The kid bolted for the door, but Julie blocked the way, grabbing his arm, then throwing herself into a tackle. He wasn’t getting away with this, not if she could help it.
She wasn’t very good at tackling, as it turned out. Her legs tangled with his and they both crashed to the floor. He flailed, but her weight pinned him down. Somebody was going to take the blame for all this, and it wasn’t going to be her.
Finally, the kid went slack. “It was working,” he repeated.
“Why would you even try something like this?” she said. “Cheating’s bad enough, but . . . this?” She couldn’t say she understood anything in the room, the candles or paint or that gargoylish creature. But Grant didn’t like it, and that was enough for her.
“Because I’m underage!” he whined. “I can’t even get into the casino. I needed a disguise.”
“So you summoned demon doppelgangers?” Grant asked. Thoughtfully he said, “That’s almost clever. Still—very dangerous.”
“Screw you!”
“Julie?” Grant said. “Now you can call security.” He pulled the kid out from under Julie and pushed him to the wall, where he sat slouching. Grant stood over him, arms crossed, guard-like.
“Your luck ran out, buddy,” Julie said, glaring at him. She retrieved her phone from her pocket. It worked now, go figure.
Grant said, “His luck ran out before he even started. Dozens of casinos on the Strip, and you picked mine, the one where you were most likely to get caught.”
“You’re just that stupid stage magician! Smoke and mirrors! What do you know about anything?” He slumped like a sack of old laundry.
Grant smiled, and the expression was almost wicked. The curled lip of a lion about to pounce. “To perform such summonings as you’ve done here, you must offer part of your own soul—as collateral, you might think of it. You probably think you’re strong enough, powerful enough, to protect that vulnerable bit of your soul, defending it against harm. You think you can control such monstrous underworld creatures and keep your own soul—your own self—safe and sound. But it doesn’t matter how protected you are, you will be marked. These creatures, any other demons you happen to meet, will know what you’ve done just by looking at you. That makes you a target. Now, and for the rest of your life. Actions have consequences. You’ll discover that soon enough.”
Julie imagined a world filled with demons, with bat-wing creatures and slavering dragons, all of them with consciousness, with a sense of mission: to attack their oppressors. She shivered.
Unblinking, the kid stared at Grant. He’d turned a frightening, pasty white, and his spine had gone rigid.
Grant just smiled, seemingly enjoying himself. “Do your research. Every good magician knows that.”
Julie called security, and while they were waiting, the demon-summoning kid tried to set off an old-fashioned smoke bomb to stage an escape, but Grant confiscated it as soon as the kid pulled it from his pocket.
Soon after, a pair of uniformed officers arrived at the room to handcuff the kid and take him into custody. “We’ll need you to come with us and give statements,” one of them said to Julie and Grant.
She panicked. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, not really—we were just looking for the cheater at my blackjack table, and something wasn’t right, and Grant here showed up—”
Grant put a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her torrent of words. “We’ll help in any way we can,” he said.
She gave him a questioning look, but he didn’t explain.
The elevators seemed to be working just fine now, she noticed, as they went with security to their offices downstairs.
Security took the kid to a back room to wait for the Las Vegas police. Grant and Julie were stationed in a stark, functional waiting room, with plastic chairs and an ancient coffee maker. They waited.
They only needed to look at the footage of her breaking into the rooms with Grant, and she’d be fired. She didn’t want to be fired—she liked her job. She was good at it, as she kept insisting. She caught cheaters—even when they were summoning demons.
Her foot tapped a rapid beat on the floor, and her hands clenched into fists, pressed against her legs.
“Everything will be fine,” Grant said, glancing sidelong at her. “I have a feeling the boy’ll be put off the whole idea of spell-casting, moving forward. Now that he knows people are watching him. He probably thought he was the only magician in the world. Now he knows better.”
One could hope.
Now that he’d been caught, she didn’t really care about the kid. “You’ll be fired too, you know, once they figure out what we did. You think you can find another gig after word gets out?”
“I won’t be fired. Neither will you,” he said.
They’d waited for over a half hour when the head of security came into the waiting room. Grant and Julie stood to meet him. The burly, middle-aged man in the off-the-rack suit—ex-cop, probably—was smiling.
“All right, you both can go now. We’ve got everything we need.”
Julie stared.
“Thank you,” Grant said, not missing a beat.
“No, thank you. We never would have caught that kid without your help.” Then he shook their hands. And let them go.
Julie followed Grant back to the casino lobby. Two hours had passed, for the entire adventure, which had felt like it lasted all day—all day and most of the night, too. It seemed impossible. It all seemed impossible.
Back at the casino, the noise and bustle—crystal chandeliers glittering, a thousand slot and video machines ringing and clanking, a group of people laughing—seemed otherworldly. Hands clasped behind his back, Grant regarded the patrons filing back and forth, the flashing lights, with an air of satisfaction, like he owned the place.
Julie asked, “What did you do to get him to let us go?”
“They saw exactly what they needed to see. They’ll be able to charge the kid with vandalism and destruction of property, and I’m betting if they check the video from the casino again they’ll find evidence of cheating.”
“But we didn’t even talk to them.”
“I told you everything would be fine.”
She regarded him, his confident stance, the smug expression, and wondered how much of it was a front. How much of it was the picture he wanted people to see.
She crossed her arms. “So, the kind of magic you do—what kind of mark does it leave on your soul?”
His smile fell, just a notch. After a hesitation he said, “The price is worth it, I think.”
If she were a little more forward, if she knew him better, she’d have hugged him—he looked like he needed it. He probably wasn’t the kind of guy who had a lot of friends. But at the moment he seemed as otherworldly as the bat-winged creature in that arcane circle.
She said, “It really happened, didn’t it? The thing with the hallway? The . . . the thing . . . and the other . . .” She moved her arms in a gesture of outstretched wings. “Not smoke and mirrors?”
“It really happened,” he said.
“How do you do that? Any of it?” she said.
“That,” he said, glancing away to hide a smile, “would take a very long time to explain.”
“I get off my second shift at eleven,” she said. “We could grab a drink.”
She really hadn’t expected him to say yes, and he didn’t. But he hesitated first. So that was something. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I don’t think I can.”
It was just as well. She tried to imagine her routine, with a guy like Odysseus Grant in the picture . . . and, well, there’d be no such thing as routine, would there? But she wasn’t sure she’d mind a drink, and a little adventure, every now and then.
“Well, then. I’ll see you around,” she said.
“You can bet on it,” he said, and walked away, back to his theater.
Her break was long over and she was late for the next half of her shift. She’d give Ryan an excuse—or maybe she c
ould get Grant to make an excuse for her.
She walked softly, stepping carefully, through the casino, which had not yet returned to normal. The lights seemed dimmer, building shadows where there shouldn’t have been any. A woman in a cocktail dress and impossible high heels walked past her, and Julie swore she had glowing red eyes. She did a double take, staring after her, but only saw her back, not her eyes.
At one of the bars, a man laughed—and he had pointed teeth, fangs, where his cuspids should have been. The man sitting with him raised his glass to drink—his hands were clawed with long, black talons. Julie blinked, checked again—yes, the talons were still there. The man must have sensed her staring, because he looked at her, caught her gaze—then smiled and raised his glass in a salute before turning back to his companion.
She quickly walked away, heart racing.
This wasn’t new, she realized. The demons had always been there, part of an underworld she had never seen because she simply hadn’t been looking. Until now.
And once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.
The blackjack dealer returned to the casino’s interior, moving slowly, thoughtfully—warily, Grant decided. The world must look so much different to her now. He didn’t know if she’d adjust.
He should have made her stay behind, right from the start. But no—he couldn’t have stopped her. By then, she’d already seen too much. He had a feeling he’d be hearing from her again, soon. She’d have questions. He would answer them as best he could.
On the other hand, he felt as if he had an ally in the place, now. Another person keeping an eye out for a certain kind of danger. Another person who knew what to look for. And that was a very odd feeling indeed.
Some believe that magic—real magic, not the tricks that entertainers played on stage—is a rare, exotic thing. Really, it isn’t, if you know what to look for.
What Happened to Ben in Vegas
THE PAIR OF THUGS cornered Ben outside the men’s room.
His first thought: Kitty’s paranoia was rubbing off on him. Then: Damn, she was right all along.
He spotted the type right off and knew they were up to no good. Late twenties, bulky, hired muscle. Suits, no ties. Slicked back hair. One of them was the lookout: back to the wall, scanning the area. His hand never moved very far from his waistband—within easy reach of the gun holstered under the jacket. The other one got in Ben’s face.
“Hey there,” he said, pressing close, herding him to the wall, moving him away from the crowd. His breath smelled of mint and cigarettes. His accent was some flavor of New York City.
Ben didn’t bother responding. Nothing he could say would change what was about to happen. He did think about telling them they had the wrong guy. A flare of anger, a thread of pissed-offedness, made him stand his ground. Match the guy’s stare, and not blink.
The heavy was about the same height. He tried looking down on Ben, but it didn’t work.
“Friend of ours wants to talk to you,” the guy said.
Ben’s nose flared, taking in the guy’s aftershave, the scent of gun oil. The odor of seedy bars and backroom shakedowns.
“Why?” Ben said, wondering if it sounded like a growl. He wanted to growl, but that would be a bad idea.
The thug, the talker, opened his suit jacket briefly to show the gun inside, in the shoulder holster. “No arguments.”
“He couldn’t just call me?” Ben said. Arguing. The flame inside was growing. He was getting angry, and a beast with claws was waking up.
The thug put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him. “Come on. Walk normal. Don’t draw attention.” The lookout led them to a side hallway.
God, he really was being kidnapped out of a Vegas casino.
“What happens if I knock you down and shout right now? You going to shoot me?”
“Maybe not. But we may find a way to draw a bead on that pretty little girl of yours.”
That shut him up. They moved out of sight of the poker room and the main casino floor. Empty corridor now, and straight ahead to a set of doors leading to the outside. The lookout was still scanning, ready to jump at a sign of trouble. Ben could almost hear his body quivering. His own escort was steady, methodical, and kept his anxiety tamped down. A pro. Didn’t make Ben feel any better.
“How does this friend of yours even care about me?” he asked.
The thug gave a sly smile. “He had a game going. Pretty good game. His boys had a system and would have cleaned up. But you ratted them out. You’ve made yourself a person of interest. Congratulations.”
So much for being a good citizen.
“You can’t do this,” he said, realizing it was a stupid thing to say. They certainly could do this. They had. Ben could whine all he wanted—they still had the guns. But were the bullets silver? Did he risk getting shot in the back on the streets of Vegas to prove a theory?
“I’m getting married in a couple of hours.” As if that kind of argument held any weight with people like this.
“If she really loves you, she’ll wait. So—she really love you, or what?”
God, what a question. The worst part about it was the cold lump in the pit of his stomach at the thought the answer might be no.
“I don’t know what this is about. Your boss wants to talk to me, that’s fine. But at least let me call my girlfriend. Just to tell her I’m going to be late—”
The muscle patted him down, found the phone, tossed it on the concrete sidewalk.
A car was waiting outside. The quiet one opened the door; the New York thug pointed Ben inside. Ben didn’t fight, didn’t argue, didn’t resist—he didn’t want to get punched or pounded. That really would wake up the monster. And while that might get him out of this immediate situation, he couldn’t see how it would help in the long run. So he waited.
The windows in the sedan were tinted. They blindfolded him anyway. Only then did he start to lose it: heart fluttering, breaths coming in gasps. He curled his hands into fists and dug them into his thighs—and the creature inside him snarled, from a place like a cage, deep in his gut.
He had to keep it together himself this time. Kitty wasn’t here to hold his hand.
What was she going to think? What if she thought he’d run off, stood her up? Part of her would. Part of her was still an insecure pup. Amazing, considering what she’d been through, how well she stood up for herself under the gun—and she hardly realized it.
Thinking of her steadied him. Just like holding her hand would have. He had to get through this for her. She often talked about her wolf side like it was a separate entity. Like the two sides argued, conversed. The metaphor was useful. He’d adopted it. It let him say, Down, boy.
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at that thought. He didn’t imagine the tough guys would take his smiling too well. The thug beside him was the kind of guy who would think it was all about him.
They arrived. The car stopped, and the blindfold came off. The location was seedy. Seedier than seedy. The kind of old industrial neighborhood where the windows were smashed out of the warehouses and weeds grew a foot high out of cracks in the asphalt. By the distance they’d traveled, Ben judged they were on the outskirts of town—the deadbeat, dried-up outskirts, not the gentrified suburbs. The building they’d parked by was concrete, wind-blasted and pockmarked. Tiny windows had bars over them anyway. It was the kind of place that didn’t have a sign—didn’t need one. The line of motorcycles out front said it all. This was the kind of bar that didn’t want tourists snooping around. He could hear music pounding from within.
His escort brought him through the front door, then straight through the bar and pool tables and bikers. Didn’t give him a chance to look around; not that he needed one. He knew the stereotypes well enough, and the smirk he wore came naturally. But maybe it would give him some armor. Keep him from looking a little less like a hopeless guy in over his head.
They next passed through a door in back, and into another world. Ben’s protective
smirk fell.
From the outside, this had all looked like more concrete warehouses, auto body shops, and so on. Here, the interior was straight out of a bordello in a Victorian novel. Red plush carpeting, burgundy curtains held back by gold tasseled cords—not that there were any windows to cover. Sofas, chaise lounges, wingback chairs. Men in suits, smoking cigarettes and cigars like chimneys, gathered around poker games at several green felt tables. He wrinkled his nose to keep from sneezing at the odor. Draped over all—men and furniture both—were a dozen women in lingerie. Like they were part of the decoration. In the back, a beaded curtain marked the entrance to a hallway. Ben could make out a row of doors. So this wasn’t just a bar.
It was like something out of a bad movie. Kitty has got to see this. He shut down the pang that came with the thought.
In the middle of it all sat the guy who had to be the boss. The guy who was the source of all this ostentatious bad taste. Thin, weedy, hair obviously dyed black because he hadn’t bothered touching up his graying eyebrows. Old, weathered. Like he’d moved up through the ranks and spent a lot of time laughing at pain. That’s what the hard look in his eyes said.
An old-school gangster. Pure and simple.
Ben’s escorts—one on each side—brought him to stand before the table where this guy was shuffling cards and nursing a bourbon on ice. The boss didn’t look at Ben for what seemed like a long time. Making him wait, making him sweat. Ben concentrated on breathing, and not sweating. He could wait. He had to, didn’t he? But the smell of the women—the musky, wet smell of sex that edged the room’s atmosphere—was making him nervous. Making him want to be with Kitty even more than he already did.
The boss shuffled the cards, slowly, like it was the most important task in the world. Taking a deep breath, almost a sigh, he said, “So you’re the joker who spotted my ring. Ratted me out.”
God, straight out of a bad movie. Could this get any cheesier?
“I guess I am,” Ben said.
Then, the guy looked at him. His hands paused. Brown eyes studied him. “You know who I am?”
Ben suppressed a smile, because wasn’t that just the right level of arrogance? “I’m afraid not. I think I got into this by accident.”
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