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lived side by side in a truce—often uneasy, but a truce nonetheless. Much of that was thanks to Alexander Kane, Boston’s high-profile werewolf lawyer.
    At the thought of Kane, a confusion of feelings tumbled through me. Mostly, I missed him. He’d been in Washington for three months, preparing to argue a case before the Supreme Court that could establish paranormal rights at the federal level. Right now, each state had its own rules. Some, like “Monsterchusetts,” gave paranormals limited rights. That’s because the zombie plague happened here, and the state had to accommodate its citizens who’d died and been reanimated. But other states—most of them—gave us no rights at all, not even the right to be alive (or undead, as the case may be). Kane was trying to change that.
    Kane was doing important work; I knew that. And I supported him in it. But his work consumed him, and sometimes it felt like there wasn’t much left over for me. We’d dated off and on for two years—more off than on—and sometimes we went weeks without seeing each other. He worked days, I worked nights, and neither of us was willing to stick our career in the backseat.
    Before Kane left for Washington, we’d agreed to see other people—his idea. I’d gone out a few times with Daniel Costello, the human detective I met in the fall when one of my clients was murdered. I liked Daniel. We were still getting to know each other, but we had fun together. But Kane made it clear he had no time for anything but work.
    I’d expected to be one of those things he didn’t have time for. But since he went to Washington, he called me a couple of times a week—more than we talked, sometimes, when we were in the same city. Somehow it figured that being five hundred miles apart brought us closer.
    Sighing, I pulled open the door to my building. In the lobby, a massive bouquet of red roses towered over the doorman’s desk. An explosive sneeze trembled the flowers, and a zombie face appeared, rising like a gray-green moon over a forest—if the man-in-the-moon was having a really bad night.
    “Nice flowers, Clyde,” I greeted the doorman. “You got a secret admirer?”
    “Actually, no. These arrived for you an hour ago.”
    For me? Who’d be sending me flowers? My first thought, with a flutter of pleasure, was Kane, but that was silly—he came to mind because I’d just been thinking about him. Who, then? Sometimes grateful clients sent gifts, but most of my recent demon exterminations had been run-of-the-mill. Except tonight’s. Somehow, though, I didn’t think Professor Milsap had speed-dialed his favorite all-night florist to show me his undying gratitude for getting rid of that Glitch.
    Clyde sneezed again. It was a funny, dry sound, like somebody pretending, not very convincingly, to have a cold. “Please take them away. I was terribly allergic to flowers before the plague. You’d think being previously deceased would put an end to that, but—” Another dry sneeze. “But perhaps what’s left of my body remembers.”
    “Allergies, huh? That must have made life difficult when you were a minister.” I lifted my duffel bag’s strap over my head so it crossed my torso. “Didn’t the church ladies load up the altar with flowers each Sunday?”
    “Then I could get allergy shots. Those wouldn’t help now. At least I’m not bedeviled by watery eyes or a stuffy nose. Just this infernal … aaaah-choo! ” The roses trembled again.
    I lifted the vase. It was surprisingly heavy.
    “Be careful.” Clyde held out a steadying hand. “I think it’s Waterford.”
    “Was there a card?”
    “Presumably there’s one inside the envelope attached to the bouquet.” He scowled as though I’d accused him of steaming open my love notes.
    I couldn’t see where I was going through the dense foliage—rose leaves and ferns and baby’s breath—waving in front of my face. I stuck my head out on the left and crossed to the elevators, my weapons bag