Three seconds in this place and Isla was already being hissed at. No manners around the undead with that woman.

She gave him a thumbs up.

Fanging hell she was going to get us kicked out.

I shielded my face from the engaged couple and pushed Isla along to the bar.

It was perfectly normal for vampires to bring their human lovers and servants and valets and friends with platelets to places like this. We ain't exactly known for being a shy bunch. Treating your human to a cocktail as you treated yourself to some sips was a sign of both status – look at me I can build a harem too – and commitment – get a good look at my human, bozos, cause they're off-limits. It was still, however, rude to stare.

Even if the two men were evidently enjoying themselves.

The rich scent of blood and the vamp's gentle slurping ignited an itch in my veins. A wave of Cheez Whiz flavored nausea rolled through me. I swallowed back a rising tide of bile.

"Oh pixie dust! Is this place playing Chumba Wumba? Hey, you don't have to push," Isla grumbled, and I realized just how firmly I'd been steering her. I eased up the pressure but could not bring myself to remove my hand from her back. Sue me. My fingers fiddled with a loose bead on her dress, and Isla's pulse quickened, quietly thumping in her smooth, exposed neck. She flipped her hair and threads of orange and mint tangled under my nose.

I shouldn't have encouraged her. She was a person of interest. I didn't have a clear head to do this job with her around.

But, dang it, here we were. Cause despite all the perfectly sane and logical reasons as to why I should have called her a cab downstairs, the loudest thought in my head was "golly gee, wouldn't getting a drink with her be fun" and suddenly my whole body ached with the kind of longing that made you stupid. It been ages since I had real fun.

I pulled stool out at the bar, taking her hand as she slipped onto it, not really paying attention to me at all. Her eyes were everywhere, reading the scene. Bar was full of vamps, many with their bloodbags, and other creatures out for a nightcap.

Just down the bar was a vampire woman all done up like a Victorian widow. Her human pets sat obediently in their collars at her feet while she sipped on a straw wound around one of their leashes. She was reading the Inquirer.

I spied a coven of witches, all done up like this was goth Coachella with black roses and feathers woven in their hair, occupying a corner of the lounge. They sat in a copse of sofas toward the back, giggling about love spells around a bubbling cauldron. One wore a typical pointed witch's hat, though in pearly white with a veil trailing down the back, and waved a penis shaped wand. Bachelorette parties, ugh. Dmitri would never have allowed that kind of debauchery in the old days.

A pair of tiny pixies flew over the coven. They zipped into a large-leafed plant near the balcony doors. The leaves shook. That kind of debauchery was always just fine.

Cuddling in a loveseat at the center of the room was another vampire couple feigning polite obliviousness to the naked men to their left. A waiter approached with two young women in tow. They reminded me of Ginger and Mary Ann, one in a lowcut evening gown, one in a midriff revealing skirt and top. The waiter presented each woman like he was handling a bottle of wine. The vampires selected Mary Ann – the curvier of the two – and she promptly took the couple by their cold hands and pranced them off down the hall Isla and I had just come through.

As the waiter escorted Ginger back toward us at the bar, I bit my lip and decided against mentioning that Ginger and Mary Ann both looked a bit young to be blood donors. Legal age of consent was twenty-one.

Next to me, Isla waved at the minotaur chatting up an elf by the window.

"Know him?"

"No. Thought it was an ex for a hot second though."

"The minotaur?"

Isla slapped her gloved arms on the table, "let's drink."

"Let's work."

She pouted, just as the bartender (human) arrived. He smiled coyly at us.

"Evening. How can I be of service?"

Isla opened her mouth quick then shut it, cleared her throat, and daintily replied. "Give us a moment please?"

Bartender nodded, and as he left to attend to the widow, Isla leaned over. "I don't know if you've gotten the vibe but as a victim of this economy, I'm usually a bottom shelf liquor kind of girl. What's good here?"

"The O positive."

She smiled. "Right, I'm paying. Go on ahead and order yourself something swanky then, I'll just," she spun around in her chair, patting the empty bar. "Find a menu."

I sighed. "What kind of gentlemen would I be if I left my lady thirsty? You like gin?"

She grinned. She had dimples. "Sure."

"Champagne?"

"Slut for bubbles."

I flagged the bartender. "My gal'll have a French 75, not with the house gin, either, use a good bottle. The novelty of bathtub swill isn't worth it. And I'll take a Bloody Marie."

The bartender nodded and set about popping a bottle of champagne.

"Ew. Tomato juice? Is this time of night vampire brunch hour or something?"

"Not exactly," I said, watching the bartender, with his hollowed cheekbones and the purple bags under his eyes he tried to hide with makeup, mix gin and lemon and syrup in a shaker. He poured the start of Isla's cocktail in a flute. "Bloody Marie. Not Mary. A bit different."

The bartender peeled away a bandage from the back of his hand, revealing the IV catheter already stuck in a fat vein. He untwisted a stopper at the end of a plastic tube dangling from him. Good veins. His blood bubbled up quick, and he let five drops drain into another champagne flute, before pinching the catheter off again. After a swipe of an alcohol pad, he quickly reapplied his bandage then swirled his blood around to coat the glass. Topped both glasses with champagne, garnished Isla's with a lemon peel, and slid them over to us with a smile.

"Ah," Isla said, watching the pink concoction in my glass bubble. I waited for her to recoil in horror. Instead, she held her glass aloft. "Cheers?"

"Cheers," I said, clinking our glasses.

The champagne was nice. Bubbly, just the right amount of sweet. The bartender's blood was metallic though. Thin. Watered down. He was over-tapped. Shit. I know I shouldn't drink on the job, but I was hoping even that tiny of amount of blood would hit where it needed, soothe the itch in my throat I just gotten used to. It didn't satisfy, but only stoked the burning in my veins. Left me with that hollowed feeling of hunger in your gut except it's not just in your gut it's everywhere, every little blue line crisscrossing through you.

Isla's throat moved like a gentle wave as she took a sip of her cocktail. She smiled. Licked a drop off her lips and took another sip. The skin on her neck was smooth. Her jugular shifted so softly beneath it. Lower, beneath the beads of her dress, the carnation petals of her tattoos were dancing.

I risked a glance at the now empty hallway Mary Ann and her couple vanished down. Maybe, if I got rid of Isla early, I could treat myself to the bottle service.

"How're your drinks?" the bartender asked, fluttering long lashes at me. I winked back at him.

"Fabulous," said Isla, lips still pressed to the glass.

"Swell," I pulled the cocktail napkin from Lily's place out my pocket and slid it across to bar. "Say, last time I was here, we ran into this gal. Young human. Pretty thing. I think her name was Lily."

"Perez," Isla said, husky voice low and sultry and trying too hard to get the bartender's attention. "Black hair, curly, shag cut. Baby pink nails to match her baby face."

I ran a knuckle down Isla's arm. "Darling and I are fans of her. You, uh, you don't know who she comes here with, do you?"

The bartender politely shook his head. "Don't recognize that name, sorry."

"I think she was a guest," I hesitated, hating to say the name aloud, in front of Isla, "of Dmitri's."

Cordialness fading, the bartender shot me an incredulous look. This was not going as well as I'd hoped.

I tapped the cocktail napkin, showing it to him. "Hey, pal, we're also guests of Dmitri, see? His guests from," I checked the napkin. "Melrose Place?" It was a password. I had no doubt. Dmitri always liked passwords.

Though, honestly, I didn't get the reference.

"Oh! Of course! Guests. Um, who did you say you were here to see?"

"Rosie," said Isla. "We're here for Rosie."

"One glass of rosé coming right up," the bartender winked at us and disappeared behind a curtain.

Rosie. The name in Lily's letter. "Smart cookie."

Isla shrugged. "Everybody's got a stage name."

"No," I went to take a drink only to realize I had downed the glass in one go before. "You don't think she work—"

"Nipple tassels. Also, I think you used to work here," Isla patted my tie. I fell back, just a hair, surprised at how casually she touched me. "You're wearing the same suit as everybody else who does. Plus you know the guy downstairs."

Hell. "That obvious?"

"You look good if that's a hundred-year-old suit."

"It is not!" I groaned. "I never worked here while it was here. This place hadn't even been built yet. It was still a real speakeasy behind a barbershop in Chinatown when I was slinging cocktails, but, yes."

"How did you go from bartending to being a private eye?"

Ha. "Oh no, that's a story for another time. What is taking him so long? I'd rather not loiter here long enough for someone to notice us. Not looking for a repeat of last night. We should scope out the room a bit. Find some regulars."

"Huh." Isla sipped her drink, eyes once again roaming the room, following another waiter in a suit. She coughed into her glass. "Ooooh, was your Plan A to pretend to be a waiter to question people or like, sneak around in the back, or something?"

Dang it, woman! Was I losing my touch after all?

"What excellent powers of deduction you have there, Watson," I bit the inside of my cheek. "But if you could be a bit softer about that, the clientele here have ears like TV antenna."

Isla giggled, looking smug. "Relax, Jake. It was Chinatown. I'll forget it."

I laughed. I didn't want to. Hated that I did. Hated that I just can't seem stop myself from laughing like an idiot when she makes dumb, really, really dumb, jokes. But hey, I was the one who thought she'd be fun to have around. While I'm working. Maybe I'm the idiot.

Even Isla was struggling to contain her snorts. "Have you tried checking to see if Lily is her own sister? Or mother?"

"Stop!"

"Hey studs," a bubblegum voice sang. "You here for the party?"

A young woman in a decidedly uncatholic variant of a Catholic school girl uniform appeared and offered us two glasses of rosé wine. Her socks were too high, the tartan skirt too short, and her white button-down shirt had been knotted in the middle to reveal both her pierced belly and red brassiere. She looked to be in her early twenties, though the pink lip gloss and pigtail braids with fuzzy pink pom-poms aged her down.

Isla gleefully accepted her wine.

"Rosie?" I asked.

The woman pouted. She plucked the empty champagne flute from my hand and replaced it with the rosé glass. "As if. Rosie isn't in tonight. You can call me Britney, bitch."

Just as Isla was jubilantly bouncing on her stool and chugging down last of her champagne cocktail, Britney¸ grabbed me by the tie and tugged me off my butt. "Follow me," she said. Not that I had a choice, as Britney practically dragged me across the lounge. I snatched Isla by the wrist, so we weren't separated. She skipped along, heels clicking against the glazed concrete floor, sipping from her wine glass.

"You hear that?" she whispered.

Music. Talking. Cocktail shakers. Ice clinking in glasses. Vampires slurping from human veins. A toilet flushing as we passed the facilities. Minotaur farts. The elevator car humming as we walked past the way we came in. Isla's excited heartbeat. Yes. I heard a lot of things. "You're going to have to be more specific." I grumbled back, flicking my ear.

"It's the heckin' Backstreet Boys!"

Britney ushered us through an ornately decorated double door. As the cold night air struck us, Isla gasped and grabbed my arm (I instinctively tugged her closer). Though I suspected it wasn't from the cold. No, it was probably the sight of five male dancers stripping to a catchy pop tune.

"Welcome to 90s night, babes," said Britney.

I groaned. Isla squealed.

We clearly had very different experiences in the 90s.

Britney whispered to a man dressed like the Fresh Prince himself, who nodded, and motioned for us to follow. Isla was practically vibrating with giddiness beside me as she took in the strip show, the cheesy décor, the staff on this side of the bar all dressed in hideous baggy flannel and plastic chokers and miniskirts and Tripp pants. Fangs, we stuck out like the sorest of thumbs.

Isla elbowed me in the ribs.

"Look. Bartending. Is that a djinn dressed like Christina Aguilera? Son of witch, I love this place! Why didn't you tell me this was back here?"

"I didn't know," I said, truthfully. "Just had a hunch there was more than meets the eye."

The rooftop of the Bok Building, once used for school PE classes I think, was now clearly operating as Irwin's patio. It was massive. Louder out here too. And packed with creatures. Isla was pointing to the open-air bar at one end of the patio, where a woman in orange pants and a crop top was opening beer bottles. Music blasted as scantily clad dancers traversed catwalks precariously close to the edge of the building, the scars of their masters' teeth gleaming against the backdrop of the city skyline.

Dmitri used passwords back in the day for simple entrance to the bar. But getting into bars wasn't a problem these days. What was that scribble on the napkin for then, eh, Dmitri? Why keep this part of your club hidden?

The seating arrangements were divided in the same way as inside, with plants and greenery creating the illusion of privacy between the tables and sofas. Red cushions and black and white chevron table runners had been added to some in an attempt to set, as Isla called it, the vibe.

As we were led away from the dance floor, I saw a man in a flannel and shaggy blond hair carry a tray of empty disposable paper jazz cups (for fang's sake, Dmitri!) to a crowded table. He nodded at Britney, but he didn't get the chance to see her nod back. The six or seven vampires crammed into the booth pounced on him. A gaggle of arms grabbed the man, ripping up the sleeves of his shirt as they heaved him onto the table like a Thanksgiving entrée. The vampires' teeth – at least five of them – sank into the man's scarred arms. He relaxed, dropping his tray of empty cups, eyes closed blissfully as the vamps fed.

Yeah. Doubtful the bar had the proper permits for that many sets of fangs in one bloodbag. An underaged one. That boy would be lucky if he survived till morning. Dmitri, you dog.

Britney led us to our own rounded booth, slipping in one end and dragging me along with her. The class of inside didn't carry over upon closer inspection. The curved bench seat was dotted with red stains. Isla had gone around to the other side of the booth, and her knees bumped mine under the table, Britney squashed between us.

"Miss, we'd like to ask you—"

With surprising agility, Britney swung herself around and straddled me. "Ask away, baby," she sang, grinding her hips against mine and pushing one braid aside to reveal her bronzed neck. "I'm all yours tonight."

"Uh, I—"

I squirmed, uncomfortable, in my seat. Her femoral arteries softly beat against my hips. Britney was warm, but I could feel Isla growing hot. Saliva pooled in my mouth. My fangs poked, uninvited, at my lower lip and I clamped my mouth shut, willing them to retract. Britney seemed to read that as enthusiasm and moaned as she ground harder against me. The sound was as forced as her gyrating. But still... she was close. So close and warm just right. There. Right on top of me, baring her skinny neck dotted with scars. The itching was back. Crawling everywhere under my skin. A wave of thirst surged, drying my throat. Nausea rolled through and left me feeling so hollow. It ached. A taste. That's all I needed. And then this gnawing pain and the fatigue and the itching and the gray hair I noticed on my temple earlier would all subside.

Isla cleared her throat. I tasted red wine.

Shit. I was losing it.

I struggled to balance my wine glass and gently nudge at Britney's shoulder, doing my darndest to push her off me without harm. She didn't get the hint.

"Stop. If you—"

Isla stood – ramming her knees into the table – and yanked Britney off me by the arm. A strange flush crossed her face. Isla's, that is.

"Brit, it's not that you're not a total smoke show, babe," Isla looked Britney up and down, appraising. "But my guy said stop. Also, where's the Rosie we ordered at, huh?"

And with that blunt force trauma, our sweet Britney burst into tears.