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A vampire had me in their sights. A chilly finger tripped up my spine.
Le Dahlia Noir was crowded with humans, some seated, others dancing—but I felt those inhuman eyes on me, sizing me up. When you’ve been a slayer for over a decade, you develop a sense about these things.
My voice faltered on the sultry lyric I was singing. “In the middle of the night…”
I swallowed hard and kept going. It’s okay. You want them to notice you.
It was the reason I’d taken a job as a singer at a posh Quebec City nightclub.
I whisper-sang, “Just call my name,” and swept a look around the dark room.
Make that two vampires: a darkly beautiful male in a pricy suit and a golden-haired female in a purple off-the-shoulder dress. They gazed intently at me from a black velvet couch against the back wall, their faces shimmering, moon-pale, in the low lighting.
I kept my eyes moving, hoping they wouldn’t guess I’d made them as vampires. But they knew, all right. The woman’s tongue flicked out to taste her full lower lip.
My mind blanked. For a panicked second, I couldn’t think of the next line. Then my training kicked in and I finished the song with a throaty flourish.
Thank God for the harsh education I’d undergone at the Slayers, Inc. camp, even if at the time I’d wanted to take the damn rules and shove them up the nearest trainer’s ass.
But you’re not a slayer anymore, are you?