by Hazel Hunter
“I tried to prevent that,” he said, his voice a strange monotone.
Her eyes snapped open. “Really?” she nearly shrieked. An uncontrollable laugh erupted from her. “Well I guess you botched that.”
“I tried to find you,” he said, his voice strained.
“Oh I’m sure,” she snapped.
“Where have you been?”
“Everywhere!” she said. Her knees had begun to shake. “Every single, shabby, little stage from here to Atlantic City.”
Gods, what a grind it had been! Always hiding, always on the move. Sometimes she and Conleth had barely scraped by. It would be nine years this week—nine years ago on the first of November, on Samhain. Though her parents had celebrated the Wiccan start of winter, she and Conleth scrupulously avoided it. They’d always made sure to be busy.
Nine years was nothing for an immortal like Matteo, already hundreds of years old. But for Conleth… Watching him age and get sick had been heartbreaking.
She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let it go. A deep weariness settled on her shoulders. If watching loved ones die was immortality, they could keep it. She almost laughed. It was too late now. It had been Matteo who’d ushered her into immortality.
“Why come back?” Matteo asked softly.
The tender sound of his voice almost made her cry. But she choked it back and spoke past the constriction in her throat.
“For him,” she said and opened her eyes to see Matteo’s stricken face watching her. “For Conleth. He’s dying.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “I am sorry to hear that.” To her surprise, he did sound sorry.
For nine years she had built up an image of him in her mind. He was one of the Magus Corps officers responsible for her parents’ deaths. She had also fallen completely in love with him—and then he’d betrayed her.
“Are you done?” she said. She glanced back at the elevator. “Because I am.”
“In fact, I am not.”
“Tell me the access code for the elevator. I’m not–”
“You will have it when I am ready,” he said over her.
“You can’t–”
“Which will be soon,” he said, even louder.
Her mouth hung open a little at his harsh tone. Then she shut it. For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Of all the people at Hotel Paradiso, Matteo was the last person she’d imagined seeing. After nine years she had thought he’d be long gone, their time together some pleasant memory of a brief tryst. But he had been her first—practically her only—lover and she’d worked hard to put him out of her mind. But now that he was here, lit by the firelight, close enough to smell his cologne, as gorgeous as the day she’d left, she could hardly deny that she still thought of him.
“The magic show,” he said. “It can not go on.”
She blinked, and her head reared back a little. “What?”
“The magic show must stop,” he said. “If the Magus Corps finds out–”
“You mean you haven’t already told them?” she sneered.
“They will put a stop to it,” he continued, ignoring her. “They will be as iron-handed as ever.”
She felt sweat trickle down the small of her back. “Is that a threat?”
He spread his hands. “You know me better than that.”
“I don’t think I do, Colonel.”
His mouth pressed into a flat line. “If the Corps knew you were here, they would not send me. If the Corps knew, you would already be under guard somewhere. That, I cannot allow.”
“Allow?” she yelled. “I thought the Magus Corps didn’t know.”
“Not the Corps,” he said, stepping closer. “Me. I will not allow it.”
“You? And what makes you think…that…” It dawned on her where she was: the furnishings, the view, the boss. “You own this casino.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders.
So the casino where Conleth wanted to have his swan song was owned by Matteo. Fine. She couldn’t let that stop the show.
“The show isn’t for me,” she said. “I didn’t even want to…” She shook her head. This wasn’t about her. “Look. He’s dying. This is the one thing he wants.” She gestured around her. “To headline in Vegas. It’s the only thing that’s kept him alive. It’s everything to him.”
He nodded. “Non abbiate paura,” he said quietly. “Il nostro destino non può essere presa da noi.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. He knew she didn’t speak Italian. “English,” she said.
“They are the words of the poet,” he replied. “‘Fear not, our fate can not be taken from us.’”
Of all things, he was quoting Dante at her. “I’m talking about Conleth.”
“And you?” Matteo said, the firelight dancing along his jaw. His eyes searched hers. “What do you want?”
“To see him happy,” she declared. “Because he’s all I have left.” She saw her words sink in. “You and the Corps saw to that.”
The silence stretched, and for a moment she considered moving the show from Las Vegas. They could do it in Reno, or maybe even Lake Tahoe. But even as she thought it, she knew it wouldn’t happen. It’d taken everything they had just to get here. She couldn’t stand to see the disappointment on Conleth’s face. The emotional blow might be enough to… She covered her mouth, not able to stand the thought, as tears filled her eyes.
“On one condition,” Matteo said. She looked at his blurry form. “Have dinner with me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing. “What?”
“It is simple,” he said. “Have dinner with me tomorrow, and the show will go on. Here.” He gestured at the window behind him. “At the biggest hotel in the city, with the largest theater in the west. His name will top the marquis.” Matteo put his hands in his pockets. “But only on my one condition.”
This was insane. He wanted a date? She furiously wiped the tears from her face. Fine. If that’s what it took, he could have it. Dinner was nothing compared to what the show meant to Conleth. She could sit across from him for an hour.
“Dinner,” she said. “And only dinner.”
He nodded his agreement.
“Done,” she said.
5
A MOP WASN’T exactly the weapon Jude had envisioned when he’d joined the Templars. Though he’d rushed to the secluded desert monastery after work, it’d done no good. Make an appointment they’d told him. The great leader was too busy. He’d have to go up the chain of command.
“There isn’t time,” he muttered as he stared down at the toilet.
He accidentally backed into the rolling bucket, sloshing some of the filthy water onto the back of his jeans.
“Damnit,” he said.
Holding the door to the stall open with one hand and using the mop with the other, he managed to shove the bucket out. But as he turned and tried to follow it, he slipped. Though he tried to grab the toilet, his hand went straight in, and his knee smashed into the tile floor.
“Ow!” he yelled, as the mop clattered to the ground.
He jerked his hand from the toilet, but that only sprayed his face with water. Sputtering and spitting, he pushed away from the commode, and finally backed out of the stall on his knees.
“Dammit!” he yelled. Though his knee protested, he jumped to his feet and ripped off the latex gloves. “This is bullshit!”
He limped to the sink, rinsed his face, and dried it off with a paper towel. He paused when he caught his reflection in the mirror: his face was red, his mouth twisted, and his usually neat hair disheveled. He gripped the edges of the sink and stared into the running water.
“This is not what I should be doing,” he muttered through his clenched jaw. “I am not some janitor.”
He didn’t care what his mentor had said about all Templars starting here. He wasn’t all Templars. He was meant for greater things. He ought to be out fighting evil, capturing Wiccans, and eradicating them from the earth—not cleaning toilets.
Of course he’d been paraded past the state-of-the-art training arena, and a high tech command and control center that NASA would have envied. It was only after the blood rite that had bound him to the order that he’d been given the bucket and mop.
Well, he had had enough.
If the Grand Master didn’t have time to listen, then screw him and the chain of command. Jude crumpled up the paper towel and threw it on the floor. He wasn’t going to waste time cleaning toilets. He had Wiccans to catch.
6
MATTEO TOOK A long sip of the single malt as he gazed out the window. But it wasn’t the city lights or the endless steam of traffic that he saw. It was Natalia’s face.
“Natalie,” he reminded himself. She called herself Natalie Thomas now.
Not that it changed her—or what she’d been through.
A familiar ache blossomed in his chest. It seemed to be this way with them. Though passion had quickly engulfed them, sadness had never been far away. He’d asked her to join him in immortality, something he’d never done before. The sacred union of sex with the possibility of creating new life was not to be taken lightly. They had joined in a way that he’d never thought possible. But that was before her parents had died.
As he looked at the place where she stood, his fingers squeaked on the tightly held tumbler. Everything in her body language told him to keep his distance. What had he expected? To be welcomed with open arms? No, he knew better than that. And yet…
“Amor, ch’a nullo amato amor perdona,” he said.
Love, that releases no beloved from loving.
It’s what had kept him looking for her all these years: he’d had no choice.
His eyes unfocused, and he saw the reflection of the living room in the window glass. She’d been standing there, not ten feet away from him. It’d taken every ounce of control not to take her in his arms—to kiss away the tears that had slipped from her mesmerizing eyes. To be the cause of pain was exactly what he didn’t want. But she would have to listen to him, really listen, if he had any hope of explaining what had truly happened. He’d rehearsed all the words countless times, and yet he hadn’t had a chance to use any.
Maybe it was for the best. He looked down into the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass. Maybe the bitter past was better left behind. He turned and looked at the spot where she’d stood.
For all her anger, he thought he’d sensed something else.
Was it the way she had looked at him?
Was the old connection still there?
Or had it been wishful thinking?
“Enough questions,” he said, and downed the rest of the scotch.
Tomorrow was the future. Tomorrow was a new chance—and tomorrow was dinner.
7
MURDERS WERE DOWN, but aggravated assaults were way up. Captain Mike Heller, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, shuffled the report from his inbox to his outbox. He chalked the new statistic up to the infernal heat of last summer—the hottest on record. They didn’t have to worry about global warming in the desert. There’d be nobody left to get hot.
The morning sun at his back was already too bright. He got up to drop the shade, when he saw the sergeant approaching. He was holding a thick file. Mike grimaced as he plopped back down in the chair. This was not going to be good news.
There was a light rap on the door.
“It’s too early for a case like that,” Mike said. But when the sergeant didn’t come through, he sighed. “Come.”
The door opened. “Sorry, Captain,” Sergeant McVoy said. “I knew you’d want to see this.”
The young man was positively energetic as he strode forward. Mike couldn’t remember what is was like to feel like that. McVoy set the file in front of him.
Mike read the large tab at the side, and raised his eyebrows. “The Trucco case?”
“Word on The Strip,” McVoy said, “is that Matteo Monti is back in town.”
Mike sat back in his chair. “You’re joking.”
That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while, which is how it should have stayed.
“I saw your name in the file,” McVoy said.
“Yeah,” Mike grumbled.
He pushed up from his chair with a grunt, and turned to squint at the window. The tall casinos looked like toys in the distance. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, resting them on his expanding paunch.
“Matteo Monti,” he muttered under his breath.
He’d been right. It wasn’t good news. Mike cast his mind back nine years. It wasn’t hard to remember. He and Matteo had come to an agreement.
“Do you want a warrant?” McVoy asked.
A warrant? Hell, he didn’t even want the file. “No,” he said, and pulled the shade down.
“Do you want me to–”
“I’ll handle it,” Mike said, looking down at the tattered file folder.
“I could–”
“I said,” Mike said loudly, “I’ll handle it.”
McVoy stood up straight. “Yes, sir,” he said, stiffly. He turned and was out the door in seconds. It shut behind him.
“Shit,” Mike said, staring at the file. “Shit.”
8
“WHERE IS YOUR appetite, my girl?” Conleth said. “There’s nothing on your plate.”
Natalie followed him to the next sumptuous display. The buffet at Hotel Paradiso was a throwback to a bygone era. Once upon a time, Vegas had been known for the cheap, plentiful, and good food that the casinos offered. But like the increasingly watered-down drinks that circulated on the house floor, the buffets had become ordinary, and the prices just average. But here every table had a theme. Conleth stopped at the seafood table. In the center was a six foot tall ice carving of Botticelli’s Venus standing on an open oyster.
Using the silver tongs, he selected some chilled shrimp and put it on her plate.
“You have to keep up your strength,” he chided. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Despite her mood, she had to smile. It had been her mantra for him since he’d been diagnosed.
“Someone very knowledgeable must have told you that,” she said, following him to the next food display.
Despite the chocolate fountain in the center and every type of cake and confection imaginable, Natalie hardly saw the desserts. Her thoughts had already returned to Matteo. She’d be lucky if she’d gotten two hours of sleep last night. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there. As dark and brooding as ever, and as devastatingly handsome. He’d worn her favorite color, the dusty forest green that complemented his eyes. The suit had fit him like a glove.
Natalie shook her head, and inwardly kicked herself. She’d done it again.
As they returned to their small table, eyes followed them. Conleth was at his dapper best, in his usual burgundy shirt, tie, and handkerchief. If the tie’s diamond pin had been any larger, it’d have made him lean forward. She, on the other hand, was dressed for rehearsal. The black yoga pants were accompanied by a burgundy top. But a diaphanous and sheer wraparound pulled the two together, held in place with a simple tie at the hip. As always she wore the shiny black stiletto heels that mirrored Conleth’s patent leather shoes.
Aware of his audience, he set his plate down before taking hers from her and setting it down as well. With a graceful sweep of his arm, he pulled out her chair for her. As though she were on stage, she smiled demurely and took her seat. By the time Conleth sat down, people were leaning towards each other, whispering. She spread her napkin in her lap.
“Life is short,” he said quietly, making her look up. “I see you understand that.”
His bright eyes flicked to her plate.
When she looked down, she gasped. The shrimp, cocktail sauce, and lemon wedges had been replaced with a giant piece of layered chocolate cake. She grinned, met his eyes, and slowly inclined her head. His sleight of hand was as good as ever—and he knew her well.
As a magician’s assistant, she kept a strict control on he
r weight, exercised every day, and stretched while she did other things. Though she was petite and small-boned, it took strength to contort, fold oneself in half, and get out of a straitjacket. But the chocolate cake looked to die-for, and she was feeling like she could use the lift.
About three bites into the cake, Conleth cleared his throat. He only did that when he had something important to say.
“The show is sold out,” he said.
Natalie almost dropped her fork. “You’re kidding.”
If Conleth smiled any more broadly, his mustache might touch his eyes. “I would never do such a thing,” he said. “Sales exploded after something the production manager called a viral video happened.” He shrugged while taking a sip of coffee. He winked at her as he set the cup back down. “I wonder if the Grand Ballroom at the Hotel Paradiso is too small for us.”
Matteo’s words about the biggest stage came back to her. As Conleth popped a small puff pastry filled with caviar into his mouth, she was careful to have more cake. She hadn’t mentioned Matteo, let alone their conversation. The last thing she wanted was to upset Conleth.
“Maybe we could add a matinee,” she suggested.
But before Conleth could answer, a woman and child appeared at their table.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” the woman said to Conleth, bobbing her head. She wore jeans, running shoes, and a sparkly t-shirt from the Hard Rock Cafe. The little girl was like a mini version of her. “My daughter and I saw your show last night and…” She nudged the little one who presented a book. “She was wondering if she could have your autograph.”
Conleth reached into his pocket and retrieved a pen. “I would be happiness itself,” he intoned, and smiled down at the little girl.
But she seemed frozen, staring up at Conleth.
“Honey, give him the book,” her mother said. “So he can sign it.”
When she didn’t move, her mother managed to pry it from her hands and gave it to Conleth.
