I've come to accept the fact that I'm a guardian. I'll even admit that I enjoy hunting down those rogue supernatural elements who prey on human and non-humans alike.

But that doesn't mean there still aren't times when I absolutely hate my job.

Getting a call-out at three A.M. on a bitterly cold winter night was definitely one of those times. Especially when the call sent me to an area rapidly gaining a reputation as the 'it' spot for blood whores—which was the common term for humans hooked on the pleasures of a vampire's bite.

Normally I didn't have a problem with people getting their kicks any damn way they pleased, but for humans—and it only seemed to afflict humans, not the rest of us—becoming addicted to a vampire's bite was definitely one of the quicker ways to court death. They simply didn't have the strength, the speed, or even the will power to battle a vampire if things went wrong. Hell, many supernaturals didn't, either.

And while most vampires were generally law abiding and only took enough to give the addicted his or her hit, there were always some abusers who pushed for longer, stronger rushes, and there were always vampires willing to oblige.

And sometimes that meant death.

It had become such a problem in recent months that the government had set up a think tank to find ways of curtailing the growing numbers flocking to the vampire bars. There were even calls to outlaw the practice—though how the hell anyone was going to police that I had no idea. It wasn't like ordinary cops had much hope of tracking down and arresting vamps, and there simply weren't enough of us guardians. Not if they wanted us to do our real job.

Personally, I think they had about as much hope of stopping this craze as they did stopping all the designer drugs that were constantly hitting the streets. If a junkie wanted his fix, then he'd find it no matter how difficult or how illegal the government made it. And at least all the whores were of legal age—the vampire 'pushers' were careful about that. They had to be, because otherwise they had to deal with the Directorate. Regular drug dealers just got jail time, at worst.

Of course, there was no proof that the murder I'd been called to tonight was yet another pleasure seeker who'd pushed too far. Jack had simply told me to get my butt over there pronto, and the edge in his voice had me scrambling for clothes and not taking the time for questions. But the murder had happened in the older section of Fitzroy, in a parking lot behind Dante's—and that club was a prime location for blood whores and their vampire johns.

I slowed the car as I passed through the Smith Street intersection, then turned left onto Budd Street. Several of the street lights were out and darkness closed in around the car. The buildings here were mainly old factories and warehouses, their brick walls grimy and covered with graffiti. The few houses squeezed in between the larger buildings were dark—and with the graffiti on their walls and the filth littering their front fences, it was hard to tell whether they were occupied or not. But I was a dhampire—part werewolf, part vampire—and had inherited many gifts from both parts of my heritage. The vampire part of my soul could see the blood heat within those buildings—although unlike my twin brother, I couldn't hear the siren call of their heart beats.

And I was damn glad of that, because it meant I'd also missed out on the vampire's hunger for blood. Rhoan hadn't, but he had missed the fangs, and his blood hunger only rose in tandem with the full moon.

The crime scene came into view and I pulled up behind a Directorate van. The wind's icy fingers slapped across the back of my neck as I climbed out, and I hastily zipped up my jacket then pulled up the collar. It didn't help much. I might be a werewolf, and therefore supposedly immune to the winter, but the cold and I had never been on friendly terms.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked towards the parking lot. The rotating blue lights of the squad cars washed the night and the few bystanders in a ghostly glow, but as far as I could see or feel, there were no actual ghosts in the area. And if this was just a feeding taken too far, then there probably wouldn't be. As far as I knew, the souls that hung around tended to be the ones who'd met a violent end or who had something they needed to finish before they moved on. And blood whores didn't fit either of those categories, because they'd gone to their deaths knowing the dangers and not caring one bit.

And that's probably what annoyed me most. These people were knowingly flirting with death, yet when he answered, everyone got righteously moral and wanted the vamp responsible caught and killed. And the guardians were obliged to obey, because that was the law. But killing a blood whore wasn't a simple act of murder. It was consensual, and that raised a whole different set of issues. And although I did believe the vamp involved needed to be punished, killing them seemed a step too far. And most of the vampire community agreed.

Meaning that the worst part of the whole situation was the fact that our pursuit of these vamps was raising a lot of bad feeling in the supernatural community. And having the city's vampires angry at us could only ever end badly. There were a whole lot more of them than us, and as well trained as we guardians were, we didn't have a hope if the vamps decided we were too much of a problem.

Of course, the two vampires who dominated my life—Quinn, my lover, and Jack, my boss—thought I was making too much of the situation. Jack even kept trying to reassure me with the fact that the vampire council had a handle on it. I didn't believe it—or them. They weren't out on the street dealing with the ill-feeling day in and day out. They simply didn't understand how bad it was getting.

I did, and I didn't mind admitting that it scared me.

The parking lot had several cars in it, but the mobile light towers weren't trained on any of them, but rather on the corner of the lot, where it intersected with Dante's back wall. There were several overall-clad men there, and relief slithered through me as I caught the glint of silver hair. Cole might be our top guy when it came to crime scene forensics, but he also hated these early morning call-outs as much as I did. That meant he'd be doing his best to find the clues and get the hell home as quickly as possible.

As I ducked under the blue and white police tape lining the parking lot, one of the cops keeping an eye on the small crowd huddled in the middle of the road took a step in my direction. I grabbed my badge and flashed it his way, shivering a little as the wind hit my fingers and chilled them in an instant.

The cop gave me a nod and turned back. I stepped over the gnarled roots of a small tree struggling to survive in a little corner of bare ground then flared my nostrils, drawing in the flavors of the night.

Blood was the strongest scent and that surprised me. Most vampires hated wasting their food, so maybe this murder wasn't as straight forward as I'd been presuming.

Cole looked up as I approached, his lined face weary and dark shadows under his normally bright blue eyes. "You took your time."

"And you look like shit." I stopped beside him and stared down at the victim.

He was male, probably in his mid-to-late forties if his worn features and grey-flecked hair were anything to go by. There were no obvious wounds on his body, and very little in the way of blood on the front of his clothes. His arms had been crossed over his chest, almost as if he were asleep rather than dead. But someone had separated his head from his neck, and even a vampire couldn't survive that.