Dracul (15 page)

Our hotel is covered in mirrors—the hallways, the elevators—every vertical surface reflects my image back at me, reminding me to smile, stand up straight, and look confident. I check myself to make sure I’m not wobbling in the unfamiliar heels as I walk.

I’m doing this. I look the part.

Constantine did an amazing job picking out my dress. The halter-style neck shows off my shoulders, which are sculpted and fairly enormous for a female. Once, my freshman year, I was playing a game of Twister with some petite girls, and they mistook my right arm for a leg. It totally freaked them out when they realized there was a hand on the end instead of a foot.

Even in human form, I’ve always been a bit of a freak.

But in this dress, which hugs my curves graciously before flowing in swooshy waves of chiffon to my feet, my arms don’t look like legs. They look statuesque, like strong, beautiful arms.

And hopefully they’re distracting enough to keep everyone at the blackjack tables from noticing the calculating look behind my smiling eyes.

I spot Felix and Constantine each playing at different tables, but within each other’s line of sight. True to plan, I find an open spot at a table where I can see each of them clearly.

Then I don’t look at either of them again, but focus on the game in front of me, on making bets and not worrying about losing money while I count cards.

And yes, I am losing money, but that’s a price Constantine is willing to pay in exchange for knowing which tables are hot.

And mine is getting hot.

I glance his way, but his eyes are on his table, which is not even the same table he was at when I first came in. For a second I look around the room, checking for bats, for vampires, for guys watching me. There appear to be several of the latter—either checking me out because I look good, or because they work for security and they’re watching to be sure I don’t make any sort of visible signal, or because they’re secretly vampires.

Not that I have anything to fear from any of those, as long as I keep my head and play my part correctly.

I can see Constantine’s reflection in one of the many mirrors.

He meets my eyes, and instantly I know he’s on his way over.

The tiniest flush rises to my face—I can see it in my reflection.

“Madam?” The dealer prompts me to make my bet.

Right. I place my standard twenty dollar bet. I need to pay attention to the game, not to the tall, dark, and handsome vampire making his way slowly toward our table. Constantine is wearing a bored expression and looks at the other tables as he passes, as though he can’t even decide if it’s worth his time to bother to play.

He reaches our table in time for the next hand, and puts down a five hundred dollar bet.

That’s what hot tables are for, right?

Chapter Fifteen

Whether it’s his personal charisma or the size of his bet, Constantine has the attention of everyone at the table. He politely returns the smile of the petite blond next to him, who I’m pretty sure is supposed to be with the grumpy middle-aged guy who’s been losing money nine hands out of ten. If the man’s not a Texas oil magnate, he’s at least trying to look like one. Though right now, he’s looking at the way the blond is looking at Constantine, and giving Constantine a less-than-friendly look of his own.

The guys who were checking me out earlier are now watching Constantine as well. This might help me to understand their motivations…although, if they watched me watch him walk toward our table, they might be watching him for the same reason the oil magnate is watching him.

Some people are here to win more than just money.

I’ve got to do a better job of pretending to be oblivious.

Constantine wins his first hand and murmurs, “Perhaps I have found a table worth playing.”

The blond next to him responds with a giggle, and the oil magnate, a frown.

According to our plan, I am to stay at the table for a while to minimize any suspicion that I may have deliberately traded places with Constantine. Even without that reason, I don’t think I could walk away right now—and not just because my feet are starting to resent these shoes. No, it’s just fascinating to watch Constantine play.

I’ve mentioned before that he moves with a smooth grace unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a guy my age. I’m sure it’s because he’s not my age at all, but has had centuries to adapt to feeling comfortable in his skin. Since he looks like he’s in his twenties, the contrast is enchanting, the effect doubled every time he smirks, or narrows his eyes in that thoughtful half-smirk he makes when he’s thinking or debating how much to raise his bet.

Besides that, it’s a thrill to watch him play. He’s winning some serious money now—not with every single hand, but enough to draw a small crowd. Sounds of excitement ripple around the table every time he wins, and you can tell who’s rooting for him on the rare hands he loses.

The blonde pouts. The oil magnate snickers.

I’m winning fairly often now, too. Though, according to plan, I’m keeping my bets level to avoid attention—which means I still haven’t made back what I lost while I played and waited for the table to get hot.

Constantine’s winnings, however, will far more than make up for my earlier losses.

And so the evening goes. By the time I get back to the suite, I’m ravenous and my feet are screaming. I’m flipping through the room service menu when Felix returns.

“I need steak,” he announces, tossing his blazer over the back of a chair.

“Me, too. And I don’t feel like waiting. What do you say we find a buffet with some meat on it?”

“Are we allowed to be seen together?”

“I’ll change clothes and put my hair down. It will be like I’m a completely different person.”

Felix agrees. We’re halfway through gorging ourselves at a very fine buffet when he mumbles past a rack of ribs, “Don’t look now, but there’s a guy in a silver jacket watching you.”

“Silver jacket?” I force myself to act casual and continue peeling the breading off my fried shrimp. (I’m not a fan of breading or bread or pretty much anything that’s not meat. It’s a dragon thing.) “Behind me?”

“Third booth over from the corner. He watched you fill your plate and sit down, and he keeps looking over here.”

“I need more cocktail sauce,” I announce, perhaps a little too loudly, and stand. With a bored glance, I take in the entire room, spot the silver jacket guy, and then walk slowly and purposefully toward the place where they keep the cocktail sauce. Fortunately I have to wait my turn, so that gives me another opportunity to glance idly around the room.

I all but lock eyes with the silver jacket guy.

He is totally looking at me.

And he looks familiar.

“I’ve seen him before somewhere,” I tell Felix softly when I slide back into my seat. “Can’t place him, though. Was he watching me play blackjack earlier?”

“I didn’t notice him until now.” Felix picks through the last of his barbecued ribs, purposely not looking toward the man.

“I’m going to try to get another good look at him before we leave, so I’ll be sure to recognize him if I see him again.”

Felix glances up, and his eyes dart from the booth beyond us, around the room, and back to me. “Too late. He’s gone.”

*

Saturday morning I sleep in. That afternoon, Constantine teleports into our suite, thanks us for helping him win so much money the night before, and asks us how things are going.

Felix tells him about the guy in the silver jacket.

“Describe him,” Constantine requests with a frown.

“Middle-aged. Receding hairline. He was sitting down, so it’s hard to say how tall he is. Average build.”

“You have described any of a hundred men I saw last evening.”

I defend Felix’s description. “There wasn’t anything distinctive about him. He just looked like a guy.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Constantine asks us both.

“Yes.” Felix answers.

Sure,
he
was sitting where he could watch the guy watching me.

“Probably not,” I admit regretfully.

“We need to keep her in our line of sight at all times this evening,” Constantine informs Felix. “It may be nothing. He may simply think you’re a lovely young lady, and that may be the sole reason for his attention. Or, he may work for security and suspect what we were up to—by that point in the evening, my winnings were high enough I imagine security may have investigated my activity.”

“But there’s nothing to connect us to you,” Felix insists.

“I knocked on your door yesterday, and you let me in,” Constantine reminds us. “It was brief but unavoidable.”

“And I watched him walk over to my table to play.” I can feel the blush rising to my face even as I admit it. “I should have looked back to my table, but I was so focused on him, I forgot about me.”

“I didn’t realize you were watching me.” Constantine searches my face as he speaks.

What is he looking for?

Rather than look away now, I study him for some clue. For all the information he’s given me, this man is still a mystery.

His eyebrows rise by millimeters, inviting me to ask the questions he can surely read on my face.

There is one question that’s been burning inside me ever since he explained about the four kinds of vampires. He might teleport away, or refuse to answer, but I still have to ask. “Which kind of vampire are you?”

“Which kind do you think?”

“Probably not one or two,” Felix jumps into the conversation. I know he’s been wondering the same thing—we’ve shared our guesses when Constantine wasn’t around. “You’re biologically immortal, but you said you don’t drink blood.”

“You will recall that I told you there are subcategories among the four types I identified,” Constantine begins slowly.

“Yes?” I prompt him when he falls silent for a long moment.

“I am a peculiar kind of sub category. Closest to the fourth type, I suppose. It is a long story, and we need to get ready for tonight. We had a late start last night because of your flight. Tonight has greater potential.”

“What about the guy in the silver jacket?” Felix asks.

“If you see him, try to communicate his location to me and to your sister—but don’t draw attention to yourself. So far he is only watching.” Constantine rises to leave. “I want you to keep an eye on Rilla at all times once she leaves this room. I don’t care if people connect the two of you. This is our last night here, and we’ll play elsewhere on our next visit. You fly back tomorrow afternoon. We have two goals tonight—win money, and stay safe. Your safety is my highest priority.”

Even though his parting words sound like the kind of catchphrase that gets bandied about by politicians and corporations, the way he looks at me when he says it, I don’t doubt he’s sincere.

Maybe even more than sincere, if that’s a thing.

The look stays with me long after he’s teleported away, as I’m doing my makeup and styling my hair into long bouncy curls, and finally slipping into the amazing sparkly blue dress, which fits me in a way that makes me think Constantine has been paying far more attention to my figure than I’d thought, because my curves aren’t exactly easy to fit, and yet, the dress feels as though it was made for me.

Constantine even included some fancy-pants jewelry in the accessories bag—coordinating bracelets and a necklace, which I’m going to assume are made with fake stones, because otherwise, yowza. Even fake, they were probably expensive.

Strappy sparkly shoes and a silver handbag complete the look.

Felix frowns when I step into his side of the suite to announce I’m ready.

“Dad wouldn’t approve.”

“Of what?” I pretend to not know what he’s talking about. “It’s really
not
low cut. Just off the shoulder. Those are two completely different things.”

“Dad would not approve,” Felix insists, but rises anyway. “It’s going to take both me and Constantine to keep an eye on you.” He rolls his eyes as he heads for the door. “No wonder he wanted to see you in that dress.”

I’m not going to lie. I feel like a total princess in this dress. Technically, I
am
sort of a princess—the daughter of a dragon king. But since nobody outside of our village in Azerbaijan recognizes my father’s rule, the princess thing is usually a moot point.

So dressing like an actual princess is a rare treat. It’s no trouble to walk tall tonight. This dress demands good posture.

Feeling like a princess is the good part.

Having lots of eyes on me is the bad.

Much as I’d love to believe the glances are due to my dress and how beyond fabulous I look, I’d have to be delusional to attribute them all to that. For one thing, the guy in the silver jacket is back. He’s not wearing the silver jacket tonight—it’s navy blue—but it’s the same guy. I’m pretty sure, anyway. Felix communicated as much with the tip of his head and darting eyes.

The other bad part is that my tables are cold, cold, cold for the first few hours. Felix got something sort of hot and Constantine joined him for a while, but I’m pretty much the freshman seminar textbook example of why gambling is a bad idea. I don’t think I shelled out this much money buying textbooks the last eight semesters combined.

And the guy-in-the-navy-blue-jacket-formerly-known-as-the-guy-in-the-silver-jacket is still watching me, which I am trying to pretend I’m oblivious to, which is getting more difficult. How long can a woman logically ignore attention like that? I’m trying to put off an I-know-I-look-stunning-and-therefore-expect-to-be-stared-at vibe, but it doesn’t come naturally to me. Because of navy-blue-jacket-guy’s stares, I’m keeping communication with Constantine and Felix to a minimum.

Finally, I join a table just as the dealer is starting fresh decks, and I get in counting early enough to know the table is heating up, slowly but surely. It’s the surely part that keeps me there in spite of additional, unwanted stares.

These are coming from a guy across the table who’s placing bigger bets than I am (not the navy blue jacket guy—a new guy). Honestly, this guy’s not bad looking, if a little old for me. It’s just the way he’s looking at me that makes me uncomfortable. That, and the not-quite-pickup-lines he lobs my way in place of small talk.

“Nice…cards.”

“I think the dealer likes you more than he likes me.”

“I’m thinking of finding another table. Care to join me?”

Honestly, I’d love to leave, but the table’s getting hot. And I’ve waited so long for a hot table, and besides that, I’m a dragon. I can handle being hit on by a not-bad-looking guy—who, by the way, has yet to leave to find another table.

The man seems to be interpreting my continued presence at the table as some sort of permission to continue his awkward flirting, in spite of my lack of audible responses and the I’m-barely-tolerating-you polite half-smiles I’ve flashed his way.

But the count is getting better with nearly every deal, so I stick it out. Once I’m convinced it’s worth his trouble, I shoot Constantine a meaningful glance, then look away and trust him to find the table without my eyes following him.

When he arrives, he has the petite blond from the night before right behind him.

The oil magnate is nowhere to be seen.

Lovely.

Thanks no doubt to the tedious flirtations from the not-bad-looking guy, a couple of players have just left the table, leaving a space open next to me.

Constantine takes it.

The blond hovers, not playing, just behind him and the player to his right.

Then an empty space, then the flirting guy.

To my left is a spunky, white-haired woman who chirps with audible excitement whenever she gets a hand she likes. At first, I thought maybe she was deliberately trying to throw us off, but after watching her play for some time now, I’m convinced she’s utterly transparent.