"Oh, my," she murmured to Kory, pointing circumspectly. "Have they no shame?"
"None at all, my lady," Gerry said brightly. She'd forgotten how acute elves' hearing was. "We give the tourists what they come to see—and if we have a bit of fun with it, too, where's the harm? We run the quietest, safest, friendliest house on the Strip—only the people who need to lose do so here, and the people who need to win do that too. It all works out." He beamed at them happily.
"Friendly, perhaps. But how honest?" Beth wanted to know. This whole place was too big, too gaudy—and too good to be true. It made her suspicious. What were they really up to?
Gerry grinned at her conspiratorially, obviously aware of her reservations. "Devil a bit, m'lady, but does that matter? The good are rewarded, the wicked are punished—and as for those who are sick beyond our power to help them and wish to lose themselves in games of chance as others do in drink or Dreaming, why, somehow they never come in our doors—or if they do, it's for a quick drink, a pull of the slots, and then they're on their way. We harm no one here, nor allow anyone to come to harm. This is Tir-na-Og, the Land of Dreams, and all our dreams are pleasant!" Gerry swept his arms wide, indicating the casino floor with a proud flourish.
"But surely more need to win at your tables than need to lose," Kory pointed out. "If more money is paid out than taken in, how do you survive?"
"As to that, Prince Korendil, it's a fine old Vegas tradition to cook the books, and really, we don't even need to do much of that. More people need to lose money than you'd think—for one reason or another. We get a lot of convention traffic, and with two five-star restaurants and three shows nightly in Merlin's Enchanted Oak Room, we do quite well. And if there are any shortfalls . . . well, there's fairy gold aplenty here in Tir-na-Og!"
With enough kenned gold to back it, Beth supposed, any business could afford to run at a loss. And casinos had traditionally been used to launder funds . . . though somehow she suspected that Tir-na-Og was one of the few casinos in Clark County without a Mafia silent partner hovering in the background.
"I do hope you'll be able to make the time to stop in and see one of our shows. The prettiest girls, the most toothsome boys, and more. Magic. Real magic. Stage illusionism—prestidigitation in the grand tradition of Kellar, Maskelyne, Houdini—the very best in the business!"
"Real magic?" Kory said, delighted. He turned to Beth. "We must—we could see the show tonight!"
"Why not?" Beth said. It was strange, when even a Magus Minor like Kory could perform feats of magic that no human could hope to duplicate, that most of the elves she'd met were bonkers for stage illusionism, which involved no "real" magic at all, just misdirection and sleight of hand. It was just another aspect of their endless fascination with human creativity, she guessed, but it did seem odd. Like their obsession with microwaves. And their lust for pretzels.
Elves were pretty strange when you got to know them.
"Splendid! I'll get you tickets for the midnight show—and you can have dinner beforehand in the Merrie Greenwood. You'll see us at our best, I assure you!"
It seemed to Beth that they'd been walking for miles. It was hard to tell, with all the mirrors and flashing lights, and the casino floor was laid out in a labyrinthine path that required anyone passing through it to loop around and double back, passing the maximum possible number of temptations, to reach their destination. But at last they reached the hotel desk.
It was an imposing structure—the desk itself, nearly as wide as it was tall, was pure white Carrera marble with gilt accents—and was carved with fierce warriors and mythical beasts in an antique style, sort of Xena Meets the Monks of Lindisfarne. The space behind the desk was paneled in a good approximation of golden English oak, and all the informational signs were done in uncial script, with illuminated initial letters after the Book of Kells. But the staff behind the desk was courteous and professional, all wearing matching white Tir-na-Og blazers with nametags. Beth supposed that none of them were Sidhe; though she couldn't be sure. The Seleighe Sidhe had the weirdest notions of what was fun, sometimes.
Gerry stopped at the end of the desk, under a sign that said "VIP Services," and spoke to one of the staff.
"The Misthold party is here. Be a good little elf and fetch me their check-in package."
"Of course," the woman behind the counter said. She flashed Beth a dazzling smile. "Welcome to Tir-na-Og. We hope you'll enjoy your stay with us." Her name tag read: Hi! My name is Galadriel and her slitted pupils were narrowed against the dazzling lights.
Beth blinked. Gerry had spoken no more than the truth when he'd called her a "good little elf." She was probably Low Court, one of the host of Sidhe linked almost symbiotically to the anchoring Node Grove and its Gate. Low Court elves could not travel any great distance from the trees to which they were linked, either in Underhill or in the World Above, and would die if their parent grove was harmed. Unlike their High Court brethren, the Low Court elves were unable to completely disguise their Sidhe nature. They were also said to be more scatterbrained and mischievous than their High Court brethren, with less of an interest in the future—it was from encounters with members of the Low Court over the centuries that most of the tales of "mischievous spirits" had entered human myths, while the High Court figured predominantly as shining heroes and sometimes gods.
But that was a long time ago, Beth thought, watching the saucy sidhe tuck envelopes, keys, maps, and coupons into a white leatherette folder with the hotel logo stamped prominently on it in gold. From gods to resort owners. Wonder if they miss the olden days? Galadriel handed the folder to Beth with a cheerful smile. Probably most of the people who stopped by her counter didn't even notice her eyes, or thought they were costume contacts.
"Will you be needing anything else, Ms. Kentraine, Mr. Korendil?" Galadriel asked.
"Uh . . . not right now," Beth said, taking the folder. This place was as strange and unworldly in its own way as the Goblin Market and Rick's, and at that, the Tir-na-Og wasn't that different from most of the other A-list casinos on the Strip. I guess the guy who said that truth is stranger than fiction knew what he was talking about. . . .
Galadriel wished them both a lovely day at the Tir-na-Og Resort Hotel and Casino, and Beth and Kory followed Gerry past a row of shops selling souvenirs and sundries—the high-priced designer boutiques were on the other side of the casino—and over to a bank of elevators. The doors were golden, showing the castle-and-dragon logo being dive-bombed by a number of scantily-clad fairies with jeweled wings. He led them to an elevator at the end that was marked "Penthouse Suites Only."
"You'll need your room key to access the elevator, and it only stops at the top two floors," Gerry explained. He took Beth's portfolio from her and extracted the room key, fitting it into a slot beneath the row of buttons. When he did, all the buttons lit up, and he pressed one of them. Beth immediately felt the sensation of weight that told her she was in a high-speed elevator.
"How many floors does this place have?" she asked.
"Twenty-five," Gerry answered promptly. "The top two floors are for Paladin-class guests such as yourselves—and most of our Underhill guests, of which we're seeing more every year, I'm delighted to say. You'll find no Cold Iron anywhere in our Paladin-class accommodations, and of course you'll have noticed there's very little deathmetal on the casino floor. Why, even the flatware in our restaurants is silver, not stainless."
"You must lose a lot of it," Beth said.
Gerry smiled. "Not really. Most of our guests think it's plate, not worth stealing. And it's enchanted to come back, anyway, if someone tries to take it out of the building. Much easier that way."
At that moment the doors opened.
The hall carpet was a deep rich purple, bordered in a subdued knotwork pattern in gold that was picked up in the wallpaper. Reproductions of some of the more whimsical Pre-Raphaelite paintings hung on the walls—not that Beth was sure they were reproductions. Some of the hames entertained t
hemselves by collecting art and literature about the Fair Folk that was created by humans, and that would certainly be right in line with Glitterhame Neversleep's corporate culture.
"This way, dear ones."
They passed a few tastefully gold-leafed doors with various Celtic motifs done on them in low relief—serpents, claddaughs, Celtic crosses, triskelions—but not many. These were the kind of suites that every Vegas casino kept for its high rollers, and Beth had heard that they were enormous.
At last they arrived at their destination. Gerry opened the door with a flourish before handing the key card back to Beth.
"Welcome!" he said, stepping back so they could enter.
"Oh, my," Beth said.
They stood in the main room of the suite. The curtains were drawn back from one curving glass wall to show her the eastward-looking view of the late-afternoon Strip. The Superstition Mountains were a faint blue smear in the distance, and even with the dust and fuss of the city's building boom, the air seemed clear and impossibly crystalline. She could see the various casinos all the way down to the MGM Grand and Excalibur, looking tawdry and faintly apologetic without their nighttime neon.
"There's a balcony on the other side—and, of course the Roof Terrace. And now, I'll leave the two of you to settle in. If you have any questions, or need anything at all, no matter how infinitesimal, don't hesitate to give me a jingle. My card is in your information packet, and as you already know, we never sleep here in the City of Sin." Gerry waved gaily and sauntered out, closing the door behind him.
"And I thought Underhill was weird," Beth said. Tearing her attention away from the view—it was mesmerizing, and would be more so come nightfall—she turned to inspect their lodgings.
It was obvious no marketing department or consumer focus group had been consulted in decorating the suite, because their suggestions would have run to the bland, the inoffensive, the middle of the road. And this wasn't that. It had a cheerful vulgarity, a no-holds-barred excess, a lurid exuberance that made Beth smile. See? the room almost seemed to say. It's okay to play around with bright colors. No Fashion Police here! And remember: Glitter is Good.
If she'd had to characterize the style, she'd have said Celtic-Egyptian, providing, of course, it'd come by way of the Sun King's court in France. There were several sectional seating groups in bright colors—red, blue, purple—stone-topped gilded tables in the shapes of fantastic beasts, paintings and a few statues and some knick-knacks and several vases filled with gaudy lilies scattered across the top of the bar and the entertainment armoire. The whole room fairly radiated self-confidence, the cheerful happiness of someone secure in their own style, no matter how far from the mainstream that might be.
On the coffee table was a large fruit basket, a jeroboam of champagne, and an equally enormous candy box with an unfamiliar logo, all gifts of the management. Beth went over and lifted the lid, puzzled. This couldn't be chocolate . . . ?
It wasn't. The box was filled with marzipan and divinity, candied apricots, caramels, sugar-glazed nutmeats: in short, everything but chocolate. Oooh, Purina Elf Yummies. Cool.
"I must say, we're certainly getting the VIP treatment. As advertised," she said to no one in particular. Kory was wandering around the room like a cat in a strange place, picking things up and setting them down. He went off into the bedroom. Beth followed, nibbling on an apricot.
The bedroom was decorated mostly in soothing blues and greens: there was a second bar, a second television, and enough closet space to get lost in. It had a bed bigger than anything Beth had seen outside of Underhill dominating the room, with a green velvet tufted headboard that went halfway up the wall, and a matching half-canopy jutting out above it, satin-lined drapes held back with tasseled gold ropes.
But the bathroom, so far as Beth was concerned, was the star attraction, filled with enough Eurogadgets that by rights it should have launched you into orbit, not just gotten you clean. There were heated vibrating massage beds, towel warmers, infrared lamps, a heated floor, an omnidirectional step-in shower, and a whirlpool Jacuzzi big enough to baptize an entire parish at one go. The counter was filled with bottles of complementary toiletries, everything from bath gel to toothpaste, and there were more fresh flowers in a silver bowl, filling the room with the scent of roses and oranges.
"Can we take this whole place with us when we go back to Underhill?" Beth asked, only half joking.
Kory smiled. "I think Maeve would like it. I think I would, too. I have never . . . seen any place quite like this in your human world."
"Just goes to show you what happens when you turn elves with money loose in Las Vegas," Beth quipped. "Now, we'd better go start making those phone calls and find out where those vendors Ray promised to hook us up with are going to be tomorrow."
* * *
Travis Booker already knew he was in over his head. His ID (should he need to produce it) said he was working for Greenwood Security Limited, one of the Paranormal Defense Initiative's screen organizations—and if that were really the case, he'd have no problems. Greenwood Security had a booth at Comdex; it was actually a legitimate business, providing on-site security services for vendors concerned about industrial espionage. The fact that its findings trickled upstairs to its governmental masters was something that very few people—its clients not among them—needed to know.
Until ten months ago, Travis had been a researcher. There wasn't much else you could do with a Ph.D. in folklore and anthropology—when he'd written his paper on urban myths, he'd had hopes of a bright publishing career, or at least a plum teaching job. Neither materialized—but the United States Government in its infinite wisdom had plenty of jobs for someone whose only real talent was hitting the books. He knew he was working for one of the alphabet agencies, but even Travis wasn't sure which one: his paycheck said General Services Administration, just like everyone else's; he'd been hired by the State Department (just like everyone else), and his time was occupied either in preparing briefing memos on whatever esoteric subject appeared in his in-box, or in boiling other such documents down into two-page memos.
It seemed to him sometimes that life would be simpler if they all just stuck to writing two-page memos in the first place, but the same governmental department that swore it was too busy to read the information it asked for also insisted on in-depth coverage of its subject.
Then one day a man had come to him and asked him if he'd like a new job. Travis had warmed up to Parker Wheatley immediately—the man was obviously a Washington insider, clearly going places. Wheatley had said that he was forming a special new department, and Travis's qualifications and clearances fit him admirably for work there.
For a while his new job was the same as the old—his paychecks still came from the GSA, and he even had the same office—but instead of putting together reports on the political history of Afghanistan, the subjects he was called upon to research were universally wacky. UFO sightings over major cities. Appearances of elves and fairies since 1900. A list of cryptozoological sightings organized by geographical area, with special reference to those grouped around sites of current nuclear power plants. He found it a nice change to be able to put his degree to some use, but wondered vaguely what his tax dollars were up to, if his new employers were investigating Bigfoot.
After a while, he began receiving what were obviously field agents' reports, with a request to match the descriptions in them to the closest known folklore motif. Curiosity was something discouraged in Travis's line of work, but he couldn't help beginning to piece things together. There actually was something out there. Something with huge implications for national and global defense. Something that had been here before, leaving legends in its wake, and was back again now. John Keel had called them "ultraterrestrials"; Keel's being a sort of Unified Weirdness Theory that whatever the source of this weird phenomena, it was Earthly and continuous, not extraplanetary and recent, in origin. Travis duly wrote a lengthy paper cross-referencing The Field Guide to Extraterr
estrials with Arne-Thompsen and passed it up the chain of command.
Shortly after that, Parker Wheatley had called to invite him to lunch at the exclusive Cincinnatus Club, and Travis had leaped at the chance. Something was definitely up, and he suspected he was about to be given a chance to find out what.
What he didn't expect was to be offered the chance to be a field agent for the newly formed Paranormal Defense Initiative, successor in interest to Project Broad Church, for which he had been recruited. Mr. Wheatley had assured him that he could pick up the field skills he needed as he went along—with intensive coaching, of course—but that it was very important to the PDI to have field agents who had some idea of what they were dealing with.
"My doctorate is in folklore," Travis reminded him, trying not to be overawed by the vibrations of money and power that filled the Cincinnatus Club's dining room. It very much resembled an exclusive English men's club of the 19th century—it was meant to—and was the sort of place that people like Travis rarely saw. Parker Wheatley, on the other hand, was obviously a frequent guest.
"So it is," Mr. Wheatley had said. "And surely you've gained some idea of our mandate from all the work you've been doing for us?"
This was dangerous ground, for thinking was next door to prying into matters that didn't concern you, and a good way to lose your job, your clearances, and your government pension.
"Well, really, sir, I'm just doing my job. And I know I'm not seeing the full picture. After all, it isn't my job to speculate. Only to provide factual information."
"Let's just suppose for a moment that I were to ask you to speculate. Based solely on the material that crosses your desk in the line of duty, of course, and with the full understanding that you don't have all the pieces. I'd be interested to see what you'd come up with."
"Well . . ." Wheatley obviously wasn't going to let him off the hook. "I guess I'd have to say that you're interested in a class of phenomena whose manifestations explicitly predate 1947, and in fact have occurred in essentially the same form as far back as we have written records, though the interpretation of them has naturally changed over time."
Spirits White as Lightning Page 30