Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I do not want to be a detective. Do not want.

“ I f I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, get that damn thing out of my sight, Bertrand ,” I snapped at the pimply kid shoving his camera at me—the one he appeared to have permanently attached to his nerdy face.

The annoying-AF kid in question is the offspring of one of Marty’s pack members.

Marty’s one of my BFFs.

Marty Flaherty: resident werewolf. Fashion enslaved. All things feminine and lip-glossed. Heart of gold. Mother of Hollis and an aging poodle named Muffin. Both of whom I love the crap out of.

Loves shopping at discount outlet malls. Loves dragging me with her when she goes. Owner of a globally successful cosmetics company called Bobbie-Sue Cosmetics. Married to a pack Alpha named Keegan, who also owns a cosmetics company called Pack (get it? Werewolf—pack? Hah!).

Her friend’s annoying kid, Bertrand, has been following us around like a hemorrhoid no amount of Preparation H can cure, filming us for some project in his cinematography class he feckin’ dubbed a Dracumentary .

You know, a Dracula/documentary mashup because I’m a vampire? Funny, right?

When Bertrand approached her about this, she thought it would be fun to have him make a documentary about our newest venture. A detective agency for paranormals.

“Nina!” Marty chastised me from her fancy office chair, shaking her red-tipped finger at me. “Don’t be rude to Bertrand. You knew he was going to be here to film our new detective venture for a school project. You agreed to help the youth of America. Now be nice and cooperate, vampire.”

No lies detected. I did agree to let the little Hitchcock in the making film us when we started this kooky detective agency. I agreed because Marty made me agree. She makes me do a lot of crap I don’t want to do and it’s always in the name of “friendship.”

Bertrand moved the camera away momentarily to give me a smug, “Haha! Auntie Marty sure told you, didn’t she?” look.

In return, I flashed my fangs at him with my perfected, “I’ll eat your face off” glare.

Bertrand blanched, visibly cringing, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down along his scrawny neck. Then he eyed me like he was getting ready to push his luck. A big mistake where I’m concerned.

“If you would just wear the mask, Miss Nina, that would really help.”

He licked his lips after he spoke, rocking back and forth on his sneakered feet, his expression cautious.

He’s been the recipient of my unfiltered opinion.

In essence, Bertrand expects me to blow a gasket—which is why I won’t. Oh, and also because Marty and my other BFF, Wanda, asked me not to choose violence and intimidation as a way to solve a problem. I’m only supposed to use that for the bad guys.

Anyway, next up? My other BFF. Wanda Schwartz-Jefferson: Half vampire, half-werewolf, all grace and refined elegance. She’s often compared to the sophistication of Princess Grace of Monaco. Loves to shop as much as Marty. Loves to remind me we’re a team, and if outlet malls are part of being a team, I’d just have to suck it and learn to tolerate shopping.

Peacemaker and referee between me and Marty. Consummate mother, wife, heart as big as a country and gentle in nature until pushed. Married to Heath, with two kids I also love like my own.

Who am I kidding? I love all the damn kids, and animals, and the elderly—until they get to a certain age. Kids, I mean. Not animals and the elderly.

Wanda gave me the old eyeball of death from across our desks—situated in a circle so we could all see each other as we worked—reminding me I’d made a promise not to upset Bertrand.

It was her mom look. You know, the one your mom used to give you when she knew you were about to act up? That one. If she could bottle it, she’d be even richer than she already was.

Popping my lips, I narrowed my eyes in Bertrand’s direction, making his acne-riddled face and horn-rimmed glasses a tiny pinpoint in my vision. I held up the Michael Meyers mask he’d given me between two fingers, letting it dangle.

“You knew when you asked us to do this Dracumentary that you wouldn’t be able to see me on camera, Bertrand. I’m a GD vampire. I’m not wearin’ a mask like some goon at a Halloween party just so I’ll show up on film. You’ll just have to use your movie magic and put a big smiley emoticon where my face should be. Be creative. My line’s drawn. Live with it. Now go the hell away.”

Bertrand backed away, probably in fear, and I was okay with that. It helped keep people at a distance when they were afraid.

Some call me intimidating, I call me dipshit proof.

I turned back to Marty, who wore a dumbass hat.

“Why are you wearing that?”

She smiled at me and tapped her head. “It’s giving Sherlock Holmes, don’t you think? I’m dressing the part of detective, silly. You know, to get into character?”

I barked a laugh. “It’s giving ‘this is whacked,’ Marty. Why the fu?—”

“Stop! Stop now!” she yelled, cutting me off while waving her slender finger around. “You promised you’d try and curb your swearing so we don’t scare off potential clients, Nina Statleon. No one wants to hire an irate vampire with the mouth of a sailor on weekend leave. We’re helpers. Remember what Mr. Rogers said? Look for the helpers. Helpers don’t cuss a blue streak. They help .”

I made a face at her. “I’m betting my fangs even Mr. Rogers would cuss with you two knuckleheads for friends. You’d test the patience of Jesus himself. But okay. Let’s play by your stupid rules. Not swearing doesn’t change the fact that this is the single-most whacked effin’ thing you’ve cooked up to date. Except for the other most-whacked thing you effin’ cooked up in that scary little brain encased in your pretty blonde head . ”

My BFF forever—and I do mean forever because we’re immortal, which means I’m saddled with these yokels for eternity—made a return face at me, and then she gave me the middle finger.

She pushed her long, artfully dyed hair over her shoulder, letting the beachy waves (that’s what she calls them. I don’t know thing one about hair that has a beach in it) fall down her back and rolled her eyes.

Pulling herself closer to her desk, she showed me her computer screen with her inbox, chock full of unopened emails from other paranormals who needed investigative help.

“Look at all these messages. This is not whacked, Nina. This is the natural progression of where OOPS was headed anyway, Mistress of the Dark. I mean, when we aid someone who’s been accidentally turned, and they need our help to find out who turned them, it’s essentially a mystery, right?”

To be fair—because I don’t have a choice, and my two friends force me to be fair—we have successfully helped many humans who’ve accidentally been turned into one paranormal thing or another.

That’s what Marty means by OOPS, by the way. We also run something called Out in the Open Paranormal Support. We started it because do-gooder Marty figured there were more people like us who’d had accidental run-ins with a paranormal.

Humans who’d been accidentally turned into all manner of supernatural things you wouldn’t believe if I showed you in pictures and a damn power point presentation. We’re three examples. I was turned when my now-husband came to have his teeth cleaned where I worked as a hygienist. As the laughing gas took over, and he relaxed, he clamped down on my hand.

Voila. Insta-vampire.

Anyway, Marty got the brilliant idea for OOPS years ago after a pint of H?agen-Dazs and who knows how many bottles of wine while she was painting her toenails or something that had to do with being a girl.

I think by now you can tell, Marty’s very girly. Makeup, hair, shoes, clothes. That’s how we met. Because I was desperate for extra cash and she sold Bobbie-Sue Cosmetics door to door— before she owned it, that is. Long story, but it’s why I, the fucking anti-girl, ended up being BFFs with her.

I could give a pickled shit if my shoes match my outfit, let alone a purse. I don’t even carry a purse. I don’t care about hair or makeup. And shopping with her? Christ on a crutch, it’s like death by a million papercuts.

But Marty the Werewolf’s such a good saleswoman. Remember I said she now owns Bobbie-Sue? She wasn’t always the owner of the company. She was a door-to-door saleswoman at first.

I was desperate for cash when I answered her ad in a paper almost sixteen years ago, she talked my ass right into the whole kit and caboodle and had me going to cult-like Bobbie-Sue Cosmetic meetings before I knew what the hell the difference was between lip gloss and lip stain.

And there is a difference, in case any novices are in the house.

We’ve long since left behind the door-to-door sales malarkey. We got married, had kids, and solved what feels like a million paranormal accidents with our group OOPS since we met way back in 2008.

Anyway, she’s right. There’s almost always a mystery surrounding who turned an unsuspecting human into a paranormal, and some bad guy who wants to hurt the newb paranormal.

When we take a case, we spend however many days, sometimes weeks with the unsuspecting human, teaching them how to live in a paranormal world while we figure out who the hell did ’em dirty so we can string ’em up by their clangers.

That’s my favorite part, because in our unlikely trio, I’m the one who chooses violence to root out the bad guy.

My two cohorts, however? They like to make everyone cookies and warm milk and coddle them while holding their hands and braiding each other’s hair.

So fine. Marty’s right. This bullshit detective nonsense was a natural progression, but—and that’s a big-ass but—I never wanted to be a part of OOPS any more than I now want to be a part of this nutball detective agency.

I definitely didn’t want to turn my castle dungeon into what we’re now calling the murder basement.

But Wanda, our trio’s hand-holder and resident sensitivity checker, gave me the speech about how we’re a package deal, and we do everything together, blah, blah, blah.

In other words, she plays on my sympathies and always wins.

But that’s not what hooked me when Marty suggested we start up this fucknut idea.

It was the part about catching a murderer and actually being able to choose violence without these two Karens (sorry, all you Karens. You’re aces unless you’re asking for the manager because your bread wasn’t soft enough) breathing down my neck with their morals.

I don’t hate a good smackdown, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I’m the muscle. The one who’s the first to put up her fists and pop anyone suss in the face, asking questions later.

Okay, there’s also the fact that I love them, and they’re as much family as blood, and if some shit went down and they got hurt, or worse, dead (which can happen, even if you’re immortal), I’d never forgive myself for not being there to protect them.

I’m not a hugger or into sappy sentimental words, but I am loyal AF. It’s how I show I care. Mess with one of my own and I’m gonna eat your face off, right down to the bone.

So, that brings us here, in my castle’s basement (yes, I own a castle. Don’t all vampires have castles?) turned “detective agency,” with a wannabe filmmaker, and my favorite standoffish, stiff-necked British dude named Tottington, who needed a job after the woman he’d cared for all her life was accidentally turned into a witch as our receptionist.

He’s handling correspondence for all the emails and PMs we got when word hit the paranormal-sphere that we were opening a detective agency.

When we first started OOPS, word got ’round about the support we gave to new paranormals in crisis. Pack alphas, council members, clan rulers, and all manner of paranormal leaders became familiar with us, and at first, they didn’t love us helping new people into our very secretive space.

It took a while, but they got over it…because we didn’t give them a choice.

Now that we’re making this kooky idea of a detective agency Marty’s reality, we’ve been assaulted by every paranormal nut in the universe via the Internet.

Speaking of the stiff-necked British guy, he now hovered over me, dropping something on my desk. “Ms. Statleon?”

I leaned back in my brand-new ergonomic office chair, courtesy of Marty. “It’s just Nina, Tater Tot. You don’t have to be so damn formal. Nina, vampire, Dark Master, they’re all fine. Treat it like your nose and pick one.”

He adjusted his red tie and straightened, clearing his throat in his shi-shi-foo-foo British way, almost knocking over the life-size metal knight I have standing next to my desk (the one I insisted my two favorite Karens leave the hell alone).

God, I love his awkward ass. I know he hates it, but I love him anyway.

Also, I guess people think it’s weird to have a suit of armor. Like I said, we’re doing this thing in my basement, and I live in a castle . I wasn’t kidding about the dungeon part of this. When I married my mate and husband, Greg (the vampire who accidentally turned me), we moved into his castle.

In Long Island.

With a hedge maze.

There was a lot of dusty old shit down here, like swords, lanterns tapestries, and books—so many books—from some long-gone century. My husband’s been alive a really long time. As a result, he has a lot of junk.

Anyway, the second I said yes to Marty and Wanda, they set up this office faster than they obliterate a frickin’ sale at Coach. Before I knew it, we all had desks, office chairs, computers—a damn receptionist.

And a humidifier, because the damp makes Marty’s hair frizz.

If your eyeballs just rolled so far back in your head they touched your brains because the notion is ridiculous, mine did, too, when she had my Tater Tot lug that big thing down here.

Tottington waved the pink sticky note in my line of vision again, lifting a haughty raven eyebrow. “I address you as such out of respect. That’s simply my good breeding, Miss.”

He always says shit like that—mostly to me, because of course he loves Wanda and Marty—as if to remind me he came from good stock and he views me as some prom night dumpster baby.

But again, I love him anyway.

“And for the record, Miss, I prefer Mr. Tottington .”

“And I prefer Master of the Effin’ Universe, BFF.”

He wrinkled his nose, but his “good breeding” obviously kept him from responding.

“You know she only does it to get under your skin, Tottington,” Wanda reminded. “Ignore her. We do.”

I picked up the bright pink sticky note and read what he’d written. “Brenda Bronkowski. Who’s she?”

Tottington folded his arms across his slight chest. “The first on your long waiting list of clients. Both Mistress Wanda and Marty approved her email request. She’s outside right this moment, Dark Lord. Shall I invite her in?”

Wanda clapped her hands in glee, before composing herself by smoothing her black pencil-slim skirt. She rose with a smile. “Our first client! Tell her to come in, please, Tottington.”

While Totts went to get Brenda, I googled her name, because these two would let Ted Bundy in here if he added enough smiley emoticons and x’s and o’s to the end of his email.

Christ on a crutch.

As Brenda swept into the room, her hands clasped together in a fist, her angular face lined with worry, she brushed past Tottington and headed straight for Marty and Wanda.

“You have to help me!” she pleaded. “I’ll pay whatever you want, but I’m desperate. I’m in trouble with the law!”

“Yeah, you are,” I drawled, holding up my phone. “It’s called murder, Brenda. I looked it up!”