"I love coffee," Angela declared as Wanda pushed to her feet and scooted into the aisle. "I grind my own beans. You wouldn't believe what they use to fertilize some of those coffee beans." She started talking again, barely pausing to take a breath. I seriously debated popping the nearest exit hatch and vamping it down to Texas.

Unfortunately, I'd checked my luggage and so I was stuck for the next two hours.

"Beverage service," the stewardess announced several long minutes later. "Coffee? Tea?"

"... even heard they use mouse feces to lend flavor to some of the different cocoa beans ..."

"I think I'm going to need something stronger," I told the woman.

"How about an energy drink?"

"Only if it's got a vodka chaser."

"This can't be right," I told the cabdriver. I blinked my blurry eyes just in case I was having a liquor -induced hallucination. It had been over two hours since I'd crawled off the plane, but I was still feeling the aftereffects of coping with coach via c.o.c.ktail.

Note: I am never, ever drinking another Red Bull and vodka. I mean it this time. Cross my heart.

"You said The Grande. This is The Grande."

I eyed the two-story structure. A gravel parking lot b.u.t.ted up to the walkway that ran the length of the building. A bevy of cars and pickup trucks crammed the area, obliterating my view of the bottom floor. But I could see the doors lining the upper walkway.

Small air-conditioning units perched in each window. My gaze shifted to the right and a single gla.s.s door. The word Lobby had been spelled out in vinyl letters on the gla.s.s. "But it's supposed to be a five star hotel."

"It is." He pointed to the sign blazing near the side of the road. Underneath The Grande, spelled out in pink neon, a caption read "Rated 5 Stars by the Lonely Fork Gazette."

"How many hotels are actually in this town?"

"Counting this one?"

"Yes."

"That would be one."

Which meant zero compet.i.tion when it came to ratings.

He leaned over the back of the seat. "If you want, I could head back up the interstate. I think we pa.s.sed a Motel 6 about forty-five minutes outside of town. They're not the fanciest place, but they're new. I think they even got those beds that you feed a quarter into so's they'll vibrate."

I shook my head. If I intended to find Mordred, I needed to be right in the thick of things. He was here, which meant I was staying here. Besides, I'd maxed out my Visa to buy the plane ticket and book four nights at the masterpiece sitting in front of me.

As queasy as I felt, I could barely stand the cab idling, much less a vibrating bed.

"Suit yourself." He opened the door and climbed out to retrieve my luggage from the trunk.

I handed him two fifties and a DED card.

"What's this?"

"In case you're ever in New York and you get bored doing crossword puzzles every night."

His gaze widened. "How'd you know I like crossword puzzles?"

Because I'm an ultra-sensitive born vampire who can read your mind. I shrugged. "Lucky guess."

Lose the crosswords, join the local VFW hall and find a girlfriend. I added the silent command as I stared deep into his eyes for a quick second. And do not mention that you live with your mother.

Grabbing my suitcase, I gathered my courage, made my way around several pickups and a Kia and headed for the lobby entrance.

The inside wasn't much better than the outside. There was a small sitting area in front of the desk. A scarred coffee table sat center stage surrounded by a worn green sofa, a paisley print chair and a bra.s.s floor lamp with a dingy shade.

I fought down a big uh-oh and tapped the bell on the desk. Three dinggggs and an exasperated sigh, and an old man finally hobbled from the back room.

"Don't get your girdle in a twist. I'm acoming." He had snow white hair and watery blue eyes. His name was Elmer Jackson and he'd been running The Grande for nearly forty years. "What can I do you for?"

"I have a reservation. Lil Marchette? Double bed. No smoking. Premium sheets and four goose-down pillows."

"Let me have a look here." He pulled a pair of gla.s.ses from his pocket and flipped several pages on a large scheduling book that took up half the counter. "Sure thing. I got you right here, little lady. Only it 's for a double bed, regular sheets and two cotton pillows."

"But that's not what my reservation says." I pulled out the confirmation I'd printed off the Internet. "It offered me a choice of sheets and I distinctly checked premium." "Ain't got no premium. Ain't got no goose down either."

"Then why does it say so online?"

"Ain't sure. My nephew takes care of the website and I s'pose he thought it sounded good." He grinned. "The boy likes to exaggerate sometimes."

I had half a mind to complain, but I'd sort of fudged myself on some of the fabulous amenities offered by DED. Free gourmet dessert? Krispy Kreme. All you can drink imported beverages? Starbucks House Blend.

"Two pillows will be fine," I murmured.

He smiled, pulled out a form and handed it to me. "Just print your name and address and sign here."

I scribbled my info and handed the slip back to him, along with my Visa for any extra charges.

"You'll like it here," he told me. He took the card, placed it on an ancient-looking credit card machine and rolled the top back and forth. "We ain't as big as some, but the rooms are clean and the plumbing works as good as the day my daddy installed it."

He'd inherited the place from his father and he fully intended to pa.s.s it on to his only son when the time came. The only problem was that his son, Elmer the Third, fully intended to bulldoze the place and turn the spot into a parking lot for a new Piggly Wiggly.

Elmer the Second had never been too fond of chain stores (he bought his vegetables at the farmer's market) and so he wasn't too keen on the idea. I saw that as plain as day in his deep brown eyes. Along with the fact that he 'd worried himself into a complete hair loss and an addiction to Tums. The Grande was his baby. His life. Everything.

"Is there a Mrs. Elmer?" I asked, not because I didn't already know the answer-a big, fat no-but because I wasn't in a hurry for another slip like the one with the cabdriver.

Low profile, remember?

"Why, no." Sadness touched his eyes and I saw a young-looking woman wearing a flower print dress. She stood at the stove dishing up cabbage souffle and humming an old Frank Sinatra song. He'd hated cabbage souffle, but he'd never told her that. He'd just slipped it under the table to old Sammy the dog.

He'd trade anything for a bite of that souffle right now.

"She pa.s.sed right after our son was born," he went on. "I'd say she's been gone about forty years now."

I let loose a low whistle. "That's a long time to be alone. But then, I bet a nice-looking fellow like you has a lot of lady friends."

"Not unless you count Shirlene at the bakery. She gives me free donut holes when I order a half-dozen Boston creme."

"She doesn't count."

"What about Mabel at the diner? She gives me free refills on my coffee."

"Do you talk to each other about anything other than what you're going to order?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't count. I'm talking about lady friends you laugh with, have fun with."

He shrugged. "I guess not. I'm real busy with the hotel anyhow. I ain't got time for socializing." "That's a shame, because socializing is my business. I 'm a matchmaker." He gave me a puzzled look and I added, "I help people find their perfect match."

"Like a date?"

"It starts with a date." I handed him a DED card. When he arched an eyebrow, I added, "I'm in town on business and I'd be happy to help you out while I'm here."

He eyed the card a few more seconds. "Something like this is probably expensive."

Amen.

That's what my practical side wanted to say, but the sentimental sap took over and I heard myself murmur, "I'm running an out-of-towner special right now. The first three prospects are free."

We're talking cabbage souffle. The man deserved a little happiness before he headed for the retirement home and his ungrateful son turned his hopes and dreams into asphalt.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take to Bingo," he finally said after a long moment.

"One Bingo player coming up."

I made a mental note to ask around about available seniors while I was looking for Mordred. Might as well kill two weres with one silver bullet.

I spent the next ten minutes quizzing Elmer on his likes and dislikes. When I had enough information, I took the plastic container he handed me and the small silver key.

"Here's your ice bucket and your mini-bar key," he told me.

I perked up immediately. "There's a minibar?"

"d.a.m.n straight." He pointed to my left and I turned to see the small refrigerator wedged between an ancient color TV and a magazine rack. An empty pickle jar stuffed with coins and a few bills sat on top. "Just make sure you pay for anything you take out.

Candy and sodas are a buck. Beer is two bucks."

"Any Red Bull?" I heard myself ask. I had half of a travel -sized bottle of vodka leftover in my purse. I 'd meant to flush it ASAP, but I suddenly had a feeling I was going to need it.

He shook his head. "We don't do any of those fancy drinks, but there's grapefruit juice."

I considered it for a moment before shaking my head. "I'll pa.s.s. Which way?"

"Down the hall, out the side door and around toward the left. You're the door right next to the ice machine." I started to turn and he added, "You might need these." He handed me a pair of earplugs. "The machine's a little old and it gets kind of noisy."

"Can't I just have another room?"

"'Fraid not. We're booked up. There's a rodeo going on in Pflugerville just a little ways from here. They ain't got enough hotels to accommodate everybody, so we get the overflow. Speaking of which, I hope you don't have a car because we got several horses tied up in the parking lot out back. See, the barn area at the rodeo grounds burned down and so all the entrants are responsible for their animals when they're not showing, at least for the next twenty-four hours. The rodeo people are setting up a temporary holding pen that ought to be ready by tomorrow night. Until then, it ain't safe for walking back there, if you know what I mean." Boy, did I ever. I took another whiff and my nose wrinkled. "Don't power walk in the back parking lot. Got it."

"You're free to use the front sidewalk," Elmer called after me. "Just be sure to watch out for the calves." My horror showed on my face because he chuckled and added, "Don't worry, this place will be back to normal soon enough."

If only he knew.

A fter getting lost twice, spooking a few horses (so not a vamp's best friend) and barely missing what I suspected was a pile of calf p.o.o.p, I stood in the doorway of Room 6C and tamped down the urge to haul a.s.s back to the big city. p.r.o.nto.

The room was about the size of my apartment, but that's where the similarity ended. My place oozed cla.s.s (at least the part I'd been able to afford to decorate). This place oozed, too, but not in a good way.

An ancient queen-sized bed stood center stage with a bright orange comforter. There were two white Formica -topped nightstands and a matching dresser. An orange papier mache lantern hung in one corner. Orange s.h.a.g rugs covered the hardwood floor (seriously). And the piece de resistance? Orange and turquoise polka dot wallpaper.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach as my gaze swiveled to the small open doorway that led to the bathroom.

Polka dot towels. Orange bath mat. Turquoise shower curtain. And more wallpaper.

Run!

That's what my super-intuitive vamp instincts told me. Or maybe that was my snotty, pretentious, vamp DNA.

h.e.l.lo? It's a decent room. One for which you should be ultra-thankful. What about poor Esther? Chances are, she'd kill for a place like this right now.

All right, so kill wasn't the perfect word choice for a time like this.

I had a quick mental of her chained in a cellar somewhere (Did they have those in Texas?) or maybe an attic. Yeah, probably an attic. Or a crawl s.p.a.ce.

I saw her sprawled on a filthy wooden floor, a pool of blood beneath her. The musty smell of urine and death hung in the air.

Rat droppings littered the area surrounding her. Her body lay broken and bleeding and- I quickly slammed my mind closed to the rest of the visual. I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and forced my gaze to make another 360.

It was sort of retro, and familiar. I'd once had a mini-smock with that exact wallpaper pattern (talk about prime blackmail material). Most of all, the room was completely free of blood and p.o.o.p. Unless you counted the walkway outside-see calf reference above-but that was only temporary.

Bottom line, the room wouldn't inspire a page in Modern Interior, but I could deal.

I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, locked and bolted it and shoved a chair under the doork.n.o.b-just in case the sign didn't speak for itself. I secured the drapes and blinds and grabbed my suitcase.

I changed into a T-shirt and pink lace boy shorts before pulling out one of the eight bottles of blood I 'd brought. It took my eyes a second to focus with all the polka dots and realize that there was no micro wave. A quick glance in the bathroom, however, and I spotted a one-cup coffeemaker.

A few minutes later, I poured myself a cup of warm blood, kicked off my shoes and settled on the bed. I took a sip, pulled out my cell and checked my voice mail.

"You have eighteen new messages ..." Ma. Delete.

Ma. Delete.

Ma. Delete.