Page 1 of The Mermaid’s Bubble Lounge (Sam Quinn #8)

ONE

New Book, Who Dis?

A cat slinks by the empty nightclub. It’s past closing and the employees have all gone home. Which is for the best as, he loathes the smell of mermaids. There’s nothing to be done about it. He doesn’t control where the doorways are.

A cat rubs against his leg. He’s in the deepest shadows, under the eaves of the nightclub, away from streetlights. He bends to scratch the cat, hearing the faint thump of feet and paws on the sidewalk.

Lifting his head to the wind, be breathes in the scents: a human woman and a dog. Perfect. He picks up the cat. It stiffens but doesn’t try to shred him. Perhaps, he thinks, the cat understands he’s a fellow hunter, silent and lethal.

When the jogging steps approach, he puts the cat back down on the pavement. It runs forward a few feet, hisses at the panting dog, and then moves back beside the hunter. That couldn’t have gone better if the hunter had planned it himself.

The dog pulls at the leash, half dragging his petite female owner across the empty parking lot. He’s a strong, muscular breed. The hunter can see her straining. He enjoys her predicament.

The dog is stronger, though she is the one in charge.

Moments like this call that power dynamic into question.

In the dog’s mind, he may have been allowing her to give him commands because she scratches and feeds him.

When it comes down to it, though, he knows which of them is the stronger and fiercer.

The woman yanks him back. “Heel.”

Even from here, the hunter can see her embarrassment. She’s lost control. She’ll have to get used to that feeling.

The dog growls, dragging her closer to the building. The cat steps forward again, hissing. The woman’s shoulders droop. Nothing to fear here. Just a cat getting her dog worked up.

Suppressing a grin, the hunter waits until she’s just a bit closer. She doesn’t have his—nor the cat nor dog’s—night vision, so she’s missing some very important context clues.

The hunter waits, like a spider on a web. Just a little closer.

“Buttercup, come on. It’s just a cat. We need to finish our run.” She tries to pull him back, but it’s no use. He has the hunter’s scent and is far too intrigued.

The cat runs around the empty nightclub, but still the dog pulls the woman toward her death.

Brow furrowed, she stares blindly into the dark at the hunter’s shins, trying to make out what her little Buttercup is growling at. The hunter will show her soon, but not yet. He’s a predator, much like the cat, who enjoys playing with his food.

“What is it?” she asks, exasperated. “Is it food?”

She steps closer, and the hunter lets his eyes glow red in the dark. “It’s most definitely food,” he says. “Mine.”

The poor woman is paralyzed with fright when his fangs sink into her neck.