Sarah looked miserable. That didn’t matter; no matter how miserable she was, her telepathy would keep everyone around us seeing what they expected to see when they looked our way. Wearing the right things and drinking the right drinks just made it easier, since she didn’t have to work as hard to convince them.

My skirt was slightly longer, but only because it’s borderline impossible to fit a thigh holster under a micromini. I made up for my shameful modesty with a blood-red velvet bustier that looked appropriately scandalous—and better yet, had steel corsetry boning and gave me room for five strategically placed throwing knives. Between those, the steel tips on my heels, and the perfume bottle of holy water in my purse, I was loaded for bear. More accurately, I was loaded for ghoul. This one was hunting in midtown, which is a big no-no, and had killed fifteen girls that we knew of. There were probably more that we’d managed to miss. Not okay.

“If he’s here, he’ll be on the floor,” I said, trying to sound casual.

I could tell from the look on Sarah’s face that she wasn’t buying it, but her sense of telepathic ethics wouldn’t let her admit that. She raised her eyebrow again before sighing and waving toward the floor. “Go. You’ll feel better. I’ll toss up a flare if I pick up on him.”

“You’re the best!” I was out of my seat almost instantly, leaving my drink on the table as I made a beeline for the teeming mass of bodies on the dance floor. Steel-tipped heels can go a long way toward clearing a path, especially when you’re not opposed to “accidentally” stepping on a few toes. The smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and a hundred different perfumes assaulted my nose, making my head swim. I dove into the crowd.

The secret of good club music is the downbeat. Even the world’s worst dancer can’t help picking up a little rhythm when the bass is pumped high enough, and a good DJ can work a crowd like it’s just another kind of musical instrument. This DJ wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t terrible, and that was all I needed. I worked my way past the first tiers of dancers—the ones too drunk, too disinterested, or too interested in looking for a different kind of “dance” to defend their places in the center of the floor—and gave myself over to the beat, letting it tell my body where to go. It didn’t matter that I was there because something was killing club kids in what was currently my city. It didn’t matter that my clothes were Scotchgarded against bloodstains, not sweat. It didn’t even matter that all of my formal training was in the ballroom styles. I was dancing. Everything was going to be okay.

The natural pulse of a good dance floor means the best dancers wind up getting pulled toward the center, sucked inexorably forward as they pass through the ranks of the less invested and the less skilled. I had half a dozen partners within the first five minutes, each trying to catch my eye as they shook whatever they had in my direction. They knew the rules of the floor, and when the tempo of my steps knocked theirs out of the game, they were graceful enough to let me go.

I wound up packed into the place where the circles of dancers compressed to nearly nothing, sharing that coveted spot with three couples, two other single women, and a man about my age who seemed to be comfortable dancing by himself while he sized up his options. He looked like he’d just about settled on one of the women—a lanky brunette in hip-hugger designer jeans—when I hit the circle. His attention shifted, a predatory gleam lighting up his eyes.

Single white male seeks single white female for …what, exactly? I gave him a once-over as he moved toward me, disguising the look with a flirtatious wink. All his clothes were dark, and the fabrics looked naturally stain-resistant. No scars, no tattoos, no jewelry; good-looking in that generic movie extra sort of way. The kind of guy you’d happily dance with for a little while, maybe even follow home if you were in the mood for something nastier than a little grinding.

“Hey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “I haven’t seen you here before. You’re good.”

“You, too,” I shouted back.

“Wanna dance?”

“Sure thing!” That seemed to complete the pleasantries, and it was straight to business for my mystery man. He closed in like a heat-seeking missile, cupping my hips with his hands as he matched his rhythm to mine. A little tacky for a first date, maybe, but that’s nothing for a first dance. I’ve done tangos with men who thought my ass was a squeaky toy. Compared to them, Mr. Mystery was being nothing but polite.

I looked at him more carefully as we writhed around the center circle together, and frowned. His teeth were white, slightly crooked in an adorable way, and normal. He couldn’t be our ghoul. Human flesh is tough to chew, and ghouls who take their dinner straight off the bone inevitably do a number on their choppers. If my dance partner had been a ghoul passing for human, he would have either had perfect dentist-purchased caps or been keeping his lips shut. This wasn’t our guy. I let my body go back on autopilot, scanning the crowd around us.

The normal ebb and flow of dancers continued, people falling back as they got tired or being pushed forward as they caught their second wind. Only the inner circle stayed mostly the same. Emphasis on the “mostly”—one of the couples was leaving, the woman laughing, the man giving a tight-lipped smile that completely hid his teeth.

Shit.

“Oopsie. I think I drank too many martinis. I need to go puke,” I said, and ducked away from a startled Mr. Mystery, shoving my way after the departing ghoul and the woman who was about to be his next victim. It was easier to get out than in, mostly because there were so many dancers happy to take my place, and to shove me farther toward the edge of the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of my former dance partner as he turned his attention to a redhead in a sparkly tube top, already forgetting about me. Oh, well. He wasn’t that hot.

Who was I kidding? He was insanely hot, and I haven’t been able to finish dancing with a guy—or “dancing” with a guy—since I got to New York. Still, with a woman in immediate mortal peril, this wasn’t the time to worry about my love life. I kept moving forward. I was surrounded enough that there was no way Sarah would pick up on my mental distress call, and it’s not like she could do anything about it if she did. Sarah’s not a fighter. All she really knows how to do is sit calmly and camouflage herself until the trouble goes away.