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With everyone busy, I headed into the bar. Despite the early start, Tom’s bar was half-full of folks chatting. The jukebox jingled in the corner, and Tom Collins stood behind the counter, looking like a vision of bartending expertise with his burgundy jacket, black bow tie, and slicked back hair.

“No,” he said, as I leaned on the counter.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s no.” He thumbed at the sign behind him: Do Not Argue with the Bartender.

“We missed you.”

Tom poured my morning whiskey. “And you can tell that chef if he puts a single tentacle on my shakers again, I’ll cut it off, chop it up, and use it as a garnish in a new drink, named especially for fish-people who leave disgusting slime all over my sparkling surfaces.”

“Right.” I wrapped my fingers around the glass. “I’ll uh . . . tell him.”

“What do you want?”

“You know that thing we’re always telling you not to do?”

“Fucking swear?”

“Uh, no . . . the other thing.”

“Be liberal with a few bags of blow?”

“Uh, no. Not that.”

“Offer free fucking life advice to the swathes of hopeless losers that pass through those doors?”

“Er . . .” I pinched my lips together and winked.

Tom stopped polishing the glass and winked back.

“Yes, that,” I confirmed. “You got it.”

“Right.” He winked again.

Hopefully, we were both winking for the same reason. I should probably clarify, so he didn’t murder a random guest. “Daisy is coming to the hotel. She’s going to order a special cocktail.”

“Right.” He smiled. “What are we talkin’ here? A Long Walk off a Short Pier?”

“Yes, but . . . vampire strength.”

His grin stretched wider. “I have the perfect drink.”

“Okay.” Was I doing the right thing, asking him to do this? “Only if you’re comfortable with this. Don’t feel that you have to. I don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want to do.”

He snorted. “It’s a fucking miracle I haven’t killed you all by now, putting you out of your misery—and mine.”

I eyed my untouched drink. “Uh. You know what? I’ll skip the whiskey this morning.”

“Your loss. No refunds.” He picked up my whiskey and downed it in one smooth gulp. I still wasn’t sure where anything he consumed went, and probably didn’t want to know. I did want to know, however, how he was able to hop a ride in Zee’s phone without his hard drive.

“Tom, are you uh . . . free range now?”

He glared, as though he was about to launch into another tirade about how stupid or pathetic I was, which was his love language. His way of showing he cared. Maybe.

“It’s just, you were able to work the jukebox, and then getting into Gideon Cain’s electrics? That’s all pretty impressive.”

“If you’re asking whether I’m still stuck behind this bar? No, I can leave whenever I want. All I need is a cable, like a landline, and I’m outta this fuckin’ half-baked hotel.”