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“Try me.” He said it as though he had some kind of ace up his sleeve, but he couldn’t have. Maybe it wasn’t all about the physical. I just needed information, and people told bartenders all sorts of things. Had Reynard said anything when they’d been alone?

“What do you make of Lord Reynard?” I asked.

“He tips well.”

Ugh. Why was I asking an AI? He wasn’t going to be able to tell me anything of use. “How long was he here for earlier, before I arrived?”

Tom blinked, and for a fraction of a second his animated appearance froze, as though hung up on a thought. Then he blinked, unfreezing himself. “Unknown.”

“It’s a simple question. What was the time difference between his arrival and mine?”

“Did you activate recording functions? If you activate recording functions, you must display a sign in a prominent position, explicitly making it clear customers will be recorded on these premises and the data kept for ninety days. You see a fucking sign?”

I waved him off. “You’re as useful as a chocolate teacup, you know that?” Perhaps I was asking too much. He was just designed to mix and pour drinks, after all.

Drinks.

The blood. Was it human blood?

“What drink did Reynard order?”

“A Bloody Bitch.”

“A what? What is a, uh . . . Bloody Bitch?”

“Would you like me to make one?”

“Sure, I mean, only if it doesn’t have . . . real blood in it.”

“Real blood?” Tom Collins laughed, then swept along the back wall, gathering various bottles. He tossed a few in the air, doing exactly what he’d been bought to do, which sort of made the theatrics rather dull considering it was all just programming. He probably couldn’t even drop⁠—

A bottle slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor behind the bar. “Well, shit.”

And once again I was reminded how I’d bought a cheap AI. I sipped my whiskey and rubbed at the ache appearing between my eyes.

“As I mentioned, that model failed in almost every way.”

Reynard’s voice coiled around me before I turned and laid my eyes on the man in question. I almost didn’t want to look, knowing the pretty picture I’d find walking toward me. If Zee was right, then all these little heart-skipping, breath-catching, cock-tingling reactions were all mine. But it didn’t have to complicate anything. It was just a physical thing, just a biological trigger, probably because I hadn’t technically indulged in anything sexual in . . . a really long time.

“And here we are, at the bar again.” He leaned against the bar, deciding not to sit, and glanced at my whiskey. “I assume today is not going as you expected?”

“I had hoped there would be fewer murders and more guests, if I’m honest.”

“I understand how that might distress you some.”

What was that accent? Posh American? Was there even such a thing? It couldn’t be his real accent, since he must have originally come from the other side of the veil. He likely donned the accent like a man wore a hat, something to make him seem more human and blend in with the masses. Lost Ones who blended in had an easier time of it.

Tom had finished making the Bloody Bitch and set the glass down in front of me. Thick, syrupy, dark red. Hm . . . I swirled the glass. “At least the wards are intact.”

“They are?” Reynard asked, voice lifting in surprise.

“Zee attempted to hit me⁠—”

“That demon did what?” Reynard’s thin smile froze on his face, and all the shadows in the room darkened, making the blood reds in the wallpaper bloom.

He’d just sucked half the artificial light out of the room. A small shiver trickled through me. More lust. I was going to have to do something about these mixed messages. “Oh, not like that—as a test. The wards slapped him back before he could land the blow.”

“Demons,” Reynard snarled, his tone the same as when Zee had accused humans of being animals on the hotel steps. “Are you drinking that?”