Brimstone Kiss

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Everyone has family issues but I have only one: that I don't have any family. My fresh new business card reads Delilah Street, Paranormal Investigator, but my old personal card could read Delilah Street, Unadoptable Orphan.

I was supposedly named after the street where I was found abandoned as an infant in Wichita, Kansas. (I guess I should just thank God and DC Comics it wasn't Lois Lane.) Of course, I've Googled and Groggled (the drinking person's search engine) the World Wide Web for Delilah Streets and not a single bloody one of them is to be found in Kansas.

Whoever my forebears, they gave me the Black Irish, Snow White coloring that is catnip to vampires: corpse-pale skin and dead-of-night-black hair. By the time I turned twelve I was fighting off aspiring juvie rapists with retractable fangs and body odor that mixed blood, sweat and semen. Really made me enjoy being a girl.

My growing-up years of group homes in Wichita are history now that I'm twenty-four and on my own. I had a good job as a reporter covering the paranormal beat for WTCH-TV in Kansas -until a jealous weather witch forecaster forced me out. Now I freelance as an investigator in wicked, mysterious post-Millennium Revelation Las Vegas. Vegas was wicked, of course, long before the turn of the twenty-first century brought all the bogeymen and women of myth and legends out of the closet and into human lives and society. Now it is 2013 and Vegas is crawling with half-vamps and half-weres and all-werewolf mobs and celebrity zombies and who-knows-what-else unhuman.

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