Shifters sat at the tables, talking quietly, drinking beer, playing cards, and sending us distrustful looks as we walked across the room. We’d worked hard to make allies of the North American Central Pack. Yes, the shifters were in mourning and entitled to their feelings. I just wished they hadn’t been so negatively directed at us.

Chin up, Ethan soothed as we made our way to the bar, where a short woman with bottle-bleached hair flipped through a magazine.

She looked up, gave us a once-over, and slapped the cover of the magazine closed with a powerful thwack that made some of the shifters sit up and take notice.

Steady, Sentinel, Ethan said.

I could be steady; I was trained for it. I just didn’t want to be on the outs with Berna. She was pushy, abrasive, nosy, and had a wonderful hand at grilled meats. I liked her a lot.

“What is this?” she asked, in a voice heavily accented with Eastern Europe. Her eyebrows, slender drawn-on arches, were furrowed with irritation.

“Gabriel asked us to come by,” Ethan said.

But Berna dismissed the sentiment with a swat of her hand. “No. This.” She pointed an arthritic finger back and forth at us. “You must be marry.”

“We must be merry?” Ethan asked, obviously confused.

But I understood exactly what she meant.

“We aren’t Twilight, Berna.” She had a thing for the books, and seemed to think—or maybe hope—that Chicago’s vampires had something in common with the fictional ones.

She made a pfffing sound. “Vampires. Sparkle. If you are in love, you marry. This is life. This is way.”

“Ah,” Ethan said, his lips spreading with amusement. “I do intend to make an honest woman of her.”

Berna snorted, held out a hand, waggled her fingers. I put my hand in hers, thinking she meant to check me for a ring, proof of Ethan’s promise. Instead she flipped my hand over, traced a cracked and calloused thumb over my palm as she inspected it like a jeweler checking for flaws.

“Good line of life. Good line of love. There is no problem here.” She turned my hand over again, patted it with affection. “You are good girl. Skinny, but good girl.”

“She was a dancer, you know.”

Berna looked over at Ethan, her eyebrows arching so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. “Oh?”

“She danced ballet for many years.”

Berna looked me up and down, seemed to reach a new kind of acceptance of my frame. Not that I needed Berna’s approval—my body was my body—but at least I wouldn’t have to hear about it anymore.

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “You know Bronislava Nijinska?”

I smiled. “I do. I’ve seen video of her dancing. She was very beautiful.”

“She is epitome of beauty. That is the word? Epitome?”

“That’s the word,” I agreed with a smile.

“Good. She is this.” Her measuring stick reconfigured, she looked me up and down. “You still dance.”

“Informally,” I said. “I train, and sometimes that means dancing.”

“Mmm-hmm. I know teacher.”

“I don’t need a teacher.”

She just lifted her sketched-on eyebrows. Berna wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer.

“Vampires don’t have time for ballet,” I insisted.

“Vampires immortal. Vampires have time for all things, including dance.”

She’s got you there, Ethan said. I’d love to watch you dance again.

There is not enough money in the world to get me into toe shoes, I decided. I’d tortured my feet enough. Not that taking bullets was much of an improvement.

Clearly disappointed, Berna pointed to the padded leather door that led to the bar’s back room. “Gabriel in back. You can go,” she said, without so much as an offer of cabbage rolls or stewed meats.

I didn’t want Berna angry at me. “I could probably practice more,” I said, a peace offering.

She nodded. “Good. You practice, and we will talk.”

That would have to do for now.

• • •

Little Red’s back room was small but surprisingly cheery. There was a retro table that seated four, mismatched chairs on top of more warped linoleum, and old movie posters on the walls. Gabriel sat at the table with Fallon and a couple of male shifters I hadn’t seen before. One had sunburned skin, bleached hair. The other had dark skin and straight, dark hair that was slicked back on top, shaved on the sides.

Gabriel looked at us, nodded. The other shifters must have taken that as their cue to exit, as they rose and disappeared into the bar.

“What’s in the bag?” Gabriel asked.

Ethan slipped out the bottle, passed it over.

“GlenDronach,” Gabe said, in what sounded to my ear like a pretty good Gaelic accent.

Ethan nodded. “A token in sympathy of Caleb Franklin’s death.”

“Thank you. We’ll toast him with this.”

Ethan inclined his head.

“You two hungry?”

Ethan glanced at me.

“Oh, that’s a joke that never gets old,” I said. In fact, my metabolism was a diesel engine; it rarely stopped running. But even I didn’t think it was wise to pile rich Eastern European fare atop spicy Thai.

“No, thank you.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well. Not an answer I’d have ever expected from you.” He wiggled the bottle. “In that unusual case, how about a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” Ethan said.

“Me, neither,” I said.

Gabriel nodded, rose. There was a small refrigerator in a corner of the room beside a skinny rattan cabinet. Gabriel pulled out three glasses and brought them back, then poured a finger of GlenDronach for each of us.

“You find Franklin’s house?” Gabe asked.

“We did,” Ethan said, accepting the glass with a nod. “No one was there, and there weren’t many personal effects as far as we could tell. A few pieces of furniture, probably came with the house, a few articles of clothing. No vehicle, no paper. Plenty of food in the fridge and freezer, so he was definitely staying there. We didn’t find anything that indicated why he’d ended up dead.”

All that was entirely correct, if not the entire truth. Ethan didn’t mention the cashbox we’d found or the key. He must have had a reason for the omission, even if he hadn’t shared it with me.