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She was hanging all over a guy that had to be thirty years or more her senior. His hair and ragged beard were gray. At first glance you’d think he was fat, but he was fat the way an offensive lineman was fat, flesh with muscle under it. His eyes were hidden behind small round sunglasses, even though the bar was cast in permanent twilight. He sat at the table closest to the door, big hands resting on the wood. He was totally at rest, but you still got a sense of how very large he was, how physically imposing. The girl was slender and shorter than I was. I hoped she was his daughter, but doubted it.

He stood, and a wave of energy moved off of him in a curling, almost visible roil of power. It was suddenly hard to breathe, and it wasn’t the cigarette smoke rolling like a low fog through the room. I’d come in expecting to meet a necromancer. I had not expected a werewolf. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure of the type of animal, but call it a hunch—los lobos—had to be werewolves.

I looked out over that room full of people, and felt their power raise like invisible hackles. Bernardo put his right hand on my shoulder and drew me towards the bar, slowly. It took almost all the restraint I had not to reach for one of the guns. They had not offered us violence. They probably always did this show to unwanted tourists. Almost anyone would get the message and leave. Leaving actually sounded like a really good idea. Unfortunately, we had business, and a really good threat display was not reason enough to stop us. Pity. Because they would not like the fact that we didn’t leave. What if this afternoon’s little display wasn’t the norm? What if they were trying to chase us away because something illegal was going down? Worse and worse.

The long wooden bar had cleared out as we moved towards it. Fine with me. I didn’t want to be outflanked. The bartender was a woman, surprise, and a dwarf, ah, little person. I couldn’t see over the bar, but she had to have something she was standing on. She had short, thick hair, dark, shot through with strands of white. Her face was the typical rough square, but her eyes were as hard as any I’ve ever seen. Her face was heavily lined not with age, but with wear and tear. One eyebrow was bisected by a heavy white scar. All she needed was a sign above her head that said, “I’ve had a hard life.”

“What do you want?” she asked. Her tone matched the rest of her, harsh.

I half expected Bernardo to answer, but his attention was all for the room and the growing air of hostility. “We’re looking for Nicky Baco,” I said.

Her eyes never flickered. “Never heard of him.”

I shook my head. Her answer had been automatic. She didn’t even have to think about it. I could have asked to see anyone in the room and the answer would have been the same. I lowered my voice, though I knew most of the things in the room would hear even the barest whisper. “I’m a necromancer. I heard that Baco is one, too. I’ve met a lot of zombie raisers, but never another necromancer.”

She shook her head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She started to rub the top of the bar with a stained rag. She wasn’t even looking at me now, as if I’d become something totally without interest.

They’d stall for a while, then they’d get impatient and try to kick us out. Unless we were willing to start shooting people, they’d succeed. When in doubt, tell the truth. Not my usual ploy, but hey, I’ll try anything once.

“I’m Anita Blake,” and that was all I got out before her gaze snapped upward, and she really looked at me for the first time.

“Prove it,” she said.

I started to reach inside the jacket for my ID. I heard the gun click underneath the bar, as she pulled the hammer back. Just from the sound I’d say it was an old-fashioned shotgun, sawed off or it wouldn’t have fit under the bar.

“Slowly,” she said.

I caught Bernardo’s movement out of the corner of my eye. Turning towards us, maybe going for a gun. “It’s okay, Bernardo. It’s under control.”

I don’t think he