Most of them wandered right back out, never consciously realizing why they felt so uncomfortable. It led to the occasional nasty online review grumbling about the “unwelcoming” atmosphere, but that just made things all the better for the regular clientele.
I’d come there a lot after Jenny dragged me out to Salem. But I’d messed things up as usual, and it was going on fifteen years since I’d last set foot in this noisy, cramped, beer-and-pickles-smelling place.
A young man with too-perfect teeth waved from behind the bar. “Have a seat wherever. You can use the QR code on the table to order.”
I glanced at the nearest booth and the black-and-white square taped to the center of the dinged-up wooden table. QR code menus. That was new. It looked like the mutant offspring of incestuous bar codes. I hated it.
Strong arms enveloped me from behind. I drove an elbow into beefy ribs and had a hand on the hilt of my knife before I recognized that musky scent. I wriggled around. “Anton?”
The werejaguar lifted me off my feet. “Annette Thorne! You look as tasty as ever.”
I endured one more spine-popping squeeze, then wrenched free of his grip. “And you look...gray.”
The gray was mostly in his beard. His dirty blond hair had simply thinned since the last time I’d seen him. He was shorter than me, but broader, and he’d acquired a bit of a gut over the years. He smelled good—a hint of green apple from his aftershave mixed with a muskier, masculine smell. He squinted at me through black-framed glasses and flashed his lopsided smile. “You are the same. How is this possible?”
“Good genes.” Anton knew what I was, but it wasn’t the kind of thing I liked to talk about in public. Even in a relatively safe space like the Gauntlet. “How are the kids?”
He chuckled ruefully and finger-combed his tousled hair. “Wild and uncontrollable and good, very good. I don’t know if it’s the beast in their blood or if all young children are such devils. They destroy so much furniture! Come, sit, have a drink with me and my friends. I’ll show you photos.”
I didn’t move. “The ring’s new.”
He glanced at his left hand. “Not so new. Two and a half years since Reiko and I paid for the human paperwork, but we were mated long before that.”
“I’m happy for you.” I meant it. Anton was a good man, and any pangs of envy about his situation were easily kicked aside. I’d done the family thing long enough to know it wasn’t for everyone, but Anton looked as happy as I’d ever seen him.
“One drink, for old times,” he said. “You still like daiquiris?”
I wanted to say yes. Being back was making me miss my younger, wilder days. I rarely got out of the house anymore, and when I did, it was usually with Jenny and Temple. Both of whom were worse than worthless as wingmen.
Instead, I shook my head and stepped back. “You’re going to be in enough trouble going home with my scent on you from that hug.”
“Reiko loves your scent.” He winked. “It makes her feisty. Maybe you come home with me after the kids are in bed, and she’ll show you.”
I was ninety-five percent sure he was joking. “I’m afraid I’m working tonight, Anton.”
“Bookshop business?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or your other work?”
“The second one.”
“Such a shame.” He hugged me again. “You’ll come back when you’re not working?”
“I’ll try.” A lot would depend on how Duke reacted to me being back in his place this evening.
Anton started back toward his table, where three other middle-aged men waited. He waved his phone at me and said, “I’ll send you a message on the Facebook so you can see pictures of my little beasts!”
I smiled and nodded and hurried away, ducking my head as I waded through the bar toward the blue door at the back withTech Supportstenciled in dingy white letters.
“Excuse me,” said the bartender. “You can’t go up there.”
A stone statue of a jouster riding an ostrich stared up at me from beside the door. The ostrich’s stone eyelashes almost hid the lens of the camera.
I waved at the camera, then punched a six-digit code into the keypad by the door. I worried that Duke might have changed the code, but the latch whirred open. “What were you saying, hon?”
The bartender flushed and turned away.
I climbed narrow stairs into an equally narrow hallway with four green doors. Two were Duke’s home and workshop. He rented the others. A garbage bag that smelled like old Chinese food sat outside number three. I heard a television playing inside—a children’s cartoon, from the sound of it. A wood mezuzah case was mounted to the doorframe of number four.
Door one was open. I stepped into Duke’s workshop, a small studio apartment packed with old desktops, laptops, printers, tablets, smartphones, and other electronic devices, all labeled with different colors of sticky notes.
