That raised my eyebrows. She hadn't looked like a factory worker, but then, what was a factory worker supposed to look like?
"Anything else?"
"No record of marriage or kids, no fines of any kind, good credit history, owns her home." He paused. "She's a vampire."
I blinked. That was something I hadn't expected. "When did she turn?"
He glanced at me. "About thirty years ago, according to the records. No history of trouble after her rebirth, and she was released from the care of her maker about twelve years ago."
According to Uncle Quinn, fledglings could be in the care of their creators for anywhere between ten and fifty years—it just depended on how quickly the newly fledged vampire learned to cope with all the sensations and needs that came with the state of being undead. That Dorothy had been released after eighteen years suggested she'd been a reasonably fast learner. "Does it list her creator on the certificate?"
It had been law for a few decades now that everyone who underwent the ceremony to become a vampire registered their details with the Births, Deaths, and Marriages Bureau. Once they had turned, their creator then had to register their "birth." There were still vamps who were turned illegally, of course, but the Directorate and the vampire council—both the high council and the local council—took a dim view of this and came down hard on the turnee and the turner.
Stane glanced briefly at the screen. "Bloke by the name of Martin Cresswell. You want me to do a search on him?"
"That would be great." I dumped the empty Coke can into the bin, then said, "Let me know if you find anything else."
He nodded, his expression concerned. "Good luck."
"We're going to need it." Especially when there were only eight and a half minutes left. I glanced at Azriel. "Can you take us to Dorothy's house?"
He didn't say anything, just wrapped his arms around me again. In an instant, we'd zipped through the gray fields, reappearing on the other side so quickly that my head spun and the bitter taste of bile rose up my throat again.
"You," he said, his voice severe as he stepped back but didn't quite release me, "need to eat."
"Like I've got the fucking time right now."
"I did not mean right now."