We’re drinking milkshakes, and I’m feeling wobbly. “Is there alcohol in this ice cream?”
“There’s alcohol in everything,” Lamb says. “And you are the only one of us I’ve ever met who can’t hold his drink.” He’s giggling so much, he’s blowing bubbles in his milkshake.
I start giggling, too, sliding off my stool. (It’s covered in fur. Most impractical.) I fall into the Normal sitting next to me. (He smells delicious. Milk-fed.)
Lamb takes my arm. “Come on, Prince Charles, you need adrink.” He drags me out of the ice-cream bar—but it isn’t really dragging because I’m happy to go along. This is the best night out I’ve had in America.
This is the best night out I’vehad.
I don’t really go out back home. Simon and I don’t. (The wings, you see. And the fact that I hate drunk people.) (I really do. If I were sober, I’d hate myself right now. What a bore.)
Lamb’s got me by the hand. And then he’s got another man by the hand. A Normal bloke wearing a hockey-themed baseball cap and a football shirt. He’s drunk, too—boring!—and we’re all dancing. There’s music playing wherever you go on the Strip. Outside feels like inside. Lit up like a ballroom, speakers hidden in the trees.
The song is about a place called Margaritaville. I’ve never had a margarita. I should get one in a milkshake. Lamb pulls the man—and me—into a nook, not quite an alleyway, between two bars. The Normal struggles for just a second, then Lamb’s not-so-small-now mouth is on his throat.
The man’s neck goes limp. His head droops back, his hat falls off. His eyes immediately glaze over. I’ve seen that face on a deer before.
Lamb swallows deeply. He’s still holding my hand. “Chaz,” he says, stopping to take a breath, “come on.” He pulls me closer, the man sandwiched between us—the fragrance is irresistible. My fangs have dropped. There’s no room in my mouth for my tongue.
“I—I can’t,” I say.
“You can.”
“We’re in public.”
“I promise it doesn’t matter.” He tugs the man’s head back, exposing even more of his neck to me.
I turn away from them both, dropping Lamb’s hand. “I can’t.”
Then Lamb’s on me—he’s let the man go—pinning me against a wall, his hands on my shoulders. His hair is covering one of his eyes completely and tickling my nose. All I can think about is the blood on his breath. “Who are you?!” he demands.
“I told you.” My wand is in my jacket. I might be able to cast a spell. Maybe I could overpower him—
“What’s your name?” he spits. Maybe spitting blood. I don’t lick my lips. I don’t. He presses his forehead into mine, crushing my head against the stone wall. “What’s. Your. Name.”
“Baz,” I growl, wrenching my head away from his, to the side. “What’syours.”
“Lamb will do.” A flicker of fire appears at my shoulder. He’s holding a lighter. “Now tell me why you’re here.”
“I already told you, I’m on holiday.”
He brings the lighter closer to my hair.
“I’m looking for the Next Blood!” I say. It comes out too loud.
Lamb lets go of me, stepping back. His hand and the lighter are hanging at his side. “Oh, Chaz. Not you, too.”
“What does that mean?”
He starts to walk away.
“Lamb!”
“You won’t find them here,” he says over his shoulder. “Not anymore.”
“But you know where they are!” I’m running to catch up with him.
“Everyone knows where they are.”
