“I can already tell you’re going to be good for me, Chaz. Round out my vowels, firm up my t’s.… What brings you so far from home?”

  “I’m here on holiday. I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas.”

  “That’s a long flight,” Lamb says. “Did you fill your shampoo bottles with O-negative—or make intimate friends with the person sitting next to you on the plane?”

  I laugh, hoping it’s at least partly a joke. “I fasted. It helps with the jet lag.”

  To my relief, he laughs, too.

  “You must have made the trip yourself,” I say.

  “Indeed. Though it was a long boat ride then.” He takes a drink. “Next time”—he nods at the door—“wrangle an invitation before you drop into a party. You know how we are, no one around here trusts a new face. And you’re ‘new’ for at least the first hundred years.…”

  “Shame that I’ve only got two weeks before I’m due home.” I take a drink, first trying hard not to gape. (Hundred years? Boats? Did he come over on the Titanic?) And then trying harder not to gag. (What the devil am I drinking, lamp oil?)

  I mean, I’ve wondered, of course I’ve wondered—do vampires grow old? Can they live forever?

  How old is this Lamb? He looks older than me—30, maybe 35. Could he be one hundred and thirty-five?

  I try to steady myself. Keep it light, Basilton. Keep it casual.

  “So why did you decide to talk to me?” I ask him, not ready to look up from my drink. “Was it pity? Or is it your job to send me on my way?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I appreciate a new face.…”

  I look up and meet his eyes.

  He’s waiting for that—he smiles. “So. You have two weeks to sample our famous Las Vegas charm.”

  I nod.

  “Honestly, Chaz, I don’t know why you’d ever go home. I haven’t.”

  “Is it so good here?”

  “It is, in fact.” He rolls his wrist, idly watching the ice bob in his drink, and watching me, too. “But what I meant was—it’s so very bad there.”

  “When did you leave?”

  Lamb shakes his head. His hair follows half a second behind. “A long time ago, when the magicians were just getting organized, before they’d decided our kind couldn’t be tolerated.” He looks pained. “I remember hearing, back in the fifties, that there wasn’t a single one of us left in the UK—that Old Man Pitch had driven us out, like Saint Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland. More than a few Brits washed ashore in those days. I met a man from Liverpool who hitched a ride on a frigate and swigged down the whole crew, one by one, across the Atlantic.”

  My chin has finally dropped. I struggle and fail to lift it.

  Lamb flips his hair out of his blue eyes. “Imagine the discipline and forethought that required—the timing!”

  “Well,” I say, “now I feel much less heroic about my eight-hour red-eye.” It’s very hard to be droll when your head is exploding. “Old Man Pitch”—that’s my great-grandfather, it must be. I’ve never met him, but—

  “I’ve heard that it’s eased up since then,” Lamb says. “We get more news these days. You know, the Internet.…”

  “It’s eased a bit,” I say, “yes.”

  He draws nearer to me. “But the mages still have you under their thumb, don’t they? The stories we hear…” He looks stricken. “Underground clubs, raids, fires.”

  “It’s not so bad. If you keep your head down.”

  Lamb looks sad for another moment, then leans in a bit more, tipping his head up to meet my eyes. “Well. Lift that chin, my friend. You’re in America now.”

  I laugh and use it as an excuse to step back. “How different can it be?”

  He laughs with me, standing straight again and waving his arm. “Look around. Las Vegas is ours. And you’ll find our brethren in all the major American cities.”

  “The mages don’t mind?”

  “Our mages stick to themselves. They might get involved, individually, if we start affecting population numbers. But this is a big country, full of Bleeders. Frankly, the Bleeders—do you still call them Normals?”

  I nod.

  “The Normals are more of a threat to themselves. The magicians here are more worried about guns than they are about vampires.” He looks at my face again. “Are you sure you’re not thirsty?” Lamb’s face is almost pink, his lips are nearly red. He must be sloshed.

  “You act like the taps run red.” My voice is light—thank Crowley. “Do you keep Normals in the minifridge?”

  “This city is a minifridge. It’s like nothing I imagined in the old country. A city of our own, Chaz, can you believe it? A capital!”

  “The whole city?”

  Lamb nods, his face glowing with satisfaction. “Though we stick to the Strip mostly. Why would we leave? These four miles are overrun with tourists, three hundred sixty-five days a year. Most of them come here to lose their mind and do terrible things—bachelor parties, sales conventions—we practically provide a service.”

  “And the locals don’t notice?” I ask.

  “Notice what?”

  “The … bodies.”

  “If they do, they blame other things. Organized crime.” He raises his eyebrows. “The opioid crisis. But most of us are more careful than that. No need to leave a corpse when you can leave a satisfied customer, you know?”

  I must look like I don’t. (I don’t.) Lamb narrows his eyes at me. “Chaz,” he chides. “Surely in London, you don’t drain them all dry.”

  I still don’t know what he means. Is something else possible? Can these vampires drink—and stop? Do they Turn everyone they touch?

  I shrug. Nonchalantly, I hope. “We can’t afford witnesses.”

  “No. I suppose you can’t.…” His face is long. His small mouth is pursed. He looks haunted.

  “I apologize,” I say. “I’ve offended you.”

  “No.” He rests his hand on my arm. “I forget myself. I forget what it’s like to live in fear and shame. It’s been so long since I’ve walked in the shadows.” He squeezes. “I hope you get a taste of freedom here, Chaz. This is a place where you can exult in who you are, not fear it.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Take a walk with me?”

  * * *

  If a vampire invites you to a second, darker, lonelier location, don’t go. That’s just common sense.…

  … unless you’re already a vampire.

  What’s the worst that can happen? Lamb could kill me, I suppose. He probably knows all the ways a vampire can die.

  But I need information, and he’s the only one talking to me.

  The heat was unbearable when we arrived in Las Vegas this morning, and the sky was so bright, I couldn’t open both eyes at the same time. But now that the sun is down, the night is warm and pleasant. I’m perfectly comfortable in my jacket. And Lamb seems fine in his cream-coloured suit. He seems more at ease than I’ve ever felt around Normals.

  He’s giving me an insider’s tour of the Strip, pointing out each casino. Telling me what used to be there and what replaced it. Running down the highlights. The architecture. The infamy.

  “All right, just about … here,” he says, and stops in front of yet another grand façade, this one with a dark reflecting pool. “Some people miss the old days, before the tourists and Cirque du Soleil and celebrity chefs. Ring-a-ding-ding, et cetera. But Vegas only gets better for me.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Since the beginning.”

  “When was the beginning?”

  “Oh eight,” he says. “Nineteen oh eight. It took me almost three hundred years to make my way here from Virginia.” He’s smiling at me, face wide open.

  I shake my head. I’m sure I look as dumbfounded as I feel. “But you’re so—”

  Lamb stops. His hands are in his trouser pockets, and his head is tilted. He keeps looking at me like I’m something that needs to be examined—and smiled at—from all directions. “I’m so what, Mr.—what’s your last name?”

  I can’t tell him my last name, and I can’t think of anything that rhymes. “Watford,” I say.

  “Charles Watford. Even your name makes me homesick. Go on though, I’m so what—impressive?” He smiles. “Learned?”

  Alive, I think.

  “Open,” I say. “About … well, your history. Your…” I shrug again. “You don’t know me.”

  “But I know what you are,” he says. “And you know what I am. I have plenty to hide—but not that.”

  I nod. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “And you have plenty to hide, Chaz. Obviously. But not … that.”

  He’s right. I’ve given him a fake name and false pretences, but he knows the truth about me. The truth even my immediate family won’t look in the eye.

  “I keep waiting for you to notice,” he says.

  “Notice what?”

  He touches my shoulder and gently spins me around, so I’m facing the pavement. There are people everywhere, even though it’s well after midnight. Everyone dressed up in after-midnight clothes. Everyone a little tipsy. Everyone …

  It takes my breath away when it hits me:

  In every group of people, there’s someone moving too smoothly, someone’s face shining pearl-white in the spinning lights. With Normals. Without Normals. In twos and threes. In their element. A man looks down at me from a Cadillac Escalade and flashes a bloodless grin.

  Lamb’s voice is just behind my ear. “Our town,” he says. “Yours.”

  I turn to face him. His eyes are wide and playful, and his tongue is pressed behind his front teeth, as if he’s waiting for something. Still waiting for me to catch on.

  Suddenly, there’s the sound of a violin playing, hot and sweet, all around us. A hundred jets of water erupt behind him. And then a hundred more. It’s spectacular!

  Lamb is watching the show on my face. He laughs again, as easily and as openly as he’s done everything so far.

  * * *

  We’re drinking milkshakes, and I’m feeling wobbly. “Is there alcohol in this ice cream?”

  “There’s alcohol in everything,” Lamb says. “And you are the only one of us I’ve ever met who can’t hold his drink.” He’s giggling so much, he’s blowing bubbles in his milkshake.

  I start giggling, too, sliding off my stool. (It’s covered in fur. Most impractical.) I fall into the Normal sitting next to me. (He smells delicious. Milk-fed.)

  Lamb takes my arm. “Come on, Prince Charles, you need a drink.” He drags me out of the ice-cream bar—but it isn’t really dragging because I’m happy to go along. This is the best night out I’ve had in America.

  This is the best night out I’ve had.

  I don’t really go out back home. Simon and I don’t. (The wings, you see. And the fact that I hate drunk people.) (I really do. If I were sober, I’d hate myself right now. What a bore.)

  Lamb’s got me by the hand. And then he’s got another man by the hand. A Normal bloke wearing a hockey-themed baseball cap and a football shirt. He’s drunk, too—boring!—and we’re all dancing. There’s music playing wherever you go on the Strip. Outside feels like inside. Lit up like a ballroom, speakers hidden in the trees.

  The song is about a place called Margaritaville. I’ve never had a margarita. I should get one in a milkshake. Lamb pulls the man—and me—into a nook, not quite an alleyway, between two bars. The Normal struggles for just a second, then Lamb’s not-so-small-now mouth is on his throat.

  The man’s neck goes limp. His head droops back, his hat falls off. His eyes immediately glaze over. I’ve seen that face on a deer before.

  Lamb swallows deeply. He’s still holding my hand. “Chaz,” he says, stopping to take a breath, “come on.” He pulls me closer, the man sandwiched between us—the fragrance is irresistible. My fangs have dropped. There’s no room in my mouth for my tongue.

  “I—I can’t,” I say.

  “You can.”

  “We’re in public.”

  “I promise it doesn’t matter.” He tugs the man’s head back, exposing even more of his neck to me.

  I turn away from them both, dropping Lamb’s hand. “I can’t.”

  Then Lamb’s on me—he’s let the man go—pinning me against a wall, his hands on my shoulders. His hair is covering one of his eyes completely and tickling my nose. All I can think about is the blood on his breath. “Who are you?!” he demands.

  “I told you.” My wand is in my jacket. I might be able to cast a spell. Maybe I could overpower him—

  “What’s your name?” he spits. Maybe spitting blood. I don’t lick my lips. I don’t. He presses his forehead into mine, crushing my head against the stone wall. “What’s. Your. Name.”

  “Baz,” I growl, wrenching my head away from his, to the side. “What’s yours.”

  “Lamb will do.” A flicker of fire appears at my shoulder. He’s holding a lighter. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

  “I already told you, I’m on holiday.”

  He brings the lighter closer to my hair.

  “I’m looking for the Next Blood!” I say. It comes out too loud.

  Lamb lets go of me, stepping back. His hand and the lighter are hanging at his side. “Oh, Chaz. Not you, too.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He starts to walk away.

  “Lamb!”

  “You won’t find them here,” he says over his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

  “But you know where they are!” I’m running to catch up with him.

  “Everyone knows where they are.”

  I grab his arm. I’m still a little drunk, to be honest. “I don’t. I don’t know where they are. And they have my friend.”

  He stops and looks at me, pouting thoughtfully. “That’s true,” he says.

  “It is true.”

  “It’s the first true thing you’ve said to me.”

  “Lamb—help me. Please.”

  He studies my face for another beat, without a hint of sympathy, then cuts his eyes to the side. “Not here.” He pushes my hand off his sleeve. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Lotus of Siam.” He’s already walking away, barely glancing back at me. “Now go get something to drink.” And then he’s disappeared into the crowd.

  I stumble around for a minute, trying to remember which way we came from. I’m surrounded by landmarks, but they all feel the same. Lamb’s right. I need a drink. Something. Rats. I haven’t seen any rats.… I’ve seen a lot of little dogs riding around in handbags.…

  I lean forward with my hands on my knees. Get a grip, Basil. Breathe. I close my eyes and inhale. The world smells like blood and alcohol, like milkshakes and burnt popcorn—

  My head jerks up:

  Simon Snow is standing half a block away from me. His wings are gone, and his hands are stuffed in his hip pockets. He isn’t smiling.

  I pull my mobile out of my jacket. It’s dead.

  45

  SIMON

  The first ten minutes of surveillance were endless. After Baz got into the party. He wasn’t talking, no one was talking. What if he’d already been rumbled? What if they’d already snapped his neck?

  But then there was a voice—“Hello”—and a name—“Lamb.” And wasn’t Baz being so slick? I grinned at Penny. “He’s good,” I said.

  “He’s going to be fine,” she agreed.

  “We should have gotten him an invitation,” Shepard said. “Or faked one.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Next time we infiltrate a vampire enclave, I’ll remember that.”

  Shepard frowned. “Isn’t that exactly what we’re planning next?”

  “Shhh,” I said. The vampire was talking to Baz about England. Raids and fires.

  Penny sneered at the phone. “Oh, come off it. It’s not genocide. You’re the genocide.”

  I shushed her again.

  “Baz should bring up the Next Blood now,” Shepard said. “While they’re talking about American vampires.”

  But Baz didn’t bring it up.

  He kept the conversation dancing—and then he left. He left with the vampire.

  “No,” I said to the phone.

  Penny groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Basilton.”

  Even Shepard was shocked. “Never go to a second location with an untrustworthy Maybe—that’s rule number one! Or maybe rule number two. It’s a top-five rule!”

  “We have to trust him,” I said. “He’s there, and we’re not. He’s reading the room.”

  “Maybe he left because he didn’t want to be in a room with fifty vampires,” Penny said.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “The odds are better if he leaves.”

  “The odds aren’t good anywhere in this city,” Shepard said.

  “Going down?” we heard Baz say.

  “Good man.” I punched the bed. “Keep telling us where you’re going.”

  “Going out,” Lamb replied.

  After that, Baz didn’t have to tell us where he was going—because his new friend Lamb narrated every step.

  Two hours later, Penelope was lying down on the bed, eating champagne-flavoured jelly babies from the minibar. “Welcome to the Vampire History Walking Tour,” she said. “Would you like an audio guide?”

  Shepard was taking notes on a hotel notepad. “What?” he’d said when Penny tried to take it away. “These aren’t your secrets. They’re his.”

  I was pacing. I couldn’t really process any of the interesting facts about the Luxor Casino or how vampires were key to desegregating the Strip in 1960. All I could hear was the constant flirting. The “Chaz, this” and the “Chaz, that.” Lamb’s voice was getting louder—closer—by the minute. And Baz was just letting it happen! Baz was playing along! He wasn’t saying much, but I could hear him laughing.

  Penny threw a jelly baby at me. “Relax, Simon. We have to trust him, remember?”

  Lamb showed Baz fountains and lights. They went up in a Ferris wheel. They had burgers and milkshakes.

  “If nothing else,” Shepard said, “this is a great first date.”