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but imps and demons and lamia and … whatever the heck the ass monkey in the tribal cloth turned out to be?
    Okay, so she could have lived without making his acquaintance, but up until that moment she’d been having a blast. She’d seen things she’d never even imagined before. How was it she could have lived for half of her life in this city and never had a clue about what was really going on around her? How had she missed all this before? It boggled her mind, but it also made her vow that from now on, she wouldn’t let herself miss a thing. Fate had presented her with this opportunity, and she intended to take these lessons from the imp and run with them. After all, where else would she get the opportunity to find a guide to the world of the Others? Somehow, she thought her sister might find herself a bit preoccupied for the next little while.
    Remembering Danice—and, by extension, Mac—brought Daphanie back to the moment, annoying, insulting, arrogant prick and all. She needed to keep in mind that this wasn’t her world, but it was her sister’s. Danice might not know this jerk personally, but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t hear about it if Daphanie really lost control and did something stupid.
    Daphanie repeated that to herself as she worked to unclench her fingers from her glass of red wine. She was the outsider, the guest in this place. It was up to her to be the bigger person, stop poking the jerk in the chest, and walk away with dignity and grace.
    She could do it.
    “You presume to lay a hand on me! Filthy little whore! A curse on you!”
    The deep-throated fury of the words reverberated through the room, echoing off the walls and ceiling as if they had been designed especially for their properties of acoustical amplification. Even the floor seemed to tremble slightly beneath Daphanie’s feet. A tiny little corner of her mind wondered idly if the glass in the entry doors had shattered from the vibration, but she couldn’t look to check. It would have been impossible to see through the thick, red fog clouding her vision.
    What had he called her?
    Whore
    Whore
    Whore
    WHAT had he called her?
    Daphanie watched, with curious detachment, as her left arm snaked out of its own volition. She never commanded it to move. She never intended for it to shift from its position at her waist, elbow bent and wrist relaxed. And she certainly never meant for the glass of red wine dangling from her hand to arc upward in slow motion, or for its contents to splash vividly and wetly directly into the big man’s face.
    Nope, that had not been part of her plan.
    But neither did she have any control over the warm surge of triumphant satisfaction that flowed within her as she watched the cabernet impact its target’s puffed-up cheeks, pretentious goatee, and bulbous nose. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have repressed the happy glow her independently minded arm and an indifferent vintage had caused.
    Not that she wanted to.
    And now there was nothing left to say.
    Calmly, Daphanie set her wine glass down beside the abandoned dregs of the root beer and turned to go.
    If the last bellow had caused the floor to vibrate, this one should have buckled the structure’s support beams. It probably registered somewhere on the Richter scale, yet Daphanie didn’t care. She set her sights on the exit across the room, intent on leaving with whatever calm she still possessed.
    “ SOSA! Get her!”
    A rush of movement behind her caused Daphanie to snap her head around just in time to see one of her enemy’s minions reaching for her with grasping hands and blank eyes that flared just briefly with malicious excitement. She lifted an arm to ward him off and opened her mouth to yell … something, but his hand snaked out beneath her guard, surprisingly swift and accurate, to grab the hem of her top.
    Daphanie jerked away, hearing the sound of fabric ripping. Cursing, she looked down, expecting to see herself nude from the