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out in the light and the vampires would be waiting for twilight. Not because of any aversion to the sun – it turned out that Bram Stoker had met the world’s only vampire with a photosensitive skin condition – but because the buggers were so concerned with being cool that they spent the daylight hours getting their look
just right
. I idly speculated on whether Sil had ever got his Gucci back from the cleaners; he had looked
fabulous
in that suit. Particularly when he’d let his hair grow long. The beginnings of a smile tried to part my lips at the memory, but I fought back as I felt my heart squeeze and the familiar sensation that my lungs were full of pins. I was
so
over him. Course I was.
    I wandered around the narrow maze of streets in front of the Minster. The usual crowds of tourists were clotting around the sights of interest, and a party on the Vampire Walk were being entertained by a tour guide dressed as Dracula. A casual scan of the area turned up nothing unusual; a pair of werewolves prowling along together in human form greeted me with a smile and an indication towards their bag of butchers’ offal – it being easier to shop for your predilections rather than risk going hunting and catching the inevitable silver bullet.
    Talking of which – a figure in a long brown coat straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the wall of Betty’s Tearooms, lighting a cigarette. ‘Good afternoon.’
    Great. A Hunter. Not a local, they all slouched about in designer suits and Converse trainers, this guy was working the full Van Helsing, down to the open-necked shirt and uncombed hair. He even had a monogrammed cigarette lighter, which put him beyond the merely poser and right out into ‘look at me!!!’ territory. I’d give him about twenty minutes against one of the real hard boys. Still, nothing to be gained by being rude, so I slowed down.
    â€˜You’re Jessica Grant, aren’t you? Liaison? Thought I recognised you from the ident list we got handed … I’m just on my way down to Enforcement – should have gone in and introduced myself this morning but things kind of took off on me. Ken Symes. I’m from Dorset, came yesterday accompanying a bunch of monsters up for the Run.’
    I didn’t know vampire Hunters could be called Ken. I thought they only recruited blokes with butch names like Grant or Jez. And he called the Otherworlders monsters, which earned him minus several million points with me. And, yes, he should have gone and introduced himself at Enforcement HQ. They were almost as cagey about incoming Hunters as we were about Otherworlders: the Hunters ‘pose’ level was nearly as high as the vamps’ and there’s only so much admiration to go round.
    â€˜Yes, that’s me.’ We shook hands while he smoked at me. Minus another few points.
    Ken swirled his coat and let the wind ruffle his naff rock-video hair. ‘Ah well. Nice to have met you, heard you’re well in with the city vamp, might score me a few brownie points with the bad guys.’ He dropped the stub of cigarette on the cobbles and ground it out with his heel (good job Ken wasn’t going for my Man Of the Year award), turned and headed off down one of the narrow alleyways. He wore built-up shoes, the big wuss.
    I watched him. He walked enough steps to think the half-light that filtered between the buildings would conceal him then, with a quick glance over a shoulder, headed through the door into the local branch of Specsavers .
    I tried not to giggle. Hunters had their work cut out maintaining an image; it must be hard never being seen to do those things that ordinary mortals did without thinking. And then I bridled at his words ‘well in with the city vamp’. What
exactly
did he mean by that, considering that I would quite cheerfully have offered to tranq Sil right this second had I heard that he’d so much as