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me like this.’ With a rueful smile he rubbed a hand over his stomach, then winked. ‘Or at least say yes, then you can do whatever you want with me.’
    Way too enticing. ‘Finn, you’re a nice guy, but ...’ I trailed off as disappointment darkened his eyes, echoing my own silent regret, then I made myself carry on. ‘I’m sorry, but getting personal is not—’
    A stiff wind hurled itself along the road, snatching the words from my mouth and rushing up through the branches above us.
    Finn placed a finger on my lips, silencing me.
    I moved back. ‘Look, I’m really not—’
    ‘Genny, it’s okay.’ He half-smiled. ‘I get that you’ve said no, but it’s not that.’ He waved an anxious hand at the road. ‘It’s the trees. I think they’re talking about you.’
    Another gust whipped past us and the canopy of autumn leaves rustled almost like they were laughing.
    I frowned and looked at Finn. ‘What are they saying?’
    ‘Hell’s thorns, Gen, how should I know? I never learned the language.’

Chapter Four
     
     
    D usk coloured the sky like a purple bruise as I headed for my meeting with Alan Hinkley at Old Scotland Yard Police Station, the headquarters for the Metropolitan Police’s Magic and Murder Division. The bodies of vampire attacks, like Melissa’s, are contained in the specialised basement morgue ever since the mandatory fourteen-day waiting period came into force - just in case they spontaneously do the Lazarus thing. Old Scotland Yard is also the one-stop-cop-shop for vampires. Keeping a vamp incarcerated is difficult enough without adding humans into the mix. The only time it was tried - back in the eighties when the vamps were reclaiming their human rights - the riot lasted a week and a vampire ended up on an impromptu bonfire, together with a prison guard and three other inmates.
    That the vampire was proved innocent, post-death - a tarnished silver lining or a kamikaze-inspired martyrdom, depending on your point of view - became the catalyst for all sorts of changes.
    As I turned off Whitehall, leaving the noise of the traffic behind, a horse’s high-pitched whinny made me jump - Old Scotland Yard is also home to the Met’s horses - and I slowed, uneasy in the quiet. A tree rustled as I passed it. Was Finn right, were they talking about me? But why would they? Then the leaves of the next tree stirred and the air trembled in response. Goosebumps rose on my skin, even though the heat of the day hadn’t dissipated with the night and I looked up into the branches, but they were empty. I blew out a breath. Damn. I usually avoided being out after dark like this, trees or no trees. You never knew who you might bump into.
    I lifted my bag over my head, settled the strap across my chest to free my hands and slowly walked under the archway that led to Old Scotland Yard. Alan Hinkley was waiting by the police station door. Along the pavement, the street lights created pockets of shadow. As I got closer, one shadow was darker, more solid than the others. My heart tripped and I stopped, staring into the blackness.
    The vampire stepped out into the light and stared back.
    His appearance was almost a relief.
    I played statues, counting under my breath, using my own will to force my pulse to a slow steady thump. It was harder to pull off than I thought. Damn, I was so out of practice. Instinct shouted at me to flee. Bad idea . Never run from a vamp, gets them too excited, all that blood pumping faster and faster. Better to take the gamble that they won’t attack and wait until they’re gone. Of course, that attitude does have its minus points.
    ‘Genevieve Taylor.’ His chin lifted as he scented the air.
    His accent carried a touch of something, not English. Black hair curled into his neck, even blacker eyes glinted, their almond shape hinting of the East. His face was the prettiest I’d ever seen, alive or undead, and a distant part of me wondered why it wasn’t plastered over every