by Karen Chance
Getting up early in Vegas meant you practically had the place to yourself. But newly arrived sheeple off the latest red-eye and hardened gamblers weaving their way back to bed at dawn had prompted the casino to keep a few breakfast options open. One of them had turned into John’s favorite way to reward himself for a good, long workout. He could smell it from here, the siren call of his drug of choice, suffusing the air all the way out into—
He stopped in his tracks, just inside the main drag. It was always a bit of a shock, designed to look like an Old West ghost town with the ghosts still in residence. But for once it wasn’t the fake wood buildings or the fiberglass tumbleweeds or the dancing neon skeletons over the casino coffee kiosk that had him stopping abruptly. And doing a double take.
The front counter of the little booth was lined with cobweb doilies on which sat the usual diabetic-coma-inducing pyramids of doughnuts and pastries. And something new. Something awful.
“What is that?” he demanded, transferring his glare from the case to the Goth girl standing behind it.
She looked like an extra from Beetlejuice, all wild black hair and dead white makeup except for raccoon-dark circles around her eyes. But her expression indicated that he was the one being scary. Her gaze dropped to the item in question, which was wedged between a tower of zombie cake pops and a bunch of “fruit cups” laced with custard and cream.
“M-muffin?” she asked, as if she wasn’t sure.
He couldn’t blame her. The monstrosity spilling over the edge of a shiny gold baking cup was big as a couple of clenched fists, a bloated alien of a sweet menacing the other nearby treats. And then he noticed the little heart-shaped sticker that someone—some fiend—had attached to the front of the foil.
“Heart healthy?” he asked, outraged.
“It—it has fiber,” the girl insisted weakly.
“Where?” All John saw was candied fruit, crystallized sugar and what looked to be toasted almond slices sticking out of the dessert for a family of four disguised as breakfast.
And then he bent closer.
“Is it leaking something?” he inquired pleasantly, meeting the girl’s eyes through the curved glass of the bakery case.
She swallowed nervously. “R-raspberry jam?”
“Good God.”
“Watch your language,” someone said from behind him.
John glanced over his shoulder to see the casino’s dandified manager standing there, in a summer-weight off-white suit and dark tie. It made him look like a young Mr. Roarke, an image helped by his Spanish coloring. And hurt by his dyspeptic expression.
The expression was not unusual when its owner was looking at John. But it was odd that a four-hundred-year-old vampire had yet to learn to control his face better than that. Especially when said vampire was possessed by a demon who had once shared body space with the illustrious Casanova.
John glanced down at his sweaty khakis and oversized hoody. The latter was hot and was usually stuck to him by the time he’d gone half a mile in the desert heat, but it was necessary to conceal accoutrements of which the local police might not approve. The butt of one of them was peeking out from under his left arm.
He pushed it back into place. “Better?”
“No!”
Casanova had adopted the name of his demon’s old host, but had clearly failed to master the man’s charm. Or perhaps he had, and John simply didn’t rate the gold star treatment. Which was actually somewhat refreshing after all the faux American niceness he encountered. Some days, John became quite tired of being smiled at.
And Casanova’s mood meant that he didn’t have to bother with the social niceties, either. They loathed each other. It would only make the creature nervous.
“You look like a refugee from Platoon,” Casanova snapped.
An evil thought occurred.
John activated the appropriate facial muscles, as wide and as charmingly as he could manage with a distinct lack of practice. The creature paled. His work done, John returned his attention to the girl hovering behind the case.
“Two coffees,” he told her. “A sixteen-ounce espresso and—” he broke off at her look. “What?”
“I . . .” she spread hands covered in black, fingerless gloves. “We don’t have . . . I mean, an extra-large espresso is four ounces . . .”
She must be new. “Yes, I know,” John said impatiently. “Give me four of them in a cup.”
“Four of them?”
“In a cup. And one medium coffee with cream and sugar. A small amount of sugar,” he added.
“Four double shots and he’s worried about sugar,” she muttered, wandering off in the direction of a silver machine in the corner.
“All right, what is it?” Casanova demanded.
John ignored him in favor of deciding on breakfast. Not his own; he didn’t eat this much sugar in a year. But for a certain blonde-haired menace with a sweet tooth, who was perfectly capable of popping down here and ordering the raspberry monstrosity if he didn’t come up with a suitable substitute.
“Well?” The shrill demand came almost immediately. Patience wasn’t one of the creature’s virtues.
Of course, John had yet to discover anything that was.
“Well what?”
“Well, what are you up to now?” A slim hand descended on John’s shoulder with the crippling grip of a veteran rugby player.
And was abruptly removed, smoking slightly, when John sent a pulse of energy through it. The creature cursed.
“Nothing,” John said mildly. “You’re paranoid.”
“I’m paranoid?” Casanova hissed. “You’re the one jogging with no fewer than five weapons—”
“Six.”
“—and then coming in here to terrorize my staff!”
“I’m here to buy breakfast,” John pointed out, as the girl came back with a drink holder that smelled like heaven.
Not that he would know.
He took the coffee with a junkies’ thoughtless smile. It caused her to blink again, but for a different reason this time. Damn it.
“Or seducing them,” Casanova muttered.
“I’ll leave that to you,” John said dryly, transferring his attention back to the case.
“There’s a coupon special on today,” the girl offered, suddenly friendlier. “Four mini blueberry for two dollars.”
“I don’t have a coupon.”
She smiled. “I might could find one for you.”
“No, you can’t,” Casanova said, shooting her a glare. Which she didn’t see because her eyes had never left John.
“That won’t be necessary,” he replied, as repressively as possible.
Which obviously wasn’t repressive enough.
“Hey, where are you from?” she asked brightly.
Britain by way of Hell. “Ohio.”
“Really? Cause you sound English or something.”
“I sound Welsh.”
She looked confused. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No!”
“Are you going up there?” Casanova demanded, before John could elaborate. Just as well.
He wanted to discourage the girl, not traumatize her.
“What about that one?” he asked, pointing at the least unhealthy-looking item he could find.
“That one?” She looked doubtful.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Applesauce donut,” she said disapprovingly, as if wondering how something without icing, coconut or any type of sprinkles had gotten in there.
“I’ll take it. The one in front,” he added, since it looked to be the smallest.
The girl might have rolled her eyes, although it was hard to tell through that much makeup. But she found the tongs and fished it out. The casino manager’s grip, meanwhile, returned to John’s arm.
And sent up sparks this time because John hadn’t bothered to lower his shield.
The creature cursed some more and snatched it back. “Answer the question!”
“What question?”
“Are you going up there?”
No, I thought I’d drink both coffees myself, John didn’t say, since the vampire had no sense of humor. And since it wasn’t entirely unknown. “If you mean to Lady Cassandra’s rooms, yes.”
“Lady Cassandra.”
There was no doubt about the eye roll this time. But Casanova knew better than to elaborate. “Then take her a message.”
“Take it yourself.”
“I have! And been ignored. In my own hotel!”
John scribbled his name and room number on the pay slip and handed it back, in exchange for a small white bag. The girl glanced a little too long at the number, and then smiled at him again, this time long and slow and deliberate. And bugger.
The familiar yearning pain slammed into John, hard enough to make his breath catch. He wanted, just that fast, just that stupidly. And he saw that want reach out and touch her, staining her cheeks, quickening her breath, causing a small pink tongue to flicker out to moisten ridiculous black-dyed lips—
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know her; wasn’t interested in her. But the starving thing that lived at his core didn’t care. And he couldn’t even blame his reaction on a parasitic infection like Casanova. The vampire could banish his other half, should he ever tire of it, but John didn’t have that option. An incubus didn’t possess him. It was him. And one of these days, it would destroy him.
But not today.
He slipped an arm around Casanova’s waist, and leered into the surprised demon’s face. “All right then, why don’t we go up together?”
“What the—”
He leaned in. “You can carry the coffee, darling.”
“Go to hell!”
John watched the girl turn away, frowning, and shove the pay slip into the cash register. “Not for her.”
Chapter Two
I didn’t think you had a problem with men,” John said, amused, as Casanova pushed past him into an elevator. And shoved the coffee carrier into John’s chest as he went.
“I don’t have a problem with men! I have a problem with you! And with her.” The vampire glared skyward and punched the button for one of the upper suites. “Why is she still here?”
John didn’t bother pretending not to know what he meant. Lady Cassandra, AKA the Pythia, AKA Cassie, was the newly appointed chief seer of the supernatural world and Casanova’s reluctant guest. But she wasn’t half so reluctant as her host, who had been hinting broadly about a move for the last two weeks.
It seemed he had decided on a more direct approach.
“You know why,” John told him shortly. “The casino has the best wards available.”
The vampire said a word that didn’t go with the soigné façade he cultivated in public. “She’s a witch. She belongs with the Circle,” he snapped, talking about the Silver Circle, the magical authority who usually guarded the Pythia. “And who was it who did the wards around here? Oh, that’s right—the Circle’s mages! They must be able to protect her!”
“Don’t pretend you’re concerned about her safety,” John said dryly. The creature made sociopaths look altruistic.
“Of course, I’m not concerned about her,” Casanova said, looking incredulous. “She has a brigade of senior masters watching her every breath. She sneezes and ten people offer a hanky. She stubs a toe and they order an evac team! She’s perfectly fine!”
“Do you have a point?”
“Yes! That my hotel isn’t!”
“It isn’t your hotel.”
“And it never will be if I don’t manage to turn a profit—and keep it from burning to the ground,” Casanova said passionately. “And your precious Pythia is doing nothing to help with that. Half the people on the planet want her dead—”
“Hardly.”
“—and a fair number from other worlds—”
“Not anymore.”
“—and every damned one of them tromps through here—”
“Is that a word?”
“—and trashes this place in the process. I want her gone!”
“Is that what you want me to tell her?” John asked archly. “To get out?”
Casanova fidgeted, brushing down a wrinkle in the otherwise perfect drape of his coat. And noticing a singe mark the sparks had left. He frowned at it.
But he didn’t answer, too busy recalling, no doubt, that his master was also Cassie’s current protector. Mircea Basarab owned the hotel, a senior spot on the powerful vampire senate, and—if John understood the hierarchy properly—Casanova’s Armani-covered arse. And Basarab wanted Cassie right where she was.
It was one of the few things they agreed on.
John normally trusted vampires about as much as the demons he’d grown up with, which was to say not at all. And that went double for the oily Mircea. But at least he seemed sincere about protecting her, which was more than could be said for the Circle, which was preoccupied fighting a war and dealing with a recent coup among its leadership.
The coup had been fortunate for Cassie, since the old guard had not been fond of their new Pythia’s raised-by-vampire-mobsters credentials. Or the fact that she couldn’t be relied on to turn a blind eye to some of their illegal activities. Not only would they have failed to weep had an accident befallen her, they hadn’t been above trying to arrange something of the sort themselves.
The new government had a different view, and had purged many of the old regime’s supporters. But no one believed that they had found them all. And until they did, Cassie was better off where she was.
Only it seemed that Casanova didn’t agree.
“Do you know what a third of my guards—guards that I am paying for, mind you—are doing?” he asked severely. And then didn’t give John a chance to reply. “Because it isn’t watching the dealers, who are likely robbing me blind. Or attending to intoxicated patrons or breaking up fights or escorting my money. Or even dancing attendance on their lordships up there—”
John assumed he meant the Vampire Senate, which had taken over a large part of the hotel’s nicer suites when their previous base became an early casualty in the war. Since the hotel was owned by one of their own, they did not see any reason to pay for the rooms, or for the food consumed by their human entourages, or for much of anything else. John suspected that the dent they had made in Casanova’s income was primarily responsible for his current mood, but he couldn’t very well yell at them.
“—oh, no. They’re too busy running errands for Her Highness!”
“They’re assisting the guards,” John pointed out, “not running errands. And that isn’t her title.”
“I don’t care about her title!” Casanova slammed his hand down on the STOP button, why John didn’t know. That only worked in the cinema.
Unless, of course, you didn’t mind setting off an alarm.
“Bugger it!” Casanova snarled, looking around as a klaxon blared like a ship about to go down.
“I thought that was my line,” John said, leaning back against the wall as Casanova pressed buttons and snatched the phone out of its box and yelled at it, and then at the ceiling when that didn’t work. Finally, one of the overworked security guards called in to ask if there was a problem.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” his boss snarled. “Yes! Yes, there’s a problem! Turn off the damned alarm!”
Which the man did.
And which resulted in the elevator proceeding on its previous course.
Casanova cursed some more until John leaned over and pressed the Door Closed button as they glided to a halt. It wouldn’t avoid eavesdropping from Cassie’s vampire bodyguards, but Casanova looked to be beyond caring. And John didn’t want him ranting in front of her.
“What?” he asked flatly.
Casanova regarded him for a second, lips pursed, as if actually wondering if charm might work. He wisely decided against it. “She’s a sitting duck here,” he said finally. “You know that.”
“You just pointed ou
t that she’s surrounded by guards.”
“Yes, but why are they necessary? Because every damn body knows where she is. Smart money is to get her somewhere they don’t know, at least until the war is over. A safe house—”
“There are no houses safe enough for Cassie.”
“Well, neither is this. Everyone knows she’s here, and despite everything, more than a few have managed to get at her. And your . . . and certain people . . . can be persistent.”
“Yes, they can,” John said, letting his voice go clipped. “Dangerously so.”
It was Casanova’s turn to just look at him.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t have to.
If there was one thing he and the vampire shared, it was antipathy for the head of their dysfunctional clan. John wasn’t completely clear what Rosier, Lord of the Incubi, had done to offend Casanova, but it was probably a long list. For a creature whose stock in trade was charm and seduction, Rosier managed to make a lot of enemies.
Including his own son.
John had a list of grievances against his father longer than his arm, and at one time had actually believed that he couldn’t hate him any more. Until a little over a month ago. Until Rosier joined the queue of people trying to kill Cassie.
It hadn’t helped that it had been partly John’s fault.
The demon council, of which Rosier was a member, was afraid of the influence Rosier’s disaffected son might wield over an impressionable young woman—one who possessed a power they lacked. Cassie didn’t just see the past, she was able to visit it as well, and to take a person or two along for the ride. The council was afraid that John would be that person, and that the knowledge he had of their activities would allow him to destroy them before they even knew he existed.
It was absurd. Not his antipathy for the council, which was well-known and well-founded. But the idea that he would move against the only power keeping the other demons in line—demons who would like nothing better than to descend on Earth en masse. Or that he would risk involving Cassie if he did. But convincing his father of that might have been difficult.