“You’d be surprised what these can do in an opium bed.”

“No, I wouldn’t be. Delilah would know who you’re playing—”

“I am not ‘playing’ you. I deliver.”

“Isn’t there something inside you that longs for a . . . kinder, gentler life than ‘entertaining’ any man who happens along?”

The black lipsticked CinSim lips paused, then pursed. “Fu Manchu is something of a bore.”

“He is . . . ?”

“My . . . enforcer, I suppose you’d say. I have been schooled in current expressions.”

“That’s ugly to hear. Do you have any choice about what you do here?”

“Of course not. It’s a role.”

“Don’t you long for a different one?”

She considered. “I do it very well. It doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. I don’t often get customers who ask questions, as you do.”

“Wouldn’t you give anything to escape this artificial atmosphere? To be a witty and devoted wife, for example?”

“I am Fa Lo See, I take much personal . . . satisfaction in tormenting the helpless white man.”

“I’m Latino.”

She shrugged. “I do not care what language you scream in.” Her long metal nails extended toward his chest.

Ric caught her wrists in an imprisoning grip. Delilah would know what breed of movie villainess this was, Myrna Loy underneath it or not.

“Is this an S&M level? Why on earth would I end up here?” He looked around, encountering the same vague fog that had greeted him outside the elevator. “Why am I here?”

“Perhaps merely because I require . . . customers.”

Her exotic features had turned satanic. Did customers get what they wanted, or did they “serve” the CinSim characters? That was not what he’d come here to find out.

One thing he’d learned: There was no Myrna/Nora here to save. Only his own skin.

If he’d stuck with the other women’s images, he’d have been channeled into an island-girl or city-sophisticate setting. Recognizing and “picking” the Loy CinSim from a cheesy racist bent–sex film manifestation was going to get him pulp-fiction treatment. He knew what he should do, where he should be next.

Outta here.

Nick Charles wouldn’t put up with playing pin cushion for a sexual sadist, even if she was enacted by the same actress who was his smart and sexy wife. Celebrity CinSims were a more morally confusing construction than he’d ever guessed.

Chapter Nine

A DRY MIST curled up from my body, like steam rising. Breath came back with a cough. I scrambled upright, my barefoot soles burning. Support. I needed something to grab onto. My searching hands found slick cool walls circling me along with a multitude of my reflections.

I turned in a slow circle. My image turned with me, not Lilith this time, but distorted Easter Island heads of myself, familiar but . . . different.

This glassy cool chamber felt like the inside of a bullet. Recognition made me forget my burning feet and freezing fingertips. Was this was some . . . upright cryogenic preservation chamber?

No seam in the surface betrayed a door. I hadn’t “gone” anywhere. I was trapped in the slick steel heart of the mirror-world diamond pendant. And, for sure, I hadn’t reached my heart’s desire and wherever Ric was a target for the wrath of whatever Loretta Cicereau had become.

I was more of a prisoner than ever.

At first I just threw myself against every curved slick reflective surface.

Reflective surfaces had been my friend since I’d come to Las Vegas in search of my roots. If it shone, glittered, and reflected, I’d always been able to pass through, even if I’d reach the other side bleary and confused. And Vegas had been built on shine, glitter, and glitz.

I’d grabbed my new talent and run with it, expecting it always to be there, like my shadow.

Not now.

Now my efforts to escape stainless-steel custody were just bruising my pale skin until my blurred reflection looked like King Kong had impressed his fingerprints all over me. I wasn’t used to being simply human. I thought of Loretta Cicereau first sensing the fey twins’ webs all over her ghostly image.

Someone . . . something . . . had made Loretta take physical form again.

Someone . . . something . . . had wanted to undo my clever method to freeze a girl gone wild. That same force was bottling me on the inside of a giant . . . bullet.

I would not go gently into that shining metal night, like Metropolis’s human heroine Maria went from lying comatose in a glass coffin in a mad scientist’s laboratory into the instant mummy case of a robot suit, no matter how glamorous. I pounded my fists against their distorted fuzzy reflections.

I stopped, feeling like Superman confronting Kryptonite for the first time.

Stainless steel was somewhat reflective and had a reflective chrome component, but contained not a bit of sterling silver or silver nitrate. It was not a friend of mine, and it had been chosen to entomb me, to torture me with what might be happening to Ric beyond my power to prevent it.

Panting, I pushed my face and body tight against the curved side of my personal mummy case. I’d have to rely on Ric to save himself, and maybe me.

Oops. I was kissing myself. I was so close to my blurry reflection that I couldn’t focus. My palms felt the metal warming against my touch. Was I sensing just a reflection, or was I contacting Lilith?

Whatever I saw was just my height, and just my coloring, a pale face with a halo of cloudy dark hair.

I brought the spread fingers of both hands up to my face, trying to push the image away. The silver familiar streaked across my shoulders and down my arms to my wrists, like a mitten string inside your heavy coat. Only kids who’d grown up in a climate with cold winters, as I had in Kansas, knew that feeling. Instead of mittens, though, the familiar encased my wrists and first knuckles in chain-mail workout gloves. Cool but . . . impractical.

I spread my hands apart to study the effect, and the stainless steel wall in front of me split. The two halves of my reflection slid to the edges of my vision, and a 3-D version in living black-and-white, a knockout brunet Cinema Simulacrum, stood barring my way out.

I was eager enough to escape to push right into her, which might feel bizarre. Humans up top avoided contact with the CinSims, very aware of the zombie body in possibly questionable condition beneath the attractive monotone surface.

Dreading first contact was not necessary. Two hands in glorious living color grasped her off-white upper arms and shuffled her aside.

“Get lost, chica de cine,” someone said.

Chapter Ten

THE MAN WHO stepped from behind the clawing glamour-puss looked confused, but unruffled as any man could who’d just fought off a sexy CinSim.

“Ric! Thank God. Somehow the familiar cracked the lid on my steel coffin.”

“Delilah? How’d you get here? What do you mean . . . coffin? I just pushed the elevator Up button and . . . here you are waiting to pop out of the car like a jack-in-the-box.”

“More like a Jill, I hope.” I frowned at the femme fatale still trying to glue herself to his side. Was that . . . it couldn’t be! Screen vamp Maria Montez.

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