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establishment in Chattanooga—Chattanooga; what a name for a city!—Alaric watched as the lunchtime crowd flooded toward the store. A sketchy report from a pair of frantic parents had worked its way to his superiors at the Palatine Guard: A young woman who worked at this particular Walmart had been attacked by a vamp in this very parking lot on her way home from work one night. She still bore the telltale puncture wounds on her neck.
    The problem was that she insisted to her parents that the marks were not from an “attack” at all but were the result of a “love bite.”
    In other words, she adored her attacker.
    Of course, Alaric thought with his customary cynicism. They all do . Society had romanticized vampires to the point that many impressionable young women threw themselves at the actors who played vampires in movies and on television.
    Not that it was their fault. Women were genetically programmedto be attracted to powerful and good-looking men, men with a high testosterone level who would make good providers for their children, which was how vampires—rich, tall, strong, and handsome—were usually portrayed on film.
    Alaric wondered if women would feel quite the same about vampires if they could have seen his former partner Martin in the ICU after they’d tangled with the nest of vamps they’d found in that warehouse outside of Berlin. They’d torn half of Martin’s face off. He was still sucking his dinner through a straw.
    Fortunately, the demons had left him the use of his eyes, so he would still see the daughter he and his partner Karl had adopted—Alaric’s goddaughter, Simone—celebrate her fourth birthday.
    Thus Alaric’s dedication to his work.
    Of course, he’d been dedicated before that particular incident. How many other careers allowed you to use a sword? He could think of very few.
    And Alaric was very fond of his sword, Señor Sticky. The blade, unlike humans, did not lie. It didn’t cheat, and it didn’t discriminate…even if vampires were stupid. Especially American vampires. They hung out in places Alaric himself would never have gone, especially if he were immortal. Such as high schools. And Walmart.
    If Alaric were a vampire—and that was never going to happen, because if by some heinous accident of fate he were even bitten enough times for that to occur, Martin was under instructions to kill him instantly, no matter how much he fought—he’d step it up. Target, maybe.
    Alaric supposed vampires avoided Target because of the parking lot security cameras. (It was a myth that vampires wouldn’t show up in mirrors or on film. Certainly in the old days it had been true, when silver-backed mirrors and film had been the norm. But now that the world had gone digital—and mirrors were cheap—vampire reflections could be caught just like anyone else’s.) Alaric actually liked Target. They didn’t have Target in Rome. He’d bought a Goofy watch the last time he’d been in a Target. The other guards had made fun of him, but he liked his Goofy watch. It was old-fashioned and didn’t do anything but tell time.
    But sometimes all you needed was to know the time.
    Alaric’s cell phone buzzed, and he laid down his Betty and Veronica comic and fished the phone from his coat pocket, then read the text he’d received with interest.
    Manhattan. Reports of completely exsanguinated bodies. At least three dead. Alaric had to read the message twice to make sure he’d read it right.
    Exsanguinated bodies? There hadn’t been a vampire stupid enough actually to drain a body completely of blood in a century. At least not that Alaric knew of.
    Because that—unlike what this vamp was doing in Chattanooga—was murder, and not simply assault with a pair of fangs.
    And assault like that could never even be proven—not in a regular court of law—because the victim had given consent…due to mind control, of course.
    But only the Palatine and the girl’s parents would ever believe that.
    If some