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Billy blew smoke from an insubstantial cigarette, making a ring that floated up almost to the ceiling before disappearing. I asked him once why he could smoke ghostly cigarettes but couldn’t drink ghostly booze, which would save me some embarrassing incidents and a lot of his whining. He’d said that whatever was with you, as in touching your body or within a few feet of it, when you died could materialize with you. It was all part of your energy, of course—so Billy was essentially smoking himself—but it was apparently satisfying on some level. Too bad he hadn’t had a whiskey flask tucked away when he took his burlap swimming lesson.
“Why are we talking about this power like it’s a person?” he asked thoughtfully. “You sound like it has a tally sheet and is marking down every favor so it can demand that you pay up one of these days. What if that’s not true? Maybe it’s a force of nature, like gravity. Only instead of keeping everything glued down, it responds to problems with the timeline by sending a repair person to fix it.”
I shook my head. His theory was surprisingly logical, but some part of me knew that whatever I was dealing with was conscious, not a mindless force. It knew I didn’t like being on its repair
crew. It just didn’t care. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, let me make sure I understand this.” Billy dealt out a hand of cards consisting of two black aces, a pair of black eights and the king of spades. It’s called the Dead Man’s Hand in poker because, according to legend, that’s what Wild Bill Hickok was holding when he was shot in the back. Hickok died in 1876, almost two decades after my dealer, but Billy knew his poker lore—and how to be obnoxious with it. “You’re going to refuse to fix the ward even though you’ve got more people after you than I can count and you’re going into Faerie, where trespassers are usually killed on sight? Just so you don’t maybe owe a possibly nonsentient power a favor, which it might not even bother to collect?”
I was too tired to glare at him. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, well, I’m glad you’ve at least thought it out.”
“Why are you nagging me about this?”
“Because, turtledove, in case you’ve forgotten, we made a deal. I’ve kept my end and I expect you to keep yours— which you can’t do if you’re dead. Okay, yeah, you don’t like being bossed around. Who does? But, newsflash, being dead is a lot worse. Have Mac reattach the damn ward. If you don’t need it, great, you don’t owe anybody anything. But if you do, it’ll be there, and when the smoke clears, so will you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said testily, giving up on the idea of getting any sleep with Billy around. “And what if it flares when it isn’t a life-and-death situation? I don’t have control over what the power perceives as a threat. If it’s fueling the ward, it’ll be in charge, and it’s already tried to trick me . . .” I trailed off because Billy hadn’t been there when I’d assaulted Pritkin, and I didn’t want to be teased about it. Luckily, either he didn’t notice or he let it go.
“Okay, you’re taking a risk, wagering a few chips that this thing won’t be able to trick you. But that’s a lot better than gambling your life on not needing the ward and then finding out you were wrong. Take it from someone who knows, Cass—never bet when you can’t afford to lose.”
We were interrupted by Mac returning laden with the four fast-food groups—salt, grease, sugar and caffeine—in the form of fries, burgers and extra large, sweetened coffees. I forced myself to eat, as it was the fastest way to regain some energy, despite feeling queasy. Halfway through the meal I told Mac that I’d decided to have the ward reactivated. Billy gave me a thumbs-up and I grimaced at him. The only thing more annoying than Billy when he’s wrong is Billy when he gets something right. I’d hear about this one for a long time.
When Pritkin returned, I’d just finished dressing after Mac’s adjustment. The ward remained lopsided because fixing aesthetics could wait. Mac said he thought that the power transfer had gone well, but I was skeptical. I couldn’t feel anything—not a single spark or twinge. Of course, I usually didn’t unless there was a threat, but I would have liked some sign that it was back at work. It didn’t look like I was going to get one, though. I guessed I’d have to wait until someone tried to kill me to find out whether Mac was as skilled as he claimed. The way my life was going lately, that shouldn’t be long.
“We need to go,” Pritkin said without preamble. He tossed something over my head and it caught on my ear. I pulled it off and saw that I was holding some kind of charm—actually several charms—on a sturdy red cord. The little cloth pouch contained either verbena or a really ripe gym sock—they smell about the same—but I wasn’t sure about the significance of the others.
“Rowan wood cross,” Billy identified, “set with amber and coral—all three said to ward off Fey attacks. The pentagram is probably iron,” he added, squinting at it despite the fact that that couldn’t possibly help his eyesight. “It looks like he’s serious about this crazy expedition. I’m beginning to think he’s as nuts as you are.”
Pritkin had pulled another, matching necklace out of the bulging pack on his back. It would have made him look like Santa Claus, except that I doubt the jolly old elf ever looked that grim. He threw it to Mac and scowled. “The Circle’s closing in.”
“As expected,” Mac said lightly. He stood and brushed off some crumbs. We’d been talking about wards before Pritkin showed up, mainly because Mac had wanted to distract me from focusing on what he was doing to my star. He grinned at me now and held out his right leg. “Here’s one I didn’t have time to tell you about,” he said, pointing to a small, square patch of empty skin below his knee.
“I don’t get it.”
Mac just grinned bigger and took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He spread it out on the cot and I identified it as a map of Las Vegas and its surroundings. It was old and yellowed, except for patches of bright red inked onto different areas. It reminded me of a subway map, except that, of course, Vegas doesn’t have one.
“There,” Pritkin said, pointing out an area close to MAGIC’s canyon.
Mac nodded. “No worries.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Ever see The Wizard of Oz?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“You might want to hold on to something,” was the only reply I got before what felt like a giant earthquake hit the shop. I clutched the cot, which was bolted down, while Pritkin looped a foot around the table and held on with both hands. Only Mac looked unperturbed, ignoring the spinning, tilting and bucking room to trace a finger along a line on the map from the city to the desert. A few seconds after he finished, the building gave a last thudding shudder and was still. A few pieces of paper wafted down from where they’d been tossed near the ceiling, but otherwise, it was like nothing had ever happened.
“What was that?!”
“See for yourself.” Mac waved a hand at the front of the shop, and after regaining my rubbery legs, I walked into the front room. Instead of the asphalt street and busy hamburger restaurant that had constituted the view out of the front window, there was only a bare expanse of desert, without so much as a cactus to break up the monotony.
“I think she needs a backup,” Mac was saying as he came through the curtain.
“She has those damn knives.”
“They’re unreliable—they came off a dark mage and their loyalty is in question. They serve her now because it suits their purpose, but later?” Mac shook his head. “I don’t like it. Not to mention that we don’t even know if they’ll work there.”
“You reactivated her ward; that should be sufficient,” Pritkin replied, dragging his sack out of the back room and starting to unload it on the counter. “She is more than strong enough already.”
Mac didn’t say anything, but he quietly reached up to his left shoulder and grabbed something that had been concealed by the gently waving leaves. He put a finger to his lips and glanced at Pritkin, who was lining up a collection of weapons on the counter. If he thought we were going to carry all of those, I hoped he’d brought a cart.
