Faery Moon

by P. R. Frost

  They wandered off, shaking their heads.

  “We’ll try for one of the other shows on the Strip,” the young man said, kissing his wife’s temple.

  The wereweasel tried to sidle to the opposite side of the palm and the exit. I reached behind the plant and grabbed his collar.

  “You’re still selling forged tickets to innocents,” I snarled at him.

  “What do you care, lady? Without your imp, you’re just another tourist,” he sneered back. Only his words came out on a strange lisp. His crooked mustache concealed a barely healed harelip scar. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved since I saw him last. Come to think on it, he had the same two-day growth two-days ago.

  Weird compounded upon strange.

  “Scrap is never far away,” I countered. I sure hoped so anyway.

  Right here, babe. Scrap settled on my shoulder, the barest hint of dandelion fluff in weight.

  The weasely man’s eyes grew large. He really did have a vertical pupil instead of round. He must be wearing contacts to give that illusion. I’d seen costumers at cons do the same. And the harelip and mustache could be faked just as easily.

  I settled down. No more weird than a Science Fiction/Fantasy convention or con. All of Vegas was a con in a way.

  “Tell your mistress I thank her for the flowers and the tickets. Professional courtesy. I respect her territory as long as she stays away from me and mine.” That sounded like something I’d write. Therefore, it sounded like what these pretenders expected.

  You might want to reconsider that, dahling. We could bet on it. Wanna make a bet. Scrap chomped on a cigar, a big fat one, not his usual black cherry cheroots. He wrapped his tail around my neck. The barbed end had a strange luster to it. So did the rest of him. I was surprised the others in line couldn’t see him.

  The weasel sure could.

  His mouth opened and closed, making strange gasping noises. “Don’t feed me to the imp. Please don’t feed me to the imp. Say, neat trick with the gondola last night. But you really should have accepted Donovan’s proposal. He’s one of the good guys.”

  “Coming from you, that’s not a compliment. Sheesh, does the entire town know about last night?”

  “Pretty much. Did you get a good look at the size of that ring? That would buy back my marker from Lady Lucia and then some. You really should have said yes.”

  I rolled my eyes upward in disgust. Or despair. Had I made that big a mistake in turning down Donovan? No way to know now.

  “I’ll let you go this time, Weasel. But if I ever hear of you scalping forged tickets again, I’ll return your head to your mistress, minus your body.”

  “That’s a bit harder than you think, bitch . . .”

  “Tell that to the widowed Windago I slew last month.” I dropped my grip on his collar.

  He stumbled and slinked off. I watched him for a moment to make sure he left the building. When the closest doors whooshed closed on his backside, I returned to Gollum’s side.

  “Haven’t you got anything? Even standing room at the back of the balcony?” my friend asked. He sounded more desperate than disappointed.

  “Sold that two months ago. Sorry. The show is sold out for the next six months.”

  “What about the single tickets in August you had day before yesterday?” I asked.

  “Sold those on line right after . . . Oh, it’s you. Why didn’t you say you were with her?” He reached below his counter and came up with a heavy parchment envelope, the kind wedding invitations come in. He handed it to me. “With Lady Lucia’s compliments. Next.”

  Startled, I slid my finger beneath the envelope’s flap and pulled out a piece of notepaper in the same heavy parchment. Gold embossing at the top spelled out “Contessa Lucia Maria Continelli.”

  “Step aside, ma’am. I’ve got other people to serve. Please,” the clerk said softly. Almost respectfully.

  I backed up three steps.

  Gollum paced me. “What does it say?” he asked.

  “This note will gain you seats tomorrow afternoon at three to a special performance that will be filmed for the upcoming DVD of ‘Fairy Moon.’ My apologies that I cannot gain you access to the VIP circle. That area will be filled with technical equipment. Respectfully, Contessa Lucia Maria Continelli.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. So why do I feel like I’ve just been manipulated by the resident vampire crime boss?”

  Chapter 17

  Poker has the best odds in Vegas as the players play against the skills of each other rather than random spins of a wheel, throw of dice, or computer generated slots. The House still takes a percentage of the pots.

  “IF YOU FEEL LIKE you are being manipulated,maybe you I are,” Gollum said. He took the note paper from me and read it himself. “Interesting handwriting. You don’t see the flowing decorations around the capitals much anymore, except in formal calligraphy. But this looks like normal handwriting, not a studied execution of an antique alphabet.”

  “Scrap, is the weasel anywhere near?” I searched the crowds for signs of Lady Lucia’s minion.

  Weasel has left the building, he said trying to sound like Elvis. He blew a smoke ring in my face.

  I waved it away, choking on the fumes, almost as thick as in the casino.

  “What’s your schedule tomorrow?” Gollum asked.

  I had to stop and think. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Right?” Days tended to run together on the road.

  Gollum nodded.

  I found my PDA in my belt pack and scanned it. “Critique session nine to eleven. Workshop on adding sensuality to fiction eleven to noon. Formal lunch until two. Awards banquet at six thirty.”

  “So the only time you have free is late afternoon. Three to five. The exact time of the special performance of ‘Fairy Moon.’ ”

  “I’ve had the feeling of being watched ever since I got here. Do you suppose Contessa Lucia is keeping tabs on me?”

  “Possible.”

  “Let’s find Weasel and make him take us to her. Right now.”

  “It’s still daylight, Tess. He couldn’t get us in to see Lady Lucia if he wanted to,” Gollum said. He looked most professorial as he tugged on his chin.

  “Only if she wants us to think she’s a vampire.”

  Both Gollum and Scrap stared at me in silence.

  “So we wait until tonight to try to find the lady. For now, we can scout the casino for signs of faery dancers.” I marched toward the center of the hotel so fast, Scrap and Gollum had to hurry to catch up.

  “Think about it, Tess. What better place for a vampire to hide, than in Vegas?”

  “I’ve heard that argument before. You’ve said it yourself. No one, absolutely no one, comes back from the dead.”

  If I believed someone could, I might have gone with the pseudo ghost of my first husband. Turns out I was lucky I did believe no one escapes death’s clutches once he’s touched you. The ghost turned out to be a demon construct sent to lure me away from my vows as a Warrior of the Celestial Blade and separate me from Scrap.

  That would have been the true and final death for both of us. And freed my home from the decidedly non-neutral presence of a Warrior.

  The Powers That Be really wanted my home back in neutral hands. Badly.

  “Look at all these people,” Gollum said. He stared in fascination at the wide variety of sizes, shapes, ages, and clothing. “All economic classes and degrees of education come here to gamble. There is the constant allure of instant wealth, even to the wealthy. The risk, the excitement. I’ve read some studies . . .” He droned on.

  There must be a psychology degree in the alphabet soup that followed his name.

  “What’s the moon phase?” I asked, trying to bring him back to our topic and mission.

  “Waxing new moon,” he said, barely pausing in his musing about the human need to gamble. “There must be something in the kinetic connection to the arm of the slot machine. The energy applied and transferred to the gods of chan
ce.”

  “We’re headed toward the waxing quarter moon, the time of greatest demon strength. Are faeries classed as demons in this dimension since they are out of their own universe? Would humans be classed as demons if we entered one of the other worlds?”

  “Possibly. Demons are usually classed as violent tribes needing the blood of other sentient beings to nourish themselves.” He still didn’t look at me, just at the chains of people wandering through the broken aisles—no way to walk a straight line without bumping into an opportunity to lose your money—and those fixated in one spot with card games, dice, or the ubiquitous slot machines.

  Not exactly, Scrap said around his cigar. He let go of my ear and my hair to bounce up to a chandelier and peer down at a vacant slot machine. This one’s going to blow, it’s primed and ready to pay out. Bet something, Tess. I just know you’re gonna win.

  “If portals weaken and demons gain strength at this time of the month allowing crossovers, then the faeries might have growing strength now, too,” I said, ignoring Scrap’s half correction of my theory.

  Screw that idea, Scrap said. He returned to me in disgust. Someone else had sat at the machine, plugged in a bunch a quarters, and lost.

  “I wonder if I could win at poker simply by studying the body language and psychology of my opponents,” Gollum mused, also ignoring me.

  I could fly around and peek at the other player’s cards! Scrap lifted off my shoulder and flew spiraling circles around us.

  “Not on your life, Guilford.” I yanked on his arm, trying to break his thrall. “We’re supposed to be looking for faery dancers.”

  “Oh. Yes. Certainly.” He shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “I detect a bit of pastel chiffon over by the bar.”

  “Which bar? There are six of them.”

  “The one on our far left. I believe it has a medieval milieu. The bartenders wear tunics and tights. The barmaids have most fetching peasant blouses and bodices with extremely short shirts.” He fixed his gaze on a deep cleavage exposed by one of those off-the-shoulder peasant blouses.

  Love the way those tights mold to the bartenders’ figures. Scrap nearly fell off my shoulder leering at the men when they stepped out from behind their barriers and revealed tunics that barely reached their hips.

  I wondered if the guys padded their tights the way women stuffed foam into their bras.

  “Totally inaccurate costuming,” I said. Though they did present some interesting eye candy for women, and men of Scrap’s persuasion. “And the bar specializes in flaming drinks ignited by the mechanical fire-breathing dragon in a cage behind the bar.” I sighed. Gimmicks. “The whole town is nothing but one big gimmick.”

  “The faeries must feel at home here. It has the feel of a Renaissance Faire,” Gollum said. His attention kept drifting toward the partially closed off poker rooms.

  “Only in this dimension do faeries visit Renaissance Faires,” I reminded him sharply. “Let’s go see if we can talk to one of them.”

  I latched a proprietary hand on Gollum’s elbow, guiding him toward that hint of pink chiffon. His eyes strayed toward the blackjack tables, then they flicked over one of the cocktail waitresses.

  Which bothered me the most?

  No time to think. Pink was on the move.

  I walked faster.

  Ever hear of sightseeing, babe? Scrap grumbled. He wrapped his strangely lustrous tail tighter about my neck to keep him from bouncing off my shoulder. His wings lifted slightly to gather enough air for balance. They looked longer and fuller than they had last time I saw him.

  He reminded me of . . . of . . . of me right after Donavon and I had played our own jousting game in bed.

  I almost burst out laughing. “Scrap, did you get laid?” I asked under my breath.

  And what if I did? He preened, showing off his warts and the extra half inch of wing.

  “Just wondering. May I ask who?”

  Only if I can ask back.

  I didn’t want to admit that I’d succumbed to my hormones with the man who kept Scrap away from me with some kind of force field.

  Thought so. Obviously not our dear friend Gollum or he’d be looking at you and not that tempting wench bending over the low table inside the bar.

  “I think they make those tables that low just so the gals have to flash their cleavage,” I said aloud. “It’s all padding,” I reminded Gollum.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. There’s our pink chiffon.” He bobbed his chin at a bank of slots with whimsical dragon and unicorn décor.

  Bells jangled and whistled shrilly. I cringed. So did Scrap.

  Off pitch, babe, he grumbled.

  “A pitch to make dogs howl.”

  Bright giggles erupted from one of the unicorn machines. “Sounds like one of our faeries won for a change.”

  “No such luck. Our winner is just a normal human girl,” Gollum stalled our progress.

  “Looks like a birthday girl celebrating her twenty-first.” I pointed to the bouquet of shiny Mylar above her head and the platoon of “best” friends squealing and clapping their hands around the winner. They all wore similar pastel sundresses in layers of ruffled floral prints.

  “So what do we do now?” Gollum asked. His eyes strayed toward a closed poker room.

  “We find Mickey and figure out how to get an audience with Lady Lucia.”

  “Hadn’t we better wait until after we see the show tomorrow?”

  “Afraid I’ll tick her off and she’ll rescind the tickets?”

  “Yes.”

  He’s got your number, babe. Scrap nearly fell off my shoulder laughing.

  They had a point. I did have a temper, easily roused in the face of evil manipulating people.

  “Okay. Let’s get out of here and put the word out on the street that I want an interview with Lady Lucia at midnight tomorrow. After the awards banquet.”

  Done. And done.

  “How?” I looked at Scrap to make sure he was still with me.

  Just a word in the right ears.

  Chapter 18

  Due to racial prejudice, when Sammy Davis Jr. first played Vegas, he had to enter and leave the hotel by the back entrance through the kitchen.

  WE MADE IT OUT of the casino into the theater lobby, aiming for the exit nearest there.

  Suddenly, two big men grabbed my elbows from behind and turned me back toward the now closed and empty theater area. I saw muscle on candy-cane-red skin and black leather and not much else.

  “Scrap, what is happening?”

  You sure you want to know? He spat out his cigar. The faint glow left his skin as he stretched and thinned.

  Uh-oh. Time to gear up for a fight.

  “Tess, I don’t like this,” Gollum warned, too late. “Too much of a coincidence that these guys show up so soon after we request an interview . . .”

  “Shaddup,” growled one of the brutes.

  Strangely, Gollum did. First time I’d known that to happen.

  We passed under the archway to the theater lobby. A black curtain swooshed across the opening, giving us the illusion of privacy.

  Then a steel gate slid across on well-oiled tracks, sealing us in. I heard the lock close in an ominous clack and clang. At the same time, the quadruple doors into the theater opened outward slowly, by unseen hands. A phalanx of human figures stood in the dark portal, none of them touching the doors. It looked like it opened into another world.

  How’d they do that?

  Hidden electronics must open and close doors and gates and curtains. Had to be remote controls.

  The bad guys pulled so hard on my arms, my feet left the floor.

  I relaxed my shoulders. My arms flew up and my feet flew down. The polished tile blocks, each a yard square, in a discreet and sophisticated green swirl imitation marble, had no traction. My professional-looking wedge-heeled pumps slid like an onion through sizzling butter in a fry pan.

  The brutes tightened their grips on my arms, fighting to keep m
e under their control. I kept sliding, letting go of my balance, further separating me from my captors.

  A rough spot in the tiles. My feet found traction. I threw myself forward, leaving the big and uglies behind.

  “Scrap, to me!”

  He landed heavily on my right hand, already halfway through his transformation.

  Two of the leather-clad guys still held Gollum in grips that might break his upper arms. My two stalked forward intent on recapturing me. Three more hung around the edges, making sure none of us escaped.

  Gulp. They all wore long broadswords in plain black leather scabbards to match their knickers and vests. Their exposed skin looked like fresh blood over muscles layered upon muscles. Just barely, I noted pointy ears and a flash of energy across their backs that might have been wings they left behind in their home dimension.

  Faeries on steroids, Scrap whispered as he continued to change. I’ve met these guys before.

  “At least they don’t have bat wings,” I grumbled as I twirled the staff that Scrap had become. The centrifugal force helped him elongate. His ears grew together and curved, becoming a half-moon blade. His bandy legs and tail became its twin blade at the other end. Each blade extruded long, hair-fine spikes on the outside curve, mimicking the star and Milky Way configuration of the Goddess of the Celestial Blade Warriors.

  I drew strength from my memories of seeing the Goddess rise in the sky, of the unity with the universe, and the power pulsing from the heavens into me.

  The brutes drew their swords. Seven against one. If they were just normal demons, I’d say the odds were even. But they had those monstrous long swords that must weigh ten pounds apiece. Even wielding the Celestial Blade like a sword, they had me on reach alone.

  I kicked off my shoes. “Shit!” A string of more violent curses exploded from my gut. I’d worn knee-high nylons. Worse traction. No time to find the shoes and slip back into them.

  “Okay, guys. Who’s first?” I shifted my grip and swung the blade over my head, at knee level, and straight ahead, keeping it constantly in motion in no particular pattern.