Tristan nodded and struggled to get off the couch. She seemed frailer than ever as she motioned toward the guards. “If you intend on manipulating the Torva’ox as well as tracking down a Mist Born, then I don’t doubt your intentions are still good.”
“About what happened to you,” Cole said, “all I can say is, I’m sorry. That seems so useless, but it’s all I’ve got.”
The Dryad touched his cheek and smiled. “It’s more than enough. I just needed to make sure you mean to take aggressive action to put an end to this madness instead of doing anything that might contribute to it.”
Paige smirked and helped the Dryad to her feet. “Aggressive action is what we’re all about. Any chance we can get something to eat before we leave?”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Tristan said. “It may take some time to make contact with the other temple, so why don’t you all get some sleep in one of our executive suites?” She whispered a few short sentences to the guard. By the time she was through, the big, armed man looked more like a guide and less like an executioner. “You can walk through there to an elevator that will take you to the next floor.”
“Next floor?” Cole marveled. “Just how tall is this purple A-frame anyway?”
“You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Tristan said in a voice that sounded every bit as tired as she looked, “there are many preparations to make.” The Dryad walked back to the door that opened into the main room. Along the way, she straightened up and pulled her shoulders back to give her more of a regal posture. That simple transition made her look like a goddess. The gray pallor was still in her skin, and there was a definite lack of energy in her stride, but it didn’t take away from the reaction she got when reintroducing herself to the room full of overeager mortals waving money at the rest of the nymphs.
“She’s still got it,” Cole said as he moved close to the door that was held open, so he could watch Tristan’s exit. Then, when Waggoner was escorted to the same spot, the trio of Skinners entered a room that was a smaller version of the VIP lounge, complete with a small wet bar in one corner, a pair of love seats upholstered in luxurious velvet, and a single pole extending from the ceiling like a perfectly symmetrical stalactite.
“What’s the plan?” Waggoner asked.
“She’s gonna help us,” Paige replied, “but it’s going to take some time to arrange for transport.”
“All the way to Hungary?”
“Yep.”
A soft
One of the guards had already reached inside to push a button that was camouflaged by the swirling designs on the elevator walls. The glyphs were everywhere. Cole saw symbols flashing with subdued light that could easily be mistaken as a reflection off shiny paint, but he knew better. Every temple was made to harness and focus the energies drawn from human emotion, and the glyphs were the arteries that carried the flow to wherever it needed to go. He could feel the power thrumming beneath his feet and pressing against him like a ghostly dancer grinding against his body.
Waggoner and Paige were closest, so they were the first to pile in. Almost immediately they stopped, their backs blocking the door. Paige was a few steps ahead of him, but Cole was already close enough to see the cool glow coming from the interior of the elevator. Lights flashed and some blinked in quick succession as if to mesmerize the passengers within the elevator.
“Move it,” Cole grunted. “I’m hungry.”
The instant he stepped inside the elevator, his breath was dragged from his lungs.
The car was made of thick glass, inlaid with Dryad markings trapped between transparent layers like ripples frozen into ice. Beyond the glass, a magnificently discombobulated city lay sprawled beneath and around them. The Statue of Liberty and Eiffel Tower lay nestled between massive glittering buildings, mammoth fountains, and spotlights that exploded from a street bustling with cars and people. When Cole looked down, he saw the side of the building to which the elevator was attached. It was shimmering purple Plexiglas that sloped to a pinnacle several stories over his head.
“Been a while since I been to Vegas,” Waggoner said. “Never fails to impress.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Paige told him. “We won’t be staying long.”
“Aw come on,” Cole gasped. “This looks like the closest thing to business as usual that we’ve seen in months. There’s actually more than three people on that street!”
Waggoner laughed and shifted his weight. “It’d take a lot more than the werewolf apocalypse to shut Vegas down. Gotta love it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rush Street used to be the place for discerning customers to go for their more exotic thrills. There were other Blood Parlors in the city, but the place Steph ran atop a standard sports bar was at the center of them all. At least, it had been before getting torched by the Skinners on their way out of town. As a way to show that nothing as simple as a fire could put her out of business, Steph not only reopened her Blood Parlor in the same location but spent a small fortune in repairs to make sure it looked exactly as it had before Cole, Paige, and Rico got their hands on it.
After a push to squeeze everyone on her regular client list for funds using everything from promises for freebies from her best girls to threatening rich men’s families, Steph had opened her Parlor and remodeled the bar beneath it. Instead of catering to the few Cubs and Bears fans who’d decided to buy their beer at a place situated beneath a gothic second floor bristling with candles and statuary, she reinforced every wall and door, packing the bar with employees armed with large caliber pistols and shotguns who were posted at the entrances. Anyone else seen sitting at the bar or around any of the tables were waiting for their turn to go upstairs and be fed upon by scantily clad parasites with smooth skin, overly friendly smiles, and unending appetites. Fortunately for anyone involved in the Nymar skin trade, nobody thought twice anymore when someone left their home and didn’t return.
It wasn’t much past ten o’clock, but the sky had the thick, inky texture of the witching hour. A sleek two-door Mazda pulled to a stop at the curb on Superior Street and let two passengers out to make the short walk to the parlor’s front door. Steph watched their progress on monitors that received a constant live stream from cameras set in windows of every adjacent building. As she marched toward the parlor, Tara looked as if she not only knew she was being watched but that she knew who was watching.
“Shit,” Steph grunted as she stood up and grabbed a short coat that looked as if it had been made from a mix of wool and puppet skin. “What the hell does she want?”
“What does who want?”
The question had been asked in a cultured English accent by a tall Nymar with smooth dark skin and black hair pulled back into a short tail. Astin had begun his service as a bouncer for the Blood Parlor, worked his way up to own the bar beneath the vampire brothel and now filled the space vacated by the Nymar who’d formerly run Chicago at Steph’s side. Astin might have had a refined wardrobe and spoke as if he’d gotten his bouncer credentials at Oxford, but he had a long way to go before gaining the respect Steph had occasionally given her late partner, Ace.
“Shut up and clear out the bar,” she snapped.
As reflected by the unwavering expression on Astin’s face, he was used to being treated that way by her. “Even the customers?”
“Are they regulars?”
“Yes.”
“High end?”
After a moment’s contemplation, he replied, “Not really.”
A buzzer sounded through a recessed speaker in the security room, forcing Steph to pick and tug her dark purple hair as if she couldn’t decide between arranging it or ripping it out. “Tara’s here. Last time I checked, she
