She still had demon blood under her nails when she got back to the bar. Sliding onto a stool, she hooked her booted feet over the rung, khakis almost as baggy as the hoodie that swamped her over a man's undershirt. She wore no hitai-ate, and her tattoo was covered, but people still gave her the room they'd have given any ninja.

She ordered two beers and watched the men playing pool in the corner. She could do much better.