Club Dead

small man—perhaps he’d become a vampire when men were shorter.
    I knew they were talking about Bill, because the human was thinking of Bill when he said, “He hasn’t talked.” And the human was an exceptional broadcaster, both sound and visuals coming through clearly.
    When Alcide tried to lead me away from their orbit, I resisted his lead. Looking up into his surprised face, I cut my eyes toward the couple. Comprehension filtered into his eyes, but he didn’t look happy.
    Dancing and trying to read another person’s mind at the same time is not something I’d recommend. I was straining mentally, and my heart was pounding with shock at the glimpse of Bill’s image. Luckily, Alcide excused himself to go to the men’s room just then, parking me on a stool at the bar right by the vampire. I tried to keep looking around at different dancers, at the deejay, at anything but the man to the vampire’s left, the man whose mind I was trying to pick through.
    He was thinking about what he’d done during the day; he’d been trying to keep someone awake, someone who really needed to sleep—a vampire. Bill.
    Keeping a vampire awake during the day was the worst kind of torture. It was difficult to do, too. The compulsion to sleep when the sun came up was imperative, and the sleep itself was like death.
    Somehow, it had never crossed my mind—I guess since I’m an American—that the vampires who had snatched Bill might be resorting to evil means to get him to talk. If they wanted the information, naturally they weren’t just going to wait around until Bill felt like telling them. Stupid me—dumb, dumb, dumb. Even knowing Bill had betrayed me, even knowing he had thought of leaving me for his vampire lover, I was struck deep with pain for him.
    Engrossed in my unhappy thoughts, I didn’t recognize trouble when it was standing right beside me. Until it grabbed me by the arm.
    One of the Were gang members, a big dark-haired man, very heavy and very smelly, had grabbed hold of my arm. He was getting his greasy fingerprints all over my beautiful red sleeves, and I tried to pull away from him.
    “Come to our table and let us get to know you, sweet thing,” he said, grinning at me. He had a couple of earrings in one ear. I wondered what happened to them during the full moon. But almost immediately, I realized I had more serious problems to solve. The expression on his face was too frank; men just didn’t look at women that way unless those women were standing on a street corner in hot pants and a bra: in other words, he thought I was a sure thing.
    “No, thank you,” I said politely. I had a weary, wary feeling that this wasn’t going to be the end of it, but I might as well try. I’d had plenty of experience at Merlotte’s with pushy guys, but I always had backup at Merlotte’s. Sam wouldn’t tolerate the servers being pawed or insulted.
    “Sure, darlin’. You want to come see us,” he said insistently.
    For the first time in my life, I wished Bubba were with me.
    I was getting far too used to people who bothered me meeting a bad end. And maybe I was getting too accustomed to having some of my problems solved by others.
    I thought of scaring the Were by reading his mind. It would have been an easy read—he was wide open, for a Were. But not only were his thoughts boring and un-surprising (lust, aggression), if his gang was charged with searching for the girlfriend of Bill the vampire, and they knew she was a barmaid and a telepath, and they found a telepath, well . . .
    “No, I don’t want to come sit with you,” I said definitely. “Leave me alone.” I slid off the stool so I wouldn’t be trapped in one position.
    “You don’t have no man here. We’re real men, honey.” With his free hand, he cupped himself. Oh, charming. That really made me horny. “We’ll keep you happy.”
    “You couldn’t make me happy if you were Santa Claus,” I said, stomping on his instep with all my strength. If he hadn’t been wearing motorcycle boots, it might have been effective. As it was, I came close to breaking the heel of my shoe. I was mentally cursing my false nails because they made it hard to form a fist. I was going to hit him in the nose with my free hand; a blow to the nose really hurts badly. He’d have to let go.
    He snarled at me, really snarled, when my heel hit his instep, but he didn’t loosen his grip. His free hand seized my bare shoulder, and his fingers dug in.
    I’d been trying to