by P. R. Frost
I wish I could say the same for myself.
I dozed off and on for the rest of the afternoon. So did Scrap. The beer and OJ arrived. We slurped it down. I added some ibuprofen to mine, and nodded off again.
Gollum stayed with me, changing ice packs, coming up with a heating pad to alternate with them, taking phone calls from my mom, declining offers to dine with other writers from the conference, rejecting a last-minute request for me to critique a manuscript.
How many times in the past few months had he camped out in my hotel room helping me cope with a mission?
Around five, Gollum stuck a room service menu in front of me. “You have to eat to keep your strength up. Protein to rebuild muscle tissue.”
“The chicken Alfredo is the only thing that looks good,” I mumbled.
“Are you sure. You said at lunch that you thought you might have acquired Scrap’s lactose intolerance.” He frowned at me.
“I was only joking. Buffet cheesecake probably sat out a little too long. Honestly, I don’t feel much like eating. Must be the beer and OJ. But the chicken Alfredo sounds good. And coffee. The coffee you brought me, not the watered-down generic beans they serve in this town.”
“Okay. If you say so.” He placed the order.
Food arrived nearly an hour later. The aroma of garlic and chicken woke up my appetite. My leg felt a lot better. Even Scrap roused enough to pop out in search of mold.
“You have a massage scheduled for seven,” Gollum said, setting a tray on my lap. I hadn’t moved from where I’d collapsed on the bed.
We ate companionably, chatting and rehashing what I’d seen and done since arriving. A music station played something soft on the television.
The chicken Alfredo didn’t sit well. Maybe I ate too much. Maybe the pain pills had upset my digestion. I rarely take them. Since surviving the imp flu, my body doesn’t succumb to viruses and disease. I heal quickly from wounds, and react strangely to any kind of drugs. Maybe my nerves had finally caught up with me after refusing Donovan’s proposal.
Had I done the right thing?
Of course I had. How could I marry a man I didn’t trust?
Donovan had sunk too much time, money, and energy into establishing a homeland for Kajiri demons—half-bloods. Any man with that much sympathy for beings that existed only to breed and eat—and eat anything including human flesh and blood—needed careful watching. I’d seen some of Donovan’s buddies in the Sasquatch tribe do just that.
On the other hand, I had met a few Kajiri who truly wanted only to blend in and let their human genetics dominate. Their demon relatives cast them out. And heaven help them in the human world if any of their demon characteristics showed through, even for a moment.
No easy answers.
If I questioned the rightness of the match, then it wasn’t right. I couldn’t imagine sharing the emotional intimacy of friendship with Donovan like I did with Gollum.
Walking to the elevator and then to the hotel spa on the top floor wasn’t easy. “Thanks for being my crutch,” I said to Gollum when he left me at the door.
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ll get on the Internet while you’re here and follow up on some research.” He kissed my cheek and ducked back into the elevator.
“Gollum, can you do a background check on Sancroix?” I finally remembered my failed attempt to contact the Citadel.
He waved to acknowledge that he heard me. The doors closed on him and whisked him away. I sighed. He helped me more than he knew just by being my friend.
Massages are the best thing ever invented by humans. Maybe they were invented by the gods and passed down to us in heavenly visions. I don’t know.
Raoul knew precisely how to manipulate, rotate, and stretch my injury, all the while applying proper compression. It was merely a strain and not a pull. Because I got treatment right away, it shouldn’t bother me for too long. But it needed rest tonight and tomorrow. He worked my entire body to get everything back into line and balanced.
I came out of the spa feeling fifty percent back to normal. I could put weight on my right leg without wincing. It carried me all the way down to the room—via the elevator. I’m not stubborn enough or dumb enough to tackle stairs at this stage.
Two feet inside my door, I dashed to the bathroom and lost my lovely chicken Alfredo to the porcelain throne.
You don’t want to know the details.
“Lactose intolerance,” Gollum muttered through the closed door. “I’ll get you some dry toast and tea.”
“Yuck.”
“It will help. I promise. And some acidophilus.”
“And I’ve got some oceanfront property for sale, only two blocks from here.”
I brushed my teeth and took a quick shower. Much better.
When I emerged from the bathroom in my royal blue terry robe, I found Mickey, in the doorway, with the door wide open. He and Gollum stared at each other in bewilderment.
Was that Junior scuttling toward the elevator, head down, fists clenched, looking about furtively?
Mickey carried a huge bouquet of white roses. His swarthy face looked as pale as the flowers.
“What?” I demanded.
He handed me a thick parchment envelope bearing Lady Lucia’s crest.
I read the note inside, holding my breath. “The bearer will escort you to a rendezvous point at nine of the clock this evening.”
“Crap.” I felt like it, too.
Chapter 20
El Rancho Vegas was the first hotel/casino built on the Strip in 1941. The venerable hotel and its trademark Windmill burned to the ground in 1960. The lot across from the Sahara, in the shadow of the Stratosphere remains empty, and, some say, haunted.
“SO,WHAT DO WE KNOW?”I asked Gollum at eight thirty. My tummy had recovered enough that I could eat a roast beef sandwich and a ginger ale. I had some persistent bloating, like the day before my period, only worse.
Familiarity with Scrap’s lactose intolerance led me to hope I wouldn’t let loose the bloating at an inappropriate moment.
The groin pull still presented problems. I could walk with only a little limp, stand if I had to with my weight off it. Moving was better than standing. I hoped I wouldn’t have to fight.
Scrap was still out of it. That meant mundane weapons at best. Should I steal a wooden kabob skewer from the kitchen? Or was it silver vampires were sensitive to? No, that’s werewolves. I definitely needed a wooden stake, if for no other reason than intimidation.
I gazed at Scrap fondly. Usually he made his recovery elsewhere. Because of my injury, he couldn’t get very far from me. For the first time I understood Gollum’s attachment to his wretched cat. Having Scrap’s body, insubstantial as it was, curled up beside me comforted me, reassured me that I wasn’t alone.
“We know that a Contessa Lucia Maria Continelli, wife of Italian Count Antonio Bertrand Continelli died in 1818 along with her husband and small son. Their fortified Tuscan villa was burned to the ground. The count was not liked. Hints of taking prisoners during the Napoleonic invasions for the sole purpose of torture. He didn’t discriminate as to which side they fought for.”
I gulped. This sounded very like the blood-and-gore stories surrounding Vlad the Impaler.
“No modern driver’s license, Social Security number, or telephone listing for Lucia.” Gollum peered at his computer screen over the top of his glasses. Which had slid to the end of his nose, as usual.
I wanted to grab a miniature screwdriver kit and tighten the frames.
“So, whoever this woman is, she’s maintaining a profile that would fit a vampire,” I mused.
“Folklore around the ancestral estate in Italy claims she was repeatedly milked by a local vampire. A long wasting illness that prevented her from appearing in public during the sunlight hours. The villagers didn’t trust her. I’m guessing she was foreign to them at the time of the marriage. Never discount the value of folklore.”
“She’s a charlatan. I bet we fin
d she ran away from a farm in Iowa twenty years ago and has manipulated a mini empire based on a kinky reputation.”
“The elastic bandage will help support the thigh muscles, and will be invisible under slacks,” he added.
I’d learned months ago to blink and then try to follow the rapid twists and turns of his mind.
“Should I show up with a wooden stake tucked in my pocket?”
No answer. Gollum, at least, had the grace to almost blush.
“As for Gregbaum, he started as a stage magician, working small clubs and bars. Mostly for tips. Never made it big. Hung around the fringes of legitimate stage productions. Then, suddenly, two years ago he shows up with enormous backing for a real show. Launches it almost overnight, no auditions, already has sets and costumes. He signs a contract one day with a hotel on the skids. Puts up a few fliers around town the next, and opens ‘Fairy Moon’ on the third. Instantly, the Dragon and St. George is saved from forced sale and implosion.”
“Where’d he get the money?” I thought back on the rumor that the hotel was on the verge of selling again. Apparently, “Fairy Moon” wasn’t enough to bail the owners out of whatever hole they’d dug themselves into.
“I find no list of investors.”
“He had to come up with it somewhere. That is not a cheap show to put on, even if he isn’t paying his dancers and is keeping them locked in a dormitory in the basement, as if they were white slaves.”
“Interesting simile.”
“Why.” I gave up trying to get my hair to do something sophisticated. The total lack of humidity kept it from frizzing, but that’s the best I can say about it. I limped over to his station in the armchair by the windows, laptop perched on his long thighs, big feet propped on the table.
“There is an arrest record, no conviction, for Gary Gregbaum: illegally importing underage girls from Eastern Bloc nations for immoral purposes.”
“What? Why wasn’t he convicted?”
“Court records do not say. His lawyer of record is Gerard Moncrieff.”
I whistled. “Very expensive bastard.”
“Very tricky bastard. He wins all his cases on technical errors rather than on the evidence. I’m guessing the DA dismissed shaky charges rather than face Moncrieff in court.”
A discreet knock on the door.
I looked at Gollum to see if he’d walk all the way across the room to answer it.
He continued to stare at his laptop, an occasional key stroke occupied all of his attention. “Nothing on Sancroix yet.”
I sighed and limped over to find Mickey quaking in the hallway.
“You ready?” he asked, wringing his hands. He looked incredibly young, with his skinny shoulders and lean frame. Then he raised his eyes to me. He had big brown eyes that held an eternity of sorrow and grief. Age and frown lines radiated out from those soulful orbs, belying his youthful countenance.
“I’m ready.” As ready as I’d ever be. I’d gone for classy casual (the same tone as the conference) with dove-gray slacks and a pink knit top, black lace-up shoes not much more substantial than sneakers but with good traction. A cable knit sweater in gray with pink flecks thrown over my shoulders completed the outfit. Scrap had, of course, picked it out and coordinated it for me.
“Gollum?”
“This is a scouting mission, you can handle it.” He waved at me, never taking his eyes off his computer.
“Like hell, I can. Get your ass out of my armchair.” A long-standing argument approaching joke status. “I need backup. I need you to listen to accents. I need you to whisper advice in the face of an unknown enemy.” I was a schoolteacher before I began writing full time. I’d handled reluctant teenagers and quarrelsome five year olds alike.
Gollum responded to the same authoritative voice.
“Of course.” He blinked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“What about me?” Mickey asked. He kept his eyes on the carpet. He’d dropped the phony Slavic accent.
“No need to risk yourself.”
“One such as you must know that I have to go.” He didn’t look happy about it.
“Do I get to ask why?”
“Not yet.” He looked up finally and flashed me a winsome grin. For half a moment I caught an afterimage of pointed ears peeking through his jaw-length straight hair. Then it was gone.
“Did you bring the comb? I think you’re going to need it,” Gollum said. He referred to a magical artifact that allowed me to see through demon glamour and decipher auras. I hated wearing it as it turned bits and pieces of my hair crystal clear and brittle. It also gave me headaches.
“No.”
I’ll get it. Scrap surged up from his sleeping ball looking refreshed and eager. He popped out. Three eye blinks later, he dropped onto my shoulder, the precious antique gold filigree piece in his chubby hand.
Mickey followed his movements unerringly.
“You aren’t from Bulgaria, are you?”
“My guess, he’s from Faery.” Gollum yawned and held the door open for us.
I held my breath and my temper for about as long as you’d expect. Exactly half of one heartbeat.
“And just when did you plan to share this information with me?” I was surprised steam didn’t roil out my ears.
“When you needed to know.” Gollum smiled.
“Which is when?”
“About three seconds after I figured it out.”
“Oh.” My righteous indignation drained out of me, like a slow leak in a hot air balloon. “Is this true, Mickey?”
“I am not allowed to say, but if a human figures it out, I do not have to deny it. That is the rule of the Powers That Be.”
Hmmm. Something to consider when dealing with Donovan. Now I just had to figure out what he was hiding.
“I noticed the moment he stopped faking an accent that certain inflections reminded me of the speech patterns of the coven of witches that went missing to Faery for twenty-eight years . . .” Gollum droned on about nuances of accents and how much difference could occur in relatively small geographic distances all the way down the elevator and into Mickey’s taxi.
The portal to Faery is closed, Scrap said. He leaned on top of my head to peer closely at Mickey. Ask him when and how he got here. He might be a spy for the other side.
I asked.
“Closed?” Mickey looked truly bewildered and frightened. “No one can get in or out of Faery?” A single tear leaked out of the corner of his eye.
“That’s what Scrap says.”
“I came through the chat room right after we noticed the dancers missing. A brightness and a luster vanished from our lives; from the goodness that is Faery. A trail of energy followed them and continued to leak. The Powers That Be must have sealed it off to prevent further leakage. I have to get my people back home soon!”
“I know you do. We’ll help,” I promised.
“May I take out my colored contacts now?” Mickey asked as he settled behind the wheel.
“As long as you don’t need them to see clearly . . .”
“I see better without them. Necessary for disguise.” He bent his head and pressed fingertips to eye corners. When he looked up again the bright lights of the hotel porte cochere revealed the greenest irises I’d ever seen.
“Faery green,” I breathed.
Mickey nodded and smiled shyly. “Too distinctive for blending in with humans.”
Gollum and I rode in the back, as if we were paying passengers. I took the opportunity to test the comb. My hair tangled around it instantly, like iron filings reaching for a magnet.
Gollum looked his usual pensive self with layers and layers of energy radiating out from him; every color imaginable, some warm and inviting, others cold and calculated, even a few dark and brooding—or guilty.
We all have our secrets.
He kept talking.
Mickey, on the other hand, appeared royal blue with wings and pointed ears shadowing his body. I caught a hint of gol
d around his brow, then it vanished.
Ah-ha! Our spy from Faery had royal connections. Not just any normal volunteer for a do-or-die mission. I hoped no one had to die.
Part of me wanted to reach out and hug him in reassurance.
“He always this verbose?” Mickey asked as he pulled into traffic.
His words shattered my musing. So I snagged the comb out of my hair, pulling several crystalline strands with it. My scalp hurt where it had lodged.
I liked his new accent, his real accent. Some of his words came out with an almost Latin inflection, as in Classic Latin rather than Latino, and he tended to clip off the last sound.
“Get enough single malt scotch into Gollum and he spouts in tongues. But he always spouts,” I laughed.
Gollum glared at me over the top of his glasses.
Mickey wound through traffic, right and left, left and right, circling buildings, and returning to the Strip in different locations. We passed the vacant lot where the El Rancho Vegas had burned. No one ever built on that lot, prime real estate though it was. I got a creepy feeling there.
Ghosts, Scrap whispered to me. Not happy ones.
We passed it by, almost glad that the raucous noise and glaring lights of the Stratosphere drew our attention away from the dark shadows.
After a half hour Mickey cruised into an underground parking garage and jerked to a stop beside a long black hearse with tinted windows.
“Why the convoluted route to get us beneath the Dragon and St. George?” I asked before touching the door handle. I wasn’t getting in that dark monster of a deathmobile.
“Just following orders,” Mickey said. He looked abashed as he held up a page of printed instructions. He sounded defiant. Quite an actor this guy. No telling what he really felt.
“Probably to disorient you,” Gollum said. He opened his door and unfolded his long limbs.
“Whoever gave you the directions didn’t count on Scrap.” My buddy preened. “I can’t get lost as long as he’s with me.”
Gollum froze halfway to standing.
Instantly, I looked for danger.
“Mickey,” Gollum said with deep seriousness. “Did you choose the route?” He snatched the printed directions from Mickey’s hand almost too quickly to follow.