We jogged across the road, dodging slow-moving cars, Jaz’s fingers lightly resting on my waist to guide me. The smell of smoke wafted around us, some from exhaust, some from those in line getting in one last cigarette or cigar. A nervous laugh rang out over the murmur of the waiting crowd. Every voice seemed high-pitched, edged with forced fervor, as if they were trying to convince themselves that standing on the sidewalk was a very cool and fun way to spend an evening.

We approached the front of the velvet rope as a girl in a shockingly ugly gauze slip of a dress tried to convince the bouncer that she was the advance party for J. Lo and absolutely had to get inside right away because J. wouldn’t stop by if her table wasn’t ready. The bouncer listened, eyes never bothering to meet hers, his mouth barely opening enough to direct her to a club two blocks over, where they might believe J. Lo was coming and, better yet, care.

When the bouncer saw Jaz, though, his granite mask of ennui shattered into a wide grin, revealing a missing incisor. He slapped Jaz on the back and greeted Sonny, who edged the hopeful girl back, letting me through. Jaz lingered a minute, introducing me and making small talk as I felt the weight of stares on my back, and listened to the mutters of “Who are they?” in tones half curious, half contemptuous. Then the bouncer opened the doors and we stepped inside.

EASY RIDER WAS the club’s name, and now I knew why. “Born to Be Wild” blasted from the speakers. Smoke swirled around a half-dozen pool tables. Two runways featured tattooed strippers with teased hair and torn fishnets. The female servers were clad in leather bikini tops and chaps; the guys got leather thongs and chaps. The tables were scarred and decrepit, the leather booths battered and torn. It looked like a biker bar, circa 1970.

It didn’t take long, though, to see past the illusion. “Born to Be Wild” was a dance remix. The “smoke” around the pool tables was dry ice. Those tattooed strippers were gorgeous, and the tattoos probably came off with soap and water. The damage to the tables and booths was an artistic embellishment, not signs of age and misuse.

A club designed to make the young, wealthy and bored feel like they were wallowing in the grimy biker subculture without any danger of soiling their Pradas.

“Cheesy, huh?” Jaz whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear. “Works, though. They eat this shit up.”

“I see that.”

“Sonny? Can you take Faith to our table while I change?”

“Our table” was a booth with a view of the entire club. Bianca was there, with two guys she introduced as Tony and Max. Max was tall with a chiseled profile, a perfect tan and sun-bleached blond hair gathered in a small ponytail. Tony was about five six, compact and muscular, black hair cropped so short it was like a birthmark across his scalp. Both moved to give me room, Max shifting aside with a polite smile, Tony waving me in with a confident grin, as if I should be honored by the invitation. I slid in beside Max.

Having been to many clubs, I expected conversation to be impossible, but the booth must have been specially soundproofed. I still had to strain to hear, but could carry on a conversation.

Bianca set Tony and Max on a group of fortyish women trying hard to look twenty.

After they left, she turned to me. “Faith, I’d like you to-”

“Bee?”

Jaz appeared at her shoulder, dressed in a vintage wide-collared off-white dress shirt and black jeans.

“I thought I’d squire the lady around for a while. Introduce her to some people. Maybe take a tour of the dance floor.”

Bianca looked from me to Jaz. “You two should catch some eyes. Make sure you do-have fun, play it up. You know the drill.”

I soon understood why Jaz had made it into the gang despite his weak supernatural type. The guy had phenomenal people skills. As we circled the room, it was nonstop “How’s the new job going?” and “Saw you in the paper last week” and “Hey, that girl you were checking out last time is here-without her boyfriend.” Most people would sound smarmy and false, but Jaz had such an aura of bouncy good humor he pulled it off.

“Can I stop now?” he whispered as we left yet another group.

I choked on a laugh. “But you seem to be having such a good time.”

“Not having a bad one but-” He shrugged. “Not my crowd, really. Any chance I can talk you into a break on the dance floor?”

“Done.”

Jaz was a good dancer. Not fantastic, but decent enough that he didn’t make a fool of himself, which summed up my own skills.

“Poor Max,” he said during a lull in the pounding beat.

I followed his gaze to a corner where Max and Tony were chatting up the ladies Bianca had set them on. Every now and then Max’s attention would wander.

“Not enjoying his assignment?” I asked.

“He’s got the looks, so Guy makes him play the floor, but he doesn’t care much for humans and has a hard time faking it. Like being gay and pretending you’re interested in girls.”

“He doesn’t date humans?”

A genuine look of surprise. “Do you?”

I took advantage of an upbeat in the tempo to formulate my answer. Where I came from, if I didn’t date humans, my social calendar would be very bare. Actually, it had been bare for about a year now, but that was another matter. Even calling nonsupernaturals “humans” seemed weird. The council sometimes used the word, but sparingly, as if it was borderline racist. To say, “I don’t date humans” seemed like saying, “I don’t date white guys.”

But if I had the choice, wouldn’t I prefer supernaturals? Not because I thought we were superior, but because they’d understand me better. Like if I moved to India, I’d probably date Americans.

I told the truth. “I don’t have much choice where I come from but, if I did, I suppose I’d rather stick to supernaturals.”

“It’s not just the ‘can’t reveal my secret powers’ thing. Not like my powers need much cover-up anyway. It’s just more comfortable, you know? Like being in the gang. Hanging out with others like us. Helping each other.” He glanced toward Max, then smiled and moved closer, lips to my ear. “Which gives me an idea. What do you say we preempt Guy’s testing?”

“Hmm?”

“Guy wants to test you. Let’s beat him to it. Help Max out and show Guy what you can do. The sooner he trusts you, the quicker he’ll bring you in on the big jobs. And there’s something in the pipe right now.” His lips brushed my ear. “Trust me, you won’t want to miss it.”

WE JOINED MAX, Tony and the three women. I’d been reluctant-I couldn’t see them welcoming a younger woman-but Jaz had insisted it’d be okay. He was right. I came with my own guy, so I wasn’t competition. Having Max and Tony introduce them to friends seemed to waylay any suspicions that they were being played. And when I acted as if they were my age, it confirmed that the money they’d spent trying to look twenty again had worked.

We hung out with them for a couple of drinks. The guys had this down to a science. They took turns offering to buy a round, gathered orders, then returned with virgin versions for us and real drinks for the ladies, probably double strength.

The drunker the women got, the easier it was to pick up their negative thoughts. Once I had a few, I invited Jaz onto the dance floor. He took me to a corner partly obscured by a pillar, and where no one would notice we were doing more talking than dancing.

“So,” he said, eyes glittering. “Could you pick up all their dirty little secrets?”

I laughed. “It doesn’t quite work like that. I catch the chaotic thoughts-anything that might have negative connotations. Anger, sadness, jealousy…But it has to be an active thought. I can’t hunt through their brains looking for secrets.”

“Okay, okay. So’d you get something?”