Read Club Dead for Free Online

these days. It was awfully hot upstairs in the summer, even with the window air conditioners.
    All my furniture was aged, styleless, and comfortable—absolutely conventional. The living room had couches and chairs and a television and a VCR, and then you passed through a hall that had my large bedroom with its own bath on one side, and a hall bathroom and my former bedroom and some closets—linen, coat—on the other. Through that passage, you were into the kitchen/dining area, which had been added on soon after my grandparents’ wedding. After the kitchen, there was a big roofed back porch, which I’d just had screened in. The porch housed a useful old bench, the washer and dryer, and a bunch of shelves.
    There was a ceiling fan in every room and a fly swatter, too, hung in a discreet spot on a tiny nail. Gran wouldn’t turn on the air conditioner unless she absolutely had to.
    Though they didn’t venture upstairs, no detail escaped Pam and Chow on the ground floor.
    By the time they settled at the old pine table where Stackhouses had eaten for a few generations, I felt like I lived in a museum that had just been cataloged. I opened the refrigerator and got out three bottles of TrueBlood, heated them up in the microwave, gave them a good shake, and plonked them down on the table in front of my guests.
    Chow was still practically a stranger to me. He’d been working at Fangtasia only a few months. I assume he’d bought into the bar, as the previous bartender had. Chow had amazing tattoos, the dark blue Asian kind that are so intricate, they are like a set of fancy clothes. These were so different from my attacker’s jailhouse decorations that it was hard to believe they were the same art form. I’d been told Chow’s were Yakuza tattoos, but I had never had the nerve to ask him, especially since it wasn’t exactly my business. However, if these were true Yakuza tats, Chow was not that old for a vampire. I’d looked up the Yakuza, and the tattooing was a (relatively) recent development in that criminal organization’s long history. Chow had long black hair (no surprise there), and I’d heard from many sources that he was a tremendous draw at Fangtasia. Most evenings, he worked shirtless. Tonight, as a concession to the cold, he was wearing a zipped red vest.
    I couldn’t help but wonder if he ever really felt naked; his body was so thoroughly decorated. I wished I could ask him, but of course that was out of the question. He was the only person of Asian descent I had ever met, and no matter how you know individuals don’t represent their whole race, you do kind of expect at least some of the generalizations to be valid. Chow did seem to have a strong sense of privacy. But far from being silent and inscrutable, he was chattering away with Pam, though in a language I couldn’t understand. And he smiled at me in a disconcerting way. Okay, maybe he was too far from inscrutable. He was probably insulting the hell out of me, and I was too dumb to know it.
    Pam was dressed, as always, in sort of middle-class anonymous clothes. This evening it was a pair of winter white knit pants and a blue sweater. Her blond hair was shining, straight and loose, down her back. She looked like Alice in Wonderland with fangs.
    “Have you found out anything else about Bill?” I asked, when they’d all had a swallow of their drinks.
    Eric said, “A little.”
    I folded my hands in my lap and waited.
    “I know Bill’s been kidnapped,” he said, and the room swam around my head for a second. I took a deep breath to make it stop.
    “Who by?” Grammar was the least of my worries.
    “We aren’t sure,” Chow told me. “The witnesses are not agreeing.” His English was accented, but very clear.
    “Let me at them,” I said. “If they’re human, I’ll find out.”
    “If they were under our dominion, that would be the logical thing to do,” Eric said agreeably. “But, unfortunately, they’re not.”
    Dominion, my foot.