by Ilana Waters
“I hate to remind you, but you’re not the general of anything anymore.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I didn’t dare look at Titus’s face for a reaction. “Besides,” I said, trying to maneuver around the pedestrians coming from the opposite direction, “we chased that vampire in the alley all the way to New York. We’ve been to Istanbul, Prague, Lisbon, and countless other cities. Perhaps regrouping isn’t the answer. Perhaps . . . it’s time we asked the High Council for help.”
“The High Council?” my father spat. We’d managed to get past the onslaught, and walked on through the thinning crowd. “Do you know what they’d do if they found out your mother had the crystal? They’d get to it, all right. No guarantee your mother would survive the encounter, however.”
The High Council is a governing body of witches, typically made up of thirteen individuals. It’s usually full of lawyers, businessmen, politicians, magnates, et cetera. Their position on the Council is typically held for life, with new members voted on by other members. I’ve heard they weren’t always as bad as my father makes them out to be. But some very stringent members happened to be running it right now. Most of their efforts were focused on keeping the status quo, which meant keeping themselves in power. It seemed Titus had few doubts that, if they felt the crystal could accomplish this end, they wouldn’t hesitate to use it. And no one who stood in their way would be safe.
Obviously, as witches, my father and I try to respect the Council’s authority. But we’re always on the outside of it, and not just because we’re not members. Since Titus is a vampire and I am somewhat of a half-breed (yes, yes—I’ll get to that), we’re both looked at with suspicion. Only some of which is unearned, mind you.
Outcasts from our own kind, caught between worlds . . . it’s one of the few things my father and I have in common. Witches rarely accept Titus because he’s a vampire, and vampires are wary of him because he’s a witch. As a mage, I’m often derided for being neither witch nor mortal. Having a vampire father certainly doesn’t help. Then there’s the small matter of my mysterious birth, but as I said, you’ll have to wait a little longer to hear about that.
“Well, if we can’t turn to the Council, you should know that vampire you kill—” I looked quickly to the right and left as we walked. Of course, it was silly to worry about being overheard in such noisy surroundings. Still, one could never play it too safe.
“That vampire you killed,” I lowered my voice, “was the last person I know of who might have any pertinent information.”
My father adjusted his collar as we approached the door to our hotel. “It’s not my fault we’re running out of options.”
“Is that what returning to the Roman really is?” My father barely glanced at the doorman as the latter tipped his cap and let us in. I nodded to him; the doorman raised his eyebrows at my battered appearance, but said nothing. “Are you suggesting we give up?”
“I’m not suggesting anything of the kind,” my father replied. We crossed the travertine floor of the lobby and stood by the elevator, which was on its way down. “But recall how you said it was the last vampire. There’s only one other place I can think of that regularly acquires material on supernatural occurrences.”
I groaned as the elevator doors opened and several people exited. I had really been hoping to avoid what my father was about to suggest. We stepped inside the elevator, and he pressed the button for our floor.
“Please, no,” I begged. “You can’t mean—”
“The PIA,” we both finished, and the elevator doors closed.
Chapter 4
The concept of the PIA is a relatively simple one. The title stands for “Paranormal Investigation Agency,” which is exactly what it sounds like. A secret group of men and women who dedicate themselves to the study and observation of supernatural phenomena. As to why I loathe the idea of going through the organization, well, that’s a little more complicated. But I promise to let you know a little later on. And don’t worry—I assure you, I always keep my promises.
But on to our journey. Titus and I headed back to Las Vegas to regroup (his view), and to procrastinate (mine). I spent most of the trip asleep on my father’s private jet; sleep definitely speeds up the healing process. By the time we touched down on the landing strip, I felt almost like myself again.
Yes, I know we both can fly without the use of machines. However, witches—and mages who can fly—prefer to do so only during emergencies. Otherwise, it tends to attract unwanted attention. One can use magic to render oneself invisible, of course, but there’s that pesky energy expenditure again. I hope all this explains why Titus and I took a plane to Las Vegas rather than hop on our broomsticks. I warned you not to get me started.
A short limousine ride later, we were on the most important street in the city, known simply as the Strip. A wave of dry heat engulfed me as I exited the car, almost like being set on fire and feeling everything but the flames. Still, it was not entirely unpleasant. There was the familiar sight of palm trees, the usual mix of businesspeople at conventions. There were Elvis impersonators, showgirls, streetwalkers, mothers pushing strollers, and people about to get married who probably shouldn’t. I had to admit, the Strip was dazzlingly beautiful when lit up at night—a dark rainbow flung across the desert trail. And on the east side, between Sands Avenue and Flamingo Road, stood my father’s casino.
Forget Caesar’s, the Venetian, the Palazzo. The Roman Casino Resort and Hotel was the place to see and be seen in Las Vegas. Some of our restaurants had waiting lists that were weeks long, and well-known magnates and Hollywood stars were known to be turned away for rooms.
True to its name, the architecture resembled that of ancient Rome. Past the front entrance, with its enormous Corinthian columns made of marble, were eight thousand rooms, sixteen Broadway-size theaters, and twenty nightclubs. There were nine Olympic-size swimming pools—often the hosts of mock naval battles—and an amphitheater bigger than Madison Square Garden. Add to that several million dollars’ worth of art and sculpture, a half-mile-long shopping mall, and well, you get the idea. The Roman was over the top. Hell, the crystal chandelier in the front lobby was said to be worth ten times as much as the Hope Diamond. The fountain in front was twice as big as that of the Bellagio’s, a fact my father enjoyed quoting often. As usual, a twenty-foot-tall stone Caesar greeted us at the front doors.
“Julius Caesar.” Titus looked up and nodded. “Now there was a man.”
“Yes, Father—I know. You’ve told me many times.”
“Loyal, fearless . . .” Titus continued staring at the statue in admiration. “He nearly ruled the known world.”
“What was he loyal to, precisely?” I snorted and glanced back at the limo as it drove away. “His own ambition?”
“Rome. He was loyal to Rome.” My father glared at me, then sighed. “Ah, well. Let’s go in.”
I looked at Caesar and shook my head. It shouldn’t surprise me that my father cared more about former glories than the task at hand. But what did it matter that Caesar nearly ruled the world? He couldn’t help us find the one woman who mattered most in it.
***
Being at the center of my father’s universe was nothing like roaming the crowded streets of New York. Doors opened several moments before we stepped through them. Staff was all attentiveness, beautiful women all smiles. Whether this was my father exerting his vampire mesmerism or simply exuding authority as the boss was anyone’s guess.
Tonight he was back in his element, wearing black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a white blazer. I rather thought he looked like a vampiric James Bond. I was in my usual attire—not bloody and torn this time. Of course, that did nothing to win my father’s approval of it.
We passed more marble statues—smaller than Caesar, and many of them nude. Triumphal arches, mosaics, and friezes spread out before us as we made our way into the Roman. The casino was so large it had its own shuttle system inside
the perimeter. We stepped inside the space-age train and sat down as it zoomed around the building, stopping now and again to let passengers on and off.
“A lot has changed since I was here last,” I said to Titus as I looked through the windows at the Roman’s interior.
“That’s our Augustus wing—a recent addition,” my father said, pointing it out.
“It’s big,” I said.
Titus nodded, almost pleased. “Do you like it?”
“It was more of an observation than a compliment.” We returned to our uncomfortable silence.
Fortunately, the shuttle was graced by television screens, one of which had a football game on. From what I could see, it was turning especially violent, but then again, it’s hard to tell with football. Titus seemed to be very interested in it, but I always preferred reading to sports. To Titus, intellectual thought was desirable only inasmuch as it allowed one to conquer. You know—using cunning, strategy, and the like. I often thought that if my father and I had been mortals, he would have been the old-time football hero, and me the geeky son who spent his days in the basement.
When we finally disembarked to the gaming floor, I was hit by a wave similar to the one I felt getting out of the limo. But instead of heat, this was a surge of noise, color, and smoke. There were dancing girls, their bodies a riot of sequins and feathers. High rollers dangled cigars between their fingers and Botoxed blondes on either arm. Cocktail waitresses tittered around in short dresses, low-cut tops, and high heels. There was a strange combination of dimness in some areas and flashing lights in others.
All around were the sounds of shuffling cards, clicking roulette wheels, and cries of victory or defeat. When I was very young, my mother read me a tale of a magical boy who could change the card faces simply by moving his fingers across them. But I forget the name of the story now.
“Looks like you had nothing to worry about, Father,” I commented as we moved through the casino. “Everything seems to be in working order.”
“Yes, but it’s not how I wanted it,” Titus sighed. I had to wait a few moments to respond: there were several calls of “Welcome back, Mr. Aurelius!” and “Can I get you anything, Mr. Aurelius?”
“How did you want it?” I asked.
“When I first opened the Roman, I planned on including the styles of entertainment that were popular millennia ago.” My father held up his hand at the drink offered to him by a passing waitress, and we walked on. “You know—gladiator-style fighting, baiting rare animals—that sort of thing.”
“It must have come as quite a disappointment when you learned slaves couldn’t battle to the death anymore,” I said.
“Bloody human rights activists,” he muttered.
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. I suspected Titus kept the casino simply to relive his glory days in as close a simulation as he could manage. And since this was my father’s domain, I couldn’t have felt more out of place.
I do not live with him, but you probably guessed that by now. I was raised by my mother, mostly, because she and Titus fought too much to live together. I suppose most children would think it odd to have parents who resided thousands of miles apart, but I never questioned it.
And although I traveled to various parts of the world as a child, I can’t claim to be an expert on any of them. My years in England did leave me with a trace of a British accent, however, so you may hear a bit of it if we ever meet in person. Other than that I grew up mainly in New York, where Abigail was from, and a few cities in the Deep South, when she “couldn’t take New York anymore.”
Like my mother’s feelings about her home state, I could only take the casino in small doses. The bright lights, the tobacco smoke, the pounding music of the clubs . . . they gave me migraines. We’d only been here a few minutes, but I could already feel the effects. I coughed and rubbed my temples. My father pursed his lips at me as we stood in front of a poker table.
“Really, with half my genes, I can’t understand how you ever got this sensitive.” He rubbed his chin and began watching one particular man intently. He was middle-aged with a hungry look on his face and a mountain of chips by his side. “Your mother should have let me beat you the way I wanted.”
“Why?” I asked. “So they could make a reality show of our family life and turn it into an after-school special?” I looked in the same direction as my father, but couldn’t see anything unusual about the gambler he was focusing on.
“It would have toughened you up,” Titus said through gritted teeth.
Yes, because it worked out so well for the sons of Rome. All but the one next to me is dead, and he may be two steps away from becoming a sociopath . . . if he isn’t one already.
“Certain people aren’t tough because of things that happen to them,” I replied. “They’re strong if and when they need to be.”
“If one never practices being strong, one will not have strength to rely on when it’s needed,” Titus shot back.
When have I not practiced being strong? Did he even see me fighting that vampire in the alley? “I didn’t come here for a lecture,” I all but snapped.
“Consider it a bonus,” Titus muttered. The dealer’s eyes flickered to my father. Then she continued shuffling cards and winging them to the patrons.
As far as I could see, Titus was talking nonsense. Not practicing? Not being strong? During my formative years, any time spent with my father had been about nothing else. It was he who taught me fighting, weapons, and strategy. Ruthless and calculating, before Rome fell, he was considered violent even for the age in which he lived. If I were to use modern psychology, I’d attribute this to his harsh upbringing. I think it led to a “get-them-before-they-get-you” mentality. I knew he loved competition, and valued winning at all costs. Titus Aurelius did not enjoy being on the losing end of anything.
Which seemed to be happening now. Titus drew his cell phone out of his jacket’s breast pocket without taking his eyes off the hungry-looking gambler. He punched several buttons. Moments later, two burly security guards appeared at his side and began hauling the man off.
“Hey, wait—what did I do?” The man frantically turned his head from guard to guard, struggling to free himself. The other patrons stared and edged their seats away. The dealer bit her lip and hesitated before scooping up the man’s cards and continuing to shuffle.
“Yes, what exactly did he do?” I asked my father, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
“He was cheating,” Titus said, a triumphant look on his face as his prey squirmed in his grasp. Well, at least the grasp of his employees. “Counting the cards, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the man protested. “And you can’t prove it.” Not exactly the words of an innocent man.
“I’m the owner of this establishment,” my father said in what I’d come to know as his “vampire voice.” It was the one just tinged with magic; the one he used when he wanted to let mortals know he meant business. “I don’t have to prove anything.”
The man swallowed hard, and the guards looked at each other, then back at my father. Titus leaned in closer. “Break his thumbs,” he growled to the guards. The man’s face crumpled, and I stepped between them just as he was about to beg for mercy.
“Wait, wait,” I said, putting one palm up in front of my father and the other in front of the cheater. “There must be another way. This doesn’t have to get ugly. Can’t you just have him thrown out?”
My father gave me a look of amusement mixed with outrage. “You seem to think this is unusual. Last week I had a man killed for the exact same reason. I’m being positively magnanimous this evening.” Although he was careful to keep his voice down, it was obvious the cheater heard him. I could’ve sworn the man gave a little whimper. The security guards stood stone-faced; no doubt they were paid well to follow all my father’s orders without hesitation or judgment.
“Well then, would you consider giving into my littl
e whim and just throwing him out?” My chin jutted to the cheater, who nodded rapidly. “After all, we do have more important matters on our minds than catching every small-time trickster.” I gave my father a pointed look.
Titus made an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Gentlemen,” he said to the guards, who immediately snapped to attention, “see this man out. And if he ever returns,” Titus’s eyes bored into the cheater, “you know what to do.” The man opened his mouth to speak, but the guards whisked him away. My father shook his head in disgust as we started upstairs to his private apartment.
“I know you think you won a victory back there,” he said, walking through the casino, “but compassion is just a sign of weakness.”
Titus was not telling the whole truth; I knew he was not entirely without compassion. My mother never would’ve given him the time of day otherwise. Still, I shrugged, not willing to take the bait and get into an argument.
All right, all right—perhaps I couldn’t avoid taking the bait entirely. “I could never understand how cheating casinos is wrong anyway,” I replied. “I mean, the odds are always with the house. Everything it does is designed to separate you from your money. Yet when you try to turn the tables, if you’ll excuse the pun, it’s seen as wrong.”
“It’s called ‘survival of the fittest,’ ” Titus said.
“Really? Not ‘survival of the most cynical?’ ” I asked.
Titus chose to ignore my last comment, holding up his index finger. “I need to talk to someone.” I started to speak, but he was already motioning to the man I recognized as the head of guest services. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, and they went into a corner and began discussing concierges or some such nonsense.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and scowled. These delays were getting ridiculous. What was worse, they were beginning to make me think Titus didn’t care about finding my mother at all. Of course, his history as a general did lead one to believe he only had his own interests at heart.
