I crossed my legs and pointed my toe, an old trick that called attention to my (if I do say so myself—there weresome advantages to being a six-foot-tall dork) good legs. "Thanks," I said.

"I have something for you," Nineteen Seventies said, reaching under the table, and coming back up with—ugh—a muzzled toy poodle. It was wriggling like a worm on a hot sidewalk and making little burbling noises around the muzzle.

"Get that away from me," I almost yelled. I wasn't a dog person. I especially wasn't a fan of dogs that only weighed as much as a well-fed lab rat.

Nineteen Seventies enfolded the curly, trembling creature into his bony arms. "I thought you liked dogs," he said, sounding wounded.

"They like me," I retorted. Another unholy power—dogs followed me everywhere, slobbering and yelping. Cats ignored me. (Cats ignore everybody, even the undead. There's something Egyptian in all of that.) "I don't like them. Will you put that thing back in your pocket?"

"Sorry. I thought—I mean, I came here with a boon because—"

"A boon? Like a present? I don't want any presents. Or boon. Consider me boonless. She Without Boon. And if Idid want a boon—which I don't—I'd rather have some Jimmy Choos."

He nodded to someone else at the bar, a short brunette with disturbingly rosy cheeks, and she rose, came over, got Sir Yaps a Lot, and discreetly vanished into a back room somewhere.

"Jeepers," Nineteen Seventies said. "I guess I messed it up all the way around."

"Messedwhat up?"

"Well…" He stroked his mustache, a loathsome habit I had no intention of sticking around long enough to break him of. "Everybody says that if I'm in town, this is the place I have to come. And that it's best to, you know, spend a lot of money here and all that."

"Oh." Who was "everybody"? The all-vampire newsletter one of the local undead librarians put out? Street gossip? My mother? What? "Well…"

This was my chance to say, don't sweat it, my good man. I'm just an ordinary gal, not a dictator-for-life asshole like Nostro was. You don't have to do anything—just try to keep your nose clean. You certainly don't have to come to my bar. But thanks anyway.

"Drink up," is what Idid say, and sure, I felt a little crummy about it, but hey, everybody's got to make a living.

Chapter 7

I groaned when I pulled into my driveway. It wasn't even nine o'clock and the whole evening was crumbling apart. I hated how things had gone with Sophie—and what was I going to do if she disobeyed me? "Disobeyed," ha! Even the word was silly. Everybody said I was the queen, but in my head, I was still Betsy Taylor, shoe fashionista and part-time temp worker. It had been almost a year since the Aztek had creamed me, but it still felt like about two days.

Meanwhile, there was a Ford Escort in my driveway, one that smelled like chocolate. Detective Nick Berry, Jessica's new boyfriend.

Marc's beat-up Stratus was parked next to it. Lucky Marc, he'd missed all the excitement the night before, but it looked like he was on days again for a while.

And a rental car—a Cadillac, no less. The Europeans were back.

It took a long moment for me to open the door of my car. I damn near put the engine in reverse and got the hell out of there.

In the end, I got out and trudged into the mansion. Where was I supposed to go, anyway? This was home.

I zeroed in on the conversation—the third parlor, the one that took up a good chunk of the first floor. I could hear Marc squawking like a surprised goose: "Whaaaaa?"

I hurried down the dimly lit hallway.

"You guyssaw Dorothy Dandridge?" he was saying as I entered the parlor.

He was delighted and surprised, jumping up on the couch cushions like

Tom Cruise with a boner. "You saw her live, on stage?"

"Yes, on a visit to New York City." Alonzo was watching Marc like an amused cat. He was sleek and cool in a black suit, black shirt, black socks and shoes. I didn't know the brand—men's shoes all look the same to me.

His were spotless and polished to a high gloss, the bows in the laces perfectly tied. "She was wonderful—a joy."

"It was the last time I saw you," Sinclair commented, "before last year." He was more casually dressed—an open-throated shirt, dark slacks. Shoeless and sockless. This was a message, I knew, one for Alonzo:I'm not worried enough about you to dress up .

"Correct, Majesty," Tina said courteously. "We left for the West Coast right after."