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who that wrong person is a second or so after he buries a dagger in your back. I didn’t care for that, and it made an awkward fit when it came to my jacket. They say it’s not paranoia if people are really out to get you. What do they say when there are people . . . creatures whose sole purpose in being
born
is to get you?
    Ah well. Things weren’t likely to change.
    Popularity is for pussies anyway.
    So, yeah, I had a handful of people who knew my thing about mirrors. The not-liking thing. It wasn’t a phobia. It absolutely was not . . . anymore. Not that it would matter if it were. I was a low-maintenance guy. I shaved by feel and pulled my not-quite-shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail. If my hair grew out too long, my brother cut it for me. He’d started after the first time he caught me trimming it with a KA-BAR serrated combat knife. All in all, it was under control. All hygienic chores would be, and were, done reflection-free. No mirrorsrequired. And if I missed a patch shaving, no one at the place I bartended would mention or notice for that matter. The clientele were a little more than hairy and/or furry themselves. Living without mirrors was a helluva lot more doable than looking into one.
    But, let me repeat, not a phobia.
    Unfortunately tonight I did need a mirror. Niko wasn’t here to help me out. He was out with his vampire ball-and-chain Promise. Not that he would call her that, nor would he do anything to stop her from dislocating my arm if she heard the not so affectionate nickname. Sadly, it even wasn’t true. They were one of those meant-to-be couples. Romeo and Juliet, minus all the angst and suicide. Paris and Helen of Troy, without the war, mass destruction, and stupidity of a guy who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants . . . under his ancient leather miniskirt—whatever. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but lacking the litter and the ability to be a living tour of Nations of the World ride at Disneyland, Alien and the Predator if . . . nope, that was perfect. Same interests, same hobbies, and one had fangs while the other a deep,
deep
appreciation of deadly weapons.
    A disgustingly perfect couple who didn’t deserve to have their night interrupted over a slight mental malfunction I’d picked up years ago. They should be on Promise’s sofa, drinking wine and surfing Transylvanian Web sites for orphaned vamp babies to adopt. They should have at least that first part of a night together, as the second part never could or would happen.
    My brother had always put me first in his life, probably a result of raising me himself. Nik had once let it slip, and only then because it had been the first, last, and only time he’d been too drunk to self-censor, that our mother, Sophia, hadn’t bothered to pick me up out of the birth-blood-streaked bathtub she’d delivered me in. She’d cutthe cord with a rusty steak knife and stepped over me to stagger out of the tub. After telling Niko “Here’s that pet you’ve been nagging me for,” she went to her room to fall into bed with a bottle of whiskey. With that stellar maternal reaction, I doubted she’d given me any further thought other than to look at me with an eye calculated as to whether I was small enough to flush down the toilet. But too bad for Sophia. Niko said I’d been born small, about five pounds. Five pounds isn’t much, yet still larger than your average dead goldfish.
    With Promise being more understanding about Niko and my
Titanic
-sized case of codependency than . . . hell . . . any woman, vampire or human, I wasn’t going to crash their alone time. Naughty time. Pervy time. Whatever time they had going on, it didn’t matter. I could handle this myself.
    First I’d check the cut to see if it needed stitches. I’d done stitches enough times I wouldn’t see anything in the mirror but the slice to the skin. It had long become pure reflex, done on enough different body parts, my brother’s as well as my own,