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  Dedication

  For Jeff…always.

  For all my friends who keep hearing “can’t go out and play, gotta write!” and still love me.

  And for all the poor schmucks whom I’ve elbowed while finishing this book on a laptop in too-narrow commuter-rail seats.

  Chapter One

  Taggart Ross took a deep breath, filling his lungs with heated air and his nostrils with a myriad of scents unique to Las Vegas. His nose twitched, even in his wordside form, though a human probably wouldn’t have noticed the subtle movement. His foxside wanted out, wanted to indulge curiosity and explore the source of all the intriguing, if not uniformly pleasant, smells and sights. The wordside was in control now and knew the Las Vegas strip was no place for a fox—but he let the fox senses open up, sort out the new experience with some extra input.

  Underneath all the odors of a large city on a ninety-plus-degree day—hot asphalt, exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, hair products and sunscreen and deodorant that hadn’t lived up to its billing, all layered with food smells from a half-dozen restaurants—the fox caught more interesting fragrances. Greed. Lust. Play and delight and a strange kind of enjoyable stress that grew out of the desperate need to cram months’ worth of backlogged fun and relaxation into a long weekend.

  The air was also scented with interestingly different dark notes of despair, addiction, desperation. Tag felt vaguely sad that humans were feeling such things so strongly that he could smell it as part of the city’s character. His tail drooped, even though it was on the inside. However, long-term despair and desperation were alien emotions to a fox dual, and as for addiction, it was rarely a problem. In a world full of exciting new things to experience, a fox rarely got stuck on one vice for long. The purely human darkness added to the city’s intrigue.

  Underneath all the human smells, the fox could pick out hints of the desert from which the city sprang. Las Vegas might try to pretend nature didn’t exist, but to a fox dual, the dichotomy between the artificial city and the wildness just below the surface only added to the charm.

  Yeah… Tag didn’t care much for cities, but he had a feeling Las Vegas was his kind of town: a city that thrived on games of chance and a show of sex, a city that was all about the shiny surface but held surprising depth underneath. Tag’s ears perked up, though they were hidden inside the wordy form. He shook an invisible tail, preening.

  Sin City humans called Las Vegas, but they had funny ideas about sin. This whole city was a shrine to Trickster, a fox dual’s favorite deity, a holy spot if you played it right. A fox could feel at home here. No wonder Uncle Randolph loved Vegas.

  Only Uncle Randolph hadn’t played it right the last time he was in Vegas. Something that a fox dual couldn’t outwit had gotten to him, and he’d come home to Tennessee as ashes in a metal jar. And what could outwit a fox couldn’t possibly be caught by mere humans.

  That was where Tag came in.

  Tag pulled himself up abruptly before he got lost in the smells, the sights, the experience of the city. He was here to figure out who killed Uncle Randolph, find the clues the normy police were obviously missing.

  He was supposed to be hunting, damn it, but his own distractibility had led him off course. Maybe another time he could come back and enjoy the city in all its loud, smelly, shiny glory. This time, he was here on a mission.

  At least in his distraction, he’d walked in a big circle and had come right back to his hotel. He’d barely gotten checked in before his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Maybe it was time to go in, get himself cleaned up a bit and start seeing if anyone remembered any details about Uncle Randolph’s last visit, the one from which he’d returned as a tin can full of ashes.

  As Tag got ready to go inside, the door of the Excalibur Palace opened. Two tall, leggy blondes strode out, arm in arm. They both grinned flirtatiously at Tag, inviting all sorts of delights with the curve of their lips and the sway of their hips while making it clear with their eyes they wouldn’t follow through.

  Although by the sudden change in the scent of the one with lighter hair, she wouldn’t mind under the right circumstances. Seemingly distracted, she swayed on her staggeringly high heels, bumped into Tag, giggled an apology, then wiggled away.

  An older man followed, watching the ladies in a proprietary way. He grinned and nodded at Tag, and his body language clearly said, “You’re younger and better looking than me—but I’m the one with two hotties.” He hadn’t noticed that the girl had only pretended to stumble so she could palm Tag a business card.

  Nicely done. Tag’s sister Stacy couldn’t have done it more neatly, and she’d learned her tricks from Great-Aunt Selma, a (mostly) retired card shark. Stacy, like Tag, preferred to use her powers only for good or for funny, and he could imagine her using her pickpocketing skills to put a phone number into the pocket of someone interesting.

  Stacy was a fox dual through and through, though. She’d do that only while out with someone else if they both found her target interesting. For foxes, three wasn’t a crowd, and neither was four or five, if the bed was big enough—but they didn’t cheat. It was so much better if everyone you wanted to play with was in on the fun!

  Tag’s agile mind flashed to the joys of a threesome with the two leggy blondes, then to something more complex with their sugar daddy involved too, only making the guy’s looks into something as suave and worldly as his expensive clothes. Nothing wrong with older men, but this one was a bit portly for Tag’s taste, and cowboy boots with a suit were a turn-off.

  The girl who’d come on to him was probably an expensive rent-a-date or trophy girlfriend looking for a little fun on the side—flattering, but not something Tag was going to follow up on. Digging around into his uncle’s death had enough potential for trouble without looking for it in that stupid way. If he had time for playing, Las Vegas had to be full of people of all genders who might enjoy a hookup without complications. He tucked the card into his back pocket unread.

  Still, it made a guy feel good to be noticed. An expensive, pampered woman like that one didn’t make offers to a guy who shopped at Target unless she really liked his looks.

  He reminded himself he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the delights of Las Vegas, unless they were clues.

  Then again, you never knew what might be a clue. The answers might be lurking in some pretty woman’s or handsome man’s arms. Okay, probably not, but given that his uncle flirted indiscriminately, maybe Tag would run into a bartender or waitress who’d remember a charming, older Southern man and unwittingly have a clue that wouldn’t make sense to a normy but might mean something to a Different like Tag.

  Time to get at it, then. Tag adjusted his collar and walked through the door.

  And right into a man who, in the heart of the city, smelled of evergreen and ocean and the blue heat at the heart of a flame, of amber and a sexuality so primal and yet so pure that it made Tag want to fall on his knees in praise of the Lord and Lady at the same time he wanted to fall on his knees and do something far naughtier.

  He looked up into eyes that were both innocent and endless, and felt something snap inside him.

  Probably, he thought weakly, what had snapped was what passed in a fox for common sense. Or maybe it was his heart.

  Chapter Two

  Not human.

  Paul Donovan didn’t even have to think to know that, didn’t have to engage the witch-sight he’d had locked down ever since he’d arrived in this gods-forsaken temple to consumerism. The man had no shields to speak of, and the nonhuman energy danced off him. He didn’t feel dark, didn’t exude an obvious sense of wrongness—but there was no guarantee that the being Paul Donovan sought would. It might be something so far removed from human concepts of right and
wrong that it could kill another sentient being without becoming corrupted.

  Paul had closed his eyes instinctively at the second of impact, fearing what it would do to his already frazzled senses. Now he opened them, gingerly, letting his witch-sight focus for the first time since he’d arrived in Las Vegas the day before.

  He saw a beautiful red fox with intelligent human eyes, and a bright, fresh aura of russet overlaid on top of the man before him.

  Dual.

  Not the killer, then. The killer had struck with magic, though a magic that none of the local Nevada witches or shamans could identify. Duals didn’t have magical abilities other than their shape-shifting. Besides, a predator, if he turned killer, was going to get hands-on, or teeth-on, do something messy and obvious. He wouldn’t use a magic so subtle that the half-fae casino owner had to call in a seventy-five-year-old favor from the Donovan witches to figure out what was going on.

  It was never easy for Paul to batten down his witch-sight once he let it loose, but the bright lights and the fierce energy of all the normal humans in the building was triggering a migraine after just a few seconds. Forcing his witch-sight off, he faked a grin at the dual who’d collided with him.

  A dual whose wordy form made Paul drool, now that he was getting a good look.

  He wasn’t model-handsome, not especially tall, with a wavy reddish-brown ponytail, amber eyes, and a quirky cast to his sharp features that, knowing the fox that lurked beneath his human seeming, Paul could easily place. But his body was perfect, his grin was striking, and Paul’s mind immediately filled with disjointed but explicit images of tangling with the stranger in a fierce, rough-and-tumble mating with no elegance to it but all the passion in the world.

  Paul wasn’t rough and tumble. He was gentle and patient, carefully building both pleasure and magic for his partner. Yet this dual made him imagine fiercer play, almost kinky, though it wouldn’t be clear which one dominated the other.

  His cock stirred. His magic stirred.

  Lord and Lady, when was the last time he’d felt this attracted to a stranger?

  To anyone?

  Paul felt himself turning into an overeager, awkward virgin, the kind he’d never been in real life and would be just about impossible to be growing up in the sex-positive witch culture. Something about this unknown dual made his breath hitch and his cock twitch, made his brain skip and sputter like a vintage vinyl record, made him want to forsake common sense and good manners and simply drag the man back to his room. Hell, behind that incredibly tacky statue of Arthur and Merlin on the other side of the lobby would do. The public aspect would just add to the fun.

  He could see it. Feel it. Smell it, even, smell the earthy, rich odors of rut and sweat and come. Taste salt and semen, feel hands gripping his hair as he sucked…

  Paul forced himself to pull away. “Sorry,” he said, feigning a calmness he didn’t feel at all. He didn’t want to apologize. He wanted to pull the guy closer and kiss him like the fate of the world depended on it.

  Paul knew he could do that too—knew he could make the guy like it while it was going on, even if he was not merely straight but actively homophobic. Paul had a number of powerful magic talents, and red magic, sex magic, was among the strongest.

  He wouldn’t do it, of course. It went against everything he was, everything about magic he’d learned growing up as a Donovan, one of the most powerful—and ethical—witch families in the world. It was wrong even to think that.

  But damn, he wanted to make the guy burn the way he was burning. And he could.

  This was why young witches with a talent for sex magic spent so long being drilled in ethics and morals and good decision-making skills before learning the magic itself. It was too damn tempting to misuse it without even meaning to.

  Speaking of too damn tempting… As Paul stepped away, the sexy stranger moved closer. At least Paul wasn’t the only one to be tempted.

  “My fault entirely.” The fox dual’s accent was smoothly Southern—honey and bourbon and sex. “I just arrived a little while ago, and I’m finding all this”—he gestured around him at the crowded lobby—“distracting.” He smiled in a way that was definitely flirtatious. “Really distracting. I don’t think I’d have missed you otherwise.”

  Pretty bold.

  The guy was a dual. Duals could smell desire, and Lord and Lady knew, Paul must reek of it, because he wanted this stranger like he’d rarely wanted anyone before.

  Paul was a Donovan. He’d been training in red magic since he was a teenager. Sexuality was a thing of gravity and power and pleasure to him, not a source of embarrassment.

  Yet meeting the eyes of the redheaded dual, knowing not with a witch’s knowing but a man’s pure and not at all simple gut instinct that he and the stranger would wind up in bed before long, Paul felt his fair face flushing in a way it hadn’t even when he was a fourteen-year-old virgin.

  “So,” the stranger said. “I’m Tag, Taggart Ross. I just got off a plane from Tennessee, and I’m starving. How about we grab some dinner?”

  Paul found himself saying “Sure” before he even thought about it. He tacked on, “I’m Paul,” as an afterthought. Names would matter more later. Right now, the fierce attraction was all that interested him.

  Except that “later” shouldn’t happen, and the attraction should be tabled. Paul wasn’t here on vacation. He wouldn’t choose Vegas for a vacation even if he’d known the local “scenery” was so easy on the eyes. He couldn’t afford distraction, not with a killer on the loose.

  But he’d been going out to find dinner anyway, he rationalized. Why not enjoy the meal in pleasant company instead of with his own cranky thoughts?

  It might be a lame excuse—but he still headed off with Tag, figuring that if it was a really bad idea, his witch’s intuition would have alerted him.

  He’d been shuffled off to Las Vegas because of a vague prophetic dream and a bargain made by a dead woman. He might as well have a little fun while he was here.

  They walked without talking. On Paul’s side, at least, there seemed no need to make small talk. Maybe there was. Maybe this alluring creature who’d literally crashed into him wasn’t as trustworthy as he appeared, or maybe he knew something he didn’t realize he knew, something that could help Paul solve the mystery that had brought him to Vegas. But Paul couldn’t focus on that greater purpose with Tag so close, filling his senses.

  Paul promised himself he’d have dinner and leave. Maybe get a phone number or a room number, hook up later once his work was done. He wanted Tag, wanted him so badly it was making him selfish, unable to focus on the greater need to fight a supernatural danger.

  Although, right now, his dick, well-schooled though it might be thanks to his years of training in red magic, didn’t think finding a multiple murderer was a “greater need” than finding some kind of sweet, hot relief involving Taggart Ross.

  The goal of finding dinner seemed almost forgotten as they walked, moving with no great purpose yet in sync. Although they hadn’t spoken of it, Paul sensed what was happening: if nothing jumped out as a good place to eat, they’d walk a circle, still not really discussing it, and end up eating late-night room service in bed once they’d had their wicked way with each other.

  Paul liked this non-plan more than he probably should, but maybe a round of sex would leave him clear-headed instead of mindless with lust, as he was now.

  When their aimless walking took them past Nobu at the Hard Rock Hotel, Tag hesitated. His eyes widened. Then he started to move on. The wistful look in his eyes told Paul what to do. “Let’s go here,” he said. “My treat.” From coastal Oregon, he wouldn’t have normally bothered with seafood in the desert, but the Food Network and foodie magazines were among Paul’s few media vices, and he had to admit he too was curious about what had been described as some of the best sushi in America. The fact that it was also described as the world’s hippest restaurant chain would normally make him give it a miss—Paul was allergic to
hip—but in Tag’s company, he’d brave it.

  Tag bristled. “Wait a minute, Paul with the pretty blue eyes. As I recall, I asked you out. So it should be my treat. Although…”

  Just as Paul had suspected. This place was out of Tag’s price range. “Is it all right if it’s really someone else’s treat? I’m here on a consulting gig. I can charge my client for at least part of it.” A little white lie. Mr. Aisling was covering Paul’s expenses in Vegas, but Paul wasn’t going to skirt any lines that might be construed as breaking the rules. Mr. Aisling might be only half fae and lack significant magic of his own, but Paul didn’t want to find out what would happen if he thought he was being cheated. Fae were keen on the value of the Word.

  However, the Donovan family bank account could afford to cover an indulgent dinner for two, after centuries of living simply, investing wisely and occasionally getting lavish rewards for things they’d have done anyway. Not to mention how little they spent on home heating when the family included red witches, fire witches and weather workers. They gave away a lot, but good food, after all, was a gift from the Powers and should be enjoyed.

  And discovering his new friend liked sushi made Paul happy in an entirely irrational way. He’d figured the dual would want red meat, which Paul didn’t eat, not that he had any problems with others, especially natural carnivores, doing so. It just wasn’t the Donovan way.

  Sharing a meal, on the other hand, was hot. Sushi was easy to feed to a friend. And it was early by fine-dining standards—before meeting Tag, Paul had planned to find a veggie burrito somewhere and get back to work—so they’d have plenty of time for flirting before the restaurant got uncomfortably crowded.

  Nobu managed to be elegant and cavernous, serene and bustling simultaneously, which made it a perfect atmosphere for two men to flirt. Despite their obvious attraction, they’d started slowly, simply offering each other tastes. That was fine by Paul, because Tag had a remarkably expressive face that showed his appreciation of anything especially delicious. When Tag took his first bite of the Kobe beef “taco” he’d ordered as a starter, the show was well worth the high price of dinner. “You have to try this,” Tag raved in that rough honey voice. “It’s like beef squared, and so tender it melts.”