"Don't do it," his friend warned, slowly getting back to his feet.

"What did you say?" Marco asked softly, turning toward him again.

"I said. Put. It. Down."

"Okay." Marco let go of the sofa and carefully pushed the old woman's foot out of the door. "Show's over. Nothing to see here," he told her, and hit the button for the lobby. As soon as the elevator car was away, he launched himself at the other vamp.

I'd known what was coming and was ready. Half a sofa weighed a lot less than the whole thing and was more maneuverable, too. I got to my feet as they staggered into a stairwell, cursing and clawing, and started dragging myself back down the hall.

Normally, I'd have shifted, but I'd already had a hard night—a trip of four centuries isn't fun—and then had had to shift back from the airplane. Plus the small detour to the tarmac. I was pooped. And I didn't think meeting the head of the Circle completely out of juice was a good idea.

I knocked sharply on Pritkin's door. This time it opened to reveal a half-shaved war mage with a razor in his hand. He was wearing nicely pressed dress slacks and a sleeveless undershirt that fit him like a second skin. But for once it wasn't the well-defined arms and muscular shoulders that caught my attention. It was the hair.

His short blond mane fell in waves over his forehead and just brushed his collar. It looked soft. It looked under control. It looked normal.

"Your hair." I gaped at it.

He ran a hand through it. "I haven't had a chance to deal with it yet."

"Do you have to?"

Green eyes narrowed. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "And why aren't you dressed?"

I didn't reply because suddenly Marco was there with a scowl on his face and a rip in his suit. "All right," he said, panting slightly. "Let's go."

"How do you think Mircea would like you manhandling me like this?" I asked, looking down at the hand gripping my bicep.

"The master wants you to wait for him upstairs."

"You called him?"

"No. He left a message in case you showed up. I guess he knows you."

I ignored that. "Since when do you deliver messages?" I looked at Pritkin. "He didn't give me any of yours. I wouldn't have even known about the meeting if it weren't for Billy."

"Why didn't you give her my messages?" Pritkin demanded.

"Billy and I have this theory," I told him, "that maybe the Senate isn't too happy about—" I stopped because Marco clapped a hand over my mouth. Pritkin knocked it away, and the two sized each other up.

"I haven't had dinner yet," Marco told him. "Bring it." Pritkin glanced at me and finally noticed that I was attached to something. "Why are you handcuffed to a chair?"

"It's part of a couch," I told him.

The elevator dinged and the old man and woman got out. They skirted the damaged furniture in front of the elevators and walked down the hall toward us, her limping slightly because of her hip. They finally reached us and the old man scowled. "I thought I told you to move that thing," he said querulously. "I forgot my medication. I have to take it with breakfast or I'm messed up the whole day. And your sofa is blocking my door."

Marco closed his eyes for a minute and then picked up the sofa. He broke off the arm that I was chained to and handed it to me. Then he proceeded to rip the rest into tiny pieces while the old couple watched him with big eyes.

He'd almost finished when his buddy, looking pretty beat up, came running out of the stairwell leading a detail of security. Since the hotel is owned by one vamp and managed by another, it isn't too surprising that most of the security force is also among the life challenged.

"I'm her bodyguard!" Marco yelled at them as six vampires piled onto him. "You don't understand—she's in danger!"

"Uh-huh," the leader of the patrol said, eyeing the old couple. "It looks like we arrived just in the nick of time."

"Tell him!" Marco ordered me.

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. Marco was a new arrival on the scene in Vegas, having been brought in from Mircea's court in Washington State. As a result, most of the casino employees didn't know him yet. With luck, the guards wouldn't get confirmation on his identity until after my meeting with the Circle was over. I stood there silently as they dragged him away while he stared at me with little narrowed eyes.

"Sorry about that," the security chief was telling the old couple.

"You could comp us a buffet," the old woman said hopefully.

"Damn straight," the old man agreed. "There's something wrong when a fella can't even get to his meds."

"What the hell is going on?" Pritkin demanded.

I held out the arm with the cuff. "Get this thing off and I'll fill you in."

Chapter Five

Half an hour later, I was standing in Dante's lobby getting smacked around by a blond. For once, it wasn't Pritkin. "Stop that!" The willowy creature at my side slapped my hands. I'd been trying to surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on the full skirts of my dress, but I guess I hadn't been subtle enough.

"I'm not hurting anything," I said as someone started sniffling nearby. I looked around, but all I saw was the gimlet-eyed group across the hotel lobby. They were filing in by twos and threes, attempting to blend in with the crowd. But despite the fact that Dante's employees dressed in everything from sequined devil suits to dominatrix garb, they weren't doing so great.

It might have been the heavy coats they wore despite the fact that the temperature outside was threatening to shatter thermometers. It might have been the ominous bulges under said coats. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they all looked like they dearly wanted to kill someone. Since that someone would be me, I thought a few sweat stains might be forgivable. Too bad Augustine didn't agree.

"After the way you brought back my last creation?" he sniffed. "Don't even talk to me."

I shifted my feet guiltily. Augustine was a dress designer who thought pretty highly of his work. That was why I'd stuffed the remains of the last dress he'd made for me, which had suffered a few unavoidable indignities, into a trash bag and hid it in a Dumpster. Somehow, he'd located it anyway. And when I showed up at his shop in the casino promenade half an hour ago, out of breath and desperate for something to wear to this meeting, he'd pointed to the poor, tattered remains.

Augustine had made it clear that off the rack was too good for me and flounced out. But half a minute later he'd had to flounce back in when Sal, my new, self-appointed assistant, had backed him into the workroom with a fang-filled smile. Apparently, Mircea hadn't had time to alert the entire family to the fact that he'd prefer I miss this meeting. And Sal wasn't about to let me embarrass us all in front of the Circle.

I'd gotten my dress—a rich green velvet that made me look vaguely like I was wearing Scarlett O'Hara's curtains—barely in time to drag it on and sprint over here. Since it was an Augustine creation, I kept expecting it to morph into something or try to bite me, but so far it hadn't done anything interesting. Except do its damnedest to make me look more sophisticated.

It had its work cut out for it.

Nothing was going to turn my five-foot-four frame statuesque, I hadn't had a chance to redo my makeup, and an attempt to tame my flyaway curls with hairspray had given me helmet head. Not that it mattered: the Circle already knew what I looked like. They should, considering how many wanted posters they'd sent out.

Casanova, the hotel manager, sidled up, frowning. He was looking stylish as usual in a wheat-colored suit that set off his Spanish good looks and fit like it had been made for him, which it probably had. He gave me a glass and a glare. "What's the matter? Is your corset too tight?"