Zach Mede, the brilliant detective and famous vampire hunter, had to know I could smell his blood from ten miles away, even if we hadn’t seen each other in two years. He was holed up in a shitty motel, the kind traveling detectives stay in when on a case in a city like New York.
I broke in no problem and found him standing, broad shoulders curled over a cheap desk covered in papers and photos of blood-speckled corpses. He didn’t hear me come in, so I knew the case was big shit, his mind on autopilot. He didn’t even know I was there until I had my hand around his throat and my nose in his hair. Large muscles tensed in my embrace, and I saw him eye the big, fuck-you silver knife on the edge of the desk.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
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