And, of course, my position at the moment was weak because I was really, really curious about the Brimstone Kiss.

He lifted me by the arms again, until I was level with his sculpted white face, his slick black sunglasses in which I looked no bigger than a pixie because of the convex shape.

"You want it? Yes or no?" he asked.

"No!" I shouted.

"You don't know what you're saying no to."

"With you, no is always a safe bet."

"Nothing with me is safe."

"Especially sex, I bet."

My tendency to cover nervousness with quips only tightened his grip on my upper arms. I'd probably be bruised from this, but happy just to get far enough away so I could check.

"You are audacious, tenacious and perspicacious."

"That last word is actually a compliment." I blinked at my own tiny distorted image. "You messed up."

He shook his head. "But you're best left to your own self-destructive path."

He lowered me until my dangling soles touched the wooden stage floor again and released my arms even as he turned to go.

I nearly turned an ankle trying to regain my balance. I felt like I'd been thrown back into the gene pool by God.

"Do your worst," Snow advised me. "It can't be any less disastrous than your best."

He whirled away into the darker part of the wings in that strange unseen bubble that made him invisible offstage.

I turned and made my way down the dark stairs. Most of the audience had poured out in a mass, but the groupies were still disconsolate, milling around the discarded trash of the mosh pit.

As I approached their faces turned to me like transfigured flowers to a sudden ray of sunlight.

"You jumped up on stage to get the Kiss," one breathed in the silence the Seven Deadly Sins always left in their wake after the screaming had finally died down.

"Cocaine almost lifted her on stage with the Sins and himself!" another cried.

Technically, I'd even had an offstage tê te-à-tête with Snow, but they'd missed that and seen only what they'd wanted to see earlier.

Now they were gathering around me. I glimpsed the cow-eyed, adoring gazes Snow eyeballed every performance. No wonder he was pretty pleased with himself.

I pulled fistfuls of cards from my hobo bag. Denim boots and a hobo bag. Good homeless orphan wear, but not quite the battle gear I'd pick to go toe-to-toe with Snow. When I was on the ground, that is.

I fanned my homemade-well, computer made-cards and doled them out to the beseeching hands.

Hooked on a feeling? The type read. Whether you've landed the mind-blowing lip-lock or not, it's time to take the brimstone kIss apart second by scintillating second. Come to delilah's get-down workshop and find out all about it. both happy haves and hangdog have-nots welcome. The next line was a place, date and time: next Tuesday at six p.m. at a former Weight Watchers spot in a strip shopping center.

Tenacious? Snow hadn't seen Kansas grit in action. We regularly endured killer blizzards that made the King of Kool look like something cool and slurpy you'd order at a Sonic Drive-in and suck down in one long swallow.

Thanks to his intervention, I now had the reputation of not only "almost" getting the Brimstone Kiss, but of clambering up on stage to chase it. Delilah Street, Pursuit Instigator.

The upcoming groupie gig might help me find Lilith as well as defend myself from suspicion of murder. It was still a personal pursuit, a side issue, maybe an obsession.

The Sunset Park lovers was the crime I was being paid to investigate and I was about to catch a break on it.

When I got back to the Enchanted Cottage, flushed from my success with the groupies and dangerous encounter with Snow, an intriguing message awaited on my answering machine.

Right now, all I wanted was some quality sleep time. I'd have to wait until tomorrow to deal with it and needed some advice from a local anyway.

Chapter Fourteen

Word was no unescorted mortal woman came out of the Sinkhole alive.

Naturally, I was planning to meet my very first unknown client in the Sinkhole. And no, I'm not immortal. Yet. If I didn't intend to be, I'd have to be on my guard.

Then I thought about whom… or what… I might be meeting tonight. The message machine tape featured a low, hissing voice, like all whispers. I listened to it several times that morning.

It said if I wanted to know more about the male skeleton-"the bone boy"-in the Sunset Park grave, I should meet my informant tonight at a place called Wrathbone's in the Sinkhole. The name had been spelled out so I got the initial W.

That gave me a clue to my mystery source and actually reassured me. I had my suspicions. Not too many people, or other entities, in Vegas knew-or guessed-about my quest besides Ric and my clients: Hector Nightwine, Snow, and Howard Hughes.

I'd need two things to enter-and leave-the Sinkhole: a disguise-so I wasn't hounded as Lilith-and serious weapons, both defensive and offensive. Oh, and a third thing: A way to find where the blamed place would be tonight.

The Sinkhole moves, you see, a mist of Hell's breath floating in the brimstone heat of the dark desert air like a nightmare oasis.

Post-Millennium Las Vegas is still paranoid about bad press. It may host a helluva lot of supernatural forces in 2013, but they all must fit the sales model. Even a pestilential pit like the Sinkhole attracted a certain kind of tourist. Being hard to find was an extra kick. And getting out was a lot harder than getting in. Or so they said.

"I hope you're planning on taking your hellhound to the Sinkhole with you," Hector Nightwine, my boss, said, sounding a teensy bit guilty, when I told him of my expedition in his manorial office that afternoon.

"Quicksilver is not a 'hellhound,' he's just a poor rescue dog."

Hector snorted. He does an awesome snort, being a bearded man of size and a connoisseur of blood-red wine, bizarre food forms and vintage films.

"And I'm Orson Welles," he sniffed.

Actually, he could be in Vegas nowadays, where the line between life and death is thinner than a honed straight razor's edge.

Quicksilver, who combined the huge size of a wolfhound with the disconcerting conformation and features of a blue-eyed 150-pound wolf, lifted his grandma-eating-size muzzle from his paws to whine like an abandoned puppy.

Hector snorted again. Majestically. "That dog could have outdone the heroic Rin Tin Tin in the early movies. He knows just when to second your extravagant lies."

"I can use loyal backup," I said, "especially since your damned show has made me the world's most wanted woman."

"Isn't that what all women want?"

"Not this one. Not this way." I ticked off my many pursuers on my fingers. "Cesar Cicereau of the Gehenna Hotel thought he could use me and then tried to kill me. Any creep who mistakes me for your highest rated CSI corpse, Lilith, wants to sell my hide to the black and blue division of the blue movie trade. The Las Vegas Metro Police Department's Detective Haskell has been bitten unhuman, into an even more loathsome variety of bully, and wants me either convicted of the murder of a Snow groupie or just plain dead out of revenge. For all I know, this mysterious 'client' wants to lure me into a meeting for some fate worse than death."

A sliver of smile peeked like a maggot from the corner of Nightwine's small, pursed candy-apple-red mouth.

"There are a lot of fates like that nowadays, my dear. Surely you're taking the Cadaver Kid along?"

I shrugged. If I was going to be a serious investigator, I needed to prove to him and myself that I didn't need a white knight behind my every move around Vegas.