For centuries, the werewolves of Toronto have managed to live in peace and tranquility, hidden quietly away on their London, Ontario farm. But now, someone has learned their secret—and is systematically massacring this ancient race. The only one they can turn to is Henry Fitzroy, Toronto-based vampire and writer of bodice rippers. Forced to hide from the light of day, Henry can’t hunt the killer alone, so he turns to Vicki Nelson for help. As they race against time to stop the murderer, they begin to fear that their combined talents may not be enough to prevent him from completing his deadly plan. "Entertaining characters, wry humor, crazy plots, glimpses of horror, the occult, romance, and just a dollop of sex."— VOYA "The novel [has] an unexpected serious theme that helps raise it above the crowd. It may be funny, often lighthearted and highly entertaining, but it's more than just another 'light' fantasy ."— Locus "A yummy concoction of equal parts fantasy and mystery , throwing in a splash of humor and a dash of romance to beguile the palate quite delightfully.... Ms. Huff manages to develop all her different plot threads to marvelous effect. How could anyone resist this vastly entertaining pastiche?"— RT Book Reviews "A fine mix of the detective story with the supernatural, and easily Huff's best novel to date.... A rousing adventure tale with likable characters and an interesting setting ."— Science Fiction Chronicle "The author of the Blood novels has once again proven herself a master of urban fantasy ."— Library Journal "Huff tells a great story, but never takes herself or it too seriously. She consciously borrows elements from other books as well as movies, comics, and mythology and combines them with her own great imagination to make a thoroughly satisfying story."— SF Site Tanya Huff  may have left Nova Scotia at three, and has lived most of her life since in Ontario, but she still considers herself a Maritimer. On the way to the idyllic rural existence she shares with her partner Fiona Patton, six cats, and a chihuahua, she acquired a degree in Radio and Television Arts from Ryerson Polytechnic—an education she was happy to finally use while writing her recent Smoke novels . Of her previous twenty-three books, the five— Blood Price, Blood Trail, Blood Lines, Blood Pact, Blood Debt —featuring Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, romance writer, and vampire are among the most popular. ONE     THE THREE-QUARTER MOON, HANGING low in the night sky, turned even tamed and placid farmland into a mysterious landscape of silver light and shadows. Each blade of grass, toasted golden brown by two months of summer heat, had a thin black replica stretching out behind it. The bushes along the fence bottom, highways for those too timid to brave the open fields, rustled once and then were silent as some nocturnal creature went about its business.     Their summer-shorn fleece turned milky white by the moonlight, a large flock of sheep had settled for the night in one corner of the meadow. Except for the rhythmic motion of a number of jaws and the occasional flick of an ear or twitch of a lamb unable to be still for long, even in sleep, they appeared to be an outcropping of pale stone. An outcropping come suddenly to life as several heads rose at once, aristocratic noses pointed into the breeze.     They were obviously familiar with the creature that bounded over the fence and into the meadow, for although the ewes remained alert they watched it approach with mild curiosity rather than alarm.     The huge black beast paused to mark a fence post, then trotted a few steps into the field and sat down, gazing back at the sheep with a proprietary air. Something in its general outline, in the shape of its head, said wolf just as its coloring, its size, its breadth of chest, and the reaction of the flock said dog.     Convinced that all was as it should be, it began to lope along the edge of the fence bottom, plumed tail streaming behind it like a banner, moon-silvered highlights rippling through its thick fur with every movement. Picking up speed, it leapt a thistle—more for the sheer joy of leaping than because the thistle was in its way—and cut diagonally across the lower end of the pasture.     With no more warning than a distant cough, the gleaming black head exploded in a shower of blood and bone. The body, lifted off its feet by the impact, spasmed for a frenzied moment and then lay still.     Bleating in terror at the sudden blood scent, the sheep panicked, racing to the far end of the field and pressing in a huddled noisy mass against the fence. Fortunately, the direction they’d taken had moved them upwind, not down. When nothing further happened, they began to calm and a few of the older ewes moved themselves and their lambs out of the crowding and began to settle once again.     It was doubtful that the three animals who leapt the fence a short time later ev