Free Prowlers: Wild Things by Christopher Golden

and at any given time a good portion of the clientele wasn't human. It was not a refuge for the underground, but nor, according to Martelle, was it a haven for the savages.
    But the word on the street was that Jasmine was recruiting, and the Voodoo Lounge was where she did her scouting.
    The Oldsmobile had been in a garage on 72 nd Street since shortly after breakfast, and Bill figured it would be best to just leave it there until it was needed again. With the parking situation in New York, it simply made more sense to take the subway or a taxi.
    It was dusk as the yellow cab rolled up to the curb in front of the Voodoo Lounge. Lao climbed out first without a word or a glance, leaving Bill to pay the fare. He knew it should not bother him. Whether Winter put him up to it or not, the truth was that Lao was doing him a favor and by rights Bill should be the one to pay the expenses involved. But there was something about Lao's attitude, the way he floated ghost-like through each new situation, barely even acknowledging that there was a fare to be paid, a bit of decorum to be observed, that raised Bill's hackles.
    On the sidewalk, they stood side by side and gazed at the façade of the Voodoo Lounge. The place was a study in downscale hip, the blacked-out windows painted in fluorescent musical notes and the sign quite purposefully and expensively crafted to appear as though it had been made from wood and rusted metal. It was inconspicuous. If he had driven past it during the day, Bill thought he probably would have thought that the place had been abandoned, closed down for months.
    There would be no making that mistake after dark, however. A pair of bouncers stood on either side of the door, and Bill studied them, trying to determine if they were human. He tried to catch a scent but the wind had kicked up. Live music blared loud enough inside that they could hear it on the street, muffled but clear enough to make out some of the lyrics. It was a jazzy kind of blues that wasn't quite rock but sure as hell wasn't pop, and Bill felt his pulse drop into rhythm with the music.
    He started for the door, and Lao stopped him.
    Bill twitched, glared at the other Prowler. It was all he could do not to snarl. Lao withdrew his hand without a hint of apology.
    "Stay here," the other Prowler said.
    "Bullshit."
    Lao's expression was impassive. "You are known, Guillaume. You wish to believe that this is not true, but it is. There are many among us who would have known you by sight even before you played football with the humans. If Jasmine is here, or even if her pack gathers here, there will undoubtedly be those who will recognize you. We are not here for a war. We are here to get in, find your niece, and get out as quickly as we can."
    Without waiting for a response, Lao turned and went through the front door of the club, leaving Bill to stare after him. Much as he wanted to argue, what Lao said made sense. The bouncers were eyeing him closely now. Bill might have glared back at them, but Lao's words echoed in his mind and instead he walked along the sidewalk until he was just out of sight of the entrance.
    Cars slid by on the narrow Village street. A kid with too many piercings and a chain dangling from his pants rode a bicycle several years too small for him. Bill had spent so much time living amongst the humans that he was practiced ate blending in, at being inconspicuous, in spite of what Lao had said. Still, there on the sidewalk he felt exposed and vulnerable, as out of place as a nervous thief hesitating in the parking lot before robbing a convenience store. A young lesbian couple passed, hand in hand. One of them, tall and lithe and blond, smiled at him.
    "You lost?" she asked.
    "Just waiting for someone," he replied.
    The urge to hurt his silent traveling companion grew.
    The metal watch on his wrist ticked off the minutes, and each time Bill glanced at it, he was certain its hands were moving slower than before. The residents of the