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“And you are here at the ascension party because . . . ?”
“Rhodesdemonswereinvited, Iwasstayingthenightafterbringing—” And the rest of her sentence ran together in a hopeless tangle.
“Slower,” Dahlia said, making sure she sounded like she meant it.
Diantha sighed noisily, looking as exasperated as the teenager she appeared to be. “Since I was here for the night, they invited me to come with them.” She put an almost visible space between each word. “Nothing else to do, so I came with.”
“You’re visiting from Louisiana on a business errand, and you came to the mansion with the Rhodes demons because they were invited.”
Diantha nodded, her green spikes bobbing almost comically. If Dahlia hadn’t seen demons fight before, she might have laughed.
“How did you happen to enter the kitchen?” Katamori asked. During Dahlia and Diantha’s conversation, he had circled the table to stand at Diantha’s back. She had turned slightly so she could keep both vampires in view, since she was now bracketed between them. Despite Dahlia’s assurances, the half-demon girl didn’t like her situation at all. Her knees bent, and her hands fisted, ready for a challenge.
But when she spoke, her voice was steady enough. “I was going to the refrigerator,” Diantha said, still making the effort to speak slowly. “You guys were out of Sprite, and I thought it would be all right if I checked to see if there was more in the refrigerator. Ismelledtheblood—”
Dahlia held up an admonishing hand, and Diantha slowed down. “I yelled because I smelled the blood as I stepped in it.”
“Not before?” Most supernaturals had a very sharp sense of smell.
“Smell of vampire had deadened my nose,” Diantha said.
That made sense to Dahlia. Though the scent of vampire was naturally delightful to her, she had been told many times that it was overwhelming to other supernaturals.
“Was the blood still running when you came in?” The thicker trickles from spurting arteries were barely moving down the shiny surface of the appliances, and the cast-off drops that had been slung away when the throat had come out were beginning to dry at the edges.
“Little,” Diantha said.
“Was anyone else here?” Katamori said.
Diantha shook her head.
The two vampires glanced at each other, eyebrows raised in query. Dahlia couldn’t think of any more questions to ask. Evidently Katamori couldn’t, either.
“Diantha, in a second you can move.” Dahlia and Katamori closed in on each side of the body. “All right,” Dahlia said. “Step out of the blood. Take off your shoes and leave them.”
The half-demon girl followed Dahlia’s instructions to the letter. She perched on the wooden table to remove her red high-tops. She placed her stained shoes neatly side by side on the floor. “Stayorgo?” she asked, looking much more cheerful now that she wasn’t so close to the corpse. Demons didn’t often eat people, and proximity to the body hadn’t been pleasant for her.
“I think you can go,” Dahlia said, after a moment’s thought. “Don’t leave.”
“Gobacktotheparty,” the girl said, and did so.
By silent agreement, the two vampires bent to their task. With their excellent vision and sense of smell, they didn’t need magnifying glasses or flashlights to help them analyze what they saw.
“The human donors came into the kitchen and ate and drank,” Katamori began. “A vampire shepherded them.”
“As always,” Dahlia said absently. “And that’s a vampire we need to talk to, because somehow this human got left behind, or he hid himself. Obviously, the shepherd should have noticed.”
“A werewolf came through here, probably after the death. Perhaps more than one werewolf,” Katamori continued. He was crouched near the floor, and he looked up at Dahlia, his dark eyes intent. His black braid fell forward as he bent back to examine the floor, and he tossed it back over his shoulder.
“I don’t disagree,” Dahlia said, making an effort to sound neutral. Any trouble that involved the werewolves would involve Taffy. “I think we should tell Joaquin that the shepherd needs to come here now, or as soon as he’s returned.”
Katamori said “Yes,” but in an absent way. Dahlia went to the swinging door. As she’d expected, one of Joaquin’s friends, a wispy brunette named Rachel, was waiting in the hall. Dahlia explained what she needed, and Rachel raced off. Cedric had forbidden the use of cell phones in the mansion, and Joaquin had not rescinded that rule yet, though Dahlia had heard that he would.
In two minutes Gerhard, the shepherd of the evening, came striding down the hall to join Dahlia. She could tell by the way he walked that he was angry, though he was smiling. That perpetual smile shone as hard as Gerhard’s short corn-blond hair, which gleamed under the lights like polished silk. He’d lived in Rhodes for fifty years, but he and Dahlia had never become friends.
Dahlia didn’t have many friends. She was quite all right with that.
“What would you like to know?” Gerhard asked. His German accent was pronounced despite his long years in the United States.
