"But she isn't fighting Rasputin."

"No, and like I said, she ain't happy about that. Word is, that's why she ain't here—she's off hunting him. She's almost outta time, though. The duel is set for tomorrow at midnight. I think she plans to bring back his head on a pike before then."

"Okay, I wish her luck. But you still haven't told me what all this has to do with me."

" 'Cause I don't know, honey chile." I hate it when Billy Joe gets southern. It means he's either joking or about to turn sarcastic, and I didn't want to deal with either. His usual accent is a Mississippi drawl combined with bits of Irish brogue left over from a childhood starving on the Emerald Isle. He'd immigrated, changed his name, and made a new life in the New World, but he'd never completely lost the accent. I glared at him. No way was I putting up with attitude now. He'd done pretty well, but I was pissed that he'd totally missed Tony's return. That was, after all, his main job.

"What else do you know? Is that everything?" I had learned a long time ago that Billy Joe is a damned good spy, but he can't be trusted. Oh, he's never lied to me—that I know of—but if he can get away with leaving something out that might cause him trouble, he'll do it.

"I wasn't sure whether to tell you, after that whole thing with Tomas. You probably don't need to hear about another bottom-feeder right now."

"Tell me what?" I ignored the dig at Tomas, whom Billy Joe had never liked, mainly because I agreed with it. I started checking out my sorry pile of once-expensive club wear and decided that the boots and skirt, both leather, could be salvaged. But the shirt was wrecked and the bra was partially burnt, although my back felt fine. It was one of the few parts of my body that didn't hurt. The shirt was no big loss except that I didn't have anything to replace it with, and would prefer not to go back into the living room in nothing but a robe. I actually didn't want to go back in there at all but couldn't think of a good excuse to avoid it.

"Jimmy the Rat is in town."

I stopped trying to scrub the dried blood off my skirt and slowly looked up. See why I've put up with Billy for almost seven years? Every once in a while, he earns his keep. "Where?"

"Now, Cassie, love, don't go doing something crazy."

"I'm not." Jimmy was Tony's favorite hit man. It had been his hand that planted the bomb in my parents' car, thereby ending any chance I had for a normal life. I'd been looking for him even before I broke with Tony, but he'd proven surprisingly elusive. I did not intend for him to slip past me again. "Where did you see him?"

Billy Joe ran a hand through what had once been chestnut curls and sighed deeply. That's not an automatic thing for a ghost; he does it on purpose. "He's at Dante's on the strip, one of Tony's new places. He manages a bar there. But I don't think surprising him is a good idea. The place is probably crawling with Tony's thugs. Las Vegas is second only to Philly in his operation."

"Don't lecture me about the business I grew up with." I stopped before I went on a rant about Billy perusing the sights of Sin City instead of checking out the place properly, so I'd know exactly what I was facing. I'd forgive a lot if his addiction to gambling resulted in me being able to get my hands around Jimmy's neck. "I need a shirt and a way into town, plus Tomas took my gun. I want it back."

"Um, you might want to rethink that." Billy looked shifty and I groaned.

"What? There's more? Out with it!"

He glanced about, but there was no help in sight. "You don't have to worry about Jimmy anymore. He did something to upset Tony, and when I left, he was being taken to the basement."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, he's probably out of the picture already, or will be soon, so there's no reason to run off. At least not in that direction. I was thinking maybe Reno…"

"You don't know that he's dead. He could be down there rigging slot machines or something." The basement had been a euphemism for Tony's underground torture chambers in Philly, but here it might mean exactly what it said. "Besides, nobody gets to kill him but me."

In reality, although he certainly deserved it, I had serious doubts that I could kill anybody, even Jimmy. But that didn't mean I had no reason to want to see him. Tony had done his best to make sure that I never learned anything about my parents: I had no photos, no letters, no high school yearbooks. Hell, it had taken me years to even find out their names, from old newspaper accounts of their deaths, which I'd had to sneak around my bodyguards to read. Eugenie and my tutors had all been people whom Tony acquired from other masters shortly after my arrival at court and didn't know anything about the operation before then. Those vamps who had been with Tony for years and might know something were so closemouthed that I knew without asking that they'd been warned not to talk to me. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that he'd gone to that much trouble simply to focus my affection on him, especially since he rarely made any efforts to win me over. No, there was something about my parents Tony didn't want me to know, and if he and Jimmy had actually fallen out, I might finally have someone willing to tell me about it.

Billy Joe bitched, of course, but I was too busy trying to make the salvageable part of my outfit presentable to care. He finally gave up. "Fine, but I'll need an energy draw if you expect me to play fetch. It's been a tough night, and I don't got the juice to spare."

I wasn't pleased. I felt like crap and had to go off someone in Vegas; I didn't need this. But I could hardly go scouting around MAGIC headquarters myself, so I motioned him over without the usual fuss. Billy Joe put a hand on his chest. "Be still my heart."

"Just do it."

I swear he felt me up as we merged, assuming that a cloud of mist can feel. Knowing him, I'm pretty sure it can. He blew against me and, as always, the feel of him was soothing to my frazzled nerves. I've heard that norms find the company of ghosts terrifying or, at best, chilling; to me, they've always been like a cool breeze on a hot day. Under the circumstances, I didn't just open up and welcome him; whatever part of me convened with ghosts pulled him inside like a frightened child gripping a teddy bear.

For an instant I had flashes of his life: our ship pulled away from a distant shore and we watched the gray, windswept coast recede through a haze of tears; a pretty girl, maybe fifteen, wearing too much makeup and a dance-hall costume, gave us a knowing smile; a young, would-be hostler tried to cheat us, and we laughed as we pulled the ace out of his boot, then had to. dodge the knife his accomplice threw. It was often like this, and through the years I'd Seen enough mini newsreels to be amazed that Billy had survived as long as he had.

Finally, he got comfortable and started the draw. It was usually not an unpleasant experience, just tiring, but this time pain flared through my body as soon as he began. It wasn't overwhelming, more like a burst of static electricity on a doorknob, but it sizzled along my veins until silver sparkles flickered behind my eyelids. I tried to order him out, to say that something was wrong, but all that left my mouth was a startled wheeze. A second later, the sensation flashed bright enough to leave negative imprints on my vision. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. A warm wind swept across me, so thick it felt like liquid; then Billy Joe erupted out of me and zoomed around the ceiling a few times.

"Woo-hoo! Now that's what I call a meal!" His eyes were sparkling and his color was bright, more so than it should have been.

I straightened up and, for the first time in a while, didn't feel like collapsing. Instead of being tired and a little cranky—my usual reaction to Billy Joe's snack sessions—I felt wonderful, rejuvenated. It was like having a full night's sleep compressed into a few minutes, and it was definitely not normal. "Not that I'm complaining, but what just happened here?"