by P. R. Frost
Mr. Twitchy picked up on the chorus, in his quivery tenor, fighting panic with every word.
Slowly, quiet and order prevailed. Soon the entire coach section was singing. And seated.
I tired of the nonsense words and started up an old campfire song.
“Down in the meadow
In an iddy biddy pool
Swam three little fishes
And a momma fishy, too!”
Mom picked up on it—she’d taught it to me after all. She gave me my first voice lessons in church choir, too.
The crowd around us took a few moments to catch on. Eventually, they sang the chorus with us.
Boop Boop Diddim Daddum Waddum Choo!
“Thanks,” the hapless steward said quietly, touching my shoulder. “I’ll take Jessie here back to her mama. And I owe you a drink when we get to Vegas.”
“Make it Lagavulin, single malt.”
He grinned at me and held up one thumb in agreement. Then he gathered up the little girl, both happily singing, and deposited her with a relieved mother.
“You did good,” Mom said.
“We’re entering final approach for landing, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your patience.”
Ten minutes later we landed in Las Vegas. I could feel the sun beating on the outside of the airplane the moment we stopped at the gate. The whoosh of fresher air entering from the airport relieved much of the olfactory stress. I sat back, eyes closed, and soaked up the heat, letting it banish the anxiety of the last half hour. It felt like a week.
I let the other passengers scramble for their bags in the overhead and scurry for the exit. No sense in fighting them to get out first. I’d learned long ago that on airplanes and in airports the hurrier I go the behinder I get.
Mom seemed content to wait.
When I opened my eyes, Mr. Twitchy was still strapped in the seat across from me. The captain stalked back to lecture him firmly about the panic he’d caused. “We’ve added your name to the list,” he warned. “Next incident and you’re banned from flying again in this country, maybe arrested for causing an incident.”
His angry presence blocked my easy exit.
When the aisle was clear, I looked over at the abashed Mr. Twitchy. He looked like he wanted to cry. “I can’t help it,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m clairvoyant.”
“Not a great one. We ran into trouble, but we didn’t crash, and no one got hurt—except for some bumps and bruises. And that wouldn’t have happened if people hadn’t reacted to your panic and started running about. If they’d stayed seated, nothing would have happened. You’re also a projecting empath,” I said. “You need to work with a competent psychic on controlling that talent.”
“You’re one, too,” he said defensively.
I started to protest. The events of the flight replayed in my mind like a videotape on fast forward. “Maybe I am. I used it to calm people for a positive outcome. If I hadn’t, Mr. Fullback, or even you, might have opened one of the exit doors, causing depressurization and sucking a lot of people out the door to their deaths. Think about that next time you have a vision.”
I stood up and yanked my computer bag out from under the seat.
“You don’t know that,” Mr. Twitchy retorted.
“I know that if I hadn’t stopped you, you might have made your ‘vision’ come true. A self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Listen to her, young man. She knows what she’s talking about,” Mom said. She handed me her overnight bag from beneath the seat, and marched down the long aisle to the exit, as full of majesty and determination as I’d ever seen her.
I whistled a jaunty tune and followed her, very happy to have my mom back.
“Took you long enough,” I admonish Tess as she steps into the terminal from the long walkway off the plane. I flit around and around, then land on her shoulder. I have to hold on for dear life. Her life as well as mine. I do my best to disguise my tremors of fear as indignation. “You could have warned me you were going to be late getting off the plane.”
Actually, I was the late one. I’d tugged and twisted and yanked myself away from those awful magnetic rocks with a great deal of difficulty. If Tess had gotten off the plane a moment earlier, I’d have some serious explaining to do.
And I will explain. Just as soon as I figure out what went on. Or if she treks out there on one of her mad excursions. Tess does love to explore when she visits new places.
You’d think she’d lose her fascination with rocks now that she’s ditched the ghost of her geologist husband; and the demon construct made to look like the late and barely lamented Dillwyn Bailey Cooper. We’ll see if the delights of Las Vegas keep her on the straight and narrow. I don’t think we can fight whatever lurks out there in the desert. I don’t think we need to.
Yet.
“You couldn’t amuse yourself rigging the slot machines?” Tess rejoins, sotto voce. Her gaze goes to the bank of computerized one-armed bandits not ten feet away. A number of people exit the plane and make a beeline for the bright lights and clanging bells, eager to begin losing money.
“Come on, babe. Let’s go shopping. I need a new feather boa, and you need a little glitz in your evening gown! We have an awards banquet to go to Saturday night!”
“Later. I’ve got show tickets to buy,” Tess mutters angrily. Like she’d really rather go shopping with me but knows she has to come up with those tickets because it’s the only thing Mom has asked for since Darren died.
Chapter 4
Most workers in Las Vegas make little more than minimum wage, even in the biggest and most impressive casinos. They rely upon tips to survive. Everyone in Vegas expects a tip, from the bellhop, to the dealer, to the massage therapist, to the bus driver.
“I’M HAVING A massage in half an hour,”Mom announced as we checked in at The Crown Jewels Hotel and Convention Center. The noise from the casino ten paces away and down three steps from the narrow lobby nearly obscured her words. The writers’ conference had opted for a small hotel/casino off the strip. Much more affordable for a gathering of under one thousand people.
Not able to compete with modern glitz and glitter, The Crown Jewels had gone for the genteel poverty look of an English manor. Dark wood wainscoting and hardwood floors, accented with deep red velvet drapes and upholstery, dim lighting from Tiffany style shades on floor lamps, and an abundance of potted palms and rubber trees gave welcome relief from the bright desert sun outside.
That and the air-conditioning. The red Oriental style carpets, and the upholstery had just the right touch of threadbare shabbiness. I thought it succeeded quite well in providing a comfortable and welcome ambience.
However, the sour reek of tobacco smoke drifting in from the casino and embedded in the upholstery spoiled the atmosphere.
I can smoke in here! Scrap chortled. Everyone else does.
Just what I needed. “You will not smoke around any of the conference people,” I replied under my breath. “Offend one of them with your cigars, and I’ll feed you to Gollum’s cat.” Scrap had a running feud with the long-haired white monster that owned my lodger back home.
I accepted our key cards and room assignment from the hotel desk clerk.
“You do realize, Mom, that you will have to remove all of your clothing for the massage.” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Not in public, Tess. They give you a bath sheet and keep it very discreet and professional. I’m not totally ignorant of the world.” She hmfed and trotted off toward the elevator, leaving me to collect our bags. Again.
“I’m going to try again to get show tickets for tonight. If I do, we’ll need to be at the theater by six,” I called after her.
She waved an acknowledgment.
I flagged down a bellhop. Gone were the days when I could flit off to a weekend science fiction/fantasy convention with only a change of underwear and my toiletries crammed into a small backpack. I also found room in there for half a dozen books to be si
gned by the authors attending the same con. Now I traveled with professional clothes, banquet/party clothes, rugged clothes and hiking boots for excursions, a whole suitcase of my own books in case the convention dealers didn’t have enough copies, and my trusty laptop with backup CD burner and flash drive. I also brought a cache of other people’s books to read and to have signed.
While I sorted and organized my gear plus Mom’s, Mr. Twitchy entered the hotel lobby and sidled up to the registration desk as if he didn’t want to be seen. I saw no trace of his luggage or a bellhop in tow.
“Welcome back, Mr. Sancroix,” said the perky desk clerk. She handed him a key card. He didn’t fork over a credit card or sign a registration form like the rest of us had to. Even though the writers’ conference paid for my room, I still had to leave a credit card number on file against incidental charges.
With barely a nod of acknowledgment, Mr. Sancroix marched toward a broad flight of stairs leading to the mezzanine.
I smell imp, Scrap wiggled his pug nose and slapped my back with his barbed tail in excitement. I could almost feel it.
“How can you smell anything over the stale cigarette smoke?”
Scrap alit from my shoulder and flitted around the lobby on stubby wings working his pug nose overtime. He honed in on Mr. Twitchy Sancroix.
“He a regular?” I asked the bellhop, jerking my head toward Mr. Twitchey’s retreating back.
I betcha he’s related to that last Sancroix guy we met. I just know it. I smell an imp. Scrap bounced from rubber tree to lamp to drapery pull.
I hoped he wouldn’t break anything. Sometimes bits and pieces of him materialized in this dimension just enough to wreak havoc.
The bellhop pursed his lips and rubbed his thumb against his fingertips.
I sighed and slipped him a ten.
He looked at it with a frown, then back to me hopefully.
I stared him down.
This time he sighed. “Junior pops in and out a couple times a month for ten days at a time, practically lives here. His uncle has been here for the past three weeks solid, visiting.”
“That would explain the lack of luggage, if he keeps clothes here. The uncle wouldn’t have a first name of Breven would he?”
Betcha he does! Scrap chortled. Just betcha. How much you wanna bet? This is Vegas, after all. They bet on everything here. How much, babe? How much you wanna bet?
We’d met a Breven Sancroix briefly a few weeks ago. My Sisterhood had sent him to help me with a little demon problem. Only by the time he showed up, I’d solved the problem, or rather beaten it back to the otherworld. Breven and his dominant male imp Fortitude (Scrap called him Guts because the grumpy senior imp didn’t return his affections) were the only Warriors of the Celestial Blade I’d met outside of a Citadel. We solitaries, or rogues, aren’t too common.
For two of us to show up at the same off-Strip hotel in Las Vegas at the same time seemed too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence.
The bellhop stared at his empty hand.
“I’ll find out myself.” I smiled at him and trotted off to the elevator. “Scrap, what’s appropriate to wear for the hottest show in Vegas?”
That little midnight-blue number with layered chiffon and just a touch of beads and sequins.
“I don’t remember buying a dress like that.”
Because you haven’t bought it yet. I spotted it in the underground mall on the discount rack. Let’s hurry before someone else snatches it!
“Sorry, ma’am, those tickets for ‘Fairy Moon’ have been sold out for months. I can get you two single seats, separated by half the theater in August.”
I glared at the young man working in the box office for the show Mom had asked to see.
“Who in their right mind comes to Las Vegas in August? The heat . . .” No windows or clocks in any of the casinos to hint at the harsh sunlight outside. My eyes already hurt from the glare. Mid-April was bad enough in the desert. No way was I coming back in August.
“Ever heard of air-conditioning?” The attendant signaled the next person in line to move forward. The middle-aged blowsy bottle blonde wearing a bright orange tank top and green shorts three sizes too small shoved me out of the way.
“Psst, missy,” a weak little voice whispered in my ear.
Back off, dude, Scrap hissed back.
I whirled, hands up, expecting Scrap to stretch and morph into my Celestial Blade.
He remained firmly attached to my left shoulder, leaning over and baring his multiple rows of teeth at the sharp face of a skinny man about my own height. Unusual to find a fully grown man as vertically challenged as myself.
“I got tickets.” The little man looked around nervously, twitching his nose a lot like a weasel.
Don’t trust him, babe, he smells funny. Scrap spat out his cigar only half smoked.
“I don’t trust him. But if he’s got tickets to ‘Fairy Moon,’ I’ll listen.” Two steps away from the ticket counter and I was close enough to smell something rancid on the man’s breath, barely masked by an overly sweet and oily hair tonic.
No kidding he smelled funny.
He backed up with small mincing steps, subtly leading me toward an exit, a fire door nearly hidden behind a huge potted palm. We had privacy. I had him in the corner. He couldn’t grab my money and run.
“Name?” I demanded of the scalper.
“Names aren’t necessary between friends. And right now I’m your best friend with tickets. Two seats together. Not the best, but not the worst either.” He smiled, revealing small, pointy teeth.
“Okay, Mr. Weasel.” He smelled of very ripe musk.
He winced but didn’t lose the smile.
“Scalping tickets isn’t exactly legal. How much are we talking?”
“Five hundred apiece.”
Ouch.
“Even my mom’s heart’s desire isn’t worth that much. One hundred apiece or I call hotel security.” Or I’d bash in his pointed nose myself.
“My boss will bite hard if I sell for less than four-fifty.”
“Bite hard? What is he, a vampire?” I almost laughed. I can’t believe in vampires. I may write fantasy fiction, but that is one topic I won’t touch. No one comes back from the dead. I’d learned that the hard way with the ghost of my husband.
“Yes. She is a vampire. A very old and powerful vampire.”
He really believed that. His eyes glittered in terror. His almost offensive aftershave intensified.
Best I play up to his fears.
Scrap trembled and flicked his barbed tail. I don’t think this guy is kidding, dahling.
“Two hundred. Your boss will only make a light snack of you.” I had that much in cash. Time enough to hit the ATM before the show.
“Three-fifty.” His neck lost a bit of tension. He still looked around, constantly scanning the mingling crowds around the box office.
“Two-fifty.” That would drain my wallet. About what I’d planned on having to spend on tickets after searching on line at home.
“Okay, okay. You’re signing my death warrant, but I’ll let them go for that.”
I reached for my wallet inside my belt pack.
Not yet, babe. Make him prove he’s got the tickets. I don’t like the way he smells.
I trusted Scrap’s nose, as long as it wasn’t clogged by allergies from Gollum’s cat Gandalf. Gollum might be one of my best friends and a convenient lodger, but his cat and my imp had periodic turf wars.
“Show me the tickets.”
“Show me the money.”
“How do I know they aren’t forgeries?” I cocked my head to the side, giving Scrap a bit of room to do his thing if we needed to fight. My feet took an en garde stance automatically, right foot forward, left turned out at a ninety-degree angle, knees bent, balance centered.
“Now would I try to cheat a lady like you?” Mr. Weasel held out his hands palms up in a universal gesture of helplessness.
Helpless, my cut
e little bum. He’s a were. Knew I’d smelled that stench of rotten meat and musk before. You’d think these guys would learn to brush and floss!
“You don’t look like a werewolf, little man. Show me the tickets.”
Not a werewolf, babe. A wereweasel. Much more dangerous. Sneaky little bastards. But tied to the moon just like their canine cousins.
“That’s a new one. We haven’t encountered weres before.” Time for research.
“We?” Mr. Weasel gasped. His eyes turned yellow and the irises slitted vertically.
Uh-oh.
“We, as in my imp. Ever met a Warrior of the Celestial Blade before?” I held out my palm. Scrap hopped onto it and stretched his neck and bandy legs to make him look taller, ready to transform.
Except he remained firmly in his imp shape and only a pale pink. Normally Scrap became my weapon only in the face of a demon or someone impossibly evil. Then he flushed bright red and stretched easily.
Mr. Weasel’s tanned and leathery skin, with a significant brindled-brown five o’clock shadow, blanched. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to run.
“Tell me true, Mr. Weasel,” I pinned him with my gaze. “Are your tickets forgeries?”
“Y . . . yes.”
“And I should fork over good money and risk embarrassing my mother when we are denied entrance to the theater—why?”
“Because Lady Lucia will kill me if I don’t come up with a grand by midnight.”
“Tell Lady Lucia that I don’t care. And the next person in her employ who tries to cheat me will eat my Blade.”
I spun on my heel and headed for the taxi stand.
Mom and I would have to settle for the lounge act in the casino of The Crown Jewels.
As I passed a blackjack table, a girl who didn’t look older than fifteen, clad in layers of pastel chiffon, pushed a pile of gold chips toward the dealer. Stranger yet, she wore fairy wings in the shape of double oak leaves. I’d seen that girl and her costume on dozens of posters around town advertising the show “Fairy Moon.”
