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came to the supernatural.
    “I don’t suppose you’re going to give me a bunch of crap about aliens now, are you? Because, I think we both know better.” From his pocket he offered her a folded handkerchief.
    Which she accepted, and cupped against the side of her neck. The vamp bite wouldn’t bleed for too long, but it would be enough to stain her collar if she didn’t put pressure on it. “Are you here for a reason? Or just going around in search of damsels in distress?”
    “You and I have an unfinished conversation. So let’s find someplace out of the way, so you can start talking.”
    “I really don’t have anything more to say to you.” She checked the handkerchief. Still bleeding. London refolded the cloth to a clean section, and pressed it to her neck again.
    “See? That kind of response makes me think that you do. It makes me think you have a whole heck of a lot to say, actually. Starting with why a vampire thinks you have a price on your blood.” Granger’s arms crossed, making the suit jacket stretch tight across his shoulders. The agent wasn’t a muscle-bound bruiser, but he wasn’t skipping his gym appointments, that was for sure.
    “Why don’t you go and ask him, because that was news to me, too.” London backed up a couple of steps to lean her bum against the brick wall. Her head pounded, which was an odd sensation, since being a pint or so shy of normal she wouldn’t have thought her pulse could muster up the force.
    Granger leaned himself back against the wall beside her, arms still crossed as he considered her. “You are just bound and determined to be obstructive, aren’t you?”
    “I’m just charming like that.” London glanced back at the building where the Fey Bangers, and specifically Malcolm, were playing. She really didn’t want Granger getting all curious and checking out the club. “Alright, you want to talk vampires, let’s talk vampires. But you’ll need to buy me a tall latte and a scone, because that blood loss is making me lightheaded and I need to eat something before I pass out.”
    “Don’t trust me to catch you?” He smirked. “I am a gentleman, like that.”
    She whacked him with the back of her hand. “I don’t trust you not to violate my civil liberties with your grubby cop hands.”
    “My cop hands are not grubby.”

Chapter Nine

    Of the open restaurants in Waterford, London had picked one that balanced her need to put some distance between Granger and the fey, and put some food in her stomach before the lightheadedness morphed into nausea. To be honest though, not even sitting down with a latte in front of her and a turkey sandwich with extra pickle spears on the side was taking the edge off her headache.
    Granger sitting across from her, with those scrutinizing cop-eyes, wasn’t helping matters, that was for certain. Supporting the side of her head in her hand, London dipped the pickle into the side of honey mustard and focused all her attention on eating it.
    “That’s just gross. What? Are you pregnant?” Granger teased, stirring sugar into the coffee that was the only thing he ordered.
    “Don’t even joke,” she murmured, although she was a hundred percent positive that she wasn’t. Not unless there was some immaculate conception clause in the druid handbook that she’d overlooked. “So, vampires. You didn’t even bat an eye at the fangs. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Interpol knows about them. Not much gets past you guys, huh?” Best to steer the direction of this conversation where she wanted it to go, which was as far away from the topic of fey as possible.
    “We’re a clever lot,” Granger agreed. “We always get to the bottom of things, even when people try to hide it.”
    “Mmm,” she made a sound that could have been interpreted as agreement, or just an appreciation of the pickle.
    “You want to see something?” Granger pulled his phone from his pocket and cued up a video. He slid the phone closer to London, and