Dorina Basarab is a dhampir, the daughter of a vampire and a human woman. Subject to uncontrollable rages, most dhampirs are born barking mad and live very short, very violent lives. So for five hundred years, Dory has been fighting to maintain her sanity by unleashing her homicidal tendencies on those demons and vampires who deserve killing.

But now Dory’s vampire father has come back into her life. Her uncle Dracula, notorious even among vampires for his cruelty and murderous ways, has escaped from prison, and her father wants Dory to work with the gorgeous vampire dueling champion Louis-Cesare to put him back there.

Vampires and dhampirs are mortal enemies, and Dory prefers to work alone. But Dracula is the only thing on earth that truly scares her, and when Dory has to go up against him, she’ll take all the help she can get…

Chapter One

My least favourite dead guy had his feet up on my desk. I hate that. His boots were probably cleaner than my blotter, but still. It showed a lack of respect.

I pushed the offending size tens onto the floor and scowled. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

“Okay, Dory. Your call.” Kyle was looking amiable – never a good sign. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t care what happened to Claire. After all, there’s not likely to be any money in it” – he paused to glance around my rathole of an office – “and you don’t appear to be in a position to do anything gratis.”

I had been on the way to my feet to haul his undead ass out the door, but at his words I slowly sat back down. Kyle was a real lowlife, even for a vamp, but once in a while he heard something useful – which explained why I hadn’t yet given in to temptation and staked him. And where Claire, my roommate and best friend, was concerned, I’d take anything I could get. She’d been missing for almost a month, and I’d already gone through every lead I had. Twice. Before loser boy showed up, I’d been about to start through the file a third time in case I’d somehow missed something, even though I knew I hadn’t. And every hour that passed made it less likely I’d be pleased with what I found at the end of the search.

“Talk,” I said, hoping he’d make me beat it out of him. I had a lot of pent up frustration that needed to go somewhere. But, of course, he decided to find some manners. Or what passes for them in our circle.

“Word is, she’s alive. I thought she’d have been juiced and packed up for sale by now, but talk on the street is that she wasn’t kidnapped at all.”

By “juiced” he meant a disgusting black-arts process in which a projective null, a witch or wizard capable of blocking out magical energy for a certain radius, is made into a weapon known as a null bomb. The null’s energy is siphoned away to make a device capable of bringing all magic in an area to a standstill. How far and how long the effect extends depends on the strength of the null being sacrificed – the younger and more powerful, the more energy she has to give. And Claire was both very young and very powerful. Making her even more attractive was the fact that the harvesters, as the mages who specialised in the very illegal practice were known, could currently command a premium for their wares. The Vampire senate, the self-styled guardian of all North American vampires, was at war with the dark mages of the Black Circle, and the price for magical weapons had gone through the roof. The idea that someone had taken Claire to make into a tool for their stupid war was the main reason I was running myself ragged trying to find her.

“The rumour is that she ran off with one of Michael’s crew,” Kyle was saying. He leaned in to smile in my face, showing enough fang that I knew how much he was enjoying this. He’d tried to chat me up when we first met and hadn’t taken my screams of laughter well. He’d been waiting for something to throw in my face, and this was his big chance. “Seems she got knocked up.”

I smiled back. “That little lie is going to cost you,” I promised, slipping a hand into my desk drawer. Claire, the witch with girl power practically stamped on her forehead, running off with a lowlife connected with Michael’s stable? Didn’t think so.

Kyle held up grubby hands with telltale brown stains on them. Leftovers from whoever had been lunch, I guessed. I would have advised him that his love life might improve if he paid someone to scrape the dried blood out from under his nails once in a while, if I hadn’t thought he’d eat the manicurist.

“No lies, Dory. Not between you and me.” He sat back and crossed his legs, looking far too much at ease for my taste. “And you haven’t heard the best part yet. Rumor has it that the father’s not exactly human, if you know what I mean.” His grin turned feral. “Passing me up because you were afraid to bring another half-breed into the world was a waste of time, wasn’t it? Looks like you’re about to be auntie to a bouncing baby dhampir.”

I didn’t have to glance in the mirror behind his head to know that my expression hadn’t changed despite the shock. After five hundred years of practice, anyone can perfect a decent poker face. Even someone as naturally…expressive…as me.

“Actually, I shot you down because homicidal psychos with dog breath don’t turn me on,” I said pleasantly, pulling my hand out of the drawer and throwing an unstoppered vial in his face. The holy water stuff is a myth, but there are other concoctions that don’t sit too well with the smarmy undead, and that was one of them. The dragon’s blood wouldn’t kill him, but he wouldn’t look too good for a few days, either. Of course, since it was Kyle, it was a good bet no one would notice the difference.

I tossed his screaming body out the window after he gave up the rest of the few facts he knew, like the name of a bar where I might locate a few of Michael’s thugs. He bounced off the sidewalk three stories below and slammed into a parked car, denting the metal with his forehead before crawling off down the street. Too bad it wasn’t daylight.

What inspired you to start writing urban fantasy novels?
Reading in the genre and liking a lot of it, but not finding exactly my type of book.  I wanted a big, lavish world, great characters and an epic storyline.  I wanted the breadth of a sword and sorcery series with the grittiness of a modern setting and a dash of whimsy.  I wanted Tolkien writing urban fantasy, but he was dead, damn it.  So I decided to write it myself.  And no, I am not comparing myself with the master—no one will ever out do Tolkien, which is as it should be.  But I wanted the humour and the adventure and the camaraderie of his books, and I hope I have (or will eventually) manage something of the kind.  

Pick one: series or standalone?
They both have their good points.  If a story can be encapsulated in one book, it should be written that way.  There’s nothing worse than a series that has no direction—one in which an author’s first book did well, so the publisher said: can you write a series?  That type tends to meander along, frustrate readers and often never ends up anywhere interesting.  On the other hand, a really well-thought-out series can be a lot of fun, and allow an author to tell a much bigger and more imaginative tale than can be stuffed between the covers of one book.  So, again, it depends on the story being told, and how much space it really needs. 

How and where do you write?
I am a night owl, so mostly late evening works best for me. I write at home, which is one of the perks of being an author.  I can work in my sweats, with no makeup and my hair a mess, and nobody cares.

How do you relax when you’re not writing?
I’m a geek girl. I love anything to do with computers, especially if it’s something I don’t already know how to do.  I also read a lot, travel less than I’d like and make vain attempts to learn how to cook.
 
What's the first novel you remember reading?
Murder on the Orient Express.  I was seven.  Yeah, I know.  But my mom was a Christie addict and always had her books lying around, and I’ve never been able to keep my hands off of any book.  If it’s available, I’ll read it.  I’ve literally read the dictionary when there was nothing else around. So I picked it up and, halfway through, said ‘I give up; they all did it.’  I still remember the absolute sense of wonder I felt when that actually turned out to be true! I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over it.  After that, I was hooked, first on everything Christie ever wrote, then by Rex Stout, Conan Doyle, etc. I all but exhausted my library’s mystery section (it was a small town library, so that isn’t saying much).  Then, one day when I was eight or nine, a librarian chucked a copy of Madeline L’Engel’s A Wrinkle in Time at me.  I was pretty dubious—it was a kid’s book, after all, and I didn’t read those.  But I eventually gave it a try and then spent the next few years burning through the fantasy section.  I still think it’s one of the best fantasy stories I’ve ever read, maybe the best.   

Which novel do you wish you'd written?
See A Wrinkle in Time above.

Has any book ever made you sleep with the light on?
I am very hard to scare.  A group of friends and I went to a Halloween event with a few dozen haunted houses last year.  Most were pretty tame, but a few had my friends screaming.  They became a bit perturbed because I wasn’t.  I’m not particularly brave, it’s just that, when it’s pretty much a given that someone is going to jump out at you, it loses the surprise factor. And if I’m not surprised, I’m not scared.  I feel the same way about a lot of horror books.  They may gross me out, yes; but surprise me?  Not so much.  Horror movies are the same, although I will admit to squeaking a few times in I Am Legend.  Good film. 

What's your top tip for new writers?
Read. There’s nothing worse than someone writing in a genre simply because it’s hot at the moment, when they know nothing about it.  If you don’t read it for fun, if you haven’t read the greats in it, then please, please, don’t write it. Yes, your readers will know.  No, you can’t fake it.  Write what you love and it will show, and you’ll enjoy it more to boot.  

What's your most satisfying writing moment?
Probably when I hit the “zone” and can’t get the words out fast enough.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, write much more quickly and what I write rarely needs editing.  

What's the best/worst thing about being a writer?
The best is being able to do a job you love, to live where you like and to make your own hours. The worst is having no benefits, no job security and a higher tax rate (because writers are considered self-employed). 

Who are you reading right now?
No one—I’m on a deadline! 

What are the three best words to describe your own writing?
Fast-paced, fun, unexpected.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
About a thousand different things.  My poor, long-suffering parents had to listen to my (almost daily) changes in job aspirations.  Everything from astronaut (I grew up about an hour from the Kennedy Space Center) to airline pilot to, yes, writer was on the list, as well as about anything else you can think of.  I was just thinking aloud, trying on different hats to see which fit best, but it drove my parents mad.  That, of course, was a bonus.

If I ruled the world...
Oh, God.  It would be a disaster!  I can’t even remember where I left my keys.  On no account should I be put in charge of anything more complicated than a microwave. 

Name your five dream dinner party guests.
Oscar Wilde: Isn’t he on everybody’s list?  I mean, come on. If I got really lucky, he’d get bored and start insulting everyone. 
JRR Tolkien: Because I have a few dozen questions about the Simarillon I’d like cleared up (see geek girl above). 
Anne Boleyn:  For all the gossip about Henry and the rest, from the source. 
Agatha Christie:  Because I never get all fan-girlish, but I probably would over her. 
Hillary Clinton: I know, I know.  But I wanted to meet her even before the presidential bid.  I dig hippy-chick reformers.   

What makes you angry?
A lot of things, I suppose, but especially people who couldn’t care less about anybody else’s problems.  I was living in New Orleans when Katrina hit, and I was both amazed at the selflessness of many people around the country (and around the world) who pitched in to help--and simultaneously horrified at a government that didn’t.