take us for blood, money, or just for kicks."
He drew back, clearly surprised. "Is this personal experience? Or just rumor?"
"We probably see a lot more fangs here than you've got in sanitized San Bernardino," she snapped.
He gave her an odd look. "We've got vamps up north. Nice people, all social levels. They make good laborers 'cause they're strong, good managers 'cause they're experienced, and good academics 'cause they're really old."
"And good eaters 'cause they're hungry."
"They don't do that," he argued.
"The hell they don't."
He sighed, then looked at the elaborate death character she'd drawn in her hot sauce. He probably thought she meant it for vamps—and maybe she did, a little. But her real thoughts were on another species. The one that had torched that house not four blocks from here last night.
"Does your hatred extend to other races? Or just vamps?" he asked. His tone was neutral.
She didn't look up, simply grabbed another tsu mai dumpling and carefully wiped it around her plate to erase her hot sauce art. "Why? You got a special love of demons?"
He glanced up sharply. "Demons? I meant werewolves."
She bit her lip. Oh, yeah. The wolves. Just because it was getting dark and she was feeling hyperaware of every shift and nuance in the night's energy didn't mean he was feeling the same. "The dogs don't bother me. Not unless they get within biting distance."
"Your teeth or theirs?" he asked.
"Either." She grinned and snapped her jaws. A moment later she sighed. "Okay, so my bitterness is showing through. Honest to God, Patrick, I just want to live my life in peace. I want to make enough money to go to grad school; I want to open my own little business. And I don't want to have to worry about vamps forcing out my neighbors to build casinos, or adolescent weres threatening to bite kids on the playground. And I don't want any kind of demon anywhere in the city. Ever."
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. "So, you know."
She blinked, completely lost.
"You know there are demons in the city," he clarified. "You know the gate's been used."
She froze, and in her sudden stillness, an answer blossomed. She abruptly knew why he understood her, why he attracted her like a moth to a flame: because he knew the truth. He knew that demons existed right here in Crimson City, right now. He might love plants and books and all things professorial, but he'd fought the beasts as well. She could feel it in her bones and in the power the surrounded him like a mantle. He'd fought and lost, just like she had. He was afraid, just like she was. And he was ready for the next moment, aching to strike back, whereas she…
She ran. It wasn't a conscious decision, it just happened. Patrick scrambled after her, of course, but she knew Chinatown like no visitor from San Bernardino ever could. She left the restaurant, ducked into a side alley, slid around and behind a garbage bin that reeked of grease and soy sauce, then slipped between a pair of cheap New Year's lanterns into the back of the incense and spice shop.
The shop owner—bone-thin Mrs. Lo—looked up in surprise, but relaxed the moment she saw Xiao Fei. With a smile and a quick wave, she turned back to her portable TV and the latest white-as-Wonderbread sitcom. Which gave Xiao Fei a moment to get her panic under control.
He knew. Patrick knew there were demons in LA. He knew about the demon gate and, worse, he knew that she knew. What else did he know about her? Did he know her power, her purpose?
The old paranoia came roaring back. It flooded her blood with lead, and she dropped to the floor. She tried to reach for a calming chant, a protective chant—hell, even a chant against indigestion—but nothing came to mind, no prayers, no soothing notes, nothing. She was a rock thrown into the ocean, and was sinking fast.
Okay, this imagery was not helping. She was a normal person, a usual human being who knew nothing at all about demons or unturning vamps or