The Last of the Red-Hot Vampires

"Probably just a draft," I muttered, but kept my voice low. I had promised Sarah I'd spend the evening with her temporary ghost hunting group in exchange for her help finding out what happened to Hope, and despite my wishes to be elsewhere at that moment—Theo's arms came to mind as a good alternative—I'd do what I could to see to it that Sarah had an enjoyable evening.

Why do I sense a profound feeling of martyrdom from you?

I smiled at the voice in my head. I'm feeling particularly saintly tonight.

Is it that bad?

Nothing I didn't expect. A bunch of people running around with equipment measuring drafts and electromagnetic flux, and jumping at every creak and pop.

It's only for a few hours. I'm sure you will triumph over such exacting circumstances.

Indeed. Why are you talking to me, not that I'm complaining? I thought you didn't want me bothering you?

Sweetling, you never bother me. You do, however, distract me from matters at hand. It's your breasts. And thighs. And lips, and legs, and all the other bits in between. Theo's words were accompanied by such erotic mental images that I found myself getting aroused right there in the middle of a cold, mouse-riddled mill.

If you don't want me running out of here, hunting you down, and wrestling you to the ground to have my way with you, you'd better stop sending me those sorts of thoughts.

Would you really wrestle me to the ground? he asked, sounding intrigued.

Absolutely. How goes the info-hunting?

He sighed. Not so good. The nephilim I contacted knew nothing.

Crap. So we don't have any leads?

No, we have one. My nephilim friend mentioned a vessel who evidently was very tight with Hope. But I can't find the man—he seems to have run to earth just like Hope.

A vessel is a person?

In this instance, yes. Vessels serve mortals, under the direct rule of the principalities, who in turn take their orders from powers, and the powers, as you know, are directly beneath the mare.

Sounds very much like the little old woman who swallowed a fly.

Pardon?

Nothing, just a joke, and not a very good one. So what now?

I'm going to continue to try to locate the missing vessel. I'll meet you at the pub after your ghostly group is finished, all right?

I suppose so, although I'd be happy to help you—

Sarah would be hurt.

"Portia?"

It was my turn to sigh. You're right. Saint Portia it is for the night, then.

His laughter was warm and made me smile despite my cold, uncomfortable surroundings. You're no saint, sweetling. But we can discuss that later tonight.

You're on. Take care of yourself, all right?

"Portia!" Sarah shook me, her face suspicious. "You look all moony-eyed again. You must be talking to Theo. Did he find Hope?"

"Not yet, no. He's trying to find some Court member who supposedly is friends with her."

"Ah. Smart man." She flashed me a smile, waggling her eyebrows. "In more ways than one, eh?"

"Absolutely. So what's up with the cold spots?"

Her face lit up. "Oh, it's so exciting! Mr. Richings has measured a drop of eleven degrees in the corner! Come see it!"