Call of the Wilde

by Jenn Stark

  “All right, so here’s the newest developments. Dixie had exactly nothing on the Mendala girls beyond what we saw the first time through, but she had a crapload on a bunch of other girls—girls, to a one, and usually in pairs. Sisters, friends, cousins, it’s easier to get a matched set together than you might think, especially in the Connected community. You tend to want a buffer, someone to watch your back.”

  “But why is anyone targeting pairs?”

  “No clue. But about half the girls on the list had gone missing over the past year, most of them within the last few months. Which matches Dixie’s timeline of getting deeper into the drug trade research.”

  “And the other half? Have they been gone longer?”

  “That’s the thing, they haven’t left at all. We’ve got no MP reports on any of those girls, and Brody’s already run a couple of spot checks, calling up the girls’ parents, checking on their whereabouts. Not a peep of trouble from any of them.”

  “So why…” My head was beginning to ache in earnest.

  “Makes no sense. Also, Dixie has absolutely no drug paraphernalia on the premises. If she’s using, or God help her, if she’s distributing, she either carries her stash on her or she’s got another location.”

  I frowned, then told her what Jimmy had indicated with his eye rolls and head twitches. She shook her head. “Doesn’t fit. Maybe she keeps ’em in her Caddie, but I don’t think so. If she deals out of the chapel, she’s only bringing in what she can dole out. Believe me, I searched pretty thoroughly.”

  “Will she be able to tell?”

  “Maybe. But it might not be a bad thing if she does, especially if it slows her down a little. I’m not so concerned with catching her as making sure she isn’t bringing anyone to harm, either intentionally or otherwise.”

  I settled back, laying my head on the cushioned leather. “Any breaks yet on Brody’s side?”

  “Negative. They’re scanning for trace DNA, but there are no defensive wounds on the girls, no wounds of any type except the bullets that took their lives. The sisters were still strapped in when they were shot. Maybe were passed out, under the influence of something. Too early to tell for sure. Trajectory indicates a single shooter from the driver’s side. My guess is they parked, the car goes by, he turns, he shoots, they’re officially checked out.” She grimaced. “I don’t know if I could have stopped that from happening, but I feel like I should have known it. I’ve been racking my brains for the clue I missed that would have tipped me off, and nada. Hell, the girls practically bubbled over with excitement at the prospect of seeing Dixie at Chateau, and though they’d figured out pretty quick that she wasn’t happy to see them, they acted more like schoolgirls looking to duck their teacher than as if they were in any sort of real distress.”

  “And that’s why they were there? To find Dixie?”

  “Nope,” Nikki said, surprising me. “It was like Dixie said, Ladies’ Night. They didn’t even know she was going to be there, but they came for the promise of booze, dancing, and maybe a shot at scoring some Charisma—maybe from Dixie, or maybe they thought she’d point them in the right direction. That part wasn’t clear. But they’d heard about the stuff on the street, minus the unfortunate collapsing side effect like we saw at XS.”

  “All of that matches Dixie’s story,” I mused. “You tell Brody about that?”

  “I did, and let me tell you, the boy was not happy. I think Dixie might have messed with him a little, dumping him the way she did. If she actually broke up with him for a credible reason, especially one that puts her in danger, he’s going to have a serious issue with it.”

  “If she’s telling the truth.”

  “And that’s a pretty big if.” Nikki tensed. “Also, I found encrypted files on Dixie’s laptop.”

  That surprised me. “Encrypted? The woman keeps her key on a doorsill.”

  “Exactly my issue. I snagged an old thumb drive in a junk drawer, copied them down.” She shrugged. “I figure I’ll give them to Simon to decrypt next time I see him, but they…bothered me. Especially with Jimmy’s little stint as the harbinger of doom back there in the shop.”

  Despite myself, I grinned. “You should have tried playing Marco Polo with him.”

  “I think I’ll save myself for Trivial Pursuit, thanks.”

  We cruised on toward the Strip, and Nikki leaned forward to give the limo driver directions, then hesitated.

  “Back to the house?” she asked, but I shook my head. I was too wound up, my shoes were killing me, and my arm was in too much pain, to deal with Ma-Singh and his hovering Mongolian-ness.

  “We still have our room in the Palazzo, right? We could use that. It’s closer.”

  “It is at that.” Nikki nodded. She gave the instructions to the driver, then turned back to me. “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re about a pint short of blood.”

  I grimaced, gingerly touching my arm. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I wouldn’t say no to room service, though.”

  “I never say no to that.” Nikki pulled out her phone.

  We reached the Palazzo a few minutes later, the driver dropping us at the front door, and, for the second time that evening, we entered the glittering lobby of the hotel. The tile floor reminded me again that my feet hurt, and I glanced at Nikki’s pumps. I did not know how she did it.

  The crashing, clattering noise of the hotel casino was a welcome distraction, however, and Nikki paused, tilting her head as we neared it. “You know, one of the pairs of the not-yet-missing works here in the spa,” she said, tossing me a look. “I could do some checking?”

  “Now?” I asked. “The spa’s long since closed.”

  “It is, but that’s their head of security.” She pointed to a burly man in a Palazzo uniform, his face hard, intelligent, and hungry. Exactly Nikki’s type.

  I lifted my brows to her. “And you’re willing to work now, dressed to the nines, looking fabulous, all for your commitment to those poor innocent girls? It has nothing to do with how hot said security director is?”

  Nikki placed a hand on her chest. “The things I do,” she said with mock solemnity, then she winked. “I’m just going to secure a meeting with him tomorrow. If I happen to use the opportunity to give him an eyeful of the remarkable confection that is Nikki Dawes, well, never say I didn’t appreciate my own assets, right?”

  “Go. I’ll be upstairs. And if you’re slow, I’m going to eat everything you just ordered all by myself.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.” Nikki grinned. Then she turned away, striding hard for the security director. Meanwhile, I veered to the left, waving to the security guard who greeted me with a smile, then made my way to the elevator. It wasn’t until I stepped off onto my floor and swiped for my jeans pocket that I realized my mistake.

  No jeans. No pockets. No room key anywhere on my body, for that matter. There was only so much I’d been willing to stuff in my bra, and I’d grown so used to carrying everything I owned in my jeans…

  “Sweet Christmas.” I was marooned in the lobby of the elevator. I couldn’t do anything without my key, and there was no way housekeeping was still out and about. I could call security, but they were probably busy actually working, securing guests with legitimate concerns. There was nothing for it. As tired as I was and as much as my feet hurt, I’d have to go back downstairs and get a key, wait for Nikki, or try to call her.

  As I pondered the possibilities, the elevator door opened again. I looked up with a smile of relief. “Nikki!”

  It wasn’t Nikki.

  “Hello again, Madame Wilde,” Island Giant said. “Thank you for making this so easy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I totally blame the shoes.

  When Island Giant, or Trident, or whatever the hell he was calling himself lunged at me out of the hotel elevator, the first thing I thought about was how much my stilettos could hurt a body. I wasn’t packing and Nikki was still several floo
rs away, but for the love of all that was holy, I had my shoes.

  I flung my hands up, my third eye flashing open as the big man lurched forward, leading not with one hand this time, but two, both of them palming something that looked like fidget spinners only with a lot more spikes. It didn’t matter, though. As I warded him off, I recalled the lessons in manifestation I’d recently learned at the top of a mist-shrouded mountain in Japan with a master sensei, and imagined my shoes in all their spiky glory. Tall, pointed, and beautiful as sin.

  Only there wasn’t one shoe, there were dozens. Piles and piles of shoes flinging themselves out from every direction, pummeling back my attacker. Another elevator door flew open, but no one came out. I had the vague impression of startled faces and open mouths from that second elevator bay, but really, for me it was nothing but a torrent of shoes, all of them identical in leather and nails and rubber-stopped bases, and all of them were aiming straight for Island Giant’s soft tissue inside his own elevator. His eyes, his neck, his ears, his groin. He had only one set of hands, but I had an unending supply of shoes.

  Cursing in a language I didn’t know and didn’t care to learn, Island Giant was beaten back into the elevator, his eyes locked on mine disbelieving—horrified, really—his body buried in a whirling morass of heels that battered him from all directions. Snaking in a hand, I slammed the Lobby button as the last pair of stilettos soared past me into the pile. By now the guy was buried under so many pairs that he couldn’t move anymore, and the last thing I saw of him before the elevator closed again was his silver-green eyes, staring at me with an expression I’d never seen before on a man’s face. It wasn’t amusement and it wasn’t hostility, exactly. It wasn’t even respect, grudging or otherwise. It was…satisfaction.

  The elevator doors snicked shut.

  A second pair slid open, and Nikki strode out. She took one look at me and scowled, whipping her gaze to the elevator I was staring at, then back to me, then to the completely empty alcove around us. Nothing was out of place, not even a single peep-toed pump.

  “Ummm…dollface?”

  I drew in a shaky breath, willing my mind to clear. “We’re going to have to wait on that champagne, I think,” I said, speaking slowly. “We need to go see Armaeus.”

  She nodded, then slanted a glance at my feet. “You want to change into more comfortable shoes?”

  Thirty minutes later, we were standing in another elevator bay in the gloriously kitschy lobby of the Luxor, which played peek-a-boo with the sleeker, more elegant trimmings of Prime Luxe, the Magician’s fortress that loomed over the Luxor’s pyramid in a soaring confection of metal and glass. We’d changed clothes for the occasion. I was once more in pants and boots and a trim wrap-waisted jacket that was soft enough to be a hoodie, but was much thinner and infinitely more expensive.

  Jiao Peng had upgraded my closet at the Palazzo as well.

  I fingered the jacket as we waited for the elevator. Once again, it had interior pockets large enough to fit my cards, and the pants flared enough for me to fit my ankle holster over my boots, so it was serviceable enough. The outfit was elegant and fit well and moved like it had been cut specifically for me. Nikki was practically beaming.

  She’d opted for a Mod Squad attire of an Emma Peel–worthy black mini dress, trimmed with a single white stripe, black tights, and modestly stacked knee-high black boots. Her flipped caramel hair was held in place with a white band, and her makeup had gone from showgirl to no-nonsense chic in the same amount of time it’d taken me to figure out how to tie my jacket. Together, though, we still turned heads. Then again, Nikki always turned heads.

  The elevator trip up to the Magician’s penthouse was queasily fast, as usual, and also silent. There was no more talking that Nikki and I had to do. There was only what Armaeus needed to spill.

  To my surprise, though, the elevator opened not onto Armaeus’s private quarters, but onto the floor I immediately recognized as the Council’s conference room. For beings of nearly unstoppable power, when they met, they rocked it high-tech, eschewing both throne rooms and round tables for a simple glass-topped table that doubled as screens for inset computers, and a panoramic view of the city, now awash in neon.

  It wasn’t a full house, but it was definitely a quorum.

  “Miss Wilde, we appreciate you joining us tonight,” Armaeus said, as if I’d called ahead or, even, that he’d summoned me in the first place. “Miss Dawes.”

  “Sugar buns,” Nikki said gravely, moving closer to me as she let her arms hang loosely by her side, in perfect cop stance.

  I swept the rest of the room. Kreios was eyeing us with sardonic amusement from his perch against the far window, silhouetted by the city’s lights. I couldn’t see his eyes, but there was no mistaking the gleam of the Devil’s smile as he took in our attire.

  “I do say, I like the evolution of Sara Wilde. It does make you wonder what you have in store for us next,” he murmured.

  I manfully resisted conjuring up more spike-heeled shoes to throw at him and switched my attention to Simon, the Fool, who predictably sat at a computer console at the table, and Eshe, the High Priestess, who was also regarding me with something close to slack-jawed astonishment.

  Hera, no longer arrayed in silver but in a toga ensemble that echoed Eshe’s own attire, as if they’d both come from a frat party at UNLV, sat at the head of the table. Armaeus stood beside her. Notably absent were Viktor Dal and Nikolai Tesla, but neither of them could be counted as my fans. The Hierophant was also absent, no doubt still walled up in his Tower, and though I could see his ethereal domain over Excalibur from my vantage point, the Hermit was apparently still…hermitting.

  “You’ve come for explanations,” Armaeus began. “We don’t have them.”

  I stared at him. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been around, some of you, since God was a child, especially you,” I said, shifting my gaze to Hera. “These men who are attacking me are Connected, and they’re becoming a problem. Who are they, and why won’t they leave me alone?”

  “Magician’s right, we’ve got nada,” Simon piped up from the table. “He’s had me on them since they showed up. Timing was an easy hit, since they appeared in Vegas exactly twelve hours before you touched down with Hera. So we figure, there’s got to be a connection. But we’ve passed these images through a hundred different databases, and there’s nothing on them.”

  “You piss anyone off in particular before you shuffled off your mortal coil last time?” I asked Hera, but she shook her head.

  “Mortals were enraptured with the gods at the time of Atlantis’s fall, but earth was still quite young. Unformed. We left to the wails and lamentations of our followers, who pledged to write stories about us that would transcend time.”

  “How much interaction did you personally have with mortals?” I screwed up my forehead, trying to remember my mythology. “And how did that go, exactly?”

  She inclined her head. “I have been born and reborn, brought to life by the needs of humankind, and sent to flight by them as well.”

  “Okay, so who sent you to flight the last time?”

  She frowned. “No one. Other than the Council and the Houses of Magic, I was revered by—”

  “Yeah, yeah. But not to put too fine a point on it, the historical record hasn’t been exactly kind to you. Think. Did you have no affiliation with mortals who might have absolutely hated you? Maybe who wanted you not just stuffed behind a veil, but dead?”

  “Dead?” she looked at me, shocked. “You cannot kill a goddess.”

  The other immortals shifted in the room, the barb striking a little too close to home. For the first time, I saw a potential flaw in Armaeus’s little plan to create his new Empress—because you could kill a Council member—but I didn’t have time for that right now. “Okay, let’s go with banished. You definitely ended up on the wrong side of the veil, and you didn’t come back till just now, which seems to have set somebody off, right?�
�� I looked to Armaeus. “Someone’s still sending up smoke flares?”

  Simon took that one. “We got weather disturbances all over the place that aren’t tracking with expected patterns. I mean, it’s just weather, but it’s predominantly electrical storms, hitting at places Hera here tells us are weak points in the veil.”

  “So there you go. When it came your time to be banished, or whatever, who did the honors? Who put you behind the veil, specifically?”

  “I…” Hera faltered. “I have no memory of anyone acting against me directly. The veil was a barrier that encompassed all, I thought…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze swung to the Strip. She’d probably never imagined that she could be singled out among all the gods for particular vengeance, but when you looked at all the myths about her, I could see it.

  Into the silence, another voice sounded, rich and certain. “You might not remember that time as clearly,” Armaeus said. “But if Miss Wilde’s suggestion is correct, there is someone who would know.”

  The movement was as soft as a whisper, the barest fluttering of wings on an unseen breeze. And then there was another figure in the room, his skin as pale as new-fallen snow, so translucent you could almost see the veins beneath the smooth covering pulsing with life. He stood tall and slender, in a plain gray suit of exquisitely ascetic tailoring, and he folded his long fingers together in a pose of absolute peace. His hair was the lightest of blonds, and his eyes an arctic blue. Michael the Archangel. The Hierophant.

  When she saw him, Hera burst into tears.

  That was unexpected.

  “Hera.” To my surprise, the Magician moved first, dropping to one knee and pulling the seated goddess into his chest. Predictably, Hera even managed to bawl beautifully, her face streaming with tears but her nose steadfastly refusing to run, and her hair and makeup remaining preternaturally perfect. She didn’t even redden, merely glowed with a flare of ambient sadness. A surge of an emotion I wasn’t quite willing to name snaked through me. It wasn’t quite jealousy and it wasn’t quite disdain…it was wonder, more than anything. Wonder at someone being willing to show such vulnerability.