The King(13)

Trez rubbed his face. “I’ll go deal with him. What’s he look like?”

“White boy, black clothes, Keith Richards hair.”

“That narrows it down,” Trez muttered.

“You’ll see him out front. He’s not in line.”

Trez nodded and cut around the thick of the crowd, heading for the door. On his way, he looked over all the people, unconsciously searching for signs of conflict that could escalate from posturing bullshit to bowling-alley knockdown.

Even Goths could be frat boys if you pumped enough alchie into them.

Halfway to the exit, he caught a flash of something metallic off to the right, but as he stopped and reached out with senses other than his eyes, he couldn’t find anything. Resuming his stride, he pushed his way out of his club, nodded to Ivan and the new guy, who were manning the entrance, and took a wander down the wait line, which was full of the usual suspects.

Although not the Kevin Spacey kind, of course. And more’s the pity—he loved the guy in that movie.

No one out on the sidewalk fit B.R.’s description.

Guess whoever it was went for a wander.

As Trez pivoted to head back for the door, he got hit in the face with the beams of a trolling car, and the sting made him pull a vampire and shy away from the light. Blinking to clear his vision, he somehow made it to the front of the line and—

“What the fuck—he doesn’t belong here! Why’re you letting him in!”

As Trez realized he was the subject up for discussion, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. The mouthpiece with the attitude was about five-ten, one hundred and fifteen pounds—and not a girl. Clearly, motherfucker suffered from terrier syndrome, his beady little eyes all fired up as he glared at Trez, his Stampy McStampy drill making him breathe heavy.

Probably played a lot of World of Warcraft or whatever it was—and that made him forget that if you were going to be a bigoted big-mouth, you’d better be able to back shit up.

Trez leaned down to the guy and gave him a moment to soak up the size difference—and what do you know, bitch’s mouth closed and stayed that way.

“I own this place,” Trez said in a low voice. “So the question is, why the fuck should I let you in.” He glanced at Ivan. “He’s not welcome here. Ever.”

There was some conversating at that point, but he was done. As a Shadow, he was used to being stared at—regular vampires didn’t know what to do with his kind, and frankly, he didn’t really care for them, either. In fact, he’d been brought up to believe that the two shouldn’t mix—at least until Rehvenge had stepped up to the plate and helped him and his brother in their exile. At first he’d been distrustful of the guy—until he’d recognized that Rehv was as they were: a foreigner in a closed club of folks he didn’t respect.

Oh, and as for the human world? Everyone assumed he was black and attached their own racial associations, good and bad, to that—but there was the irony. He was neither “African” nor “American,” so none of that shit applied to him in spite of the fact that his skin happened to be dark.

That was humans for you, though—self-absorbed to the point where they just had to see themselves in all situations. Meanwhile, there were whole other species walking among them, and they were none the wiser.

Although … that being said … if some misguided dumb-ass tried to pull the racial shit with him at his own front door? Then the idiot could fuck off.

Back inside the club, the strobe lights and the noise hit him like a brick wall and he had to force himself to break through the resistance. The flashes were just way too bright and the sound was worse, ricocheting around the inside of his skull until whatever was playing became an unintelligible mess.

What the hell was his staff thinking? Who’d made the call to crank it up so high—

Oh … shit.

Rubbing his eyes, he blinked a couple of times and … yup, there it was, in the right quadrant: a lineup of jagged lines that shimmered like sunlight through blown glass.

“Fuck me…”

Courtesy of the sex sesh in the bathroom, the blonde had gotten herself a new hardwiring job—and he was about to enjoy eight to ten hours of barfing, diarrhea, and searing head pain.

As all migraine sufferers did, he glanced at his watch. He had about twenty minutes before the fun and games started, and he couldn’t afford to waste them.

Walking faster, he pushed his way through the bodies, nodding to the working girls and his security team like everything was fine. Then he went into the staff-only back of the house, hit his office for his leather jacket and his keys, and exited stage left into the parking lot. His BMW was waiting for him, and as he got in, yanked the seat belt across his chest and hit the gas, he wished like hell he still lived at the Commodore—because then he could have had one of his bouncers do the driving.