by Hazel Hunter
Jude smirked. These mortals had no clue. Then again, not that long ago, he’d had no idea either. As he waited for the crowd to begin filing out, he made his plans. First, he’d head straight to headquarters. All of his suspicions had just been confirmed. It still amazed him that none of his Templar brothers bothered with The Strip. Perhaps they’d been too long in the harness. Or maybe this was the role of the next generation. Either way, Jude had done the most logical thing: he’d taken the war to the enemy’s turf. What better locale than the Las Vegas Strip?
The couple next to him finally stopped applauding, and the first row was starting to move.
“We have to get tickets to the November show,” the woman said. She was typing on her phone. “If it’s not sold out.”
Jude couldn’t help but sigh a little. Only last summer, his mega-church was the hot ticket, maybe even hotter than Conleth. It was the first thing that had tipped Jude off. The church’s Cirque du Soleil style extravaganza, complete with rock bands, lasers, and an enormous screen above the arena, had been the season’s show not to miss. In a way, it still ticked him off. He put his hands in his pockets as he stepped slowly into the aisle, and merged with the rest of the crowd. But the church wasn’t really his concern anymore. His Templar brothers had made that clear. More often than not, the church repudiated them. He’d never really fit there anyway. He’d always known that he was destined for greater things—important things, serious things, even deadly. His blood initiation had impressed that upon him.
Over the heads of the couple in front of him, the exit from the theater was finally in sight. As he emerged from the auditorium, the buzz of excited conversation faded away. Jude smiled as he took up his normal, long stride. What hadn’t faded was the tingling, almost electric, feeling along his spine. He nodded and smiled to himself. It was just as his Templar brothers had said it would be. There had been Wiccans on that stage.
2
BEHIND HER FOLDING screen, Natalie gulped ice water. Although she’d managed to stretch the time that the transformations lasted, the latent heat stayed longer as well. She couldn’t wait to get out of the fish-net stockings, but water came first.
The door to the dressing room opened, filling the small space with the sudden din of voices.
“Thank you,” Conleth said over the hubbub. “Thank you all! I’ll be signing autographs outside! Thank you!”
The door shut, and some quiet was restored.
“Nat?” Conleth said.
She raised the glass of ice water above the top of the screen, and gave it a tinkling shake. “Right here.”
“Good,” he said.
She heard his hat settle on the makeup desk. After so many years—and so many dressing rooms—they knew each other’s routines. Next would come the cape. But removing the flash paper, flame throwers, and cotton cord would wait until he was behind his screen. He never revealed the ‘secrets’ of his magic—never. It was the unwritten rule.
She downed the last of the water. “Good crowd?”
“Excellent, excellent,” he said. “They’ve prevailed upon me for autographs. I hope you don’t mind.”
She could picture his broad smile. But as she unclasped the stockings and slid them down, she frowned a little.
“Of course not,” she said, keeping her voice chipper.
She draped the fine material over the top of the screen, and began unbuttoning the jacket. What would be the point of giving him his swan song if he couldn’t enjoy it? She knew there’d be risks in a place like Vegas before she came here. She took off the jacket.
“Would you mind if I skip the crowd?” she asked.
She heard his clothes flop over his screen.
“Must you?” he said. “Those handsome, young men will be so disappointed.”
She took off the body suit. “It’s not Natalie the Assistant they come to see.” She summoned her best dramatic voice. “It’s Conleth the Great, Master of Fire.”
He chuckled, and she imagined him twisting the tip of his mustache.
“Well,” he said. “One mustn’t disappoint one’s public.”
But then he coughed, and Natalie winced. It was one of those deep and bone-rattling coughs that were happening more often. The doctor said the tumor was pressing on his esophagus. Though the lung cancer hadn’t affected his voice yet, it eventually would. The final show couldn’t come fast enough.
She slipped a single-piece, sheath dress over her head. The light knit fabric draped in a cowl on her chest. She smoothed the rest of the clingy material over her hips, until the hem fell at mid-thigh. In keeping with their stage clothes, it was burgundy. Conleth liked to project their personas wherever they might be in the public eye. She emerged from behind the screen, and went to the mirror. She went about removing the stage makeup, and then decided a touch of lipstick would be nice. As she applied it, the bright bulbs surrounding the mirror glinted in her eyes and off her hair. Since she was immortal, she would never need to worry about gray hair or wrinkles—at least not hers.
Conleth emerged, dressed immaculately in a three-piece, pin-stripe suit. As she checked her lipstick, he straightened his burgundy tie. He arranged the matching pocket handkerchief with deft precision, and she stole a moment to look at her aging partner. He was getting thinner, which didn’t help with his sagging skin. At the age of eighty, he was in incredibly good shape. She didn’t know of a single other magician who’d performed to so late an age. But not even Conleth the Great could withstand the relentless march of time—and a terminal illness. He was just barely managing to make it to his mark on time. He was slower squeezing in and out of the false compartments. But when she’d tried to have this conversation with him in the past, he’d been in denial. Then he’d turned his thoughts to Las Vegas. Without saying it, he knew his career was coming to a close. Without saying it, she’d accepted the fact that he wanted his career to end here.
“Do I have a hair out of place?” he said.
Natalie blinked, and focused on his thin face. Though his still full hair and mustache had turned a snowy white, his dark eyes still twinkled.
“Not a one,” she replied, smiling.
She adjusted the diamond tie tack so it wasn’t hidden.
He lightly grasped her shoulders. “Thank you, Nat,” he said quietly.
“You’ve got to dress for success,” she said smiling.
“I don’t mean that,” he said.
When she finally looked up at him, his eyes shone a bit more brightly. With a start, she realized they were wet with unshed tears. Before she could reply, he lightly placed a kiss on her forehead. Without another word, he picked up his walking stick and exited the room.
She simply stood there for a moment. It was as close as he could come to acknowledging what they were really doing. Her eyes stung as she tried to put away thoughts of him aging, or the end of his life. He was her father in everything but name. It was worth the risk to see him so happy.
3
NALDO TURNED SLOWLY in the sunken living room of the penthouse. He ticked off the list.
“Champagne,” he muttered, pointing at the bottle where it nestled in ice. “Check.” The fluted, crystal glasses glinted under the recessed lighting. He glanced through the double doors of the bedroom suite. “Linens,” he said, nodding at the giant four-poster bed. “Check.” He’d already inspected the walk-in closet. Everything was cleaned and pressed. “Flower arrangements,” he said and counted them off on his fingers. “One next to the jacuzzi, two in the bedroom, three in the living room.” He looked at his fingers and nodded. “Six dozen lilacs.”
He continued through his rotation, past the front entry. The Carrara marble gleamed, polished like a mirror. The high-tech kitchen, all glass and steel, had been stocked—but not for cooking. That took place in the hotel’s kitchen. The chef had been put on call. On the island that divided the kitchen from the living room, thick, ceramic bowls, hand decorated in the old country, overflowed with fruit. A selection of candy co
ated almonds filled a crystal biscuit barrel at the end of the island. Those were the boss’s favorites. A tall, red tin next to it held the biscotti. The built-in espresso machine next to the refrigerator was ready. At the far end of the living room, a fire was merrily dancing behind the glass enclosure of the gas fireplace. And finally, opposite the kitchen and the entry, was the window.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, Naldo ambled over to it. Window was hardly the word. It was a solid sheet of unbroken glass, floor to ceiling and wall to distant wall. Privacy glass ensured that no one could see in, but the view to the west was breathtaking. Red Rock Canyon had fallen into silhouette. Behind it and a bit to the north, the snow-capped summit of Charleston Peak shone pink in the last rays of the sun. As Naldo took it all in, he let his gaze drift down, over the brightening lights of the desert city, all the way to The Strip at the base of the casino.
For a moment he swayed.
He swallowed hard, and backed away. It always made him dizzy. No matter how many times he looked at it—which wasn’t many—it never changed. He quickly checked the glass. The window cleaners had done a good job. That was all he needed to know.
With some relief, he turned from the view, but he didn’t check his phone for the time. The darkening sky told him all he needed to know. The boss would be here soon.
• • • • •
Sunset drew a deep purple canopy across the sky. Although the desert had fallen into unmoving blackness, the lights of The Strip were like a runway.
Matteo gazed down at them. He’d awakened to his Wiccan gift before there were flying machines, and he still preferred to fly without them. Their noise and smell, as well as the cramped, little spaces, left much to be desired.
He began his quick descent from a few thousand feet directly above the Paradiso. It wouldn’t do to be seen. Though it was one of the reasons he flew in at night, it wasn’t the only one. The brilliant neon show never ceased to entrance him—except for tonight.
His suit and tie flapped in the dry winter air as he plummeted downward. Criss-crossed by white beams of lights, the giant H of the helipad loomed large. Only at the last second did he slow. As though he’d jumped from three feet instead of three-thousand, his polished leather shoes lightly clicked on the cement. At the same moment, all of the landing lights went off with a thunk.
In the near darkness, Matteo smiled to himself.
As he turned away from the glare of the other casinos, he saw a silhouetted form heading toward him. It was an outline he’d recognize anywhere. Short and wide, the man still managed to move quickly. Despite having centuries to perfect his physique, Naldo had gone a different way. As Matteo strode toward him, he opened his arms. Naldo did likewise. As they collided, Matteo wrapped his arms around the much shorter man to make sure he didn’t bounce off.
Naldo thumped him on the back. “Boss,” he said, his voice muffled in Matteo’s crisp shirt. “Boss.”
Though he was in a hurry, Matteo made himself pause. He and Naldo went back a ways. It wasn’t often that immortals stayed as close as they had. But the battlefield had forged a bond between them that Matteo never forgot. Naldo’s talent as an alchemist had never been great, but when it had been needed, it had saved Matteo’s life.
“Let me see you,” Matteo said. He held his friend at arm’s distance, looking pointedly down at his expanding girth. Though he meant to frown, he couldn’t suppress a grin. “You are lucky my arms are so long.”
Olive-skinned and dark-haired, Naldo’s tailored suit matched his Tuscan roots. It was where they’d both been born, though a hundred years apart. But back in those sun-soaked, rolling hills, things changed very little in a hundred years. Naldo smirked up at him.
“You’re lucky I personally supervise your chefs,” Naldo said. He glanced over his shoulder. “I think you’ll find everything is in order.”
Matteo heard the pride in his friend’s voice. There was no doubt everything would be in order. Not only did Naldo have a penchant for the dining table, he had a head for business. But it wasn’t either that had drawn Matteo from his duties in the Magus Corps. It wasn’t food or finances that had compelled him here as fast as an arrow’s flight.
Matteo peered hard into Naldo’s dark eyes. Though they still gripped each other, the smiles faded.
“Where is she?” Matteo asked, the words almost catching in his throat.
Naldo nodded. “Inside.”
4
IF THEY WERE getting fired, Conleth would have been summoned. Natalie wrung her hands behind her back as she watched the elevator’s floor indicator. Her escort looked up at them as well.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said. “Why did Mr. Santorini say he needed to see me?”
The pretty young woman with the earbud and clipboard took her attention away from the lighted numbers above the door. They’d just passed twenty.
“He didn’t,” she said, smiling.
Natalie frowned a little. “So, he…just wants to see me.”
“No,” her escort replied, glancing up at the still rising numbers. “He doesn’t want to see you. The boss does.”
“The boss?” Now Natalie scowled. “I thought Mr. Santorini was the boss.”
“A lot of people think that,” her escort said, still smiling. She stopped and seemed to consider. “I don’t know anybody who’s ever actually met the boss.” She gave Natalie a long look, from head to toe, then caught herself. She averted her eyes. “Except for Mr. Santorini, of course.”
Nobody’s met him? Natalie tried to give herself the once over in the burnished steel doors of the private elevator. Her escort had arrived unannounced. Natalie had been lounging on the bed, watching TV in a bathrobe. Thinking that she’d been summoned by Mr. Santorini, Natalie had panicked. Even as questions raced through her head, she dashed to her closet and threw on the first dress she’d laid her hands on: a simple green t-shirt dress, sleeveless with an asymmetric hem. Now she wondered if it was dressy enough. She also wondered where Conleth was. He was the head of the act, not her. If Mr. Santorini—or rather “the boss”—had anything to say about the act, they had to take it up with Conleth. She ran her fingers through her hair, and wished that she’d worn makeup. She blew out a breath. It didn’t matter. It was going to be a short meeting, because it was Conleth’s show.
The elevator slowed.
Natalie and her escort looked up. As they came to an almost imperceptible stop, the number 99 winked on, glowing a ruby red. Soundlessly the doors parted, and both women took half a step back. A lustrous blue-gray marble floor stretched forward toward a white-carpeted living room with a view at its end that went on forever. The escort gasped. It was all Natalie could do to keep from saying “Wow.” For several moments all she could do was stare. But then it occurred to her. This wasn’t an office. It was an apartment.
“This is your floor,” chirped her escort.
Natalie felt a hand in the small of her back just before she was shoved forward. She tripped on the elevator threshold, and stumbled two steps, before she caught herself. If she’d been any less limber or fit, she’d have fallen. She spun toward the escort, only to see the door closing. The woman gave her a little wave.
“Wait,” Natalie said. “What’s the boss’s…” The door closed. “…name.” She stared at her own blurry reflection in the burnished steel. “Great,” she muttered.
She’d have hit the elevator call button—if there’d been one. Instead there was only a numeric keypad. She cocked her head at it.
“Are you in such a hurry?” said a deep voice from behind her.
She turned so fast that neither the hem of her dress nor her hair could keep up. But when she pushed her hair aside, she couldn’t see anyone in the room.
“Is someone there?” she asked.
“Come in,” he said.
A strange tingling ran down her spine. Did she know that voice?
She took a step forward. “Hello?”
As she passed an enormous bouque
t of lilacs, she couldn’t help but look at them. Though she didn’t pause, she inhaled the sweet aroma. They were her favorites.
Her feet slid across the polished floor as she approached the ultra-white berber carpet. She straightened up when she realized she was creeping.
“Hello?” she said again, as more of the sunken living room came into view.
Outside, the night lights of the city shone far below, like a fairy carpet stretching out to the blackness. She took two steps down, still staring at the glittering view, when she realized someone was standing next to the fireplace. She jumped and pressed her hands down over her heart.
“Sorry,” she blurted out, feeling suddenly like an intruder. “It’s just that…”
The tall man who’d been leaning against the wall came forward. His hazel eyes looked directly into hers—and her heart skipped a beat.
“No,” she whispered, freezing in place.
The chestnut brown hair, the chiseled chin, the spread of his big shoulders…
“It is good to see you, Natalia,” he said.
She stared at his mouth as he formed the words. How could this be? But as quickly as realization dawned, a bitter fury flooded her chest. Her hands balled so tightly into fists that her nails bit into her palms.
“Matteo,” she said.
He took a step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. “The sound of my name on your lips,” he said, and took another step. “It brings back many memories.”
“Does it?” she demanded. “Shall I tell you a few of mine?” He stopped, still twenty feet away. “I remember what it was like to have parents.” She matched him look for look and saw his jaw muscles working. “I remember seeing them in the morgue.” The old feelings surfaced with a freshness that took her breath away. Her eyes stung, and she shut them tight. Her heart pounded in her ears. “It took me years to stop seeing that at night,” she whispered.