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 of the Elven?”
“Hey, we Elven have spent centuries keeping the peace because we’re strong, sure of ourselves, some might say arrogant—” he smiled “—and we can talk almost anyone into almost anything. I’m asking you out of pure curiosity,” he told her. “And because I’m trying to make casual conversation—and amends. I really am sorry.”
Rhiannon waved a hand in the air. “I told you, it’s all right. However, it has been a long day, and I would like to go home now.”
“No nightcap with me, eh?” he asked.
He was smiling at her again. And like all his kind, he had charm to spare.
That’s why the Elven fared so well in Hollywood. They were almost universally good looking. Tall, and perfectly built. They were made for the world of acting.
She realized, looking at him, that he was exceptionally godlike. She was surprised, actually, that he bothered with small theater at all. He would have been great in a Greek classic, a Viking movie or a sword and sorcery fantasy. He was lean, but she knew that he was strong—and would look amazing without a shirt.
Then again, he’d announced that the play was going to turn into a major movie. Maybe he was sticking with it for the stardom it might bring.
“No nightcap,” she said. “I’m simply ready to go home.”
“Perhaps you’ll consider letting me buy you that apology another time?”
“Doubtful,” she assured him.
He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Well, be that as it may, you really should come see the show.”
“Thank you, but I really don’t enjoy a mockery being made of my—my charges,” she told him.
He leaned closer to her, and the teasing, flirty smile left his face. He almost appeared to be a different person: older, more confident and deadly serious.
“No, you really should come see the show,” he said. “My number is on the card, Miss Gryffald. And I’m sure you know L.A. well enough to find the theater.”
He turned and walked out the door, nearly brushing the frame with the top of golden head.
Puzzled, she watched him go.
Hugh appeared just then. “Still here? I’m impressed,” he said.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” she told him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. And be on time.”
The man could be extremely aggravating. Werewolf Keepers were often like that, she had discovered. But then, the more experienced a Keeper was, the more he or she often took on the characteristics of a charge to a greater or lesser degree. She suspected that Hugh could become a wolf at the drop of a hat.
With her precious Fender in hand, she left the café. She heard Hugh locking the door behind her.
She headed to the ten-year-old Volvo that her uncle had left for her use, set her guitar in the trunk and started off down the street. Her song really hadn’t been half bad. “Hollywood, oh, I hate Hollywood,” she sang as she drove.
Brodie nodded to the attendant on duty and proceeded down the hallway of the morgue, past rooms where dozens of bodies in various stages of investigation were stored.
That was one thing about L.A. that wasn’t so good. The city was huge, and the number of people who died on the streets, many of them nameless and unknown, was high. Possibly even sadder were the ones whose names were known—but whose deaths went by unnoticed and unmourned.
Of course, the morgue also housed the remains of people who were known and loved—but who had died under circumstances that ranged from suspicious to outright violent.
That night, however, he passed by the autopsy rooms, remembering all too clearly the one he’d entered when he was sixteen, a room filled with corpse after corpse wrapped in plastic shrouds—so many dead. His father had arranged it after discovering that Mac had left a party after drinking. Luckily he had only creamed the garage door. But it might have been a person, and his father had made sure he knew what the consequences could have been.
He reached a door marked Dr. Anthony Brandt, Senior Pathologist.
Tony undoubtedly knew that he was coming. Tony knew a lot. He had an amazing sense of smell that had served him well as a medical examiner. He could smell most poisons a mile away.
Before Brodie could tap on the door, Tony had answered it. “I was expecting you tonight,” he said.
“Oh?”
“We’ve gotten another body that I think belongs to your killer.”
“Where did he leave his mark this time?” Brodie asked.
Tony
