“ID,” the bouncer grunted.

Jonathan’s hands fumbled through his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. It quivered in his hand as he held it up for the demon, who, in return, slapped a pale blue UNDERAGE wristband on him. Andrew got one to match.

“ID,” the bouncer said to Anya.

The girl’s face transformed, just as it had back at Best Pressed. Her eyebrows disappeared and her eyes sank back into dark hollows. Skin shriveled, veins popping, she looked like she’d been flayed alive, leaving only her musculature behind.

The moment the bouncer put the red AGE VERIFIED wristband on her, her face popped back to normal. Rosy-cheeked and smiling, she pushed past Andrew and Jonathan into the club.

“I was born before the invention of the printing press,” she explained. “So I don’t have a birth certificate. I can’t convince the DMV to give me a license without one. Outside of Demondale, I can’t vote or drink, but as long as I’m in town, my demonic form gets me in wherever I need to go.”

“Cool,” Andrew breathed.

“Is it?” Jonathan asked. He wasn’t convinced that teaming up with a known demon was a safe bet. What if she got her powers back and decided to enact vengeance on them? Or if she didn’t get her powers back and left them for dead?

Inside, the Bronze smelled like a handful of pennies clenched in a clammy fist. Sweat and iron. It had once been a metalwork factory and none of the owners in the time since had bothered to rid it of that aesthetic. It was dim and industrial, with a foreman’s balcony that overlooked the bar and dance floor. Even in the late afternoon, it was fairly crowded with the glamorous undead and the Hot Topic goths who followed them around.

Back when the sun still rose over this side of Santa Barbara County, no vampire would ever have hung around in public with their feeding face on. Their bumpy permanent snarls used to be private, only seen by those they preyed upon. But now all around the Bronze were patrons of ostensibly all ages whose exposed fangs and yellow eyes announced them as undead. Most of them drank from tall glasses. Others lured human lookie-loos into shadowy corners.

Anya strode across the club. Andrew eagerly followed her, openly gaping at his surroundings and whispering to Jonathan over his shoulder.

“Look,” Andrew said, pointing at the pool tables crowded with monsters. “They play games, just like us!”

Jonathan was sure he was going to die here. Fangs in his neck. Throat torn out. Blood drained. No one would even know he was dead because surely Andrew would die too and Warren was already gone. His parents would comfort each other, saying that they’d told Jonathan that only humans with a death wish would stay in Demondale.

Jonathan didn’t have a death wish. He just wanted somewhere to belong. The only place he’d ever fit was with Warren and Andrew. He’d do anything not to lose that. Even if it meant risking his life in a vampire club.