Keeper of the Night. Heather Graham

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