Embrace the Night

Chapter 15

I spent the rest of the day in bed, hurting so much that even relaxing my muscles made them ache. It was hard to believe I could be this sore and live. I wasn't sure if it was because of the attack or the whole stopping-time thing. My predecessor had died shortly after pulling that trick for the last time, which maybe should have told me something. For whatever reason, my whole body felt like one big bruise.

My mental state wasn't much better. When I finally managed to sleep, my dreams were full of Pritkin's face, wearing a brilliant and unguarded grin, which alone was enough to weird me out, since it wasn't an expression I'd ever seen in real life. Then it began to sag, with waxlike rivulets of flesh running down his cheekbones to drip off his chin, eyes rolling in their sockets, the sunny grin fading to a skeletal grimace. I woke up in a cold sweat.

I stared at the patterns the bedside light made on my ceiling, consciously slowing my runaway heartbeat. This isn't me, I told myself furiously. My breath doesn't catch unless I tell it to. I don't think about things I don't want to. And I don't scream like a little girl over a freaking nightmare. I breathed in and out for a few minutes, nice and steady, until my breath was calm without my having to work for it.

Then the door opened and Pritkin was there, staring at me. There was a sudden rumbling, rushing noise and a soft rustle of air. I screamed like a little girl.

He leapt into the room, snatched me off the bed and threw me to the floor, covering my body with his own and tucking his head down. I waited for the sickening lethargy to settle in, for the horrible sucking sensation on my power to start, but nothing happened. After a minute, the whirring noise shut off. I started to feel my face burn, despite being pressed against the cold concrete floor.

"Not that I'm not grateful for being protected from the air conditioner," I mumbled, "but can I get up now?"

Pritkin released me, helped me back to bed, and vanished. Which was just as well. I still didn't have the faintest idea what to say to him.

I went back to sleep like a person falling off a cliff, and didn't dream. But by midnight, I'd slept as much as I was going to and had hit the point where boredom had overtaken aches and pains. I sat up, feeling thirsty, sweaty, and groggy. The mirror showed me a pale, washed-out version of myself, with an impression of the blanket's weave on the left side of my face. But after a very hot shower, food and four aspirin, I went to find some answers.

Pritkin wasn't at the scene of the crime. The glass had been swept up, though, and the opening had been covered with a sheet of heavy plastic printed to look like the once beautiful window. I assumed it was there as a placeholder, so that at least from the outside, everything looked semi-normal despite the chaos within. I could kind of relate.

I'd have liked a different perspective on things, but Billy was off duty, crashing in my necklace to soak up whatever energy it had managed to accumulate. The gold and ruby monstrosity, which was so ugly I usually wore it inside my clothes, was a talisman, storing magical energy from the natural world and feeding it to him in small doses. It was enough to allow him to remain active but was never as much as he'd have liked. I usually supplemented it from my own reserves, but at the moment I didn't have any.

I went looking for the only other person who might know anything and found him glaring at the slots on level two. I thought from Casanova's expression that someone must have just hit one of the big jackpots, but no. It was worse.

By then it was after one in the morning, but that's prime time for Dante's. So I'd thought it a little odd that fully a third of the main salon was empty, with row after row of forlorn slot machines silently begging to be petted, to be loved, and to be fed money. Then I'd rounded a corner and seen that there was, in fact, a good reason for their isolation.

Two of the three ancient demigoddesses known to myth as the Graeae were in residence. They looked harmless—short, wrinkled, and blind—except for Deino, who currently had the one eye they all shared. It must have been her lucky day, because when she grinned and gave me a little finger wave, I saw that she was also sporting their only tooth.

I'd accidentally helped to release the gals from their long imprisonment recently, which had made them my servants until they each saved my life. Considering how often I get into trouble, that hadn't taken long. Now they were free and able, as Pritkin had put it, "to terrorize mankind again" unless I could trap them.

It was something that I absolutely intended to get around to one of these days, only it had slipped farther and farther down the to-do list lately, displaced by more-pressing crises. Françoise had volunteered to take it on for me, as a way of saying thanks for getting her semi-regular employment. I'd felt a twinge of guilt from involving her in a mess that, no matter what spin I put on it, was all mine. But frankly, a powerful witch would likely have better luck dealing with the Graeae than I would.

Not that she seemed to be doing much at the moment. She was watching them narrowly, but making no obvious attempt to trap them. She caught my eye and shrugged. "Zey 'ave a bond."

"What?"

"A metaphysical bond," Casanova snapped. "It causes magic to treat them as a single entity."

I watched the gals while I absorbed that. Pemphredo was nowhere in sight, but Enyo was playing nickel blackjack and Deino was beside her, standing on a stool. She was gutting a poker machine, systematically strewing its mechanical innards all over the psychedelic carpeting. I guess she hadn't been happy with the payoff.

I decided I needed a little more information. "So?"

Casanova tapped the small black box Françoise held in one hand. It was a magical snare that, despite its size, was perfectly capable of trapping and holding the Graeae—one just like it had once imprisoned them for centuries. "The spell," Casanova repeated, less than patiently, "needed to get them in here and out of my hair?"

"Yeah."

"For some reason it sees the gruesome grandmas over there as three parts of a single whole, which maybe they are, for all I know. Unless they are all present, they simply don't register as being here at all, at least not to the spell. And they've figured out that we're trying to trap them."

"So they make sure that one's always missing." I finished for him. "But that doesn't explain why they're here in the first place. If they know we're after them—"

"They're staking me out," Casanova muttered.

"What?"

"They were meant to be warriors, and I think they find Vegas a little tame for their tastes. Something it rarely is around here anymore," he said, shooting me a dark glance. "They know that if all Hell is going to break loose anywhere, it'll be here. So they Just. Never. Leave."

"Speaking of Hell," I said, but he brushed me off.

"Don't even start. There's nothing I can do."

"He trashed your window—he practically killed Pritkin!"

"Considering that your mage has been stalking him for more than a century with the same thing in mind, I don't think he can complain too much."

"We need to talk."

"Yes, we do." Casanova was the poster boy for "Not Happy." "How about we start with the fact that this is not a refugee camp? I already have a load of illegal immigrants in the kitchens thanks to you—"

"That was Tony's idea, as you know perfectly—"

“—and now I discover that they've been joined by a group of scruffy, probably lice-infested—"

"Hey!"

“—brats, who are also occupying two of my suites, probably planning to steal me blind!"

"They're just kids."

"Children should be seen and not heard. If possible, not even seen," he told me, unmollified. "I don't have security enough to watch the terrible trio over there, clean up your messes and also babysit!"

"No one's asking you—"

He pointed an accusing finger at me. "I'm through with you, do you hear me? You and your weird friends, corrupting my staff, ruining my casino, attracting Lord Rosier's attention—"

"Who?"

"Orders or no orders, I have had enough!" I grabbed him when he tried to stomp off, which wouldn't have worked except that Françoise decided to pitch in. "Oh, this is nice," Casanova said furiously. "Assaulted, in my own casino! What's next? Tying me up?"

"Yeah, I'm sure you'd just hate that," I said sourly. "Stop with the theatrics. Pritkin's gone off somewhere and I need answers. Either give them to me or throw me out."

Casanova snorted. "Right. I'm going to evict the boss's girlfriend!"

"I'm not the boss's girlfriend!"

"Uh-huh. That's not the memo I got. The last thing I heard, from the man himself, was to lend you every possible assistance because you're—how did he phrase it? — oh, yes, precious to him." Casanova looked vaguely disgusted. "Of course, that was before you started making out with the mage in the middle of the damn lobby!"

"That wasn't him!"

"You know that, and I know that. Does Mircea? Because he really doesn't share well."

"I don't know anything," I told him grimly. "But I'm about to."

"Not from me," Casanova said flatly.

Françoise started chanting something and he paled. "Quit that! I haven't even gotten the bill for the last disaster yet!"

"Then talk. Who attacked me? And why?"

"I already told you! And I'd prefer not to mention his name again; it might attract his attention." Casanova visibly shuddered. "Having his destructive spawn here is bad enough."

"Are you making this up?" The only group I could think of who didn't already want me dead were the demons, mainly because I didn't know any. At least, I hadn't before today, unless you counted incubi. And death and destruction weren't really their thing.

At least, I hadn't thought so.

"There are a few things I do not joke about, chica, and he is one of them."

"You're telling me that Pritkin's father is some demon?"

Casanova paled. "Not some demon. The ruler of our court."

"So this Rosier is what? A demon lord?"

"Don't use his name!"

Billy Joe had said it, and I'd even heard a sort of admission from Pritkin's own lips, but I still couldn't believe it. "But Pritkin hates demons, he's hunted them for years, he's fanatical about it…"

"You don't say."

"But if he's half demon himself, why would he—"

"I don't know. Or, rather, they have issues; everyone knows that. Your mage has the distinction of being the only mortal ever actually kicked out of Hell, but I don't have any specifics. I don't deal in High Court politics; I have my own problems, most of which lately revolve around you!"

I ignored the obvious attempt to change the subject. "I don't get it. How can Pritkin possibly be half-incubus?" I poked him on the arm. "You're incorporeal."

"I have a host—"

"Which is exactly my point. You need a host to, you know." I waved a hand at his body, which was looking elegant as usual in a tan linen suit and snappy orange silk tie. Casanova raised an eyebrow. "To feed, okay? And wouldn't that make the host the father of any children, and not you?"

Casanova sighed heavily, the weight of my stupidity clearly becoming too much for him to bear. But at least he answered. "The ruler of our court is powerful enough to assume human form at will, instead of having to find a host, and is therefore the only one of us to have progeny." He made a face. "Considering the result, I can't say I envy him that."

"You mean, Pritkin is the only one of his kind?"

"There are plenty of demon races out there and many of them are corporeal all the time," Casanova said crossly. "Half-demon children aren't exactly thick on the ground, but they do exist. And most of them aren't destructive maniacs."

"But no other incubi?"

"The experiment wasn't a roaring success," he pointed out dryly.

"Okay, but none of this explains why Ros—" Casanova flinched. "That demon attacked me. He only went after Pritkin when he tried to protect me."

"Protect you? That's like sending Pancho Villa to keep Che Guevara out of trouble!"

"Would you just—"

"I don't know." Casanova saw my expression. "It's the truth! I don't know and I don't want to know. The last thing I need is for certain people to decide that I'm interfering in their business!"

"Rosier killed Saleh," I said, trying to fit the pieces together. "And when he came after me, he said it was because I'd talked to him. But the only thing Saleh and I discussed was—"

"Don't tell me!" Casanova backed away with a panicked look, right into the line of dangerous-looking creatures who had just entered the salon. They'd been so quiet, I hadn't even heard them. I assumed Casanova would have, under other circumstances, but he wasn't at his best. That was even more true when he spun around and caught a glimpse of Alphonse's smirking face.

He literally snarled, and casino security, which had been trailing the nattily dressed group of vamps, closed in a little more. "I invited them!" I said, before things could turn ugly.

"You set me up!" Casanova shot me a purely vicious look. And, okay, yeah, maybe I should have brought this up a little sooner. But I'd been busy.

"They're here to help me with something, not to fight," I said. I caught Alphonse's eye, which was easy even with Casanova in the way since he is almost seven feet tall. "Right?"

"Sure thing," he agreed smoothly, giving Casanova's shoulder a friendly squeeze that had the incubus wincing in pain. "Came to see the bikes over at the Mirage."

"You're in my territory!"

Alphonse grinned lazily. "There ain't no territories no more—or didn't you hear? The Senate outlawed 'em to cut down on the feuding." He chuckled, like that was the best joke he'd heard in a while.

"He likes motorcycles," I reminded Casanova quickly. "You know that!"

It was true. Besides photography, B-grade vampire movies and killing things, Alphonse liked big, loud bikes that belched black smoke and choked anyone unfortunate enough to be behind him. For a cold-blooded killer, he was remarkably well-rounded.

He was also really good at getting under Casanova's skin. Not that he had to work very hard. I got the impression that there was some lingering resentment over the fact that Alphonse had taken Casanova's place as Tony's second a few years back. I had no idea if that had been a purely business decision or was partly personal, but there was no doubt that the incubus resented it. And Alphonse showing up on his doorstep without so much as a by-your-leave wasn't helping.

"And if me and my lady want to do a little gambling, who's gonna stop us?"

The five huge security personnel took a collective step forward. I started to get between them and Alphonse's group, which consisted of him, Sal, three vamps I remembered from Tony's, and one that I didn't. I really didn't want to be responsible for a territory war. But Sal caught my wrist faster than I could blink and pulled me out of the way.

"Let 'em get it out of their systems now or it'll be a whole lot worse later," she said, as the two groups surged into each other. Alphonse picked up a standing ashtray, which was as big around as a small trash can, and swung it like a club. The black sand, which had been neatly impressed with Dante's logo, went flying everywhere before the ashtray caught Casanova squarely in the stomach. He staggered back into Enyo, knocking her off her stool.

"You don't care if they kill each other?" I demanded, as Enyo righted herself, looked around, and tossed the gutted slot machine straight at Alphonse.

Sal pulled me back a few yards, to where a small bench sat near the ornate glass doors leading to the promenade. She lit a cigarette, her numerous rings catching the light better than the cobweb-covered chandeliers above our heads. "They gotta establish boundaries," she said, shrugging.

"This isn't why I brought you here!"

"Honey, this was gonna happen sooner or later anyway. Better it be now, when they still need each other."

Casanova took a flying leap, landed on Alphonse's back, and started choking him with the plastic cord from a comp card. "They don't look like they're pulling any punches to me."

"Relax. They can't afford to kill each other with Mircea's life on the line. It's just a pissing contest—let 'em get it over with and then we'll talk."

Apparently, Casanova had grabbed Enyo's comp card, and she wanted it back. Or at least I assume that was the reason she ripped him off Alphonse and threw him through the glass doors. Sal appropriated a tray of drinks from a server, who was scurrying to get out of the way, and regarded me narrowly, long red nails tapping slightly against her glass.

She'd gone all out dress-wise. Her silky white pants clung like they loved every inch of her, and her gold lamé top plunged here and was cropped there until it was really more of a concept than an actual shirt. Her honey blond hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail, and her makeup was flawless. She took in my rumpled T-shirt and jeans, which I'd thrown on while still bleary-eyed from sleep, and my rat's nest hair. "You gotta step it up, girl. You're with Lord Mircea," she informed me, in tones of awe.

I decided that attempting to explain my actual relationship with Mircea would be a mistake, since I wasn't even sure what it was. "So?"

"You represent the family. And this?" A dismissive gesture indicated my complete lack of sartorial elegance. "Is downright embarrassing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You can't go around looking like this," Sal said clearly, as if she thought I might be a little slow. Her boyfriend, who'd gotten up some momentum swinging from a chandelier, dropped onto one of Casanova's boys, who'd been beating the vamp whose name I didn't know to a pulp.

"I wasn't exactly expecting you tonight," I said defensively. "Not to mention that I'm in disguise."

"As what? A homeless person?"

I should have remembered: Mircea was in the minority among vamps for preferring understated attire. Most believed in the old adage that said, if you had it, flaunt it, and for all you were worth. Alphonse was an enthusiastic convert to that mind-set, so much so that he'd gotten into trouble more than once at court for being flashier than the boss. Tonight he was sporting one of the bespoke suits he had tailored in New York for three or four thousand bucks a pop and enough bling to make a rap star jealous. Maybe I should have at least brushed my hair, I thought belatedly.

Casanova staggered back in from the hall, grabbed a drink from the tray Sal had put on the end of the sofa, and belted it before sending the dish slicing through the air toward Alphonse's neck. Alphonse ducked at the last minute and it would have hit Deino, except she caught it like a Frisbee and sent it right back. Sal plucked it out of the air and set her now empty glass on it before putting it back on the sofa cushion.

"You're gonna need a look," she said thoughtfully.

"What?"

"A persona."

I blinked. It was disconcerting to hear words like «persona» come out of Sal's mouth. I'd never known her very well at Tony's—mostly, she'd been draped over Alphonse, dressed in something short, tight and revealing, doing a damn good impression of a dumb blonde. Actually, until that second, I'd thought she was a dumb blonde. "Take me, for instance. I'm an ex-saloon girl and a gun moll. You think anybody's gonna take me seriously if I show up in Dior?"

"Maybe Gaultier," I offered, before yanking my legs out of the way of a vampire, who slid across the carpet face-first before disappearing under the couch. When he didn't immediately crawl back out again, I peered underneath, only to have a hand wrap around my throat.

Sal ground her shiny silver heel into the side of his arm and he abruptly let go. I got a close-up view of her shoe and realized that stiletto heels were, in her case, aptly named. The thing was made of metal—alloyed steel by the look of it—and was sharp as a knife.

"You have to play to your strengths," she said, as I tried to rub my throat without being too obvious. "I'm a tough broad and everybody knows it, so I go with that. But in your case" — she gave me the once-over—“you ain't never gonna carry off tough."

"I can be tough," I said, stung.

"Right." Sal cracked her gum. "With those little stick arms. I think we're gonna go with elegant, so you'll match Mircea."

"But Mircea doesn't—"

"And don't you think that makes him stand out? He's saying, ‘I'm so strong, I don't need to play dress-up for you assholes. But even though he don't wear some weird medieval shit like some, he always looks good."

"I have more important things to worry about than—"

"There's nothing more important than your image," Sal told me flatly. "You gotta be impressive, or you're gonna be fighting all the time. If you don't look important, everybody's gonna assume you're a pushover. Then we have to defend you for the boss's sake and a lot of people end up dead. Just 'cause you couldn't be bothered to put on a little makeup."

My time at court had been about blending in, fading into the background, trying to avoid attention that usually didn't end well. Nothing in my past experience had taught me how to make an impression. "I don't usually dress up," I said lamely.

Sal gripped my arm, those bloodred talons denting but not quite piercing the skin. "Oh, we'll take care of that." And the calculating look on her face was the scariest thing I'd seen all night.