Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(62)

“All right, just about … here,” he says, and stops in front of yet another grand fa?ade, this one with a dark reflecting pool. “Some people miss the old days, before the tourists and Cirque du Soleil and celebrity chefs. Ring-a-ding-ding, et cetera. But Vegas only gets better for me.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Since the beginning.”

“When was the beginning?”

“Oh eight,” he says. “Nineteen oh eight. It took me almost three hundred years to make my way here from Virginia.” He’s smiling at me, face wide open.

I shake my head. I’m sure I look as dumbfounded as I feel. “But you’re so—”

Lamb stops. His hands are in his trouser pockets, and his head is tilted. He keeps looking at me like I’m something that needs to be examined—and smiled at—from all directions. “I’m so what, Mr.—what’s your last name?”

I can’t tell him my last name, and I can’t think of anything that rhymes. “Watford,” I say.

“Charles Watford. Even your name makes me homesick. Go on though, I’m so what—impressive?” He smiles. “Learned?”

Alive, I think.

“Open,” I say. “About … well, your history. Your…” I shrug again. “You don’t know me.”

“But I know what you are,” he says. “And you know what I am. I have plenty to hide—but not that.”

I nod. “I suppose that’s true.”

“And you have plenty to hide, Chaz. Obviously. But not … that.”

He’s right. I’ve given him a fake name and false pretences, but he knows the truth about me. The truth even my immediate family won’t look in the eye.

“I keep waiting for you to notice,” he says.

“Notice what?”

He touches my shoulder and gently spins me around, so I’m facing the pavement. There are people everywhere, even though it’s well after midnight. Everyone dressed up in after-midnight clothes. Everyone a little tipsy. Everyone …

It takes my breath away when it hits me:

In every group of people, there’s someone moving too smoothly, someone’s face shining pearl-white in the spinning lights. With Normals. Without Normals. In twos and threes. In their element. A man looks down at me from a Cadillac Escalade and flashes a bloodless grin.

Lamb’s voice is just behind my ear. “Our town,” he says. “Yours.”

I turn to face him. His eyes are wide and playful, and his tongue is pressed behind his front teeth, as if he’s waiting for something. Still waiting for me to catch on.

Suddenly, there’s the sound of a violin playing, hot and sweet, all around us. A hundred jets of water erupt behind him. And then a hundred more. It’s spectacular!

Lamb is watching the show on my face. He laughs again, as easily and as openly as he’s done everything so far.



* * *



We’re drinking milkshakes, and I’m feeling wobbly. “Is there alcohol in this ice cream?”

“There’s alcohol in everything,” Lamb says. “And you are the only one of us I’ve ever met who can’t hold his drink.” He’s giggling so much, he’s blowing bubbles in his milkshake.

I start giggling, too, sliding off my stool. (It’s covered in fur. Most impractical.) I fall into the Normal sitting next to me. (He smells delicious. Milk-fed.)

Lamb takes my arm. “Come on, Prince Charles, you need a drink.” He drags me out of the ice-cream bar—but it isn’t really dragging because I’m happy to go along. This is the best night out I’ve had in America.

This is the best night out I’ve had.

I don’t really go out back home. Simon and I don’t. (The wings, you see. And the fact that I hate drunk people.) (I really do. If I were sober, I’d hate myself right now. What a bore.)

Lamb’s got me by the hand. And then he’s got another man by the hand. A Normal bloke wearing a hockey-themed baseball cap and a football shirt. He’s drunk, too—boring!—and we’re all dancing. There’s music playing wherever you go on the Strip. Outside feels like inside. Lit up like a ballroom, speakers hidden in the trees.

The song is about a place called Margaritaville. I’ve never had a margarita. I should get one in a milkshake. Lamb pulls the man—and me—into a nook, not quite an alleyway, between two bars. The Normal struggles for just a second, then Lamb’s not-so-small-now mouth is on his throat.

The man’s neck goes limp. His head droops back, his hat falls off. His eyes immediately glaze over. I’ve seen that face on a deer before.

Lamb swallows deeply. He’s still holding my hand. “Chaz,” he says, stopping to take a breath, “come on.” He pulls me closer, the man sandwiched between us—the fragrance is irresistible. My fangs have dropped. There’s no room in my mouth for my tongue.

“I—I can’t,” I say.

“You can.”

“We’re in public.”

“I promise it doesn’t matter.” He tugs the man’s head back, exposing even more of his neck to me.

I turn away from them both, dropping Lamb’s hand. “I can’t.”