DAHLIA LYNLEY-CHIVERS HAD BEEN A WOMAN OF AVERAGE HEIGHT in her day. Her day had been over for centuries, and in modern America she was considered a very short woman indeed. Since Dahlia was a vampire and was reputed to be a vicious fighter even among her own kind, she was usually treated with respect despite her lack of inches and her dainty build.

“You got a face like a rose,” said her prospective blood donor, a handsome, husky human in his twenties. “Here, little lady, let me squat down so you can reach me! You want me to get you a stool to stand on?” He laughed, definitely in hardy-har-har mode.

If he hadn’t preceded his “amusing” comment on Dahlia’s height with a compliment, she would have broken his ribs and drained him dry; but Dahlia was fond of compliments. He did have to bear some consequence for the condescension, though.

Dahlia gave the young man a look of such ferocity that he blanched almost as white as Dahlia herself. Then she stepped pointedly to her left to approach the next unoccupied donor, a blond suburbanite not too much taller than Dahlia. The woman opened her arms to embrace the vampire, as if this were an assignation rather than a feeding. Dahlia would have sighed if she’d been a breather.

However, Dahlia was hungry, and she’d already been picky enough. This woman’s neck was at the right height, and she was absolutely willing, since she’d registered with the donor agency. Dahlia bit. The woman jerked as Dahlia’s fangs went in, so Dahlia considerately licked a little on the wound to anesthetize the area. She sucked hard, and the woman jerked in an entirely different way. Dahlia was a polite feeder, for the most part.

The blonde’s arms squeezed Dahlia with surprising force, and she gripped a handful of Dahlia’s thick, wavy, dark hair, which fell in a cascade reaching almost to Dahlia’s waist. The blonde pulled Dahlia’s hair a little, but she wasn’t trying to pull Dahlia off . . . not at all.