Chapter Twenty-One

Charlie Nguyen materialized in her suite at the Tropicana Hotel and Casino. Her yellow vapor vanished, slowly dissipating in the darkness. She kept the light off and rummaged around in the closet, the only illumination provided by the steady glow of The Strip outside her window.

She tossed a few dresses onto the bed then stooped down, gathering an armful of sandals, pumps, and boots. They, too, thrown willy-nilly, on the bed. She knelt on the carpet, pulled open her suitcase, and rifled through the dresser drawer. She flung panties, bras, shirts, and jewelry into the case. A buzzing noise from the hallway caught her attention. Damn ice machine. How annoying.

“I couldn’t agree more.” The lamp by the bed flicked on.

Nguyen spun around. “Gorgeous.”

Gorgeous couldn’t help but broaden the steady grin she wore as she approached Nguyen. “Leaving Las Vegas so soon? What’s your rush? Noisy ice machine bothering you?”

“You will allow Charlie Nguyen to leave this room at once.”

Gorgeous scowled and choked back a cackle. “Such brave words, but I will not.”

“But you cannot kill Charlie Nguyen, and I cannot kill you; it’s a stalemate.” She stood up and plopped the open suitcase on the bed. Her movements were quick and nervous. Clothes went into the suitcase, brought out, and tossed back in again.

“I smell your fear,” Gorgeous said. “It’s true, I may not be able to kill you, but you will never leave this room alive.”

Charlie Nguyen marched to the door and tried the handle. It would not budge. Her hands rose into the air as she whirled around.

“Excurato,” Gorgeous said. She always deciphered Nguyen’s feeble attempts at casting spells. “There, your powers are useless to you. You can’t even fly away in your urine-colored mist.”

“It’s yellow.” Charlie Nguyen held her chin up. “The color of the sun.”

“The color of piss, if you ask me. And your scent is quite nauseating.”

“Sunflower. You know that, bitch.”

“Oh my, how defiant. And from one whom I used to consider such a close associate. Why you chose to leave our cause and join such a bungling band of do-gooders is beyond me, it really is. Rosalyn Chase is dead, you know. And her little mixed-breed tribe is next on my list, after you.”

“You talk-talk-talk, always talk. You tried to eliminate the humans forever. If you want to know why I switched sides, I’ll tell you: you. It occurred to me, after your last failure, the human race will never be destroyed, not with your ridiculous plans. You’re a joke.”

For just a moment, the grin faded, replaced by a vicious glare. Gorgeous raised her hands, directing them at Nguyen. “Imobili.”

Charlie Nguyen froze, a living statute, unable to move.

“There, that’s better,” Gorgeous said as she paced the room. She took a casual tone. “I understand you’re familiar with Lucas Knight. You recommended an assistant to him for his act, Gwendolyn. Poor girl. Apparently, Lucas was not very happy with her work; he fired her.” She approached Nguyen, fixing her eyes on the immobilized Daemon. “You see, Mr. Knight possesses an ability which, I must confess, leaves me quite envious. Even though I may not be permitted to kill you, dear friend, Lucas Knight can.”

Charlie Nguyen’s eyes shut tight, her face turning white.

Gorgeous stepped away and continued wandering the room. “How or why he was bestowed with such a gift, I haven’t a clue. One thing I’m certain of, however, is he’ll arrive any minute. Then we’ll see who the joke is.”

A double knock sounded from the door.

“Ah, Mr. Knight has arrived.” She stepped around the motionless Nguyen and pulled open the door.

“What are you doing here, Gorgeous?” Lucas Knight’s voice filled the room.

“My, my, haven’t we discussed your greetings before?” Gorgeous closed the door behind Knight as he stepped into the suite. “I’m here because I have a slight problem with Miss Nguyen. In fact, Miss Nguyen is the problem.”

Lucas Knight eyed Nguyen. “How interesting.” He turned back, staring at Gorgeous. “In that case, there seem to be two problems in this room.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” He grinned and lifted his arms at her.

“You dare raise a hand to me? My Devil will end you, you worthless—”

“Your Devil is dead. Imobili.” He waved his hand and Gorgeous became still, her eyes staring straight at Knight.

She concentrated all her powers on him to no effect. Tangled in his trap, seized by his spell, she became nothing more than a silent witness to events as they unfolded.

She glared at Nguyen as the Daemon soon fell out of the immobilization spell, raised her hands, and evaporated in a yellow mist.

Knight grinned at Gorgeous. “Alone at last, as they say. Now then, Giant Irish Wolfhounds…really? And just how effective were those killer pups of yours? How many humans did they actually eliminate? One thousand—two perhaps? Far shy of the desired goal, give or take six billion. And your current plan…let’s see, what is it exactly? Ah yes, to possess the mind of the President of The United States, is that it? Brilliant, over the top, how creative. Then what? Make him push the little red button—start a nuclear war? Then what? Rule over the charred remains of a decimated planet?” He clucked his tongue. “Please. I’d say your tactics have missed the mark completely. The purpose is to regain dominion of the earth, not destroy it. This isn’t a game to us.”

Us? Who are you talking about?

“Come now, Gorgeous, certainly you know…you’re perplexed by my ability to kill. You can’t enter my mind, but I can easily enter yours. Use your thick head for once, if that’s possible. What type of Daemon is able to kill?”

Gorgeous trembled as the thought gripped her mind and spilled out, Sangre di Real, but that isn’t possible. I tested you.

“Oh, you mean this?” Knight struck a pose and cowered, a frightened expression covering his face. “Please don’t hurt me, my queen. I’ll do anything you say.”

Gorgeous narrowed her eyes. The True Bloods were eradicated—

“Enslaved. However, now, thanks to you, everything is different. It seems one of your preposterous schemes actually worked.”

Thanks to me? The Sangre di Real are locked in Hell forever.

“Forever’s overrated. You see, once you secured Maxwell to help with your ridiculous scheme, I was released to watch over him. I failed. Oh well, too bad, so sad. And who do you think will be blamed for junior’s demise? The very dog you created killed him. With Maxwell gone, no one’s got your back.”

He will never let you get away with this.

“He? You mean The Big Guy? He’s as fed up with the human race as we are. C’mon Gorgeous, it’s time to broaden your thinking; it’s not just about good and evil anymore, or black and white for that matter.” He laughed. “It’s all dark, now. The humans have made a mess of everything, and now it’s up to me to clean it up. The time has come to put an end to talking dogs and demented Daemons with foolish plans.” Knight snaked toward her.

She used all her strength to raise an arm and screamed, “Imobili.”

Lucas continued his steady advance. “Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that. I must admit, it bothers me to kill a Daemon, especially one as pretty as you. It bothers me, but it won’t stop me.”

A low moan crawled from her mouth.

Knight grinned. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he turned toward the door, “I must run across the hall and grab the scoop from that noisy ice machine.”

Gorgeous forced a muffled cry through her paralyzed throat.

“Yes, I agree, it will be quite slow and very painful—a dull guillotine—but it’ll be perfect for scooping you out.” He patted his pockets. “By the way, do you have a light?”

****

The Mystic placed a hand over his cup of tea, wafting the steam of the Da Hong Pao as it steeped. Da Hong Pao: the most expensive tea in the world.

A frown played across his brow. The front page of the Las Vegas Review-Journal lay on the table next to his breakfast of dove’s eggs and slices of pule cheese. Pule: the most expensive cheese in the world.

He glanced at the headline again, this time running his fingers over each word, connecting to the print. Nation Mourns Passing of First Lady

The Mystic hung his head. The most expensive first lady in the world.

The president is out of harm’s way.

He sipped the tea and closed his eyes. Despite The Sterling Management Group’s attempt to provide him with nothing but the finest, The Mystic would just as well have preferred a hot cup of Joe and some ham. They meant well, of course, as if exceeding his materialistic wants would somehow satisfy his otherworldly needs.

He lifted a small silver bell from the glass table and waggled it back and forth. Almost at once, the door opened and a young woman, dressed in shimmering turquoise robes, stepped into the chamber. She took a few paces then stopped several feet from The Mystic. She kept her gaze low, on the ground, as she, and all the members of the staff, had been instructed: no eye contact whatsoever with The Mystic.

“Sir,” she said with a slight bow.

“I’d like some scrambled eggs, please, with ketchup, and bacon, white toast, and a cup of coffee. Thank you.”

“As you wish.” She bowed again.

“Oh, and not dove’s eggs, or duck’s eggs, or swan’s—just regular chicken eggs. And get the coffee from the shop downstairs—latte, plain, extra hot. Thank you.”

“As you wish.”

“Oh, and when President Walker calls, please extend my condolences.”

“His people have already telephoned several times. He wishes you to call him back at your earliest possible—”

“Thank you, Ayala. That will be all.”

She bowed and shut the door behind her.

The sound of the water trickling down the massive glass wall set him at ease. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind of any thoughts. A blank slate welcoming random visions.

With his mind cleared, he eased back in the chair and chanted: ohmmmm. Almost at once, scenes of chaos filled his thoughts: humanity struggled for food, for water, for air—the planet itself nothing more than charred rubble.

The Mystic sat up and opened his eyes. He’d seen this vision before, many times. “Images of things yet to come or that which has already been? The Dark Ages or the New Age?”

He stood and wandered about the chamber, running a finger along the glass wall, feeling the cool water dribble over his hand. The vision unsettled him, a specter of great suffering.

He strolled back to the table and rang the tiny bell again. The door opened immediately.

“I wish to go out, Ayala.”

“I will summon your staff at once.”

“No, I want to go out alone—like before.”

Ayala hesitated then closed the door to his chamber. Her words sounded cautious as she raised her head and stared at him. “But what about your breakfast?”

“I didn’t cause any harm to the president’s wife, you know. It was just a vision—a half vision really—nothing more.”

“I know that, sir.”

How could she? For her to guess her true purpose in his life could never happen. On this side, Ayala was merely a member of his staff. No, for her to have any knowledge of the other side was impossible.

“I’m ready to go, come on, hurry up.” The Mystic pulled his robes over his head and stood naked before her. “It’s cold in here.”

Ayala pulled her turquoise robes off and held them out to The Mystic. They exchanged garments. Even though The Mystic and Ayala differed in age, they were the same height and similar build. The flowing robes concealed much.

“Relax child. If anyone should come in—oh, you know what to do.” He kissed her on the cheek and settled her into his armchair facing the glass wall. “I’ll be back soon.”

Ayala bowed her head. The Mystic flipped the turquoise hood over his head and reached for the door latch.

“Please hurry,” she said.

He imitated her voice with perfect pitch and tone, “As you wish, sir.”

The Mystic knew the way out and gave a slight nod of his head as he passed Walter and Fabian guarding his chamber. They paid little attention to him. Their job was to prevent entry by unknown visitors, not exit by well-known staff.

The Mystic pressed on, reaching the elevator at the end of the darkened hallway in no time. The doors slid open and he stepped inside, pressing the down button as he turned to face the closing doors. Light instrumental music drifted from the speakers in the car. He recognized the song as “Solitary Man” by Neil Diamond. He absent-mindedly hummed along with the tune.

The doors slid open, and he fell silent. Another hallway greeted him, this one brightly lit and filled with people zipping by in both directions. A security guard moved aside and turned to him. “Hello, Ayala.”

He nodded, stepped off the elevator, and ambled toward the chaos of the casino. Crowds of people elbowed their way past him in all directions. At first, it came as a welcome change from the solitude of his private chambers, but soon grated his nerves.

He spied the bank of revolving doors leading to Las Vegas Boulevard and strode toward them through a maze of slot machines, gaming tables, and mini bars.

The Mystic exited the casino, feeling the full weight of the desert heat press down on him. The sun blinded him momentarily, even with the hood over his head. He stood still for a while, acclimating to this alien environment. His gaze wandered up, examining the obelisk announcing his presence to the world. He’d never seen the object in person before—quite impressive.

When he looked back down, a small woman stood in front of him—graying hair wrapped up in a bun, wire-rim glasses, and sharp green eyes. She held her ground, hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

“What are you playing at, young man?” Aunt Rose said.

The massive crowds of people hurrying back and forth had vanished. No sound, no movement—just the desert breeze rustling through palm trees, a ghost town.