Not even the ancient oak tree behind his parents’ house afforded enough shelter from the sun. Carrington tipped his wide-brimmed hat back and dared a peek up through the thick filter of leaves. Definitely a mistake. Now he couldn’t see.

He didn’t dare move with his vision in polka dots and stood there with a vague smile, hoping no one would approach him while he tried to blink away the after-images burned on his overly sensitive retinas. He’d even worn his best sunglasses for the occasion, hoping they would be enough if the promised clouds cooperated. No sign of meteorological relief yet.

“Carr? You all right there? You look like you’re having a stroke or something.”

“Manda. Thank gods.” He groped around until his police partner caught his hand. “I can’t see.”

Amanda tucked his hand into the crook of her elbow with a little pat. “What’d you do, stare at the sun?” She paused a beat. “Aw, crap. You did.”

“I just looked up through the leaves.”

She didn’t quite sigh, but the long indrawn breath was half of one. “Okay. I got you. Mom harpy coming in fast at twelve o’clock.”

“Please don’t call her that.” Carrington knew his mother hadn’t heard, though. He could tell how far away she was by the miasma of perfume that preceded her.

The birthday party had been his mother’s idea, of course. How could he have even thought about not celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday? Especially if it meant it gave her an excuse to invite all the old money and local officials to the affair. And outside? Of course it had to be outside. The weather in June was glorious and Carrington always exaggerated the symptoms of his ‘illness’ for attention.

Mother was hissing before she’d actually reached them. “Carrington, you can’t simply sulk in a corner at your own party. Oh, hello, Amanda. What a lovely…tie.”

“I’m not sulking. I’m doing all I can to remain vertical and not embarrass you.” He blinked, bringing her disapproving, much-facelifted features partially into focus.

“There’s no need to be so melodramatic.” 

His mother expertly performed an Amanda-ectomy and claimed Carrington’s arm for herself as she led him toward the long buffet table on the patio. The caterers had brought out the cake, several layers of rococo chocolate perfection he would’ve enjoyed if he’d retained the ability to eat. As the guest of honor, he was still expected to cut the damnable thing.

“Just make an effort, dear, that’s all I ask. You haven’t even said hello to the mayor or the police commissioner.”

“Could we move the table six feet toward the house? Or angle it so the cake is in the shade?”

She tsked. “Of course not. The caterers would have to remove everything first. The world doesn’t always revolve around you, Carrington.”

Fine. At least the headache wasn’t blinding yet. He would cut the cake, say a few hellos, then dive into the cool shadows of the house. He would manage. Amanda had been helping him practice at the end of their night shifts. Acclimation. That had to be the key. He couldn’t keep fainting every time he was in direct sunlight for more than a handful of minutes.

It was humiliating.

“There’s Junior!” Carrington Sr.’s slap on his shoulder was heavier than it needed to be, but he gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “Finally decided to join your own party.”

“I’ve actually been here since two, Dad.” Carrington flashed a bit of fang, not quite a threat but he knew it bothered his father.

Right on cue, his father’s smile vanished. “Try to be civilized, please. Your mother put an awful lot of work into this for you.”

You know this isn’t for me. I know. Mom knows. Why do we pretend? No, he knew the answer. He was the excuse du jour for his parents’ power socializing. As a good, dutiful son, he was expected to play his part. More accurately, as the son who had refused duty to live his own life, he was guilted into these things on a regular basis. He greeted the mayor and the commissioner and the other lords and ladies of prestige and plutocratic prowess…not bad. He’d have to remember that one. Kash would appreciate it, at least.

He had to fight against hunching his shoulders as the sun hammered at him. Stand up straight. Ignore the nausea. Smile. Smile. Try to look appreciative as cousin Tiffany sings happy birthday. Those voice lessons were probably expensive, after all. Pardon? Oh, yes. The caterer had handed him the beribboned sterling knife for him to cut the first piece. Tradition. Ceremony. Wave of dizziness.

Carrington gritted his teeth and willed the dark spots in his vision to settle down and come back when he had time for them. He frowned when one of the dark spots at the corner of his eye moved, though there was nothing when he turned his head. Concentrate. Smile. Under the caterer’s watchful eye, he managed the two cuts for the first modest slice before he handed the knife back with a shaking hand.

“Manda,” he whispered, and she was right there, ever watchful. He wished she didn’t have to be. The only reason she was here was that Carrington had been encouraged—nagged—to bring a non-male date. So he had, despite the fact that his mother despised Amanda and was icily condescending to her at every opportunity.

Amanda took his elbow and supported him discreetly as she steered him toward the patio doors. “Gonna make it?”

“Doing my level best,” Carrington murmured, spine still as straight as he could manage. Every step sent spears of pain through his head. Every breath made him wish he hadn’t had breakfast. An unrelenting hand squeezed at his heart while his vision faded in and out like a badly edited movie.

“I know, Carr. Almost there. Library?”

“Please. It’s always dark in there.”

Blessed, blessed dark. He made it to one of the absurdly large armchairs beside the fireplace—functional but never lit—and sank into the cushions under his own power, letting his head thump against the back as he removed his dark glasses and let his abused eyes bask in the gloom. The drapes were normally drawn here so the fabrics and portraits wouldn’t suffer from sun fading. It wasn’t as if anyone actually read the armies of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Like the fireplace, they were mainly for show.

“Good job. Your cooler’s in the trunk?”

“It is. As always, you’re too good to me.” Carrington slumped in the chair. Why had he agreed to this birthday nonsense, anyway? His mother could have come up with another excuse for a garden party. “Manda…I’m sorry.”

Amanda stopped in mid-stride on her way out of the room and pinned him with her best glare. “Don’t start. If it’s about your mom, you’re not her keeper and you can’t make her like me. If it’s about getting me to come today, I had some great food. If it’s about not being the world’s best vamp and being a sucky partner again, shut it. Not doing this with you today.”

He almost apologized again but managed to clamp his jaw shut around the words. Ever sensible, Amanda didn’t allow him to whine and wallow, even though he could’ve done with a teensy bit of a whine that afternoon. Her more practical solution of going out to his car to bring him an insulated coffee mug of skim blood made more sense, of course.

Movement out of the corner of his eye startled him. A prickle of alarm skittered over his skin, the one that often warned him something not quite right was in his vicinity. When he turned toward the end table at his elbow, though, there was nothing, not even a bee or a moth. An antique lamp sat on the table, colorful dragonflies forever caught in stained-glass amber, and a book stood beside it. Odd. Someone had left the book partially open and standing on its cover and spine.

That’s no way to treat a book. As Carrington reached out to close it, intending to lay it down flat, the paranormal prickle intensified. With a rustling of pages, the book used its open cover to rock quickly back and forth, scuttling away from his outstretched hand. That was unexpected.

Recovering quickly, he withdrew his hand and whispered, “It’s all right, little book. I won’t harm you, or even read you if you’d rather I didn’t. Do you need help?”

If the book had some intelligence, it wouldn’t be the first thinking, animated object he’d ever encountered. One of his colleagues was a leather jacket with a dubious past and a wicked sense of humor.

The book rattled violently on the table in an imitation of a step dance and printed words leaped out of the pages at frightening speed. Just before they slammed into Carrington’s head, the flying words shrieked at him.

“You starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s tongue, you bull’s pizzle!”

He had time for a split second of horror before the words rammed into him with the force of several fists.

 * * * *

 When he woke, he lay on the carpet with Amanda leaning over him.

“Carr? You didn’t say it was this bad. Should I call it in?”

“Words hit me,” Carrington blurted out before his brain properly reconnected. “Book…it was…the book over there.”

Amanda followed the wave of his hand, her forehead creased. “Yeah. There’s a lot of books in here. Did you get up to snag a book and faint?”

“No. There was a book. On the table. It attacked me. With words.”

“Shit.” Amanda put an arm under him, supporting him against her while she handed over his blood snack. “Drink that, Carr. I’m calling the medics.”

He seized her hand when she pulled out her phone. “Manda, no. I’m fine. Well, more or less. There was an animated book in here, one that moved independently like LJ. It…I’m not certain how to describe it, but it hurled an insult at me and the words…the words hit me.”

Amanda stilled. Her expression shut down from concerned to that iron blankness her face took on in a dangerous situation. Silently, she got up and shut the door. Turning on lights as she went, Amanda searched the room, checking under furniture, climbing on chairs to check the chandeliers.

“Would you recognize the book, Carr? Is it back on the shelves?”

“It was rather distinctive.” Mug still in hand, Carrington used the furniture to lever himself up. “Shining black leather with gold. It should be easy to pick out of a literary lineup.”

He searched visually, his predator’s eyes processing much more quickly than a human’s could, but the book wasn’t on the shelves. “It’s not here.”

“You sure?”

“It’s gone.” Carrington shook his head. “I swear it was here, Manda. I didn’t have some odd sunstroke episode.”

She held up a hand. “I believe you. If the freaky thing’s moving on its cover, it can’t get far. Stay here.”

In case we missed it, she meant rather than, Stay out of my way. They’d worked together enough years to develop a shorthand and a rhythm to their partnership. Carrington guarded the door, determined nothing would scurry past him while Amanda cleared the nearby rooms.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long and no guests wandered by to ask why he was guarding an open doorway, radiating cop, straining every sense for any sign of that paranormal frisson. After the last room in the east wing, Amanda strode back down the hall shaking her head.

“Nothing.” She gestured toward Carrington’s temple. “Got a nasty bump coming up there, Carr.”

“It won’t last long.” Carrington let out a gusty sigh. “It must be gone. I don’t feel it nearby, at any rate. I’m going to pull my mother aside and let her know, discreetly, that she may have a paranormal entity visiting her house and to call us immediately if they spot it again.”

“Ask the LT for a sweep?”

“Yes. Later this evening. My mother will never forgive me if I disrupt her party. The entity may well have dis-manifested from the area entirely and popped up somewhere else by now.”

Amanda frowned. “Even I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.”

“Sometimes language requires improvisation. Do you mind terribly if we leave the party early?”

“Oh, hell no. Let’s blow this fancy pop stand.”

Mom was disapproving, of course, but not at all distressed by the situation when Carrington pulled her aside. She annoyed him in many respects, but he had to admire her unflappability.

“We never had any of this hocus-pocus nonsense before you contracted your illness.” She huffed. “Fine, I’ll keep an eye out and make excuses to your guests for you and tell them you weren’t feeling well. I suppose it wouldn’t do for you to rejoin the party looking like you’ve been brawling, in any case.”

“I do not look—”

She flapped a ring-encrusted hand at him. “It doesn’t matter, Carrington. I don’t want to argue. You’ve made it quite clear already that you’re determined not to make an effort today.”

“Mom…” No, she was right. Arguing never changed the mind of any Loveless. Carrington pulled up a smile for her, hoping it wasn’t too twisted, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

In the car later, Amanda eyed him sideways from the driver’s seat. “What the hell were you thanking her for? For throwing a party on a sunny day, with food you couldn’t eat, and with people you don’t like?”

Slumped in the passenger seat with his hat pulled down low, Carrington didn’t even pause to consider his answer. “She remembered my birthday.”

“Well, crap. You do know how pitiful that sounds, right?”

“I know.”

She reached across at the next stop light and patted his knee. “What do you wanna do with the rest of your birthday?”

“I need a nap.” Carrington despised the tremor in his voice. Another day of too much sun followed by hiding in his blackout-curtained room, brooding about that damnable book. No, wait… “A short one. Then I want to go to the library.”

Amanda neither laughed nor questioned. She just headed toward Carrington’s Fairmount condominium, knowing he would explain later when he felt better. When she finally received a promotion, Carrington was going to be devastated. He’d have to petition the department to let him work solo.