Page 84 of It All Started with a Bite

“Yeah.”

“He’s the quiet, bookish type,” Gavin said. “Rarely speaks, mostly because of his stutter. Kind kid, if a little gullible. Wouldn’t hurt a newt.”

Didi and I stared at him.

“I went to school with him,” Gavin admitted.

Didi wrinkled her brow. “Didn’t he go to that ritzy private school the next valley over?”

“He did.” The dragon newt squirmed when our stares turned piercing. “My family is rich.”

“Is it because of all the hoarding?” Bo asked innocently.

Smoke curled from Gavin’s nostrils.

Didi hastily redirected the conversation back to our surveillance op. “Nigel’s still got eyes on the back entrance?”

The boogeyman was assisting in our stakeout from his closet at Hawthorne & Associates.

“Yeah,” Gavin confirmed. “He’s monitoring the street cameras.”

“Someone just came out,” Bo panted.

We peered through the van’s tinted windows. A woman had emerged from Wheeler’s building.

“That’s not him,” Didi muttered.

Gavin sighed. “This is going to be a long day. How about one of us grabs some lunch?”

Bo wagged his tail enthusiastically. “I like that idea.”

I listened with half an ear. The woman from Wheeler’s building was crossing the road. She was wrapped in a thick coat and scarf and wore a beanie hat that covered her long, blonde hair.

Something about the way she walked had me staring.

“Abby?” Didi said, puzzled.

The blonde walked into Bloody Good Coffee.

“Why don’t I get us some lunch from there?”

I opened the van door and stepped outside before Didi or Gavin could protest.

Bo hopped down after me. “I could murder a cheese sandwich.”

The coffee shop boasted a Victorian-style storefront with a black-and-crimson awning and gold-leaf Gothic lettering on the windows. The exterior menu board advertised Type-O Lattes and Plasma Punch, although the names flickered to more traditional human coffee names even as I watched.

The door jingled when we stepped inside. The smell of freshly ground coffee, blood, and otherworldly creatures filled my nostrils. I looked around.

The interior was all dark-wood paneling, exposed brick walls, and plush velvet booths in deep burgundy. Antique brass light fixtures cast a warm light over comfortable armchairs and strategically placed mirrors.

Vampire baristas were working vintage coffee grinders and serving food behind a counter made of polished black marble with red veining. The blonde from Wheeler’s building stood in the queue in front of it. She was talking in a low voice on her phone.

I was wondering if I had been imagining things when a stringent voice spoke behind me.

“Abigail?”

I turned and swallowed a groan. It was Helen.

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