by Finley Aaron
“I didn’t know we were supposed to watch to see whether we were being followed,” Felix admits.
Constantine’s walking briskly around the suite, peeling back the curtains, crouching low to peek under the sofa. He’s checking every crevice, his movements smooth, the cut of his suit impeccable. He’s looked good before, but in this outfit, it’s almost distracting.
“What are you looking for?” I follow him on his paranoid pursuit.
“Bats. You haven’t seen any, have you?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes.” He rises from looking under the bed. Suddenly he’s surprisingly close, his scent way too attractive, his face inches from mine.
It’s the first time I’ve looked him in the eyes since my conversation with Felix last night—the one where Felix insisted Constantine cares about me with some kind of tragic, unrequited love.
I’ve been telling myself ever since that Felix’s theory is nonsense, a bunch of projected emotion from his own failed romance with Nia.
But the look in Constantine’s eyes says maybe there’s something to it.
Something more.
“You saw a bat?” It takes me a second to find my voice, which comes out uncharacteristically shaky and maybe a little husky.
I must be exhausted from my flight.
All two-and-a-half hours of it, in a plane.
Right.
“Downstairs in the lobby as you were checking in. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and then he was gone. I did not get a good look at him.”
“You’d think in a nice hotel like this—” Felix starts.
But Constantine cuts him off. “The kind of trouble they watch for here is at least five feet tall. Besides, this is no ordinary bat. He knows how to avoid detection. Your room, at least, is clear.”
“For now.” Felix kicks off his shoes. “They can teleport, too, can’t they?”
“Only to a place they’ve visited before—or to a person with whom they hold close connection. Precisely why I had to knock on your door before bringing you your things. One moment.” With that, Constantine disappears.
“A person with whom they hold close connection,” Felix whispers, waggling his head at me. For all that he’s grown up in the last few years, he will always be my little brother—and sometimes acts like it.
Before I can chide Felix or beg him not to say another word on the subject, Constantine reappears with our garment bags.
“I’m ready to hit the tables. You may follow as soon as you’re dressed. And remember—if they suspect us of working together to count cards, they may review previous footage for signs of interaction between us. Let’s keep that to a minimum. Any questions?” His dark eyes flit from Felix to me. I can feel his gaze lingering on my face.
Suddenly I’m aware of so many things—the way his suit fits across his expansive shoulders, the olive tone of his skin, which is pale, but not the bedsheet-white of the cinema vampires. The way his smirk, when it’s not smirking, makes his lips look oh-so-kissable.
No.
Not kissable.
“We are strangers,” Constantine reminds me, one winged eyebrow jutting upward with a knowing challenge.
And then he disappears.
I wonder how much of my thoughts he read on my face.
“What was that?” Felix has been pulling his clothes from the garment bag and hanging them in the wardrobe, but he was still paying enough attention to see whatever just passed between me and Constantine.
“Nothing.” I shake my head in hopes of disguising the blush of my cheeks.
“We’re up against real dangers,” Felix reminds me. “We could get caught counting cards. There could be bats. Vampires. Impalement. Let’s focus on that, not on whatever can’t be between the two of you.” He grabs his toiletries bag from his carry-on. “I’m taking a quick shower.”
True to his word, Felix is out of the shower minutes after he entered. He’s dressed and ready to go while I’m still brushing my hair, wearing the same jeans and t-shirt I wore on the plane.
“I’m headed downstairs. You going to be okay?”
“Fine.”
“If you’re not down in half an hour, I’m coming back up to check on you.”
Normally I’d tell him not to be silly, that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. But today, I smile past the lump forming in my throat. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
It takes me nearly all of the half hour to shower, slip on the black gown, do my hair in an elaborate up-do, and apply way more makeup than I ever wear in Montana.
Vegas requires vastly more eyeliner than Bozeman.
Then I strap on the spikey black platform heels Constantine picked out for me (gorgeous shoes, but since I’m already tall, the extra five inches make me look like a giant—apparently part of his distraction strategy), and I head for the blackjack tables.
Our hotel is covered in mirrors—the hallways, the elevators—every vertical surface reflects my image back at me, reminding me to smile, stand up straight, and look confident. I check myself to make sure I’m not wobbling in the unfamiliar heels as I walk.
I’m doing this. I look the part.
Constantine did an amazing job picking out my dress. The halter-style neck shows off my shoulders, which are sculpted and fairly enormous for a female. Once, my freshman year, I was playing a game of Twister with some petite girls, and they mistook my right arm for a leg. It totally freaked them out when they realized there was a hand on the end instead of a foot.
Even in human form, I’ve always been a bit of a freak.
But in this dress, which hugs my curves graciously before flowing in swooshy waves of chiffon to my feet, my arms don’t look like legs. They look statuesque, like strong, beautiful arms.
And hopefully they’re distracting enough to keep everyone at the blackjack tables from noticing the calculating look behind my smiling eyes.
I spot Felix and Constantine each playing at different tables, but within each other’s line of sight. True to plan, I find an open spot at a table where I can see each of them clearly.
Then I don’t look at either of them again, but focus on the game in front of me, on making bets and not worrying about losing money while I count cards.
And yes, I am losing money, but that’s a price Constantine is willing to pay in exchange for knowing which tables are hot.
And mine is getting hot.
I glance his way, but his eyes are on his table, which is not even the same table he was at when I first came in. For a second I look around the room, checking for bats, for vampires, for guys watching me. There appear to be several of the latter—either checking me out because I look good, or because they work for security and they’re watching to be sure I don’t make any sort of visible signal, or because they’re secretly vampires.
Not that I have anything to fear from any of those, as long as I keep my head and play my part correctly.
I can see Constantine’s reflection in one of the many mirrors.
He meets my eyes, and instantly I know he’s on his way over.
The tiniest flush rises to my face—I can see it in my reflection.
“Madam?” The dealer prompts me to make my bet.
Right. I place my standard twenty dollar bet. I need to pay attention to the game, not to the tall, dark, and handsome vampire making his way slowly toward our table. Constantine is wearing a bored expression and looks at the other tables as he passes, as though he can’t even decide if it’s worth his time to bother to play.
He reaches our table in time for the next hand, and puts down a five hundred dollar bet.
That’s what hot tables are for, right?
Chapter Fifteen
Whether it’s his personal charisma or the size of his bet, Constantine has the attention of everyone at the table. He politely returns the smile of the petite blond next to him, who I’m pretty sure is supposed to be with the grumpy middle-aged guy who’s been losing money nine hands o
ut of ten. If the man’s not a Texas oil magnate, he’s at least trying to look like one. Though right now, he’s looking at the way the blond is looking at Constantine, and giving Constantine a less-than-friendly look of his own.
The guys who were checking me out earlier are now watching Constantine as well. This might help me to understand their motivations…although, if they watched me watch him walk toward our table, they might be watching him for the same reason the oil magnate is watching him.
Some people are here to win more than just money.
I’ve got to do a better job of pretending to be oblivious.
Constantine wins his first hand and murmurs, “Perhaps I have found a table worth playing.”
The blond next to him responds with a giggle, and the oil magnate, a frown.
According to our plan, I am to stay at the table for a while to minimize any suspicion that I may have deliberately traded places with Constantine. Even without that reason, I don’t think I could walk away right now—and not just because my feet are starting to resent these shoes. No, it’s just fascinating to watch Constantine play.
I’ve mentioned before that he moves with a smooth grace unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a guy my age. I’m sure it’s because he’s not my age at all, but has had centuries to adapt to feeling comfortable in his skin. Since he looks like he’s in his twenties, the contrast is enchanting, the effect doubled every time he smirks, or narrows his eyes in that thoughtful half-smirk he makes when he’s thinking or debating how much to raise his bet.
Besides that, it’s a thrill to watch him play. He’s winning some serious money now—not with every single hand, but enough to draw a small crowd. Sounds of excitement ripple around the table every time he wins, and you can tell who’s rooting for him on the rare hands he loses.
The blonde pouts. The oil magnate snickers.
I’m winning fairly often now, too. Though, according to plan, I’m keeping my bets level to avoid attention—which means I still haven’t made back what I lost while I played and waited for the table to get hot.
Constantine’s winnings, however, will far more than make up for my earlier losses.
And so the evening goes. By the time I get back to the suite, I’m ravenous and my feet are screaming. I’m flipping through the room service menu when Felix returns.
“I need steak,” he announces, tossing his blazer over the back of a chair.
“Me, too. And I don’t feel like waiting. What do you say we find a buffet with some meat on it?”
“Are we allowed to be seen together?”
“I’ll change clothes and put my hair down. It will be like I’m a completely different person.”
Felix agrees. We’re halfway through gorging ourselves at a very fine buffet when he mumbles past a rack of ribs, “Don’t look now, but there’s a guy in a silver jacket watching you.”
“Silver jacket?” I force myself to act casual and continue peeling the breading off my fried shrimp. (I’m not a fan of breading or bread or pretty much anything that’s not meat. It’s a dragon thing.) “Behind me?”
“Third booth over from the corner. He watched you fill your plate and sit down, and he keeps looking over here.”
“I need more cocktail sauce,” I announce, perhaps a little too loudly, and stand. With a bored glance, I take in the entire room, spot the silver jacket guy, and then walk slowly and purposefully toward the place where they keep the cocktail sauce. Fortunately I have to wait my turn, so that gives me another opportunity to glance idly around the room.
I all but lock eyes with the silver jacket guy.
He is totally looking at me.
And he looks familiar.
“I’ve seen him before somewhere,” I tell Felix softly when I slide back into my seat. “Can’t place him, though. Was he watching me play blackjack earlier?”
“I didn’t notice him until now.” Felix picks through the last of his barbecued ribs, purposely not looking toward the man.
“I’m going to try to get another good look at him before we leave, so I’ll be sure to recognize him if I see him again.”
Felix glances up, and his eyes dart from the booth beyond us, around the room, and back to me. “Too late. He’s gone.”
*
Saturday morning I sleep in. That afternoon, Constantine teleports into our suite, thanks us for helping him win so much money the night before, and asks us how things are going.
Felix tells him about the guy in the silver jacket.
“Describe him,” Constantine requests with a frown.
“Middle-aged. Receding hairline. He was sitting down, so it’s hard to say how tall he is. Average build.”
“You have described any of a hundred men I saw last evening.”
I defend Felix’s description. “There wasn’t anything distinctive about him. He just looked like a guy.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Constantine asks us both.
“Yes.” Felix answers.
Sure, he was sitting where he could watch the guy watching me.
“Probably not,” I admit regretfully.
“We need to keep her in our line of sight at all times this evening,” Constantine informs Felix. “It may be nothing. He may simply think you’re a lovely young lady, and that may be the sole reason for his attention. Or, he may work for security and suspect what we were up to—by that point in the evening, my winnings were high enough I imagine security may have investigated my activity.”
“But there’s nothing to connect us to you,” Felix insists.
“I knocked on your door yesterday, and you let me in,” Constantine reminds us. “It was brief but unavoidable.”
“And I watched him walk over to my table to play.” I can feel the blush rising to my face even as I admit it. “I should have looked back to my table, but I was so focused on him, I forgot about me.”
“I didn’t realize you were watching me.” Constantine searches my face as he speaks.
What is he looking for?
Rather than look away now, I study him for some clue. For all the information he’s given me, this man is still a mystery.
His eyebrows rise by millimeters, inviting me to ask the questions he can surely read on my face.
There is one question that’s been burning inside me ever since he explained about the four kinds of vampires. He might teleport away, or refuse to answer, but I still have to ask. “Which kind of vampire are you?”
“Which kind do you think?”
“Probably not one or two,” Felix jumps into the conversation. I know he’s been wondering the same thing—we’ve shared our guesses when Constantine wasn’t around. “You’re biologically immortal, but you said you don’t drink blood.”
“You will recall that I told you there are subcategories among the four types I identified,” Constantine begins slowly.
“Yes?” I prompt him when he falls silent for a long moment.
“I am a peculiar kind of sub category. Closest to the fourth type, I suppose. It is a long story, and we need to get ready for tonight. We had a late start last night because of your flight. Tonight has greater potential.”
“What about the guy in the silver jacket?” Felix asks.
“If you see him, try to communicate his location to me and to your sister—but don’t draw attention to yourself. So far he is only watching.” Constantine rises to leave. “I want you to keep an eye on Rilla at all times once she leaves this room. I don’t care if people connect the two of you. This is our last night here, and we’ll play elsewhere on our next visit. You fly back tomorrow afternoon. We have two goals tonight—win money, and stay safe. Your safety is my highest priority.”
Even though his parting words sound like the kind of catchphrase that gets bandied about by politicians and corporations, the way he looks at me when he says it, I don’t doubt he’s sincere.
Maybe even more than sincere, if that’s a thing.
The look stays wit
h me long after he’s teleported away, as I’m doing my makeup and styling my hair into long bouncy curls, and finally slipping into the amazing sparkly blue dress, which fits me in a way that makes me think Constantine has been paying far more attention to my figure than I’d thought, because my curves aren’t exactly easy to fit, and yet, the dress feels as though it was made for me.
Constantine even included some fancy-pants jewelry in the accessories bag—coordinating bracelets and a necklace, which I’m going to assume are made with fake stones, because otherwise, yowza. Even fake, they were probably expensive.
Strappy sparkly shoes and a silver handbag complete the look.
Felix frowns when I step into his side of the suite to announce I’m ready.
“Dad wouldn’t approve.”
“Of what?” I pretend to not know what he’s talking about. “It’s really not low cut. Just off the shoulder. Those are two completely different things.”
“Dad would not approve,” Felix insists, but rises anyway. “It’s going to take both me and Constantine to keep an eye on you.” He rolls his eyes as he heads for the door. “No wonder he wanted to see you in that dress.”
I’m not going to lie. I feel like a total princess in this dress. Technically, I am sort of a princess—the daughter of a dragon king. But since nobody outside of our village in Azerbaijan recognizes my father’s rule, the princess thing is usually a moot point.
So dressing like an actual princess is a rare treat. It’s no trouble to walk tall tonight. This dress demands good posture.
Feeling like a princess is the good part.
Having lots of eyes on me is the bad.
Much as I’d love to believe the glances are due to my dress and how beyond fabulous I look, I’d have to be delusional to attribute them all to that. For one thing, the guy in the silver jacket is back. He’s not wearing the silver jacket tonight—it’s navy blue—but it’s the same guy. I’m pretty sure, anyway. Felix communicated as much with the tip of his head and darting eyes.
The other bad part is that my tables are cold, cold, cold for the first few hours. Felix got something sort of hot and Constantine joined him for a while, but I’m pretty much the freshman seminar textbook example of why gambling is a bad idea. I don’t think I shelled out this much money buying textbooks the last eight semesters combined.