Even if the vampire prince was dangerously my type. The last thing I needed was to get caught in a supernatural smackdown between a werewolf pack and a vampire prince. But then a dead werewolf showed up outside the Soho shag palace of Julian Saint-Germain-a bloodsucking flibbertigibbet who’s spent the last eight centuries presiding over an ever-growing empire of booze, sex and hemoglobin. The only rule I didn’t break was the one that said don’t work for vampires.
This business comes with a few basic rules: don’t start drinking before noon, don’t get your partner killed, don’t sleep with the woman who killed him. I’m a paranormal private investigator, which is like a normal private investigator except-and stop me if you’re having trouble following this-more paranormal. I like my women like I like my whiskey: more than is good for me. Previously published newly refreshed by the author
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