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looked inward for a definition. “They are a class of Humans who...serve us.”
    “Serve? Like maids or something?”
    Bronwyn’s laugh clashed with the music thumping in the main part of the club.
    Fiona didn’t hide her amusement as she sipped her wine. “No. Perhaps ‘serve’ was the incorrect word. Kizarusi offer us the ultimate gift so that we may continue life.” She raised an eyebrow. “You must have been quite young when your parents passed the veil, little lamma. You don’t even know the most basic of words of your native tongue.”
    Whiskey blinked. The mention of her parents’ death hurt; it always did, some years more than others. This had been a bad year. She drained her glass without thought. The unfamiliar alcohol burned hot down her throat. She barely controlled the urge to wheeze, and slammed the shot glass onto the table to cover the unexpected physical response. “Native tongue? What are you talking about?” She glared about the table, pleased her voice didn’t sound too rough.
    “Surely you’ve known you were different from others, Whiskey.” Setting her wineglass down, Fiona leaned forward. “Known that you were alone when surrounded by your alleged peers, felt a burning need as a child for something unimaginable?”
    Cora poured another shot, and handed the glass to her. Whiskey sipped it this time. “Everybody feels that.” It still burned, though the sensation rapidly became familiar. “Everybody thinks they’re special, more important or different from the rest of the assholes around them.”
    “But you are, Ninsumgal, ” Cora whispered, leaning forward to kiss Whiskey’s forehead.
    “Bullshit.” Manuel stood, and downed the rest of his beer. “She’s no more Ninsumgal than I am usumgal. ” He thrust a chin toward the curtain separating them from the dance floor. Bronwyn slid to her feet, and the pair walked out in a rattle of metal chain.
    “How did—?” Whiskey turned to Cora. “How did he hear you over the music?”
    “We all heard her, little lamma, ” Fiona answered. “We’re Sanguire as, I believe, are you.”
    Whiskey shivered. Of all the strange words these people bandied about, this one meant something to her. “Sanguire.” She’d heard it before, said it before, but couldn’t remember where or when. “Sanguire.”
    “You recognize it?”
    Sensing danger, Whiskey finished her drink. “Tell me more about kizarusi. They give the ultimate gift? What gift?”
    Fiona smiled. “Their blood. None of us can live without it.”
    They do think they’re vampires. “So, kizsarusi are...your victims?”
    Cora laughed, wrapping an arm around Whiskey’s neck to hug her. “No, silly! Most kizarusi are from well-established Human families who have served us for generations.”
    Whiskey did her best not to flinch away from the blonde. She searched through her memories of horror flicks she’d watched over the years. Almost all vampires had a human caretaker during the daylight hours, someone who’d been driven mad and protected their masters and mistresses with rabid devotion. “Like...Renfield?”
    Fiona sneered. “Hardly, dear Whiskey.” She took a sip of her wine.
    Daniel decided to join the discussion. “You read too many trashy vampire novels, youngling.”
    Whiskey took his comment as an invitation. “What did you inject me with last night?” She shifted in her chair, automatically grasping Cora’s waist to keep her from toppling from her perch. “It didn’t just look like blood, it was blood, wasn’t it?”
    “Very astute,” Fiona said.
    A wave of light-headedness swept over Whiskey. “You gave me your blood! You’re trying to turn me into a vampire!” What if one of them has AIDS or something?
    “I rest my case.” Daniel snorted. “It doesn’t work that way, Whiskey. You either are or aren’t Sanguire. No blood transfusion can make a Human into a Sanguire.” He took a swallow of beer.
    “Drink, Ninsumgal .” Cora refilled