Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(61)

“It is, in fact.” He rolls his wrist, idly watching the ice bob in his drink, and watching me, too. “But what I meant was—it’s so very bad there.”

“When did you leave?”

Lamb shakes his head. His hair follows half a second behind. “A long time ago, when the magicians were just getting organized, before they’d decided our kind couldn’t be tolerated.” He looks pained. “I remember hearing, back in the fifties, that there wasn’t a single one of us left in the UK—that Old Man Pitch had driven us out, like Saint Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland. More than a few Brits washed ashore in those days. I met a man from Liverpool who hitched a ride on a frigate and swigged down the whole crew, one by one, across the Atlantic.”

My chin has finally dropped. I struggle and fail to lift it.

Lamb flips his hair out of his blue eyes. “Imagine the discipline and forethought that required—the timing!”

“Well,” I say, “now I feel much less heroic about my eight-hour red-eye.” It’s very hard to be droll when your head is exploding. “Old Man Pitch”—that’s my great-grandfather, it must be. I’ve never met him, but—

“I’ve heard that it’s eased up since then,” Lamb says. “We get more news these days. You know, the Internet.…”

“It’s eased a bit,” I say, “yes.”

He draws nearer to me. “But the mages still have you under their thumb, don’t they? The stories we hear…” He looks stricken. “Underground clubs, raids, fires.”

“It’s not so bad. If you keep your head down.”

Lamb looks sad for another moment, then leans in a bit more, tipping his head up to meet my eyes. “Well. Lift that chin, my friend. You’re in America now.”

I laugh and use it as an excuse to step back. “How different can it be?”

He laughs with me, standing straight again and waving his arm. “Look around. Las Vegas is ours. And you’ll find our brethren in all the major American cities.”

“The mages don’t mind?”

“Our mages stick to themselves. They might get involved, individually, if we start affecting population numbers. But this is a big country, full of Bleeders. Frankly, the Bleeders—do you still call them Normals?”

I nod.

“The Normals are more of a threat to themselves. The magicians here are more worried about guns than they are about vampires.” He looks at my face again. “Are you sure you’re not thirsty?” Lamb’s face is almost pink, his lips are nearly red. He must be sloshed.

“You act like the taps run red.” My voice is light—thank Crowley. “Do you keep Normals in the minifridge?”

“This city is a minifridge. It’s like nothing I imagined in the old country. A city of our own, Chaz, can you believe it? A capital!”

“The whole city?”

Lamb nods, his face glowing with satisfaction. “Though we stick to the Strip mostly. Why would we leave? These four miles are overrun with tourists, three hundred sixty-five days a year. Most of them come here to lose their mind and do terrible things—bachelor parties, sales conventions—we practically provide a service.”

“And the locals don’t notice?” I ask.

“Notice what?”

“The … bodies.”

“If they do, they blame other things. Organized crime.” He raises his eyebrows. “The opioid crisis. But most of us are more careful than that. No need to leave a corpse when you can leave a satisfied customer, you know?”

I must look like I don’t. (I don’t.) Lamb narrows his eyes at me. “Chaz,” he chides. “Surely in London, you don’t drain them all dry.”

I still don’t know what he means. Is something else possible? Can these vampires drink—and stop? Do they Turn everyone they touch?

I shrug. Nonchalantly, I hope. “We can’t afford witnesses.”

“No. I suppose you can’t.…” His face is long. His small mouth is pursed. He looks haunted.

“I apologize,” I say. “I’ve offended you.”

“No.” He rests his hand on my arm. “I forget myself. I forget what it’s like to live in fear and shame. It’s been so long since I’ve walked in the shadows.” He squeezes. “I hope you get a taste of freedom here, Chaz. This is a place where you can exult in who you are, not fear it.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Take a walk with me?”



* * *



If a vampire invites you to a second, darker, lonelier location, don’t go. That’s just common sense.…

… unless you’re already a vampire.

What’s the worst that can happen? Lamb could kill me, I suppose. He probably knows all the ways a vampire can die.

But I need information, and he’s the only one talking to me.

The heat was unbearable when we arrived in Las Vegas this morning, and the sky was so bright, I couldn’t open both eyes at the same time. But now that the sun is down, the night is warm and pleasant. I’m perfectly comfortable in my jacket. And Lamb seems fine in his cream-coloured suit. He seems more at ease than I’ve ever felt around Normals.

He’s giving me an insider’s tour of the Strip, pointing out each casino. Telling me what used to be there and what replaced it. Running down the highlights. The architecture. The infamy.