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“Tall, black hair. Elegant. Way too classy for this joint, if you ask me.”

My pulse quickens. Could that be one of the Europeans Betty wrote about? The brunette with diamonds? “Did you catch her name?”

“No. They always sat in the back booth. The brunette would order a single drink, never touched it. Just talked with Betty for hours.”

“What did they talk about? Did the brunette have an accent?”

Vivian shakes her head, fighting my compulsion slightly. “Couldn’t hear. But Betty seemed…nervous, the last time. They argued. The brunette grabbed her wrist—hard enough to leavemarks. I was about to intervene when Betty pulled away and left.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago? Maybe more. Right before…” She trails off, blinking as my compulsion begins to fade.

I release her wrist, letting my hand linger in a caress that appears casual but reinforces the suggestion that this conversation wasn’t unusual.

“Thanks for the drink, Viv,” I say, placing money on the bar and tipping extra. “For old times’ sake.”

She nods, still slightly dazed. “Stay safe, Lena.”

I leave The Lavender Room with new questions crowding my mind. If Betty had been into women, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I can pick up on those things. But she never once mentioned the brunette to me, and as far as I know, hadn’t written it in her diary, other than a reference to one of the Europeans.

The rain has intensified, falling in earnest now. I pull my coat tighter and begin walking, scanning the street for a taxi. At this hour, in this neighborhood, they’re scarce.

I’ve gone two blocks when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that signals I’m being watched. I keep walking, maintaining my pace, but my senses sharpen. Footsteps behind me, matching my rhythm. Someone keeping pace, staying just far enough back to remain in shadow.

I turn a corner onto a street lined with closed storefronts, their windows dark and empty. The footsteps continue, neither accelerating nor falling behind.

Deliberate.

Stalking.

Without turning my head, I slip my hand into my purse, fingers closing around the handle of my silver knife. My vampirestrength gives me an advantage over most humans, but I’ve learned never to be overconfident, especially not in public.

Especially not with Betty’s killer still walking free. Even I don’t think I’d survive with my body cut in half.

The next intersection is better lit, with a late-night diner on the corner. If I can reach it, blend in with the other patrons…

The footsteps quicken suddenly. I resist the urge to run—predators chase what flees, I should know—and instead maintain my steady pace, though every nerve ending screams at me to run as fast as I can.

A sound behind me, shoes splashing through a puddle.

Closer now.

Much closer.

I spin around, knife half-drawn from my purse, prepared to confront my stalker.

The street is empty.

Rain falls in sheets, obscuring visibility beyond a few yards, but there’s no one there. No figure in the shadows, no sound of retreating footsteps. Just the patter of raindrops and the distant wail of a police siren.

For a moment, I wonder if my nerves are getting the better of me. If grief for Betty has me jumping at shadows.

Then I see it—a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, still smoking, the ember dying in the rain. Whoever was following me was here seconds ago, close enough to touch. And now they’ve vanished, as if they were never there at all.

I continue toward the diner, faster now, no longer caring if I appear frightened. Because I am. Not just for my own safety—though it might take more than a stalker to kill a vampire—but because of what this means.

Someone is watching me.