Sin City Goddess (9 page)

He was feeding his newest playmate when the bitch bit him. Nearly bit his goddamn finger right off.

“You bitch!” He sucked his finger to stop the blood flow. Then he slapped her as hard as he could across the face. He couldn’t believe it didn’t leave a mark. He wanted it to leave a mark, to leave
his
mark.

She just laughed. Then she spit on him, and that enraged him even more. He flipped over the soup tray, and it splattered across the wall, leaving splotchy chunks of noodles stuck to the torn wallpaper. They looked like dead worms in the dim light. He dragged her off the mattress by her hair and flung her against the cement wall, hoping she would smack her head.

His partner wouldn’t like that, but he didn’t care.

“You think it’s funny? I’ll show you funny, you fucking bitch!”

He grabbed a knife, the one he was going to use to carve his initials into her stomach when the game was over, and held it to her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he could smell a trace of fear. It wasn’t strong like the others’. It didn’t last long, and this one’s scent was herbaceous, floral, even, though he couldn’t identify the plant.

“Look at me!” he hissed.

She opened one eye. It sparkled for a moment. Almost… illuminated. Then she shut it.

This one was harder to break, but he had every confidence he would be able to break her, given enough time. He had broken many. She wasn’t anything special.

Then again, he could always kill her and find another. But no, it was too late for that. His partner had promised the plan would be enacted soon.

He pressed the tip of the knife to her swan-like throat, his other hand gripping the back of her head. Her breathing was steady, calmer, and her eyes were still closed.

Then one of the other playmates said, “No, please, don’t.”

That’s when he felt the tension shift beneath his hold on the newbie’s head. That’s when he learned what her currency was. She actually gave a shit about the others. She didn’t just fear for her life. She feared for
theirs
.

He swung his head back, dropped her like a water hose, and made his way over to the one who had interrupted his game.

He dragged that one—the one with the mouth—kicking and screaming, tears running down her face, over to the handcuffs that dangled from the ceiling. He gripped one skinny wrist and then another, binding her to the ceiling. Then he duct-taped her feet as she whispered, “Please, please, not again.”

Ignoring her, he watched as she swayed gently, like a side of beef in the Chicago stockyards.
Fresh meat
, he thought. She was firm, well toned. A dancer, maybe.

Then he turned back to the one who had bitten him. She tried to appear defiant, but he saw the emotion when she opened her eyes again. That sparkling was there still, but he saw what she was feeling just the same.

Empathy, remorse, and anger. Oh, yes, there was a lot of anger there. If she had been a man, he might have befriended
her. Could have coaxed her to join his team. He could use that kind of piss and vinegar. Too bad.

He said to her, “This is your fault. I want you to remember that. Every plea, every scream, every scar—it’s all on you. It should
be
you.”

Then the fun began.

Chapter 13

“You’re kidding, right?” Archer asked me when I met him back in the common area of our suite after I had changed.

“Look, I don’t want to hear it. In fact, I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s just say I need to go shopping as soon as possible.”

I was wearing—not by choice, but rather out of necessity—a much-too-tight orange sequined tube top, jeans that looked to have been painted onto my thighs, and leopard platform heels. I couldn’t believe my sisters even owned this kind of garb, let alone wore it out in public. Honestly, what did this city do to all who entered? I had never known Meg or Alex to be caught dead in such attire. It had to be theirs, too, because of the fit. Not many goddesses came close to my height.

“Well, there’s plenty of dough in the safe for that,” Archer said.

“Why is there dough in the safe?” I asked. “Shouldn’t it be in the refrigerator?”

“Money, Tisi, I’m talking about money. Coin. You’re going to have to start picking up some colloquialisms if you’re going undercover. Which reminds me.” He crossed over to the sofa, picked up a fancy shopping bag tied in ribbons, and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your uniform.”

I peeked into the bag. It was rather small to hold much of anything, let alone a uniform.

“Do I get a badge too?”

Archer paused, seeming confused. After a moment, he appeared to understand my question. “No, Tisi, this is the uniform for the Shadow Bar, not the FBI.”

I untied the shiny purple strings and pulled out what looked like something one might use to sheath a sword.

“This? How am I supposed to wear this? It’s like a pair of gloves.”

Archer shrugged. “It’s supposed to be tight. Don’t worry. You’ll be behind the screen.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, let’s roll.”

Judging by his gesture to open the door, I guessed that meant we were leaving.

I pretended to ignore the men gawking at me as I walked through the casino. This was no easy feat, because I had to walk with measured care so I wouldn’t break my neck. How did women wear these things? They felt like ancient torture devices designed by an angry god who hated females.

Archer was pretty far ahead of me when he noticed I wasn’t keeping pace. He rushed back to tell me he was going to run an errand, then grab a cab. He disappeared through the crowd.

Halfway through the Pussycat Dolls portion of the casino, I spotted a woman with fiery red hair, wearing jeans and an athletic T-shirt with a cartoon cub in a baseball cap on the front of it. She was sitting in the bar with the sea horse sculptures, trying her best to ignore a pudgy man who was sweating on her and smoking a cigar. He seemed excited about something. She didn’t seem too thrilled to be in his presence, however. Something about her made me keep my gaze aimed at her. Her body language, the frown on her face, the way
she scrunched into the seat, leaning away from the man and never making eye contact, led me to believe that this woman was in the midst of unwanted company.

Just as I reached them, he grabbed her arm forcefully and she shuddered. Then she said something, barely moving her lips. Her face grew fierce, but she still refused to look at him.

She seemed a woman in trouble. Could this be the kidnapper of the Shadow Bar victims? Was he targeting redheads now?

I rushed over to them, looked her square in the eye, and said, “Excuse me. Do you need help?”

The man puffed on his cigar, ogling the woman lasciviously, but he didn’t say anything more.

The redhead, who I saw had grassy-colored eyes, looked at me and plastered on a false smile. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Is this man bothering you?” I asked, glaring at the brute.

The man looked confused, as did the redhead, who narrowed her eyes and said, “What man?”

I pointed. “The one standing in your space, smoking a cigar.”

The young woman stiffened. She glanced at the man, then at me. She leaned toward me and said softly, “You can see him?”

The man said, “Who are you talking to? Is there another medium in the house?”

Uh-oh. Either she was crazy or she was an empath to shades. I hadn’t run into many of those in my travels. It was a shade who was bothering her, not a living man. That’s why he couldn’t see me. In this realm, the gods are not visible to shades, for fear of confusion. Until their business on this plane was finished, they wouldn’t or couldn’t cross to the Underworld. People like this woman often aided them in their quest for closure.

Before I could answer, another man, with bulging biceps, sandy hair, and a wide smile, approached us. “Hey, Stacy.” He
kissed her. “Got us both signed up for the next Texas Hold’em tournament.” He looked at me. “Hi.”

Texas Hold’em tournament? If only there was time.

Stacy said, “Um, Chance, this is…”

I blurted, “Sorry to interrupt.” It was best not to tempt fate, best not to give her any inkling of who—and what—I was.

By the time she opened her mouth to speak, I was learning to run in heels.

I looked back, just once, and she was staring at me, a gleam of knowing in her eye.

Outside, in the oppressive heat, Archer was impatiently tapping his foot and looking at his watch. He spotted me. “Finally. Come on—we can’t be late.”

I slipped into the cab and noticed he was holding a couple of paper bags. One smelled of beef and mustard.

“You can’t be hungry again,” I said.

Archer tapped the bag. “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend.” He winked.

He gave the cab driver an address, and we circled around the parking area and exited down a side street.

I wasn’t certain where we were headed, but this road didn’t seem as active and bright as the one we had traveled the day before. There were still plenty of casinos and eateries, but not as many people, or people dressed as furry animals.

Where were these tunnels?

It wasn’t long before the cab stopped and we got out. Archer tipped the driver with money he had taken straight from his pocket. I noticed he didn’t have a wallet, as many mortals carried. Just his badge in a black case.

Had his murderer stolen it? If so, why hadn’t he taken the badge too?

We walked a few blocks, turned a few times, and climbed down some steps, until we came upon a cement tunnel large enough to pass through walking upright.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“This is the entrance to the tunnels. We’re about to walk under the city of Las Vegas.”

That was the best news I had heard since I’d gotten here. “You mean, the city itself has an Underworld?”

“In a way, yes. People live here. Hundreds of them.”

If I had the choice between living aboveground in Las Vegas and below, I’d certainly choose the latter. However, that didn’t seem like something a mortal would choose.

“Why?” I asked.

Archer said, “Some folks are just down on their luck. Lost a job, a spouse, maybe. Others are struggling with addiction problems. They had no place else to go, so they came here. They make the best of a bad situation.” Archer stepped deeper into the tunnel. “You’d be amazed by what they do with so little.”

“So if they live here and they don’t have jobs, then why were we going to be late?”

“My contact.” Archer stepped over a broken bottle, then held his hand out to assist me. “He likes to keep a tight schedule. Many of these people work the casinos in the daytime, looking for chips gamblers may have dropped, ticket stubs left in slot machines, loose change, things like that.”

We stepped even farther into the tunnel, and I could feel myself strengthening. It was dark here, cooler too. It wasn’t home, but it was better than the desert. Beneath their invisibility spell, my wings ruffled.

Archer led us through the tunnel to a boarded-up passage.

“Looks like it’s blocked,” I said.

“Not blocked. That’s a wall.” He knocked. “Jeremy, man, can you let me through? I brought your favorite.”

There was some shuffling behind the board. It inched aside, and a small young man in a camouflage jacket appeared through the crack in the wall. He was smoking a cigarette.

He said, in a raspy voice, “What’s the pass code?”

“Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun.”

“Who’s your friend?” Jeremy asked, eyeing me. He blew a ring of smoke out through the crack, and it floated up through the tunnel.

“Agent Ninety-Nine,” said Archer.

I didn’t know what that meant, but I decided I also didn’t care.

Jeremy looked suspicious. “She’s taller than I remember.”

“It’s a new formula. Growth juice. She can fly too.”

Why would he tell him that?
I stiffened.

Jeremy broke out into a wide smile and opened the wall. “Archer, my man! Great to see you!” The young man wore his hair in a ponytail that trailed to his knees.

“Brought you your favorite.” Archer pulled out a sandwich wrapped in paper.

“Extra pickles?”

“Of course.”

“No onion?” Jeremy unwrapped the cheeseburger and sniffed.

“You smell bad enough.”

Jeremy bit into his sandwich, smiling at both Archer and me.

“You need smokes?” Archer held up a package with gold lettering on it.

“No, man. Trying to quit. I found a weight set someone was tossing out near that shitty apartment I used to live in.”
Jeremy lifted his left arm, which was the circumference of a shower rod, still holding the cigarette. “Gonna start working out. Get in shape.”

He devoured the sandwich in a few bites and wiped his mouth. “Would you like to come in? I got a new book on tape. Stephen King, man. Traded it for an iPod I found.”

“We’re just passing through, buddy, but thanks.” Archer patted his shoulder. “I’m actually looking for Tommy.”

Jeremy thought for a moment and said, “Man, I haven’t seen that guy in days.”

Archer stood a bit taller. “Oh yeah? Since when, do you think?”