Page 3 of The Silver Fox Vampire

“Maybe.” Heck, why had she said that? It was a hard no.

As she shoved her phone into her purse, she looked out at the remains of Perfect Pooch, the signage pink and sparkly at one end, charred and blackened at the other, and her shoulders slumped.

This was her life now. Investigating fires at the pooch groomers, along with trumped-up charges against the occasional monster who got a permit to work in Tween and then, through no fault of their own, fell foul of their human employer. (Usually because they didn’t bow their horns low enough, or accidentally looked the human in the eye.)

She’d done her best to focus on her work here in Tween these past three years. But there was always the pull of her time as a rookie detective with the Motham City PD. Any reminders, and… gods damn it. She missed that job like a drug she hadn’t fully detoxed from.

It’s not just the job you miss.

Muttering a few choice words under her breath, Clare drove back to the station at exactly the speed limit, knowing that her colleagues would love to pick her up for going even one point over. Everything in Tween was meticulous and ordered; the neat streets with their white picket fences, the roses and gardenias in bloom, the lawns so neatly mowed they looked like green velvet. The ornamental lake sparkled in the morning sunlight as she circumnavigated Tween Park, heading through the shopping precinct where well-dressed humans strolled in and out of bow-windowed shops or sat drinking tea and eating pastries at smart cafes.

Tween was too pretty for words.

And too damn boring for words.

Her pulse quickened as she remembered the bustle of the Motham police department. The chaos in reception most nights, the lock-up, where there was always a feral species shouting and berating an officer. Always something going on that was edgy and interesting, or quirky and offbeat. And you had to constantly watch your back when you drove into the Wastelands or investigated a gangland fight at the Tip.

And when she got back to the station after an investigation, there would always be Oliver Hale to secretly look forward to, tall and elegantly dressed, conducting a case briefing in that gravelly voice, rich as whiskey.

It was a guilty pleasure, one that she’d let herself indulge in way too often.

On her very first day at work, his dark eyes had held hers in the introductory session for new officers, sparking something in her blood, something she couldn’t explain. She’d felt almostdizzy as his dark gaze had homed in on her and he’d asked her name.

She’d had difficulty finding it. “Clare Doyle, sir.”

“Ah-ha.” He’d stroked the line of his close-cut beard with finger and thumb, watching her intently.

“What brings you to Motham PD, Clare?”

“A desire to help, sir.”

“Or a desire to gloat.”

“Sir?”

Her hackles rose at that, but she bit back any further retort. She’d been hauled over the coals before for talking back to seniors.

“Doyle is a High Tween name, is it not?” he said.

“Tween yes, but not high class.”

“How come?”

“Doyle’s Funeral Directors are considered trade, sir.”

“Trading in the dead. How interesting.” His eyes were dark as ebony, yet with an inner glow to them, almost like burgundy wine. Clare felt herself falling into them; had to blink to break the sensation. She’d heard he was a vampire, and sure, his canines were longer than his other perfect white teeth, but they looked human enough. His short dark beard glinted with silver, accentuating his lean high cheekbones and sensual lips.

He wore a waistcoat embroidered with silver thread under his silver-grey suit.

The band of his watch was silver. A thick silver ring decorated the middle finger of his left hand, engraved with an insignia of some sort.

She’d thought vampires were allergic to silver, and yet—Oliver Hale was all silver.

She wondered how old he was, if he’d been alive during the Great War even. There had been a proliferation of vampiresthen, before the mass stakings. And after that, those who survived had carried humongous grudges against humans.

Which was probably why he’d singled her out, Clare decided. To humiliate her.

He’d moved on then, to another new staff member, leaving her strangely flustered, her blood pulsing hard through her veins.