Keeper of the Shadows - By Alexandra Sokoloff Page 0,2

all her defenses as she coolly replied, “Townsend,” and was proud that she didn’t blush.

“You’re looking very Audrey Hepburn tonight,” he said lazily, and looked her over, a direct examination that managed to be slow and sexy and aloof all at the same time, which didn’t help her state of mind at all.

She sidestepped him and kept walking toward the crime editor’s desk. Unfortunately, he turned and walked with her.

“A lady on the scent of a story, if I ever saw one.”

“Looks like there’s only one story tonight,” she said, glancing at their huddled coworkers.

“Ah, yes. The Prince of Darkness. Requiescat in pace,” Townsend added. Rest in peace.

But there was a bitter quality to his voice that belied his words, and made Barrie stop and look at him for a moment; it seemed more than mere journalistic cynicism, but some deeper feeling.

Interesting, she thought. I wonder what that’s about?

“But that’s not a story you’re interested in,” he said.

“No point. Even if he was murdered, they’re not going to give it to a rookie like me,” she answered innocently. “Enjoy your night.”

She sidestepped him and continued to her boss’s desk where she snagged the police blotter while he paced and talked on the phone a few desks down. She caught his eye and held up the blotter, and he nodded at her distractedly. Now that she’d checked in, her time was hers for the rest of the night.

She had a desk of her own in an anonymous row of desks, and she settled down at it with the blotter while her coworkers swarmed on the Mayo story.

Unfortunately, her hormones didn’t settle down with her; her pulse was racing out of control from that brief encounter with Townsend.

What kind of name is Mick Townsend for a journalist, anyway? she thought irritably. It sounded more like a rock star. And she had a rule: no musicians, no actors. In L.A., that was simple survival.

But she didn’t really think Townsend was an actor. She had darker suspicions: he was a spy from corporate, skulking around to find more people to give the ax. The newspaper would be all of three pages long by the time the suits were through with the bloodbath; it seemed never-ending these days, the worst time in the world to be a journalist. She’d had to fight tooth and nail for the tiny bit of turf she had on the paper.

Fortunately, as a Keeper, she had more than a passing acquaintance with tooth and nail, or fang and claw, or just about any variation on the above. And bloodbaths, come to that. When a person dealt daily—or at least weekly—with the loves, lives, deaths and turf wars of vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters, Elven and whatever supernatural creatures happened to present themselves, a little backbiting among journalists was small potatoes.

Well, okay, it wasn’t the backbiting that was the problem this time, it was Townsend’s charm.

Barrie really hated the fact that he made her uncomfortably aware that she hadn’t had sex in...she didn’t even want to think about it. Except that she was being forced to think of it—constantly. With Rhiannon engaged to Brodie McKay and Sailor newly engaged to nightclub owner Declan Wainwright, the House of the Rising Sun was a literal hotbed, licit though it might be. Barrie frowned and thought darkly, Might as well rename it House of the Rising—

All right, enough of that, she told herself, and forced herself to stare down at the police blotter.

The list of the night’s crimes was already long: Burglary/Theft from Motor Vehicle. Grand Theft. Vandalism. Battery. And the usual collection of oddities: the owner of a La Brea Avenue business reported that someone tipped over a Porta Potty and attempted to break into a storage barn; a Vista Street woman reported a female who had delivered pizza to the address the night before had shown up at 2:00 a.m. with blood dripping from her nose and asking for money; a resident of Orange Grove Avenue reported an unknown person stole four solar lights and a garden gnome from his yard.

Barrie knew how to scan for potentially Other-related crimes; you developed a kind of sixth sense about it. But tonight it didn’t take any special skill to find the case that she would need to look into; it jumped out at her from the reports as if it were lit up in neon:

Dead body in alley off Hollywood and Gower.

Mixed race, late teens, street name Tiger. Suspected OD.

Barrie felt as if she’d been punched