Isla, Dinner...

The lord of fartness and livers, or whatever, lived in a big, old, brick house. Property was quiet. You could barely tell it was snug in the middle of Old City, the oldest and most touristy part of town. Just a few garden walls behind tourist traps like the Liberty Bell and Betsy Ross's pad and Independence Hall. Bet this joint had some kind of historical landmark status to keep it from getting bulldozed for newer, gaudier townhomes.

A bloomless, thorny rose garden lined the brick walkway. Ivy had swallowed one of the walls and white shudders framed tall windows. A pink plastic flamingo stood sentinel amongst the overgrowth.

I expected the interior to be serene and dignified.

Flamingo really should have tipped me off.

Instead, it was a battlefield. Conflicting eras of styles of taste dueled fiercely in the foyer alone.

Ugly, floral wallpaper laid siege to the walls. Pink roses and blue violets twisted into tiny wreaths piercing a white (yellowed) background. So small you had to squint to recognize the wreaths for the thorny hearts they were.

Mismatching rugs grappled for every inch of the scratched, pine floors. A shaggy orange one shouting at me from over there, an antique-looking oriental charging down hall, one that suspiciously resembled the purple and blue design on those paper cups right under Greg's feet.

Indecisive lighting fought for the attention of every looming shadow. Gothic candelabras lit with real candles framed the doors (my elbow bumped one and Greg caught it before it toppled and set the house ablaze). Above the main entrance flickered a minimalist chandelier of thin golden cubes caging a bare bulb. Think I've seen it Ikea before.

Various paintings tried, but clearly weren't doing a very good job, to cover up the heinous wallpaper. Renaissance style portraits that probably were painted during the actual renaissance threw hands at some canvases cluttered with cartoonish, geometric shapes in neon colors.

And one that looked like it just had just a dick scribbled on it in crayon.

Along with violent interior design, Julian's lord's home was littered with the dead. Mostly young people, late teens, early twenties. I guess they make good donors, as the vamps say. A pair of waifs lounged on the main stair; one girl completely sprawled across the top half of steps, the flickering sconces giving her eerie glow.

Closest to us, curled up like a dog on the bearskin rug, was another haunter. A ghastly thin boy. Twenty-ish I'd guess. His hair was dull and shaggy. Skin gray and papery. His sweater hung limply off his bony shoulders, stretched collar drooping down his chest. Tiny puncture marks dotted every inch of his visible skin, though mainly clustered around his neck and underarm. He just laid there, absently scratching at a plastic tube in his wrist.

Poor kid. Dying like a junkie in a vampire den clearly isn't a happy-fun-time way to go. Had this been what Lily was fleeing from the night she came to see me?

"Get up, Caleb," said Julian, bending over and scooping the kid up by the armpits. "You can't just pass out on the floor. Mistress has rules about this."

I leapt back as Julian helped Caleb to his feet. The boy yawned and shuffled off into the back of the house, bumping into Greg along the way. Caleb was, apparently, very much alive. Woops.

"And you two!" snapped Julian at the girls on the stairs. "Somebody's going to break their necks tripping over you!"

They giggled as they scattered.

Really? What was this, screw with the necromancer night? Was everybody just alive in this dumb house?

"More of your mister's servants?" I asked.

"They're just donors. My position is an honor and a responsibility. One my Liege will reward me for with a retirement in undeath. When the time is right." He rubbed his unmarred neck. "Excuse me while I announce your presence. My Liege! Lord of Darkness and Terror. I have fulfilled your request to bring you Gregor, son of—"

"Stop yelling and just go fetch the old coot," grumbled Greg, nose pinched.

Julian huffed, but still, gestured for us to stay put as he trotted up the stairs. Watching us like a joyless nanny over his shoulder, he slipped into a darkened hallway, leaving a vampire and a necromancer unattended a spooky old mansion. Somebody write me a punchline.

"This when we take money and run, Billy Joe?" I whispered.

"No, Bobbie Sue. You wouldn't even make it very far," Greg nudged me with an elbow. "Look at that. Recognize anything?"

A massive portrait, ornately framed in gold, hung in the foyer. The pale woman in it loomed over the entrance, tight lipped and judging all those who entered her domain.

Greg pointed at the plaque: Lady Rosemond Mary Favichia (nee Hastings).

"Reincarnation my left tit. How's this guy recognize Lily as his true love? She doesn't look anything like this woman."

She really didn't. I think... if I'm remembering her correctly. Lily was petite and Latina. Her eyes were darker. Brown. Maybe hazel? Definitely not a redhead. Her black curls had been cut into shag style at her shoulders, with her bangs twisting over her eyes. Her face was softer too, rounder, with more baby fat. Or, maybe more square? I don't recall exactly what she was wearing under that puffer coat either, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was pink.

Lady Rosemond was wearing white. Her dress, wedding finery by the looks of all the lace and high collars, was as pale as her skin. Cascading down her back and long, slender neck was a curtain of gentle, auburn waves, half twisted into braids on the crown of her head. Pale gray eyes were hooded and downcast. Her thin mouth was parted in a half smile. I don't know, maybe she was just tired from the weight of the massive teardrop ruby on her finger. Her hand was delicately sprawled over her ample bosom, flaunting the rock.

"Maybe it's more of a recognition of her soul? I'm sure reincarnation doesn't mean the same literal body is reborn," Greg shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I meant the ring. It fell out your purse the other night."

My cheeks flushed. He saw that? "No, it—"

"I'll be collecting it to return to my client," Greg leaned in close, whispering in my ear, "if he asks for it."

"Your client. Does that mean you're not taking—"

"Gregor!" A scratchy voice declared. We split like curdled cake batter, just as some old, Crypt Keeper looking dumbass appeared at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched to make his glossy cape, I shit you not, look like wings. "At last! After a forever and thirty minutes of waiting! You return my truest love to me!"

"Evening, Dmitri."

I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from cackling in the old vamp's wrinkly face. This was Dmitri? This guy? Was not expecting that. Was it prejudiced of me to assume all vamps were babes? Looking at Greg and Sloane and the club last night, well... I mean, come on, it seemed like a given.

Dmitri leapt off the top step, cape shifting into literal wings (so it was intentional fashion choice, respect). The old vamp landed in the foyer before us. Greg stepped in front of me (visibly biting back a swear). What a gentleman. But instead of tearing out mine or Greg's throats, Dmitri pulled Greg into a bone cracking hug.

"Oh, you saw my invitation was bring your own blood feast tonight, good, good, good! Julian. My chalice!"

"Yes, My Liege!" Julian yipped, bowing, eyes fluttering closed and a slight twitch in his pants. He bounced down the hall and disappeared.

Man was whipped.

Releasing Greg, Dmitri swooped forward and took my hand in his skeletal one, his watery eyes glinting strangely in the dim light. Dizziness slapped me. Made my head hurt and eyelids heavy. If this batty prick was doing some brain melting jawn on me, I'd stake him. Just the second I could pull my numb hand out from his...

"'Nough of that, she's not for sharing.

Dmitri blinked, throwing up his hands in surrender, and my dizziness instantly subsided.

"Ah, your Claim has been staked. Apologies!"

"Let's talk your case."

Greg slapped a hand on Dmitri's shoulder, pulling his attention away from me. I didn't trip or stumble over my heels at all, thanks very much. Greg had no right to look at me all concerned like that either. I was fine. Perfectly fine. Could've absolutely handled it. The residual headache didn't mean anything. Only that Dmitri was definitely a prick.

"Ah, yes, yes. Come into my manly cavern, where we shall work up a thirst from this mystery!"

Dmitri swirled his cape around Greg and glided, literally, them both into a room just off the main foyer. In the threshold, he turned back to me.

"Bying the way," he tugged on his floor length cloak and then gestured to my leopard print coat thrown over my cocktail dress. My exposed neck and shoulders warmed. "This, as the poets would say, is a good lewk."

"Thanks. I know."

Greg shot me one last look – what was that? Pleading? Grumpy? – and the door slammed in my face. Dmitri seemed to cackle on the other side.

Men.

"Aight," I said, pulling a pack of cigs from purse. "Guess I'll just wait here."

"Got a light, skank?"

I fumbled the pack. Sloane caught it. In one fluid motion, she tossed it back. Those damn vampire reflexes. Bitch materialized out of nowhere.

"Depends," I said. "You planning to eat me?"

Sloane looked me up and down and sneered. "Just looking at you tastes like a goat shit in my mouth."

"Thanks."

She wore a similarly elegant black pantsuit as she had the night before. But new, mismatching, gleaming gold geometric earrings hung from each lobe. The whole modern elegance look was accented by her shaved head and the shimmering teal lipstick. She even pinched one of those long, art deco era cigarette holders between her fingertips.

Damn. Woman was really pulling this look off.

Bitch.

"Didn't I bribe you ass nuts to leave me and my husband, and our business, the fuck alone?"

Yeah, get in line. Seems everyone but your screwy husband was trying to pay us off.

I lit my cigarette. "Didn't take."

"Figures. Your boy struck me as the noble type," she watched me toy with the lighter before finally groaning. "Fucking fine. You want a drink or something?"

I tossed her the lighter. Which she, of course, caught without really looking. Yeah, I could take Jules' money. But I couldn't exactly forget about the barista I resurrected in my living room last week, or the Pack will be the least of my problems. I still needed to find her and undo that spell.

What better suspect to question in the side chick's murder than a shitty husband's angry wife? Sloane hated Lily, according to her own valet. She called her Dmitri's favorite slut, something like that, right to my face. Normal reaction, I guess, when your beau's a cheater.

Sloane clicked her cigarette holder against her teeth.

"Wine," I said. "Red."

"The house favorite," Sloane lit up her fancy ass cigarette. "Come the fuck inside."