of disposal,” Tony said.

“And I know I’ve seen this one at the theater,” Brodie said wearily.

“And the killer dumped them all close to that theater,” Tony told him. “Your captain seems to have been on the mark.”

Brodie nodded. “Yeah, without his insight the victims might have fallen on to the big pile of cold cases, with no leads to go on. The captain is…a smart guy.”

“Guess that means you stay undercover,” Tony said. “Too bad L.A.’s three best Keepers have been called to council. This is one hell of a mess.”

Brodie thought about the stunning young auburn-haired woman with the big green eyes he had seen at the café. She’d rushed to what she thought was a crime scene like a bat out of hell. She’d been ready, he thought. But she wasn’t ready enough. She loved her music too much. In a way, he understood. It was difficult to realize that you could—had to—lead a normal life, then let it all go to hell when necessary.

He wished to hell that Piers Gryffald, Rhiannon’s father and the previous Keeper of the Canyon vampires, was still there.

But he wasn’t.

And the body count was rising.

Driving in L.A. was not like driving in Savannah. People in Savannah moved at a far more human pace. Everyone in L.A. was in a hurry, which seemed strange, because often they were hurrying just to go sit in a coffee shop and while away their time, hoping to make the right connection. Some hopefuls still believed that they could be “discovered” in an ice cream parlor, and God knew, in Hollywood, anything could happen, even if the statistics weren’t in their favor.

At least coming home—to the house that had been her old summer home and was now her permanent base—was appealing. She had to admit, she loved the exquisite old property where she lived with Sailor and Barrie. Each of them had her own house on the estate—the compound, really—that had been left to their grandfather, Rhys Gryffald, by the great Merlin, magician extraordinaire, real name Ivan Schwartz.

Somehow during his younger years, Merlin had learned about the Keepers. He’d longed to be one, but only those born in the bloodline, born with the telltale birthmark indicating what they were destined to become—werewolf Keeper, vampire Keeper, shapeshifter Keeper and so on—could inherit the role. Since he couldn’t be a Keeper, Ivan did the next best thing: he befriended one. In fact, he had become such good friends with Rhiannon’s grandfather that he had first built him a house on the property, opposite the guesthouse that already existed, and then, on his death, Merlin had willed the entire compound to him.

Good old Ivan. He had loved them all so much that he had never actually left.

The House of the Rising Sun, the main house, loomed above her as she drove along the canyon road, and she had to admit, it was magnificent. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known the house all her life. Her grandparents had three sons—her father and her two uncles—and her dad had been mentored by a Keeper in Savannah, which had turned out to be a very good thing, since he’d fallen in love with her mother, a musical director for a Savannah theater. But then he’d returned to L.A. and assumed responsibility for the Canyon vampires—and she shouldn’t have had to take over for another zillion years, give or take. She had grown up in Savannah, where her mother had kept her job, and her father had traveled back and forth on a regular basis. Despite the distance, her parents enjoyed one of the best marriages she had ever seen. And she’d grown close with her L.A. family, because she’d spent summers and most holidays there at the House of the Rising Sun. Sailor had always lived in the House of the Rising Sun itself, except for her acting stint in New York.

Barrie was now in Gwydion’s Cave, the house Merlin had built for their grandfather, and she herself had the original 1920s guesthouse, called Pandora’s Box.

Pandora’s Box. A fitting name for all of L.A. in her opinion.

The main house really was beautiful! Regal, haunting and majestic, high up on a cliff. The style was Mediterranean Gothic, and it seemed to hold a thousand secrets as it stood proud against the night sky.

As a matter of fact, it did hold a thousand secrets. All right, maybe not a thousand, but a lot of them. Like the tunnels that connected all three houses. And the little red buttons that looked like light switches and were set randomly around the three houses. Little red buttons that set off alarms in all three residences, in case someone in any one of them needed help.

The property could only be reached via a winding driveway that scaled the cliff face, and the entire property was protected by a tall stone wall. She had to open the massive electric gate with a remote she kept in her car or else buzz in and hope someone was home to answer.

Grudgingly, she had to admit that she loved the House of the Rising Sun and living on the estate wasn’t any kind of punishment. It was still breathtaking to watch the gate swing wide to allow entry to the compound, and then awe inspiring to see the beautiful stone facades of the houses appear.

Sometimes she wondered why Merlin had bothered with the wall. The Others that the Keepers were assigned to watch weren’t the type to be stopped by walls or gates. But then again, Merlin had lived in the real world with its real dangers, too, as did they—although calling the surreal world of Hollywood “real” seemed like a contradiction in terms.

She clicked the gate shut behind her and drove forward slowly, noting that Barrie’s car was parked on the left side of the property, while Sailor’s, unsurprisingly, was not. Since there was no garage—all the available land had been used for the houses—she assumed that if Sailor’s car wasn’t there, neither was Sailor herself. Barrie was determined to save the world, not only by overseeing the shapeshifters but also by practicing the kind of hard-hitting journalism that could bring about change in L.A., if not the world, so, she tended to keep reasonable hours. Sailor, Keeper of the Elven, was determined to rule the world from the silver screen, which meant she was likely to be out and networking at all hours.

Still thinking about the way the Elven had handed her his card and told her that she should see the play, Rhiannon pulled into her usual parking place and exited the car, bringing her guitar with her as she headed for Pandora’s Box. Slipping her key into the lock, she shoved a shoulder wearily against the door, stepped in and flicked on the lights.

She was tired. And she worked in a café, for God’s sake. She should have brought home a gourmet tea to sip while she unwound, but after only a few minutes with Mac Brodie she had been too disconcerted to think of it.

She set her guitar case in its stand and headed into the kitchen. There she quickly brewed a cup of tea and added a touch of milk, then headed back out to the living room to sink into the comfortable old sofa and lean back. She closed her eyes.

“No, you really should come see the show….”

There was a tap at her door. She listened for a minute without rising. She was tired. And frustrated. And, she had to admit, unnerved.

An Elven had come to her and told her that she needed to see a vampire play.

Why?

It was just a play, a pretense. No vampires were out there killing people. Or other vampires, or anyone else. If they were, she would have heard about it on the news, wouldn’t she?

The tapping became more persistent. Rhiannon forced herself to rise. It could only be one of a very few people at this time of night. Maybe Sailor had come home early and might listen to the story of Rhiannon’s night and give her some advice.

It wasn’t Sailor or even Barrie who stood at her door. Merlin had come by to visit. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?” he asked anxiously.

Yes, you are, she almost said, but she refrained. Merlin was a ghost. If he wanted to, he could be anywhere—perched on the end of the grand piano in the living room, day and night, if he felt like it. But he was a polite ghost, one who had learned to manifest corporeally. He had mastered the art of knocking on doors to announce his presence and behaved at all times as if he was not only living but a gentleman. He had maintained his old room in the main house, and he was careful to be the best possible “tenant.” They all loved him, but Sailor, in particular, was accustomed to living with him—both before and after his death.

They had all sobbed at his funeral—until they realized that he was standing right there with them, comforting them in his new and unearthly form.

“Come in, Merlin, please,” she said. “Have a seat. My home is your home, you know. Literally,” she added with a warm smile.

Merlin had always been so good to her family, and it had been a two-way street. Her grandfather had saved him from jail when a shapeshifter had impersonated him and perpetrated several lewd crimes while posing as the noted magician. Her grandfather had been the shapeshifter Keeper and had worked with a friend on the police force—a werewolf—to prove that someone had been impersonating Merlin, and ensure that the proper person was caught and punished.

She stepped back from the door, sweeping a hand wide to indicate that he should join her.

Merlin stepped inside, looked around and sighed with happiness. “I’m so glad that you girls are living here,” he told her.

He walked to the sofa and sank onto it, looking like a dignified and slightly weary old man. Which was exactly what he had been when he’d died. He’d lived a good, long life that had left him with a charmingly lined face, bright blue eyes and a cap of snow-white hair. Having him around really was like having a grandfather on the property.

“And we’re glad to be here,” Rhiannon said.

What a liar she was, she thought. She’d been about to get her big break when she’d been called home and been told that she was an adult and the good times were over. Her responsibilities had crashed down upon her with no time for her to think about it, to say yes or no. Suddenly all three Gryffald brothers were being sent overseas and their daughters were taking their places, and that was that.

Of course her father and her uncles hadn’t been given a chance to say yes or no any more than she and Sailor and Barrie had.

The brothers had been summoned to serve on the new high council of Keepers at the Hague, a council that would act as a worldwide governing body for the Otherworld and the Others.

“Are you fitting in okay?” Merlin asked her, sincere concern in his voice.

“Of course.” She forced a smile. None of this was Merlin’s fault. Or her father’s. He’d tried to be so fierce when he’d talked to her. You are the Keeper for the vampires, Rhiannon. They are powerful and deadly, and yours is a grave responsibility.

At the time, of course, all she’d seen was that her band was finally getting a real break—and she wasn’t going to be there to experience it.

Merlin nodded thoughtfully. “I was just wondering…I mean, this is L.A. It’s not as if there isn’t plenty of murder, mayhem and scandal on a purely human level.”

“Merlin, what are you talking about?” she asked wearily.

“You might want to talk to Barrie. There have been a few mysterious deaths lately.”

Something hard seemed to fall to the pit of her stomach. This couldn’t involve her. Not already.

“Mysterious deaths?” she asked.

Merlin nodded. “They haven’t gotten a lot of coverage, because none of them have been on one of those trashy reality shows or even made Hollywood’s D list. These poor people have gone from this world unnoticed and unknown.”

“Like you said—this is L.A.,” Rhiannon said, frowning.

“Well, speak to your cousin, because she’s got contacts who have told her a few things. There have been three similar deaths, and all three corpses were discovered in a similarly advanced state of decay.”

“And?” She whispered the word, as if that could keep her fears from becoming real.

“The cops have been trying to keep the details out of the papers, but someone leaked one important fact,” Merlin told her grimly.

“And that fact is…?” she asked.

He winced. “I’m sorry, Rhiannon. The corpses were almost bone dry, sucked dry of…”

“Of?” she asked, even though in her heart she knew the answer.

“Blood,” Merlin said gravely. “Sucked dry of blood.”

Chapter 2

To a lot of people in L.A., it wasn’t all that late.

But to Rhiannon, after her wretched shift at the café, nothing sounded more welcome than her bed and a pillow.

Still, she knew she wouldn’t sleep if she didn’t try to talk to Barrie, though with any luck Barrie would already be in bed and wouldn’t answer the knock at her door.

To Rhiannon’s dismay, Barrie was up.

A single light was on in Barrie’s living room, where she had been sitting on her sofa and working. Her laptop was sitting on a pile of newspapers and magazines.

Barrie definitely tended to be a workaholic.

She had a good job in her chosen field, but she still wasn’t where she wanted to be in her career. At the moment she mostly got stories that ran under headlines—often handed to her whether she liked them or not—like “West Hollywood Woman Reveals Secret Behind Amazing Weight Loss.”

Barrie was a crusader; she had strong opinions on right and wrong. She wanted to be where the action was. She wanted to get off the crime beat and into issue-based investigative journalism, but her Keeper duties would always have to take precedence, and that was a problem.

Rhiannon sympathized with her. She knew how difficult it was, trying to have a real career and deal with this sudden shift in purpose.

“Hey, I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Barrie grinned and rolled her eyes. “Merlin, maybe—sometimes he forgets the time. Thought you’d come home exhausted and ready to crash.”

“Am I interrupting?” Rhiannon asked her.

“No. Yes—but it’s all right, honestly.” She sighed. “I’m trying to come up with a story and an angle no one’s thought of yet, so I can take it to my boss and maybe—finally—get a green light.”

“Good luck,” Rhiannon offered.

“So, how did things go at the café tonight?”

“They sucked. Totally sucked. Some actors staged a vampire attack right out front to publicize their play and nearly gave me heart failure—and in all the fuss my tip jar was stolen.”

“You’re right. That sucks. Want a cup of tea?”

“I just had one, but sure,” Rhiannon said.

Barrie led the way into the kitchen.

All three of their houses might have been curio museums, filled as they were with Merlin’s collections from a lifetime of loving magic—and the bizarre. The main house held the bulk of it, because it was so large, with five bedrooms upstairs, a grand living room and a family room that led out to the pool. Tiffany lamps were everywhere, along with Edwardian furniture, and busts and statues, and paintings that covered the walls. Pandora’s Box had a Victorian feel, with rich, almost stuffy furniture, and a collection of sculpted birds, with the largest being a magnificent gesso rendition of Poe’s raven. It also boasted a few of Merlin’s old coin-drop fortune-teller machines.

Gwydion’s Cave, Barrie’s house, was decorated with old peacock fans, marble sideboards and rich wood pieces from the decadent days of the speakeasy. The service she used for tea was Royal Doulton. As she entered the kitchen, Rhiannon caught sight of herself in one of the antique hall mirrors, and though she knew it was distorted by the old glass, her own image troubled her.

She had the shocked look of someone who had stuck a finger in a live socket.

Barrie hummed as she boiled water and then looked at Rhiannon. “Something more happened than what you’re telling me, didn’t it? I always think of you as the go-getter among us. Nothing fazes you. But tonight you look…fazed.”

“What if that attack had been real? Would I actually have been able to do anything to stop it? I guess we didn’t think we’d be handling this kind of thing so quickly,” Rhiannon said.

“None of us did. But it’s not like we had a choice.”

“I know. I just want to play my music, you know? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I missed my shot with the band, but at least I get to play at the café, you know? And that’s what I was doing when those idiots interrupted.”

“Listen to you, being so whiny.”

“Whiny?” Rhiannon protested indignantly.

“Yes, whiny. ‘Everybody but me gets to play in the band, while I’m stuck in a coffee shop playing for tips.’ Buck up, buttercup.”

“All right, all right, I have been whining. A little bit. But, honestly, I just wish…I wish we’d been a little better prepared. I mean, my dad is in great health. I never thought…”

“You never thought you’d have to be a Keeper until you were old and gray. I know. Neither did I. But here we are. So, what else is bothering you? Because I know there’s something.”

“All right, I came here to tell you, so…one of the actors was an Elven. I saw him when I was closing up my guitar case for the night. He came up to me and chatted, and I—I wasn’t exactly rude, but I felt like he was comparing me to my dad and it bugged me. You know that Keepers all over the state put us down all the time. ‘The Gryffald girls. What a shame their fathers were all put on the council. There used to be good Keepers in the Canyon.’ So I guess I was a little rude. But really, I don’t want to get all warm and cozy with the Elven—I’m going to have my hands full with the vampires.”

“I understand all that,” Barrie said calmly. “So, why are you so upset?”

“Well, he invited me to see his show. Like I want to see some ridiculous play about a bunch of vampire attacks. I brushed him off. But he knew who I was, and he said, ‘No, no, you really should see the show,’ or something weird like that, and when I got home…” She paused for breath.

“When you got home?” Barrie prompted.

“Merlin dropped in on me. And he told me that I should speak to you—that there have been three recent murders in L.A.—”

“Only three?” Barrie interjected drily.

“Three in which the bodies have been found drained of blood and decayed and…I don’t know. Merlin just said to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Barrie said.

“Oh?” Rhiannon repeated. “Come on, Barrie. You must know something. You work at a newspaper, for God’s sake.”

“You know all they give me is fluff,” Barrie reminded her.

“Yes, but you’re there and you must hear things.”

“I don’t remember anything that sensational, but maybe the police are keeping the details quiet. I do remember hearing about a John Doe found in a lake near some half-built apartment complex. That might have been one of your victims. I’ll see what I can find out,” she promised. “So—when are you going to see the show?”

“Now that Merlin’s talked to me? Tomorrow night,” Rhiannon told her, then sighed. “Hugh told me not to be late tomorrow night. He’s going to give me a buttload of grief, not to mention dock my pay.”

“Tell him you can’t be there—that you have Keeper duties and that’s it. I’ve seen you in action. You’re great fighting other people’s wars—fight this one for yourself. For all three of us,” Barrie added. “We have to prove ourselves. You might as well start tomorrow night with Hugh.”

As Barrie poured hot water into the teapot, they heard the sound of a car door slamming. “Sailor’s home,” she commented.

“So she is.”

“I’ll get another cup.”

Rhiannon walked to the door and opened it just as Sailor was about to knock.

“Hi,” her cousin said.

Sailor spoke with a cheerful voice and had a perfect smile to go with it. Rhiannon thought that while they were all decent looking, Sailor was their true beauty. It made sense that she was so passionate about being an actress. She had both the talent and the looks.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that Sailor had been destined to be Keeper of the Canyon Elven. Elven were beautiful, Rhiannon reminded herself drily, thinking of Mac Brodie.

Guilt bit into her. Several times she’d caught herself feeling impatient with Sailor for not taking their calling seriously, but hadn’t she wanted to deny it herself? And now she was facing her first real challenge—because even if the murders proved to have nothing to do with the Canyon vampire community, standing up to Hugh was going to be no picnic—and all she wanted was to run away.

“I saw the light, so I thought I’d stop by,” Sailor said.

“Come on in,” Rhiannon said.

Sailor swept past her and headed straight for the kitchen. “I had a great night—I mean a great night. I went to this fantastic party at the club—Declan Wainwright’s club, the Snake Pit.”

Declan Wainwright was the shapeshifter Keeper for the Malibu area. They’d known him forever, though Rhiannon wasn’t sure she would actually call him a friend.

“Declan told me he was going to ask you to play there a few nights a week. Well, he didn’t tell me. He’s kind of an ass to me. I’m not A-list enough for him, so mostly he ignores me. But I was with Darius Simonides, and he told Darius that he was going to talk to you. Pretty great, huh?”

“It’s nice that you spent some time with Darius,” Rhiannon said, filing away the potential offer of employment to consider later. Darius Simonides was Sailor’s godfather and a big-deal Hollywood agent, but as far as Rhiannon could tell, he hadn’t done much for her. At least not professionally. There was also something…slimy about him, she thought. Maybe it was because he was so…Hollywood. In his line of business, double-talk was really the only talk. Maybe that was at the heart of her reaction to him, but she still didn’t trust him.

“Not only that, we hung with Hunter Jackson, too—do you know who he is?”

“Hunter Jackson,” Rhiannon repeated, trying to remember why he sounded so familiar. “I’ve heard the name,” she said.

“He’s a director,” Barrie said.

“He’s the director these days, and he says that he has a role for me in a big-budget vampire thriller he’s going to start filming in January. He and Darius actually invited me to the Snake Pit tonight to talk to me about it.” Sailor beamed. “And it turns out there’s a reason why Darius has kept his hands off me.”

“That’s good to hear,” Barrie muttered sarcastically.

“I mean as far as my career goes,” Sailor said. “Darius is a sweetie—people just think he’s tough because he’s so powerful. The thing is, he wanted me to make my own way, to prove I could succeed on my own before he stepped in. But tonight—it was wonderful!” Sailor looked rapturous. She drew a breath, and Rhiannon was sure she was going to go on some more about her amazing night, but instead she said, “Barrie, you have artificial sweetener, don’t you? I don’t want to gain an ounce right now.”

Rhiannon decided that she would once again have to rethink Sailor’s role in ensuring the safety of the world.

“I have everything I can think of for anyone’s choice in tea,” Barrie said. “Dig into the cabinet and help yourself.”

“So, tell me more,” Rhiannon said, genuinely happy for her cousin and momentarily putting aside her fears for the fate of the world.

Sailor turned to her, beaming. “The two leads will be major A-list actors. I don’t know who yet. But what I’ll make for just a few days’ work will pay my bills for months.”

Rhiannon lowered her head. At least one of them would be making a decent income, though if what Sailor had said about the offer to play the Snake Pit was true, she would be earning some real money, too, even if Hugh got mad enough to fire her. She looked up quickly, frowning. “Hunter Jackson…I remember reading something about him.” She looked at Sailor. “He’s a vampire, right? But he’s the responsibility of the West Hollywood Keeper, Geoff Banner.”

“Yes,” Barrie said. “And he’s the perfect person to direct a vampire thriller. The movies always have it wrong. Like all that crap about how vampires can’t go out during the day.”

“Seriously,” Rhiannon agreed. “But no one wants to hear that the only problem is their eyes are exceptionally sensitive to light, so they always wear sunglasses—something that seems to be expected in Hollywood, anyway.” She met Sailor’s eyes. “You did know that he’s a vampire, right?”

Sailor stared at her, indignant. “Of course I did. I’m the one who really grew up here, remember? I know the lowdown on almost everyone. Am I supposed to suddenly be suspicious of him because he’s a vampire? And of all people who might be down on vampires, it shouldn’t be you!”

“I’m not down on vampires,” Rhiannon said quickly.

“Then what’s your problem?” Sailor asked.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were dealing with, that’s all,” Rhiannon said.

Sailor looked at her as if she knew Rhiannon doubted her abilities—and her competence in the face of a crisis. “Yes, I am well aware, thank you. And if you come across any Elven, I hope you’ll try to be a little less judgmental.”

Failed that one, Rhiannon thought. But she kept silent.

“Hey!” Barrie said, lifting a hand. “I get that we’re all a little jittery right now, with our new responsibilities and all, but it’s important that we get along. The world respected our fathers, but we’re going to have to prove ourselves. And that will be a lot easier if we respect each other.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Rhiannon said softly.

“There’s nothing to prove, at least not right now,” Sailor said. “Thanks to our dads, everything in the Canyon is running smoothly.” She turned to Rhiannon. “Can’t you just be happy for me?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. I am happy for you,” Rhiannon said. She hugged Sailor, who resisted for a moment then eased up and hugged Rhiannon in return. “I’m sorry. It was a bad night for me,” Rhiannon said.

“Her tip jar was stolen,” Barrie explained. “Among other things.”

“Those bastards stole your tip jar!” Sailor said, straightening, her protest loyal and fierce.

“It’s all right,” Rhiannon said. “I’ll live.” She an arm around Sailor’s shoulders. “We need to go home. Barrie has an early morning, as usual.” She turned to her other cousin. “Night, Barrie, thanks for listening.”

“Hey, wait,” Barrie said, following Rhiannon and Sailor to the door. “Rhiannon, I’ll see what I can dig up tomorrow. And also, I was thinking that Sailor and I should go see that play with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Rhiannon said.

“Play?” Sailor said, perking up. “What play?”

“Vampire Rampage,” Rhiannon said.

To Rhiannon’s surprise, Sailor’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, not at all. They pulled a promo stunt in front of the coffee shop tonight.”

Sailor’s eyes were wide. “The movie—the one I’ve been asked to be in—is called Vampire Rampage, and it’s based on the play. Yes, let’s all go. It will really help me to see the original.”

“And to think, I was just hoping it might keep someone alive,” Rhiannon said.

Sailor turned slowly and stared at her. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“An Elven actor stopped by the café tonight, and he told me that I really need to see the play. And then Merlin told me tonight that three murder victims have been found drained of blood. So now I’m kind of worried that a vampire, well, you know….”

Sailor stared at Rhiannon for a long moment, and then reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Oh, I am so sorry! You know…maybe someone has been itching to break the rules and waited until our fathers were gone, figuring that—”

“We’d be ineffectual,” Rhiannon said wearily.

Barrie and Sailor were silent.

“Well, I don’t intend to be ineffectual,” Rhiannon said. “So tomorrow night, the three of us, the theater…”

“We’ll be ready,” Sailor assured her. “It will be great.”

“All I can think about is three bodies drained of blood—and I’ve barely been here a week,” Rhiannon said.

“We’ll get through this. We’ll help you get the answers,” Barrie said. “Right, Sailor?”

“Right,” Sailor agreed.

Rhiannon left Gwydion’s Cave and headed back to her own house. The moon was out, shining down and creating a crystal trail across the surface of the pool.

Three bodies drained of blood.

Tomorrow she would get out her dad’s list of helpful contacts in the city. She had to get into the morgue and see what she could find out, and then, tomorrow night, the play.

“Vampire Rampage,” she murmured.

She reached into her pocket and fingered the business card the Elven had given her, then pulled it out and looked at it. Mac Brodie, Actor. And then it offered a cell phone number. It was curious that an actor’s card didn’t have his website and résumé listed.

She thought about calling him, then decided to wait until she’d seen the show. She might be a novice Keeper, but she was going to have to be strong and prove that she could be as effective as her father.

Because she was very afraid that there was already a vampire on the rampage in L.A.

Brodie sat at his desk at the station, reading over the files on his desk.

The first body had been discovered three weeks ago at the bottom of the molding pool at an abandoned house off Hollywood and Vine—the owner had gone into foreclosure and no enterprising real estate mogul had as yet snapped up the place. The victim, who was in his twenties, remained unidentified, despite the fact that they’d combed through missing person reports from across the country. Of course, he’d been missing his fingers and though the morgue had taken dental impressions, they were worthless when there were no records with which to compare them.

The dead man must have had friends or family somewhere, but apparently none of them had reported him missing. Then again, young people often took off to “find themselves,” so their nearest and dearest didn’t always know they were missing.

Because of the fetid water where the body had been dumped, the soft tissue had been in an advanced state of decomposition. Despite the mess he’d had to work with, Tony Brandt’s report stated that he’d tentatively identified the puncture marks at the throat that had led to exsanguination, which he listed as cause of death. Because the body had been in the water and then in the morgue for several weeks—and because it was a John Doe—the case had ended up at the bottom of a pile of open cases that had gone cold.

There was one interesting fact, though. A waterlogged playbill had been discovered in his pocket.

Ten days ago, with the discovery of the second body, two files had landed on Brodie’s desk. His captain was concerned. The second file contained another John Doe. This one had been found in a small man-made lake in Los Feliz—near a rehearsal hall that had been rented to a local theatrical group, the same group now performing Vampire Rampage. Once again dental impressions had been taken, and they were still hoping to make a match. Also once again, no fingerprint identification was possible because there were no fingers.

That body had also been decaying for some time. It was in fact so decayed that Tony Brandt could only find the suggestion of puncture marks in the jugular vein. But the similarities had been enough for Brodie’s captain to decide that the two murders might be the work of a serial killer, and that it was time to get to the truth.

Captain Edwin Riley knew something about the Others and the Otherworld. He was one of the few individuals trusted by the city’s Other community, being the son of a practicing Wiccan and high priestess who’d been targeted for death. Brodie didn’t really know the whole story, and the captain didn’t like talking about it, so he didn’t pry. But it had something to do with a religious cult that had decided his parents were devil worshippers, and that they needed to have an accident—one that would remove them from the earth.

They’d survived the accident, thanks to Brodie’s father, then a young Elven, who had seen what was happening and jumped from his own car in time to rescue the Rileys’ car before their car went over a cliff.

Most human beings had no idea about the existence of the Others, but the captain knew about Brodie, which made him the logical choice to find out what was happening.

The next thing he knew, he was auditioning. There had been an opening in the cast because an actor had suddenly and, from the cops’ point of view conveniently, left, sending Jackson Hunter an email stating that he had to get back to Connecticut and stop the love of his life from marrying another man.

It had seemed a weak link—joining the play—but it was better than nothing, and the theater was the only connection, however vague, between the murders. He’d been suspicious that the missing actor might be one of the John Does in the morgue cooler, but Adam Lansky, in the police tech assistance unit, had tracked him down, and he was indeed back in Connecticut. Whether he’d stopped the love of his life from marrying another man or not, Brodie didn’t know.

Tonight, after seeing the third corpse on Tony Brandt’s autopsy table, he was more convinced than ever that the killer was somehow involved with the play. Not only had the corpse been found in the lake that was just past the parking lot and a stretch of overgrown brush behind the theater, but there was the fact that he’d actually seen the man in the audience.

Three John Does, all of them connected in one way or another to the theater and Vampire Rampage. And, he was very much afraid, to a real vampire, too.

All right after the three strongest peacekeepers in the area had left.

And in their place…

Three untested…girls.

Brodie stood and walked to the rear of his bungalow apartment in central Hollywood. He could see the crescent moon rising boldly in the clear heavens. He tried to tell himself that the fact that the bodies had been drained did not definitely mean that the killer was a vampire. The victims might have been drained so that their deaths appeared to be the work of a vampire. And God knew, there were plenty of crazy humans who thought they were vampires. And there were dozens of reasons for draining a body of blood, starting with…

Hunger.

Like it or not, he had the feeling that a vampire was guilty.

All he had to do was find him—and kill him.

Obviously he couldn’t count on any help from the new Keeper, Ms. Rhiannon Gryffald, and yet the case definitely fell under her jurisdiction. He’d given her his card, damn it, and she hadn’t even bothered to call him. Okay, so she didn’t now he was a cop. But still, she should have realized that something important was up—something she, as a Keeper, needed to investigate.

He gritted his teeth, wondering just how many corpses they would find before the killer was unmasked.

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