There's one vampire too many in Hawthorne. Cheeky, recently ascended to the elevated ranks of the immortal undead, sat slumped in his chair, a gob of pink spit swinging from his chin as he breathed. Even without the cuffs, he was too depressed to move. He was scarecrow thin, with a two-week scruff on his cheeks, and rheumy eyes obscured by the greasy, thinning red hair dangling over his forehead. In other words, he looked perfectly normal. If not for the stink of shit and vomit and the speckles of blood around his lips and nose, you'd never know Anton Chekowicz had been having a really bad night. "So, Cheeky, you realize you're in violation of the Twilight Statutes, right? An unregistered nocturnal. Who killed you, Cheeky?" With the world at peace after a global supernatural war, a flinty small-town detective battles a demon who just won't let it go.