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But I sure as hell didn’t belong to Holden, or to anyone else for that matter. I also doubted Holden declaring mine right before Tyler’s and my date would have gone over well.
I gritted my teeth into what could have passed for a frustrated smile, but below the register of human hearing I growled at my liaison. I may not have been a huge fan of my furry brethren, but sometimes my lupine DNA really pays off. Vampires can snarl, but no one growls like a werewolf.
“Sadly, I have a date elsewhere. ” He stopped touching me and tipped an imaginary hat towards us.
The whole encounter had been entirely unlike Holden. He had been almost…playful. He was usually so serious. His unusual behavior tonight made me wonder about the envelope in my purse. My new target had to be good.
“Good night,” Tyler said with more politeness than I would have managed.
I stepped away from Holden and was about to speak to Tyler when the vampire got in his last word. “Don’t forget to have a look at the contract, Secret. Wouldn’t want that one to get away. ”
I turned to say something that promised to be painfully clever, but Holden was already gone.
Chapter Three
I liked Tyler Nowakowski.
I liked that he laughed easily, his smile was genuine and he never smelled like he was lying. He talked with his hands during his stories, and his eyebrows were enthusiastic exclamation points when he told a good punch line.
He wanted very much for me to like him, and his efforts proved to make me like him that much more. It was nice to be thought worthy of the effort.
He mentioned that they called him Novak at the station because his Polish last name proved cumbersome for a few officers, and the name had stuck. I gathered he was giving me permission to do the same, but the faint blush on his cheeks made it obvious he didn’t love the nickname.
“I think I’ll keep calling you Detective Tyler. ”
His smile deepened, and he reached across the table to take my hand. I didn’t pull back, so he launched into a story about a drug dealer he’d busted as a rookie, who had tried to hide out at a kid’s birthday party by stealing a clown costume.
His delivery was so motivated, and the story so fluid, I could tell he’d told it a dozen times before, probably on other dates. In spite of that, I found myself giggling when the crook tripped over his own floppy shoes and got hauled in.
A pleasant sort of silence settled between us, and I grinned at him like a love-struck teenager. He began to say something when his phone rang, and he was forced to let go of my hand to answer it.
“Nowakowski. ” He listened and frowned, then smiled at me, both embarrassed and apologetic. He mouthed the word sorry, then got up and left the room.
I should have been proud of him for not being one of those dicks—no pun intended—who had cell conversations at the dinner table. But I couldn’t overhear the discussion if he wasn’t here, and I wanted to know if he’d arranged for a safety call from a friend.
When it became apparent Tyler wasn’t coming straight back, I picked up my purse and pulled out the envelope Holden had given me. With the seal already broken, it was easy to open the rest of the way. Inside was the usual stiff card, handwritten by Sig in his elegant, slanted script. It took me a second to absorb the name, and when I did, I laughed out loud at the absurdity.
Charlie Conaway.
Certainly it was just a coincidence that the West Coast rogue I’d been asked to kill had the exact same name as the biggest movie star in Hollywood.
I looked inside the envelope, and my heart sank when I saw something else wedged within. I slipped out the thin piece of paper, a clipping from a tabloid magazine, and placed it next to the card on the table.
There he was, pearly white teeth grinning wolfishly, his eyes hidden behind très chic Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Hollywood vamps love Wayfarers. It was their demented nod to the vampires in Bret Easton Ellis’s The Informers. The man in the photo looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week and wore a loose knit cap over his brown hair. He was flirting with some girls outside The Ivy at night.
Charlie Conaway.
This guy, according to any entertainment magazine or show out there, was only supposed to be in his twenties, but had a net worth of over forty million dollars and was the beloved star of a pair of moony vampire dramas, ironically enough.
I was almost insulted that he was a real vampire. Maybe the council wanted him dead for giving them a bad public image. I wouldn’t put it past them.
I did wonder what he’d done to incite their wrath, but the creed of a council assassin was simple—ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do or die. It’s a bit more dramatic when they take the die part as seriously as they do. But Conaway was a high-profile target, which explained the high payoff. Perhaps his popularity really was their concern.
Fame was power, and if there was anything vampires craved as much as blood, it was power. So, periodically, a vampire would step into the spotlight, claim a little fame, then vanish. For Holden it had been his job at GQ. For Charlie Conaway, it was becoming the biggest movie star in the world.
Most mysterious Hollywood deaths have a supernatural explanation. Marilyn Monroe, for example? Not a vampire, but I knew where you could find her most Friday nights, alive and well, and she hasn’t aged a day.
Conaway wouldn’t be the first high-profile rogue to come from the West Coast. There had been a rogue in the Hollywood Hills during the sixties who gained a lot of notoriety among the vampire community and had to be taken out because he was a wee bit too enthusiastic about his collection of actresses.
