Thief Of Souls

ball go, it orbited four times, and dropped.

Number three.

The exclamations of surprise exploded from the on­lookers. In less than five minutes, this boy had raised his pot from five, to five thousand dollars. The pit boss had taken notice, and the hidden camera above their heads had taken notice as well, for security was zeroing in on the table from across the casino floor.

“Let it ride on number four,” the boy said. Five of the other gamblers around the table moved their chips over next to his. The croupier was sweating now, breathing quickly, accepting the rhythm of the pulsat­ing beat. His own excitement was souring, because he knew he wasn’t just witnessing this, whatever it was, he was a part of it. Before security could arrive, he spun the ball and the wheel. Watching intently until it fell . . .

. . . into pocket number four.

A cheer erupted around the table. The black kid turned to the redheaded boy and said, “Very good, Dil­lon. You could buy a house with that.” And the crou­pier laughed, because it felt so good to know his name. Dillon. Security guards pushed their way through the throng, getting between Dillon and the table.

“Sir,” said one of the four guards, “may we see some identification for you and your friends?”

“We don’t have any,” said the blonde girl.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

At that, their smiles only grew wider. Dillon looked the man over from head to toe. He sniffed the air around the man as if smelling his cologne, and then he reached up to an old scar that cut diagonally across the guard’s forehead. As soon as Dillon touched the scar, it began to bubble and fold, until it was gone.

“What the . . . ?” But before the guard could say any­thing further, Dillon caught him in his gaze.

“Vietnam?” asked Dillon.

The man nodded dumbly.

“Helicopter or plane?” asked Dillon.

“Helicopter.”

“I can hear the weight of their deaths in your voice,” Dillon said. And then he whispered, “But there was nothing you could do. From now on, you’ll stop blam­ing yourself.”

Then the man—who was the toughest guard in the hotel—released his breath with a gust, almost as strong as the swirling cigarette smoke, as if the world had gone from night to day. Then he smiled like a baby. Neither he nor the other guards made a move to eject Dillon and his friends. Instead, they joined the specta­tors.

“Tory,” Dillon said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “this place reeks of cigarette smoke. Could you clean it up?”

“My pleasure.” She raised her hand in an overtly dramatic gesture toward the swirling wind that now spun with cocktail napkins and cigarette butts, and in an instant the thick, smoky air was crystal-clear. Dillon turned back to the table, and when the croupier looked down, almost everyone had already placed their bets on number five. Dillon looked at his own immense pile of chips.

“Let it ride on five,” he said simply.

“But . . . there’s a five-thousand limit to this table,” said the croupier, apologizing as best he could.

“That’s all right,” said Dillon. “Five thousand on five, then.” He spun the wheel and let the ball go. When the ball went down, he paid Dillon and everyone else their winnings, without even looking to see where the ball had landed.

***

The table was shut down less than five minutes later, and so Dillon and his four friends left, the swirling wind, suddenly blowing straight through the doors at the end of the casino, like a carpet of wind to carry them out. They marched out of the hotel with dozens of people following them diagonally across the street, toward the green towers of the MGM Grand, and straight for the blackjack tables.

***

Four hours later, with a parade of two hundred peo­ple behind them, they marched into the lobby of the Mirage. They had made their way down the strip, having broken the bank in half a dozen hotels. They had taken everything from the Bellagio’s craps tables. They had tapped out the slots at Bally’s. They had emp­tied the vaults of Caesar’s Palace, by way of baccarat.

And finally they pirated Treasure Island in a game called pai-gau, which none of them had ever heard of before.

Now, Dillon and his coconspirators stood in the ho­tel’s lobby, where a giant tank filled with sharks and Caribbean exotics graced the reception area.

Dillon tapped the glass of the giant shark tank three times with a gambling chip.

A few minutes later, as a strange vibration built in the walls around them, they met a representative of the March of Dimes. With the cameras of three local news stations in his face, Dillon held out an extremely heavy sack to the woman’s shaky hands.

“I would like to present the March of Dimes with a three-million-dollar donation, as a personal gift.”

“Who shall I say it’s from?” the woman asked tim­idly.

“You can say it’s from Dillon Cole,” he instructed. “Dillon Cole, and the surviving Shards of the Scorpion Star.”

And then he turned to the cameras. “Tomorrow,” he said, “there’s going to be a disaster. But don’t worry.” And he smiled. “I’ve got everything under control.”

The vibration in the walls then became a high- pitched whine that ended with the crash of glass as the shark tank shattered. Hotel staff dove over the reception desk to escape the falling glass, and when they looked again, the shark tank seemed entirely unharmed. Except for the fact that its glass face was lying in ruins on the floor.

All eyes turned to Dillon for an explanation for this marvel, but he and his friends had disappeared in the confusion.

In a hotel where white tigers disappeared daily on­stage, smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand were nothing new. The manager was ready to laugh at this interesting trick . . . until a small nurse shark poked its nose out of the water-wall, tore the pen from his breast pocket, then swam off with it to the back of the tank.

18. Roll Up For The Mystery Tour

“If the idea was to draw attention to ourselves,” said Lourdes, pleased with the outcome of the day, “I think we did a good job.”

They were twenty miles out of Las Vegas; eleven buses with no posted destination driving southeast on Boulder Highway. The lead bus was a well-appointed coach—a traveling hotel suite, really, done up in oak and leather and filled with all the creature comforts that one could cram into a bus. It was reserved for the five shards.

“Shouldn’t we each have our own buses?” said Tory. “After all this is Las Vegas—it’s not like less is more.”

“If we could arrange for buses, why not planes?” suggested Michael. “Really jazz up the show!”

“When we need planes, we’ll get planes,” said Dil­lon. “Right now buses are more than enough.”

Tory swiveled in her leather chair. “Cleopatra did not ride around in a bus.”

“Oh,” said Winston with a smirk, “is that who you are now?”

“Don’t get snotty—I was only using her for com­parison.”

“And besides, if anyone’s Cleopatra, it’s me,” said Lourdes.

“History says she was as ugly as sin,” said Winston. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Drop dead.”

Just past Boulder City, Dillon instructed the driver to pull off the road, into the desert. There the eleven buses formed a circle, like an old-fashioned wagon train, around a campsite that Okoya, who had gone on ahead, was already in the process of setting up. Dillon was the only Shard who felt the need to go out there. Truth was, the others were famished from their day at the casinos. More than famished—they felt vacant. It was a feeling that gave Tory the urge to rub her arms compulsively, as if trying to shed some invisible layer of grime. The hunger