That successfully changed the subject, and we chatted on about the usual Sunday topics. We started to wrap up the conversation, which in itself was a drawn-out production. Finally, she said, “I heard about your Las Vegas show. That sounds like a fun time.”
“Yes, it does.” I was wary. Like an animal who sensed a trap but couldn’t tell where it was.
A long silence followed. Then, “You and Ben are going to elope, aren’t you?”
She had to be psychic, it was the only explanation. Or she just knew me really, really well.
I put on a happy voice. “It just sounds like so much fun.” I hoped I was convincing.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know her quite as well as she knew me. There seems to be a little part of our parents that we never understand. It’s like trying to imagine them before the kids, or finding out that they smoked pot in college. It both surprises you and doesn’t. Mom would react one of two ways: she’d either berate me and inflict an epic guilt trip, or she’d somehow turn my plan around and make it her own. Waiting for her answer was like waiting for a lottery drawing: have hope, expect disappointment.
“How about this. . .” she started. A compromise. She’d suggest some small boutique wedding thing, like the daughter of a friend of hers did at Estes Park, which would still be wildly expensive and require planning and be socially acceptable. I waited for the pitch, but I was still going to tell her no.
Then she said, “Why don’t your father and I come along?”
I opened my mouth to argue but made no sound. It was a free country. I couldn’t stop her from going to Las Vegas. And as compromises went, it wasn’t bad. Somehow, though, the idea of eloping in Las Vegas sounded a whole lot less sexy with your mother along for the ride.
“That’s okay, Mom, you really don’t have to—”
“Oh, no, it’ll be fun. And you’re right, one big wedding is probably enough for a family. You should do something different. Why don’t I call Cheryl to see if she wants to come along, and I imagine Mark’s folks would be happy to look after the kids for a few days—”
Well. At least there’d still be a pool and froufrou drinks.
That rule about vampires not being able to enter a place without being invited was true. What the rule didn’t say is that it applied only to private residences. Public places, like office buildings, for example, were free and clear. An hour or so after dark—enough time to wake up, dress, maybe grab a bite, literally, from one of his willing donors, and drive over here—Rick appeared in the doorway of my office without any fanfare.
“Hello,” he said, and I jumped, because I hadn’t heard him coming. It was like he appeared out of thin air, and at the same time seeming like he’d been standing there for hours. Hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, he leaned against the doorjamb and quirked a smile. He had dark hair and fine features, and he dressed well and looked great, like an upper-class scion comfortable with wealth and attention. He also smelled cold. Like a well-preserved corpse, which he was.
“I hate when you do that,” I said.
“I know. Sorry,” he said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t, really. “How are you doing? The pack coming together all right?”
Taking over the pack had been weird. I’d vanished into exile, then a year later came blazing back onto the scene like the Lone Ranger to run the bad guys out of town. Some of the other, stronger wolves in the pack might have taken the opportunity to challenge me, to question my authority by starting fights. So far, I’d managed to talk everyone out of it. Rick didn’t need to know all those details.
“Great. We’re doing just fine. I think everyone’s so happy to have new management, they don’t even care who the management is.”
“Ah, the honeymoon phase. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile. “And how are the vampires doing with their new management?”
“I’m enjoying the honeymoon phase while it lasts.”
“I’ll bet you are. Now tell me about this favor.”
The longer Rick put off telling me what the favor was, the more likely it was something I wouldn’t like. During the whole of that day, I kept building it up in my mind. I marshaled my arguments. I wouldn’t get into any fights for him. It would just be me and Ben in Vegas, without the pack, and I wasn’t going to risk my mate’s safety for some petty vampire politics. If he asked for something along those lines, I was all ready to have at him.
Stepping to my desk, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “I’d like you to deliver a message to the Master of Las Vegas.”
Most major cities had a head vampire, someone who kept the local supernatural underworld in line. Why should Las Vegas be any different? But it occurred to me to wonder what kind of supernatural underworld a city like Vegas had. I shuddered to think. I suddenly wondered if I was ready to face it. Sometimes, I still felt like a pup.
“And who is the Master vampire of Las Vegas?”
“That would be Dom, owner of the Napoli Hotel and Casino. He won’t be hard to find.”
I’d heard of the place. It was one of the older hotels, not built on the current model of super-ostentatious spectacle theme hotels, but it had managed to reinvent itself and stay current enough to still be popular. It had a reputation for Old World opulence. Now that I knew it was run by a vampire, that made sense.