Last Call wasn’t her usual scene. Kelsey snagged a menu from the end of the bar and thumbed the edge as she scanned the offerings. She was used to clubs, all right—the carefully orchestrated dance of the horny, the line between need and desperation growing thinner with each passing drink. But she wasn’t used to places humans couldn’t even enter, places where five grand got you a drink and a room key. Both very, very special. She trailed one manicured nail past the initial categories—werewolves, vampires, fae. The usual, she imagined, for a place like Last Call. On the back, at the bottom of the page, printed in smaller letters than the rest, was one last heading. Other. She smiled and drained her whiskey. Amusing, if not flattering, that she was an anomaly so rare there wasn’t even a category to include her, just a catchall section at the bottom of a menu, right beside the acknowledgment that parties of six or more would be assessed an automatic gratuity of eighteen percent.
