“And not kill anybody,” Curran added.

“Or anything.”

“And not break things.”

“Because we don’t want a giant bill from the People.”

“Yes.” Curran’s face was grim. “I’m not giving them any of the Pack’s money.”

I nodded. “We’ll be good, we won’t have to pay any damages, and then we’ll come out and take a nice shower.”

“Wash the stench off. I can smell the bloodsuckers from here.”

“I can feel them from here.”

I could—the sparks of vampiric magic tugged on me from the white parapets.

“Thanks for doing this,” Curran said.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Get in, get out, don’t cause a giant war between the Pack and the People. Piece of cake.

We passed through the tall arched entrance guarded by two men with curved yataghan swords. The guards wore black and looked suitably menacing. They very carefully didn’t look at us.

Inside, a deluge of sound assaulted us: the noises of slot machines, refitted to work during magic, metal ringing, music, beeping, mixing with shouts from the crowd surrendering their hard-earned money for the promise of easy cash. Lemon-scented perfume drifted through the cold air—the People were keeping their customers awake, because the sleeping couldn’t gamble.

Curran wrinkled his nose.

“Almost there, baby,” I told him, zeroing in on the service entrance door at the far end of the vast room.

A large overweight man spun away from the machines and ran into Curran. “Hey! Watch it!”

Curran sidestepped him and we kept walking.

“Asshole!” the man barked at our backs.

“I love this place,” Curran said.

“It’s so serene and peaceful, and filled with considerate people. I thought you’d enjoy the ambiance.”

“I adore it.”

We passed through the service entrance. One of the journeymen, a man in black trousers, a black shirt, and a dark purple vest rose from behind the desk.

“How can I help you?”

“It’s alright, Stuart.” A woman descended the stairway on the side, walking into the room. She was five two and looked like an anatomical impossibility created from adolescent boys’ dreams. Tiny waist, generous hips, and an award-winning chest, wrapped in dusky silk. Her hair fell down past her butt in red wavy locks, and when she smiled at you, you had a strong urge to do whatever she asked. Her name was Rowena and she ran the People’s PR department and piloted the undead for a living.

She was also in debt to the witches, which in a roundabout way caused her to be in debt to me. If I asked a favor, she had to grant it, a fact we both carefully hid from everyone.

“Mr. Lennart. Ms. Daniels.” Rowena fired off a beautiful smile. “Lawrence is waiting for you upstairs. Follow me, please.”