I pushed the guy who stepped forward out of my way.

“Hey!” he said, puffing up like a blowfish.

“Fuck off,” I said without looking at him.

“Now, listen,” I said to the bouncer, who sighed heavily. “I’m going in. You can try to stop me, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He laughed and flexed a bicep. “Bring it.”

When I moved forward, his hand shot out and grabbed my left arm. With a quick twist toward his thumb, I extricated myself from his hold. Crushing his metatarsals crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to make more of a scene than necessary. I kept walking, only to have him grab me around the waist from behind. He lifted my feet off the ground and hugged me hard to his body.

So much for avoiding a scene.

“You like it rough, huh?” he whispered in my ear. I was about to show him just how rough I liked it when Ewan appeared.

“Put her down, Tank,” he ordered.

“She ain’t got no ID, boss.”

“It’s all right,” Ewan said.

“But, you said—”

“I said, put her down!”

As soon as my feet hit the floor, I spun around, ready to throw down. Before I could swing, Ewan grabbed my hand and pulled me roughly toward him.

“Stop,” he said. “Or I’ll personally kick your ass to the curb.”

Our stare-off lasted only a few moments. Tension hung over us like a cloud, as the rest of the people in line held their collective breath. In the end, though, I knew my anger had nothing to do with the bouncer. Fighting him wouldn’t erase the last two hours of my life. Taking a deep breath, I stood down and settled for glaring over Ewan’s shoulder at the Neanderthal. Ewan placated Tank and sent him back to the door. With a jerk of his head, he indicated I should follow him to the back.

The place was wall-to-wall mortals. Many were crowded on the small dance floor in front of the stage, but the area around the bar was equally packed as people fought for the bartenders’ attention. On the stage, an all-girl punk group thrashed their instruments. They sounded like a bunch of cats in heat. Above the stage, small lights spelled out “Salvation.”

The whole scene felt claustrophobic. The smog of cigarette smoke mixed with the scent of sweat and stale beer, not to mention the overpowering aroma of blood pumping through all those mortal bodies.

As we passed, the women’s bathroom door opened. Two bleached blondes in miniskirts were snorting lines of coke from the counter. Their blood would offer an amazing high were I to feed from them. But I knew better than to go there. First, Ewan would kill me if I sucked on his customers. Second, while the occasional pothead was a harmless snack, making meals out of drug addicts was bad news. Others before me had found the secondhand high too hard to resist, only to find themselves junkies for eternity.

Another bouncer stood about ten feet past the restrooms. This one was smaller than the guy out front, but far deadlier. Sebastian’s auburn hair was shaved on the sides and rose into a Mohawk in the center. He had a bullring in his nose and a dragon half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm.

“What’s up, Sabina?” he said over the heads of the mortal couple he’d been talking to.

“Hey!” The woman swayed as she spoke. I wasn’t sure if it was her massive silicone tits throwing off her balance or if too much alcohol was to blame. “We were here first.”

“I already told you to get lost,” Sebastian said calmly.

“There a problem?” Ewan stepped forward.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” the drunk chick’s boyfriend said. He was a muscle-bound Hollywood type, probably an actor. Silverlake’s alternative rock scene didn’t usually draw his kind. Perhaps he felt hanging out there made him edgy. “He won’t let us into the VIP lounge.”

Ewan played it cool, looking back at Sebastian. “Are their names on the list?”

Sebastian didn’t miss a beat. “No, sir.”

“But he isn’t holding a list,” the girl whined.

The guy stepped in front of her and puffed up. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Yes, sir, I’m a big fan,” Ewan said. “Unfortunately, there’s a private party tonight.”

“This is ridiculous,” the guy said.

Ewan put a hand on the guy’s shoulder and deftly maneuvered him back in the direction of the bar. Over his shoulder he mouthed, “I’ll be back.” As they moved away, I heard him promise the couple drinks on the house.

“Is my name on the list?” I teased Sebastian.

“What list?” he said, deadpan. “Go on back.”

I walked through the door marked “private,” which opened onto a dark staircase. As I descended the steps, the sounds of the club upstairs became muted, almost as if I’d ducked my head below water. At the bottom, I knocked on another door. A small panel opened and two eyes squinted at me through the slit. A bright beam from overhead illuminated me like an inquisitor’s light.

“Password?”

“Fuck you.”

“Very funny,” said Dirk, another bouncer. “You know I can’t let you in without the password, Sabina.”

“Come on, Dirk,”

“Sorry, babe. Gotta say the words.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “Count Chocula.” One of these days I was going to have to tell Ewan his sense of humor sucked.

“Atta girl,” Dirk said. The panel closed and the sound of several locks clicking open filled the small space. Dirk closed the door behind me.

This room held a coat rack and a stool for Dirk. Yet another door waited ahead. I understood the need for security. Ewan had had problems in the past with mortals stumbling into the vampire-only section of the club, but it was a pain in the ass jumping through all these hoops.

“Hey, babe.” Dirk smiled flirtatiously.

“What’s up?” I said, not really caring.

“Oh you know, this and that.” He unlocked the next door as he spoke. Pulling it open with a flourish, he motioned for me to go on in.

In comparison to the mortal area, the vamp section was relatively mellow. No flashing lights or strobes interrupted the darkness. The only light came from strategically placed candles, which sat in recessed shelves all over the exposed-brick walls and on the tables. The only other light was from the sign over the bar. This one read “Damnation.”

Here and there, vamps lounged on purple velvet settees, smoking blood from long hoses attached to red-and-gold hookahs. Some used simple tobacco blends, which added a spicy scent to the air. Others sprinkled a little opium into the mix. The sweet smoke mixed with the ferric aroma of blood to create an intoxicating perfume.

A few familiar faces turned in my direction as I made my way to the bar. It was only ten o’clock, so the crowd was light. Soon enough, other vamps would filter in, their cheeks ruddy from recent feedings.

I leaned on the mahogany bar and waved to Ivan, the bartender. He strolled over with a grin on his freckled face. His hair, the color of rust, was pulled into a ponytail that hung down his back. A small golden hoop twinkled from his left ear.

“What’ll it be, Sabina?”

“I’ll take a pint of O-neg with a vodka chaser.”

Ivan raised his eyebrows. “Tough night?”

“Just get the drinks.” I was being a bitch, and I knew it. Maybe a few drinks would dilute the acid gnawing at my gut.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a mocking salute.

As I waited, I scanned the bar again, tapping my fingers in time with the rhythmic drums of Godsmack’s “Voodoo.” A guy at the end of the bar caught my eye, not because he was trying to be noticed, but because he was trying so hard not to be. His head was down and he wore dark sunglasses. His black leather jacket hung on wide shoulders, which hunched over his drink. But the thing that really got my attention was his hair.

All vampires have red hair—ranging from the young strawberry blondes to the ancient mahogany reds. The darker the shade, the older the vamp. My own hair, since I was half vampire and half mage, was a streaky combination of bright red and black. We owed this telltale sign to Cain, whom God had marked with a shock of red hair after the infamous murder of Abel. After he was cast out, he met up with Lilith, who’d left Eden after she grew bored with Adam. Cain’s affair with Lilith resulted in the creation of the vampire race. We got our blood thirst and immortality from Lilith, and our inability to go into the sun and our red hair from Cain. No amount of plant dye or salon work can disguise the Mark of Cain. Like a scar, it’s the ultimate proof of our lineage. Luckily, since so many humans also have red hair, it’s easy to blend in. Little do those humans know, their own red shades indicate some link to the vampire bloodline in their ancestry.

The guy at the end of the bar had dirty blond hair—not a streak of red to be found. He could be a mortal, I mused, but Ewan never let “worm food” in this part of the club. That left only one option: a mage. And a brave one at that, if he came to the vampire club alone.

As I was thinking this, he looked up. I couldn’t see his eyes through the dark glasses, but it was obvious he was looking at me, too. A brief but intense jolt of déjà vu passed along my spine before he looked away.

What the hell? I started to move in his direction, but Ewan intercepted me.

“Freaking actors.” He signaled to Ivan and then leaned next to me at the bar. “I had to give him a bottle of Cristal to shut him up.”

“You should have kicked his ass out,” I said. My gaze strayed back to the mage. He’d turned his head to watch a pair of female vamps on a divan. Red smoke escaped from between their lips as they kissed, sharing a hit from the hookah at their feet.

Ewan sighed beside me, drawing my attention from the Sapphic display. “Believe it or not, I don’t like to alienate my mortal clientele.”

“Sell out.”

“Mortals are good tippers,” he said. “Unlike some immortals I know.”