Page 1 of The Vampire in the Potting Shed

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“Red alert. Red alert. Red alert.”

Vibrant wings spread wide, Harvey the scarlet macaw threw his weight behind pumping the swing in the massive cage I kept parked in front of the wide plate glass windows at Gwinnett Street Groomers as free advertisement we catered to more than the furry pet crowd and offered services beyond what the name implied with a variety of upscale extras. Such as boarding exotic pets. Veryloudexotic pets.

“Good morning, Harvey.” I fed and watered him then turned on his TV. “You’re going home today, bud.”

“Alien invasion.”

Add-ons like screentime were available for boarded pets who enjoyed watching their shows, like Harvey, whose tastes ran toward science fiction. Not surprising when his owner spent his annual leave snooping around Area 51 with like-minded friends, every year, without fail.

“We’re all gonna die.”

Lights flooded the back room as my kennel tech, Sloane, came whistling through the employee entrance behind the old Victorian turned pet resort and spa. She wasn’t qualified to domore than feed and water the animals or clean out their runs, but that was the cost of being Carmichael Sartori’s daughter.

Dad hired qualified people. Just not people qualified forthisjob.

“Um.” Sloane stuck her head into the lobby as I was turning the sign from closed to open. “Ana?”

A whiff of anxiety hit my nose as I pivoted toward her, hoping she hadn’t gotten bitten again. “Hmm?”

“There’s, uh, an extra dog?” She chewed her bottom lip. “We had five last night, and now there are six.”

“That’s not possible.” I ran down a mental checklist of the pets we had in residence. “Do a recount.”

“I did?” Her voice wobbled as her scent grew more pungent. “I still get six?”

“Show me.” I walked through the door she held open for me then veered left, toward the bougie private rooms always booked out months in advance. “The extra is in here?”

The four exclusive suites were thirty-six square feet, and each one featured a different hand-painted mural in a variety of themes to fit any personality. Unlike the kennels, where plush beds weren’t allowed, here they were supplied by a local seamstress for these pampered pets to take home with them to remember their stay.

“Suite Two.” Sloane indicated the pristine observation window. “What even is that?”

The trespasser was mostly hairless, its smooth skin a mottled pink-and-black pattern, except for feathery tufts of long white hair on its head, ankles, and tail. No collar as far as I could tell, but I would check for a microchip. On a dog from a breed that spendy, there must be some identifier.

“A Chinese Crested.” I dragged a hand down my face. “Where’s Bailey?”

The golden retriever belonging to my first clientwithoutties to the Sartori family—thank you very much—had been tucked in her favorite suite when I left for the night. She loved chasing the flashing stoplight that lent the city mural its 3D effect. Now that I thought about it, she had also been watchingSex and the City.

Whoever left the Crested had changed the channel so it could binge home improvement shows.

“She’s in Kennel D.” Sloane palmed her phone from her back pocket. “I’m sorry, Ana, but I have to call this in.” Her fingers hovered over her screen. “The threat risk is too high.”

This didn’t feel like a threat, but it was downright strange. I wasn’t sure what to make of it or what to do about the frou-frou freeloader. I had no room for it. I was booked solid for the next two months. I wasn’t bumping a paying customer to give this dog the treatment its owner felt it deserved on the house either.

“Yeah.” I blew out a sigh that ruffled the curtain bangs I already regretted cutting for myself. “I know.”

If Dad heard secondhand that someone had broken into GSG, he would blow a fuse. Then he would send one of his sentinels to drag me home where he could keep me under lock and key until the owner was found. And if the owner skipped town? I would never see the sun through anything but bulletproof glass for the rest of my natural life.

“Who does that?” Sloane dialed his number from memory then waited for him to answer. “Breaks in, steals a suite from a paying customer, then bounces without leaving so much as a note?”

The moment Dad thundered across the line, I made myself scarce, returning to the lobby.

Halfway to the register, I spotted a blank card I had missed earlier wedged under its slim base.

I read the note once. Twice. Three times.

Each reading cranked my temper higher and higher.

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