Just the facts, ma'am
Good gods, the woman could pace.

Sixty-four minutes now, east to west, west to east. The hardwood floors in her London flat would need buffing before the night was done.

"Maury, you're my goddamned literary agent!" she snarled. Shame he couldn't see the vampire through the microphone. Deanna'd considered installing one of those digital doo-dads to hook up to the wide screen computer monitor. Since submitting her manuscript to Random House (thanks to a bidding war with Penguin Books), it seemed everyone wanted face-time.

Soon enough for that.

"Just ... I don't know! Argh! Fact-checking?! Really? I've been around for well over two hundred fucking years! What are they gonna do," she grabbed her silver cigarette case and took out the last smoke. Her ashtray was a hotbed of anger, "dig up the bloody bodies and carbon-date them?"

The heavy-set man, safely hidden in his office in New York, was thankful that fear and sweat didn't translate digitally. He was on his third drink. "N-n-n-noooo, they're asking about more... recent events. They're worried about being sued for slander."

A long puff of smoke stroked her fingers as Deanna exhaled. "The water thing was a dream, Maury."

"Well, yes I get that. But uh," he paused far too long, "it's just this, what do you call her, a Slayer? She takes up two chapters of your book. They're nervous is all. Surely we can come to some sort of... compromise?"

West to east. East to west. West to east. "I have no idea where she is now. Last we tangled was in Las Vegas. Hire some idiot to track down Rhiannon Lee -- I'm sure she's got a social -- and figure it out."

Cool, slender fingers pressed the talk button and the call was ended.