Blood Ties (9 page)

“You've already made it clear how you feel,” Phlox muttered halfheartedly, like she knew it would do no good. “Do I have to remind you that our
‘modern'
ways are the reason you have true grandchildren?”

“And they are special,” Myrandah said with sudden tenderness. “It is nice to have these little ones to nurture and raise. The teens are so independent right from the start. How proud we are when they are off to wild, yet how we still long to nurture them.” She stopped and ruffled Oliver's hair just like Sebastian did … or used to. He hadn't done that in months. Myrandah went on: “But then to see them so infrequently … for what good reason?”

Phlox shook her head like she was exhausted. “Why bother trying to explain it to you?”

“Because Phloxiana knows her word-serpents are folly,” Myrandah spat. “Look at Oliver, a good inch taller than the last time I saw him, and with the weight of the world on his shoulders—”

“All right, that's enough,” Phlox snapped.

“And what about Bane? Dear Bane, who still endures echoes of all that pain, without the power of his elders to support him—”

“What pain?” Oliver asked immediately.

“Mother, I said
enough
!” Phlox's eyes flared turquoise. “I think you've made your point and then some.”

Myrandah looked at Phlox with narrowed eyes, then glanced at Oliver. “Have I?” She turned and trudged ahead. Phlox followed after her.

“Whoa,” Dean mumbled beside Oliver.

Oliver nodded. It occurred to him that Myrandah might be the one member of his family who'd be willing to explain some things to him, if he could find the right moment…

They reached a black iron bridge. On the other side was the massive Mayan pyramid with its cauldron burning at the top, as if the building itself were a smoldering volcano. This was Tartarus. The monolithic building shimmered in the heat rising off the magma river.

“This place is, um, large,” commented Dean.

“It's the center of Underworld life,” said Oliver.

Gusts of hot air blew over them as they crested the bridge. Here there were crowds, and Oliver saw many sharply dressed, tall-standing New World visitors being led around by their stooped Old World relatives. Below, the magma of the river Phlegethon streamed through the canal, glowing orange. Chunks of black crust floated on the surface, cracking apart and re-forming. They passed a child who stood with her back to the canal and threw a
myna
coin over her shoulder. It hit the magma and melted with a hissing jet of flame.

“It's good luck,” Oliver explained to Dean. “It's like when a human throws a coin in a fountain, only better: That wish just sits there on the bottom of the water until it's taken by someone cleaning up or whatever. Wishes thrown in Phlegethon are turned into energy immediately.”

They passed through impossibly tall metal doors and entered Tartarus. Myrandah and Phlox were heading straight into the chaos in front of them, but Dean pulled Oliver to a stop.

“Um,” Dean called over the incredible noise, “I thought you said this was the center of Underworld life.”

“Right.”

“So then why does it look like a giant casino?”

“Because it is,” Oliver answered. Before them stretched an endless floor of slot machines and gaming tables, lined with restaurants, entertainment stages, and fighting cages. Above, more floors of gaming reached the ceiling, which was open at its peak, the round base of the giant cauldron hanging over the space. Thousands of vampires caroused about, shouting and hissing to one another over the near-constant din of bells, game music, and clinking coins. Thick clouds of cigarette smoke hung throughout the room.

“There,” Oliver said, pointing to where Myrandah was hunching down in front of a machine. They made their way over and found her staring blankly at a poker game as if she were in a trance. This machine, like all those in Tartarus, ran on gears and pulleys. The screen was simply a glass pane with the cards flipping on wheels behind it.

With one hand, Myrandah whipped across a line of levers as she chose cards to keep or discard. Pulling a lever made one of the card wheels spin. Her other hand shot in and out of a black leather purse and dropped
myna
coins into a slot.

“I'm going to the bar!” Phlox called over the din.

“Mom, can Dean and I head off on our own?” Oliver asked.

“Spend some time with your grandmother first,” Phlox said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and shot off toward the safety of the bar and a crystal goblet.

Oliver frowned. “How's it going, Grandma?” he asked.

“Three queens' blood!” she shouted as a three of a kind, queens, appeared. “Fortune smiles.” Her gaze stayed on the game. One hand flicked over the levers. The other hand pumped in coins.

Oliver waited another minute, wondering if this was a good time to ask Myrandah about her many veiled comments.

“Curse you, traitor jack!” she shouted at a jack of spades that had appeared on the screen to ruin her flush of hearts.

Maybe not. Oliver turned to Dean. “Let's get out of here and try to find Emalie.”

“Fine by me,” Dean replied. He turned—and slammed right into a stooped old vampire hobbling by. A heavy black bag of
myna
sailed out of the man's hand, slapping to the floor. Coins spilled everywhere—

“
Tsss!
” the room seemed to hiss in chorus, and every single vampire within sight froze still. All eyes fixated on the slur of shiny coins scattered across the red carpet, and a quiet, whispering sound crept from every mouth.

“What's going on?” Dean asked.

Oliver was stuck staring at the floor as well. It was all he could do to reply: “Eighty-one—eighty-two—we have to count,” he managed, “…eighty-nine—ninety—ninety-one…”

“You're kidding,” said Dean.

“Nope … one hundred sixty-three—four—five—six—seven…”

Moments later, vampires around the area began sighing with relief, breaking from their paralyzed poses and moving on, having successfully counted the coins.

“Three hundred forty-eight,” Oliver announced with similar relief, rolling his shoulders.

Soon all the vampires had finished, and when the old man whose coins were on the floor saw the last vampire nod and walk away, he bent down to pick them up.

“So is that a thing with all vampires?” asked Dean as he and Oliver moved into the crowd.

“Yeah,” Oliver replied. “We're doing it all the time.”

“Why?”

Oliver shrugged. “We don't have a choice. It just happens. Vampires are obsessed with counting. It's a weird anomaly, something to do with how our awareness of the forces stresses out our human brain.” Oliver didn't add that it was more than that: it was an obsession that was occupying his brain all the time.

Dean glanced around. “So, like, what are you counting?”

“Everything. Spilled stuff like rice or seeds are the worst. That can take awhile. That's why our house is so organized.”

“I mean,” said Dean, “what are you counting right now?”

Oliver shrugged. “Ask me.”

“How many slot machines in that row right there?”

“Eighty-six,” Oliver answered immediately. He didn't even realize that he'd been counting until he thought about it, and then the information was already there, counted and sorted. “Forty-three poker machines, eighteen nickel slots, nine—”

“Okay, I get it already. You're making my head hurt just talking about it.”

They walked on through the massive room, passing a large iron cage hanging from the ceiling, its walls lined with racks of weapons. By the door were two helmets made of metal, with open holes for faces, but then thick collars that would protect the neck for later feeding. “For humans?” Dean asked.

“Yup,” Oliver replied.

Now they passed a large lounge area with wide leather couches facing a wall of televisions. These TVs were the only modern technology within Tartarus, and they flashed with news footage of wars, elections, famines, floods, droughts, disease outbreaks, and, curiously, the ice sport of curling. To the right of the televisions was an electronic board listing the various bets: the odds of a war breaking out or ending, the over-under on people being displaced by a flood, and the point spread on the current curling end.

They reached a large area in the center of the building that was laid out with gaming tables.

“How m—” Dean began.

“Fifty-four,” Oliver said. “Twenty poker, twenty-two blackjack—”

“Wow…” Dean shook his head. “How do you have time to think?”

“It's just how we're wired,” said Oliver. “It's why we like these games so much. Here, let's play for a sec.” Oliver had gotten a glimpse of a roulette table they were passing. They didn't really have time to play, but Oliver couldn't resist. He sat on a stool at the end of a long green felt table with wooden sides.

“Shouldn't we get to Emalie?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, but…” Oliver could feel his brain relaxing as he surveyed the numbers. They were soothing. What appeared to be random in a game like roulette was often of mystical significance, not that a human would ever be able to tell. They just thought it was about money. And it was about money, but it was also about connections and fate, like a tiny version of how the worlds and forces worked.

At the far end was a double roulette wheel, one circle of black and red numbers spinning above the other. Human roulette had only thirty-six numbers, but this green felt was covered with sixty-four numbers in a four-by-sixteen grid. Eight was an important number to vampires. It represented both good fortune and sacrifice, which made it a key number in many of the gambling games in Tartarus. Vampires on all sides were reaching out and either laying chips carefully onto the numbers or onto the lines and corners between them.

The chips were also different than what humans used.…

“Are those teeth?” Dean asked.

“Yeah.”

“Human?”

“Nah,” Oliver replied. “They're goat. Human teeth are only used on the real high-roller tables.” He produced a small stack of
myna
from his pocket and placed them on the felt.

The croupier, a tall, severe-looking vampire in a white tuxedo who ran the table, noticed Oliver's money and, using a short white stick with a black hawk's talon at the end, slid the
myna
away and pushed back a brass ring holding a meager number of teeth, each of which had a hole drilled through it.

Oliver slid three teeth from the ring and placed them on the table.

“Minimum bet is five,” said the croupier in his low, vibrating voice. Oliver frowned and added two more. He only had ten.

“This will be quick,” he muttered to Dean. He looked out across the sea of numbers, jeweled hands flicking, placing chips here and there—to find a face staring at him. A vampire girl, about his age, with pale lavender eyes. She was standing on the other side of the wheel, her face half in shade beneath the hood of a blue velvet cloak. Her straight, magenta hair just peeked out around her neck. Oliver had a surprising thought:
beautiful.
He looked away as fast as he possibly could.

“No more bets,” the croupier announced.

Every vampire at the table began lip clicking, staring at the table. “Seventy-one,” Oliver said a second later. That was the number of chips in play on the table. Relief spread around the rest of the vampires as everyone finished counting.

The croupier's hand flicked out and tossed a small white ball into the top wheel. It spun, then began to bounce among the numbers. Everyone watched, transfixed.

The ball danced around, then fell through a hole onto the lower wheel, to gasps of disappointment and delight. With a last high bounce, it settled in a number.

“Twenty-eight,” said the croupier. Many vampires hissed angrily.

Dean slapped his shoulder. “Nice!” Oliver had won on the date of his birthday. The croupier was steadily putting sixty-six teeth on a ring, which he then slid to Oliver with his white wand.

“Wow,” Oliver mumbled. He was surprised, excited, and yet distracted: There seemed to be a strong scent of lilacs in the air, overwhelming the pungent cigarette smoke … and there was something dizzying about that scent—

“You're good at the numbers.” Oliver froze. It was a girl's voice, and he knew immediately: it was
that
girl. She had leaned in right beside him, elbows on the table, staring straight ahead. “It's exciting, isn't it?”

Oliver struggled to make words come out as sounds.…

“
I
think so,” the girl said, answering her own question.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed as Oliver continued to malfunction. “Look at that pile of teeth.”

The girl turned and aimed a cold, bothered look at Dean. “That's not what I meant.” She turned to Oliver. “Lythia,” she said simply.

Oliver felt like he'd been speared by her lavender eyes. He finally looked down to see her hand extended toward him. “Um, y-you?”

“Yes, that's my name.”

“He has a name, too,” said Dean, nudging Oliver in the back.

“Right, I'm Oliver. This is Dean.”

Lythia turned to the table. “Will you play again?” Her eyes lit up at the thought.

What was she talking about?
She means the game.
“Oh, right,” said Oliver, noticing that everyone at the table was laying chips again. Oliver grabbed five teeth, then another ten so he would look daring, and started spreading them around.

“Can I pick a number?” Lythia asked. Again, her lavender eyes focused right on Oliver and he found himself feeling curiously broken.

“Sure,” he managed to reply. Lythia reached over and plucked a tooth from his ring. She held it close to her face, gazing at it quizzically. “What do you see, little minion of fate?” Then she cocked her head, like she was listening carefully to the tooth's answer.