Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies)

by Shayne Silvers

“Not sure,” I replied honestly, “but I’m definitely not a mudpacker.”

  Sonia mocked a sumo wrestler by throwing her legs wide and slapping her knees one after the other. “Well, this time, I’m definitely going down on you.”

  “Takin’ me down, ye mean?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Whichever,” Sonia said, charging once more. I waited for her to come to me. With mud up to my shins, I knew it would be hard to maneuver; I was as likely to fall walking as I was fighting Sonia. Which meant I had one sure shot at winning. The moment Sonia stepped within arm’s reach, I sidestepped in a lunge that left one leg extended like a tripwire. Sonia toppled over it as if it were a log, falling flat on her face with a squawk. That’s when I pounced, landing on her back with my legs on either side, as if she were a horse. I spanked her, playfully. “Giddyup!” I yelled, my accent making the phrase sound extra absurd.

  Sonia lifted her face out of the mud and spit out a gob of gunk. “Has anyone ever told you that you suck, hard?” she muttered.

  I leaned forward. “Only the boys I didn’t like,” I whispered.

  Sonia began to laugh.

  A moment later, I joined in.

  Chapter 10 — Callie Penrose, Vegas

  We sat around the bar, cackling over the highlights of our mudwrestling. The host had come by to offer us free drinks on the house and to let us know that our names would be added to the Wall of Shame where they had placards for all the winners. The Reds would also be added since they had been undefeated rookies before we broke their streak. I leaned in close to the waiter and ordered drinks, careful to make sure he heard my order. “Water means vodka,” I whispered to him before anyone could interrupt.

  “Don’t even think about it, Callie,” Othello warned. “Water for me.”

  “Ye can have one drink!” Quinn complained. “Ye owe me that, at least.”

  Othello shook her head. “One drink brought us to this,” she said, smiling in amusement. “I shudder to think of what a second drink would do to us.”

  I shrugged at the waiter. “You heard the woman…” No one but him caught my wink. His poker face was flawless as he dipped his chin and left.

  I clapped my hands, now at least somewhat clean thanks to the steamed towels they had brought us. The host had generously offered us the option to use the shower in the corner of the bar—the one with glass walls in full-view of every customer. We’d given them enough of a show already, and so had declined the offer at further embarrassment.

  Surprisingly, not a single face was leering. They were appreciative, sure, but they looked at us more like we were celebrities rather than pieces of attractive woman meat like most men did at bars. A quartet of leather-faced cowboys even offered to buy us a pitcher, tipping their gallon-sized cowboy hats at us. But they hadn’t tried to approach or anything, just told the bartender they would like to sport us a round.

  The bartender had informed them that our drinks were on Dorian Gray’s tab for the duration of the night. Which was probably the only reason I hadn’t made a Gateway to track the bastard down and toss him into the ring for a fight of his own.

  As mad and embarrassed as we had been, I was kind of glad we had gone through with it. The experience had been oddly…therapeutic.

  “I’m growin’ older and sober over here,” Quinn said, and I realized everyone was staring at me since I had clapped my hands to get their attention.

  “Oh, right. A drinking game. We have to chug the drinks they bring us. Once your hand touches the glass, you have to pound it in one go. No matter what.” Othello began to argue, and I held up a hand, rolling my eyes. “Don’t worry, you heard me order your water. But you still have to chug it or you will ruin their birthday,” I said, pointing at the Reds—who instantly put on mock pouting faces. “It’s no fun unless everyone plays.”

  Othello sighed and finally nodded. I kept the easy smile on my face. Just because Othello had heard me order water didn’t mean I hadn’t made a prior arrangement with the bartender.

  The waiter returned with a tall glass of chilled water for Othello, and a bottle of Don Julio 1942 with a small bowl of limes for the rest of us. I motioned for him to set the glasses before us and pour our drinks with three fingers each—easily triple shots, since we couldn’t touch the glasses without having to chug them, thanks to my stated rules. Othello eyed the tall glass of clear liquid in front of her, then met my eyes warily, searching for deception. I pretended not to notice, leaning forward to grin at the Reds. “To the Mudpackers,” I grinned. Even Quinn was grinning, now. “Ready?” I asked, my hand hovering near my glass.

  “Three, two, ONE!” Aria cried out, snatching up her drink.

  We all pounded our triple-shot of tequila, but my eyes were locked on Othello’s face.

  Her expression was pained and she was glaring at me from the rim of her glass, realizing that her water tasted suspiciously like pure vodka. But she had to finish it. After all, without rules, we were little better than Neanderthals.

  Quinn caught on quickly, noticing the strain in Othello’s eyes and shot me an approving smirk. The Reds, on the other hand, were licking their lips and staring at the bottle wonderingly. “I want that in my mouth again,” Sonia said in a serious tone. Aria shrugged and began pouring a fresh drink for the two of them. Quinn slid our glasses over for a refill as well before I could stop her. But, to be honest, I wanted more as well. It was ridiculously good tequila. Nothing like the cheap stuff I was used to.

  Othello finished her drink and slammed the glass down, glaring at me, but I could tell she was fighting a smile of her own.

  I batted my eyelashes innocently. “I ordered Russian water. Honest mistake.”

  She sighed, shaking her head. Then she rolled her shoulders and let out a long, pleased breath. “I think I actually needed that.” She eyed the bottle of tequila thoughtfully. “Is that any good? Nate only ever has whiskey or absinthe on hand.”

  Quinn was already pouring a healthy glass for the hacker. “It’s terrible, really. Ye have to try it.”

  Chapter 11 — Quinn MacKenna, Vegas

  I wasn’t sure how much time passed, and I’d lost track of how many more drinks we’d consumed, but I figured we’d been at it for a solid hour at least. The buzz that had faded leading up to my match with Sonia was back in full force, threatening to brim over into true inebriation. Othello had a rosy glow to her cheeks, and the Reds were hooked arm-in-arm, singing along with Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” as they tossed back their glasses. We’d had to bribe the waiter to bring them flavored water after the first few drinks, which they’d been fortunately too drunk to notice thus far.

  I wasn’t sure about the resilience of shifter constitutions, but if they ended up upchucking on their twenty-first, it’d be a shame to do so in public. At least this way they could stay on their feet a bit longer. I half-turned towards Callie, thinking to ask her about herself—maybe get to know her a little better now that we weren’t in a pissing contest—when I overheard a man at the bar. He was practically yelling in his attempt to be heard over the Reds, who were singing alternative lyrics like “they fell into burning rings of fire” and “they burned, burned, burned.”

  “I’m looking for a Russian woman! She’d be in her early thirties, medium height. Our facial recognition software flagged someone who came into your bar,” he said. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Red jacket. Earpiece. Black t-shirt and slacks. Casino security, no doubt about it. And not just any security because this was a place for Freaks, so he had to have some awareness of the supernatural, which meant he would have a way to deal with us.

  The bartender kept pouring drinks like he was barely listening, his face an expressionless mask as he shook a cocktail. “What did she do?” he called back distractedly.

  I nudged Othello. “Security at the bar. 9 o’clock.”

  She grinned, then caught my expression and frowned. She leaned back, peering past me at the guy before plopping forward. “What about him?”<
br />
  I tugged my earlobe. “Listen.”

  “More like what didn’t she do. Arson, extortion, defacing public property...the list goes on and on. We have her on video taking winnings from every hotel on the strip in one weekend. Never caught her.”

  Othello snorted. “Good times,” she chuckled.

  “They’ve got ye on facial recognition software,” I whispered.

  “From when I was sixteen?” Othello asked, eyebrow raised. She looked impressed, although her smile was way too wide for my liking. “The statute of limitations has passed on most things I did back then in Vegas, but I’d probably vomit in the interrogation room. Cover me for a minute.” She ducked her head down while I turned my back to shield her from sight. The bartender, meanwhile, was pointing towards us.

  Shit.

  “Excuse me, ladies, but can I see your IDs?” the man asked. I noticed two other flunkies were standing nearby, scanning the crowd as professionally as one can when people are half-naked and covered in mud.

  The Reds giggled and hurriedly yanked their IDs out from beneath their leather straps, although I had absolutely no idea how they’d managed to conceal the damn things. “This is the first time anyone has asked us for them!” Sonia said, excitedly.

  “We just turned 21,” Aria explained, happily.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and he flashed the bartender a very pointed look that said they’d be having a talk later. He shrugged dismissively and walked off towards other thirsty patrons. “Well, these look in order,” he said, staring at the licenses. They were Missouri issue, a bland shade of khaki, and displayed the Reds as I’d never seen them: tame, well-kempt, and wholesome. Lies.

  He passed them back after shining a penlight on them, then looked expectantly at me. I sighed, then fetched my own license from my back pocket. My Massachusetts ID was equally as bland, underwhelming next to Callie’s bright Kansas license. “Showoff,” I said, nudging her. She nudged me back, harder, and we glared at each other.

  “And you, miss?” the man said, staring at Othello’s back. She’d refused to turn around, and I could see his suspicions flaring. But before he could say more, she spun around. Her brunette hair spilled around her shoulders in a wave, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Then I realized whose face I was looking at: my own. My features, drawn slightly smaller, where Othello’s should have been. My slightly dimpled chin and broad cheekbones. My lips. My nose. My eyes, but brown, not green.

  “Sorry, laddie,” Othello said in an Irish accent that made me want to cringe, “but I t’ink I left it in the ladies’ room at some point. Me sister here,” she clapped me on the back, “was supposed to go with me, but got distracted. She likes men with muscles, ye see.” Othello eyed the man up and down with my face, and it looked positively rife with promise.

  Jesus, did I really smolder like that?

  The man grinned in response, but then shook his head. “Well you’ll have to go find it,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll have to escort you off the Bellagio premises. You have to be of age and able to prove it to be here.”

  Othello pouted, drawing my lips down like a bow, looking like a child. But before I could swat her off her stool for making ridiculous faces, Dorian’s messenger slid up alongside us. The would-be butler held out a hand. “If you ladies would be so kind as to follow me, there is a gentleman in the back room who would like to have a word.”

  I frowned at him while the Reds ogled Othello’s new face, pointing and giggling so hard I was sure we were busted. But the security guard seemed unconcerned with them, focusing instead on the newcomer. “I’m afraid the women won’t be leaving until I check this woman’s identification,” he said, sounding a little hostile.

  The messenger leaned in, looking far less harmless than I would have given him credit for. “This establishment is outside the jurisdiction of Nevada’s Gaming Commission, sir. I suggest you remember that.” He teetered back. “Now, if you would follow me,” he said, herding us towards the back of the club. “I will be sure to have the lady’s identification sent along momentarily, sir,” he called to the security officer, whose fists were balled in anger.

  Once we were out of earshot, he urged us to huddle around him, still escorting us towards the back. “We saw what was happening on the cameras,” he said.

  “Wait, there were cameras?” Callie asked, sounding mortified.

  He waved that away. “Private use only. Mr. Gray suggests you make use of his private entrance. Come along.” the man strode off, and we followed, exchanging looks. Othello had yet to remove my face, and seeing it was starting to give me a headache; seeing double had never been a literal experience up to this point, no matter how much I drank.

  Finally, the messenger pulled aside a curtain and waved us through. “Here we are,” he said. “The back door.”

  “Dorian’s private entrance?” I asked, incredulously.

  Callie was shaking her head, massaging her temples.

  Othello was grinning with her teeth.

  The Reds were running their hands along the velvet curtain making cooing noises.

  “He calls it the BackDorian, yes,” the messenger replied, without even a hint of a smile.

  Of course he did.

  Chapter 12 — Callie Penrose, Vegas

  We exited Dorian’s back door—yes, I know how it sounds—with a sigh of relief as the door closed behind us. We were in a wide, long, empty hallway full of painted portraits of Dorian Gray in different levels of both dress and undress. It was wide enough to drive a fucking SUV through. As I scanned the life-sized portraits, I realized he had one for pretty much every culture in the world, from every time period. Even one where he was dressed like Cleopatra.

  As per his usual vanity, the Marc Antony standing beside Cleopatra in the painting was also Dorian Gray. And the two were making out violently. Dorian was literally molesting himself.

  I knew where he had hidden the real picture of Dorian Gray—the one that made him immortal—the one that showed the results of all of his depraved hobbies, leaving his physical person flawless and beautiful. In a way, it was very clever to have so many paintings of himself. Seeds of misdirect to keep the real painting safe, because if anyone ever got their hands on it and destroyed it, he would finally face death. I knew this because I had held a butane torch close to the real painting in order to bully him into helping me with a demon problem back in Kansas City.

  We’d been pals ever since.

  The fact that Dorian had a hallway of beautiful pictures of himself leading to his private entrance into his own club did not surprise me in the least. It didn’t even faze me at this point. Still, I wasn’t up to finding out where it led. Likely some wildly unbelievable orgy in the Library of Congress, knowing Dorian’s penchant for the outlandish. Also, I didn’t feel up to dealing with Dorian right now. He was quick on his feet and the grand champion at enabling or coercing his acquaintances to make the worst kind of decisions. Like a puppet master of sin. Or fun, as he would call it.

  None of us could match wits with him in our present drunken state. This thought was confirmed when I caught Othello snapping pictures of the Reds posing before a portrait of Dorian dressed in full drag.

  Quinn met my eyes, looking desperate. “I don’t t’ink I’m drunk enough for this,” she admitted, jerking her chin at the portraits.

  I snorted, wobbling slightly. “You haven’t even considered what horrors might be at the end of the hall. If it’s tame, it’s probably like the mud pits back there, but with KY Jelly, zero clothing, fog machines, cocaine, and The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers playing on a big screen on the back wall.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened incredulously. “Well…I wouldn’t turn down the Power Rangers marathon. But the rest…” she trailed off thoughtfully, and I began cackling. She scowled at me. “Don’t judge me.”

  I nodded, grinned, and opened a Gateway, seeing as our party were the only ones present in the long hallway. Quinn didn’t even hesitate, jumpin
g through to escape the paintings’ leering eyes. They really did seem to follow you, I realized with a shiver.

  “Let’s go, bitches!” I called out. And we all jumped through the Gateway after Quinn.

  Just in time to hear her shout in horror.

  We were in a large hotel suite, and two men and one woman in Ninja Turtle masks—complete with appropriately colored armbands to match their flavor of mask—were unashamedly ruining my childhood memories with their naked, adult-themed remake of the classic.

  Othello grinned wickedly, not an ounce of surprise on her face. “Go ninja, go ninja, go!” she hooted in a sing-song voice.

  Quinn pointed a warning finger at them, shaking her head in mock horror. “Splinter would be ashamed,” she chided.

  The three turtles turned to look at each other. “We have another mask...” one of the men said suggestively, lifting the mask for Donatello. Quinn made a face, disgusted, but Sonia snatched it before I could say anything, and then Aria and Sonia began fighting over it, bitching at each other the way only sisters could.

  “Don’t touch that,” Quinn hissed. “D’ye want to catch syphilis?”

  “We just bought it,” Leonardo’s mask owner insisted.

  “If ye don’t get us out of here, I’m goin’ to go Shredder on them,” Quinn said to me, matter-of-factly. I nodded woodenly, not really sure what else there was to say, and ripped open another Gateway, not even caring where it led. Anywhere was better than this. Hell, maybe Dorian’s swank party at the Library of Congress would have been better. At least there my childhood wouldn’t have been irreparably ruined.

  Othello herded the Reds through the Gateway, but not before Quinn yanked the mask from the Reds hands with a scowl. I hopped through the Gateway into darkness, ignoring the sounds from behind me.

  Chapter 13 — Quinn MacKenna, Vegas