“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 ding drifted through the room, and part of a glyph-encrusted wall slid aside to reveal what looked to be a dimly illuminated space just a bit smaller than a car used to carry freight to the upper floors of a warehouse. “Step into the elevator,” one of the guards said. “It’ll take you to a private suite.”
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
Chicago, Illinois
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 was supposed to be in Baltimore.”
“Maybe she’s bringing more Shadow Spore?”
“We’ve already gotten our share. Chicago’s supposed to be under my jurisdiction only, so she’d better not have any bright ideas.” When the buzzer went off again, it sounded as angry as an electronic burst of noise possibly could. Steph looked up at the speaker as if she expected to find a living thing screaming down at her. “Get two of the others. New guys. Nobody she could have seen the last time she was here. Give them shotguns, put them in the back room downstairs and tell them to come out shooting if I give the signal.”
“Why would you want to shoot Tara?”
Steph wheeled around on the balls of feet, wrapped in thick wool socks that looked like they’d been pulled off the Wicked Witch of the East after Dorothy’s house fell on her. The top two sets of fangs emerged from beneath her gums as nearly every muscle in her body tensed. “I built up these Blood Parlors real good since we ran the Skinners out of town, and I won’t hand them over to some bitch just because she was Hope’s lackey during the uprising. We’re already kicking back a percentage to the cause, and if she thinks she’s getting more . . .” The buzzer sounded again, this time causing Steph’s eyes to pinch shut, and she spoke in a hissing snarl. “If she thinks any of that is gonna happen, then she’s in for a surprise.”
Astin gave her a crisp nod. “And I know exactly what surprise you have in mind.”
“You think?”
The moment Astin stepped back into the hall, all he needed to do was point at a few of the Nymar looking to see what was going to be done about the visitors waiting to be let inside. A few clean-shaven faces bearing the subtle hint of tendrils beneath the surface fell into step behind Astin and followed him down a set of narrow stairs at the back of the hall. By the time they’d descended to the first floor, Steph emerged from the security room and plastered a wide, garishly painted smile onto her face. The other doors along that hallway opened into rooms used by customers who paid for the experience of being fed upon by whatever Nymar vixen or pretty boy they’d pointed to in the catalog in the lobby.