If Paul was here he'd be checking out the hookers. I don't have to stand guard at the door while he “takes a break” anymore. A hard delighted smile tilted up the corners of Ryan's mouth. He let go of her elbow, but matched his steps to hers. She was supposed to be behind him, but in a crowd like this he could easily lose her; he moved as if herding her. Nobody jostled him, of course, his pheromones would give him some space even when the skins around him were unaware.

"This is a bad part of town. People get killed down here. There was a stabbing just the other day, I read about it in the paper.” She didn't sound afraid, thank God, but she did slow down. He had to bump into her to get her going the speed he wanted, matching them to the crowd's pace.

"I'll look out for sharp objects.” He kept scanning the street. Lots of skins. The smell of alcohol and desperation, sharper musty smells of other drugs, sweat and peppermint, and strained, quick sex spilling through the air. The demon part of him shivered, liking this collage of scents. Good food, good fuel, good hunting here.

Not hunting tonight. No breath of Malik, but plenty of the faint smoky tang of Others. Sheela and sheel, tall and graceful and passing for human, looking through the bars and nightclubs for their next partners. There was a stocky man in a trenchcoat who had a breath of stone and cold wind on him, a stonekin probably come out for the beer. Others, too, sliding through the crowd or crouched in the shadows; one that looked like a bag lady pushing a shopping cart and mumbling to herself was actually a slinharik, its cocoon wrapped tightly against the chill and the fleshy sensors on its high cheeks quivering as it scented him.

As they passed the cop car, she tensed but her stride never faltered. “Do you have trouble with the police?” she asked as they passed a bar with pool tables inside, the clack of balls striking each other sounding through the window's rippled glass.

"No.” They can't catch me, and even if they catch me they can't hold me. That's a benefit of being Drakul, resistance to cold iron; it doesn't trap me the way it traps some of the Others. “I sometimes get taken in if we're chasing an infiltration in the police department. That was only once or twice though. I have to remember not to break the handcuffs, and to pretend that the beatings hurt."

"Really?” She glanced up at him, her eyes wide and dark, and he was surprised by a flare of proprietary sweetness. She sounded breathless, but they weren't going very fast. He could almost hear her pulse, sensing the tide of blood in her veins, and was willing to bet that his own pulse and respiration were beginning to match hers.

I am in so much trouble now. Why did I do this? Paul only told me to watch her, not get involved with her and sign my own death warrant.

But the memory of her slumped at her kitchen table, her face in her hands and her shoulders shaking, rose in front of him. She had faced down a skornac on her own. He was involved with this because from the moment he'd seen her dancing in her kitchen and waving a cleaver for emphasis, it had been too damn late.

"Cops don't bother us much. There are Malik cops, and sometimes the Inkani buy a few officers just in case.” He eased her around the corner onto Malvrell, the bars that lined this street were seedier the further they got from the main drag. “We're almost there."

"Great.” She sounded thrilled. “Can't wait. Perfect neighborhood."

"Be careful.” He couldn't impress the importance of those two words enough on her. “This is an Other bar."

"Other?” She looked up at him again, her dark braid swinging; little jewels of rain clung to her hair since it had tapered off to a drizzle. She had long legs, and kept up a good clip, he only had to shorten his stride a little.

"Anything other than human. All demons are Others, but not all Others are demons. They'll smell me on you, shouldn't bother you.” But if they do, I'll stop it quick enough. “Just follow my lead. And—"

"— be careful,” she finished. “I'm not stupid, Mr. Ryan."

How did I get to be Mr. Ryan? “Far from, sweetheart.” He knew it would irritate her, couldn't help himself. “You're too smart for your own damn good. That's why I keep reminding you. Here we are."

Three concrete steps down to a yawing, off-center wooden door miraculously not drifted under paper rubbish, and he put his hand up to push open the door. A faded, peeling sign above the door proclaimed the Shelaugh Taverne. “Stay close,” he warned, and pushed.

The door swung and creaked open, a draft of warmth and cigarette smoke bellowed out. He herded her into the sudden thick noise of a jukebox playing Warren Zevon at high decibels and conversation trying vainly to be heard over the top. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, copper tang, and the smell of Others, nothing off, his ears took everything in and decided it was a normal night. She stepped in and he loomed behind her, making the point before anyone thought to ask. Subtle, Ryan. Way subtle.

There was a gaggle of full sheela at the bar, with bell-like voices and long bright hair. He squired Chess over to a small table in a defensible corner. “Drinks?” he asked over the hubbub.

She shook her head, her eyes moving over the whole place. She looked very calm for someone sitting in the middle of a clutch of definitely Other, from the red-skinned man in the corner drinking from a shallow black bowl to the woman whose small black dog sat on the bar, watching her toss peanuts that somehow were shelled when they landed in her coppery hands. There were warty, gray-skinned stonekin too, taking down beer at a prodigious rate and paying with silver pieces; the shadowy corners were full of strange shapes with bright eyes. The breath of alien exuding from this place would keep the skins away; normal people had a positive genius for ignoring what they didn't want to see.

He left her at the table, elbowed his way to the bar and got two whiskey sours, leaving the tip and a single silver piece laying on the shipwrecked, rollicking oaken monstrosity of the bar itself. Then he forced his way through the crowd back to the table and scooted into the booth next to her, testing the table—not secured to the floor. Good. He made sure his back was to the wall and ran a practiced eye over the crowd. His coming had already been remarked, and the presence of a female with him too.

Well, I've come this far. I might as well go all the way. Let them come. It was empty bravado, but he felt a fierce sense of relief. Nothing he could do about it now, he was committed to a course of action. There was a certain relaxation in that realization.

"Here.” He edged one glass toward her, across the sticky tabletop. “Won't be long."

"What's going to happen?” She eyed her drink as if she expected a coconut palm to spring forth from it.

"Someone will bring me that silver piece on the bar, and we'll talk. Go ahead, drink that. It'll relax you.” I like the thought of you relaxed.

The thought was amused and completely reflexive. Yes, he was fucked for sure.

"What's in it?” Still distrustful, she touched the glass with a fingertip, condensation beading up on the surface.

"Whiskey and calf's blood."

"You're kidding."

I am. Though you can get that here, the sheel like it. “You're right. No whiskey."

She actually laughed, and he had to stop himself from smiling. She liked my joke. Paul wouldn't have asked what was in it, he just would have taken it down while eyeing the sheela. Where the fuck is he?

It didn't take long. One of the stonekin wandered over, his tread heavy and Ryan's silver piece in his paw. “Nagàth,” he said, in a voice like stones rubbing together. He lowered himself in the chair with its back to the room. “Wondered when show."

"Been busy.” Ryan's tone was easy and polite, but his hand came down over Chess's wrist. If she decided to move or speak, the stone might get twitchy. They didn't know what to do when a female not of their species talked to them. “Word?"