I pulled myself away, gasping. And I blinked around, realizing something was gravely different. “Um…why is it so dark?”
The Magician sat ramrod straight beside me, his eyes practically burning in the gloom, embers of gold crackling in the blackened deaths. When he spoke, it was as if his voice was emanating from a place far, far away.
“Four hours,” he rasped. “Four hours we lost in our connection—and it was only a kiss. Four hours, Miss Wilde. That shouldn’t be…”
My phone blared in my pocket, startling enough that we both jumped. I yanked it out, not sure if I was panicked or irritated with the interruption, even after I realized it was Brody calling.
“What?” I snapped.
He didn’t hesitate. “You busy?”
“Extremely.”
“Yeah, well. We’ve got a problem with your name all over it. Stratosphere casino, drunk and disorderly, women dancing on tabletops, never mind it’s barely four o’clock—that kind of problem.”
I scowled, lifting my brows as Armaeus watched me with an interest that was becoming markedly less carnal by the second, damn Brody’s eyes. “I don’t see how that could be my problem. Was anybody shooting fireballs? Attacking a Connected? Zapping each other to death with mystical light shows?”
“Nope,” Brody said. “But it’s still your problem. One of the people on the bar top is Amy Franks Bucher. You remember Amy Franks, don’t you?”
I began to get a bad feeling about this. Amy Franks had been a blonde-haired, blue-eyed sweetheart of a girl who’d been Mary Clemson’s pinkie-swearing bestie. “Ahh, a little, sure. I figured I’d meet her again this weekend at the stupid reunion.”
“Yeah, well, the party’s already started, and you were most definitely invited. Lucky for everyone, Sariah answered the call. From everything I’m hearing, she’s way more fun than you are.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
I crackled into nothingness, heading for the Stratosphere.
11
I wasn’t as familiar with the Stratosphere as I was with many of the other Las Vegas casinos, but I still had plenty of bad memories from the place. Finding it was no problem.
The house music raged several decibels higher than seemed reasonable for the time of day as I appeared at the front doors to the Sky Lounge. Given how packed the place was, no one apparently seemed to mind the noise. Far below, deep within the bowels of the casino, I could almost hear the clanging bells and raucous, tinny music of the slot machines, but all these floors above, it was utter chaos. I stepped inside the lounge, peering into the semidarkness. If Sariah was involved, there was little doubt as to where she would be. I headed straight for the bar—and ran straight into my doppelgänger. Whose hair was…wet.
“Yo, it’s about time you showed up,” Sariah announced, grabbing me and yanking me to the side to clear the path for a bachelorette conga line, complete with tiaras and sashes. “Your old friends are batshit crazy.”
I glared at her. Sariah and I had a complicated history, but we’d started out as the same person a long time ago. “My old friends? You know these people as well as I do, and I’m not the one who apparently was going Coyote Ugly on the bar in the middle of the freaking afternoon. What the hell is wrong with you? And why do you reek of beer?”
She grinned, flicking a soaked strand of hair over one shoulder. “You should see the other guy. More to the point, I remember Mary Clemson as being nothing but pigtails, pink cheeks, and cheerleading uniforms, don’t you? I had no idea she could throw back that much tequila.”
I passed a hand over my eyes. “You’ve been drinking tequila.”
“Not me. I haven’t had a single drop. Other than taking a pitcher of beer to the face, I’ve been as boring as I can possibly be so that we’d blend.” She winked. “I know that’s important to you. Though frankly, I think the world could use a little more Sariah.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure you managed to blend just fine.”
“Be glad I did, because the good women of Farraday High are drinking like it’s their job. Simon contacted me about this little get-together, then let drop that something hinky might be going on with the ol’ gang, so I thought I’d pump whoever showed up for information. But that was a nonstarter. All everyone wanted to do was bitch about their jobs and their parents and when they should get pregnant. You’re lucky that half of them couldn’t even hang long enough to get to the fourth round—”
“Fourth?”
“Anyway, Mary and this other chick, Patricia—I don’t even know who she is—”
“Oh, come on.” I gestured impatiently. “Her dad ran McGee Funeral Home. Sleepover in third grade? Georgianne got trapped in the casket showroom?”
Sariah slapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes going wide. “Oh my God,” she breathed through her fingers. “You’re right.”
“Who else is in there?”
She flicked more beer froth out of her hair and shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s way too many to track. Anyway, they decided it’s Karaoke afternoon and they’ve got half the bar happy to go along for the ride. Apparently, you’re somewhat known here, so we’re getting a pass, but it’s only a matter of time before things go south. You should probably do something about that. I’ve had about all the reunioning I can stand.”
A mighty crash sounded from the bar, even louder than the music, followed by a chorus of hooting laughter. “Fantastic,” I muttered.
I turned away from Sariah, not missing the fact that she kept on going, making a beeline for the elevators. We were dressed roughly the same, more my fault than hers since I rarely deviated from some combination of tank top, hoodie, and jeans—surly attitude optional but highly encouraged. I could pass as her, no problem. I darted forward through the crowd, surprised that the music hadn’t fully stopped, and came face-to-face with a big guy dressed in a suit, all hatchet jaw and hard eyes, looking like he ran the place. Had to be the manager.
“You wanna explain what’s going on here?” he demanded, then he eyed me more closely. “Wait a minute, why is your hair dry? You took a full pitcher of beer to your face not three minutes ago.”
“Hold that thought.” I pushed by him and broke the final knot of revelers, now chanting in excited delight. And there was Mary Clemson Strand, or at least I thought it was Mary Clemson Strand, in the center of the ring of people. It was a little hard to tell since she was doing a handstand while an intrepid volunteer was about to place a full martini glass on one of her Keds-clad feet. Said feet were wobbling precariously in the air, but Mary’s arms were braced taut, her lips clamped tight with focus. I stopped short as I stared at her one-woman display. Seriously, it was kind of impressive.
Then everything shifted.
I felt more than saw the change in the atmosphere, the extra set of eyes trained on me, and not in an admiring way. I’d felt this before not all that long ago, while walking through the streets of Paris. I was being watched in this room. Worse, I was being tracked, and unless I missed my guess, I’d been lured here on purpose. Someone had their eyes on me.