Dead Reckoning

which was lined with a brightly lit mirror. The counter was strewn with cosmetics, makeup brushes, blow-dryers, hair curlers and hair straighteners, bits of costume, razors, a magazine or two, wigs, cell phones . . . the assorted debris of people whose jobs depended on their appearance. Some high stools were set haphazardly around the room, and there were tote bags and shoes everywhere.
    From farther down the hall Dermot called, “Come into the office.”
    We went down the hall and crowded into a small room. Somewhat to my disappointment, the exotic and gorgeous Claude had a completely prosaic office—cramped, cluttered, and windowless. Claude had a secretary, a woman dressed in a JCPenney women’s business suit. She could not have looked more incongruous in a strip club. Dermot, who was evidently the master of ceremonies today, said, “Nella Jean, this is our dear cousin Sookie.”
    Nella Jean was dark and round, and her bitter-chocolate eyes were almost a match for Bellenos’s, though her teeth were reassuringly normal. Her little cubbyhole was right next door to Claude’s office; in fact, I conjectured that it had been converted from a storage closet. After a disparaging look at Sam and me, Nella Jean seemed more than ready to retreat to her own space. She shut her office door with an air of finality, as if she knew we were going to do something unsavory and she wanted nothing to do with us.
    Bellenos shut Claude’s office door, too, closing us in a room that would have been crowded with two of us, much less five. I could hear music coming from the club proper (or rather, the club improper), and I wondered what was happening out there. Did strippers rehearse? What did they make of Bellenos?
    “Why the surprise visit?” Claude asked. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you.”
    He wasn’t delighted to see me at all, though he’d invited me to drop by Hooligans more than once. It was clear from his sulky mouth that he’d never believed I’d come to see him at the club unless he was onstage stripping. Of course, Claude’s sure everyone in the world wants to see him take off his clothes, I thought. Did he just not enjoy visitors, or was there something he didn’t want me to know?
    “You need to tell us why Sookie’s feeling more and more fae,” Sam said abruptly.
    The three fae males turned to look at Sam simultaneously.
    Claude said, “Why do we need to tell her that? And why are you concerning yourself with our family affairs?”
    “Because Sookie wants to know why, and she’s my friend,” Sam said. His face was hard, his voice very level. “You should be educating her about her mixed blood instead of living in her house and leeching off her.”
    I didn’t know where to look. I hadn’t known Sam was so opposed to my cousin and my great-uncle staying with me, and he really didn’t need to give his opinion. And Claude and Dermot weren’t leeching off me; they bought groceries, too, and they cleaned up after themselves very carefully. Sometimes. It was true that my water bill had jumped (and I had said something to Claude about that), but nothing else had cost me money.
    “In fact,” Sam said, when they continued to glare at him in silence, “you’re staying with her to make sure she’ll be more fae, right? You’re encouraging that part of her to strengthen. I don’t know how you’re doing that, but I know you are. My question is: Are you doing this just for the warmth of it, the companionship, or do you have a plan in mind for Sookie? Some kind of secret fairy plot?”
    The last words were more like an ominous rumble than Sam’s normal voice.
    “Claude’s my cousin and Dermot’s my great-uncle,” I said automatically. “They wouldn’t try to . . .” And I let the thought trail off dismally. If I’d learned anything over the past few years, it was not to make stupid assumptions. The idea that family would not harm you was a stupid assumption of the first order.
    “Come see the rest of the club,” Claude said suddenly. Before we could think about it, he’d hustled us out of the office and down the hall. He swung open the door to the club proper, and Sam and I went into it.
    I guess all clubs and bars look basically the same—tables and chairs, some attempt at decor or theme, an actual bar, a stage with stripper poles, and some kind of booth for sound. In those respects, Hooligans was no different.
    But all the creatures that turned to the door when we entered . . . all