Virtual Virgin

card from you, admit it. You should also admit that protecting Ricardo Montoya comes second to safeguarding your ego. I can offer him so much more security than you can.”

“Speaking of seconds, don’t you have another show to do?”

He refilled his own glass and faced off against me. “You know I have a CinSim substitute available to play me onstage. I can stay here and argue with you all night if you want. And enjoy it. As you will.”

I eyed his obvious, post-Elvis getup. “No wonder a CinSim can step in for you any time. Your act is a flashy, cheap, neo-Strip cliché, and so are you. Ric is not an attraction to be bought away from a competitor.”

“And you’ve always been my competitor.”

“Hardly. You’re a leech. I created two cocktails on your premises and you copped them for the profits.”

“The Albino Vampire cocktail was your admittedly inspired way of flashing me the bird of paradise,” he said. “The Brimstone Kiss was an accidental tribute . . . to me and my stage show, used to . . . seduce . . . a hard-boiled CinSim at my Inferno bar into giving up some information that would save your sacred Ric. Who is used and who using? Are you so pure, Delilah, and I so damned?”

He went to a white Louie XVI desk I’d never noticed on the fringe of his main room, ripped something off a horizontal notebook, and returned to flourish it in front of my nose.

“That gown you’re wearing is seriously schizophrenic, by the way, as modest as a red lamé bikini on a nun. I like it way too much for anyone’s sanity.”

The check drowned out all commentary. Forty thousand dollars. My ears buzzed.

“Your royalties so far on the Inferno house cocktails,” Snow said. “More will ensue. I pay my debts.”

“I don’t want your money,” I said automatically.

“Better to take that than what you really want of me.”

“This is not about any of us or what we want. It’s all about Ric.”

Those words came from the most fearful voice of my heart crying out, much as I hated to parade that raw fear in front of Snow.

“Ric can’t be killed,” I said. “I’ve seen it twice in a few days. The first time was the Murderers Level Seven in your ersatz Hell. A poisoned centaur arrow couldn’t down him. I wanted to believe it was a surface scratch, but I later saw there was no mark at all from a wound meant to torment even dead men and that would be devastating to mortals.

“I saw it again against El Demonio. Ric cannot be killed. El Demonio is dead, maybe, but . . . El Finado isn’t.”

“El Finado?”

“At first I thought the phrase referred to a defeated Torbellino. Finished. But no, it means ‘corpse.’ It’s what the cartel scum called Ric in Juarez when he took El Demonio Torbellino down . . . just two nights ago. ‘The dead body. Corpse.’”

I froze like the Silver Zombie at attention, feeling the enormity of my fear and the suspicion I’d repressed so fiercely and at my idiocy in downloading it here and now.

I let Snow lead me like a lamb to the bar and refill my champagne flute even though my head was reeling almost more than my emotions. I drank and started to feel my fingertips and toes again, but my heart remained ice cold.

“Ric doesn’t need me, or you,” I told him. “Or your Metropolis Tower, or the bloody Silver Zombie. He cannot be killed. He’s a vampire. I made him one by bringing him back from the dead. I can’t allow myself to be . . . fed upon. I just can’t.”

I stood panting, emptied, exhausted by the truth I’d fought to keep from touching me.

Snow edged away, then circled my tensed and furious form.

“You won back Ric’s life . . . forever. That should make you very happy,” he said. Carefully. “It’s everything you fought for with every fiber of your being, with every beat of your human heart, everything that you believe in.”

I took a deep breath, but it shook, and shook me. “You’ve always known what he had to become to stay alive, Snow. I hate you for knowing that and letting me dream on, but that changes nothing. What matters is that Ric’s not . . . normal anymore.”

“And you are?”

“I never was, was I? But Ric had . . . overcome all that. He’d sailed through the Millennium Revelation. Turned tragedy into triumph. Predestination into freedom. An ancient folk ability into a modern phenomenon. He’s taken on the supernatural drug lords and human traffickers and won. Yet now he’s not mortal! They won. He’s no longer human.”

“And you are?’

“I don’t know. I do know I can’t be . . . drained, for love or money. I am more than my blood, or my bloodline. Sansouci claimed you needed me. You, who need nothing. You with your Hell below and your Metropolis above. Tell me what you need me to do, Angel of Death, to make Ric mortal again.”

“Can’t be done, Delilah. That was over under the Karnak Hotel even as you transferred my Brimstone Kiss to his lips. Impossible desire can’t reverse anything.”

“I kissed him alive. What can I do now to kiss him undead?”

“Even true love is sometimes lust, Delilah. The Seven Deadly Sins must always have their tribute. Fortunately, you have tendencies despite yourself.”

“Tendencies?”

“You’re far from perfect, and that’s perfectly human.”

Why did he have to rub in that I wasn’t a supernatural, like him and Sansouci and everybody I knew, including . . . Ric now.

“And you don’t really hate me.” Snow moved toward me. “Hate is inspired by something you see of yourself in someone else that you’re not ready to admit.”

If it wasn’t Snow I hated, it was the damn calculated stagy sexiness of a breed I despised, a woman-using rock star who actually had the charisma and—could it be?—the soul to seduce the upright, maybe uptight, liberated woman I liked to think was me.

Oh . . . not God.

Champagne is a fast drunk. And anger is an aphrodisiac.

I learned that lesson for once and all when I stood hypnotized, watching Snow’s white snakeskin boot-toes slide across the plush carpet. I couldn’t read his intentions . . . hostile or worse, personal.

I wanted to face off Snow, to lift my eyes to his cheatin’ heart and sunglasses, but they insisted on keeping a groupie’s mosh-pit-eye view and moved from those boots up to his white-leather-clasped thighs and . . . tight- stretched leather-swathed pelvis and . . . torso bared from the hip-slung belt above the jeweled fly to sculpted chest muscles endorsed by Jack Frost with jagged edges of scar tissue and . . . to a corded neck branded with the cheesy purple passion emblem of my most inflamed soul kiss at the hollow of his throat . . . to his pale white lips . . . that a woman might want to kiss until they reddened . . . or to bite until they bled.

The Snow groupies online had called him Ice Prick. I liked the sound of that, ice meeting fire, ice melting into me. They’d tossed around imagined dimensions, as if for rainfall. Didn’t matter, just the sky raining down moisture, just the earth giving ground.

I could see why the groupies found him totally tasty. I’d already dipped an ‘impudent toe’ into that pool of sexy whitewater and found it unforgettable. I’d seen how my mouth and lips could blaze a hot, warming trail over his albino skin, his scars, his Sanscouci tits, over the entire bleached, muscled, beloved Carrara marble of Michelangelo’s David come to life.

Did I want him groveling at my feet—toes would do—or conquering me utterly?

I was your typical conflicted modern woman. And he knew it.

His hand cupped the back of my skull, brought my lips to the hollow of his throat. “Yes, I know.”

I told you he was obvious.

I tried and failed to shake off his erotic spell. My lips met the familiar cool skin—once surprising myself at the Emerald City, now surprising no one here, neither of us—and fastened hard with intent to suck another soul-shaking orgasm out of him. Just to prove . . . I didn’t know what, that I could be a vampire too? That I might as well be one now?

At this moment I believed he’d let me chain him between two pillars, his dark-glasses-shielded eyes blinded