Chapter 6

Tony is a scumbag, but I can't fault his business sense. Dante's, on a prime stretch of land near the Luxor, had a crowd even at four thirty in the morning. I wasn't surprised: it's perfect for Las Vegas. Modeled on the Divine Comedy, it has nine different areas, each with a theme corresponding to one of Dante Alighieri's nine circles of Hell. Visitors enter through a set of huge wrought-iron gates decorated with basalt statues writhing in agony and the famous phrase ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. They are then rowed across a shallow river by one of several gray-robed Charons and deposited in the cavelike vestibule, where a red and gold layout of the place is painted mural-sized on the wall.

A guy dressed like King Minos—with a convenient name tag explaining that he was the guy who assigned sinners to their punishments—was handing out paper copies of the map when I arrived, but I didn't need one. The layout was kind of logical: the buffet, for example, was in the third circle, where the sin of gluttony is punished. It wasn't difficult to figure out where to look for Jimmy; where else but circle two, where all those guilty of the sin of lust are chastised, to find a real, live satyr?

Sure enough, Pan's Flute was the watering hole for the second circle. In case you somehow missed the Hell and damnation theme the lobby had going, the bar was a bit more blatant. I didn't so much as flinch on entering, since I'd seen similar rooms before. For someone a little more sensitive, however, it must have been a shock to enter a room that was decorated almost entirely with dismembered skeletons. Renaissance Italy, where Tony had been born, experienced regular outbreaks of plague. Seeing their friends and family die and hearing of whole villages being wiped out made people somewhat morbid. Ossuaries, chapels built entirely out of the bones of the deceased, were the era at its most extreme, and Tony's homage was no exception. Elaborate chandeliers made of what looked like—and, knowing Tony, possibly were—human bones swung from the ceiling, interspersed with garlands of skulls. More death's-heads were used for candle holders, and drinks were served in skull-shaped goblets. They were fakes, with tacky glass "rubies" for eyes, but I wasn't so sure about some of the others. The napkins showed the Dance of Death in black on a red background, with a grinning skeleton leading a parade of sinners off to perdition. After guests adjusted to all that, I guess the waiters weren't as big a surprise.

I had expected humans in togas and furry trousers, but the creature who greeted me at the entrance was the real deal. How the hell they convinced people that their waiters were only wearing elaborate costumes I'll never know. The rudimentary horns that poked out of the satyr's nest of mahogany curls could have been as fake as the ring of acanthus leaves he was wearing, but his costume—consisting solely of an overstrained leather G-string—did nothing to conceal his obviously real fur-covered haunches and glossy black hooves. It also showed without a doubt that he approved of the plunging neckline of my purloined black spandex top. Since satyrs generally approve of anyone female and breathing, I didn't take it as a compliment.

"I'm here to see Jimmy."

The satyr's big brown eyes, which had been sparkling with pleasure, clouded over slightly. He took my arm in an attempt to draw me against him, but I stepped back. Of course he followed. He was young and handsome, if the whole half-goat thing didn't make you want to run screaming. Satyrs tend to be well endowed by human standards, and he was gifted even for one of them. Since sexual prowess is the defining element in satyr society, he was probably accustomed to getting a lot of attention. He didn't do much for me, but I didn't want to appear rude. Satyrs, even the old, bald ones, think they're God's gift to women, and messing with their happy fantasy tends to have bad results. Not that they turn violent—they're more likely to run than fight—but a depressed satyr is a miserable sight. They get drunk, play sad songs and loudly complain about the duplicity of women. Once they get started, they don't stop until they pass out, and I wanted information.

I let him tell me how beautiful I was for a few minutes. It seemed to make him happy, and he finally agreed to go see whether Jimmy was available after I swore that the boss and I were only friends. I really hoped Billy had been wrong for once about Jimmy's predicament. Running around the lower levels of Tony's version of Hell didn't appeal.

I had thought of a plan on the way over that might get me the information I wanted, assuming Jimmy was still alive to give it to me. Since I'd seen him outside more than once in daylight, I was pretty sure he wasn't a vamp. Most magical creatures can't be turned—not to mention that I've had vamps tell me they taste really foul—but I wasn't so sure about Jimmy. I knew he wasn't a full satyr, since he had human legs and his horns were noticeable only if he got a really close haircut. There were many things that other half could be, but I'd never seen him demonstrate any impressive powers or start turning purple or something, so I was pretty sure he was half human. That would be in keeping with Tony's habit of keeping a few nonvamps around to manage business when his regular muscle was asleep. I wasn't completely certain that a human-satyr hybrid couldn't be turned, and some of the most powerful vamps can stand daylight in small doses if they're willing to expend a lot of energy for the privilege. But I really doubted that a first- or second-level master would be running errands for Tony. Besides, I'd never gotten that good old vampy feeling around Jimmy. So, unless Jimmy was warded nine ways to Sunday, Billy Joe ought to be able to manage a brief possession.

Billy hadn't liked the idea when I'd explained what I wanted in the car. This was the most powerful he'd felt in a long time, and if he was going to waste it on a possession, he stated plainly that Jimmy would not be his first choice. But, like I told him, all I needed was time enough for the loser to tell me what I wanted to know, and then confess his sins to the Vegas PD. Even if he denied it all later, if he had provided enough particulars on a bunch of unsolved cases, he would have trouble eluding justice. And, if plan A didn't work, I could always shoot him. I was already on the run from Tony, his allied families, the Silver Circle and the vampire Senate; after that, the cops didn't scare me much.

Billy Joe and I sat at the end of the bar. I hadn't seen him this juiced up in a while—those wards he ate really must have been something. He looked almost completely solid, to the point that I could tell he hadn't shaved for a day or two before his death. But no one else seemed to notice him, although no one tried to sit on his stool, either. If they had, and they were norms, they'd have felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over their heads. Which was why we took seats far away from everyone else.

"You going to tell me why we're here?"

I glanced about, but there was no one close enough to notice if I started talking to myself. Most of the bar, which seemed to have an exclusively female clientele, was busy ogling the waiters, who happily ogled right back. A handsome black-haired satyr nearby was encouraging one of the patrons to see whether she could figure out where his "costume" began. She had the glassy-eyed look of someone who'd been drinking for a while, but the hands she was running over his sleek black flanks were remarkably steady. I frowned; if I'd still been with Tony, I'd have reported him. He was practically asking for someone to figure things out and run screaming to the cops.

"You know why. He killed my parents. He must know something about them."

"You're risking us getting caught by the Senate, who are not going to underestimate you again, I might add, to ask a couple questions about people you don't even remember? You're not planning on blowing this guy away, are you? A little payback for messing with you? Not that I mind, but it might draw attention."

I ignored the question and ate some peanuts out of a little bloodred serving bowl. Wasting Jimmy wouldn't be as satisfying as taking out Tony, but at least it would be something. A sign to the universe that I'd had enough of people screwing up my life; I was perfectly capable of doing that all by myself. The only problem was the actual killing part of that scenario, which frankly made me nauseous to even think about. "You'll see what he did in a minute if the possession goes okay."

"That's a big if. Demons are the possession experts; I'm only a lowly ghost."

"You never have trouble with me." Billy Joe had been heavily into wine, women and song in life, with a strong emphasis on the first two. I can't help him much with the second need, and I hate his taste in music, which runs to Elvis and Hank Williams. But I occasionally reward him with a drink if he's been exceptionally good, and, of course, that means a little more than buying him a six-pack. Those instances aren't a real possession, though. Although I let him in to use my taste buds, I remain in full control. He plays nice during these infrequent events because he knows that if he doesn't, when his power runs out I'll bury his necklace in the middle of nowhere and leave it to rot. But as long as he keeps to the rules, I let him in on special occasions so he can eat, drink and be merry right along with me. Since I'm not in the habit of getting plastered and trashing bars, it's never quite wild enough for his tastes, but it's better than nothing.

"You're an unusual case. It's a lot harder with other people. Anyway, humor me and answer the question."

I toyed with a tiny death's-head swizzle stick and wondered why I hesitated. My parents' deaths weren't that hard to talk about. I had memories from my street years that I would never willingly revisit, but as Billy Joe had pointed out, I'd been only four when Tony ordered the hit. My memories before that are hazy: Mom is actually more a smell than anything else—the rose talcum powder she must have liked—and Dad is a sensation. I remember strong hands throwing me into the air and spinning me around when they caught me; I know his laugh, too, a deep, rich chuckle that warmed me down to my toes and made me feel protected. Safe isn't something I feel very often, so maybe that's why the memory is so sharp. Other than that, all I know about them came from the vision I had at age fourteen.