Keeper of the Night. Heather Graham

      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