Faery Moon

by P. R. Frost

  Even Penny couldn’t con Mom into getting into too much trouble. Maybe her worldly wisdom would counter Mom’s naiveté. I had to trust my mom and her Catholic upbringing.

  That trust did not extend to Breven Sancroix.

  “There’s another bar on the opposite side of the lobby. It’s quiet there,” Sancroix said. He took my elbow before I’d finished standing and kept me off-balance as we crossed the casino, dodging gamblers, waitresses, and a maze of slot machines. No straight lines and easy exits in a casino. They want you to stop and gamble.

  Scrap scrambled to keep up, never getting close enough to alight on my shoulder.

  Fortitude remained solidly in place, half asleep, ignoring the world. “Another white wine?” Sancroix asked, nearly pushing me into the center stool of an unoccupied section around the bar.

  I wanted something stronger. I needed my wits about me. “Ginger ale.”

  “Glenmorangie, straight up.”

  “A fine single malt scotch. I prefer Lagavulin,” I almost smiled. The last time I’d drunk fine whiskey with a man—Gollum—I ended up sleeping with him. Actually sleeping on his couch with him curled up beside me, not making love.

  “Anything is better than the homemade brew they served me in the Citadel.”

  “I spent a year in a Citadel with my Sisterhood. We had the same stuff. Reminiscent of the recipe in the Hammurabi Code. Needed a couple of filters and a less rusty fermentation tank.”

  We both laughed. A bit of my wariness crumbled.

  Scrap dropped onto my shoulder and sank in his talons. I could barely feel his weight or the sharp impression on my skin, but a warning was there. Don’t get too comfortable, babe.

  “The Warriors of the Celestial Blade do take their Spartan living to the extreme,” Sancroix said. He smiled, and the lines around his eyes crinkled nicely. He looked younger and less dangerous. “And I think the recipe is as old as the Code of Hammurabi circa 1780 BC. We’ve been around a long time. Not a lot changes in the Citadels.”

  “We have a duty.” I nodded. “For centuries, that duty centered around keeping demons from crossing into this dimension through limited access portals. Now the portals are changing. Demons are infiltrating everyday life. The Warriors need to change with the times.” Sister Gert had thrown me out rather than accept change.

  “Demons are getting more intelligent, gaining more and more human traits as they interbreed. Our duty has to expand into the world at large,” he agreed with me.

  “Is that why you left your Citadel?” I asked.

  “Yes. You, too, I take it.”

  Our drinks came. No money exchanged hands.

  “They kicked me out because I don’t take orders well and asked too many questions.”

  He laughed long and loud, throwing his head back in genuine mirth. Fortitude shifted awkwardly to adjust to the change in balance.

  “I bet you gave old Gert a comeupance.” He mentioned the leader of the isolated fortress where I’d taken my training.

  I’d stumbled on the isolated ravine in the Central Washington desert in a fever delirium. We call the disease the imp flu. Sister Serena, our physician, had to cut the infection out. That’s how I got the scar on my face. But since the imp flu is other dimensional, so is the scar. Only other Warriors can see it.

  Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, Gollum to his friends, could see the scar: dear friend, researcher, companion, and owner of the dreaded white cat Gandalf.

  “You know Sister Gert?”

  “Knew. Haven’t seen her in years. I think I fathered a child or two on her during shared midsummer festivals.” Celebrated on the full moon closest to the Solstice. Demons are at their lowest power at the full moon. The only time it’s safe to throw a party in a Citadel that sits atop a demon portal. “But as you know, men are not welcome to linger once the beer is drunk and the willing impregnated. Nor are women welcome to remain in a male Citadel.”

  “Another good reason to leave.”

  We clicked our glasses in silent toast. We had more in common than I thought.

  “Gert retired last month. Gayla now leads my Citadel,” I said.

  “Gayla, I don’t think I know her.” He looked into his scotch as if the answer lay there.

  “She’s young, a relative newcomer. I pulled her in during a raging thunderstorm; her imp flu was in full fever and festering. She’d have died if I hadn’t. Gert wanted to leave her outside, afraid of diminishing resources. Our physician had an injured hand from a demon tag. I cut the infection out of Gayla.”

  And our bond remained strong. “She’s one of the few I can reach through meditation and telepathy when she doesn’t answer the telephone she had installed two months ago.”

  “So, what has Junior been up to?” Sancroix asked after a long pause and one sip of his scotch.

  “We hit some bad turbulence while circling Las Vegas. He panicked and nearly caused a riot by projecting his fear into everyone else. He’s on a watch list now. Another incident, and Homeland Security won’t let him fly again. Ever.”

  “Damn.

  “He needs training to control his talent. Before he panics again and kills innocents.”

  “I doubt you and your mother had training. It’s an isolated incident.”

  “Mom and I have never caused a near riot aboard an airplane twenty thousand feet in the air. Junior nearly got us all killed.”

  “I’ll speak to him. Where did this happen?”

  I shrugged. “We were circling in a holding pattern waiting to land. But he got twitchy and nervous on our first approach.”

  “The Valley of Fire,” he said quietly, gulping a mouthful of the potent scotch.

  “What’s so special about the Valley of Fire.”

  “Local geological wonder. Northeast of town. Worth a day trip. Just don’t get caught out there at night. And leave your imp at home.”

  He rose and left abruptly.

  Chapter 7

  Average humidity in Las Vegas is 29%.

  “WAS THAT A CHALLENGE?”I asked Scrap.

  “Believe him, lady,” the bartender whispered. “Valley of Fire is no place to be after the sun sets. Lots of unexplained stuff. Crosswinds with no source, compasses going berserk. Hoodoos. Even the Indians won’t go there after dark unless they are on a vision quest.” He looked like he might have some Indian blood in him, a hint of copper in his black skin, thick straight black hair cropped short, and an almost occipital fold around his brown eyes.

  “You sound familiar with the place. Is there a tour bus, or should I rent a car?”

  “Stay in town and gamble your money away. It’s safer.” He turned to answer the hail of another customer.

  “Scrap, what do you think?”

  I like slot machines. I may have figured out how to guarantee a win. He flitted off, strangely subdued.

  Time to check on Mom.

  I braced myself for the clang and jangle of casino noise. Near silence greeted my ears as I crossed the hotel lobby. Only a few dedicated gamblers maintained possession of preferred places at the slots or a blackjack table. I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to the table I’d left half empty a short time ago. Three men in their sixties, wearing western-cut suits with bolo ties and huge chunks of turquoise filled my chair, Mom’s, and one other. They sat forward, gazes glued to the stage and their mouths half open.

  People had dragged stools in from the slot machines to fill the other tables to overflowing. A lot of people stood in every available space around and between tables. The waitresses hopped about with new energy and speed, filling orders, stuffing tips in their cleavages—their cloth bags attached to waistbands all bulged to overflowing.

  Penny Worth sat back in her chair appraising the crowd, a small smile on her face.

  My eyes followed the gaze of every person in the room. Mom stood spotlighted on the stage. She closed her eyes and stilled her entire being. The last lingering note of a ballad drifted into the shadows, more than a memory, less
than audible sound.

  Then she opened her eyes, animation and life returning to her face. She broke the spell with her smile—or continued it. I couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Magic,” Penny Worth whispered. “She’s absolute magic. I don’t think she had that touch when we shared a flat in New York.”

  Mom in New York? When? She’d married Dad when she was only eighteen.

  Without a word, Mom replaced the microphone into the karaoke machine and executed a deep, sweeping bow worthy of presentation at a royal court.

  “More!” shouted the man with the biggest chunk of turquoise embedded in his string tie.

  “More, more, more,” the crowd picked up the chant.

  Mom shook her head, gracing them with a huge smile.

  “More, more, more.” Feet stomped, and the applause took on the rhythm of the repeated demand.

  Mom shook her head again. This time she glided the two steps to the edge of the stage. A strong hand reached up to guide her down the single step. She placed her hand atop it and descended with the grace and aplomb of a beauty queen.

  “Your mama had good training. Shame to waste it on a karaoke machine,” Ms. Worth said.

  I barely heard her. All my attention focused tightly on the man who led my mother back to her chair.

  Breven Sancroix.

  He looked strangely off-balance until I realized Fortitude no longer rode his shoulder.

  Scrap, too, had taken a powder.

  I couldn’t find either of them in any of the usual spots, i.e. hanging from the chandeliers or crouched on the wooden rail rafters. Like cats, imps prefer to perch high and study the surroundings.

  Then my gaze lighted on a less welcome sight. A tall man with long black hair caught in a tight braid halfway down his back and shafts of white at his temples surveyed the entire room in one swift glance.

  I forgot to breathe as his eyes unerringly found mine.

  “No.” I think I spoke. I must have because Penny Worth swiveled around and looked in the same direction.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Only drink in the superb fitness, grace, and beauty of the man.

  Legally, I guess Donovan was my stepbrother. In my blood he was more. So much more.

  Not in this lifetime.

  No way, no how would I succumb to the power of his charisma. Again.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t feast my eyes on him while he hastened to my side as if his life depended upon holding me in his arms.

  I longed to hear him tell me how he’d found a way to reveal the truth of his past and his future agenda to me without breaking his covenant with the Powers That Be.

  “My, my, my, what do we have here?” Ms. Worth tracked Donovan’s progress across the nearly deserted casino as avidly as I did. “He yours, honey?”

  “I sure hope not,” Jocelyn Jones said. She straightened her back and smoothed her hair, like a predatory bird preening.

  Donovan’s smile of welcome turned to a fierce scowl.

  Shatter one fantasy.

  Oh, wait, he did that months ago.

  I think I actually backed away from him. As much as Mom’s adoring audience would allow me.

  “Well, that explains where Scrap disappeared to,” I snapped at the man.

  “Not my fault the runt can’t come near me. Do you know how much trouble I’ve had tracking you down!”

  “Well, excuse me, I didn’t know I was supposed to file my schedule with your secretary.”

  He broke eye contact and ran his fingers through that fabulously silky black hair. Not fair that a man should have prettier hair than I do. He had more than enough assets to get away with one little flaw.

  “Sorry, Tess, that didn’t come out right. I have some papers for your mother to sign. It’s rather urgent.” Then he lifted his gaze to meet mine again.

  By that time I’d managed to “gird my loins” so to speak and resist the mind-fogging miasma of beauty he projected.

  “Just because you are the executor of your father’s estate, doesn’t give you the right to stalk me or my mother.” That didn’t come out right either, but I let it stand. “Can’t it wait till we get home on Monday?”

  “No. And he was my foster father. No blood relation at all.”

  I’d heard that one before. Over and over again. So how come Donovan looked so much like his half-blood Damiri demon foster father and had so much in common with him? Like the ability to stop barroom brawls before they started and lull the inhibitions of the unwary?

  “Donovan!” Mom cried. She broke free of her own enthrallment with Sancroix and rushed toward us. She rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “What brings you to Vegas, dear? Have you been eating right? You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”

  “Estate business, Genevieve.” He kissed her cheek with genuine affection.

  I expected Mom to wince at the Americanized pronunciation of her name.

  She surprised me again by patting his broad chest with affection. “I suppose I must do this. You will excuse me.” She nodded graciously and vaguely toward me and Sancroix. “Do you have a room, Donovan, or will you be charging off again on the next plane out?”

  “I got a room. I have other business in town. But the estate stuff is urgent. I can file the papers with the bank by fax first thing in the morning. I’ve got the hotel owner waiting to witness your signature in his office.” They wandered off together.

  “So that’s Donovan Estevez,” Sancroix whistled through his teeth.

  “You know of him?”

  “He’s famous outside the Citadels.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Someone to watch. He has dubious contacts.” Meaning with Kajiri demons. I knew that already.

  Someone to avoid, Scrap snarled settling back on my shoulder where he belonged. Fortitude joined us as well.

  “Do all the imps have a problem staying within ten yards of him?”

  “Not all.”

  Clearly I wasn’t getting any more information from him tonight.

  A yawn escaped my lungs. “I’ve had a long day. And tomorrow looks very busy. I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Let me escort you to your room.” Sancroix offered me his arm.

  “Uh—no, thanks. It’s not as if I can’t defend myself.” I tilted my head to the right where Scrap perched.

  “Las Vegas is home to creatures they never taught us about in the Citadels.”

  “Like wereweasels and vampires?” I joked.

  “Precisely.”

  “Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize,” I told myself as I smoothed lotion on my face, hands, and legs, beneath my cotton nightie. “One day in the desert and I already feel like a prune.”

  So I sucked greedily on the bottled water I’d picked up in the convenience store two blocks up the street from the hotel. I predicted I’d go through at least another case before the end of the conference.

  A knock on the door interrupted my attempts to mitigate the effects of seven percent humidity aggravated by canned air. Scrap would have a lot of trouble finding any mold, his favored food, anywhere, even in the air conditioners.

  Quietly, I crept to the door and peered through the spy hole.

  “Tess, I know you’re in there,” Donovan said. He held up a big bouquet of mixed spring flowers. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

  “Okay.” I opened the door but stood firmly in the doorway, denying him entrance.

  “Please accept my apology for my surly mood earlier,” he said sweetly, thrusting the bulky bouquet at me, complete with cut glass vase.

  I buried my nose in their delicate fragrance. Daisies, and an exotic lily I easily identified. The others I could only guess at the names.

  “Can I come in and talk to you?” Donovan looked a bit lost and helpless.

  How could I resist him in that mood?

  I clamped down on my hormones and backed up enough to let him come in to the modest room with two queen beds, an entertainment
center, a worktable—already filled with my laptop, notes, and cell phone charger. Some conferences could afford to give me suites. “Stretching Your Writing Wings” was too new to feel comfortable spending that kind of money.

  “What do you want to talk about, and where is my mother?” I set the flowers down on the nightstand between the two beds. Nope, might give him ideas. I switched them to the worktable.

  “Genevieve is back at the karaoke machine. A Ms. Penny Worth is keeping an eye on her, making sure none of her adoring fans gets too fresh.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. This was so not like my mom. But if singing helped her cope with the posttraumatic stress of Darren, let her keep it up.

  I wondered if Breven Sancroix stood among the adoring fans.

  And had Mr. Twitchy Junior Sancroix tried to con Mom and Donovan out of anything with his empathic talent.

  “What do you need to talk about?”

  “This.” He gathered me into his arms and lowered his head to capture my lips with his own.

  My blood sang. My limbs melted. My mind turned to oatmeal.

  For three endless heartbeats I welcomed his touch, gloried in the way our bodies molded together, invited his hands to explore my back and ribs and beneath my breasts.

  His callused hands awakened nerve endings. I wanted more. His clothes and my nightgown put too thick a barrier between my skin and his.

  His aftershave enticed me with hints of sage and copper.

  Whoa, girl. Some tiny niggle of sanity sparked to life. It wiggled to the front of my brain and spread.

  Reluctantly, I broke the kiss and pushed him away. I felt cold, empty, and incomplete with three inches of space separating us.

  “Tess?” he sounded plaintive and hurt.

  “You know my conditions. ’Fess up or get out of my life.”

  “I have four tickets to ‘Fairy Moon’ for tomorrow night. VIP circle.” He held up four pieces of printed card stock with the whimsical logo of a fairy touching a crescent moon with a magic wand.

  He offered me the sun and stars and the universe to go with it.

  “Are they real?”