by Myles, Eden
Still, I wasn’t so stupid as to believe things like this didn’t come with a price. I just had to figure out what it was. In the meantime…
“Well, Miss Wiggles, what do you think?” I asked, letting her out of her carrier.
“Mew,” Miss Wiggles said, blinking her green eyes thoughtfully around the room before heading for the window ledge that faced out over the Las Vegan Strip.
“I agree. Something very strange is going on. Do you trust that guy? Mr. Angelus?”
Miss Wiggles looked at me from across the room and purred.
“Well, I’m glad you do,” I said, going to pet her and look out over the lighted Strip. “Then again, I’m not so sure you’re such a good judge of character. After all, you’re with a loser like me.”
“Mew.” She bumped my hand.
“Thanks, Miss Wiggles.” With a little scream of excitement, I raced toward the bed and threw myself upon it. It was as soft as feathers! I jumped up and down on it like an over-sugared five-year-old until I was breathless.
* * *
I took a long, hot bubble bath in the soaking tub, then ordered everything on the room service menu. I spent most of the night stuffing my face, drinking champagne, and watching old horror movies on the widescreen TV. I figured should the dream end, I wanted to get everything I could out of it. Near morning, I feel asleep with my cheek lying on Ms. Wiggles’ soft, furry side.
I didn’t feel so well when I woke up late the next morning, so I just ordered up coffee and Alka-Seltzer. I’d also discovered, to my horror, that I’d gained almost six pounds because of my binge the night before! Hanging my head in shame, I went down to the luxury fitness center and worked out for two straight hours. It was there, while watching a gymnast practicing on the parallel bars, that I started thinking about my acrobatic act. I’d always loved the suspension acts I saw in the circus, and I wasn’t afraid of heights. There were things on the streets that were far scarier.
I swam in the Olympic-sized pool to cool off, then took a good, solid, afternoon-long nap. In the early evening, just as my beloved lights were coming up on the Strip, Vincent showed up to escort me to Mephisto’s Waltz for my first night on the clock.
I felt more nervous than when I’d tried out the night before, but the girls were really nice. The moment I stepped into the dressing room, they gathered around me to introduce themselves. Chelsea, the singer, was a leggy, busy blonde who wore a silver and hot pink burlesque outfit that was more feathers than substance. Her little belly ring glittered with a diamond. Darlene, who did the magic act, was a gorgeous, African-American woman who stood well over six feet and wore a cute—and brief—cutaway magician’s tuxedo that left everything but her crotch and tits bare. I noticed both wore a ring on their ring fingers with a silver pentagram on it and a little red jewel.
“I love your hair, sugar, and you have the prettiest eyes!” said Chelsea with a slow, Down South drawl. She played her fingers over my long, Latino, black-and-dyed purple locks until I giggled. “How can you have such dark eyes?”
“Because she’s one hot Latina, that’s why,” Darlene laughed, throwing a feathered boa at Chelsea. “Ignore here, honey love,” she said to me. “She’s a little slow and doesn’t get out much.”
Chelsea stuck her tongue out at Darlene. “At least new girl here doesn’t have to stick her big Amazonian body into a little costume!” She indicated Darlene’s impressive height and sizzling hot physique.
Darlene slapped a curvy hip. “They’re called curves, darling. Get some, willya? And furthermore, you just made Kat’s costume redundant!” She pointed at Chelsea’s costume, so much like the one I had designed.
“Did I?” Chelsea blushed and looked guilty as she stared down at herself.
I laughed at their bantering. “I don’t mind, honestly. I was getting tired of the burlesque look anyway. Maybe you guys can help me find something new?”
They grinned and showed me the rack of costumes. We tried on about a dozen different costumes before settling on a sex kitten costume comprised of pasties, a tiny, striped, black and purple skirt, cat ears, and a long, bushy black tail. It fit me exactly. Soon enough, the three of us were bantering like old friends who had known each other for years.
“Do I look all right?” I asked, strutting like a walkway model for them.
I watched both their eyes travel all over my petite but curvy body.
“You could melt an iceberg with that hot bod, girlfriend,” Darlene informed me.
I blushed. Not for the first time that night, I wondered how flexible they were sexually. Most of the girls who work long-term in stripper joints are lesbian, or at least bi. I liked to experiment myself, but before I could say anything, Chelsea piped up.
“But can she melt the Prince? That’s the big question.”
“True enough. He’s a hard nut to crack,” Darlene admitted.
“Prince?” I interrupted, stopping my strut near the door.
“That’s what we call him,” said Darlene. “Mr. Angelus.” She said my boss’s name like a bit of candy she was rolling around her mouth.
Chelsea made an impressive purring noise in the back of her throat.
“Is he really a prince?” I asked.
The girls turned to one another and laughed saucily, which annoyed me a little. Within seconds, they were hugging, kissing and making out, the lights of the dressing room flashing off their rings. Just saying that had turned them on.
It reminded me that I was still an outsider, and the girls probably already had a piece of him. The thought made me insanely jealous. I wondered what it would be like to be alone with him, if that was just an act he put on, or if he really was the Prince of Darkness in bed as well as in the club. They were all so beautiful and glamorous, all of them. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to touch the airy softness of Chelsea’s golden hair or run my hand down Darlene’s smooth thigh. I had a brief fantasy of the four of us together, writhing in a big knot amidst blood red sheets and black candles.
The fantasy was so strong that I jumped in my skin when Vincent clapped his hands from the doorway. “Two minutes, ladies.”
Darlene gave Chelsea one last, long kiss. “Showtime, kitty cat,” she said as she and Chelsea sashayed past me. She trailed her fingers up my back, and the sadness and loneliness of the moment vanished.
* * *
One night, at intermission time, I stepped off the stage, my g-string stuffed with almost more cash than I could comfortably carry, and thought someone was stalking me. Chelsea and Darlene had stayed to do their intermission acts, but even after a few weeks of practice in the hotel gym, I still wasn’t prepared to unveil my new act.
The patrons of the club were clapping, catcalling, and generally acting rowdy. One guy threw his skivvies on the stage. Another tried to give me his phone number, but I managed to slip backstage. Normally, the idiotic behavior of the male audience didn’t bother me, but tonight I had felt a little weirded out, like someone was watching me. Not like the audience was supposed to watch me, but like someone in particular.
It didn’t help that the night before, I had found a Bible on my makeup table in the dressing room open to Exodus, Chapter 22. I had quickly disposed of it.
“You’re just one tired chica, Kat,” I told myself. Vincent looked after all my needs, but he was right about our boss: Mr. Angelus was one hell of a slave driver.
The man in question was waiting for me backstage, leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually across his wide, muscular chest. His coat drifted around him in that spectral way it did, almost like there was an invisible breeze. Light sliced across him but never seemed to encompass him completely. I had a feeling he liked the shadows. Prince of Darkness indeed. “You did well tonight,” he said in that silky smooth baritone. When he smiled, I saw the dimples in his cheeks and I felt my insides quiver and my stomach turn over. I had never felt that way about anyone except maybe my first crush in grade school.
He ha
nded me an ornate, old-fashioned key.
“What’s this for?” I said, taking it. It felt smooth and warm and tingled from his touch.
“The ladies and I like to celebrate a good performance in my penthouse upstairs. They all have their own keys. I thought it was time you had one as well.”
I gave him a dubious look. “You don’t even know me. I could rob you blind.”
His arched eyebrow quirked upward in challenge. “But will you?”
I sighed. So much for my bluff. “No. I’m not really the ‘rob you blind type’. If you want to get technical, I’m more the ‘grab a pack of hotdogs and bolt from a supermarket’ type, when it comes to my glorious life of crime, such as it is.”
His eyes narrowed in sympathy. “If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, you need only ask and it will be yours, no question.”
“Nothing in life is free,” I told him like a mantra. “It all comes with a price.”
There. I’d opened the door for him to tell me what he really wanted from me. To tell me why he was being so nice to me.
“Wise and proud,” he said evasively. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hallway that I had never used. “I’m preparing a sumptuous supper for the ladies tonight. Come up anytime you like. As for pricing…well, we can work something out at a later date.”
I waited for him to state that that was a requirement. In a lot of these joints, boinking the boss was almost a given. In his case, I wouldn’t even have minded, but there was something so intimidating about the man, I held back.
When I didn’t immediately respond, his hand swept out and he brushed my cheek with his thumb, sending a rush of heat and need through my body. His touch drew me against him so I was engulfed in his heat and the spicy scent of his cologne. I was immediately sopping wet between the legs. My face flushed when I realized I could smell my own excitement, and he probably could too.
“You need to learn to trust your instincts, Teresa.” His dimples deepened and he lowered his head to slant his mouth across mine. His kiss was searing hot and seemed to steal my breath away. My heart tripped, then started beating like a war drum in my chest.
He smirked as he drew back. “My little witch.”
* * *
A few hours later, after I had showered, changed into a little black dress and heels, and refreshed my makeup, I stepped into the elevator and slid the key that Mr. Angelus had given me into the slot under the “P” on the lighted panel. I heard a click and a whirl, then the doors shushed closed and the elevator glided up.
“Kat!” Chelsea and Darlene cried when the elevator doors opened on a huge, luxurious common room with an arched ceiling. It was furnished with a lot of carven Baroque tables, chairs and divans, and there were at least a dozen black iron chandeliers set with lighted candles. I spotted standing candelabras set with burning red tapers, much like down in the club, and a banquet table was set for dinner, with loose sprays or red roses lying on the lace runner down the center. On the walls hung ornately pained pictures of angels at war, and sensual maidens dancing with satyrs in the woods. The room looked like something from the Hammer movies I loved so much. Another girl might have been wary, even scared, but, frankly, the sight of it delighted me.
I stepped out cautiously as the two girls raced up to me, both armed with champagne glasses and canapés and wearing little black, slip-like dresses. I was a little surprised to find us dressed so similarly.
“We’re glad you came, honey love,” Darlene said, offering me a glass. “We hoped you would.”
Clutching the glass tightly, I looked around with wide eyes at the Romance-style paintings on the walls and the stone angels in various poses of fight and flight around the room—some armed with swords, others with spears. I had thought my room was glorious; this made it look like a roadhouse lounge.
I was about to ask about a million questions when Darlene dragged me to the long trestle table. “Dinner will be out soon.”
“Ignore Dar,” Chelsea said. “She’s obsessed with food.”
“Because I can be. I’m not short like you, ha!”
Chelsea offered her companion a mock-snarl and threw a canapés at her, which Darlene deftly ducked.
“Ahem.” Mr. Angelus appeared in a doorway, giving them both an equally mock-serious look. He was dressed casually in a white shirt open at the throat and dark slacks. I could see the sexy mat of dark hair peeking overtop his collar, but he was also wearing this trusty coat, which I found a little odd. And depressing. I wanted to see the sleekness of his muscles a little better. I wanted to run my fingers over his stone-hard pecs and abs. I thought about clutching his firm ass as he thrust inside me, over and over, making me his…his plaything.
I had to shake the fantasy out of my head as he walked up to me and took my hand, kissing my knuckles. With any other man, it might have come off as cheesy, but he made it feel natural and elegant. Something to be expected. Again, I felt that fission in the air, and I started fearing for my heart and soul. Just being this close to him—feeling his heat, smelling his scent—made me feel like I was being consumed, burned up in a fire I had no hope of controlling.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to join us tonight,” he said in that whispery-soft, chocolaty voice.
I stumbled on a response, but ultimately told the truth. “I have ulterior motives.”
“Oh.” Again that sexy eyebrow quirk.
“I have questions. Questions I think you can answer.”
“Yes?”
“How do you know about…I mean…”
“Your name?” he supplied.
I nodded. “No one knows that. I mean, my father did, but he’s gone. There’s no way you could know, unless you had me investigated by the police.”
That worried me. I wasn’t exactly an angel. I mean, I did my best to live and let live, and I had no desire to harm anyone, but I’d done things I wasn’t proud of to survive.
Again that maddening smirk. “Girl, I know about such things the way I know everything about everyone.”
“I don’t understand.” Was he a mob boss or something?
He turned to gesture at the table. The roses strewn about exploded into columns of flame that lit up the room like hellfire. I almost screamed and jumped back, my heart in my throat, terrified the tablecloth and the whole table—maybe the whole apartment—would go up, but I was too stunned to react. Anyway, the flames quickly died down to reveal a dozen gourmet dishes strewn across the table.
I looked at him, gape-mouthed, then the others. “You’re witches, aren’t you?” I said.
They laughed and Chelsea raised her champagne glass in salute. “It takes one to know one, sugar.”
* * *
Over dinner, they told me they were a coven, and they told me a lot about what they were…and what I was. After all, I’d been through, all I’d seen and experienced, it made sense, though I still had questions, a lot of them.
“How could I be a witch? I didn’t sell my soul. I’ve never known any other witches. My mother wasn’t a witch.”
“Did you know your mother?” Mr. Angelus inquired, sipping wine.
“No.”
“She may have been one. Or her mother before her,” Darlene put in. “It’s obvious you’re a natural witch. Your power comes from within. Natural witches are very powerful beings.”
“Is that why you lured me here?” I asked Mr. Angelus in particular. “Do you want my power?”
“We didn’t lure you. You came here seeking us,” Chelsea explained. “It was the same for all of us. A kind of magickal magnetism, if you will.” She grinned at that.
The food and wine left me drowsy, giddy, and their words made my head spin. My mind cast about for something mundane to talk about and I blurted out my vague worries about my waistline, considering how rich the food was. When I mentioned that, Darlene stood up and said, “We should work it off. Prince?”
Mr. Angelus, sitting at the head of the table, snapped his fingers, and
the old Victrola in the corner sprang to life, playing “Where is Your Heart,” the waltz number from one of my favorite movies, Moulin Rouge. Darlene stood up and walked to Chelsea. They were both wearing silken dresses, and the fabric hissed together as they embraced and casually started slow dancing.
Mr. Angelus suddenly appeared at my side, his hand extended. “May I have this dance…assuming your dance card isn’t full up tonight, of course.”
I laughed at his wit and stood up, taking his big hand with its long, slender fingers. I felt a jolt of electricity and I had to stifle a moan.
He was a very good dancer, though I was not—not at ballroom waltzing, anyway. I relied on him to guide me across the floor. His grip was strong, his hands warm and heavy on my skin. His jacket seemed to flutter around us almost like it had a mind all its own. I snuck little touches of it, realizing it was as warm as his hands.
Near the end, he turned to dip me and then brought me back up into his arms. He was staring at me with those amazing, flame-like eyes, and an expression both languid and hungry, when his coat fluttered alive and seemed to tent up around us. The fabric rustled busily, and it took me one heart-pounding moment to realize it wasn’t a coat at all.
Wings. Mr. Angelus had big, black, leathern wings.
I glanced over at the girls, but they were too lost in each other’s eyes. Darlene stood at least a half-foot taller than Chelsea, so she had to dip her head for their ruby red lips to cling in a kiss. While she kissed, she slid one long, slim hand up Chelsea’s thigh and under her dress. Soon the two women were moaning against each other’s mouths, tongues entwined. They didn’t notice us, or the wings, at all.
Surely, if they were witches, they knew about Mr. Angelus? They knew he was a…what was he?
“The word you’re looking for is demon, but it’s not what you think,” he provided, never missing a beat in our waltz. “The Ancient Greek word it derives from, daimōn, denotes a spirit or divine power, much like a muse or angel of divine inspiration.”
I watched his face, wondering if I should be afraid, wondering why I was not. His hair was so black it shone blue under the muted lights, and his eyes were like crackling little flames set in his chiseled, classically handsome face. His wings only added to his beauty. I feasted on his gorgeous appearance, and still it wasn’t enough.