Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“Hand it over.” Mance extends his hand, palm up. His face turns to stone as he stares Tristan down from the mountaintop, triumphant before the battle’s even begun. “A precious item for a precious deed.”
Tristan stares at that outstretched palm.
He remains still.
“You want that mortal to stay alive real bad, don’t you?” asks Mance, voice taunting. “The one whose face and name you thought of a hundred times for a hundred hours for a hundred beads in that belly of yours …? You care about him so damned much, don’t you?”
Tristan’s eyes remain glued to his discolored palm, the dark greyish fingertips. Yes, says Tristan. I want him to stay alive, so he can … fulfill a bigger purpose …
“Ain’t that the greatest lie of all,” grunts Mance, “that any one of us has a fuckin’ purpose. All we live to do is eat, shit, and fuck. No sleep for the wicked, and boy, don’t I know, ain’t no one safe from being a little wicked.” He wiggles his fingers. “As soon as that tube sits on my palm, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
You may as well ask me to place my heart on your palm.
“Let’s not play with each other. Ain’t neither of us got one. I’m keepin’ the blood for collateral. To ensure you don’t walk me and my scary-ass friends into a trap. To ensure you keep your goddamned word for once, you slippery little minx you.”
Tristan closes his eyes. Instinctively, his hand moves to the breast pocket of the beige-and-lime patchwork coat he wears, the pocket with a subtle bump in the shape of a test tube.
“Keep your word,” says Mance, voice level, casual, sincere, “and on my daughters’ souls, I swear I’ll keep mine.”
With his eyes still closed, Tristan pulls out the tube, holds it in his hand for three precious seconds, as if wishing it good luck or bidding it farewell for now, then presses it too quickly into Mance’s ice cold palm. Then he lets his eyes open.
Mance closes his fingers around the tube of dark, sinister fluid. “Good boy.” He pockets it at once, then winks. “See you tomorrow night.” And with that, he turns and heads off.
The Ferals slip away as well, sliding into shadows, passing around corners, all of them gone as quickly as they had come.
Tristan frowns. I haven’t yet told you how to get into the House.
“The box was opened, wasn’t it?” Mance calls out over his shoulder. “That’s all I need to do my part. Your contribution was telling me the when. Hey.” He stops at the end of the row of slot machines, smirks back at Tristan. “If this is the real deal, no sweat wasted on this dark blood I’ve got now. As long as it remains safe, your loved one might live as long as you do.”
It’s only Mance and Tristan now. Was that … box enchanted somehow …? Contained a child’s spirit who’s been enslaved to you, now hidden in the walls of the House? Reporting back to you? Are you able to see what that spirit sees? What was in the box, Mance?
“Don’t make me take off all my clothes in front of you, you naughty thang.” He playfully pulls his trench coat closed, then wags his finger at Tristan. “Let me keep some of my secrets.”
You still have all of them, says Tristan, every last one of them. I don’t for a second believe that the vampire who killed your family is still out there. You got them already, didn’t you. Got your vengeance. Do you really need to destroy Markadian, too?
“Cold feet already? Too late, sugar. Plan’s in motion. No take-backsies.” He stops by the exit door. “Bet you’re already excited to watch me kill your boss in full black tie. Don’t worry. I won’t disappoint.”
Then Mance is gone.
And the slot machine bursts into music, jackpot, pouring tokens out of its mouth, a pile on the floor at Tristan’s feet. It keeps ringing and ringing, pouring and pouring.
Tristan closes his eyes, clenches his teeth.
The long walk back down the Strip is considerably more tense. Tristan tries to avoid eye contact with anyone he passes, but now instead of playful, drunken, costumed individuals, he sees monsters. Anyone who is slightly tall is possibly a Feral in disguise. No one is trustworthy. No one is friendly.
“When did the Ferals start organizing? Did you know?”
It’s minutes later that Tristan is back, making his way down the long corridors of the House of Vegasyn, and through every shadow he passes, Wendy speaks to him.
“Your plan makes less and less sense to me,” she says from the shadow of a potted fern Tristan walks by. “You get rid of George, securing your inevitable return to Lord Markadian’s side,” she says from the shadow of a thick red-and-gold striped curtain he passes. “You mollify Ashara by supporting the notion of a joint Lordship in front of the other directors,” she says from the spidery shadow of a chandelier he passes under. “And now you have struck another deal with the witch to take down the very House you are gaining power in, sparing only you, Raya, and the Bloods. Is there a bigger picture I do not see?”