Your Coffin or Mine? Read Online Free PDF Page B

down at the brown mess squishing out from beneath the toe of my snakeskin Prada. I twisted and started scraping my shoe on the concrete to clean the mess. I’d just about gotten everything off when I heard the faint sound.
    The meow echoed through my head and my first instinct was to run the other way.
    I know cats are cute and snuggly, but I’m just not into them. Most vampires aren’t, and the ones who are keep them around from pure necessity. Like my great uncle Pierre who still lives a zillion kilometers from civilization (aka the nearest shopping mecca) in the remote French countryside. While he has a huge staff of servants to help him out with the need to feed, sometimes he gets tired of the same old, same old. He likes a little variety, and since the nearest village is home to a pack of were-wolves, he turns to whatever’s handy, i.e., his cat. I know. Talk about a flossing nightmare. But to each his own.
    The sound kept blaring in my head as I neared the corner. Louder. More desperate.
    Meow.
    It wasn’t like I cared. No cats. That was my motto. Not only because of the hair issue, but because I was determined not to wind up facedown in the kitty litter.
    At the same time, it was my civic duty to ensure that the streets of New York City remained free of piles of stray-cat poop. Talk about a fast way to kill a pair of killer shoes.
    My Pradas, the poor things, would never be the same.
    I took a few more steps before turning down a narrow alley that wound down the side of the building and around the back. My vision cut through the darkness, skating this way and that as I searched for the source. I caught a whiff of damp fur and more poop. The sound grew louder.
    I bypassed garbage cans and a Dumpster and there it was. The Prada killer in the flesh.
    Not that there was much flesh on it. It looked like a full-grown cat, yet it was so scrawny and malnourished that it couldn’t have weighed more than the small bag of MAC necessities I kept in my purse. The black fur was matted. Big, bright green eyes glittered back at me and my chest hitched.
    I stiffened against the feeling and put on my best you-are-so-busted look. “You owe me six hundred bucks,” I told the cat. “Since you can’t possibly pay me back, I’m calling the animal shelter. They’ll pick you up and the streets will once again be safe for designer shoes.”
    He blinked and shivered.
    “Don’t look at me like that. I am calling the animal shelter.”
    Another blink and more shivering.
    “You can’t just stay here, pooping and starving. The animal shelter will feed you and find you a home.” And put you out of your misery if no one wants you. The thought struck and guilt spiraled through me.
    Wait a second. I don’t even like cats. Never have. Never will. They shed and they shit and I don’t even want to think what they taste like.
    Meow .
    “You’re not coming home with me.” Excuse me? Back the Ferrari up. I was not—repeat NOT—thinking about taking this shoe destroyer home with me.
    Was I?
    My brain did a quick scrambling before the right answer popped up.
    No. Definitely not. Sure, they allowed pets in my building, but we’re talking the cute, fuzzy kind. Not an over-the-hill, shriveled-up excuse for a feline.
    To my left, I saw a rat big enough to saddle and mount scurry under a stack of cardboard boxes.
    “There you go,” I told the cat. “You can feast on Mickey and I’m off the hook.”
    Unless Mickey decided to feast on Killer, here. The rat was certainly big enough for a knock-down, drag-out. And who knew? It might win and then I wouldn’t just be guilty of animal neglect. I’d be a murderer.
    Like I know the word vampire is synonymous with the big M for the most part, but I’m not really as bloodthirsty as most of my brethren. No, really. It’s true. My dirty little secret.
    Which wouldn’t be so secret if I snatched up Killer, took him home, and gave him a bath and a saucer of milk. And cuddled up with him on the