Chapter 4

Vesper

The night air hit me like a slap as Kael and I stepped out of the Moonlit Menagerie, his hand warm and possessive on the small of my back. The parking lot stretched before us, dimly lit and half-empty, the kind of place where bad decisions happened and nobody asked questions. Perfect.

"My car's just over—" Kael started, but his words cut off abruptly.

Shouting. Scuffling. The unmistakable sound of someone being shoved against metal.

I turned toward the commotion, my fae instincts prickling with curiosity, and what I saw made me stop dead in my tracks. Three cops had someone pinned against the hood of a patrol car, the man's expensive suit jacket riding up as they wrestled his arms behind his back.

"This is real?" one of the cops was saying, his voice carrying across the parking lot. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"It's not mine!" The man's voice cracked with desperation, high and panicked in a way that would've been funny if it wasn't so pathetic. "I swear to God, I didn't steal anything! I didn't—"

"Save it," another cop snapped, yanking the man's wrists together with more force than necessary. "Caught red-handed with the mayor's Patek, and you want us to believe you're innocent? Do we look stupid to you?"

I moved closer, drawn by the spectacle like a moth to flame, and that's when I got a good look at the man's face. Recognition hit me like a physical blow, followed immediately by a wave of dark amusement that bubbled up in my chest like champagne.

The Maserati guy. Still here. Still holding my stolen goods.

A smile spread across my face, slow and wicked. God, the universe really did have a sense of humor.

The man was still struggling, still protesting his innocence with the kind of desperate energy that made it clear he knew he was screwed. "You don't understand—I was waiting for my friend to come appraise it! I didn't know it was real! Someone gave it to me—"

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard it all before." The first cop was pulling out handcuffs now, the metal glinting under the streetlights. "Come on, let's go. You can explain it all to the judge."

That's when he saw me.

Our eyes met across the parking lot, and I watched the recognition bloom on his face, followed by something that looked almost like hope. His struggling intensified, and he twisted against the cops' grip, trying to point at me with his chin.

"Wait!" His voice went up an octave, desperation making him sound almost hysterical. "Wait, wait, officers, please! I can explain—the real thief is right there! Right there! It's her!"

All three cops turned to look at me. I felt Kael tense beside me, his hand dropping from my back, but I just stood there, meeting their gazes with wide, innocent eyes.

"She hit my car!" The Maserati guy was practically shouting now, straining against the handcuffs. "She gave me the watch as compensation! I didn't know it was stolen—I was just waiting to get it appraised! I swear, I didn't—"

One of the cops looked me up and down, taking in my leather jacket, my emerald hair, my five-foot-nothing frame. Then he turned back to the man with something like disgust on his face.

"You're telling me," he said, his voice dripping with contempt, "that this girl—this tiny little thing—broke into the mayor's office and stole his Patek?"

"Yes! I mean—I don't know how she did it, but—"

"And then," the cop continued, talking over him, "after stealing a watch worth more than most people make in a year, she just... gave it to you? As compensation for a fender bender?"

The man's mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. I could see the exact moment he realized how insane it sounded, how completely unbelievable his story was. His face went from red to white to red again.

"That's..." he started, then stopped. "I... it's..."

"Exactly." The cop shook his head, disgusted. "Come on. Let's go. We've wasted enough time on this bullshit."

"Fuck," the man whispered, his shoulders sagging in defeat as they started hauling him toward the patrol car. "Just my fucking luck."

I stepped forward, making sure to catch his eye as they manhandled him past me. His gaze locked onto mine, and I saw the moment he understood—really understood—what had just happened to him. The helpless rage. The bitter realization that he'd been played from the start.

Slowly, deliberately, I mouthed the words: Told you. It's real.

His face contorted with fury, and before the cops could shove him into the car, he exploded.

"You fucking bitch! You think this is funny? When I get out, I'm coming for you—you hear me? I'll find you, and I'll make you regret the day you were born, you goddamn whore!"

Something cold settled in my chest. The perfect karma had just turned personal.

I stepped closer, letting concern color my voice. "Oh! Officer, I just thought of something—weren't there a few luxury watch thefts at the Bellagio last week? Similar items? Might be worth checking if there's a connection?"

The cop's hand flew to his forehead. "God, I almost forgot about those cases. Good catch, miss. We'll definitely look into it."

"Happy to help." I gave him my most dazzling smile, the one that made my eyes sparkle and my dimples show.

The Maserati guy's face went purple with rage. "You lying cunt! I never—" But the rest of his words were cut off as they shoved him into the patrol car and slammed the door. I could still see him screaming through the window, his mouth forming threats I couldn't hear anymore.

Kael's hand settled on my shoulder as we watched the red and blue lights disappear down the street. "Remind me never to piss you off," he murmured.

I smiled up at him. "Smart man."

"Come on." His hand slid down to the small of my back, guiding me toward the darker end of the lot. "My truck's over here."

---

The Desert Rose Inn wasn't the kind of place you'd bring someone you wanted to impress. The neon sign flickered intermittently, half the letters burned out, and the parking lot was more potholes than pavement. But it had one very important quality that made it worth the dive-bar aesthetics: they didn't ask questions.

Most hotels in Vegas had gotten strict about supernatural registration over the past few years. Show your ID at check-in, and if the system flagged you as non-human, you'd get the extra questionnaire. Purpose of visit. Duration of stay. Are you traveling alone. Do you plan to shift during your stay. It was all technically legal, all supposedly for "public safety," but it was also invasive as hell and designed to make us feel like criminals just for existing.

The Desert Rose, though? The Desert Rose operated on a much simpler principle: cash talks, bullshit walks.

I didn't even wait for the clerk to ask. The moment we walked up to the counter, I pulled out a roll of bills and counted out twice the normal rate, sliding it across the scarred Formica with a smile that said I knew exactly what I was buying.

The clerk—a tired-looking woman with graying hair and a name tag that read "Brenda"—didn't even blink. She just scooped up the cash, counted it with practiced efficiency, and pulled out a room key.

"Room 237," she said, her voice as flat as week-old champagne. "Ice machine's on the second floor. Checkout's at eleven."

No questions about ID. No supernatural registry. No judgmental looks or suspicious questions. Just business, clean and simple.

"Thank you so much," I said, taking the key. "You have a wonderful evening."

Brenda's expression suggested she'd stopped having wonderful evenings sometime around 1987, but she nodded anyway. "You too, honey."