Head mook took us up an unmarked stairway in the corner of the casino, to where the frame of a doorway shone with the subtle glow of a folded space. I hesitated, but O'Meara pushed me over the threshold. "Even I know of this place," she muttered.
The three of us paused as the sight met my eyes. It was a casino floor, much like the one we had just passed through, but the ceiling stretched upwards in a cathedral-like dome, shining with the glare of neon bouncing off gold leaf. Huge video screens ringed the room. Each had a countdown to something called the night run with twelve hours on the clock, all in big gold letters.
On the far side of the room was an elevated seating area, large, glammed-up diner seating.
Towering above the seating - above everything - sat an empty throne. A red satin seat cushioned a throne of bones. The path from the entrance I stood in led directly up to the foot of that throne.
So much for a private discussion.
"Come on, you don't want to keep him waiting any longer." The goon started across the floor directly for the throne.
"Nice place," Rudy commented as we followed the goon down into the pits. I nearly tripped as I saw a white tiger sitting at the blackjack table. Her muzzle pointed at her cards, but her eyes followed me. I couldn't smell her, nor the coyote resting beneath the craps table, but in my mind's eye, I could see the auras of dozens of people within the room. Rudy had told me that there were at least a hundred magi in Vegas at any one time. If that were true, more than half the magi in Vegas were in this room. The chips on the tables emitted the soft grey glow of tass.
"Looks like we've hit the big time," I said. Because I had to say something to keep my teeth from chattering with fear. I got nervous sharing a room with more than two magi. I stole a look up at O'Meara's face and followed her glaring eyes to a roulette table around which stood five robed figures, inquisitorial swords slung over their backs. It had taken one hundred groat to pay House Morganna to restore her abilities. Each inquisitor at that table was gambling with more than that amount. They had ignored her requests for medical treatment, and there they were, gambling that sort of tass away. I nudged her with my shoulder, and she ripped her eyes off them.
Nobody sat in the throne. Our guide instead halted at the ring of seating and stepped close to a booth to the right of the path. Inside it sat a heavyset black man in a dark suit and a blonde, leggy woman in a red dress calibrated to hide nothing while covering everything. The pair were laughing at some joke I hadn't caught, and both displayed their perfectly white teeth.
Their familiars seemed less amused. A white cobra coiled in a tight pyramid on the corner of the table. I haven't met many snakes, but this one vibrated with the kind of nervous energy that I more typically associated with Chihuahuas. A platinum-blond thing that took me a moment to identify as a possum with a dye job perched on the back of the woman's bench.
Both familiars glared at Oric. He perched on a T-shaped bar that had apparently been placed on the table for the purpose. It was he who made eye contact first. I watched his beak open and close; I heard no sound, but the man and woman began to wind down their mirth.
The woman's lips came to rest in an easy smile. Hazel eyes glimmering, she pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and her hair swirled like disturbed smoke. That tipped me off to her identity: Lady Ezial of House Morganna. I'd never laid eyes on her before, but there could only be so many magi with smoke for hair. House Morganna and House Erebus were allies on the council. These two would be the most sympathetic audience I could hope for.
Yet the gleam in the man's eye - whom O'Meara confirmed to be Death - didn't appear to be friendly but rather calculating. Still, he smiled easily as he waved away the ward that had isolated the sound of their voices.
"Well. My, my. A cat that dragged himself in." He swung his knees out toward us and extended his hand to the vibrating snake, which curled around Death's white leather-gloved hand and up his arm. Death's jacket had a golden sheen to it, either protective wards or gold thread woven into the black fabric. Probably both. "Oric here was telling me a most fanciful story. Or rather, he told it a bit ago, and then you took your sweet time getting here." The man's eyes rolled over to the head goon, who was attempting and failing to make himself appear small and inconsequential.
"An email would have been sufficient. No need to send the pack to fetch us and attempt to interrupt my lunch." I cocked my head. "You are not what I expected, Master Death."
His face cracked into a grin, and he laughed with a hearty har har. "Aren't I? Were you expecting a gaunt fellow with a white face and a hooded robe? Did she," he pointed at O'Meara, "not tell you?"
"I was an inquisitor for twenty years, and I've never set foot in this room. I think I know why." She cast a furious glance at the five inquisitors at their table. They, like everyone else in the room, had stopped with their games and were straining their ears to hear the conversation. One of the five averted his eyes from her gaze; the other four displayed varying levels of disgust on their faces.
Death held up a pacifying hand. "Easy. There is no judgment in my house. Well, unless you try to cheat. Then there is judge, jury, and execution." He laughed as if it were funny; nobody else did, a fact that he seemed to find even more amusing.
"Well, then." He rubbed his hands together. "Formal introductions are in order." He gestured across the table. "This is Judy." Lady Ezial scowled for a fraction of a second before it whisked away. "The mop is Penelope."
The possum huffed.
"This bundle of scales and nerves is Snits." He indicated the snake with a tilt of his head. "Say hello, Snits."
The snake shuddered a moment before stuttering out a sentence. "H-he-hello! P-p-pleasssed to meet you."
"And I'm Death." He jabbed his sternum with his white leather-coated thumb.
I smirked. "So, what sort of man calls himself Death?"
The grin reached his eyes. "You are a cute one. Got something there between your legs."
"Almost makes up for the emptiness between his ears." Oric glared at me through slitted eyes. The owl did not radiate the confidence he had a few moments ago.
"Hush, bird," Death said. "It's a fair question. A cat has to know who he’s dealing with before he can accord him the proper amount of respect. So what kind of man am I? I'm the sort of man who thought the Erebus tradition of naming yourself after angels of death was pussyfooting around. Those who objected strenuously are not here. I am the sort of man who visited my namesake upon every descendant of the family who originally thought they owned me. Except for Snits here, who enjoys both my forgiveness and a sort of poetic justice. I am in short, Mr. Thomas Khatt, not someone you want to cross. So next time I call on you, I expect you to treat my men with respect, now that you know who I am."
Oh, I knew. Whatever his reasons, the man before me was a bully. I didn't miss the respect he'd just given me for standing up to him thus far, but he'd start prodding my defenses if I continued.
"I don't see much to respect," Rudy muttered, making my breath stick in my lungs for a moment. But Death appeared not to hear. He continued to wait for an answer.
Reaching back into the pile of mobster movies sitting in my memory banks, I replied, "Respect runs two ways. You want to see me, lemme know. Don't send your men to put me in a box. That's not polite." I nearly added, or I will send them back in one. But I bit it off. No threats; I had no leverage to get into a bidding war with this man. We'd all lose that game. I needed to get out of this particular trench fast.
Shifting my gaze to Oric, I tried to claw my way to the topic at hand. "So what's this about, anyway? My friend there telling stories about me?"
"Ah!" Death clapped his hands. "Yes, Oric was telling us some most fanciful stories about who's refused the traditional route. Normally I'd dismiss such things as uninteresting, but there are some details that concern me. Something about a dragon. Join us?" Death gestured across from him, and Lady Ezial scooted deeper into the booth to make room.
; Don't admit to anything, O'Meara thought as I ever so briefly leaned against her, drawing support before approaching the table.
I got within two feet before Death raised his hand to stop me. "Only you. Archibald's little minion can wait outside."
Rudy huffed.
Death's grin widened until it nearly looked skull-like. "Yes, I remember your games. You keep your fluffy-ass tail over there."
"Rotten peanuts in a paper bag," Rudy swore and dismounted.
I cast Rudy a look of concern, wondering what sort of mayhem he'd gotten into the last time he was in Vegas. Lady Ezial patted the seat next to her, and I hopped up.
"As I was saying," Oric began as the privacy ward shimmered back into existence.
"You mean spreading lies, you grey-feathered bastard," I spat at the bird.
"I gave you plenty of chances, but your skull's so thick I highly doubt you actually have a brain between your ears. I did not want to escalate this, but you've forced my wing by dealing with blackballed magi!"
A sawing growl tangled my throat. "Then you should have impaled me on the Luxor while you had the chance. You will never have that shot again."
"So you'll hide under the wing of that washed-up firebomb from the war for the rest of your life?" Oric's wings spread on his perch, crouching as if he might launch himself into my face. "You should ask her about that. What she did during the war. See how steady that moral high ground really is."
A pang of panic from O'Meara. He's baiting you! Stop feeding him!
I ignored her. "What's with this sudden running to referees? What, you didn't like how O'Meara decorated your office? Don't like that no matter how hard you push, we'll push back?"
"You are a kitten playing around with thermonuclear matches, unleashing powers and upsetting balances that have been maintained for centuries!"
"The only balance I'm officially after now is yours, Oric! Once I can replicate my collar, your little union is done for, and this ‘bond for life’ thing is completely over. Keep pushing me now and you'll wind up like Cyndi."
Oric's pose snapped back to one of pure, unadulterated menace. "You see? He doesn't even deny it!" He looked to Death.
The four pairs of eyes belonging to the other beings at the table were watching me, not Oric, as if I had suddenly found myself alone on a stage. Both of my front paws were on the table as I leaned out toward the bird, looming over him.
"Cyndi tried to put me in a box and force me to like it. She gave me no out." I pulled myself back onto the seat and re-concealed my teeth behind my lips. Weariness crept in as I watched them watch me. Lady Ezial's face was etched with pity, but her familiar had her head cocked as if what I had said befuddled her. Opposite them, Death and Snits displayed more concentration than emotion, eyes narrowed. Death's tongue pushed out his bottom lip rhythmically, mirroring the flicker of Snits's tongue. Deep in each other's heads, I guessed.
Death's eyes shifted to Oric. "Leave us."
Oric narrowed his eyes for a moment before disappearing without a word. I caught a corresponding flash somewhere out on the floor, so he hadn't gone far.
Lady Ezial spoke first, breaking the tension. "Now that the bore is gone, we can smooth over this misunderstanding. Right, Thomas?"
"I like seeing Oric with twisted tail feathers. We should keep the cougar around. He's useful," Penelope said.
"I'm detecting a good cop–bad cop routine," I observed.
"Shush," Ezial urged. I felt a surge of volition as her hand passed down my back without permission. A cloying scent slammed into my nostrils with the subtlety of a charging rhino, screaming feline female but softened with age. Perhaps at a lower level it would be comforting and maternal, but the intensity of it was like being assaulted with perfume.
I shot her a glare. "I appreciate the help, but I don't know you, and stop trying to smell like my mother."
Death guffawed as Lady Ezial's cheeks colored, and both familiars sniggered quietly. I was surprised at that. Could Death and Lady Ezial actually be friends? Or did she have an antagonistic relationship with her familiar?
"He's got your number and he just met you, Judy," Death laughed.
Ezial adjusted her hair and recomposed herself, the feline scent fading to one of cloves and cigarettes. "Point is, it's only the bird who's said anything. He's got no proof, simply hearsay. Wait for the council to sort it out."
"The bird will tell everyone. And that a dragon did it makes sense - lots more than the flimsy evidence that the Elders from Africa did it. I cannot afford to be seen sitting on my hands. Particularly on House Morganna's insistence." He shrugged. "Be easier if I put him down and be done with it."
So much for being all friends here. The tension that had been briefly shed closed back around me like a vise. "You'll find that harder than you think."
Death smirked and folded his hands together as if I was trapped within them. "And why is that? I'm very good at making sure the people I kill stay dead. You could say that this entire casino is a monument to that talent. Did the dragon give you a loophole to avoid the end of your existence?"
"Don't answer that," Ezial chimed in. O'Meara sent her own agreement.
A web of an-eye-for-an-eye justice stretched out before me. Oric had only spun this tale to these two so far, but nothing would stop him from going to someone else. Even if I managed to defuse this particular powder keg with lies, he'd go and light a fuse somewhere else. If I backed down, if I covered it up, I'd spend the rest of a short life trying to dowse the fires of blackmail. Eventually, I'd either fail to disarm one of the kegs, or I'd drown in my lies. My thoughts strayed to a hideous spider woven of willow branches that was stowed in a storage locker: my actual "get out of death" card, though how high the cost would be to use it I had no idea. How much damage could a spider god do on a three-day vacation? And what piece of me would she elect to keep for herself? I could easily come back more monstrous than all the people I'd killed so far.
Death's eyes were still waiting for an answer, and Ezial had not pushed the conversation to a different topic. My initial diagnosis appeared to be correct. More than her actual sympathy, she wanted to know if it was true. I pulled away from her gentle hand on my shoulder.
"There was no bargain. There was no negotiation. I was stuck between a magus who was going to kill me and the place where the dragon was chained. Around my neck was a snapped fey chain. I took my chance with the dragon and bonded it. After that, it reeled me in like a fish."
The possum swallowed nervously, but the eyes of the magi were hungry.
"Archibald had it trapped there for over a hundred years, grinding off pieces of it. It shared what that felt like; I have yet to find pain equal to it. When it did not understand what I wanted, it took me apart. Casually, as if I were constructed of Legos. After finding out how I ticked, it put me back together and offered me a deal. In exchange for breaking it out, my independence is guaranteed. Oh, and it would contain its rampage to those who actually hurt it. I had no real choice."
"How did you break it out?" Ezial asked. She had a look of wonderment in her eyes, a stark contrast to the hard, furious line Death had made of his mouth.
"It didn't put me back together the way it found me." I let that hang, letting their imaginations conjure things that were far more fearsome than the fact that damn dragon had stuffed a magical bomb down my throat and booted me back to the real world.
"You're bluffing," Death snapped. "You're afraid of Oric. You don't have any special gifts; you're still a familiar." He began to tug at the fingers of his white glove.
I stared him down. "Strike me down and the dragon will come for you. Do you have a defense for that?"
Death paused.
Ezial reached across the table to grab his hand. "Wait, Death. Think about it. If he's not lying, then he's an artifact. The original Thomas probably died the moment he bonded that dragon. You can't blame him for Ghenna."
I'm dead? That scattered my train of thought like a cow on the tracks
.
Focus! O'Meara merged. It's academic, and it doesn't matter. You've got Death unsure of himself. Even he’s afraid of dragons.
With effort, I tuned back into the conversation. "-Blood must be spilled for Ghenna. But she was never a picky woman about whose." Death gave me a sneering smile and jerked his glove back onto his hand. The ward popped my eardrums as it winked out of existence. Snits gave me a pitying look before slithering up Death's offered arm.
Death began the climb up to his throne of bone.
20
A Fine Mess
"Well, I'll bet a nickel on you, but no more than that," Penelope said as she climbed up onto Lady Ezial's shoulder.
"Penelope!" she scolded her. "You did the best you could, Thomas."
I blinked, surprised by the compliment. After everything she had said to try to sideline me, I assumed she figured me a lost cause.
She smiled. "You're still alive. When you play against Death, every moment you breathe is a victory. Look around you. It's not hard to figure out the games he plays. I hope you stay that way."
"Thanks," I said, meaning it. I left the table and found O'Meara watching Death easing into his throne. Rudy was perched on her shoulder.
"How'd it go?" Rudy asked.
"We might need to implement plan ‘it's all gone pear shaped’ a bit early."
Rudy's eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. "Really!? I like that plan." He rubbed his paws together like the tiny evil genius he was.
"Knock it off, both of you." O'Meara nodded up toward the throne. "Show's starting."
Death reclined in his throne, filling it with his immense presence. He looked over the room like a king overlooking his kingdom and waited for everyone to notice he had something to say. First, the machines fell silent. Then the murmurs of voices slowly ebbed away as elbows nudged their fellows and familiars nosed their magi. Slowly, surely, a room full of people with unimaginable power came to silence.
High Steaks (Freelance Familiars Book 3) Page 12