“True love always shoots to kill.”
MUSIC PUMPED THROUGH THE CLUB’S SPEAKERS, distorted until it was barely more than a pounding bass line with a sprinkling of grace notes. It was perfect dance music, the kind that makes feet tap and thighs twitch with the need to get up and
I hate waiting.
Sarah had managed to acquire a half-circle booth that was empty except for us. It would have been impossible for anyone else. I’m not even sure she realized she was doing something impressive. I leaned sulkily back in my seat, trying to look casual as I sipped my nonalcoholic “Cosmopolitan”—club soda, grenadine, and a maraschino cherry for that finishing touch—and scanned the dance floor.
“So, Verity, tell me, are you looking for our nasty friend, or are you sizing up the competition?” Sarah’s tone was mild, but I could recognize the warning lurking underneath the question.
“Sorry,” I said, looking guiltily away from the floor.
“Aren’t you always?” Sarah was sitting in the center of the booth, partially so she could lounge nonchalantly against the burgundy vinyl cushions, and partially so she wouldn’t be in the way if I needed to move suddenly. Her choice of seating had the added bonus of keeping the crowd at a distance, since the full length of the table was between her and the rest of the club. Sarah doesn’t like being touched, something that’s generally viewed as a major loss by the male population of whatever city she’s in. She has classical black Irish coloring, with pale skin, thick black hair, and eyes that are an almost perfect ice blue. Add in her svelte figure and delicate features, and it’s no wonder she’s beating the boys off with a stick.
Not that most of them would know how to handle the revelation that she bleeds clear and doesn’t have a heartbeat, but hey, what’s a little inhumanity between friends? Sarah’s family, even if it’s through adoption. And there’s something to be said for bringing a telepath along when you’re hunting rogue cryptids through Manhattan’s hottest party spots. Without her, I would never have been able to get past the velvet rope.
She was still eyeing me. “My mind’s on the job,” I said defensively, plucking the cherry from my drink. “Really. I swear.”
“Uh-huh.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Do we have to have the ‘don’t lie to the telepath’ talk again? It won’t take long. I say ‘don’t lie to the telepath, it never works,’ you glare at me, and then you go find something you can hit.”
“Finding something I can hit is the plan.” I popped the cherry into my mouth as I glanced at the dance floor. Mmm, food coloring and sugar. “He’ll show. His patterns have been regular up to now, and this is the next stop on his circuit.”
“Well, I don’t know how much help I’m going to be. Ghoul minds are hard to tell from human minds under the best of circumstances. With this many drunk, horny people in one place, I’d be lucky to spot a serial killer, much less a ghoul.”
“If you do spot a serial killer, let me know. Sitting here is making my feet itch.” My shoes were doing worse than that, but that’s what I get for wearing five-inch heels. They have a practical application—it’s almost impossible for me to pull off a good salsa without heels on. That doesn’t make them comfortable. At least when I was dancing, I had something to distract me from the way they bent my arches.
Neither of us was dressed for comfort. Sarah was playing the bored celebutante, which necessitated that she wear the appropriate “uniform”: a skirt that could double as a belt, a backless silver handkerchief top, and knee- high leather boots. The temptation to snap a few pictures with my phone and mail them to our cousin Artie was almost impossible to resist. His head would probably explode.
Sarah looked miserable. That didn’t matter; no matter how miserable she was, her telepathy would keep everyone around us seeing what they expected to see when they looked our way. Wearing the right things and drinking the right drinks just made it easier, since she didn’t have to work as hard to convince them.
My skirt was slightly longer, but only because it’s borderline impossible to fit a thigh holster under a micromini. I made up for my shameful modesty with a blood-red velvet bustier that looked appropriately scandalous—and better yet, had steel corsetry boning and gave me room for five strategically placed throwing knives. Between those, the steel tips on my heels, and the perfume bottle of holy water in my purse, I was loaded for bear. More accurately, I was loaded for ghoul. This one was hunting in midtown, which is a big no-no, and had killed fifteen girls that we knew of. There were probably more that we’d managed to miss. Not okay.
“If he’s here, he’ll be on the floor,” I said, trying to sound casual.
I could tell from the look on Sarah’s face that she wasn’t buying it, but her sense of telepathic ethics wouldn’t let her admit that. She raised her eyebrow again before sighing and waving toward the floor. “Go. You’ll feel better. I’ll toss up a flare if I pick up on him.”
“You’re the best!” I was out of my seat almost instantly, leaving my drink on the table as I made a beeline for the teeming mass of bodies on the dance floor. Steel-tipped heels can go a long way toward clearing a path, especially when you’re not opposed to “accidentally” stepping on a few toes. The smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and a hundred different perfumes assaulted my nose, making my head swim. I dove into the crowd.
The secret of good club music is the downbeat. Even the world’s worst dancer can’t help picking up a little rhythm when the bass is pumped high enough, and a good DJ can work a crowd like it’s just another kind of musical instrument. This DJ wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t terrible, and that was all I needed. I worked my way past the first tiers of dancers—the ones too drunk, too disinterested, or too interested in looking for a different kind of “dance” to defend their places in the center of the floor—and gave myself over to the beat, letting it tell my body where to go. It didn’t matter that I was there because something was killing club kids in what was currently my city. It didn’t matter that my clothes were Scotchgarded against bloodstains, not sweat. It didn’t even matter that all of my formal training was in the ballroom styles. I was dancing. Everything was going to be okay.
The natural pulse of a good dance floor means the best dancers wind up getting pulled toward the center, sucked inexorably forward as they pass through the ranks of the less invested and the less skilled. I had half a dozen partners within the first five minutes, each trying to catch my eye as they shook whatever they had in my direction. They knew the rules of the floor, and when the tempo of my steps knocked theirs out of the game, they were graceful enough to let me go.
I wound up packed into the place where the circles of dancers compressed to nearly nothing, sharing that coveted spot with three couples, two other single women, and a man about my age who seemed to be comfortable dancing by himself while he sized up his options. He looked like he’d just about settled on one of the women—a lanky brunette in hip-hugger designer jeans—when I hit the circle. His attention shifted, a predatory gleam lighting up his eyes.
Single white male seeks single white female for …what, exactly? I gave him a once-over as he moved toward me, disguising the look with a flirtatious wink. All his clothes were dark, and the fabrics looked naturally stain- resistant. No scars, no tattoos, no jewelry; good-looking in that generic movie extra sort of way. The kind of guy you’d happily dance with for a little while, maybe even follow home if you were in the mood for something nastier than a little grinding.
“Hey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “I haven’t seen you here before. You’re good.”
“You, too,” I shouted back.
“Wanna dance?”
“Sure thing!” That seemed to complete the pleasantries, and it was straight to business for my mystery man. He closed in like a heat-seeking missile, cupping my hips with his hands as he matched his rhythm to mine. A little tacky for a first date, maybe, but that’s nothing for a first dance. I’ve done tangos with men who thought my ass was a squeaky toy. Compared to them, Mr. Mystery was being nothing but polite.
I looked at him more carefully as we writhed around the center circle together, and frowned. His teeth were
