Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem . . . except, there was something I sincerely liked about him. He was cute, and I found his passion for his work endearing. I loved how he kept getting wrapped up in it, totally consumed and distracted like-Seth.

And there was the problem. This guy was the choreographer version of Seth. A one-night fling with some sleazy guy who meant nothing wasn't cheating in the eyes of our relationship. But for me to go out with a guy I liked, that I found intriguing and attractive in the same way I found Seth . . . well. That was wrong, especially since Matthias was obviously interested in me. It was a strange situation to be in, one I hadn't expected.

"Oh, that would be great, but my friends and I already have plans," I told him. "We're trying to make the most of my trip since it's so short."

"Oh." His face fell a little, then brightened. "But you'll be back for tomorrow's rehearsal, right? It'd be great if you were able to get in the steps one more time before you left town. You know, give you something to practice."

"Sure," I said. "That'd be great."

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of activity. Phoebe joined Bastien and me in a whirlwind tour of Vegas highlights, which included a lot of casino and club hopping. Phoebe and I both donned skimpy, glamorous dresses, playing up our succubus sex appeal to its maximum. We draped ourselves on Bastien's arms, and he swaggered around even more than usual, smug with the envy he got over showing us off.

After hours of this, I was ready for some downtime. Phoebe and Bastien had a quick consultation and decided that if we hurried we could make the late performance of a magic show they knew.

"Magic?" I asked, more than a little tipsy from vodka gimlets. "Don't we live a magic show?"

"Damn near," said Bastien. He was ostensibly still being gallant in offering me his arm, but it was unclear who was really holding whom up. "There's something special about this show, I've heard." There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The three of us made our way to a modest, off-Strip hotel I'd never heard of. It still had alcohol and slot machines in its casino, which was probably all that mattered to most of its customers. Bastien bought us tickets to see The Great Jambini, and we hurried into the small theater-which was about half-full-just as the lights went down. A mediocre comedian did the warm-up act, and soon the star attraction himself came out. He had graying hair and a bright purple silk turban, along with a sequined cape that could have come straight from the wardrobe department at Sparkles. He kept tripping over its hem, which led to my first observation: he was totally drunk. A second observation soon followed, once I realized there were more immortal signatures in here than just mine, Phoebe's, and Bastien's. The Great Jambini was an imp.

He started off with some standard card tricks, receiving half-hearted applause from the audience. These were followed by juggling, which I found remarkable simply because of the concentration it required from someone so obviously intoxicated. He didn't miss a move. I think the other members of the audience shared my opinion because their applause warmed up. Inspired by this, Jambini then made a great show of setting his juggling pins on fire. This brought the applause to a standstill, and some of the people in the front rows shifted uneasily.

"Is that a good idea?" I murmured to my friends.

"It never is," remarked Phoebe.

"What do you mean nev-"

Within thirty seconds after lighting the pins, Jambini had begun juggling . . . and promptly set his cape on fire. People gasped and screamed as he flung it off him onto the stage. Considering its cheap material, I was kind of surprised the cape hadn't ignited faster. He stomped on it until the flames were out, and I saw a few stagehands on the periphery ready with fire extinguishers, just in case. Once the cape was a black, smoldering mess, he lifted it up. A dove emerged from underneath it, flying up into the air, much to the awe and delight of the spectators.

"It was part of the show," I breathed, equally impressed.

"Yup," said Phoebe.

Jambini reached for the dove, which just barely slipped past him. It circled around the room, then swooped low into the audience. Along the way, it sideswiped a woman whose hair was elaborately French braided. The dove's foot got tangled in her hair, and it soon became trapped, beating its wings frantically to escape as she leaped up and began screaming.

"Was that part of the show?" I asked.

"No," said Phoebe in awe. "But it really should be."

Within seconds, the stagehands were out in the audience, where they were able to remove and confine the dove. They escorted the woman off as well, heads bent low as they murmured apologies. The Great Jambini made a flourish-filled bow, much to the delight of the crowd. Everyone loves a wacky mishap.

He performed a few scarf tricks, most of which went off without a hitch, and then came to stand in the center of the stage, face grave. "For my next trick, I need a volunteer." His eyes fell on our corner. "A lovely volunteer."

"Oh, he noticed us," said Phoebe, with a sigh. She raised her hand, along with others in the audience. When I did nothing, she elbowed me until I raised my hand as well.

After a great show of examining all the volunteers, Jambini strode up to our table and extended his hand to me. Bastien and Phoebe whistled and cheered, urging me up. I was a little nervous about being set on fire or attacked by birds, but it was hard for me to refuse an audience. I accepted Jambini's hand and let him lead me up to the stage, while thunderous applause rang out around us.

"Just shape-shift into any outfit that comes to mind," he muttered in my ear, his breath heavy with the scent of gin.

Once we were on center stage, he took the microphone and kicked into showman mode. "Now, my lovely assistant here . . . what is your name, lovely assistant?"

I leaned toward the microphone. "Georgina."

"Georgina. What a lovely name. And so, lovely Georgina, all you have to do is allow yourself to be receptive to the awe-inspiring, truly mystical powers of my magic. If you do, wondrous transformations will occur." I nodded in agreement, and more cheering ensued.

Jambini walked over to his prop table and returned with a curtain attached to a hoop and a handle. When he held it up by the handle, the curtain hung down in a way that created an enclosed cylinder, completely concealing the person inside. I obligingly stepped forward, letting the folds of fabric hide me while Jambini gave a "magical countdown." In those brief seconds, I shape-shifted my sparkly cocktail dress to the first thing that came to mind: my green foil elf dress.

Jambini whipped the curtain away dramatically, revealing me in my new attire. People gasped and clapped with delight, and I gave a bow almost as showy as his. Encouraged by the response, Jambini declared, "One more time." I stepped back into the curtained enclosure and changed this time into black jeans, a silver-sequined top, and a woman's tuxedo jacket. When he pulled back the curtain, the applause faltered a little bit before increasing to a frenzy. I'd seen these types of tricks performed before among those not gifted with shape-shifting, and usually performers simply shifted between loose dresses, items easy to get on and off. My choice of clothing kind of defied the logic of those familiar with how the trick worked. But, hey. This was magic, right?

"Show-off," Bastien told me when I returned to my seat.

"Hey," I whispered back, watching Jambini attempt to swallow a knife. He'd gotten about a third of the way there before he started coughing. With a shrug, he finally gave up and simply bowed to delayed applause. "These people deserve something for their money."

Jambini-or Jamie, as I later learned he was really named-was much more appreciative of my performance. My group met up with him in the hotel's drab bar after the show.

"Switching to pants was genius," he told me, knocking back a glass of gin. I had a sneaking suspicion that the show's actual performance was the longest he went without a drink on a given day. "People are going to be scratching their heads over that one for days."

"Maybe too much," warned Bastien. "You'll make mortals suspicious."

I shrugged, unconcerned. "This is Vegas, baby. No one'll question it. Besides, weirder things happen all the time."

Jamie was nodding along eagerly. "And that tacky holiday dress too? That was great. Really god-awful. You know, if you're moving here, I could totally hook you up with a job as my assistant." He chuckled. "People would probably get more out of seeing you than my tricks."

"That wouldn't surprise me in the least," said Bastien, straight-faced.

"Well, thanks," I said, "but I think I've got more jobs than I need. Phoebe already set me up with something."

"Poacher," said Jamie.

The other succubus laughed as she stirred cherries around in her cocktail. "Hey, I can't help it if I-"

A familiar aura spread through the room, and Phoebe fell silent. We all turned as one, watching as Luis entered the bar. Even mortals, who couldn't feel him like we could, paused and watched him stride through the room. There was just something that powerful and compelling about his dark presence.

"Boss man," said Jamie, holding up his glass in a mock toast. "You just missed my amazing performance."

"I've seen your shows before," said Luis, sitting down and beckoning the bartender over. "I don't think I really missed anything."

"Georgina was his 'lovely assistant,' " teased Phoebe.

"Oh?" Luis paused to place his order and then turned toward me. "Pray tell, what did you do to wow them? Set some scarves on fire?"

"Just some run-of-the-mill shape-shifting," I said modestly.

Jamie started in on his second gin glass. He'd ordered two when we sat down. I guess he didn't want to risk waiting the extra few minutes it would take to pour another. "That trick is always best with succubi. Even with a plant and a prepped costume, it never goes off quite as well. I used to have this girl who worked with me when I lived in Raleigh, and she did okay, but you could tell people knew how the whole get-up worked."

Alcohol was buzzing through me pleasantly, and I'd slowed down my consumption so as not to lose my head. Somewhere in that warm haze, Jamie's words tickled a memory. "Raleigh . . . when were you in Raleigh?"

"I moved from there a few years ago. I was there about . . . oh, I don't know." He took a sip of gin, perhaps to help his math skills. "Not that long. Twenty years. I did some good soul brokering, but really, my talents were better appreciated here, you know?"

"When you were there, did you know a vampire named Milton?" I asked. Remembering my conversation with Hugh while I was in the middle of a cheap Vegas bar was weird-but no weirder than hearing Raleigh mentioned twice this week.

"Milton?" Jamie's eyebrows rose, and some of his good humor dimmed. "Yeah, I know him. Scary son of a bitch. Looks like-"

"Nosferatu?" I suggested.

Jamie nodded solemnly. "How anyone as blatantly vampire as him got by as a covert operative is beyond me."

Phoebe frowned. "Did you say 'covert operative'?"

The waiter appeared then with Luis's drink. Luis motioned for him to stay and glanced around at the rest of us. "Refills? Another gimlet or cosmo? Jamie? You're drinking Tanqueray, right?"

Jamie looked offended. "Beefeater."

Luis rolled his eyes. "That's ridiculous and disgusting. Bring him some Tanqueray."

"No!" exclaimed Jamie. "Beefeater. I'm a purist."

"You have no discrimination," countered Luis. He looked back at the confused waiter. "Bring one of each. We'll have a taste test." The waiter looked relieved and hurried off before someone else contradicted the orders.

"It's a waste of time," said Jamie. "No offense, boss man. You'll see."

Luis was unmoved. "Beefeater's for peasants."

"Jamie," I tried, "about Milton-"

"Peasants!" I don't think Luis could've insulted Jamie more if he'd called his mother names. "Beefeater is a refined drink, for a refined palate. You know I have infinite respect for you, but clearly, despite your years of worldly experience . . . well . . ." Jamie drunkenly groped for an eloquent way to finish his speech. "You're wrong."

Luis laughed, something I couldn't help but think Jerome most definitely wouldn't have done if one of his subordinates said he was wrong. "We'll see, my friend. It's a complex matter really, coming down to an analysis of both base ingredients and the distillation process."

"Jamie-" I attempted again.

"That," declared Jamie, "we can both agree on. And Beefeater is vastly superior in both."

"Give it up, Fleur," Bastien told me in a low voice, eyes twinkling. "You can't compete with gin. Better luck tomorrow."

I started to protest, but further listening to Luis and Jamie's debate told me Bastien was right. Jamie was so fixated on defending his gin's honor that I doubt he would've even remembered me asking about Milton.

"Will he be sober tomorrow?" I asked skeptically.

"No," said Phoebe. "But he's usually a little less drunk during the first half of the day."

The gin arrived, and Luis and Jamie became totally consumed with conducting "scientific" examinations on it, involving scent and surface tension. I didn't really see how the latter made that much of a difference in a taste test, but they seemed to think it was a pretty serious matter.

"Dear God," I murmured, amazed.

Bastien finished off his cocktail. "When things turn serious, it's time for me to leave. What do you say, ladies? Would you like to go search out the clubs for some companionship ?"

"I've got an early day tomorrow," Phoebe said with regret. "I should probably just go home now. But you'll be at practice tomorrow, right?"

"I guess so," I said. "I told Matthias I would."

Despite ostensibly being involved in liquor analysis, Luis glanced over at the sound of the company manager's name. "Oh? Did you arrange the introduction?"

I nodded. "Phoebe got me signed on."

Luis looked pleased. "Excellent. Are you happy with it?"

The question surprised me, but then I remembered his earlier comment upon my arrival, about how he wanted happy employees. "I think so. I think it'll be a lot of fun."

"Good. And what did you think of Matthias?"

That one was really a surprise. "I thought he was nice. Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation," said Luis. I was about to use the interruption to ask Jamie about Milton again, but before I could, Luis effortlessly slipped back to gin science, effectively blocking me from the imp's attention. Tomorrow, I decided.

"You know," said Phoebe slyly. "I could help you find Matthias if you wanted to see him tonight."

Even afloat on vodka gimlets, I still knew the right and wrong surrounding any sort of casual romance with Matthias. If I was going to hook up with anyone while I was here, it wasn't going to be anybody I would ever consider seriously.

I flashed her and Bastien my best saucy succubus smile. "Nah, too tame. I'm not here to settle down yet. Let's find something wilder and do this Vegas weekend right."

Bastien whooped with joy and caught hold of my hand. As he led me away, telling me about "this perfect dance club," I caught sight of Luis's face. He was nodding at Jamie, still seemingly interested in their debate . . . but there was something about the satisfied, knowing smile on Luis's lips that made me think it wasn't just the gin he was so happy about.

Chapter 9.

It wasn't until I landed in Seattle on Sunday evening that the full surreal nature of my weekend in Las Vegas hit me. Being there had felt so . . . natural. I suppose part of that was just having old friends like Bastien and Luis around. Yet I'd been pleasantly surprised at how easily I got along with my newer acquaintances, like Phoebe and Matthias. I'd even grown to like Jamie, though I never did see him after that night. Despite my efforts to find him and ask him about Milton, the imp had remained elusive for the rest of my trip.

And the show . . . how had that happened? I couldn't even get a solid job here in my current hometown, yet hours after walking off the plane in a strange city, I'd landed what was, in many ways, my dream job. By the time we'd finished our second practice, Matthias was already talking about a special part he planned on creating for me, and several of the other dancers were so disappointed at me leaving for a month, you'd think we'd known each other for years.

It had, in spite of my misgivings, been a fantastic weekend.

Reality set in when I walked into my condo. Roman was out, with only a note reading Bowling practice tomorrow night to mark his passage. Naturally, the cats were as happy to see me as always. Scratching their heads in turn, I began to think about the logistics of moving both of them with me across state lines. I'd be taking them away from Roman, whom they loved, but there was nothing to be done for that. He couldn't come with us. As a nephilim, he was in constant danger of being hunted down by other immortals, and it was only Jerome's protection that allowed him to have a seminormal life in Seattle. Roman certainly wasn't going to give that up, and besides, Las Vegas was probably the worst place in the world for him to attempt to hide out.

A vase of pink-tipped white roses sat on the kitchen table, filling the air with sweetness. I opened up the card and read Seth's scrawled writing: Welcome home. I've been counting the minutes.

-S I texted him that I was back and received an answer urging me to come over to Terry and Andrea's for dinner. After leaving a note for Roman assuring him I'd be at practice, I headed out, my mind still spinning with more of the consequences of moving. The condo. I'd have to sell it. Unless I wanted to rent it to Roman? Hell would likely compensate any moving costs, but it'd be up to me to start making the actual arrangements now for things like movers and whatnot.

I was good at making plans and organizing things, but all of my skills were useless against the one thing I wanted to bring with me to Las Vegas the most: Seth. I still had no solution for what to do with him.

I was met with the usual outpouring of love from his nieces when I arrived, just in time for a chaotic family dinner. With the additional family members, they'd given up any pretense of eating at the kitchen table and had simply taken their paper plates and homemade pizza off to the living room. The casualties of food and furniture were ones Terry and Andrea were long since used to, but Margaret couldn't focus on her dinner for fear of constantly watching the girls and what she perceived as imminent tomato-stained disaster.