Chapter Twenty-Two

“‘Ring in Halloween with our all-night buffet with pumpkin spice punch. Costumes welcome but not required.’” Emily read the sign over the breakfast buffet. Around her, other guests picked up fluffy scrambled eggs and thin, crispy slices of bacon, or waited at an omelet station.

Simeon nudged her as they waited in line in the dark dining room, lit with artificial pinkish lights.

She followed his gaze. Men in fringed vests and bellbottoms sat next to women in crisp belted dresses, gloves, and little pillbox hats.

These aren’t costumes. The hair—it’s not a wig, that’s real .

“Em, what d’you fancy? Belgian?”

“American, I think.” She kept her eyes on the group of flower children picking at their plates with vacant smiles.

“Belgian waffle, love?” Simeon pressed.

“Huh? Oh! Yes, thanks.”

At their table in the corner, Simeon showed her two bottles of water. “Save this. Take it upstairs. Gotta top up.” He nodded significantly.

“Right.” Lethe’s Nectar would protect them, but they’d need to keep drinking it while staying in Mnemosyne’s sphere of influence. “Check out the neighbors?” she asked casually, spooning fresh fruit on her waffle and trying not to hear her father’s voice accusing her of forgetting her specialized diet and giving into food that would make her slow and fat, an easy target.

“Must have money. They can keep them here. Tapping them for it. Real estate in Vegas ain’t cheap,” he muttered, squinting his eyes at a gentleman with a prominent scar on one side of his face and a pinstriped suit. “Couldn’t be,” he murmured, looking down at the low rumble coming from his empty stomach. “Good thing Jakob sent me with a packed lunch,” he joked, referring to the cooler in their room.

Emily nodded, eyes glued to the narrow hall past the buffet. “Kitchen is that way.”

“Yep.”

They said no more, but both knew the plan. Right as the matinee began, Simeon would sneak the precious bag of Lethe’s Dust down that corridor to the main vent that blew exhaust from the kitchen and kept the “club” room cool in the sweltering Nevada heat. With his speed and sensory perception, he was sure he would be able to dump enough to spread it through the ground floor—when Circe was on stage. They figured there’d likely be several other key members of Mnemosyne’s temple there, as well. With some of her most devoted servants suddenly unable to remember their own name, much less who they were worshiping, Mem would have to take notice—and have a hefty drain on her power, too.

“What if someone stops you?” she dared to ask under her breath.

“Then I tell them exactly why I’m here. I need to make someone forget my wandering eyes, and I know they’ll make it happen—for a fee. How much do you want to bet that some of the couples that come in and leave have the whammy put on them on the way out? Probably the dirtbag types. The boss lady seems to like that type.”

“Mm.” The waiting was killing her, especially this inactive sort of waiting. She stared around the dark, lazily lit dining room again, noticing they were the only “normal” looking guests.

And we’re so far from normal...

“I think these are the lifers,” Simeon whispered. “The rest are probably sleeping in or hitting the slots and wax museums and whatnot. Not everyone has a metabolism like you and I.”

“Not everyone is allergic to daylight like us, either.” Emily managed a weak laugh.

“Oh, you go on and sightsee if you want, Em.”

“No. We stick together.” She rubbed her temple suddenly, a sharp twinge from stress, poor sleep, and emotion attacking. “Something else I never had. In sticky situations, my father made it clear that it was every man for himself. Someone in the family has to survive, you know.”

Simeon took her hand. “Well, I feel that way, too—but about you. If things get messy, I want you to—”

“Stop. Don’t tell me to leave. We can find something to do to kill time until the show at two.” She started to shovel food into her mouth, barely chewing.

“You’ll choke before you see the floorshow, Huntress.”

She nodded and slowed.

What did I use to do, waiting for the night, the hunt?

Sit. Stretch. Sleep. Eat the basic nutritional requirements. Whittle stakes. Sharpen knives. Study maps and obituaries, hack police files, check the investments my father and grandfather made.

Such a bland, tense existence. Days so boring and lonely I wanted to die, followed by nights full of fear and fighting as I tried to stay alive. No, not to stay alive. Just to kill them first, so no one else had to die. So that those lucky people who had families, loves, lives wouldn’t have to die.

“You make me mad sometimes.” She put down her fork. “But you make me happy, too. Alive. Happy to be alive.” She put the threads together, and they made a gorgeous little picture in her mind.

The Night Market.

Mr. Minegold’s violin music blending with Sophie’s cello when they played at Pumpkin Fest.

Running in the woods after Simeon.

Walking to him while he held out my favorite coffee.

The people who love me. Who called me a hero.

Do not fucking cry in the middle of this bewitched mythology-gone-wrong-reality-show, Van Helsing.

“Emmy, love—”

“I’ve done more living in half a year than I did for most of my life. I’m happy. You make me feel alive, too. Cliche or not, I don’t care right now.” She snapped a section of the golden, crispy waffle off and stuffed it in her mouth. “Can we order mimosas?”

“Absolutely.”

“To go?”

“Even better.”

They spent the day drinking mimosas spiked with Lethe’s Nectar, resting, watching Groundhog Day, and texting Mr. Minegold short, vague messages, which he replied to in kind.

Minegold: Standing by. Friends working on project continuously. Good results here.

Simeon: Good results here. Hopeful. We move soon. Beef up whatever you can.

Minegold: All the beef. The fairest cuts.

“What does that mean?” Emily looked at him.

“Fairest... Fair folk! The fae. Even the fae are helping. I don’t know how or who, but that’s pretty damn good. Their magic is very different, but it would rival a Titan’s. The fae are descendants of different gods, the Celtic ones, you know. ”

“I didn’t.”

“Hmm. Well. We can play professor and student later if you like.”

“More like study buddies. Come on. Almost two.” Emily drained her water bottle with her extra dose of Lethe’s Nectar.

He sucked the remains of a blood bag (heated in its casing in hot water until it was a lovely ninety-eight degrees) and tossed it back in the cooler. “Check the crystal?” He looked at Seph’s.

Still swirling slowly, dull and unlit.

Mnemosyne’s was bright and pulsing. Simeon stared at it a little longer this time. “Do you think it looks a bit more white than yellow this time? Now that we’re on the third floor as opposed to when we were outside?”

Emily nodded after wrapping her palm around it. “Warmer, too. She’s gotta be upstairs in the penthouse or whatever else is up there.”

“I guess we’ll find out in a little bit. Let’s go do this thing.”

Three gorgeous women were singing something that reminded him of the girl groups of the forties and fifties, their voices blending in an oddly hypnotic way, their long, swaying gowns and flowing veil-like sleeves putting him in a trance as he stared. Emily seemed unphased, eyes hard and sharp. He could see that her hand was clasped on her skirt, which made sense since the little black dress she wore concealed a wide array of slender, deadly weapons strapped to her thigh.

“The loo, darling. Be back in a minute,” he whispered for the benefit of people still settling into their seats at the round tables scattered around the artificially dark room. Simeon walked out as the opening act’s first number ended and the strict woman they’d met last night by the elevator came on in an outfit reminiscent of Joan Rivers. Eighty pounds of sequins and twelve bottles of hair spray, he thought as she began to praise the “Dulcet, hypnotic tones of Circe, Empress of The Lotus Room.”

“I can’t wait to see her again!” a gushing senior in pin curls warbled to him as he passed. “I never miss a show!”

Poor old duck. He looked at her outfit and guessed that she’d been robbed of the better part of her life—but she seemed aware that she’d seen a lot of the shows. “Really?” he whispered, pausing to smile at her with his most charming, boyish smile. “How many have you seen?”

“I’ve been back at least seven times!”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm. Every day this week!”

Simeon nodded, and his smile wavered a little.

Circe stepped on the raised stage in the intimate venue, arms outstretched. Her voice dripped like honey as she stood silhouetted in shadow.

“Forget all your troubles, lover.

Forget every little care.

Don’t worry about anything, sweetheart,

You know I’ll always be there...”

Maybe I’ll just listen for a minute... I can’t even see what she looks like yet. I should at least wait to see what she—

He snapped out of it with a hard twitch. Shit! Nope! That’ll be her trying to fog over your memory and turn you into a permanent guest—and since you’ll never die a natural death, that really would be permanent!

Simeon turned blindly, ran into a wall with a dazed shake of his head, and made straight for the kitchen and utility room. He noticed several porters, busboys, and chefs, all men, all in gray and white uniforms—and all wearing headphones or earpieces.

To block the sound, so they keep cooking the food and remember what the hell they’re doing. No one wants the chef to get halfway through a recipe and then forget what he’s doing!

With his speed, stealth, and the fortuitous earphones, Simeon found himself easily slipping into places unnoticed. The utility closet wasn’t even locked.

The glittering powder went in, sucked away so hard and fast by the large whirring blades of the running fans that he almost lost the bag in the bargain.

The effect was almost instantaneous. Before he’d even returned to the event area, he could hear confused voices in the halls. Elevators were dinging, and doors slammed in the stairwell.

Way to go, Fae team. Must’ve boosted whatever enchantments we have in place, Simeon thought, although he realized he didn't actually know how fast the powder would work.

While the halls around him filled with dazed-looking individuals shuffling for the exit, Simeon spotted the blonde waitress from the other night, just entering the lobby with her Grecian garb over her arm. “Oi! Miss!” he flagged her down, keeping away from the sunlight spilling in the front door.

Instead of answering, she cocked her head and froze in place.

“What’s going on?” she demanded of another waitress who was fleeing the building, sobbing loudly. “Wait, what’s happening?” she cried.

The words were echoing across the room, pouring from everyone’s lips.

“Do you worship the goddess Mnemosyne?” Simeon gambled, pulling the woman to his side, supernatural strength in play to keep her still as she tried to struggle away.

“How do you—”

“Shut up and listen to me, and I’ll let you go, tasty little morsel,” he glared, eyes turning red, fangs sliding down.

The waitress whimpered, her faint squeal smothered by his free hand.

“Where is she?”

“Circe is her vessel! Divine vessel,” she whispered, voice high and terrified.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he demanded, grip tightening on her arm. If Emily saw him like this, would she understand?

Can’t think about that now.

“She can talk to the goddess! She is the timeless one, the keeper of all thoughts. She—”

“The goddess? She ‘talks’ to Circe on the fifth floor? Is that right?”

“How do you... You are one of the demons she warns of! Minions of the Underworld.”

“And you’re about to end up in Tartarus unless you tell me where the secret elevator is and how I can access it to get to the fifth floor,” he warned, licking his fangs.

For a second, she seemed to resist. Simeon lost his patience and took a pinch of powder from the bag and blew it right into her face.

With a cough and sputter, the girl’s face cleared. “What?”

“Elevator. Fifth floor. How?” he growled.

“Keycard. Private elevator.” She fumbled at her waist and drew out a pink and white keycard with the telltale black edge from inside a thin teal wristlet.

“Where?”

“Circe’s dressing room!”

“Where is her dressing room?”

“Who’s?”

“Don’t be cute.” Simeon squeezed the soft column of her throat and winced when she gasped for air. “Where is Circe’s dressing room?”

“Who’s Circe?” she rasped, lines forming between her brows as she looked at him in confusion.

Simeon dropped her, frowning. “Go. Get out of the building, and don’t you dare come back.” He released her, throwing her toward the entrance with more force than he intended.

Bloody marvelous. This worked better than we could have imagined. No one is going to remember anything we need to know!

Hanging back as people beat a path to the exit, Simeon dared to peep inside his pocket and look at Seph’s scrying crystal.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

I hope Em is having better luck.

Emily watched the room empty out from behind a large poster with the week’s attraction schedule. Every guest was fleeing, either because they finally felt the hold of the enchanted building break or because they shared the herd instinct to panic and bolt when the rest did. Some of the staff fled, too, but Circe, a statuesque redhead who had been performing in a haze of artificial green fog while wearing a gauzy white Grecian get-up and gold coils of jewelry up her arms, meandered away. Instead of exiting the room, she walked back through the rear of the stage.

Here we go again. Running toward the danger as everyone else runs away from it.

Crouched low with her stupidly impractical heels in one hand, Emily raced silently against the crowd and up on the stage.

I wish Simeon were with me. He can see in the dark.

And I hope he’s okay. I’m sure he’s okay.

He has to be okay.

Her father was right. Having feelings for someone else distracts you. Makes you weak. Unfocused.

She trailed Circe silently, so she was surprised when the redhead suddenly turned as she reached a door down a narrow hall behind the stage.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Emily hoped the enchantress couldn’t see her clearly in the dark as she turned her face from focused hunter to confused dimwit. “Isn’t this part of the show? They told me I could get your autograph.”

“I...” The struggle between fame and duty was obvious as the woman hesitated. “I... I have a pen in my dressing room.”

“Oh, amazing! Your voice is so beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Let’s see what powers she’s holding onto. She doesn’t seem confused—but if she were really on top of things, wouldn’t she be screaming at her staff to regroup?

Or is Mem controlling her somehow? Does she stay with Mem at all costs?

Emily knew she could be walking into a trap, so she hesitated in the doorway of the dressing room as Circe went inside. She’d expected the room to be small, based on the narrowness of the hallway, but inside, it was easily the size of a large hotel room. There were racks of dresses and a table full of makeup—but there was also an altar with a golden goblet and a veil wrapped around a lyre. At the very back of the room was an old-fashioned elevator, the kind with a grated door like a gold cage.

“Pen... Pen somewhere. Who should I make it out to?” Circe tossed a look over her shoulder.

“Um. Emily. Just Emily. I mean... I’m here with my boyfriend, but after last night, it doesn’t feel like he’s still my boyfriend. He’s been a little too flirty with some of these Vegas showgirls, and last night he... he disappeared for a few hours, and I....” Emily gave a fake sob into her hand.

“Oooh. That happens in this town about as much as you’d think. Is he still here with you?”

“He went to the bathroom right before everyone started leaving. I loved the show, but it was over so quick.”

“Technical difficulties,” Circe said, tension appearing on her perfectly made-up face. “Paper?”

“What paper?” Emily asked, blinking in confusion.

Circe tsked with an impatient eye roll. “Never mind. Would you like me to have a little word with your boyfriend about how he treats you? Sometimes men listen to strangers better than their own lovers, you know.”

“Oh, wow. Would you?”

“I’d love to. I often have private audiences with fans after the show—and my schedule suddenly seems to be cleared. Why don’t you see if you can find him?”

Emily hesitated, turning in a circle in the doorway. If she left Circe, who didn’t seem to be impacted by Lethe’s Dust, the enchantress could get away. On the other hand, if she went out and returned with Simeon, she might take them right upstairs to one of the forbidden areas.

Working alone is easier—sometimes. “But where is he?” she asked in a dazed voice, looking at Circe as she completed her fruitless spin.

“Why don’t you go home and lie down? I’m actually very busy, and if—”

“Emily? Em!”

“Here he is! Honey!” Emily waved her arm and shouted loudly, even though Simeon’s voice was still far away. In seconds, he appeared in the small, dark hallway. “Honey, the show is over, but Circe said we could have a private audience with her.”

“Here? In her dressing room?” Simeon caught up to her and put his arm around her waist.

Circe’s lips twitched. “Oh, this room has terrible acoustics. Let me take you to our private event room on the fifth floor. We call it The Garden.”