G̶r̶e̶g̶o̶r̶i̶o̶,̶

"Why—what are you doing here?"

She traced a delicate, gloved hand across my desk. "I have an appointment. Honestly, you've no customer service at all."

I stood, but she breezed by me, removing her fuzzy, leopard print coat and flinging it right past the coat rack and onto an empty chair like she owned the damn place. Beneath that coat she, she was... well she'd gotten all gussied up. Her bobbed hair was styled in waves I hadn't seen since, when, the forties? It matched her black dress, swinging about her knees (was that a petticoat under there?). The seams of her stockings climbed the backs of those gams in maddeningly straight lines as she took a turn about the room, studying the place. That silver anklet still adorned her right ankle, snug beneath her stocking. She grazed a gloved finger, also leopard print, along my bookshelf like she was searching for signs of dust. The eye makeup was still smeared, but her lips were wine-red, and she trailed the scent of mint and citrus shampoo and cigarettes in her wake.

"I smell coffee," she said, "is it for guests?"

"It's for clients." I straightened, remembering quite suddenly that I was a professional. "I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised you decided to come forward with more information regarding Lily Perez. I hadn't thought I'd made that good of an impression on you. Considering how we left things."

"A girl has a right to throw blood sucking predators, and vampires, out her residence."

Fair enough. I'd been called a bloodsucker in more than one manner in my lifetime.

"You're doing the right thing."

I gulped out that last bit, trying not to think about Dmitri's shady wedding night comments, or his foul breath.

Margarita nodded. A pair ofbig, round hoop earringsin a thin gold batted softly against her chin. "Mr. Vis-lack-skoo, I'm sorry for my last remarks. I believe we got off on the wrong foot—what? Why are you staring at me like that? Shit, do I have a run?"

She bent over to glance at what I could confidently say were her perfectly intact stockings.

I shrugged (she was, after all, still a person of interest in Dmitri's case) as I moved to my desk, positioned at the head of the room, in front of the bay window, the farthest spot from my coffee marker. In my chair, I relaxed, kicking up my feet on the paper covered desktop, mirroring the move she made when I had come into her parlor. If anyone was to make themselves at home, it was going to be me.

"You, just, clean up nice."

"Don't act so surprised," she said, flatly.

"Not surprised, impressed."

"That means you're surprised."

Eh, suppose she had a point there.

"What foot would you like us to land on, now, Margarita?"

"Isla," she said, pulling at her gloves. "My name is Isla. Madame Margarita is a..." she shrugged, "nom de plume."

"I suspected."

Marg—Isla (boy didn't that just roll off the tongue nice) took a deep breath, looking down at her wringing hands, as if this next bit was going to be a tough swallow for her. And when she swallowed, her throat bobbed. I pretended to flick through some papers to avoid staring.

"You find missing persons, am I right?"

"I'm a private eye, Eye-la." She rolled her eyes as I annunciated her name like I was trying it on for size. "Missing persons, assets, records, pets, familiars, cheating spouses, damaged property, stolen spells, alibis, Shakespeare's missing manuscripts, the Ark of the Covenant, socks the dryer ate, and the Lindbergh baby are all things I may happen to, on occasion, find."

She covered her mouth in an attempt to suppress what I suspected was a very girlish giggle, clearing her throat instead.

"I'm fresh out of missing babies—" I snapped my fingers "—but I am interested in hiring you to find a person."

"This—you aren't here about Lily?"

She smirked. Oh, this ought to be good.

"Okay then," I patted my desk for a blank piece of paper—eventually settling for the back of an envelope—and grabbed a pen. "Who do you need found?"

"Lily Perez."

I—that—she wasn't.

I laughed. Laughed so hard I dropped my pen and choked and nearly fell out my chair. Laughed so hard I thought blood might spurt from out my nose.

"It isn't funny," she said.

"You are absolutely right," I smoothed back my hair and rose from my chair, suddenly full of the pent up, pacing type of energy.

I poured myself a coffee. It wasn't funny at all. Isla was human. Of that I had no doubt. Hell, what else could she be? Sure as Shirley not a vamp or a wolf. Two too many legs for a mermaid. That smoky voice not shrill enough for a banshee. Certainly didn't smell all herby and briny like the witches I knew. Yet her knowledge of us, of Society, was a bit too casual for her not to have some potentially dangerous and high-profile connections. Humans and Tourists don't just get to play pretend without legal repercussions.

Be interesting to see how far she'd take her act, though. Fun, even.

"Are you trying to grift me? I just can't possibly see why a psychic like you," she raised a brow, "would need someone like me to find this poor girl, when there you were last night sitting pretty on the gal's own finger."

Isla followed me to the coffee pot, her plush mouth hung open a surprised little O, black eyes twinkling beneath heavy lashes. It stirred an itch in me I was currently in no position to scratch.

"You think it's her finger," she said, smoothly snatching the coffee right out my hand. As her warm fingers grazed mine, the taste of wine and dirt filled my mouth. She took a slow, languid sip. Lipstick stained the ceramic.

Tense, I took another mug from the drying rack. "You said it was her finger."

"Mm hmm," she nodded. "Under compulsion, whilst having my mind violated by a vampire who couldn't even let me form a complete sentence as you turned my brain to mush."

The mug in my hand cracked. "I apologize for that. I don't—it's not a tactic I like to employ often, but sometimes the... uncooperative types, make it a necessity in my profession—"

"You must not be very good at your profession if you," she waved her palm as if to gesture at my entire body, "can't get a single woman in her bathrobe to corporate without brainwashing her."

"Good enough for a tip jar thief to hire me."

"You're in my price range," she sneered.

I could be wrong, but I suspected that was both a dig at my abilities and her finances. A self-sacrificial burn. Interesting dame.

"You want to talk about violating? You called me kinky."

"Under the duress of hypnosis."

We stood in silence, the air fizzing with electricity, sipping our coffees. She hadn't tried to deny she found my teeth kinky. Only that she wouldn't have otherwise said it aloud. I rubbed the bridge of my nose. As fun as this chat was, I didn't have time to waste on playful banter. I had a missing barista to find.

Finally, sensing the tension in the air, Isla sighed, rolling her shoulders dramatically. "It's not her finger," she tapped her gloved nails along the mug. "She brought it with her, to perform a séance with, it ended... poorly." Almost absently, Isla brushed a fading bruise along her hairline.

"What does poorly mean?"

Isla bit her reddened lip, and it was hot here, wasn't it? It felt hot. I'd have to check the thermostat later. "It means I'm worried about her."

Wasn't everyone these days?

I grabbed my dropped pen and resumed my notes.

"A séance?" I mumbled. "That could be intriguing. Of course, a Tourist would want a séance. But why? Whom was she trying to..."

I glanced up, hoping Isla would offer up some more details. She held my gaze and sipped her coffee.

"Which is something you'll tell me once I've agreed to take your case, isn't it?"

She smiled. "Good boy, you are smart."

Against every logical bone in my body, every impulsive muscle inside me decided to tense and shudder at the low, smoky sound of her voice there, and I found myself imagining her calling me that with my lips on her throat. Kinky.

I looked away, coughing. Taking her case could be a bad idea. A conflict of interest, even. It would be stupid to go through with this and I should tell her so. "I'll have my secretary draft you up a contract, and how you can leave a deposit."

...nailed it.

She squirmed and made a keening noise in the back of her throat.

"I was thinking that maybe we could do a trade of services."

"No. That's not how I operate. And I don't think I've any need for your particular services."

She glanced over at an empty sofa and raised a brow. "Are you sure there's nothing my expertise could help you with?"

"Not that I can think of."

She shrugged. "Okey dokey then, deposit it is," she said, pulling two hundred dollar bills out of her purse and slapping them on my desk.

"Whose tip jar did you rob for these?"

"My own." She sat on the arm of the chair I had offered her. "You paid me those last night."

"I paid you three hundred."

"Some of us also still have to pay for our meals," she said, tracing a line along her jugular with one finger, drawing attention to the subtle way her veins pulsed under her skin. Soft. Delicate. The skin of her neck was so smooth, the collar of her dress far too low, I noticed, as my eyes followed her finger down to the hollow of her throat and then lower and lower...

I tore my gaze off her, poking my teeth with my tongue to make sure my fangs stayed tucked away. She shivered. "I pay for my meals, thank you."

"Huh. Wouldn't have pegged you," she cleared her throat, "for the type who had to pay for it, Mr. Vash-"

"It's pronounced Vah-see-less-cu." I blurted, just to shut her up.

Hadn't meant for that to come out so sharp, though. This woman's mind was filthy and—where's the thermostat in this place again? It was too hot in here.

"Oh," she said. "Sorry."

"Call me Greg," I surrendered and immediately regretted it. I don't normally like it when my clients get casual. When spurned spouses and worried mothers get casual they get comfortable and when they're comfortable they get inappropriate. But I guess Isla was leagues beyond appropriate already.

She sniggered. "Greg?"

"Yes?"

"No, I just," she covered her mouth, trying to conceal her laughter. "A vampire named Greg. Sure."

"Don't you want to see the contract? Decide if I'm actually in your price range? I charge a bit differently than by hour."

"I'll manage."

Isla offered her gloved hand to shake. Hmm, maybe this wouldn't be such a terrible idea. Isla was intriguing. Mysterious. Annoying and guarded and, I guess, pushy, but nothing about her screamed danger. No instinctual alarm bells sounded in her presence, only logical ones. Her case might actually help me solve Dmitri's quicker, which would save my fingers, and probably several other pieces of me. The phony psychic certainly didn't need to know Dmitri's plans for Lily, not that I could even say whether they were nefarious.

Ah, but what new trouble for me would she invite along the way?

Hell with it. Trust your gut, old boy. And no further south.

I shook on it. Isla was warm. I bet her skin was soft under those gloves. Up close, she smelled more strongly of mint and citrus, like she doused herself in a bath of it, but underneath all that I still caught whiffs of incense and sweet flowers. I imagined her sitting on her ratty chaise, drinking wine, reading a book as she lit a cig, in the comfort of her own home...

Home.

Damn it all. I'd never gotten around to asking Phoebe to call me a favor with a less undead associate last night.

Isla licked the rim of the coffee mug. Oh nelly. I was probably going to regret this, but... could be fun, right. Least change up the old routine a smidge while still being productive.

"Actually, Isla," I took a deep breath. "There is something I could use you for."