They eyed each other uneasily. One hand wavered up, then down, and then fluttered up again. It's on the Have-not side.

"I'm sick of explaining to my family why I'm wasting my doctoral degree in education out here in Vegas slinging cottage fries."

Another Have-not stood. "I'm sick of living with four other girls in an overpriced apartment."

And another. "I'm sick of standing on hard concrete for hours almost every night until my ankles ache and paying high dollar for it and getting nothing."

High dollar. That's right. Vegas show tickets are over the moon. These women are paying plenty for a mere chance at a smooch.

"How much a night do you pay?" I asked, my calculator out. They rose and shouted numbers one by one. "$142!" "$135." "$122." I toted it up when the roll call was done.

"Two thousand and eighty-five dollars, ladies. You give that up every night to gamble on getting a kiss. I bet the odds are better at any slot machine and twenty-one table in Vegas. I bet the odds are even better for the right vibrator."

They are all standing, milling around, restless.

"Ladies, the Hershey's Kisses in the brandy snifter on your left are all white chocolate. As smooth and creamy as you-know-who. If you can't give up the dream, take a handful of them of them when you leave.

"The ones on your right are dark chocolate. Smooth and creamy and also chock full of flavonoids that are good for your health. Those who are willing to try five Cocaine-free nights, take a bunch of those. Eat a candy 'kiss' every time you think of Cocaine. For you those of you in 'withdrawal'-every time you think of Cocaine and manage to replace that thought with something else, reward yourself with a piece. Put your email address on the sheet on your way out. I'll set up a Yahoo! group list to keep in touch."

With nods and smiles, everybody signed up, but almost everybody filed up to the white chocolate jar. Eight, looking furtive and ashamed, drew from the dark chocolate jar. I'd hoped for the other way around.

A few "good children" always want to linger and talk to teacher after the class. Six gathered around me.

"Why are you doing this?" one asked. "You actually stormed the stage to get to him. Are you taking home dark chocolates?

"You bet," I told them, digging out several while they watched. "I'm tired of being called a Cocaine freak. You are too, aren't you? I just wanted to make that man answer to putting all us women in states he's unwilling to satisfy again, or leaving us out of the so-called ecstasy night after night. What a cheap trick to get loyal fans to show up for every performance."

"I hadn't thought of that," mused a portly woman in her sixties. "That it's just a come-on to get him publicity."

"He doesn't even have to tour to get screaming hordes. You're the hometown team. You'd think he could at least make sure you all got something to remember him by. And what's the use of a mind-blowing orgasm, or series of them, if you can never get one again? Either way, he wins and you lose. Every time."

They nodded listlessly, not entirely convinced, rolling the teardrop-shaped candies in their hands. Their color choices weren't visible to me.

One said, "Hey. I think I'll start a Web site and discussion group on this."

"Say," I followed up, "I hope we can attract more Cocaine fans. You ever talk to some online? Lilith, for example?"

"Oh, sure. Lili's a deep-down fan," said one, nearly stopping my heart.

"She's hinted she's a Have," a second woman chimed in.

Oh. No. That was me chiming in mentally as I jumped to hear Lilith spoken of so matter-of-factly. Lili? I could see how the nickname would evolve. And I would be "Lilah."

There was something eerily twinlike about those diminutives, even if I hadn't now known that Caressa Teagarden and her twin sister were named that from birth. I shivered as if someone was walking over Lilith's grave, and mine, and the damned cutesy silver "kisses" jewelry chimed some more.

Could there have been two abandoned infants left in different places? While I followed that thought, my reluctant prey drifted away after some quick good-byes.

I put the sign-up sheet in my Baggalini, cleared away the trash and loaded the brandy snifters in Dolly's trunk.

Lili. A twin sister named Lili. I choked up as I locked the door. I'd been alone so long it was scary to think I hadn't been born to be a solo act.

Hey, kid, Irma said, you got me all these years. You don't need some upstart with a cutesy, kissy name. Who d'ye think you are? Delilah and Lilith Street, the Mary Kate and Ashley Olson of the supernatural set? Chill.

Right. I didn't need two of me to get in trouble. Their "Lili" was not my Lilith and even my Lilith was a phantom, a filmed delusion. Or maybe not.

Quick was guarding Dolly in the drive-through area out back. The shopping center night lights only covered the parking area up front. It was odd that Snow's side was the light and my side was the dark. What an ironic role reversal.

I took a handful of the dark kisses out of the snifter. It was even more ironic that I was probably thinking of Snow as often as the most infatuated groupie. For quite the opposite reasons, of course.

Dolly started on the first turn of the ignition key. Quick leaped in the open window to ride shotgun, his tongue already lolling out in joyous anticipation of the wind rippling his fur all the way home to the Enchanted Cottage.

At least somebody was having a good night.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Working with the Snow groupies was wearing. They were so bloody single-minded.

About 8:00 p.m., I kicked off my mules and settled down with a glass of Beaujolais in the cottage parlor, brooding about Lilith. The more I chased her in the real world, the more remote she seemed. Maybe my handy-dandy magic mirror was the way to go after her. Chase her in Mirrorworld and run her down.

I checked my cell phone: no messages and Ric was not answering. His meeting at the Luxor must have run late, big time.

So I sipped and simmered, feeling both tired and wired, an unpleasant blend of emotions caused by inactivity.

When a knock came on my sturdy Hobbit door, I set down my wine glass and jumped up, ready to rake Ric over the coals for being AWOL. Then I planned to fan some intimate embers fast. I was not only getting used to physical affection, but craving it.

"Where have you been?" I demanded, sweeping open my arched door and resolving to make him wait for a more welcoming greeting… at least a minute.

"At the main house, of course," Godfrey said. "May I come in?"

I shut my mouth and nodded, standing back.

"Master Quicksilver?"

"Out on his nightly run."

"Sorry for descending on you with no notice," Godfrey said, sleeking the sides of his hair back with his palms.

Short notice or not, his formal butler's attire was impeccably as black and white and as unruffled as his demeanor. Did CinSims sleep? And, if so, did they dream of animated stuffed sheep?

The sight of Godfrey's dapper, pencil-thin mustache and wavy black hair, formal air, and usually twinkling gray eyes always filled me with fondness. Those eyes were darkly sober now. A CinSim, being a white, black and silver entity, couldn't turn pale. If one could, I would say Godfrey was as white as a ghost right now.

"What's wrong, Godfrey?" I checked the mantel clock keeping company with Achilles' dragon vase and Caressa Teagarden's ring. It was almost midnight.

"So sorry to intrude, miss, but my, er, cousin at the Inferno has managed to convey a rather alarming message."

CinSims had doubly convoluted relationships, since they were both actor and role. William Powell's delightful embodiment of Dashiell Hammett's tippling playboy detective, Nick Charles, was leased to the Inferno Bar. His definitive leading role from the 1930s screwball-comedy film, My Man Godfrey, held forth as "our man Godfrey" at Hector Nightwine's estate.