Coalshack threw on his bulky trench coat, from which he could surreptitiously aim the deadly stake-thrower. But when Nuts tried to pick up the finder, she found that Katske had already taken the device out of its cradle, nestling it like an infant in the crook of one arm, under a fold of his dark brown cape. She flared a deep red flush of hurt feelings, then turned to glare at me, for the crime of noticing.

Hey, is it my fault demmies can’t hide their emotions? Are humans “dispassionate and cool,” just because we don’t express every impulse or passion? Our demmie friends pity us for this! But I was a teenager, once. And if you offered to keep me in that condition, for life?

I’d rather wear a shirt made of Denebian hair moles!

We departed Katske’s hidden lab, passed through the vacant statuary hall, and emerged into the casino’s crowded lobby. If anything, the crowds were even thicker, forcing us to weave our way, almost by ozmosis, between lycans, and vampires and werewolves. Oh my. Every creeped-out instinct told my nervous body to flee. But staying calm seemed the best policy in this “truce zone” – a special place, where elite, vampire owners had a monopoly on predation. Draining wallets instead of arteries. Proving, once again, that there are many kinds of “sucker.” And that all gambling is in vein.

We gave way for a dozen haughty draculoids, gliding by in single file. Several sniffed audibly as they passed our little group, evidently picking up the scent of living blood. But only one of them turned to give Nuts a brief, drooling leer.

Which made me wonder… if truce zone rules held so well in one place, why not others? According to those exhibits in the hallway, there had once been hope for some kind of modus vivendi. Some way to co-exist. People of all kinds had tried. Ingenuity and goodwill, versus the suspicion and hate. It must have been a very close-run thing… which made the final outcome as tragic as hell.

As my mind wandered, I collided with an oversized figure, dressed in a fur coat that stank to high heaven. A hand the size of a beer stein grabbed the collar of my native blouse and lifted me… high enough to realize that the fur wasn’t a garment, after all. And the worst part of the smell came from a mouth filled with tusks.

“Watch who you bump into, luncheon meat,” growled a voice like gravel in a gearbox. Two pale blue – if bloodshot – eyes blinked at me a couple of times, before registering dim recognition. “Hey! You look familiar, for a small fry.”

“He… hello Lorg,” I managed to croak.

A couple more blinks, then a deep chortle. “Aren’t you that guy who tried to sing his way out of being dinner?”

“Yeah… well… I’m still here. So it worked.”