Butch tipped his glass in deference. "Sometimes fate takes you in fucked-up directions."

"So true, human. So very true." As Butch's cell phone went off, the Reverend got up. "I'll send you over something."

"Unless it's Scotch I don't want it, my man."

"You're going to take that back."

"Doubt it." Butch took out his Motorola Razr and flipped it open. "What up, V? Where are you?"

Vishous was breathing like a racehorse with the dull roar of wind distortion backing him up: a symphony of ass hauling. "Shit, cop. We got problems."

Butch's adrenaline kicked in, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. "Where are you?"

"Out in the burbs with a situation. The damn slayers have started hunting civilians in their homes."

Butch leaped to his feet. "I'm coming—"

"The hell you are. You stay put. I only called so you wouldn't think we were dead when we didn't show. Later."

The connection cut off.

Butch sank back down in the booth. From the table next to him, a group of people let out a loud, happy burst, some shared joke teeing their laughter off like birds flushed into the open air.

Butch looked into his glass. Six months ago he'd had nothing in his life. No woman. No family he was close to. No home to speak of. And his job as a homicide detective had been eating him alive. Then he'd gotten canned for police brutality. Fallen in with the Brotherhood through a bizarre series of events. Met the one and only woman who'd ever awed him stupid. Also had a total wardrobe makeover.

At least that last one was in the good category and had stayed there.

For a while the change had been a great mask of reality, but lately he'd noticed that for all the differences, he was right where he'd always been: no more alive than when he'd been rotting in his old life. Still on the outside looking in.

Sucking back his Lag, he thought of Marissa and pictured her hip-length blond hair. Her pale skin. Her light blue eyes. Her fangs.