Behind her, in the shadows of an evidence van, stood Sloan Rosen. He was watching me with amused eyes, knowing my outfit and general badass getup were for the press, and probably critiquing my entire ensemble. I’d known Sloan almost as long as I’d known Jodi. Like her, he worked with the woo-woo squad as part of NOPD’s SCD—Special Crime Division. African American, inked with gang tats and prison tats from his time undercover, Sloan had had a hard time finding a comfortable place at cop central, a safe place, considering the price the Crips had put on his head. He was married and had kids, and so he needed the job and the benefits and the retirement package that preceded Hurricane Katrina and the city’s financial woes.

He nodded to the side and lifted a finger. I gave him a half nod and turned the bike over to Herbert, who pushed it into the shadows as I met Jodi at the tent. Thunder rumbled from far away, the low, rolling resonance that was as much echo as the sound of distant lightning.

Jodi ran her eyes from the toes of my Lucchese boots to the top of my silver stakes and laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh, so I grinned back. “No one knows who our suspect is,” she said. “Facial recog has turned up zip so far. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Like most older vamps, he’s gone through names. According to the chief fanghead, the one he entered this country under was Joseph Santana. Leo is calling the governor and the mayor to approve my appointment and contract as chief rogue-vampire hunter. At dusk I will be fired as Enforcer and given a contract by Leo to hunt Santana, which will provide him some protection against Santana’s pals when I cut out his heart. How about your end?”

“Not bad,” she said. “The governor’s contract is being faxed to your office now, the fee to be paid by a local man whose son is inside the bar, on the floor, the result of a hungry fanghead; one of the drained ones.” Her face fell, showing for a moment the despair of dealing with the grief and anger of the populace, while at the same time having to be professional, cool, calm, and able to protect and serve.

Carefully, so as not to rock the precarious emotional balance she was preserving, I said, “Just to clarify, Yellowrock Securities doesn’t take orders from the donor, or any state or federal law enforcement agency. I’ll be working under contract to the Mithran Council, but under the direct command of the governor.” Jodi’s lips tightened as if she was about to disagree and I rushed ahead. “But I will keep you, personally, in the loop. We provide each other intel and backup as needed. Agreed?”

Some of her strain eased. “You’re not going to make me pinkie swear in front of the press, are you?” she asked.

“No. You’re not gonna make me talk, are you?”

“Yes.” She grabbed my right arm and pulled me toward the stairs. “Come on. It’s time.” I managed not to hiss in pain and, with my good fingers, peeled her grip free as we walked. Jodi didn’t notice my discomfort. But . . . I’m gonna have to talk? My heart rate sped.

In a mild state of panic, I climbed the creaky stairs to stand to the side, behind Jodi and the new mayor, with Eli next to me. A suited man stood on the other side of the mayor, his demeanor practically shouting FBI or PsyLED, his expression suggesting that he was too good to rub shoulders with the locals. He didn’t even glance at Eli and me, and I felt my partner evaluating him. “Civilian,” Eli muttered, just loud enough for the guy to hear. The cop turned, finally deigning to look us over, taking in the weapons we carried. “Piss his pants if he met a fanghead in a dark alley,” Eli finished, louder.

I managed not to laugh, but it was a near thing. The suited cop flushed darkly.

“You are evil,” I whispered to Eli.

“You just figuring that out, babe?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of New Orleans,” the mayor started. I listened with only half an ear, more interested in the smells and sights of the crowd, and their mob-related body language, than what the mayor was saying. Yada yada, blah blah blah, a stream of political inanities, a lot of “keeping you safe,” more yada yada and blah blah.

Then the suited guy stepped up and promised that the state police and state government would be backing up the locals in any way they needed, the moment they were asked to participate. A newsy type shouted, “Why aren’t you helping now?”

The cop turned, looked directly at me, and said, “The city of New Orleans has decided it would rather put their trust in armed bounty hunters”—which made it sound as if we were so much dog poop on the sidewalk—“than in the resources of Troop B of the Office of State Police.”

“Jane Yellowrock?” a man with a camera yelled back. “What good is the lover of the Master of the City in a hunt for fangheads?” The crowd rumbled agreement and the state cop smiled at me, smoothed his lapels, and stepped aside.

Great. Just freaking ducky. I broke out in a hot sweat and, after a space of uncomfortable seconds, during which the crowd got louder and uglier, I figured out how to lift a foot and push it forward, walking slowly to the podium. Jodi shot me a glance of hidden amusement, and I realized that she had heard us baiting the cop. My partner and his big mouth.

I was taller than the suited cop, and I reached forward, adjusting the main mic higher so I wouldn’t have to bend over. Only as I worked with the mic did I sense that my height and the need to adjust the world to my size were playing a part in calming the crowd. Predators in the wild knew that size was no indicator of dominance or strength. I was bigger than Leo Pellissier and Joseph Santana, and they were way bigger predators than I was. But the humans quieted as I worked, waiting.

When I figured I had their attention, I cleared my throat and said, softly, into the mic, “I’m Jane Yellowrock. I came to this city to track and kill the vampire who took down an entire unit of cops where they stood. You’ve seen it on YouTube, uploaded by someone in the Pellissier household, the way I took that killer down. The look of his teeth—not a regular vampire at all.”

“Sabertooth vampire,” someone from the middle of the crowd yelled.

“That mutant, insane vampire, whatever he was, was not a Mithran. You’ve heard them call themselves that, right? Mithrans?” I caught some nods and felt the cameras on me. Sweat trickled beneath my leathers, tickling. My mouth went dry. “That thing I killed was something other, something unknown.