by Karen Chance
"Who?"
"Orders or no orders, I have had enough!" I grabbed him when he tried to stomp off, which wouldn't have worked except that Françoise decided to pitch in. "Oh, this is nice," Casanova said furiously. "Assaulted, in my own casino! What's next? Tying me up?"
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd just hate that," I said sourly. "Stop with the theatrics. Pritkin's gone off somewhere and I need answers. Either give them to me or throw me out."
Casanova snorted. "Right. I'm going to evict the boss's girlfriend!"
"I'm not the boss's girlfriend!"
"Uh-huh. That's not the memo I got. The last thing I heard, from the man himself, was to lend you every possible assistance because you're—how did he phrase it? — oh, yes, precious to him." Casanova looked vaguely disgusted. "Of course, that was before you started making out with the mage in the middle of the damn lobby!"
"That wasn't him!"
"You know that, and I know that. Does Mircea? Because he really doesn't share well."
"I don't know anything," I told him grimly. "But I'm about to."
"Not from me," Casanova said flatly.
Françoise started chanting something and he paled. "Quit that! I haven't even gotten the bill for the last disaster yet!"
"Then talk. Who attacked me? And why?"
"I already told you! And I'd prefer not to mention his name again; it might attract his attention." Casanova visibly shuddered. "Having his destructive spawn here is bad enough."
"Are you making this up?" The only group I could think of who didn't already want me dead were the demons, mainly because I didn't know any. At least, I hadn't before today, unless you counted incubi. And death and destruction weren't really their thing.
At least, I hadn't thought so.
"There are a few things I do not joke about, chica, and he is one of them."
"You're telling me that Pritkin's father is some demon?"
Casanova paled. "Not some demon. The ruler of our court."
"So this Rosier is what? A demon lord?"
"Don't use his name!"
Billy Joe had said it, and I'd even heard a sort of admission from Pritkin's own lips, but I still couldn't believe it. "But Pritkin hates demons, he's hunted them for years, he's fanatical about it…"
"You don't say."
"But if he's half demon himself, why would he—"
"I don't know. Or, rather, they have issues; everyone knows that. Your mage has the distinction of being the only mortal ever actually kicked out of Hell, but I don't have any specifics. I don't deal in High Court politics; I have my own problems, most of which lately revolve around you!"
I ignored the obvious attempt to change the subject. "I don't get it. How can Pritkin possibly be half-incubus?" I poked him on the arm. "You're incorporeal."
"I have a host—"
"Which is exactly my point. You need a host to, you know." I waved a hand at his body, which was looking elegant as usual in a tan linen suit and snappy orange silk tie. Casanova raised an eyebrow. "To feed, okay? And wouldn't that make the host the father of any children, and not you?"
Casanova sighed heavily, the weight of my stupidity clearly becoming too much for him to bear. But at least he answered. "The ruler of our court is powerful enough to assume human form at will, instead of having to find a host, and is therefore the only one of us to have progeny." He made a face. "Considering the result, I can't say I envy him that."
"You mean, Pritkin is the only one of his kind?"
"There are plenty of demon races out there and many of them are corporeal all the time," Casanova said crossly. "Half-demon children aren't exactly thick on the ground, but they do exist. And most of them aren't destructive maniacs."
"But no other incubi?"
"The experiment wasn't a roaring success," he pointed out dryly.
"Okay, but none of this explains why Ros—" Casanova flinched. "That demon attacked me. He only went after Pritkin when he tried to protect me."
"Protect you? That's like sending Pancho Villa to keep Che Guevara out of trouble!"
"Would you just—"
"I don't know." Casanova saw my expression. "It's the truth! I don't know and I don't want to know. The last thing I need is for certain people to decide that I'm interfering in their business!"
"Rosier killed Saleh," I said, trying to fit the pieces together. "And when he came after me, he said it was because I'd talked to him. But the only thing Saleh and I discussed was—"
"Don't tell me!" Casanova backed away with a panicked look, right into the line of dangerous-looking creatures who had just entered the salon. They'd been so quiet, I hadn't even heard them. I assumed Casanova would have, under other circumstances, but he wasn't at his best. That was even more true when he spun around and caught a glimpse of Alphonse's smirking face.
He literally snarled, and casino security, which had been trailing the nattily dressed group of vamps, closed in a little more. "I invited them!" I said, before things could turn ugly.
"You set me up!" Casanova shot me a purely vicious look. And, okay, yeah, maybe I should have brought this up a little sooner. But I'd been busy.
"They're here to help me with something, not to fight," I said. I caught Alphonse's eye, which was easy even with Casanova in the way since he is almost seven feet tall. "Right?"
"Sure thing," he agreed smoothly, giving Casanova's shoulder a friendly squeeze that had the incubus wincing in pain. "Came to see the bikes over at the Mirage."
"You're in my territory!"
Alphonse grinned lazily. "There ain't no territories no more—or didn't you hear? The Senate outlawed 'em to cut down on the feuding." He chuckled, like that was the best joke he'd heard in a while.
"He likes motorcycles," I reminded Casanova quickly. "You know that!"
It was true. Besides photography, B-grade vampire movies and killing things, Alphonse liked big, loud bikes that belched black smoke and choked anyone unfortunate enough to be behind him. For a cold-blooded killer, he was remarkably well-rounded.
He was also really good at getting under Casanova's skin. Not that he had to work very hard. I got the impression that there was some lingering resentment over the fact that Alphonse had taken Casanova's place as Tony's second a few years back. I had no idea if that had been a purely business decision or was partly personal, but there was no doubt that the incubus resented it. And Alphonse showing up on his doorstep without so much as a by-your-leave wasn't helping.
"And if me and my lady want to do a little gambling, who's gonna stop us?"
The five huge security personnel took a collective step forward. I started to get between them and Alphonse's group, which consisted of him, Sal, three vamps I remembered from Tony's, and one that I didn't. I really didn't want to be responsible for a territory war. But Sal caught my wrist faster than I could blink and pulled me out of the way.
"Let 'em get it out of their systems now or it'll be a whole lot worse later," she said, as the two groups surged into each other. Alphonse picked up a standing ashtray, which was as big around as a small trash can, and swung it like a club. The black sand, which had been neatly impressed with Dante's logo, went flying everywhere before the ashtray caught Casanova squarely in the stomach. He staggered back into Enyo, knocking her off her stool.
"You don't care if they kill each other?" I demanded, as Enyo righted herself, looked around, and tossed the gutted slot machine straight at Alphonse.
Sal pulled me back a few yards, to where a small bench sat near the ornate glass doors leading to the promenade. She lit a cigarette, her numerous rings catching the light better than the cobweb-covered chandeliers above our heads. "They gotta establish boundaries," she said, shrugging.
"This isn't why I brought you here!"
"Honey, this was gonna happen sooner or later anyway. Better it be now, when they still need each other."
Casanova took a flying leap, landed on Alphonse's back, and started choking him with the plastic cord from a comp ca
rd. "They don't look like they're pulling any punches to me."
"Relax. They can't afford to kill each other with Mircea's life on the line. It's just a pissing contest—let 'em get it over with and then we'll talk."
Apparently, Casanova had grabbed Enyo's comp card, and she wanted it back. Or at least I assume that was the reason she ripped him off Alphonse and threw him through the glass doors. Sal appropriated a tray of drinks from a server, who was scurrying to get out of the way, and regarded me narrowly, long red nails tapping slightly against her glass.
She'd gone all out dress-wise. Her silky white pants clung like they loved every inch of her, and her gold lamé top plunged here and was cropped there until it was really more of a concept than an actual shirt. Her honey blond hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail, and her makeup was flawless. She took in my rumpled T-shirt and jeans, which I'd thrown on while still bleary-eyed from sleep, and my rat's nest hair. "You gotta step it up, girl. You're with Lord Mircea," she informed me, in tones of awe.
I decided that attempting to explain my actual relationship with Mircea would be a mistake, since I wasn't even sure what it was. "So?"
"You represent the family. And this?" A dismissive gesture indicated my complete lack of sartorial elegance. "Is downright embarrassing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You can't go around looking like this," Sal said clearly, as if she thought I might be a little slow. Her boyfriend, who'd gotten up some momentum swinging from a chandelier, dropped onto one of Casanova's boys, who'd been beating the vamp whose name I didn't know to a pulp.
"I wasn't exactly expecting you tonight," I said defensively. "Not to mention that I'm in disguise."
"As what? A homeless person?"
I should have remembered: Mircea was in the minority among vamps for preferring understated attire. Most believed in the old adage that said, if you had it, flaunt it, and for all you were worth. Alphonse was an enthusiastic convert to that mind-set, so much so that he'd gotten into trouble more than once at court for being flashier than the boss. Tonight he was sporting one of the bespoke suits he had tailored in New York for three or four thousand bucks a pop and enough bling to make a rap star jealous. Maybe I should have at least brushed my hair, I thought belatedly.
Casanova staggered back in from the hall, grabbed a drink from the tray Sal had put on the end of the sofa, and belted it before sending the dish slicing through the air toward Alphonse's neck. Alphonse ducked at the last minute and it would have hit Deino, except she caught it like a Frisbee and sent it right back. Sal plucked it out of the air and set her now empty glass on it before putting it back on the sofa cushion.
"You're gonna need a look," she said thoughtfully.
"What?"
"A persona."
I blinked. It was disconcerting to hear words like «persona» come out of Sal's mouth. I'd never known her very well at Tony's—mostly, she'd been draped over Alphonse, dressed in something short, tight and revealing, doing a damn good impression of a dumb blonde. Actually, until that second, I'd thought she was a dumb blonde. "Take me, for instance. I'm an ex-saloon girl and a gun moll. You think anybody's gonna take me seriously if I show up in Dior?"
"Maybe Gaultier," I offered, before yanking my legs out of the way of a vampire, who slid across the carpet face-first before disappearing under the couch. When he didn't immediately crawl back out again, I peered underneath, only to have a hand wrap around my throat.
Sal ground her shiny silver heel into the side of his arm and he abruptly let go. I got a close-up view of her shoe and realized that stiletto heels were, in her case, aptly named. The thing was made of metal—alloyed steel by the look of it—and was sharp as a knife.
"You have to play to your strengths," she said, as I tried to rub my throat without being too obvious. "I'm a tough broad and everybody knows it, so I go with that. But in your case" — she gave me the once-over—“you ain't never gonna carry off tough."
"I can be tough," I said, stung.
"Right." Sal cracked her gum. "With those little stick arms. I think we're gonna go with elegant, so you'll match Mircea."
"But Mircea doesn't—"
"And don't you think that makes him stand out? He's saying, ‘I'm so strong, I don't need to play dress-up for you assholes. But even though he don't wear some weird medieval shit like some, he always looks good."
"I have more important things to worry about than—"
"There's nothing more important than your image," Sal told me flatly. "You gotta be impressive, or you're gonna be fighting all the time. If you don't look important, everybody's gonna assume you're a pushover. Then we have to defend you for the boss's sake and a lot of people end up dead. Just 'cause you couldn't be bothered to put on a little makeup."
My time at court had been about blending in, fading into the background, trying to avoid attention that usually didn't end well. Nothing in my past experience had taught me how to make an impression. "I don't usually dress up," I said lamely.
Sal gripped my arm, those bloodred talons denting but not quite piercing the skin. "Oh, we'll take care of that." And the calculating look on her face was the scariest thing I'd seen all night.
Chapter 16
"I can't breathe," I complained.
Sal shot me a look in the full-length mirror in front of us. "You don't need to breathe. You need to look good," she said, ruthlessly lacing up the back of my bodice. We were in the penthouse suite that she'd appropriated along with a bottle of champagne, half a dozen bellboys and the dress I'd ordered from Augustine. He had not been pleased to be woken up in the middle of the night or to have his workroom invaded, and had loudly declared that feats of genius take time and he wasn't finished yet, thank you. Then Sal bought two outfits outright and put in an order for an even dozen more and he shut up so fast his mouth made a popping sound.
"No, you don't need to breathe. I'm pretty sure it's a necessity for me."
"Did you always whine this much?"
"I don't think asking to be allowed to breathe constitutes—"
"Because I don't remember it." Sal paused to admire the very rude slogan that had just written itself across her chest. One of the outfits she'd gotten from Augustine was a black cat suit that displayed neon-colored graffiti on itself at random moments. Sal had discovered that she could influence the choice of words if she thought very hard, and she was having fun corrupting her outfit.
"Of course, I don't remember much about you at all," she continued. "You never had two words to say to anybody, except those imaginary friends of yours—"
"They were ghosts!"
“—always slinking around in the shadows, looking spooked if anyone so much as noticed you—"
"I wonder why?"
“—which as far as I can tell hasn't changed."
I sucked in a breath, planning to teach her suit a new word, except that she cinched in the waist at that moment and all the air was forced out of my lungs. "Keeping your head down is the very worst thing you can do! It makes you look vulnerable."
"Which is fair enough since I am, in fact—"
"You gonna hide all your life? You gotta show everybody that they need to be afraid of you, not the other way 'round. That thing you did with the Consul, that was good. It made 'em pull back a little, made 'em think. You haven't had any more problems with the Circle lately, right?"
"Other than the huge bounty they put on my head?"
"Huh. Maybe we need to make the point a little more obvious."
"Any more obvious and I'll be dead." Sal turned to pick up her champagne and a very rude phrase flashed across her backside. I scowled at it, but I wasn't going to lower myself to fight with a piece of fabric. "I haven't had any problems because they don't know where I am."
Sal paused to tip the last of the exhausted-looking bellhops. He'd just dumped a trunk big enough to conceal a body in the middle of the living room floor. And considering who it belonged to, it just might. "Honey, everyone knows w
here you are!" she said, as soon as he'd left. "I mean, come on. What do you think we're doin' out here?"
"Planning to beat up Casanova?"
"Other than that."
"I don't know. Rafe called you—"
"And we usually jump when he snaps his fingers," Sal said, rolling her eyes. "Alphonse's come to suck up to the new boss. And since he ain't around, you'll do."
"Uh-huh." Alphonse sucking up to me was about as likely as the earth suddenly deciding to change direction, just for a switch.
"You really don't get it, do you?" Sal looked genuinely puzzled. "There's a war on. Everybody's choosing sides. The smart ones are aligning themselves where the strength is. Like with Mircea. Like with you."
"What about Tony? He's your master."
"And I never fully appreciated how much I hated that little toad until he was gone."
"But if he comes back—"
"I'll kill him," Sal said, sounding as if she'd relish the opportunity.
"You can't. As your master—"
"He won't be my master by then. Mircea will."
Things suddenly made a lot more sense. "You want Mircea to break your bond."
"When this thing's over, we intend to still be standing—and on the winning side," Sal confirmed, shooting me a look out of suddenly shrewd blue eyes. "Not dead fighting for a man we both despise."
Wonderful. Yet another group who was depending on me, expecting me to somehow miraculously make everything right again. I decided that maybe I'd been better off alone; fewer people to disappoint that way, fewer things to screw up. "If I'm so powerful, why can't I keep those two downstairs from killing each other?"
Sal picked up the phone and handed it to me. "You want them to stop horsing around, tell them."
"Just like that."
"Exactly like that."
I looked at her blankly, but she just snapped her gum at me so I told the phone that I would like to speak to Casanova. It told me that he was rather busy at the moment. I said I'd really appreciate it if he could make the time. It asked if I would like to leave a message. Sal grabbed it out of my hand with a disgusted look. "Get your ass in there and tell him that the reigning Pythia wants to talk to him," she snapped.
