own reasons. What do you have against him?”
“He’s an ambitious opportunistic climber who wormed his way into JLPN and wants to be a big fish. He’ll keep looking for ponds until he finds an empty one just his size.”
“So you two don’t have any sort of . . . romantic history?” I asked.
She let out a peal of laughter that caused heads to turn. “Oh, sweetheart, please! I prefer a man with more hair on his chest.” She drew a sharp red-enameled fingernail across the cocktail table, leaving a deep scratch. She gave me an appraising look, then addressed Sheyenne’s ghost. “And someone who has hot blood pumping. You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. Dan Chambeaux’s not my type.”
At the bar, Brondon drifted away from the three cougars and engaged in an intense conversation with Fletcher. He handed over several samples from his case before shaking the bartender’s hand and turning with a generalized wave of farewell to the clientele in Basilisk, although no one but me was looking at him. Then he scuttled away.
Miranda’s martini arrived, and she drank half of it in a gulp, as if to wash away her thoughts of Brondon Morris, or of garish plaid in general. “Now then, to business. You said you made some progress? What did you find in Harvey’s study?”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Something that might be useful in leveraging a settlement.”
“My, I love leverage,” she chortled. “What is it?”
I told her how Sheyenne had slipped into the study, looking in the locked drawer where Miranda had suggested. “Not only is your husband involved in Straight Edge, he’s very involved. In fact, he’s the Grand Wizard himself.”
Miranda chuckled. “Now, isn’t that an embarrassing little detail about a man who’s launching a new line of products for unnaturals! Harvey, Harvey, you evil little man—Grand Wizard of the Straight Edgers! Threatening to expose that ring will make Harvey squirm, all right. Silly little boys with their silly little prejudices and silly little costumes.”
I added, “Only a few hours ago, someone—something—broke into the Straight Edge offices and slaughtered four human volunteers. That’s going to put the group squarely in the news. Lots of publicity.”
Sheyenne wasn’t so convinced. “Yes, but they were murdered by a monster. What if public sympathy shifts to the poor Straight Edge victims torn apart by intolerant unnaturals?”
Someone chose that moment to let out a piercing scream that turned our attention to the bar. Cougar Sharon reeled back in horror as Cindy’s appletini glass slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor. The grayish necrotic skin on Cindy’s forearm and hand also slipped off the bone, like a thick floppy rubber glove. She put her other hand to her face and let out a scream, just before her jawbone fell off. Her fingers pressed into her cheek and sank through to the skull. Her other arm fell off. She collapsed onto the bar stool and kept falling to the floor in dripping, dissolving pieces.
Other patrons made sounds of disgust. Many backed away.
Next, Sharon’s head lolled to one side. As she reached up to hold it in place, the head fell completely off. She managed to catch her hair, dangling her detached head for a moment as her face continued to contort and scream. Then the hair ripped off the scalp like a hunk of sod, and Sharon’s head fell face-first to the nightclub floor. Her body slumped forward.
Victoria had an extra five seconds of stunned panic that turned to sad resignation as she also flash-rotted like a time-lapse video and fell into a pile of suppurating goo that mingled with her two companions, pooling together around the three now-empty cocktail dresses.
The zombie patrons of Basilisk were the first to flee. Vampires and werewolves, who were not usually squeamish, looked grossed out.
“We should get out of here, Mrs. Jekyll.” I wasn’t sure what was causing this gooey crisis, but I feared it might spread. First Mr. Galworthy and now the cougars. Could it be some kind of undeadly epidemic? And what if I was vulnerable too.
Miranda finished the rest of her martini in a gulp. “I believe you’re right, Mr. Chambeaux.” With remarkable speed, she flitted out of the nightclub in the crowd of retreating patrons.
Wearing a sour expression, Fletcher Knowles went to the back room and brought out a mop and bucket.
Ivory stepped out onto the stage, freshly made up and ready for her set. In disbelief she watched her admirers stampede for the doors. She grabbed