'It was the middle of November, I was supposed to be out jogging, but instead I was sitting at my breakfast table talking about men, sex, werewolves and vampires. I should be concentrating on my dangerous situation - the ardeur between me and Jean-Claude, Master Vampire of the City, and Richard, my werewolf lover, is reaching new levels, evolving into something altogether new, acting with a will of its own.'

But instead Anita Blake, preternatural expert and feared executioner, is less interested in vampire politics than in the ancient, ordinary dread that women down the ages have experienced: am I pregnant? And, if so, is the father a vampire, a werewolf or someone else entirely.

And being a Federal Marshall, known for raising the dead and hunting vampires, is no way to bring up a baby.