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At eleven-forty, a pack of werewolves is doing shots for somebody's promotion, and a woman walks up to the bar who makes every vampire within twenty feet sit up straighter.

She's tall and pale, with dark red hair pulled back from her face. Her black dress is fitted, and she wears gloves that reach her elbows.

She stops in front of me and looks me over, taking her time.

“So you're Lenart's little bartender,” she says.

Her voice is lovely. Low and cool and amused.

"Little's fair," I guess. "I'm five-four. What are you drinking?"

Her eyebrows lift a quarter of an inch. I think she expected me to flinch.

"A Vieux Carré," she says. "Stirred, not shaken, with Bénédictine, not the sweet nonsense you people use now. And the house reserve on the side."

I've never made a Vieux Carré in my life. I've seen it in Merek's binders, though, the 1930s one, in his handwriting. Rye, cognac, sweet vermouth, Bénédictine, two kinds of bitters. I make it the way the binder says. I stir it for a long count and strain it over one big cube, and Theo, without a word, passes me a tiny cordial glass from under the bar, filled with a dark red that is absolutely not cranberry juice. I set them both in front of her.

She tastes the cocktail. She takes her time about it.

"Hm," she says.

"That's a good hm or a bad hm?"

"It's an accurate one." She sets the glass down. "Desmond tended this house for forty years and he knew every member by name. He knew every oath by heart." She looks at me with eyes the color of very old coins. "You've been here a week. Forgive me if I don't toast."

"That's okay," I say. "It's forty bucks with the reserve either way."

Behind her, Lenart has appeared. I don't know how long he's been there. He stands at her shoulder without touching her.

"Sabine," he says.

"Lenart." She doesn't turn around. "I was just meeting your bartender."

"You were meeting one of the owners of this house," Lenart says, "and its Oathkeeper. You'll address her as one."

"Of course." She picks up the little cordial glass and looks at me over the rim. "Provisionally."

She drinks it, sets it down, and leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. Then she turns and walks off into the crowd, and people get out of her way without seeming to notice they're doing it.

Lenart watches her go. He doesn't say anything. Then he looks at me.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Let’s go. It's ten to twelve."

He looks at his watch, and his mouth almost smiles. "So it is."

Kit slides down the bar to me when he's gone, and looks at the hundred.

"She tipped," Kit says. "She never tips."

"Sixty dollars on a forty-dollar tab," I say. "I'm almost offended."

At midnight, I put my palm on the ward stone in the little brick room under the bar, and feel the whole building settle under my hand like a door finally latching. Another night down.

I go back up and work until close.

At three, the lights come up, and the last werewolf gets herded out the front door with somebody else's tie around his head, and Kit and Theo and I break down the bar. I'm wiping down station three when William sits on the stool across from me.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just watches me wipe. He's good at watching.