by P. R. Frost
The temperature around the table dropped below freezing.
“Try it Mr. Sancroix. Just try it and see how ‘easy’ writing anything is. Romance is one of the hardest to make real and believable.” Did I say how annoying this nervous little guy was?
“I’m going to sit in on your classes.”
“I believe all my workshops are full. You need to talk to the conference organizers.” Pass the buck whenever possible.
“I own this hotel, I can join any damn class I want.” He rose abruptly and left. His chair teetered on its rear legs a few seconds before regaining its balance and bumping back to a correct position.
“What was that all about?” the editor asked me.
“I have no idea.” But Junior had emphasized “connections.” After last night’s conversation I suspected he meant Lady Lucia. Or possibly Gregbaum.
I checked my cell phone. Sure enough, I had full signal and a text from Gollum. He’d arrived in the middle of the night and would find me at lunch.
At least one thing in my life was solid and certain. Gollum.
“Why does every fantasy novel have a medieval setting?” a student in my morning workshop asked. She looked like she was approaching her fifties reluctantly, with a too-short sun dress, starved-to-thinness body, and expensively dyed auburn hair. The lines around her eyes and at the corners of her perpetual frown gave her away.
“How many fantasies have you read, MaryLynn?” I asked, seeking the name she’d printed in tiny letters on her sticky name tag. Last-minute registration. Those of us who had signed up ahead of time had printed cards slipped into a badge holder.
“Not many. Every one I pick up is the same as all the others.” She pouted prettily, like a twenty year old.
I’d had experience with women who used that kind of pout to manipulate people.
“I prefer modern romances. I’ve sold five and am considering diversifying.” She’d mentioned those five novels in every comment she’d made in the last hour and a half.
“Seems like you’ve had bad luck in picking fantasies. The ones I’ve read in just the last month have settings in prehistory, outer space, and contemporary cities. But the medieval castle is a trope you find quite often, especially in historical romances. Any theories before I give my explanation—which is only an opinion.”
A forest of hands shot up. This was a workshop on making genre fiction unique while keeping it sellable. One of the harder topics I had tackled at writer conferences. Registration for this class was supposed to be limited to those who’d sold at least one short story, preferably a novel.
Unpublished Mr. Twitchy cowered in a back corner. He didn’t appear to be taking notes, contenting himself with glaring at me.
I turned the discussion toward the longing for older, simpler times when honor and valor could be measured, the romance of historical costumes, the “glamour” of hobnobbing with lords and ladies. Someone also brought up the influence of the Society For Creative Anachronism—the clubs that re-created their own version of the Middle Ages every weekend, the way olden times should have been—where everyone is a lord or lady, and the popularity of Renaissance Faires.
“We could also look at an anthropological explanation,” I said. “Some theorize that when an industrialized society is cut off from communication and resources, they will revert to a Medieval level of technology within two generations. A monarchy or oligarchy flows out of that kind of society—strong leaders protecting average people from predatory animals or human enemies—or in some fantasies, alien beings or fantastical creatures like orcs or trolls. If resources are extremely limited, they will fall back to tribal level hunter-gatherers within another three to four generations.”
At the moment the words flowed from my mouth, my resident anthropologist, Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, PhD, ducked into the back of the room. About time. The digital clock on my cell phone showed the noon break approaching fast.
He looked freshly showered and shaved in his neat khakis and emerald-green golf shirt. For once his wire-rimmed glasses sat firmly on the bridge of his nose, masking his mild blue eyes. Every silver-gilt hair lay in place.
His professor guise effectively masked the breadth of his shoulders on his tall and lanky frame. I’d sparred with him, rock climbed with him, had him carry me off the field of battle. I knew the strength and power he could deliver.
Thankfully, he sat between me and Mr. Twitchy, blocking the other man’s line of sight to me.
Gollum nodded approval of my statement. My heart shimmied for just a second. The windowless conference room seemed a bit brighter and less confined. Mr. Twitchy paled to insignificance.
My real students scribbled notes rapidly. Except for MaryLynn. I had a feeling she really only wanted to rest on the laurels of her five short contemporary romances. A good beginning to a career. But I’d learned early on, languishing in midlist, that building a career requires a new book every year. And each book has to be different, even those written in series. Now that I’d hit a few best seller lists with a new series based upon my time in the Citadel but set in a post-apocalyptic Earth, I had to work harder to constantly improve my prose and keep my readers happy with new adventures and varied settings within the context.
And the next novel was stalled at an outline and three chapters.
Last night I’d fallen asleep over the laptop without writing a word. Mom had put me to bed at two. Then I’d overslept.
No time to call the Citadel. Barely time to grab my notes.
A monitor appeared in the doorway with a five-minute sign.
“Good discussion, people. Any last comments before we break for lunch?”
“What’s your next workshop?”
I’d already done two today. “Nine AM tomorrow. I’m spending this afternoon writing. The only way a book gets written is if I apply butt to chair and fingers to keyboard. Conferences are great learning tools, and can jump-start your enthusiasm, but you still have to write the book and I’m on deadline.”
“A selling writer is always on deadline,” Gollum said quietly when the room had cleared of all but the two of us. Mr. Twitchy was the first to scuttle away.
My friend hugged me lightly and kissed my cheek.
“Tell me about it.” That greeting, while not inappropriate between close friends, felt different. Strange. Like I wasn’t ready to deal with him after last night’s fiasco with Donovan.
And the night before . . .
“What are you doing for lunch?” Gollum asked.
“Talking to you about some weird things happening in Las Vegas.”
“What about Las Vegas isn’t weird?” he chuckled. “I caught the tail end of Genevieve’s set last night in the lounge. Took me a while to realize that was really her on stage wearing a red cocktail dress and spike heels. The pearls gave her away, though. I’ve never seen your mother without them.”
“A wedding gift from her mother-in-law. I think they’ve been in Dad’s family for several generations. They go to the person in the bloodline who is supposed to have them. Sometimes I think Mom sleeps with them.” I took his arm and led him out of the conference center, a big block of rooms that had once been part of the casino. “The buffet still has breakfast items. Let’s eat and then find a private place to talk.”
“I love a woman with a healthy appetite.”
“What’s healthy about waffles with strawberries and whipped cream? And a ton of coffee.”
“You don’t add chocolate chips to the mess. I’ll have an egg white omelet, thank you.” He almost shuddered at my food choices. “I did bring you some freshly ground coffee from your favorite kiosk on Cape Cod. We can make a couple of pots in the hotel room machines.”
“Bless you, Gollum. How did you know the watered-down dark roast they call coffee here would leave me a walking zombie?”
“Have you thought about buying a syringe and mainlining caffeine?”
“Wouldn’t work. The stuff they serve here is too weak to jump
-start my heart.”
“I’ll take on that job,” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear.
I let that pass. “So what did you think of Mom’s new career? The hotel manager is talking about giving her a contract and hiring her a band.” After only two nights.
I still reeled at the idea of my mother as a torch singer. In Vegas.
“Would that be a bad thing?”
I had to think about that while we went through the buffet line. I decided to try their prime rib, fried shrimp, skip the macaroni and cheese to leave room for desert, and the endless salad bar.
“They make a really good cheese cake here,” I said when I’d found us a booth near the kitchen door. I hoped the noise and constant traffic would hide our conversation.
The location didn’t hide us. MaryLynn walked past to the adjacent booth. She sniffed in my direction. “Second man I’ve seen her with in as many days. And neither one is registered for the conference.” She didn’t try to keep her gossip secret.
Gollum’s glasses slid down his nose, and he peered at me over the tops. “Who else have you been flirting with?”
I’d hoped to avoid that topic. No way to lie to Gollum when he looked at me like that. “Donovan came to town. He needed Mom’s signature on some papers urgently. While he’s here, he accompanied us to a show last night.” I kept my eyes on cutting the fat off the prime rib.
“Did you get tickets for ‘Fairy Moon’? I’d like to see it, too. I’m hearing wonderful things about it on the Internet.”
“Good luck getting tickets. Mine came from an unusual source.” Okay. Good way to divert attention away from what I had and hadn’t done with Donovan in the last forty-eight hours.
“How unusual?”
I tried his egg-white-and-vegetable omelet without looking at it. I wished I hadn’t. It tasted as disgusting and inadequate as it looked.
“Ever hear of Lady Lucia?”
He thought a moment. “I have a vague recollection of some kind of organized crime connection. I’d have to look it up, though.”
“Spend your afternoon tracking her down. She may be important to another bit of weirdness.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Not here.” I looked over my shoulder at MaryLynn and her companion, a stout woman wearing a respectable suit and a preprinted name tag. I knew her from the formal luncheon yesterday. One of the teaching pros, a romance writer breaking into mainstream and on the verge of hitting a major best seller list. She didn’t look too happy at MaryLynn’s constant stream of negative gossip about the other conference goers.
“Let’s take a walk along the Strip. I’ll call a taxi as soon as we finish eating.”
“You going back for cheesecake?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound as good today. I had a bit of tummy upset yesterday afternoon. I wonder if Scrap’s lactose intolerance is catching.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Is he here?”
“No. I haven’t seen much of him at all since I got here.”
“That’s unusual. He shouldn’t be able to get too far away from you for any length of time.”
“That’s beginning to worry me.” Especially since Fortitude flitted in ahead of Breven Sancroix. Mom had one arm laced with his and the other with Donovan’s.
“Let’s go. We can slip out this side door.”
“Avoiding your mother again? You really need to talk to her about her new career. Maybe she’s decided that making friends and trying new things is good. What could happen to her that’s worse than marrying a half demon?”
Chapter 16
The intersection of Flamingo Road and the Strip mark perfect compass points. A bend in the road at the Venetian moves the Strip off true north-south orientation and confuses the unwary.
MICKEY DROPPED US off at the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Boulevard—the Strip. I needed some exercise. The one mile plus of walking north to the Dragon and St. George should stretch my legs and give me time to talk privately with Gollum. With so much noise and confusion crowding the sidewalks, I doubted even the most avid eavesdropper could overhear us. If they could find us among the thousands of people jostling for position away from the bumper-to-bumper cars.
“They should close off traffic to all but taxis and tour buses,” Gollum grumbled as we dodged six cars running a red light at the intersection.
“They did that down on Freemont, the downtown area. I think they roofed part of it, too. I haven’t gotten there yet.” I had to turn sideways to avoid being crushed by a phalanx of Asians dripping camera equipment. My breasts crushed up against Gollum’s arm.
Without a word, he wrapped the arm around my shoulders and kept me close. For protection, I told myself.
Nothing remotely resembling sexual tension between us. But, oh, it felt good to snuggle next to him and let him guide us through the maze. Standing fourteen inches taller than me, he could see a path blocked to my view of chests and backs.
We goggled and gawked as much as any normal tourist. Each hotel spread out and up, grander than the last monstrosity. Each unique in theme, spectacle, and canned advertisements broadcast to the masses.
“It’s much bigger than I thought,” Gollum said. “Brighter and happier, too.” He turned us in a circle so he could see the miniature Eiffel Tower in the distance and get another look at the sphinxes behind us.
I didn’t think they were miniature. And then there was the pyramid.
“I’m told the light shooting out of the top of the pyramid is visible from space as well. When the aliens invade, they’ll probably land in Las Vegas, summoned by that beacon,” he laughed. “In fact, the elevators are actually inclinators rising at a twenty-nine-degree angle to accommodate the architecture.”
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Gollum to come up with esoteric facts and figures.
A particularly loud advertisement blared at us from one of the animated signs.
“It’s a false happiness. It grates on my nerves,” I replied, shivering in the desert heat.
“You need to relax and enjoy the carefree spirit of the place.” He squeezed my shoulder, pulling me closer yet to his side.
“I need earplugs.” We approached the curving bridges, wandering canal, and graceful balconies of The Venetian. I pulled Gollum past the quarter-mile-long hotel front, not wanting to think about my gondola ride last night.
“If you wore earplugs, we couldn’t talk. So what do we need to talk about?” he asked. He had to nearly shout for me to hear over the blare of car horns and tinny music blasting out of an old strip mall that had become a tourist gizmo haven.
“Hey, do you want to take a gondola ride? It’s not that expensive.” He urged me toward the outside portion of the waterway.
I diverted him with the tale of Lady Lucia’s wereweasel and her apology of flowers and tickets. I didn’t tell him that Donovan had pretended they came from him. Then I told him about the faery at the slot machines and references to Lord Gregbaum.
“Hmmmm.”
“That’s it? No long-winded lectures on the origin of vampire legends? No extended theories on why the dancers never leave the building, and why they wear their costumes into the casino? And, by the way, the costumes look like they need about six sessions at the dry cleaners or complete replacement. What’s wrong with you, Gollum?”
“Just thinking. I’ll run some questions by my folklore colleagues and Gramps when I get back to the hotel. For now, I think we need to check out the Dragon and St. George. I want to see these gambling faeries myself. Did you know there is a tradition that faeries will bet on anything? Being nearly immortal, they’ve developed gambling to a fine art, just to pass the time . . .”
Now that’s the Gollum I knew and . . . loved. In a way. Best friends. Really.
“I don’t believe for a moment that Lady Lucia is a vampire, but if she were, she’d operate on the same principle,” I added. “Manipulate us poor mortals into doing her bidding while betting how long it takes us t
o figure out what she wants.”
“By George, I think she’s got it!” Gollum laughed, mimicking a British accent.
Speaking of accents . . . “Mr. Master Linguist, where do you think Mickey is from?”
“The cab driver?”
I nodded while trying not to jostle a teenager on a skateboard with a mega cup of soda pop. All I needed was for him to spill it all over my good clothes.
“Couldn’t place his accent.”
“He says Bulgaria.”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean. ‘Nope’? You speak what, five living languages and read at least three dead ones. Haven’t you heard a Bulgarian accent before?”
“You wouldn’t have asked me if you honestly believed he was from Bulgaria. I’ve heard plenty of accents from Bulgaria, Romania, Serbo-Croatia. He’s not from there. Trust me on this.”
“Okay. Why would he lie while he’s trying to be so helpful? Specifically, trying to please Lady Lucia.”
“I’ll let you know when I know more about Lady Lucia.”
We negotiated the sidewalks for the remaining distance to the Dragon and St. George. Once we got off the Strip, traffic lightened a modicum. Then it picked up again around the theater entrance of the hotel.
A lot of people turned away from the desk, shaking their heads in disappointment. Those who picked up previously booked tickets waved them in triumph.
A discreet hand beckoned the next disappointed one from the isolated potted palm near the fire exit.
“I’ll try a single ticket. Might be easier than a pair,” Gollum said, finally releasing me from his protective grip.
“You stand in line, I see someone I need to talk to.” I approached a young couple, probably early twenties. He wore smart casual slacks and a shirt. She wore a graceful sun dress that fell a discreet two inches below the knee. She held her left hand up, flashing an expensive wedding ring and solitaire. Honeymooners. Professionals with some money.
“Never buy a ticket from a guy hiding behind a palm tree. If his tickets are real, he can only legally sell them through a licensed kiosk,” I warned the couple.