“What is a ‘snake cult’?” asked Istas, stepping around the bank of lockers. Waheela can move very quietly when they want to; I hadn’t even realized she was there. “A species of religious serpents pulled the fire alarm?”

The look of honest puzzlement on her face was enough to make me crack a smile. “A snake cult is a bunch of idiots who think worshiping a snake god will get them unbelievable cosmic power, wealth beyond their wildest dreams, and all the chicks they could want.”

“Ah.” Istas nodded, opening her own locker. “Are they responsible for the ones who have gone missing?”

“Yeah, they are.” I picked up my backpack. “I’m hoping I can stop them before anybody else gets hurt, but it took a long time to figure out who they were.”

“I understand.” Istas’ street clothes kept up the Gothic Lolita look established by her pigtails: frilled faux-French maid’s uniform with pastel pink petticoats, white tights, even a pair of antique-looking buttonhole shoes. She dressed with admirable speed, navigating the various buttons and snaps with an ease that appeared to impress even Candy. “Will there be rending and destruction in the name of protecting the territory?”

“Probably.” I glanced to Candy. “You want to come with me? I’d like you to have a look at the bodies.”

“If I don’t go with you, Betty will have my head,” Candy replied. “I’m not working, thanks to you, so I need to be doing something with my time.”

“You are going to look at more bodies?” Istas frowned. “Were there insufficient bodies here?”

“Dead ones, Istas,” I said.

“Ah. I will accompany you, then.” She produced a ruffled lace parasol from her locker before swinging the door closed. She didn’t bother to lock it. No one in their right mind would steal from a waheela. “I would like to see some dead bodies. I find them pleasurable.”

Candy and I exchanged a look, for once united by our sheer bafflement. We know a lot about the biology and anatomy of the waheela. Their social behaviors, likes, and dislikes … not so much.

“Fine,” I said. “We could use you, in case the whole ‘rending and destruction’ thing comes up.”

Istas smiled.

The three of us finished getting ready just before the fire alarm stopped blaring. Dave probably shut it down to keep the fire department from showing up. The building was up to code as far as I knew, but the fire department in any given city is ninety percent human. The ten percent that aren’t human—salamanders and afrits and the like—tend to get a little pissed off when they get called out for false emergencies. Dave wouldn’t enjoy that, and he was too smart to risk it if he didn’t have to.

“Bodies now?” asked Istas.

“Let’s check the front of the club first,” I said. “Ryan’s supposed to be coming back after he gets Carol to a safe house, and I want to bring him along if he’s willing to come. More muscle for the, ah, rending and destruction.”

Istas looked pleased. Candy looked annoyed. Hanging out with a tanuki was probably beneath her dignity as a dragon princess. That, or she just didn’t like the number of coworkers she was suddenly hanging out with. Dragon princesses aren’t big on socializing outside their Nests, and the fact that I potentially had access to a male of her species was only going to buy me so much slack.

We stepped out into the main club, which looked even more like a deserted sideshow tent when there was no one in it. The British flags hanging from the walls were limp and listless without the air-conditioning to keep them moving, and the smells of sweat and alcohol were masked by a layer of hastily-applied bleach. Dave was closing for the night, if not for the week. That was a start.

“Ryan?” I moved toward the bar, craning my neck to search for signs of movement. “Hey, you back yet?”

No answer. Istas stiffened, a low growl rumbling from her throat before she said, “Something is not right here.”

“What?” I looked back at her.

She popped open her parasol, twirling it in agitation. “Something is not right here,” she repeated. Her canines were more pronounced than they’d been in the dressing room. “The bleach. This is not the brand Dave buys. This is cheaper, made to stink rather than clean. Everyone is gone. We should not be here.”

“Crap.” I turned. “Come on. Let’s get back to the dressing room.” From there, we’d have a clear shot on both the rooftop and cellar exits, in case Istas was right about something being wrong. Candy nodded quickly, and spun to power walk toward the hallway door.

The speed at which she was moving was the only thing that saved her. A servitor flowed out of the shadows surrounding one of the darkened stripper platforms, a lead pipe grasped firmly in its tail. Istas snarled, the sound conveying more shock than fear. Then the servitor’s tail lashed forward, the pipe catching her in the jaw, and the waheela went down in a crumpled, incongruously lacy heap.

Candy screamed. Eight more servitors flowed out of the shadows between the two of us, hissing through bared teeth. So much for making it to the corpses any time soon.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: so nine servitors, a dragon princess, a waheela, and a cranky ballroom dancer walk into a bar…

I started moving before the servitors could stop posturing and charge, running for the nearest stage as I shouted, “Candy! Tell them to stand down!”

Candy nodded and hissed out something in the sibilant language she’d used when we were in the sewers. The servitors ignored her, moving to form a sort of wedge before advancing toward me. She stomped her foot and tried again, louder, the note of command unmistakable in her voice. That got a reaction. The nearest of the servitors whipped around to face her, and snarled, tail lashing in her direction. Candy stepped quickly backward, eyes going wide in her suddenly-pale face.

“Okay, so that’s not going to work,” I muttered, and jumped up onto the stage, pulling a throwing knife from inside my shirt. I flung it at the lead servitor. It caught the knife with the tip of its tail and flung it back. I ducked, hearing the blade whistle over my head on its way to embed itself in the far wall. Oh, this was so not good.

The lead servitor leaped onto the table nearest the stage, grabbing a chair with its tail and whipping it twice over its head before launching it in my direction. I grabbed the pole and went into a one-woman deadfall, hooking an ankle around the pole’s base to keep from toppling off the stage. The chair hit the wall just below my throwing knife. The servitor hissed in frustration, and then again in pain when I lashed out with one foot, catching it squarely in the kneecap.