“That was clever,” I pointed out. “And what was it? Strong, statesmanlike . . .”
“And astute. And no, it wasn’t. It was desperation, but it worked. And when desperate gambles work, they call them brilliance. Do it enough, and people start believing that you always can, that you always will. They follow people like that. They write legends about people like that.”
“But . . . you still know the truth. You know you’re faking it.”
“Yes, but eventually you realize something: the other side is, too. At least as often as not. Learn what you can; do what you can; get others to do for you what you can’t. And fake it for all you’re worth in the meantime.” He shot me a look. “In other words, exactly what you’ve been doing.”
I blinked at that. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it was close. Somebody was basically telling me that I wasn’t screwing things up as badly as I might be.
Hell, I’d take it.
Rosier just shook his head again. “Are you finished with that terrible thing?” he demanded, looking in distaste at the now stripped foot.
“You don’t know what you missed,” I told him, flashing a greasy smile.
“Come on,” he said, extending a ghostly hand. “Let’s go fake it some more.”
Chapter Four
Half an hour later, Rosier was back in hell, doing whatever he did to recover from these things, and I was back in the casino I call home, trying to follow his advice. Namely, to get some advice, and from someone who might know what she was talking about. Assuming I could get her attention, that is. But she was behind a cash register, halfway across a shop in the casino’s main drag, and I . . . w
as not.
And I wasn’t about to get any closer.
“Mommy, Mommy, look! It’s the corpse bride!”
I looked down to find a munchkin in a tutu tugging at my skirts. My singed, dirty, old-fashioned skirts, which were complementing my ash-covered body. And face. And hair. A quick glance in the shopwindow in front of me showed that they did, in fact, make me look kind of corpse bridey.
I sighed.
“I’m not, actually,” I told the kid, still concentrating on the dark-haired beauty behind the counter.
Her name was Françoise, and normally, I’d have just walked in and said hi. We’d been friends for a while, even before she got her current job, prettying up the salon of the magical world’s most famous fashion designer (according to him, anyway). But right now wasn’t a good time to interrupt. Right now would be a good time to get lost, only time wasn’t something I had a lot of. So I was skulking, trying to catch her eye through the hanging floral strands serving as a backdrop for a bunch of frolicking goddesses.
A bunch of curly-haired blond goddesses, I noticed, frowning.
And then frowned some more when I was tugged on again. “I want a picture! I want a picture!” the pixie demanded while trying to manhandle me into an appropriate pose, whatever that would be for a corpse.
I would have manhandled her back, but my hands were full. And Françoise took that moment to notice me. And to open her dark eyes wide and to shake her head, pointing at the disturbance I’d already seen, because how could you not?
I know, I mouthed. But I need to talk to you.
More headshaking, along with an attempt to mouth something back, only I couldn’t tell what because the hand in my skirts had just become a fist, and I was being forcibly dragged away from the window.
“Darling, I think she’s on her lunch break,” a woman said, running up.
She looked a little odd, like maybe the airlines had lost her luggage and she’d had to cobble together an outfit from whatever she’d had in her carry-on. It had led to a mishmash of chic and street person: frizzy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in a while, but which complemented sharp brown eyes behind expensive glasses. She had on a blue business suit that had cost money, but which was sadly rumpled. And which was being worn with a T-shirt instead of a blouse, one that proclaimed: “Once upon a time, I was sweet and innocent, then shit happened.”
I need to get one of those, I thought enviously.
“I’m not on a break,” I told her, which drew a skeptical look, probably because of the ICEE and the two food bags I was juggling. “I mean, I don’t work here,” I clarified—not at all, apparently.
Maybe because the ICEE was blue, and had stained my lips a deathly hue. And was in a coffin-shaped glass that was free with purchase because it cost all of ten cents when bought in bulk from across the border. But the kicker was where we were.
Dante’s hotel and casino was a relic from the days when theme was big on the Vegas Strip. That was after the mob era, but before the short-lived family-friendly experiment, and definitely before the city’s latest incarnation as a sleek adult playground for the well-heeled. Theme was out now, unless the theme was money, which was never out in Vegas, but Dante’s didn’t care because its theme served a purpose. Like, for example, hiding a bunch of real supernatural beings in plain sight, by advertising costumed actors prowling around the drag.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said firmly, shoving a mass of fuzz out of her face. “But you’re her favorite character. One picture . . .”