byIt was a pleasant little town. Not a mean spike in its white picket fences or a single nasty shiver down its back alleys. A place where folks looked out for each other’s kids and remembered dancing at your grandma’s wedding. Last time I’d visited, I’d sung an impromptu guest set at one of the nicest supernatural bars I’d seen outside the real music cities like Nashville and Branson. It had seating suitable for shifters from ferrets to giraffes and a menu to the taste of a wide variety of supes and magicals. It was a real listening room, too. No talking—or chirping, roaring, bleating, or trumpeting—while the musicians were onstage.
I was surprised to hear that nice bar had burned down. Supe buildings are fairly indestructible as a rule.
“How did it happen?” I asked the hotel desk clerk.
