Page 3 of Fang Fatale

Business has never been better.

Leland leans forward.

"She's alive."

Interesting.

"But she doesn't want to be found."

More interesting.

"One of her friends told me she made it somewhere safe, but Birdie refuses to tell anyone where she is."

He removes his sunglasses.

His eyes are cold enough to invoice me.

"I think she's hiding somewhere in Blackthorn Bay. I can't send my own men."

"Why not?"

"They already tried."

I raise an eyebrow.

"They're superstitious?"

"They're alive."

Fair enough.

"I am not ignorant to..." He gestures vaguely toward me. "...your community."

Meaning the ones with fangs.

I finish my espresso.

"You got a picture?"

He slides a thick envelope across the table.

I catch it before it finishes sliding, pop the seal with my thumb, and pull out a photograph.

Birdie Longfellow.

Pale enough to make moonlight jealous.

Freckles scattered across her nose.

Wide hazel eyes that look permanently prepared to bolt.

Her hair is twisted into a practical bun that suggests either impressive self-discipline or a complete surrender to circumstance.

She's holding an overweight dachshund whose tongue hangs out like a pink party streamer, and despite whatever she's thinking, there's a tiny dimple in her left cheek trying its best to win the argument.

"She's pretty."

Silence settles between us.