Chapter 1

Blaine Mcdonough is dead, for all intents and purposes. But the night that she walks into his place, he almost feels…resurrected.

From his post behind the bar, through the throng of the Friday night crowd at The Scratching Post, he spots her the minute she slips through the door.

She has big, dark eyes, the kind that you usually only see on cartoon princesses and fear-stricken prey. She has long, dark hair that has been plastered to her cheeks by the Seattle-grade torrent that rages outside. She has curves in all the right places—or, she would, if she didn't look damn near starved. The overhead lights, even as dim as they are, reflect off the hollows of her collarbones. Blaine has never wanted to bite into a shadow so much in his whole damned life—or unlife.

He waits. For an hour, she stays on the perimeter of the room, simply circling as though she is getting the lay of the land. He watches her, always in his peripheral vision, as he mixes drinks and flirts with customers and lights cigarettes (in defiance of local indoor smoking ordinances). Hell, half his customers can't even taste the smoke they're inhaling. One of the downsides of being on team Z.

By the time she makes her way to the bar, Blaine is on pins and needles—and as much annoyed as he is intrigued. She's human. He can tell because she smells like heaven; full of life, vital and red and tempting. She's giving off a million tiny volts of electricity, and he inhales deeply of a different scent—like the ozone that had saturated the air before the storm outside. Her heartbeat is strong and fast and chaotic, the sound so loud in his ears that he almost forgets to say anything to her when she leans her elbows on the bar. Her hair has dried, and it falls in loose, heavy waves around her face.

He realizes, a few awkward beats later, that she has said something to him.

"Sorry," he mutters, shaking his head. "Get you a drink, sweetheart?"

She shakes hers back at him. "I don't drink."

He pushes off the back counter, leaning his own elbows on the railing behind the bar so they are face to face. There are subtle flecks of gold in her dark-brown irises. Her clothes are not autumn-in-Washington clothes. She's not wearing a coat. Her lips are just a little blue at the edges. "What are you doing in a bar, then, honey?"

One slim shoulder lifts. Her eyes slide away from his, a loss he feels almost physically. "I'm looking for a job."

Blaine straightens. "Not the kind we're hiring for here."

"How do you know?"

He barks out a laugh, his eyes trailing to one of his girls, working the crowd. He spreads one hand theatrically. "Do you know what kind of bar this is?"

"I do. But I'm best behind the bar, not on my back. You have expired almond cream liquor on your shelf there"—she points to a bottle behind him—"I can tell by how cloudy it is in the bottle. Gross."

He glances over his shoulder at the bottle indicated, frowning. She continues.

"Your second bartender is pouring heavy ounces for his friends and has been for two rounds. And even though your well brand is cheap, I know how you could get cheaper. So as the owner of this bar, and I assume you are the owner based on your outfit, I think you should hire me and save your reputation and some money."

"This is a zombie bar," he says flatly. "That was a cute spiel, but tell me why you would want to work in a place like this. It's dangerous. You smell like dinner, kitten."

"Because," she replies as flatly as he had, "I've been in worse places with worse people. And I need work, not the third degree." There's a flash in her eyes as she says it, and it makes something in his gut twist.

Is this woman hiding out? In Seattle?

There's a story, and Blaine finds that he desperately wants to hear it.

As she leans there, he turns his head to see his second bartender—Steve—letting the metal ounce measure fountain over into a rocks glass in a move so smooth that, had this mystery princess not pointed it out, Blaine would have missed the grift entirely. A low, deep growl rumbles in his chest.

"What's your name?" he shouts over the music.

"Catherine," she shouts back.

Catherine. Kitty. It makes him smile.

"Come back tomorrow, kitten. Before opening. I won't tell you what time that is, and hours ain't posted, but you seem like a smart kid."

She nods. "Tomorrow."

Then, she stands, pushing off of the bar, and melts back into the crowd. Blaine sees the door open when she leaves, and the heavy smell of rain wafts into the room.

He licks his lips.

Tomorrow.