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CHAPTER 1

The Stephanie Hotel reminded me of what the SOS Hotel may have looked like in its heyday—bustling and vibrant. Chandeliers glowed like captured stars, deep-pile carpet squished underfoot, and the magnificent staircase swept upward with dramatic flair. But despite its grand scale, a cozy atmosphere welcomed everyone out of the Minnesota cold.

Zee spotted a highly polished service bell on the front desk and made a beeline across the foyer, sashaying around several groups of chatting people to reach it.

“Should we stop him?” Victor asked, lugging Zee’s bags as well as his own.

Stopping Zee from pressing a shiny button that said ring bell? “That window of opportunity has closed.”

Zee arrived at the desk and with a dramatic hand-flick, smacked the bell with his palm. Ding! It chimed brilliantly. Ding! Ding! Ding!

“Sir, there’s no need to use the bell when I’m right here and at your service,” the concierge said, looking Zee dead in the eyes. He’d been standing across the desk the entire time.

“It says to push bell, imma push bell.” Zee deliberately smacked it again.

Ding!

“Remind me never to gift him a squeaky toy,” Victor remarked under his breath.

The concierge also did not appear impressed by Zee’s enthusiasm. “Indeed,” he said, bushy unibrow burrowing deeper into his forehead.

“Kitten, we gotta get one of these,” Zee said, waving me over. He flattened his hand, about to strike the bell again.

The concierge snatched the bell away and set it down on the opposite end of the big glossy wooden desk. “My name is Larimer, your concierge and manager. How may I assist you this cold evening?”

I dumped my bag at my feet and patted my pockets. “Hi there.” Where was my wallet? “I just . . . uhm . . . Wait, I just need to find . . .”

Larimer, a tall man with a long Roman nose that divided his thin face almost in half, peered down that nose at me, then scanned Zee and Victor. “My apologies, but if you wish to stay, we do not have any vacancies,” he said, through thin, pinched lips.

“Oh.” My shoulders drooped, along with my mood. We’d been on the road for days, and our scruffy, creased clothes said as much, but if I had to spend another bumpy, uncomfortable hour in the van, I might shift just to set it on fire. Even Victor, who normally dressed as fine as one of those perfect mannequins in a menswear store, looked as though he’d spent the night in a dumpster.

Zee spied a little bowl of lollipops, grabbed one, tore off its wrapper, and popped it between his glossy lips. “You sure there’s no room?” he mumbled, fluttering purple eyelashes, then sucking on that lollipop in a way that not so long ago most people would have had to pay to watch.

“Uh, Zee?” This fine hotel did not look like the kind of establishment that welcomed erotic lollipop licking.

Larimer’s big unibrow dug into his forehead above his nose, making a severe V shape.

“Adam, make Zodiac stop,” Victor grumbled, standing back, arms crossed and watching Zee with growing alarm.

“Ah, I see,” Larimer said, his tone still level and direct. “You’re the lust demon, you’re the dull human, and you, sir, must be the exquisite vampire.”

“Uh . . .” Wait. What? “Uhm . . . We are?”

“You’re the third group we’ve had check in today, although your costumes leave a lot to be desired. You should have said you were here for the Lost Ones LARP weekend. All our rooms have been reserved for the event. If you give me your payment card, I will sign you in.”

Victor produced a roll of money and slid it across the desk. “Cash is preferable.”

“Cash? How archaic. Very well.” Larimer squirrelled away the roll of cash somewhere in the desk with a flick of that eyebrow that suggested he’d take his own cut later.

While the concierge turned away to tap on the computer, I glanced at Victor, then Zee, and found Zee’s perfectly arched eyebrow directed at Victor too.

“Where did you get the cash?” I whispered to Victor.

“In the last town we stopped at, I sold a rather expensive watch to a fae trader. Cash often opens doors that digital money does not.”

Zee grinned around his lollipop. “Sly dawg.”

“Names?” the concierge prompted.