Then another.
I decide maybe now is an excellent time to listen to every alarm bell that's been screaming at me for the past couple of days.
Grabbing a fistful of Casey's shirt, I yank him backward while bolting for the door.
Except it’s a pull door.
Not a panic-and-throw-yourself-through-it door.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Eleven
WHEN THE CHEESE GETS ROASTED
Sitting up as I clock movement, I check the time on my watch.
Six o’clock on the dot.
A greasy-haired leech approaches the pizza shop flanked by two broad-shouldered bruisers. The kind of vampires that make every instinct scream at you to run the other way.
Greasy’s red eyes dart around the alley before landing on my hiding spot atop the roof.
I hold my breath.
Not because he can see me. The glamour takes care of that.
But leeches survive by being paranoid, and hunters survive by assuming the bastards know something they shouldn't.
When his gaze finally moves on, I breathe a little easier.
Under the flickering streetlights, his skin looks pallid and sickly.
Nothing like Stark.
Which is irritating all on its own.
Most vampires look dead.
Stark looks alive.
A dealer in blood.
The worst kind of leech.
Good thing he’s cocky enough to operate out of a building with an entire wall of glass. Humans can’t see the place, which gives the leeches a false sense of security.
Hunters can.
And we’re always watching.
When the back door swings open, Greasy shuffles inside and I shift position, angling for a better view through the glass.
Stark greets him with the formal head tilt vampires seem so fond of.
As the leeches settle in, I unwrap a granola bar and take a bite.
Stakeouts are ninety percent waiting and ten percent wishing you’d packed better snacks.
