Dead Sexy. Amanda Ashley

remarkably unremarkable. Ash cakes and a bowl of venison stew. A cup of tiswin.”

      “Ash cakes?” Regan shook her head. “They aren’t really made of ashes. Are they?”

      He laughed softly. The sound danced across her skin, sensuous and seductive, like the man himself.

      “Not at all,” he said. “They are made from ground mesquite beans or pine nuts mixed with tallow or bear grease, and honey. The women form the mixture into small cakes and bake them on heated stones.”

      “Do you miss it? Eating, I mean.”

      “Not any more, though sometimes…”

      “Go on.”

      He shook his head, thinking it would be better not to go down that path. She had no need to know that when he drank from his prey, he could, if he wished, vicariously experience what they had recently experienced.

      “Please,” he said, “enjoy your meal.”

      She tried, but every time she took a bite, she was aware of his gaze. He was not a mortal man. He didn’t eat food. He drank blood. She had been a fool to meet him here, alone, after dark. No one knew she had agreed to meet him here. If he should decide he wanted a snack, she was readily available.

      The thought made her shudder. How could anyone drink blood? It was beyond her comprehension. Contemplating it ruined what was left of her appetite and she pushed her plate away.

      “You have hardly eaten a thing,” Santiago remarked.

      “I’m not hungry anymore.”

      He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “I see.”

      Drat the man. She was afraid he saw way too much.

      He signaled for the waitress and signed the check, leaving a generous tip.

      After rising, he drew back Regan’s chair, then followed her out of the restaurant.

      Silently, he walked her to her car. Was it her imagination, or did she feel a slight tremor in the force field when he passed through?

      Regan unlocked the door. “Thank you for dinner.”

      He flashed a smile. “I am sorry that the food, and the company, were not more to your liking.”

      “I…”

      He held up one hand, silencing her. “You needn’t explain.” Indeed, her thoughts were clearly visible in her eyes.

      Regan slid behind the wheel. If she needed physical proof that he could leave the park, she had it now. She punched in the ignition code, then looked up at Santiago through the open door. “If you uncover any more information on the werewolf, I hope you’ll let me know.”

      Santiago nodded. “If you wish.”

      He closed her door, then watched her drive away. He would see her again, he thought, and soon.

      Even if he had to make something up.

      The vampire murders made headlines in all the newspapers the following day, and became the top story on the nightly news.

      By the end of the week, the chief of police had declared that there was a serial killer on the loose and advised people to remain in their homes after dark. To date, eight bodies had been found inside the park, all of them brutally mutilated. For the public’s safety, the mayor closed the park to all human traffic until further notice.

      Various anti-vampire groups that had been silent up until now began demanding that the vampires be destroyed once and for all, while the bleeding hearts argued that anyone foolish enough to stroll in the park after sundown knew the risks involved and deserved whatever they got. The public demanded that something be done before it was too late.

      At the beginning of the second week, Joaquin Santiago appeared on the eleven o’clock news. He expressed his sympathy to the bereaved and assured the city’s nervous populace that none of the vampires that resided inside You Bet Your Life Park were responsible for the murders.

      Sitting on the sofa at home, Regan listened to the telecast with interest, thinking that the master of the city was not only extremely handsome but was as tactful as any D.C. politician, as well. Obviously wary of adding fuel to the fire of panic growing in the streets, he hadn’t mentioned his belief that a werewolf was responsible for the murders. No one would have believed him anyway, Regan thought, since everyone knew that werewolves were extinct. But then, people also believed that vampires couldn’t leave You Bet Your Life Park, or the other complexes like it around the country, when she knew from firsthand experience that at least one of them was completely unaffected by the force field.

      Leaning back against the sofa, she switched off the Satellite Screen. Vampires, werewolves, and murder, oh my. She had visited all the recent crime scenes and although she had not seen Santiago at any of them, she had been aware of his presence nearby. She was vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t called her and annoyed with herself for feeling that way. Life was complicated enough without adding a vampire to the mix, especially a vampire like Joaquin Santiago.

      Going into the kitchen, she pulled a can of soda from the fridge. The only good thing about the recent murders was that she was again on the police payroll, although it seemed wrong somehow to profit by the suffering of others. Still, the Department had asked for her expertise, such as it was.

      Carrying the soda, Regan went back into the living room, switched on her computer, and did a Google search for werewolves. If it turned out that Santiago was right and the killer was a werewolf, then she wanted to know what she was up against. As far as she knew, there weren’t any werewolf hunters in the city, which meant the job was wide open, and she was as qualified as anyone else, maybe more so.

      She was about to shut down her computer and get ready for bed when the phone rang. She stared at it a moment and then, grimacing, she picked it up. Lately, whenever the phone rang, it was bad news. Tonight was no different.

      “Our killer’s struck again,” Flynn said.

      “Same M.O.?” she asked, reaching for her shoes.

      “Looks like it.”

      “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

      “It isn’t at the park.”

      “Where is it?”

      “Uptown, behind the high school.”

      Regan’s hand tightened on the phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said, and disconnected the call.

      Behind the high school. Nausea roiled in her stomach as she slid behind the wheel of her car and drove uptown. Not kids, she thought. Please, not kids.

      Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up behind Flynn’s patrol car, which was parked at the curb next to the football field. While alighting from her car, she noted that the M.E.’s van was also there. Taking a deep breath, she cut across a corner of the football field, her shoes squishing in the damp grass. She passed a couple of police officers as she made her way to the storm drain located in a ravine behind the field.

      The crime scene had been cordoned off with yellow tape. A number of uniformed police stood at the top of the ravine, looking down. She could see the M.E. kneeling on the ground beside the storm drain. The forensic team was bagging evidence, their voices low.

      Moving carefully, Regan made her way down the slippery slope toward the M.E. She felt a wave of sympathy for a young cop who looked like he was about to lose his dinner. With a reassuring smile, she hurried forward so she wouldn’t be a witness if he suddenly lost it.

      Regan nodded to a few of the officers she knew, her steps slowing as she reached the crime scene. The bodies were sprawled in the dirt. The girl, clad in the bloody remains of a green polka-dot sundress and white sandals, looked like she was sixteen or seventeen. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. The body of a young man wearing a mud-and-blood splattered white shirt and a pair of dark trousers lay facedown beside her. Both bodies