It was crushing mine. I nodded, the tears in my eyes now from pain, not pity for myself or anyone else.

"I'll find you a book on my ancestor." She rose and tottered toward some bookshelves. Her cane prodded a low footstool into place in front of them.

"Please, let me-"

"I let you and I let you and I never do for myself again."

She swiped at me with the cane like an arthritic old cat showing its claws. I backed off, but stood guard behind her frail form as she climbed up and leaned left, then right, searching for just the right crumbling spine (not her own).

"Here. See for yourself. Jean-Christophe l'Argent, master gargoyle carver, a Frenchman famed for his work on churches."

I turned the brittle pages. The illustrations were engraved drawings, not photographs. I glimpsed twisted gargoyle faces turned to stone as if frozen in some instant of eternal judgment.

"My ancestor had other work, my dear," she said cryptically, "as do you and I."

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps you will." Her eyelids lowered. They were as wrinkled as a silk broomstick skirt.

Broomstick. Was she a real witch, unlike Glinda?

We sat again and she pressed the book into my fingers. I must take it, she insisted. I protested. It was her family history, not mine. She wouldn't let me leave without it. After all, I had followed her all this way to have an interview. Yes, she remembered that we were to do it before, but she'd had a sudden…displacement. Such a fuss. I was here now too, and we'd had time for a good talk. She moved between Sunset Cities, you see. An easy way to travel without leaving home.

Often her focus and voice faded as she recounted scenes from her fabulous film life. "Oh, William Powell! Yes. Born to play Nick Charles. Such a pity that the love of his life, Jean Harlow, died so young and tragically. Also a pity I can't leave Sunset City to visit him."

Her pale, watery eyes fixed on mine. I had a sense of time as precious, like a Fabergé egg. Circular in a way. Intricate and bejeweled. More than what it seemed, this humble bird shell. Rare large ostrich and emu shells from faraway lands. Pale robin's egg blue of ordinary nature. I had a sense of this time, with her, as fragile. She could be my grandmother…my great-great-great grandmother. My adopted grandmother.

Suddenly an object appeared between us, in her knobby fingers. It was not a scone.

The ring was almost black with age. Coiled with overdone scrollwork. Cheap. Pot metal. Old impure silver at best.

"You have listened to my life. This is in thanks. No, take it. My swollen knuckles are not for rings anymore. Besides, it's worthless, as you suspect."

Her smile was crooked, like her spine, but still a thing of steel. "You are too honorable to take anything of real value from a strange old woman." Irony curled around her words like wrought iron. "This is in thanks for recording my l'Argent family history."

The ring was too big for my finger, and gaudy, and it would probably turn my skin green. I felt proud to accept it.

Home at the Enchanted Cottage that night, I put the ring next to the vase holding Achilles' ashes on the mantel. My Lhasa apso had still been with me when I'd first been assigned to interview Caressa/Lilah.

Odd that she'd preceded me to Las Vegas. I wondered why she was so vague about her twin as I headed up the stairs to bed.

Chapter Ten

I awoke the next day with dream remnants of huge stone gargoyles-turned-stalkers and a massive dragon hovering overhead while I ran for my life down the majestically lit but empty Las Vegas Strip.

Ah. A refreshing change from the usual alien abduction scenario. Scones and tea must be good for me.

I decided to go with the flow, so brunched while skimming Caressa Teagarden's quaint book from the late nineteenth century. It concentrated on the purpose and art of the carved gargoyles on medieval churches. Jean-Christophe l'Argent only got one mention, but as the master carver of all time.

The Internet was even less forthcoming. L'Argent meant "silver" or "silvery" in French surname traditions, but the name was rare and usually translated to Largent in English. However, I was happily browsing dragons and gargoyles and coming up with lots of lovely graphics, if no useful information, when my cell phone rang.

"I'm always calling you about police matters and appointments," Ric's welcome voice said, "when all I want to talk to you about is our investigations of the very private and personal sort."

"Why not," I asked, "when we can make progress on both fronts at once?"

"True. I'm just checking if tomorrow is okay for your jaunt to the Crimes Against Persons interview."

"Sure. Book me, Dano," I said, paraphrasing the Hawaii Five-O catch phrase. "Speaking of which, I had an intriguing interview myself yesterday."

"Yeah?"

"An ancient film star who's lingering on at the Sunset City west of town. Caressa Teagarden. Started in the Silents. Knew some of the Vegas CinSims personally."

"Never heard of her. What's the connection?"

"Hard to say. It was just weird. I was supposed to interview her at the Wichita Sunset City and she had supposedly canceled her contract, i.e., died, but now she's showed up here. Even before I did."

"That Sunset City setup is creepy, anyway."

I laughed. "More than CinSims? Vegas makes you pretty blasé, Montoya."

"But you don't. I'd suggest lunch, but I've got some Federates from the border coming up to consult. It's bloody hell down there between the drug lord wars, the zombie smugglers, and ordinary illegal aliens."

"At least I know you're here in town and safe."

"Same here."

We closed the call on murmured little nothings, neither wanting to hang up, promising to check in with each other when we could.

Well, I would be in town, but maybe not as "safe" as Ric would think or like.

If I wanted to know more about a long-dead teen vampire corpse in Sunset Park there was one source I dare not omit.

Snow.

Just getting dressed to go to the Inferno that evening was a chore. My silver familiar kept flitting over my body, becoming a Thai dancing girl's slave bracelet one moment, a sleek designer torque around my neck another, then a Mexican hair comb in the shape of a jaguar.

I reached up to tear the last form from my hair, but it eeled away from my touch. I never wore the sides of my hair pushed up. The 1940s coiffure reminded me of the Black Dahlia, the era's most famous female victim and, now, of Cicereau's poor dead daughter. So the moveable silver thread looped around my neck into the form of a narrow snake chain, produced a smooth bezel and added a large faceted blue topaz.

Cool. I decided to take the hint and wear my forties white linen suit with shoulder pads big enough for a modern-day linebacker. Girly and gritty. It was something Ingrid Bergman might have worn in Notorious or Casablanca to meet a cynical Cary Grant or a bitter Humphrey Bogart. But the man I was going to see about a corpse was neither of those things. He was just Hell on wheels.

I ankled into the Inferno Bar on my white leather platform sandals with the, well, ankle straps. The area was awash with so many CinSymbiants-as devoted CinSim fans were called-in vintage drag it was hard to tell who were the real Cinema Simulacrums. CinSymbs dolled themselves up as their favorite CinSims, white-face and all. They gathered in droves here in the evenings, before the Seven Deadly Sins performed.

I wended my way past Clark Gable from Mogambo chatting with a blond Vivien Leigh from A Streetcar Named Desire. A CinSymb could pay personal tribute to any actor/role he or she wished. This Gable was short and stout and Vivien weighed two hundred pounds, but their costumes were perfectly in period and they looked quite dashing. The sound system was playing Big Band music that covered most of the eras represented. "In the Mood" was one of my favorites and I couldn't help swaying my hips to the choo-choo motion that made Swing king for a couple decades.