Free Midnight's Daughter by Karen Chance Page A

harder time shrugging off the centuries. Some cope by keeping their function constant over the long haul: Mircea is the Senate’s chief diplomat, for example, and has been for some time. The world might change, but people’s basic natures don’t, so their lives have a sense of continuity. Others, like Radu, drift along in some kind of denial, trying to recapture a past in which they felt at home. And some, like Drac, never stop trying to make the world over in their image. I really didn’t care which category Louis-Cesare fit. His baggage was his problem; I had enough of my own.
    “And then, when Drac escaped a little over a century ago, what do you think was the first thing he did?” I continued. “Went straight back on the hunt as if nothing had changed. We were able to catch him again by using Radu as bait.”
    “No.” Louis-Cesare sounded adamant. “I will not allow my old master to be subjected to that level of risk—”
    “Radu is perfectly safe, at least for the moment. He isn’t Drac’s chief target anymore. Don’t misunderstand—I’m certain he’ll get around to him in time—but his isn’t the first name on the list.”
    Shrewd eyes that were, thankfully, back to blue, met mine. “And who does have that honor?”
    I watched my smoke being pulled into odd patterns by the plane’s air-conditioning. “You’re looking at her.”

Chapter Five
    The Electric Hedgehog is a punk cybercafe run by a couple of British guys Kristie knows in a backstreet near the Bay. It’s a funky little place where you can log online, get a body piercing and buy some weed under the table, all at the same time. One-stop shopping; I like that.
    Believe it or not, I hadn’t come just for the weed. I also needed a safe place to meet the rest of the team and Kristie had suggested the Hedgehog’s back room. It was a testament to the very different attitudes and styles of its two owners. While the front was all black walls and neon graffiti, the back was hippie coffeehouse chic, with vintage shag carpeting and Che Guevara posters.
    I passed the time sipping some really nasty chai, which was the most appetizing thing on the menu, and watching the colors cast by the iridescent bead curtain separating the rooms. Louis-Cesare preferred to pace back and forth like a big cat in a cage. We were the only ones in the back at the moment, which wasn’t surprising as the coffeehouse didn’t usually rev up until nightfall. Since it was currently seven a.m. ’Frisco time, there weren’t too many people interested in bad coffee and worse poetry. After tasting the former and reading samples of the latter that the proprietors had scribbled on the walls, I decided to be long gone by nightfall.
    “This is the most irresponsible—”
    “Would you calm down?” He didn’t seem to be the patient type. “They’ll be here. And quit pacing. You’re making me dizzy.”
    “And that could not possibly be the result of the enormous amount of marijuana you have smoked in the past eight hours, or the half bottle of tequila you called breakfast.”
    “At least I didn’t snack on the owners.” I’d noticed the length of the handshake he’d given Alan, the taller proprietor with the tongue stud. The older vamps don’t have to use fangs to feed. A touch of skin or, in the case of really powerful ones, just proximity to the victim will do as well. Louis-Cesare had had to endure sun at the airport and in the taxi all the way here, and he’d been hungry. It hadn’t been hard to guess.
    “That was well within the guidelines.” He meant that he hadn’t taken enough to be harmful and that the owner was none the wiser. It was the PC way to feed, and he’d managed it without a hitch. That didn’t make me view it as less of a violation.
    I lit up the last of Claire’s joints and smiled at him. It was either that or ruin the Hedgehog’s back room trying to take him apart. “Whatever.”
    “The point I was endeavoring to make,” he said