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surly.
    “What’s this Kiki says about putting drinks on your tab? You ain’t got no damn tab,” said the bartender.
    Rick (No, that wasn’t his name. Had he told her his name?) looked up at the bartender and smiled. His smile was all light and warmth; Shadow leaned toward him involuntarily.
    “You didn’t recognize me, did you?” he said pleasantly. The bartender peered at him, confused. Then he laughed.
    “Jesus, what’s wrong with my eyes? Never mind! Can I get you another round?”
    “Yes,” said the guy.
    Shadow drank, but was no longer relaxed. She was shaking. Where was her self-control?
She didn’t need this guy.
But, she told herself, she could
use
him, couldn’t she? Of course she could. Samantha would be going all dewy-eyed and dreaming of a future right about now, but Shadow knew better than that. He was somebody, he was an actor or in a band or something, obviously. He must have money.
    If nothing else, she might talk him into walking her home. She could tell him about the vampire covens, and they’d have a good laugh.
    Her glass was empty. The music had stopped, the lights gone down; the DJ was taking a break. People at the tables around them seemed to be half asleep. When had she stopped talking?
    He closed his hand on hers and rose from his seat. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Shadow followed him outside. The night was dank, chilly, smelled tired. He led her along the Walk of Stars, under the glittering lights, and they turned up Orchid into the darkness. She looked around as they got to Franklin.
    “Where’s your car?” she stammered, suddenly wary.
    “We’re going back to your place, remember?” he said, sounding amused. “And watching out for vampires.”
    “Right,” she said, and now she remembered telling him, and felt so relieved she took his hand again and gave him a little-lost-girl look. “Vampires are scary.”
    He put his arm around her as they crossed Franklin. God, he was warm. Maybe he’d loan her enough money to get the Impala repaired. Maybe he’d move in with her. Maybe she’d move in with him. But she wouldn’t love him, because only the Samanthas of the world were stupid enough to do that. Shadows kept control, kept their distance.
    But she had to admit she wanted the strength of his big body, its heat, its hardness. Well, why not? It was there to be used. All the way up the hill and down the other side, she clung to him. Who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t come up with any excuse just to be with him?
    They were at her door. No vampires. She let him in.
    She switched on the light in the bathroom, which was a dim little bulb with a pink shade. In the half-light he peeled off his shirt, and she saw that his tattoos swirled up his arms and across his broad chest, coiling patterns like Chinese dragons. Nowhere stark white unsunned, even when he stepped out of his jeans. Nothing to repel her, nothing on which she could look in scorn. If Samantha had gone down on her knees and prayed for a lover, he’d look like this.
    But she was Shadow.
    She got up and skinned out of her clothes, summoning all her arrogance, and if he was repelled by her pallid skin or those five pounds she couldn’t shear off no matter how she starved herself, if he regretted being here, well, it was too damn late now. She gave him a push toward the bed.
    “Come on, stud,” she said. “Do you do anything else as nice as you dance?”
    She kept control, at first. She rode him, hard and careless, and he performed like a big, stolid horse. It was only when she collapsed on him, when he put his arms around her and rolled over onto her, that Samantha, dumb bitch, began crying and telling him how beautiful he was.
    She couldn’t get out of his arms. She was too weak to get out of his arms, even when the sheets blackened and the flames rose in a great burst, lighting up the room like sunrise. Unsmiling, he looked into her eyes. His muscles rippled, the dragons on his body went