Vamparazzi by Laura Resnick

as a fictional embellishment that conflicted with the laws of physics. This explanation satisfied his fans while eliminating practical challenges that he couldn’t realistically overcome. Apart from the obvious impossibility of managing to avoid reflective surfaces at all times wherever he went, he also needed to be able to look into the mirror, like any other actor, to prepare for performances.
    His black hair already looked sexily windswept, but he evidently decided it needed some preparation for tonight. Daemon reached for a brush and some hairspray and started working on it.
    Seeing an opportunity to voice his concerns, Leischneudel stiffened his spine and raised the subject of my safety, in view of what had happened last night.
    While Leischneudel talked and Daemon ignored him, I grabbed some tissues from Daemon’s makeup table and tried scrubbing my tongue. Then I drank more water.
    â€œOh, lighten up,” Daemon said after a while. “It was just some harmless fun. And Esther looks fine.” He sent me a darkly flirtatious glance. “Ravishing as always.”
    Leischneudel explained that I had a black eye which was well concealed by makeup, and he persisted in warning Daemon that his ill-advised actions of last night might have dire consequences for me.
    Daemon tilted his head this way and that, his attention fixed on his reflection as he styled his hair. His gaze only wavered for a moment—when I gargled some water. Both men turned to look at me.
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    â€œYou should embrace new sensations, Esther,” Daemon advised. “Not try to obliterate them from your being.”
    â€œWhatever.” I gargled some more, hoping it would irritate him.
    Daemon merely shrugged and shook his head, still looking amused about catching me red-handed with his blood supply.
    I imagined the disappointment on Dr. Hal’s face, if we met again, when I had to tell him it really was blood.
    Then I remembered the semen request and felt a tad queasy again. However, if a woman didn’t actually know Daemon, I realized as I watched him set aside his hairbrush and open his makeup box, the thought of getting that personal with him would probably seem more appealing than nauseating.
    For all that he was vain, self-absorbed, and full of absurd pretensions, there was no denying that nature had blessed Daemon with physical allure. He was about 6 foot 2, with a lean, graceful build, square shoulders, slim hips, and firmly muscled legs. His black hair was thick and wavy, and his dark eyes and brows were intensely dramatic in his pale, handsomely hawklike face. His age was a closely guarded secret, but I thought he was probably in his midthirties.
    He had an attractive speaking voice and good stage articulation, but he had dodged my questions about whether he’d had formal training. I thought he probably had, though; after playing the lead role in a demanding schedule for the past six weeks in a good-sized theater, Daemon’s voice was still as clear as a bell, not worn or hoarse. That level of vocal stamina suggested he was a trained stage actor, like the rest of us. But he was habitually vague about his past, and he never admitted to anything as mundane as taking acting classes or attending drama school.
    He was also never very clear about how he had supposedly become a vampire. There were occasional allusions to being debauched by a seductive older woman when he was a lad, but “being turned” was an “intensely private experience” that Daemon preferred not to talk about. I wondered if the tabloid reporter to whom Daemon had lately agreed to grant an exclusive and very expensive in-depth interview would get a more detailed version of the tale out of him.
    As if my thoughts had summoned him, Al Tarr, the writer who was Daemon’s constant shadow these days, appeared in the doorway. His cynical blue gaze swept the room, taking in everything, and then he nodded in