“I can’t believe you know Lurine Hollister!” Cody whispered to me. I punched him unobtrusively in the shoulder. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Nothing.”

This time, there was no clatter of cue sticks and pool balls to go silent when we entered the bar. It was already silent.

But it got . . . more silent.

I counted seven or eight rough-looking ghouls with pale skin, glittering eyes, and doting women near them. To my relief, Al the Walrus wasn’t among them; to my covert disappointment, neither was Stefan Ludovic. There were another four or five mortal men, also members of the Outcasts, wearing their colors with sullen pride. The same skinny human bartender with the muttonchops was on duty, wearing a sleeveless black concert T-shirt that showed off the tattoos on his wiry arms.

Since we’d called ahead, they had been expecting us.

They hadn’t expected Lurine.

See, here’s the thing. Like I said, members of the eldritch community always recognize one another as kin of a sort. Sometimes it’s obvious; sometimes it’s not. If there’s a glamour, we can see through it. Even if there isn’t, as is the case with half-breeds like me or shape-shifters like Cody, there’s a palpable sense of otherness.

On the other hand, recognizing someone as other doesn’t necessarily translate into knowing exactly what that other is. But if it hadn’t been evident enough last night, today I realized Lurine was in a category by herself.

Predators recognize one another, too. And the ghouls in the bar that day may not have known exactly what Lurine was, but they sure as hell recognized her as something bigger and badder and older than themselves.

“Hello, boys.” She took off her sunglasses. “So nice of you to see us. Is the boss in the house?”

Frozen, no one replied.

I nodded toward the back of the bar. “He’s probably lurking in the shadows. He likes to make an entrance.”

“He’s a show-off,” Cody agreed.

Lurine pursed her carmine lips. “So predictable.”

From the shadows came a low chuckle.

“I’m really not in control of this investigation, am I?” Detective Wilkes mused to himself. He blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”

Unexpectedly, the muttonchopped bartender banged an empty glass on the service bar. “Hey, Stefan!” he hollered. “Your fucking cops are fucking here again! Are you gonna talk to them or not?”

Raising her eyebrows a fraction, Lurine turned her gaze on the bartender.

He returned it impassively, mopping the bar with a dingy-looking rag. “What are you lookin’ at, Goldilocks?”

“I’m not sure.” Her tone was thoughtful.