The Taste Of Night

22

It was seven o’clock, just two hours before the swingers’ ball officially opened. Troy had gone down earlier in the day to register us for the event-apparently you couldn’t just show up and hand over your spouse-and I was preparing for an evening of blatant flirtation and sex games like I was going to war. Of course, a real soldier wouldn’t be caught dead in my battle attire; a snug halter top that criss-crossed over my chest in shiny black satin, and a flowing knee-length skirt with a slit nearly to my waist, each step providing a healthy flash of thigh. This was all courtesy of my mother’s abandoned closet back at the sanctuary, so the lightweight satin was made of a material stronger than chainmail, but just as important, the length and slack in the skirt allowed me to wear a flesh-colored holster on my opposite thigh, providing a place to tuck extra ammo and a steel stiletto. The only paranormal help I was getting these days was in the form of my conduit and the ring still pulsing reassuringly on my right hand, and both of those needed to be saved for just the right moment. The additional weapon, though mortal, might come in handy. I just had to be extra careful while sitting down.

After I blew out my hair and applied more makeup than Paris Hilton on an insecure day, I gave myself a critical once-over and, satisfied, tucked my conduit in my black Gucci bag. Thus armed to the proverbial teeth, I strode out of the bathroom and into Cher’s sitting area to grab the mask I’d picked up at a costume store. It fit less perfectly than my shield had, but looked similar enough to make me feel more myself, and most importantly, helped conceal my Olivia identity. Joaquin hadn’t discovered it while he’d had the chance, a failure I was sure he was kicking himself for now. It was one of the few tools I had left, and I wanted to keep it that way.

But my mask was missing. The antique writing desk, where I’d left it prior to entering the shower, was empty. I looked beneath it, in the wicker trash bin next to it, and in the drawer, just in case I’d put it there for safekeeping. Nothing.

“Cher!” I yelled, trying to keep the rising panic from my voice. I must’ve failed. Footsteps pounded down the hall, and Cher appeared in a bathrobe with her hair in rollers, face bare, eyes wide as she looked at me.

“Livvy, darlin’, are you okay? You yelled so…” She trailed off, taking in my attire, and her face altered from an expression of alarm to one of sheer admiration. “Oh my God! Turn, baby, turn!”

I swallowed down my impatience and turned as she circled her finger in the air. The skirt swirled, my right thigh showed practically up to my neck, and the whole thing settled with a soft flutter against my skin. I posed, as Olivia would.

“Fantabulous!” she squealed, clapping her hands. “And those are muscle shoes if I ever saw ’em!”

I glanced down at my wedged, calf-high boots. Not perfect seasonal attire, I’ll admit. There had to be some sort of fashion rule against wearing leather boots in the summer, but I figured I could get away with it as just another outlandish part of my “costume.” There were more important issues at stake tonight than being fashionable. Like being alive.

“Thanks,” I said to Cher, “but I seem to be missing part of my costume. Did you happen to see something lying on this desk?”

“Did I?” she repeated, her conspiratorial smile making me swallow hard. She reached into the pocket of her robe and produced my mask. “Here.”

I sighed, taking it. “What did you do?”

“I just gussied it up a bit,” she said, waving her hand in the air like I shouldn’t bother thanking her. I didn’t. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but I’m a devil with a hot glue gun.”

She certainly was. Lustrous crystals studded every spare inch of the mask, and false eyelashes were affixed just above the eyeholes. I sighed again and pushed against one of the gems. It was glued solid. “It…it’s…”

“Swarovski crystals, yeah,” she said, misunderstanding my speechlessness. “I decorated it Mardi Gras style. Just because you’re a bit shy at the idea of anyone knowing who you are doesn’t mean you can’t be fashionable.”

I sighed, not just because there was no use arguing with that but because I was beginning to understand her reasoning. Besides, if Joaquin were there, the last thing he’d be expecting would be a showdown with a showgirl.

“Well, thanks,” I said to a beaming Cher. “What are you wearing?”

She made a show of turning around and stripping off her robe to reveal a black mini-dress cut from neck to navel, and-from what I could see-sliced in tiny bits to cover the choicest of body parts. She whirled as I had earlier, the strips of cloth flying dangerously about her body. “Is that legal?”

“It’s designer,” Cher said, grabbing a strand of shiny beads from the bureau and looping them over her head multiple times so that they too draped her body. She caught my eye through the mirror. “By Imitation of Christ.”

I made a face. “Why, because he had such great fashion sense?”

She only laughed. “I’m going to finish getting ready. Meet me downstairs in ten?”

“Sure,” I said as she flounced from the room, her stride runway perfect despite the lack of a catwalk or music. I glanced back down at my altered mask and sighed again, hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew from either of my realities.

Though that was the point, I reminded myself. Track down Joaquin. Sneak up on him. Put an arrow through his black heart. If that required dressing up like a spoiled, jet-setting porn star/heiress, then I’d do it. Still, as I grabbed my handbag from the table to head downstairs, I couldn’t help but think that Carl was going to have a field day drawing this one.

“Suz, baby. I’m so glad you called…all of you.”

Troy spared a glance for Cher and me in the back of his Escalade, a glance, I noted, that lingered a little longer than it should have. Cher ignored him completely, staring into her compact as she applied gloss on lips that already shone like waxed chrome, and I merely rolled my eyes and looked out the window as we pulled into Valhalla’s long drive. We followed it past painfully manicured landscaping with bright flowers and bushes never meant for the desert, beyond fountains depicting the feast of the gods, complete with winged Valkyries serving golden goblets to fallen Vikings.

The taxi stand was full, a line of cabs waiting to be called to the front doors by whistle-carrying doormen, like restless stallions at the Derby. Limos were wedged in slots near the entrance, waiting-in most cases, for hours-for their charges to finish the night’s partying. A few Hummers and exotic sports cars were showcased up front, a hefty tip ensuring they’d be there when their owners returned, but I had a feeling Troy wouldn’t spring for such a luxury, even with three stunning women in his charge, and-no surprise-he didn’t. Our doors swung open and polite valets ushered us beneath the arching portico.

“Shall we?” I said as soon as we were all assembled, noting the looks we were getting from the other hotel patrons, men and women dressed for dinner or shows or a night at the tables, none of whom looked like they’d done any swinging since elementary school. I already had my mask on, relatively certain the spiked lashes would scare even the most dogged security guard from insisting I remove it. A bellman, eyes wide, held the door open for us, and Troy took the other, ushering us through, making sure to touch each one of us in some proprietary way as we passed.

The good thing about spending the entire evening with Troy was his predictability. He’d keep an eye on all of us like we were his personal harem, and that was an almost comforting thought…at least where Suzanne and Cher were concerned. I’d ditch him at will, though I promised myself that if it came down to taking out Joaquin or protecting these two women from harm or infection or ghastly death, I’d choose them. They were innocents, and my first priority. And besides, I thought, watching the swish of Cher’s skirt in front of me, they were all I had now.

Nine o’clock was apparently still early for the swinger crowd, though there were enough people in the east ballroom to begin the evening’s fun. In the event that Joaquin was one of them-knowing he was never one to turn down a willing victim-I linked my arm with Cher’s so we could make our first round of the room, decorated in acres of black leather just for the occasion. I hoped.

First, however, we had to register and receive our armbands.

“Got anything in pink?” Cher asked the receptionist sitting behind a long draped table just to the right of the door. Pamphlets touting regional, local, and national conferences were splayed out before her, but Cher was busy studying the red, blue, yellow, and green plastic bands taped to the table in front of us. “Pink’s my favorite color.”

The woman only stared.

“I’m more of a purple-lovin’ kind of girl myself,” I added, smiling down into the woman’s round face. Besides, purple was almost black, and I thought Olivia would consider such a detail.

The woman just blinked and turned her cold gaze on me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Hunh? “Well…purple is traditionally the color used for royalty. It’s also really great with my coloring, though it has to be the right shade. Lilac would be best.”

Troy, who’d been listening behind us from his guard post next to Suzanne, edged his way between us and the table. “I think she means what does the color signify for the purposes of this event. In this case, purple and pink mean nothing.” He turned back to the greeter, and his lips drew up in pure saccharine smile. “I’ll take a green one, please.”

The woman blushed all the way down to her graying roots. As she fumbled with his wristband, I noted she too had a green one fastened over her own pudgy wrist. I held out my hand for one as well. She ignored me. “And your name is, Mr…?”

“Just call me Troy.”

“Troy,” she said breathlessly, her eyes traveling up to his lips. What the hell was going on here? Was there some sort of mental telepathy at play, or had I completely missed the nuances of a new form of speed dating? “That’s lovely, but I need your full name so I can give you your name badge.”

“Ugh.” Cher shuddered beside me. “Name badges?”

That seemed to wake the woman from her lustful reverie. She was all business as she flicked through a box to find Troy’s badge. “It makes the introductory process less inhibiting, and it’s a good conversation starter. Your place of birth is printed below it as well, ah…Mr. Stone.”

As she handed it to him I held out my arm. “Green, please.”

Suzanne put her hand on my shoulder. “Um, Olivia, maybe…”

The woman-her badge said Mary Malone from Topeka-snapped the green over my wrist. Troy nodded approvingly. I lifted my mask, smiled at Mary again, and used my sister’s sweetest tone-and the dimple I knew resided in her left cheek-to try and win her over again. “Thank you, Miss Malone.”

This time she responded warmly. “You’re very welcome…?”

“Olivia. Olivia Archer,” I said slowly, my brows drawing together at her quick change of heart. My dimple wasn’t that cute. She handed me my name badge, fingers lingering over mine, and I drew back quickly. I heard a muffled snort behind me, but when I turned Suzanne’s face was straight, absent of all humor.

“And for the rest of you?”

Cher held out her wrist. “I’ll take-”

“Maybe we should find out exactly what each color means first, dear,” Suzanne said, stilling her stepdaughter. “Mary?”

Mary blinked at us in surprise. “Oh, are you first-timers? All right then, welcome. We have a color-coded system that’s used nationally, so if you attend any soirees in other parts of the country, you’ll know what to ask for. It’s very simple, though. A red wristband means ‘women only.’ Blue means you prefer to be approached only by men. Yellow means ‘only couples,’ and green means…”

My brain scrambled, trying on the remaining options. I didn’t have to, though, because Troy lifted my hand high, kissing the fingers just below my own green wristband before murmuring, “Anything goes.”

Before I could respond-i.e., barf all over the reception table-both he and Mary shot me meaningful looks. I ripped my hand from Troy’s and lowered my mask over my own burning face. The giggle came from beside me again, and this time when I looked over, Suzanne’s face was alive with merriment. She turned to Mary, still smiling. “I’ll take a blue one, please.”

“Red for me,” Cher chimed in, merrily.

I turned to Cher. “Red?”

“Sure. Women are always easier to talk to, and if I don’t want to talk to someone, I’ll just stick close to you or Momma.”

Now why hadn’t I thought of that? I turned back to change out my wristband, but Mary was already ushering us aside for another party of four. Their eyes dropped furtively to our wrists, lingering on mine, before scanning my body. I pulled my mask down tighter.

“Suzanne! Cher! Over here!”

I glanced behind us to see a man winding past half-dressed mortals like they were an obstacle course and we were the finish line. His eyes lit on me, and he picked up his pace with renewed fervor, nearly bowling over a man dressed as a woman escorted by a man. I sniffed, scented out printer ink and nerves, and turned to Suzanne with narrowed eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said nervously, “but my friend Ian has been asking about you.”

“Momma!” Cher hissed, and batted her stepmother with her Fendi bag.

“He’s a nice guy!” Suzanne whispered, hitting her back. “and they have that whole computer expert thing in common.” She turned back to me with pleading eyes. “If you just give him a chance-”

She was babbling, and though the last thing I needed was another mortal to babysit, I cut her off with an understanding smile. “It’s okay,” I said, as Ian-harmless and guileless and hopelessly uncool-came to a halt in front of us.

“Hi,” he said, breathless, though I didn’t think it was from his trek across the ballroom. He seemed like a breathless sort of guy in general. “Am I late? Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”

Ian seemed not to hear her, and was running a hand over his head, muttering, “Traffic, and I couldn’t figure out what to wear…”

He had a lanky runner’s body, strong, with long muscles, which made it totally incompatible with his face, lined and freckled from the sun. His head was topped with thinning blond hair that looked like chopped plumage, but knowing how deceiving looks could be, I inhaled deeply like I did whenever I met someone new.

Ian smelled like cotton and starch, and beneath that, strangely, like sand from the seashore. His cologne was soft and nutty, like a weakened almond extract, though I decided this guy was as vanilla as they came. Clashing sharply with all this was the tang of his anxiety-like a red wine gone bad-and the chalky streaks of his hope as he stared, unblinking, at me.

He was, unsurprisingly, sporting a red wristband, and I hid my green one behind my back as Suzanne introduced Ian to Troy, who greeted him curtly, and turned away to survey the rest of the room just as Ian stuck his hand out. Now I was determined to be nice to him. I beamed kindly when Suzanne said, “And this is Olivia.”

“Hello Ian. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. At least his babbling had been cured.

“Should we get a drink?” Suzanne asked, earning a grateful nod from Ian.

“This way,” Troy said, starting off without us. There were makeshift bars stationed in all four corners of the elongated ballroom, though Troy led us toward the farthest, a ploy I was sure was meant to draw us farther into the lion’s den. In doing so we had to pass the curtained stalls, which turned out to be vendors’ booths touting everything from sex toys to videos to brochures for a chicken ranch located just over the county line. This booth came complete with a menu of appetizers to choose from, and two of the ladies of the house available to answer any questions. I admit I lingered there, wondering what exactly a “Hot Shot” entailed, but hurried on when one of them knowingly caught my eye…and the color of my wristband.

I ordered a seven and seven at the bar, trusting Ian to take care of the details, then turned my back on the others so I could fully survey the room for the first time.

It was certainly a different crowd than had been present for the bachelorette auction, and a part of me would’ve liked to just park it against a wall, like a fly, and watch the interactions between strangers take place, knowing that each whispered hello, every meeting of eyes, all accidental touches were gestures hoping to score an invitation to the bedroom. Even I, a born and bred Vegas girl, found it fascinating, though I suppose every bar on a Friday night sported a similar, if more covert, scene to this. But blatant voyeurism was out. I was in search of someone who had a greater hunger for flesh than all these mortals combined, so I focused on the men in the room, and began to hunt.

“These swingers seem pretty tame,” Cher said, as Ian handed me my drink.

“I don’t think you can use swinger and tame in the same sentence,” I said.

“Says the woman in anything goes.”

I scowled at her and scanned the room. There was a steady stream of new arrivals, and you could feel anticipation mounting, even if-unlike me-you couldn’t scent it. But what I scented more than anything, was the increasingly familiar smell of infections, so the more I watched, the more baffled I became. This virus was being spread sexually. AIDS alone should be enough of a deterrent, but since the papers had even reported the burn marks around the mouths and private areas of the victims, you’d think that’d give people a bit of a clue. Stop swapping bodily fluids with strangers!

Yet here we all were, milling around like alley cats in heat, viruses be damned. Shaking my head, I followed the others to a booth where a woman was chained to the wall, realizing along the way that my mask idea had turned out to be a popular, and none-too-original, option. I hoped Joaquin wasn’t disguised as well.

“They look like pageant contestants,” I muttered, eyeing the name tags splayed like banners on clothing, but more often on bared flesh.

Suzanne, overhearing, said, “I don’t even want to guess what you need to do to win Best Personality.”

“Or Most Photogenic,” Cher put in. We all snorted. Troy turned around and glared at us. Someone was taking his sexual prowess a little too seriously.

We wandered a bit longer, the crowd thickening around us, until Cher halted abruptly. “Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Is that Lon?”

The rest of us looked in the direction she was pointing, easily spotting the man with shirtsleeves rolled high and a gold-tipped cane that he used ruthlessly to clear his path.

“Oh shit!” Suzanne and I said in unison.

“Duck! Duck your heads! If he sees us, we’re screwed.”

“I’m okay,” I said, as Lon expertly wove his way through the crowd. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the wristbands or the amount of leopard print and baby oil slicking the skin of those around him, but his eye caught on every face he passed, neck swiveling, mentally taking notes. “I have a mask on.”

“What the hell’s he doing here?” Suzanne asked, yanking Troy in front of her so he formed a solid, fleshy wall. Cher ducked behind him as well.

“Well, I don’t think he’s here for the edible body paint.” I sipped at my drink, watching as Lon jotted in a small spiral notebook before it disappeared beneath his coat jacket again. Lon-no last name, just like Cher-was the city’s gossip columnist. He could dig up dirt on the queen mother, and he was as ubiquitous as a cockroach, seemingly everywhere at once.

If Cher and Suzanne were caught trolling at a swingers’ ball tonight, the whole city would hear about it in the morning. Olivia had also made quite a few appearances in his daily column, though fewer since I’d taken over her identity. I wanted to keep it that way, so mask or not, I yanked Ian in front of me and told the others to keep moving. Between the horny mortals, supervillains, and gossip columnists, this place was getting really dangerous.

“Wow,” Cher said, stopping dead in her tracks in front of a booth where a woman hung from the ceiling, leather cords attached to a plastic bra right where her nipples should be. “I bet she wouldn’t fail the pencil test.”

“Honey, pencils are the least of her worries,” Suzanne replied, taking in the woman’s restraints.

“And that one over there,” Cher said, pointing. “What do you think she does to stay so thin?”

“Besides pole-dance for a living? Probably ephedrine and diuretics. Now come on.”

Weaving in and out of the crowd, I kept an eye out for Joaquin. Suzanne, noting my attentiveness, said, “Don’t worry. Lon’s on the other side of the room. I just saw him use his cane to crowbar a politician dressed as a street pimp.”

“Oh, it’s not him. I’m looking…” I paused, thinking, Why not? Why not enlist the others in my search for Joaquin? If anyone could spot a player it would be Suzanne and Cher. Of course, considering Suzanne’s taste I’d probably have to keep her from running over to hump his leg, but I’d cross that bridge when we came to it. “I’m looking for a man who looks like a real seducer. He’ll be good at it, too.”

“A real Casanova, huh?”

“Sort of. He’ll make you want to get to know him…but, you know, try not to have sex with anyone here,” I added quickly.

Suzanne eyed a man wearing Dockers shorts and a fanny pack, typical tourist wear if you didn’t count the body glitter. “I’ll do my best to control myself,” she replied dryly.

We continued our search for another quarter hour, with no luck. Lon spotted us once during that time, and as soon as he and I made eye contact, he started my way, barreling through the room like a Monday night halfback, cane swinging. Suzanne ducked, Cher squealed, but I turned to face him, smile on full blaze, green wristband aloft as I swirled my drink. He slowed but didn’t stop. I blew him a kiss, and fear flitted across his face. I took a step forward, watched his eyes widen, then he pivoted on his heels and turned back the way he came. I’d like to think my brazen appearance was what had stopped him in his tracks…but the flash of steel at my thigh probably had a bit to do with it as well.

After that, we found some tables clustered in a dim corner, empty but for a couple necking in the corner, apparently unwilling to wait and see if better pickings came along. As we drew closer, they rose from their seats, holding hands, and headed toward a heavily draped area, curtained off by at least three layers of silver and black fabric. They disappeared inside.

“The common room,” Troy said, seeing me watch them, and moving to put his hand on the small of my back. “Where all sorts of private things can be viewed in public.”

I was going to puke if this guy didn’t stop touching me. Seriously.

I glanced over at Suzanne, who was staring into her drink but talking to Ian, who kept sneaking glances over at us. I shot him an apologetic smile-at least I thought that’s what it was; who knew what it looked like beneath this mask-and lowered myself to a chair closer to Cher than Troy.

I glanced with disgust at a threesome who disappeared behind the thick layers of curtains, all holding hands. Normally I was pretty open-minded. Whatever you wanted to do as long as it wasn’t hurting someone was fine with me. But I’d just watched all three people enter the ballroom at different times, and they’d had less than a five-minute chat before heading to that back room. If even one person behind those curtains was a carrier of the Valhalla virus, this place was going to erupt like Mount Saint Helens. I wanted to prevent that if I could, but more than that, I needed to find Joaquin before chaos swallowed the best lead I had.

“Any particularly naughty thoughts going through that pretty little head?”

I turned to find Troy again leaning close. I glanced down at his mouth, curled in what I assumed was supposed to resemble a lascivious smile…and thought about punching the center of his face clear back to the base of his skull.

“One or two,” I answered truthfully, voice dripping with pseudo-sweetness.

“Care to share?” he prodded, wriggling waxed brows.

Love to. I was thinking, when Suzanne’s voice cut in. “How about that guy, Olivia? He looks pretty sleazy.”

We all looked. I felt my heart drop, then quickly regulated my breathing before it could be sensed above the general lust. Even across the dim room I recognized Joaquin. The way he walked, the tilt of his head as he regarded the mortals surrounding him like vermin. Of course he was making no real attempt to disguise himself, and why should he? He was in no danger here. He thought himself immune to disease, untouchable by all, impervious even to death.

“He’s perfect,” I told her, and without taking my eyes from him, I put down my drink, picked up my handbag with my conduit still inside, and rose.

“Wait,” Troy said with sudden alarm. “Where are you-?”

The rest of his words were lost to me as I trailed Joaquin. As I walked, conversations flowed around me, and I bobbed on the ebb and weave of words, but stopped to address no one.

“I can heal people with my penis,” I heard a man say to more laughter than the comment warranted.

Then a woman; high voice, fluttering hands, thick thighs. Disease-laced breath. “When I was little I thought they meant ‘sea men.’ Little tiny sea men? I kept wondering how all these sea men got in the bed…”

Another man, talking above a group of stiff competitors-no pun intended-gathered around a woman so perfect, I’d bet a bill she was really a man in drag. “I like my women fuller, more curvy,” the suitor was saying, eyeing him/her up and down. “After all, who wants a bumpy ride?”

I kept Joaquin’s back in sight, unheeded and almost entirely unnoticed, until a man the size of a giant pit bull stepped in front of me.

I sighed and stared down at him from my leather-booted height. He was shaven bald, with squinty eyes parked too close together on his round face. Tattoos coiled around his neck, disappearing beneath a chain-link vest, which had to be murder on his nipple hair. He greeted me, then waited for me to fall all over myself to fuck him. I just stared.

Women, I had once read, found unrelenting eye contact trustful and reassuring. Men, however, often deemed it as an act of aggression, thus the innovative ways they devised to communicate without having to look at one another. Sports. Cars. Games. No eye contact equals no aggression equals no confrontation. This was why women got together for lunch, and men got together in bars.

The man asked me a question-a simple yes or no would’ve sufficed-and without changing my expression, I allowed the silence, and the eye contact, to draw out between us.

His left eye twitched. “I said, are you here with someone?”

“Yes.” I moved to step around him. He planted himself in front of me again.

“Well, maybe your someone and you would like to come and play with me?” It didn’t sound like a question.

“You’re not his type,” I said, and searched over his shoulder for Joaquin, but he’d disappeared in the thickening crowd. Damn.

“Well, maybe I’m your type. You never know till you try.”

I shook my head, smelling the stubborn need oozing from his pores. Dammit. “Believe me, I know.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, and I glanced back over at him, wondering exactly what he saw. “You’re one of those squatters, a one-trick pony. A tease who comes in here pretending to be up for anything but really looking for an easy mark and a rich husband.”

Yes, that’s me. Superheroine by day, squatter by night. “No. I only look for rich husbands on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Now excuse me.”

He stepped in front of me again. And this time he put his hand on me. “So what are you looking for tonight?”

I stared hard at where he’d grasped my arm until he released it. Then I angled my gaze back up, meeting his head on. “A tall man with a big dick. Sorry.”

He responded with the requisite “Bitch!,” I yawned, but was finally allowed to move on. Thank God. Throwing him into the teeming stack of porn mags to our right would have really blown my cover.

But Joaquin was gone. I knew it before I inhaled, but tried not to let it get me down. We’d all perfected the art of masking our natural scents. It’d flare only under stress or emotion, so I either had to find him again by sight, or wait until he got excited…which, considering the things that excited Joaquin, meant it’d be too late. Circling back the way I’d come, I moved faster, head swiveling without making eye contact…and nearly ran into Ian.

“Olivia,” he said, like he hadn’t known I was there.

I raised my brows. It was impatient, and slightly rude, and so was the way I scanned the room over his shoulder. “Ian?”

His optimistic expression wobbled a little. “Uh…wanna dance?”

I thought about it. It would be a normal thing to do. Besides, I could survey the room from the dance floor, rotating him along, as Ian didn’t exactly look like the leading man type. “Sure.” I shrugged and followed him to an elevated platform centered in the room. Dozens of other couples were spazzing out to what must have been the music in their heads…because it wasn’t to the music that was blaring out of the surrounding speakers. Ian joined them immediately. Watching him made my eyes ache. Had the reputation of white computer geeks not preceded him, I would’ve called 911.

“So, how are you?” he asked, jerking his head to the right.

“Fine, Ian. Just fine.” Other than all the near-death experiences. I angled over to my right, forcing him to follow. Still no sign of Joaquin.

“Yeah, me too. Busy, of course. Lots of programs to…program.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, pivoting to my left.

“But busy is good, right?” He paused, waiting for my nod, before slapping his knee. “Yeah, busy is good.”

We kept at this masochist little bob and weave for a few minutes longer.

“So, I know Suzanne has mentioned me, probably talked me up quite a bit,” Ian said, huffing slightly. His breath was like warmed milk, but soured with nerves. “And of course I know all about you. Who doesn’t, right?”

He laughed self-consciously, and I angled him so he wouldn’t crash into the guy in back of him. “Your point?”

“Well, I think we have a lot in common,” he said, bumping the guy anyway. I shifted again. “And when Suzanne told me that you read the Zodiac series of comics as well…well, I knew this was going to be a great date. I subscribe.”

Uh-oh. “Do you?” I said, keeping my voice light. He nodded, banging into another dancer. She grabbed his butt in return, which sent him into a whole new set of spasms.

“Anyway, it’s the strangest thing. I saw this girl…you know, the Archer? She, uh, looks like you,” he said, even that coming out sounding like a question. “I bet that’s where you got the idea.”

“The idea?”

“You know, for your costume. You’re dressed as a superhero, right?”

A figure pulled up behind Ian, swaying slowly to the frantic beat, and I nearly froze in place. Oblivious, Ian continued dancing, inches away from Joaquin’s leering, attentive face.

“Let’s not talk about it now, okay?” I told him, backing up, hoping he’d follow my lead. He did, but so did Joaquin, eyes locked on mine like Scud missiles. Fuck.

“Okay, but I just wanted to tell you I think it’s cool. Lots of people diss comic books as being, you know…” He stuck his finger down his throat, miming being sick, always an attractive gesture, and I managed a half smile. Behind him, Joaquin mimicked the move. Homicidal smartass. “Anyway, it takes the pressure off a bit. I can just be myself, just Ian Hanson going out with Olivia Archer, on a regular ol’ date.”

I nearly deflated as a smile bloomed on Joaquin’s face. He mouthed the words Olivia Archer…then he left.

I fumbled at my bag, grasped my conduit, pushing by Ian, who started apologizing immediately, but Joaquin had disappeared. I caught a whiff of metallic rot-his excitement at learning my identity-and followed it. Ian stepped in front of me. I was getting supremely tired of men doing that. I flashed him a hard smile.

“Wait, was it something I said? Olivia, I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“It’s all right,” I said impatiently. “I’ll be right back. Just stay here.”

“But-”

“Stay,” I repeated, like I was reprimanding a bad dog, and Ian stayed.

A quick scan of the main ballroom showed me nothing I hadn’t seen before. Joaquin wouldn’t have left, not yet, not with so much destruction left to cause…or with my identity still fresh upon his lips. I swallowed hard and turned toward the common room, not even needing my sense of smell to guide me through the heavily curtained area. I heard my name called out behind me, Cher or Suzanne still sitting at the table where I’d left them, but ignored it, and pushed aside layer after layer of silver gauze and black velvet until I reached the inside.

Here the music was muted. Sensuous. The lights burned low, though still bright enough to highlight the voyeuristic activity. Large velvet-covered beanbags vied for floor space with leather beds, their centers piled with pillows, slim drink stands perched to the side of each arrangement…just in case one hand wasn’t enough. I wove through the splayed bodies without looking, without stopping, Joaquin’s scent strong in my nose. He wasn’t even trying to hide. And he knew I was coming.

I pulled out my conduit, holding it in plain sight. Even if any of these swingers were paying attention, they’d probably think I was toting a unique new sex toy rather than a weapon. I notched an arrow in it, one-handed, as I pulled back a silk curtain cornering the far end of the room off in what must have been a VIP section. I saw figures seated, limbs splayed, candlelight pulsing…and a demon’s smile as Joaquin glanced up at me.

His arms were thrown about two blondes, one on each side of him, both leaning into him and stroking the bulge in his leather pants. Disease practically oozed from their pores. He caressed the exposed neck and earlobe of one, dragging a bit on her chandelier earring-which she apparently found erotic-while fondling the right nipple of the other. Closer to me, on a velvet wedged seat, a woman looked up from between the legs of the only other male present. She rose in a sensuous shimmy, straddled him, and asked rather snottily if she could help me.

“I doubt it,” I replied, eyes never leaving Joaquin’s.

“This is a private party,” she said, emphasizing private, in case I didn’t understand nuance. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.

“So leave.” And I really wished she would. She and the other man were disease-free. I wanted to keep it that way.

She straightened, stepping toward me like she was going to do more than that. Joaquin, voice amused, stopped her with a lazy wave. “As you were, Samantha. I invited her,” he said, nodding when Samantha turned a questioning gaze on him. “Didn’t I, Olivia?”

“Yep,” I said, propping my right elbow up high, my conduit in plain view. “You’re why I’m here.”

He laughed and kept stroking his women. “No sense of foreplay, this one. No patience or restraint. Olivia Archer likes to get right to the point,” he said, eyes moving to my conduit, then back up at me, indicating he knew it was there and had his own offense prepared.

“Olivia Archer?” the other man said, straightening from beneath Samantha to get a good look at me. “The Olivia Archer?”

“Nope,” I said truthfully. “Just someone who looks an awful lot like her.”

“Now, now. Don’t be shy, Olivia. Everyone is here for the same thing, and we’re all quite discreet, aren’t we, girls?”

The women beside him purred their assent, one watching me closely as she flicked a tongue into his ear. If that was supposed to entice me, I thought, stomach flipping, it was having the opposite effect.

“Have a seat, Olivia,” the other man said, either oblivious to or ignoring Samantha’s heated glare. At least she’d stopped writhing all over him.

“Sit next to me,” the blond ear licker said, spreading her legs slightly as she angled toward me.

“No,” I told them both, and remained where I was.

“Yes,” Joaquin said, and lifted his hand from the other woman’s nipple long enough to release her hair from its messy updo. She sighed, flipping her hair to one side. He took the single chopstick that had been holding it all up, and pointed it toward the artery in her neck. I edged around the cushioned cube across from them and sat.

“What’s your poison?” the other man asked me, though I didn’t think he was talking about drinks.

“Don’t, Lucas,” Samantha warned, crossing her arms.

“Oh, Olivia likes it rough,” Joaquin answered for me. “Isn’t that right?”

“You’ve been together before?”

“We go way back,” I replied, playing along. I positioned my conduit between my legs, pointed toward Joaquin. He ran the chopstick along the blond woman’s neck. She purred and leaned into it.

Samantha, who was apparently of the if-you-can’t-beat-’em-join-’em school of thought, perched herself on the coffee table in front of me, which put her smack between Joaquin and me. Placing her hands on my knees, she rubbed her thumbs over the insides, pushing slightly outward as she offered me a promising smile. She was blocking my view of Joaquin, and my shot. I shifted so I could see him again. He smiled knowingly.

“I think Samantha wants a kiss,” he said, slowly thrusting his pelvis in my direction, as his harem started up on his pants again. I looked over to find Lucas touching himself.

For a moment I thought about shooting them all.

“Yes, Olivia,” Samantha purred like a porn star, leaning forward so her cleavage was in my face, her short skirt riding almost to her hips. Joaquin’s eyes flickered. The ear licker leaned forward to caress Samantha’s ass. Her moan rustled my hair. “I’d love to taste those lips.”

I waited until I felt her breath on my cheek, her eyes half closed, her lips parted…then put my palm on her face and pushed. Hard. Samantha flew backward, over the coffee table, and into the trio opposite us. The girls screamed. Apparently fond of violence, Lucas stroked himself harder. Joaquin merely laughed.

“Apparently you’re not her type.”

Wedged between the table and couches, Samantha looked like a sand crab struggling from its back. “Fuck you! Fuck her! I’m going to-”

Joaquin’s hands whipped from behind the other two women to yank Samantha against him. I knew it hurt because she gasped and struggled as he pushed her down between his knees, so she was still facing me. Then his hands turned into a caress. “You’re definitely my type, though. So beautiful. So perfect. So healthy and vibrant and strong.”

I lowered my conduit, letting it point at the ground. Samantha melted under Joaquin’s touch and words, ignorant of being used as a shield and of what his kiss would do to her. She shot me a haughty look, unaware the fingers playing over her flesh could snap her neck in a nanosecond.

Knowing he’d outplayed me and had me trapped-he’d kill someone if I aimed at him, if I left, if I even moved at all-Joaquin laughed again. “Somebody suck me off.”

I couldn’t watch this, I thought frantically, as the women flanking him bent toward him. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t sit and watch while both these women began to burn inside. But the chopstick tapped lightly on one of their heads, and long fingers lingered along Samantha’s neck.

“Stop!” I said as one of the women reached into his pants, pulling him out.

“No…don’t stop,” Joaquin ordered.

“I’ll do you,” I said, and Joaquin’s surprise allowed me to stand without getting anyone killed. See? I thought, taking a step forward. No harm done.

“Oh, I’ve got to see this,” Lucas said, moving closer as the blondes eased back. There was confusion and a bit of petulance on their faces, but they were willing to share. As long as Joaquin was.

“Put your toy down,” he said, warning after warning layering his voice. I took a step back and dropped my conduit on the seat I’d just vacated. The air burned with satisfaction as Joaquin smiled. “Now come here.”

I did, nudging Samantha aside with my foot, a rude gesture meant to anger her enough that she’d get far, far away, and it worked. She pushed to her feet, grumbling, and flounced to Lucas’s other side. Now they were all lined up on the couch, watching me expectantly. I swallowed hard and took another step forward.

Well, what else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let him kill one more person. I was counting on his desire to own and possess and force me to do something I hated-to rape me yet again, but this time with my consent and an audience to watch my humiliation-to make him forget all about the potential victims around him. After all, wasn’t I Joaquin’s ultimate victim?

I stopped inches from him, so close I could feel the heat from his skin leaching through his pants, so close his hard-on was unavoidable. Violent lust swirled in the air around me, making me dizzy, coating the walls and furniture and each of us with its filth. Even the blondes, twins I realized now that I was closer up, had backed away from Joaquin slightly, though to them it probably smelled like nothing more than body odor.

“On your knees,” he ordered in a dark, silky voice. I swallowed hard and slowly lowered myself to the floor. Perceiving my reluctance as slow seduction, blonde number one giggled, while Lucas leaned back comfortably. Joaquin slumped forward and made himself available to me.

I reached up, shaking, and wrapped my hand around him. He pulsed gently in my hand, and I wanted to puke. Joaquin sensed this, half groaning, half laughing, and grew harder still. “Don’t be shy,” he said, folding his arms over his head. “Kiss me.”

“And touch yourself while you do it,” Lucas suggested.

“O-okay,” I said. Bending forward, I let my free hand trail down my body, between my legs and the slit in my skirt.

“Olivia?”

I jerked, turned my head in time to see the curtains parting and Ian’s head appear.

“Go away, Ian,” I said, voice raspy, both hands working. He stared, unable to believe his eyes.

“No,” Joaquin said, the smile a yard wide in his voice. “Join us, Ian.”

“I…I…” Ian swallowed hard, looking at me, and I knew my eyes were as black as tar.

“Don’t worry, Ian,” I said, finally locating what I wanted between my legs. “It’s not what it looks like.”

And I drove my steel stiletto as hard as I could up between Joaquin’s legs, pulling on his shaft like a gear stick, a primal cry in my throat as blood gushed over my weapon hand. My yell was nothing, however, compared to Joaquin’s roar. His arms flailed reflexively, hitting the girl on his right in the face. She cried out, dropping her martini in his lap. He screamed louder.

Everyone else scattered. I’d have said it seemed like slow motion, their cries long and hollow and blasting through the tented area, but they weren’t going slow. Joaquin and I were simply moving that much faster.

He was on the couch, up the wall, then flipped behind me in a motion so swift and smooth I lost my grip…both of them. I whirled, kicking out as I did, but his hand wrapped around my ankle and yanked. I was thrown across the coffee table and landed in a pile of limbs between Lucas, Samantha, and one of the twins. Hands scrambled at me; I didn’t know if they were pulling me forward or pushing me away, but my head was up in time to catch Joaquin’s victorious expression as he lifted my abandoned conduit and pointed it my way.

“No!” Ian’s voice was stronger than I’d ever heard it as he barreled into Joaquin with his shoulder, arms wrapping around the other man’s middle. Joaquin misfired, and the arrow meant for me plowed directly between Lucas’s eyes. Samantha screamed. I lunged forward, eyes on my weapon, knowing Joaquin would swat Ian off like a fly. I landed on top of them both and began pounding on Joaquin’s hand with my fists. One, two, three, four, five arrows slammed in the wall behind the leather couch. I heard the crunch of bone against bone, hammer punched again, twice, and Joaquin’s hand disappeared.

I scrambled for the conduit, rolling and aiming at the same time, but found myself pointing at the startled face of a security guard who’d just breached the curtain wall. Cursing, I rose and pushed past him.

“Hey-!”

I threw off a second guard’s attempt to stop me and pushed through the throng gathering around our tent. The scent of blood and pain led to an emergency exit, door swinging wide as a piercing wail rose up in the room. I ran outside, sprinting down a wide concrete corridor until it ended at a loading dock filled with the refuse of hundreds of hotel guests. Lowering my weapon, I slumped.

I should’ve been happy. Nobody had been murdered by Joaquin tonight. I’d saved as many people as I could, I’d impaled him between his anus and balls, and it had felt good. But I wasn’t happy. Because as the scent of boiling blood grew fainter on the wafting summer air, so did that of starch and the seashore. Joaquin was gone, yes. But Ian had disappeared with him.