The Raucous Wolf was not what I’d expected. Most shifter establishments were heavy on the leather, cheap booze, and loud music, but very light on inhibitions. This was the bespoke,artisanal, shade-grown version. Gray wood floors and walls with metal panels and enormous letters from old shop signs. Tables were communal and the bar industrial, with a full array of expensive and small-batch whiskeys behind it.
“Huh,” I said, looking around.
“We are a complex people. And occasionally we like good bourbon and truffle fries.”
“I guess.” I glanced at him. “Was I sheltered? Or is this another case of sups preferring that vampires not be in the know?” I’d only recently found out that the Taco Hole, a dive bar with mouth-searing tacos, served as a supernatural neutral ground.
“Both,” Connor said, and smoothed a hand down my hair. “But I like you just the way you are. Or mostly.”
“Careful, puppy,” I said, and looked around at the patrons. “With whom should we speak?”
“Let’s start there,” he said, gesturing to a broad-shouldered woman standing behind the bar. She had suntanned skin and salt-and-pepper curls that just reached her shoulders. She wore a T-shirt with the bar’s name and cleaned the counter with a rag.
“You know her?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
We strode toward her, Connor in the lead, and I watched with amusement as virtually everyone in the room paused to get a look at him. They knew power when they saw it and didn’t bother to hide their appreciation.
The bartender smiled broadly at Connor as we approached. Human, I thought, given the lack of apparent magic. But powerful magic could hide a lot of sins.
“Mr. Keene,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m Lucy Dalton, and very pleased to see you in my place. What brings you here? Can I get you a drink? Or something to eat?”
“There was a shifter in the bar last night,” he said, then showed her the photo. “Do you remember him?”
She frowned, nodded. “I do. He was cute.” She filled a glass with ice. “Young enough to be my son,” she added with a laugh. “But very cute.”
She added water to the glass from a pump, then drank deeply. “I think he was here for about an hour? We were pretty slow, and he was with a boisterous group.”
“Did he leave alone?” I asked, and for the first time, the woman seemed to actually notice I was there. And didn’t seem to like it.
“How could I possibly know that?” Her tone had changed, become guarded. Which I dutifully ignored.
“Did you talk to him?”
“He didn’t come up to the bar.”
“That’s not an answer,” Connor said.
She looked at him, smiled thinly. “No, I didn’t talk to him. I don’t talk to every customer who crosses that doorway. What is this?”
Connor ignored the question. “Did anything unusual happen while he was in the bar?”
“No, why? Did he get arrested?”
“He’s dead.” Connor’s voice was flat, and her eyes went flat. But he continued before she could respond. “Who served him?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong here.”
“I didn’t state otherwise. Who served him?”
After a moment of frowning, she looked toward a waitress on the other side of the bar delivering drinks on a tray. The woman was leanly built with light brown skin and long, dark, curly hair. She wore shorts, tennis shoes, and the same bar T-shirt as Dalton.
“She did,” Dalton said. “You’re welcome to talk to her but try to keep it fast. We’re short-staffed.”
When a shifter tapped a glass on the other end of the bar, Dalton gave Connor a smile and left us for the customer.
“Hmm,” I said, and Connor nodded.
