by P. R. Frost
“Only the best for my girl. Think your mother can find a date for the fourth ticket?”
“I’m sure she can.” Penny Worth came to mind, not Breven Sancroix. Eagerly, I grabbed the tickets and examined them closely. They looked real enough, heavy paper, printing on both sides; section, row, and seat clearly marked as well as date and time. Embossed logo. Tomorrow night, the seven o’clock show. Thursday night, no obligations to the conference.
Donovan waited expectantly while I scrutinized the gold I held in my hand.
“Thank you.”
We looked at each other through a long moment of silence. New heat and awareness rose from my toes to my crown. The invisible scar on my face throbbed.
“Tess,” he said with longing.
“Donovan I . . . you know I want you . . .”
“But . . .” He took a deep breath. Pain flitted across his face. Then a spark of something deeper.
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” I quipped. Goddess, I hadn’t had a man in a long time. A very long time. Not since Donovan and I had fallen together last October. And before that? No one since my husband Dill died in an awful motel fire three years ago.
“I need you, Tess.” Both our gazes flicked toward the nearest bed. The bed closest to the window I’d staked claim to.
“My mom . . .”
“Will be hours yet. She’s found something special she needs to cling to. Like I need to cling to you.”
“What the hell.”
“No commitment, no guilt, no regrets.”
“And no assumptions of a repeat performance.” I closed the aching distance between us and kissed him hard, as I’d yearned to do for a very long time.
Chapter 8
The Golden Nugget has the largest nugget of gold in the world on display. It weighs sixty-two pounds and is heavily guarded.
A LONG TIME later I fell asleep with Donovan’s body wrapped protectively around me and his heavy arm draped across me, anchoring me against him.
There is something incredibly intimate about falling asleep with another person. More so than the act of sex. It becomes a mingling of minds and dreams.
Air rushed around me, pummeling me from all directions as I fell. I could see no bottom, no place to land, nothing to cushion my fall. My wings refused to work.
Half a thought reassured me that this was one of Scrap’s adventures. The reality of truly falling took over.
A blast of anger, outrage, and unrelenting disappointment followed me down, down, and down some more.
“I don’t deserve this!” I cried. At the same time, disappointing the one who’d thrown me down weighed heavily on me, almost like guilt.
“It’s not my fault!”
My heart leaped into my throat. Dread formed a tight knot in my belly. The sheer walls of a deep and twisting shaft sped past me. No handholds. No ledges.
Only the debris of my former body falling looked real.
The anger behind me propelled me around all the convoluted spirals.
Nothing between me and a painful landing that meant the end of my existence.
Something glistened below me. Perhaps, just perhaps I might find enough water down there to absorb my plunge and spit me back out again.
The tiny shimmer grew brighter, more solid. Hard, unforgiving glass. My body and my soul would shatter at the same time as that window into the chamber of the Powers That Be.
This was the end. No recovery. No forgiveness. I had failed in my duty. My own inexperience and cockiness made me reckless to the point of ineptitude. I was the weakness in the wall of defense. Because of me a lot of people died.
I sobbed. Choked on my grief. My heart nearly broke.
Just when I gave myself up to an inevitable and very painful death, something soft and gentle cradled me from behind. It slowed my descent.
The sheer stone walls of a well became tall trees with feathery branches. The hard glass beneath me dissolved into a hidden mountain lake. Grass, moss, and ferns formed a soothing bed that awaited me.
My feet touched down. My knees buckled with relief and strain, unused to supporting my suddenly solid body. Arms encircled me.
“You must still face the Powers That Be for the damage you allowed to happen. But for now you may rest. I will keep you safe. I will teach you what you need to know.”
I knew that voice. Dillwyn Bailey Cooper. My beloved Dill. The man I had met at a con and married four days later. Then he had died three months after that in a motel fire set by Darren Estevez and an unknown compatriot. Three short months. All I had with the love of my life was three short months.
My sobs renewed because I knew I must live through the agony of losing him all over again.
He touched my face and wiped away my tears. “This is a true dream. But not yours. Live and thrive in your new self.”
And then I woke to the sound of the hotel room door opening.
I was alone in the bed.
“Who brought you flowers?” Mom asked as she breezed in, turning on all the lights and filling the room with vibrancy and the scent of stale tobacco smoke. At three in the morning.
“Huh?” I blinked my eyes in confusion, unsure if this was reality or the horrible dream with the puzzling ending.
I’d fallen asleep with Donovan’s arms around my naked body. We’d curled up like two spoons, his breath warm and reassuring against my neck. Now he was gone. And I had dreamed.
This is a true dream. But not yours.
If not mine, was it his? I shuddered at the thought of what he had endured.
He must have left while I slept. I felt his absence more keenly than I wanted to admit.
“Oh, there’s a card.” Mom dug a tiny white envelope out of the depths of the bouquet and handed it to me. “You read it, I don’t have my glasses on.”
At home she wore them on a long chain around her neck. Tonight, only her inevitable strand of pearls accented her ample cleavage in her little black dress.
She looked happy and fulfilled for the first time in . . . well . . . forever.
As much as I appreciated the changes, I didn’t think I’d ever get used to this mom. The Vegas Mom, more alive than I’d ever known her. Dad had left her for Bill when I was twelve. She was barely thirty-seven then. He’d been unhappy with Mom for a long time before that. She’d been nervous and edgy, afraid of the day he’d leave her. She showed a false and brittle brightness during the two and a half days of her marriage to Darren, a product of his demon glamour rather than true happiness.
“I had such a nice chat with Mr. Sancroix,” she mused as she fussed with her toiletry bag.
“Breven or Junior?”
“Both, actually. Junior isn’t nearly as nervous as I thought he’d be. Quite charming if a bit immature. Breven says he knows you. Another charming man in a rustic sort of way. I envy him the energy to work a farm all by himself after his wife left him. He raised Junior, you know. I never did quite find out what happened to the boy’s parents. But his Uncle Breven is the only father he’s ever known.”
I let her prattle.
Silently, I read the card, carefully keeping the sheet and light blanket over my shoulders, masking my nudity. I didn’t think Mom, even the new Mom, would understand why my prim little nightgown lay in a wadded ball beneath the discarded coverlet.
Did Donovan remember to flush the condoms? Yes, that’s plural. Three of them in two hours. The man had stamina, and then some.
My innards tightened in memory of how well, and often, he’d filled me, pushing me to one exploding climax after another.
I yanked my focus back to the card.
“My apologies for trespassing on the goodwill of an honorable Warrior. I hope the four enclosed tickets ensure future good relations. Contessa Lucia Maria Continelli.”
The manipulative, cheating, lying bastard!
Chapter 9
Built in the mid 1950s, the fifteen-story Fremont Hotel was the first high-rise in downtown Las Vegas.
> THE HOUSE LIGHTS BLINKED twice, signaling that “Fairy Moon” was about to begin. I sat between Donovan and Mom. Penny Worth sat beyond her. Donovan made a hunkily handsome man in a fine charcoal suit with a silky, silvery shirt and subtle blue, gray, and silver tie. I didn’t want my hormones jumping so high I couldn’t concentrate on the show.
Mom’s happy smiles and bouncing enthusiasm had convinced me to forgive Donovan. Almost.
That and the limo and the champagne he ordered to transport us to the show. Even Penny Worth seemed impressed, commenting that the champagne was excellent, even if the flutes were plastic—good quality plastic, though.
Can’t have everything.
She and Mom had spent a good part of the afternoon talking on the telephone, recounting adventures in New York—I still hadn’t figured out when that could have taken place—and shopping for just the right dress for tonight’s outing. I was surprised at their joint taste and subdued elegance.
“How’d they do that?” Mom breathed in awe.
An aerial dancer clad in pastel draperies and fairy wings swooped over the audience without visible support. She swung up into the top row, around the full horseshoe of seats and back onto the stage to settle on dainty feet and execute a cute pirouette. The lights made her garb—and her makeup—shift colors randomly. The rainbow morphed around her in time to the live, New Age music. For half a heartbeat I caught a glimpse of bright autumnal rust and green in the mix. Then it faded to softer spring colors.
On a higher level, upstage and beyond the spotlights more bits of action swirled and paused. Costumed beings climbed the walls; fog oozed up from the pit area.
A whisper of something floral drifted past me.
“They look just like real fairies,” Mom said, her hand flat on her chest as if trying to calm her heart rate.
“Yeah, they do,” I said, more a question to Scrap than a real answer.
My imp pranced around the upper levels of the theater, shadowing the dancers as they flew past him. He couldn’t get any closer to me than that with Donovan next to me.
A male dancer took off from the circle of fairies dancing around a huge mock mushroom. A caterpillar smoking a hookah perched on top of the stage prop. That was another, very earthbound dancer in a long green body stocking covered in orange spots. The flying dancer took a different route from the previous one, turning cartwheels in midair and playing loop the loop with Scrap.
Or was Scrap playing loop the loop with the fairy? A human dancer shouldn’t be able to see Scrap, let alone play with him.
A few weeks ago, during that dustup with Mom’s briefly second husband, I’d heard a few interdimensional rumors that all was not well in Faery, the dimension that centered and anchored a good portion of the rest of the Universe.
More coincidences that weren’t really coincidence?
Where were the wires supporting the dancers? How did the lights make this dancer’s pastel costume shift colors in a different pattern from the female?
I didn’t really care. Awe and wonder filled me, almost—but not quite—dampening my constant bump of curiosity.
Closer inspection of the dancers on stage showed that each was dressed differently, and their colors changed in different patterns, still keeping in rhythm with the music.
Scrap soon tired of flying around the audience. He settled at the feet of the musicians on a balcony projecting over the stage. They, too, wore similar costumes to the fairy dancers, but I hadn’t noticed their colors shifting or their wings flapping.
“No wonder this is the hottest show in town,” I said to Mom. “The special effects are fabulous.”
“Thank you for sharing the tickets, Donovan,” Mom replied. She reached across me to pat his hand, then quickly returned her attention to the stage where individual fairies lifted out of the round dance and dropped back down in an intricate pattern.
I allowed myself to believe that Mom just might recover from her disastrous marriage to Darren.
We gave the fairies a standing ovation as the tinkling music faded along with the stage lights. House lights grew brighter, like a dawning. Mom turned to discuss the show with Penny, her new best friend.
From their animation I guessed that this near stranger—or long lost acquaintance—was dearer to Mom than any of her garden club or church choir friends.
“You going to tell me how you got the flowers and tickets from Lady Lucia?” I whispered to Donovan.
“How did you . . . ?”
“There was a card.”
“Oops.”
“You bet your sweet ass, oops.” A very nicely shaped and tightly muscled ass it was, too. “You’re busted. Now tell me.” I fixed him with a stern glare.
“Would you believe I encountered the messenger at the concierge’s desk and assumed the duty to deliver them.”
I hmfed. “Was he overly pale with blood-red lips and wearing a long black cape?”
“No. She wore faded jeans and a T-shirt with a rock band logo.”
“Then Lady Lucia and her minions aren’t really vampires.”
“How do you know Lady Lucia?” Penny Worth asked. She looked upset, the first strong emotion, other than humor, I’d seen in her.
“Her name came up in conversation,” I hedged.
“Don’t mess with her. Ever. She’s dangerous. People who work with her or socialize with her disappear.”
“Have you . . . ?”
“Only once. When I was very young and new to the business. I left before she made an appearance at the party at midnight. I didn’t like the taste of the drinks.”
I didn’t dare ask her if Lady Lucia drank blood and shunned daylight.
“Is there a better place for a vampire to hide than Vegas?” Donovan asked. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Maybe it’s just someone who wants us to think she’s a vampire,” I said. That’s what I wanted to believe. Something creepy shook my convictions, though.
“Think about it. This town operates twenty-four seven. Who questions people who choose to work graveyard shift and sleep all day with the curtains and blinds pulled tight? Who questions their choice of beverage: Bloody Marys.” Donovan’s smile grew bigger.
“Not a good subject to tease me about.” I shifted uneasily, fussing with the chiffon layers of my midnight-blue dress that glittered in the colored lights of the theater. Scrap had found the perfect dress for both the theater and the awards banquet.
As the lights dimmed for the next act, Scrap took off from his perch and flew circles around an area behind us. He trailed a new black-and-silver feather boa behind him like a seductive snake. I did my best to ignore his antics. He was such a queen showing off.
Another, larger imp flew up to join him. Fortitude flapped his wings in long, slow, majestic strokes. The two males contrasted like a pert jay harassing a black swan.
They seemed to converse on a wavelength I could not hear.
If Fortitude was here, then so was Sancroix, and possibly his twitchy nephew. I don’t believe in coincidence.
Chapter 10
Topless dancers became a Las Vegas trademark in 1957 at The Dunes
I DIDN’T DARE TRUST Sancroix, even if he did carry an imp on his shoulder.
In other circumstances I might count him as a potential friend. We had a lot in common, we conversed easily about our lives as Warriors and our experiences in the Citadels.
So why did he stalk me? I had no doubts left that Junior had flown from Chicago to Vegas on my flight just to watch me.
I was as leery of them as I was of Donovan.
Trust has to be earned, Scrap warned me as he settled back with the musicians where he could watch the show and keep an eye on me as well.
“You learn anything from Fortitude?” I asked under the mask of blotting my nose with a tissue.
Not one damn thing. That imp is more closemouthed than any I’ve ever met, including my eldest brother who barely said three words his first one hundred years.
I also trusted Gollum—Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe PhD—with my life and friendship. He, too, had a shadowy past, but I never caught him actually lying to me.
I trusted Donovan with my life. We’d fought demons together twice, and he’d guarded my back admirably. His lies and half truths kept me from trusting him with my heart. The flowers and tickets were just one of many lies.
Didn’t stop me from enjoying last night and longing for more. There is something incredibly satisfying about hot monkey sex. Not satisfying enough to go the distance in a relationship.
In that moment I made the decision to contact my Citadel. If they sent Breven Sancroix to help me with Darren, (even if he did arrive too late) they must know something about him.
“How are they going to top the first act finale?” Mom asked. “For dramatic purposes, you end Act One with your second-best piece, saving the best for the Grand Finale.”
Hidden depths kept coming out of her mouth. Did I have her demon husband to thank for that, or just time and a growing closeness between us.
Then, too, if Darren hadn’t slammed into our lives, would we have torn down some barriers so that we could grow closer?
The house lights blinked once, twice, then doused completely.
The New Age synthesizer music started up on a long slow throb with a light wooden flute flirting with the descant above it. Perfect music to make love to.
Stop that, I admonished myself.
Donovan seemed to have the same idea. He traced sensuous circles along the back of my hand with his thumb.
I jerked it away from him.
A spotlight led our eyes around the perimeter of the theater. A dozen fairy dancers hovered above the audience, disappearing as the light moved on to the next. When each had been highlighted, they converged on silent wings in the center.
