Then the Chairman brought his hands together with a
clap
and the room went absolutely still.
“Take him away. It is done.”
Still screaming, Simmons was led from the room. For many moments, no one spoke.
“You have both begun well,” the Chairman said at last. “I have learned much tonight. You will go now, and at the next full moon, you will be sent for. Then you will face the first true trial.
The
Nigredo
, the test of the dark.
Until then, prepare yourselves as best you can. I suggest you use your time well.”
“And when one of us fails?” Sloane suddenly asked. “What happens then?”
“Oh, but surely you know the answer to that already,” the Chairman replied. “That, too, is a problem that must be solved, and it is your solution that will apply.
“The one who triumphs will join us. The one who fails will be destroyed.”
Triumph or be destroyed. Not a hard choice to make. I didn’t ask to be a member of the Board, but from that moment on, I made my decision. I would not let the Board beat me. I would win. I would be a member of the Board.
Five
Las Vegas
, present
Candace
I was the first one to arrive at Cisco’s Bar & Grill that evening. Not a surprise. Blanchard is almost always late for our meetings.
I slid into a booth, one that would let me see both the door and the restaurant, then sat back and scanned the room. The walls were covered with replicas of old signs and toys that should have been thrown out decades ago. Not really Blanchard’s
style,
or my own. But the advantage of Cisco’s is that it’s a fringe place, a place where both humans and vampires go.
Sort of a demilitarized zone.
Blanchard calls meeting in places like this protective camouflage, and I have to admit he’s got a point. Since our old meeting place, Ed’s Diner, had been bulldozed to make room for a new hotel, we had sort of been bouncing around. Cisco’s was the current meet location of choice.
The bar was busy and loud. A sudden burst of sound drew my attention to three young men at a table near the kitchen door.
Slicked-back hair.
Narrow ties.
Tailored suits that hadn’t been stylish since the early 1960s.
A tall, skinny guy with dark wavy hair was toying with a drink and laughing drunkenly. Vegas
is
full of Elvis impersonators. This guy looked more like Dean Martin. Beside him sat a short, dark-skinned guy who looked as if he weighed less than I did.
And that one’s Sammy Davis Jr
., I thought, as the coin dropped suddenly. Plainly, these guys were working on a theme. Sammy glanced toward me, and I looked away, suddenly realizing the truth.
They were vampires.
“So sorry I’m late,” I heard Blanchard’s voice murmur. Lifting off a black fedora that would have looked perfect on Annie Hall, he slid onto the seat across from me,
then
grimaced in distaste. “Don’t these people know plastic is hell on fine leather? Don’t
you
know?” He shot an accusing frown at the waiter who had materialized beside us.
“Shame on you.”
The waiter flushed. Blanchard can sometimes come on a little strong. Usually, it’s because he wants attention or because he’s attracted to someone.
“Two Cokes,” I said. The waiter gave a nod and moved off. Blanchard shot me a look of reproach.
Sorry, Blanchard
, I thought. I was here for information, not to further his social life. Not that he needed my help in that department.
Blanchard Gray has the best sense of style of anyone I know.
Female or male, straight or gay.
He prefers dark colors, a contrast to his pale skin and bleached-blond locks. But a simple black leather coat wasn’t enough. Tonight he had accented it with a cashmere scarf that must have cost him a week’s wages. Deprived of our waiter, he winked at the next one to pass our booth.
“Blanchard,” I said, my voice long suffering. “Flirt on your own time. We need to talk.”
He shrugged off his coat and loosened the gray cashmere scarf. “Don’t you know that boys just want to have fun?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.” It didn’t take me long to tell him about the vampire at the
Sher
and the rumor about the con at the tournament. I kept my voice
low,
aware that just about anyone in this place might be listening. In general, vampires have excellent hearing. “Have you heard about any schemes aimed at the
Sher
?”
“Why on earth would my people be interested in something like that?” Blanchard asked in a tone that suggested he found even having to answer the question tiresome.
“My question exactly.
I couldn’t come up with anything that makes sense. Can you?”
He flung his hands into the air, and our waiter backpedaled, spilling Coke on his tray. His eyes on Blanchard’s every move, he set the glasses in front of us along with some straws, then rushed away at approximately the speed of sound.
“Candace,” Blanchard said in a tone of exaggerated patience, as if he were speaking to a child. “I can’t believe you called a meet over this. You know my people wouldn’t get anything worthwhile out of such a con. And face it, even though some bored vampire might get off on making the casino look stupid, we don’t go for the big public spectacle.”
Exactly what I’ve been telling myself
, I thought. The trouble was, I was pretty damned certain the vamp I had threatened was telling the truth, and I just couldn’t make the two facts line up.
“You know us,” Blanchard went on. “We prefer to operate in the shadows. The bright spotlight’s not a vampire’s cup of tea. Not any of the ones I know, anyhow.”
“What about
those
guys?” I asked suddenly, motioning toward the group at the back of the restaurant.
Blanchard half-turned in the seat to check out the Rat Pack posers in their early-sixties finery. He turned back with a roll of his eyes.
“Oh, them.
Total low-level losers.
Can you believe that they actually call themselves the
Bat
Pack?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Not too subtle, are they?”
Blanchard shrugged while he downed a sip of Coke. “What can I tell you? The truth is
,
they’re new to the realm of the undead. So they’re totally into the power trip some new vampires get off on—until they figure out that even our world has its hierarchy.”
My cell vibrated against my hip. I pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and couldn’t help smiling.
m
pressman
, the readout said.
“Someone special?”
Blanchard asked at once.
“Maybe.”
“Who?”
“None of your business,” I replied. “But I’m going to take this. Sit tight a minute.” Sliding out of the booth, I pushed the
talk
button.
“Hey, Candace,” Michael’s voice sounded through the phone. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
I looked at Blanchard, who was eyeing the waiter again, and the Rat—no, make that
Bat
Pack, who
were
eyeing the whole room. “Absolutely not,” I replied.
“Excellent,” Michael replied. “So, listen, I made it through two more rounds. I feel like celebrating. Any chance you’d like to help? I’m at the Scheherazade, in the
Desert
Tower
.”
Only the swankiest wing in the whole hotel.
Okay, you can make this work, Candace
, I thought. Getting involved with guests wasn’t exactly against the law, but it was seriously frowned upon. Al wasn’t going to be happy if he found me hanging out with a player from
Randolph
’s precious tournament. Visiting Michael at the
Sher
was going to be…challenging.
Which also meant it could be fun.
“What’s the room number?”
“Eleven hundred.”
“Nice.”
Michael
laughed,
the sound pleased and warm. I remembered what it had felt like to have his hands on my body, to feel his skin slide across mine. And knew, in that moment, I was going to take the challenge.
“About twenty minutes okay?” I asked. “I’m across town, and I need to finish up some…” I glanced at Blanchard.
“Errands.”
“Twenty minutes is fine. It’ll give me time to figure out how to work the damned stereo so I can have some mood music on when you arrive.”
“Try the
on
button,” I said.
Michael was laughing as he rang off. I flipped my cell shut and considered my options. I could walk boldly into the
Sher
and cross the casino to get to the
Desert
Tower
, an act that would mean I would be visible on dozens of security cameras, breaking the unwritten rule. Or I could slip in wearing a disguise.
“Blanchard,” I said. “Any chance you’d let me borrow your hat and scarf?”
“Are you going to get blood on them?” he asked at once. Before I could answer, his eyes went wide.
“
Omigod
.
You’re going undercover. Please tell me it’s for a good cause.”
“Actually, it is,” I said, deciding an appeal to Blanchard’s sense of the dramatic might be in order.
“A romantic assignation.
In forbidden territory.”
“Love it, absolutely love it!” Blanchard declared. “Dare I hope forbidden fruit will also be involved?”
I bit down on my tongue to keep from laughing. Blanchard and I sounded like old gal pals.
“Only if I can get there in the first place,” I said. “So,
whattaya
say?”
Blanchard held the scarf and hat out across the table. “They’re yours. But I warn you, get anything on them and I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.”
“Deal,” I replied. I put them on.
“For crying out loud, Candace, not like that,” Blanchard exclaimed. “I swear to God, you have the fashion sense of a fruit fly.”
He stood, made a few quick adjustments,
then
stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Okay,
now
.”
“Thanks, Blanchard. I really mean that,” I said.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said with a smile.
I gave him one back. “That’s for me to know, and you to never find out.”
It was hard not to chuckle as I strolled through the casino. Not one of my coworkers so much as gave me the eye. Blanchard would not have approved, but I had added my long wool coat to the hat and scarf to cover up as much of my body as possible. As I walked toward the
Desert
Tower
, the shops edging the promenade changed from gift shops with rude T-shirts and antacids to high-end designers.
Fendi
.
Versace.
Hermès
.
Dior.