"I just love a good fight," I said.
He ignored me. "So," he said, turning away from the window and crossing his arms across his massive chest. "How do you want to handle this?"
"Handle what?"
He threw back his head and laughed. It was a very animalistic gesture. He could have just as easily been a coyote�Dor a wolf�Dhowling at the moon. "This new wrinkle in our working relationship," he said.
"As far as I'm concerned you are still my client and I'm still your detective. Nothing has changed."
"Nothing?"
"Other than the fact that you claim to be a werewolf."
"You don't believe me?"
"Mr. Fulcrum, werewolves are fairytales."
"And vampires aren't?"
I laughed. Or tried to. "I'm not a vampire. I just have a condition."
"A condition that requires you to stay out of the sun," he said, incredulously. "A condition that requires you to drink blood. A condition that has turned you whiter than a ghost. A condition that has given you superhuman strength."
"I never said it was a common condition. I'm still looking into it."
He grinned. "It's called vampirism, my dear, and it's time for you to own it."
"Own it?"