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bartender, a towering Kymeran with wiry, ketchup red hair and a matching beard that hung halfway to his belly, nodded in greeting as Hexe steered me toward one of the booths.
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    “None other than the owner of this fine establishment. We went to school together.”
    As I looked around the comfortingly cramped interior of the Two-Headed Calf, it suddenly occurred to me that I was the only human in the pub. Everyone else was either a Kymeran or a member of some other supernatural race. All of them were socializing over whiskey, ale, and tobacco—lots and lots of tobacco.
    Since Kymerans can’t contract cancer, they tend to ignore the state and federal guidelines concerning smoking in public places, which makes them no different than Parisians, I suppose. Still, I was unprepared for the pall of secondhand smoke that hovered above the room. As I discreetly coughed into my fist, I noticed a couple of Kymerans glare in my direction.
    One thing I can say for sure is that Hooters’ waitstaff has nothing on that of the Two-Headed Calf. The barmaid who came to take our drink order was not only a dead ringer for a young Sophia Loren, she was dressed in the classic chiton of the ancient Greeks. The outline of her voluptuous body was clearly visible through the diaphanous material, save for the portion hidden by the leopard skin draped over her left shoulder.
    “Evening, Hexe. Drinks or dinner?” the maenad asked, plucking the pencil from the wreath of ivy and grapevine that adorned her dark head.
    “Evening, Chorea. Dinner. How long before a table opens up?”
    “Table?” I frowned, puzzled by the statement. “We’re already seated.”
    Chorea rolled her eyes in open contempt of my ignorance and pointed with her pencil at the wooden staircase at the back of the room and the arrow-shaped sign that read in big block letters DINING ROOM UPSTAIRS. Although she didn’t say “nump” out loud, I knew she was thinking it. My face turned as red as my cardigan.
    “Shouldn’t be more than a ten-minute wait,” Chorea said. “Fifteen, tops. How about a drink to pass the time?”
    “I’ll have a barley wine,” he said.
    The maenad nodded as she scribbled the order down on her pad, and then glanced at me. I thought about ordering a light beer, but changed my mind at the last moment. I didn’t want to come across as any more of a nump than I did already.
    “I’ll have the house red.”
    Chorea’s eyes lighted up, and she favored me with a smile that would have made a satyr blush. “ Excellent choice, ma’am.”
    As our waitress headed to the bar to place our drink order, I leaned across the booth and whispered, “Is she for real?”
    “As real as it gets,” Hexe assured me. “I’ve known her for some time. She’s a good person, when she’s sober. Hell of a mean drunk, though. Sadly, there aren’t many places Dionysian cultists feel comfortable nowadays, save for bars and strip clubs.”
    I looked up and was startled to find the bartender looming over us. He stood nearly seven feet tall and wore a pair of battered bib overalls and a plaid work shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled back to reveal swarms of tattoos on both arms. I don’t know if it was his personal scent, or a result of working in a restaurant, but he smelled of corn dogs, tobacco, and bananas Foster.
    “Thought I’d come over and say hello,” the bartender said as he placed our drinks down in front of us. “Who’s your friend?”
    “Tate, this is Lafo. Lafo, I’d like you to meet Tate,” Hexe said, nodding in my direction. “She’s my new tenant.”
    “Taking on a human lodger, eh?” The burly bartender lifted a bristly red eyebrow in surprise. “What does old Esau have to say about that?”
    A look of distaste flickered across Hexe’s handsome face. “I don’t give a shit what he says—even less for what he thinks.”
    “Always the diplomat!” Lafo said with a throaty laugh and a twinkle in his sapphire