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 rmal. If t for the stink of shit and vomit and the speckles of blood around his lips and se, you'd never kw Anton Chekowicz had been having a really bad night. So, Cheeky, you realize you're in violation of the Twilight Statutes, right? An unregistered cturnal. 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.