The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(24)
I toweled off but didn’t get dressed yet. Instead I went to my closet and pulled out a couple of dog-eared books, flopping down on the bedspread to page through them. I needed an edge for tonight, a card up my sleeve in case things went sideways.
“The Harlot’s Curtains,” I read aloud, my finger sliding across the page. “Oh, Aleister, your magic was dodgy, but you sure knew how to sell it.”
The enchantment called for a lodestone, some powdered amethyst, and a dram of pigeon blood, among other ingredients. While it’s true that you can get anything you want in Las Vegas, that’s a privilege generally reserved for high rollers. The rest of us have to improvise.
Once you know how magic works, once you’ve tasted its waters, you realize how few concrete rules there are. Most sorcerers come up with a deeply personal catalog of symbols and patterns expressing their unique approach to the art. I knew a guy who collected those advertisements for escorts you find scattered all over the sidewalk on the Strip. He read them like tarot cards.
If you can figure out another magician’s mindset, you can take their spells and translate them into your own metaphor. Half an hour of legwork gave me a list of equivalent ingredients, my own version of the Harlot’s Curtains. All that remained was to put the enchantment together. I pushed the bed aside, uncovering the patch of floor where I’d carefully cut away the carpet and exposed the bare wood underneath. Chalk dust from a hundred rituals scuffed and streaked the faded boards.
Four hours later I sat cross-legged, my naked body glistening with cold sweat, and blood roaring in my ears. The room danced with light from a triad of black candles. The last words of my invocation fell from my lips with the last of my energy, gutter-Latin escaping my body on a gasp. I had lost track of time along the way, carried aloft by a spell that wove itself from the desert air. A white poker chip from the Sands Hotel, a long-gone legend of the Strip, glistened in my open palm like a beacon in the shadows.
It seemed like such a tiny thing, but it would have to do. I took another shower and got ready to fight.
? ? ?
I rang Artie’s doorbell at five minutes to seven, and he opened it so fast he must have been standing just on the other side.
“Hey, hey!” He beamed, pulling me into an awkward hug. “Look who’s here, the man of the hour!”
I’d been patted down by professionals. Artie’s clumsy slapping at my hips and back, disguised as a friendly greeting, was anything but. No, I’m not carrying a gun, I thought. Why are you worried that I would be?
I did have a sealed puffy mailing envelope tucked under one arm, with a blank DVD inside. Artie eyed it greedily as he stepped back.
“Is that it? The real deal?”
“Real as a heart attack,” I said, patting it. “I’ll show you thirty seconds of the footage, from anywhere in the video, to prove it’s legit. If you like what you see, we talk price.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, leading me into the living room, “but first I hope you’re ready to play some serious poker.”
A professional-grade poker table took a place of honor in the heart of the room, the sofas and chairs pushed back against the wall. My psychic senses strained in vain, but the Black Eye was back in place around my neck to protect me from Nicky’s seer. The Eye’s power weighed against my lungs, a constant suffocating pressure, the kind of frustrating ache that keeps you from getting a moment’s rest. If I needed to use the chip in my pocket, the Eye would have to come off first. On the other hand, if things went that far sideways, crossing Nicky Agnelli would be the least of my problems.
Kaufman’s buddies were the kind of low-rent hoods you’d expect to see brewing meth in a trailer park. One wore a pair of amber shades and a visored cap, like he thought he was competing in the World Series of Poker. The other one couldn’t keep still for five seconds at a time, his head and hands constantly twitching. Whatever he was on, it wasn’t the expensive stuff. Shades and Twitch gave me lethargic waves from the sofas, then looked at Kaufman as if waiting for a cue.
Caitlin emerged from the kitchen, saloon-style doors swinging behind her, and the breath caught in my throat. She wore a green satin gown that clung to her body like a raindrop to a leaf, scooped dangerously low in the back. It matched her eyes. She handed me an open bottle of beer. Her touch lingered just a moment longer than it needed to.
You’re not seeing what you think you’re seeing, I told myself, remembering Bentley’s warning. It didn’t help.
Artie came up behind her and grabbed her ass. I almost recoiled from the sudden look in her eyes, a glare of pure burning hatred. I saw how fast it melted into a charming smile as she turned to face him. I fought my overwhelming desire to take my bottle and smash Artie’s face in. Woman, demon, I didn’t care. This was wrong.
“Do you require service, Master?” she asked him.
“No, but I sure as f*ck do,” called out Detective Holt as he stomped his way up the hallway. “C’mon, we got time for a quickie.”
“No, we don’t,” Artie said. “Game’s starting, everybody to the table.”
Carl’s brow furrowed. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of a chair, openly wearing his shoulder holster, before closing in on Artie. “Sorry? Didn’t hear that.”
“Later. You can have her after the game.”