Page 50 of Fang Fatale

Dead.

Vlad spots me and raises a knobby hand.

The owner is a marble-skinned oddity in an impeccably tailored suit, his face carved into a perfect V but cursed with a regrettable baritone that sounds like he gargles gravel recreationally.

"Grimhaven."

He says my name with the strained politeness of a man who's never quite forgiven me for turning his entire stock of 1943 Chianti into plasma punch for a particularly persistent Swedish countess back in 1948.

I slide onto a stool between two witches sporting matching constellation tattoos and an incubus who's too busy blowing lazy smoke rings to acknowledge anyone's existence.

Vlad appears.

"Business or pleasure?"

"Are they ever different for you?"

"Fair point."

I gesture—very specifically—for the house pour.

Vlad's idea of generosity is a shot glass the size of a thimble.

He slides it toward me with the careful precision of someone avoiding accidental skin contact.

"You look like hell."

"I've been trending that direction."

He isn't wrong.

Maybe I've lost my edge.

Maybe two centuries have worn the shine off my fangs.

Maybe clients aren't looking for dangerous anymore.

Maybe they're looking for someone with a mortgage, a gluten allergy...

...and a respectable LinkedIn profile.

I swallow the drink.

It tastes like regret and Midwestern youth.

College sophomore, if I had to guess.

Second study abroad.

Someone once told me blood carries memory.

That you can taste echoes of a person's life—the steady hum of anxiety, the sweet chemical whine of fear, sometimes even the lingering urge to call your mother.

I've never believed much of it.

Tonight, though...

All I can think about is a woman standing in a forest clearing, looking at me the way you'd look at a car alarm that refuses to stop.