memories I knew shit-all about what I was doing, which meant you’d have to show me. Again. I was an awkward newb and you were some kind of rico suave Don Juan. What if the reality didn’t match up with memory? What if it was just… bad?
“We’re here,” you said, eyeing me closely, as though my anxieties were being broadcast to you in flashing, neon lights.
I glanced out the window. Our destination was a huge tacky tourist place a few blocks away from the Strip. Like the Walmart of souvenir shops. Glitterati was the name of it. Clever.
“This is the place?” I asked skeptically when we’d stepped outside of the cool car and into the dry heat. You’d told me its name and location, not the type of business it was. I’d assumed costume jewelry or maybe menswear.
“Safehouses tend to have a business front, useful in the exchange of money for services that may not fall within human parameters.”
“Money laundering?” I asked.
You gave me the world’s most subdued head nod.
“They also tend to be locations where strangers can pass through without garnering much attention. In addition to serving as messengers and mediums, Malakhim keep their masters abreast of the goings on in their community.”
“Snitches?” I asked. Again, the nod. Azrael sounded like a paranoid tyrant.
“Are you ready for this performance?” You checked me over. Looking for what? Visible weaknesses.
“Let’s do it.”
We walked into the shop, which was overwhelming in both its size and inventory. We bypassed shelves upon shelves of Las Vegas memorabilia and trinkets and headed toward a door that said Staff Only. There was an armed man on the other side of it, lounging in a chair. He nodded when you came in and gave me a quick once-over. I smiled, but the man was about as expressive as a brick.
“She’s in the storeroom,” he said.
I followed you farther down the fluorescent-lit hallway until we reached another door. You knocked lightly, and the door swung open to reveal shelves and shelves of yet more junk.
“Henri,” a woman said. She was barefoot with a long, roomy skirt and a knitted halter top. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and there was a slightly glazed look in her eyes, like she’d just gotten high. The whole room reeked. In the center of it was a small table draped in a tie-dyed cloth, on top of which was—no surprise—a pile of dank weed.
“Are we interrupting your meditation?” you asked.
“No, no, it’s fine.” She motioned us in. “Just getting into the right state of mind. You know how it is.”
Mediums must have very different methods of getting in the mood, because I couldn’t imagine my dad getting high before channeling—he was way too uptight to even use marijuana medicinally.
“Thanks, Cynthia. I appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice. This is my apprentice, Vincent.”
“Hello, Vincent,” she said with a generous smile. I shook her hand, and she led us to an old, worn carpet with large pillows arranged in a circle. She turned on a floor lamp and shut off the overhead light, throwing everything into shadow.
“I’ll see if I can reach him. You know how busy he gets.”
Cynthia crossed her legs, then settled her hands on her thighs and closed her eyes while chanting softly. You squeezed my hand. A moment later Cynthia dropped her head slightly, and her eyes opened with seemingly perfect clarity. The mellow energy she’d had just moments before disappeared, and a new intensity entered the room.
“Announce yourselves,” Cynthia commanded. Her voice had dropped a register and taken on a gravely quality that was absent before.
“Henri Cherusci, my lord. And my apprentice, Vincent Rodrigues of the bloodborn tribe.” You bowed and, not knowing what else to do, I copied your movement.
“It’s been a long time since I last saw you.” The woman—Azrael—turned stiffly toward me. She looked possessed, and I supposed she was.
“Yep,” I said, not at all jazzed about this guy, who seemed like a real dickhead if I’m being honest.
“Has he realized his powers?” Azrael asked you. So much for foreplay.
“Not yet, my lord. We seek your audience for a different matter, in regard to Lena’s incarceration.”
“I can assure you she is contained,” Azrael said.
“Thank you, my lord, but it is something else altogether. My brother Lucian informed us she’s not being offered bloodmeals with any regularity. I’ve come to make an appeal on her behalf.”
Azrael fell silent and the room temperature dropped several degrees.