Ante Up Read online

  Ante knew that. But his last team effort had been soldiering, which had gotten him killed. His experiences at the end of his mortal existence had exposed him to more savagery and cruelty than anyone could bear. “I do not care for your team’s methods,” he said carefully.

  Dorothy shrugged. “Apex predators, baby.”

  Ante pressed his lips together.

  “You know,” she said, “if you get in good with the bosses, they probably won’t mind if you find yourself… you know, someone special. And then you can—”

  “No.”

  “Didja ever sire another vamp, Ante?”

  “Once.” He looked away.

  The frat boys shouted again, and several exchanged sloppy hugs. One of them, a good-looking youth in a baseball cap, glanced Ante’s way and caught him staring. When the boy scowled, Ante faced Dorothy again. “I decline your offer of employment.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She appeared disappointed but not surprised. “I told Edie you still wouldn’t go for it. But she’s gonna keep asking, right? And someday….”

  “She will make me an offer I cannot refuse,” said Ante, who over the past decades had spent a great many daylight hours watching movies.

  “Bingo. And if you want to stay here in town, you gotta freelance for us now and then.”

  “As I have been.”

  It wasn’t a common occurrence—two or three times a year usually. But Ante’s solitary ways made him useful to the Shadows. He knew his way around every casino in town, not just the ones the Shadows controlled. He kept his eyes and ears open, mostly for prey and his own self-defense, but that meant he saw and heard a great deal. Few of the Shadows’ enemies recognized him. Sometimes he was hired to watch when the Shadows had suspicions about a visitor’s intentions. Sometimes he passed a message or package to someone at a time and place where none of the Shadows wanted to be visible. And four times he’d killed someone for the Shadows. Well, technically all of his victims had been dead already—rogue Shadows members who’d been murdering humans instead of just snacking on them. Ante had felt little guilt over ending their existences. He’d done worse, once upon a time.

  Now, he stood. “We are finished?”

  “For tonight, sure.” Dorothy cocked her head. “Where are you gonna sleep in the morning?”

  “I will find a place.”

  She glanced over at the sports book. “That blond one in the Raiders jersey is cute. But me? I’ve got something better waiting for me at home. He’s a Chippendales dancer with a taste for the bite. Night, Ante.” She stood up and sauntered away on her impossibly high heels.

  Ante did not go after the blond or any of his companions. Instead he wandered the casino floor for hours, watching the gamblers ebb and flow. There were more college students, couples of every age—from early twenties to doddering with walkers and oxygen tanks—bachelorette parties and stag parties, clusters of people celebrating birthdays, tourists from many countries, and more convention-goers. The smoke and bright lights of the casino stung his eyes, but still he remained, watching. Wondering what it would feel like to be that man over there, the one with his arm around the shoulders of his pregnant wife. Or the middle-aged woman who wore a lot of sparkly clothing, laughing with her similarly attired friends.

  He couldn’t remember what it was like for his heart to beat, for the ground beneath his feet to feel like home.

  For the first time in decades, he wondered what Krapina looked like now. Surely his family’s modest stone-and-plank structure had collapsed long ago, but the old churches might still stand. And in the autumn, perhaps the forests on the hillsides still glowed gold in the sunlight while grapes hung heavy in the vineyards. Was the cemetery still there, with generations of Novak bones going to dust? Did the inhabitants roast chestnuts when the weather turned cool and make blueberry brandy in the summer? Did mothers still scold children who ventured outside without sufficient layers of clothing? Did people dance to folk music and, at carnival time, burn the effigy of Fasnik?

  Krapina would never again be home to him. He didn’t know anyone there, and his Croatian would undoubtedly sound weirdly antique. Who would he feed on? And where would he go when the sun rose?

  As the hour grew increasingly late, the crowds thinned. But the casino never emptied entirely—one reason Vegas suited vampires well. Nobody who worked at the Rio or anywhere else cared if Ante simply hung around, so long as he wasn’t bothering anyone.

  He watched people at the card tables and slot machines, and when he grew weary of that, he used almost the last of his money to buy a beer he didn’t want. He sat at a bar with the glass between his palms and thought about nothing at all.

  Although it was impossible to see when morning began, the lack of windows in the heart of the casino was another benefit for vampires. Ante could feel sunrise like an itch between his shoulder blades. It brought a primal urge to hide somewhere dark and deep. He had nowhere to go, however, so he twitched his shoulders and watched the flickers of the sports book TV screens.

  Later in the morning, he might sit in Starbucks pretending to drink coffee. And then maybe he’d see what was going on in the attached convention center or whether the on-site TV studio was filming something. He could usually sweet-talk himself into one of the free tickets.

  And tonight? He’d likely end up with one of those frat boys—or someone like them.

  Now, though, he walked past the reception desk to the main entrance. The area outside the doors was covered, which meant no direct sunlight could sneak indoors. But Ante stood for a few minutes and stared out, wondering if burning would feel good for a moment or two before becoming agony.

  He turned on his heel and headed back to the Rio’s gaming floor.

  Chapter Three

  ANTE didn’t usually frequent the Lucky Chalet Casino, but his funds were growing thin again and the room rates were cheap. If he couldn’t score a wad of cash tonight, he could at least find someone to snack on and then book himself a room for a few days.

  As the name suggested, the Lucky Chalet had started out with an Alpine theme, although Ante was never sure why its creators thought that was a good idea. In any case, the interior had been remodeled several times over the past few decades, and no traces remained of giant cuckoo clocks or Saint Bernard statues. The staff were no longer forced to wear lederhosen and dirndls. But despite the interior changes, the outside of the Chalet retained its original form. It squatted just off the Strip with faux wooden walls, faux balconies, and faux snow on the roof.

  Since it wasn’t one of the Shadows’ properties, there were fewer watchful eyes. And because he hadn’t been there often, few of the employees would recognize him. Although he could prowl in peace, he wasn’t especially hungry. He’d fed two nights earlier from a sweet young man with a cheerful smile and a soft tummy. The man, whose name was Itsuki, was in town for a food expo. He’d been sober and had started a friendly chat with Ante at a casino bar. They’d ended up in Itsuki’s room for a round of pleasant but uninspired sex, and Ante had fed from him after Itsuki fell asleep. He didn’t steal anything but blood.

  So when Ante entered the Lucky Chalet, he needed funds more than food. He wanted a quiet space where he could wash his clothing in a sink and read the book currently tucked into his back pocket. It was a spy thriller of some kind, a paperback he’d picked up at a casino gift shop. He couldn’t be picky about his reading material; Vegas wasn’t exactly a literary mecca.

  Just inside the building, a small tableau almost made him laugh. A very pregnant woman in a wedding gown and a man in a dress shirt and Bermuda shorts stood next to each other, each tapping furiously at a phone. Ante couldn’t tell if they were mad at each other or at someone else, and he wondered whether the marriage ceremony had taken place yet and if the ceremony officiant was an Elvis impersonator. He hoped so. If people were going to get married in this city, they ought to make the best of it.

  Grinning, Ante walked past the unhappy couple and toward the gaming flo
or. He bypassed the slot machines and headed for the card games instead. It was a bit past ten at night, and the tables were crowded. Fewer conventioneers visited the Chalet; its customers tended more toward twentysomethings taking a brief escape from Los Angeles. They weren’t poor by any means, but they were careful enough with their budgets that they used cash in Vegas instead of credit cards. That was perfect for his needs.

  Nobody paid attention as he strolled the floor. He was good-looking, he’d been told, his body still carrying the hard muscles he’d earned through farm work when he was alive. But he was also skilled at remaining… not invisible, but unobtrusive when he wished. It was part of the package that came with being a vampire, along with excellent hearing and vision and extra strength and speed—the tools of an apex predator, Dorothy would have said. When he walked past people, their gazes tended to slide right past him. Unless, of course, he wanted to be noticed.

  But none of the gamblers caught his interest. A lot of them were drunk, some were handsome, and there were many he could seduce if he tried. But since he was barely peckish, he could afford to be picky, and none of them felt exactly right. None were worth pursuing.

  After hunting for well over an hour, he was ready to give it up. He’d get a room, wash his clothes, and spend a quiet night with his book. He could resume his hunt the following evening.

  But just as he was turning toward the registration desk, someone caught his eye.

  A man in his early twenties stood at one of the midstakes blackjack tables. He was strikingly beautiful, with spiky dark hair, tan skin, and delicate features. Ante could almost feel his fangs sinking into that pouty lower lip. Instead of the jeans and T-shirts favored by most of the men in the Chalet—including Ante—this man wore a charcoal gray suit tailored to show off his trim figure, along with a raspberry-hued silk shirt that would have looked garish on someone else.

  It wasn’t the man’s attractiveness or attire that had captured Ante’s notice but rather his body language. When most people played blackjack, they kept their attention focused primarily on their cards. Their gazes might occasionally stray to their companions or the dealer’s cards, but mostly they looked right in front of them. This man, however, barely glanced at his own hand and instead seemed riveted by the dealer’s face.

  That was odd enough. But the man’s face remained expressionless at the end of each hand. No disappointment when he lost and no happiness when he won. And the wins were frequent. Not every hand, but certainly more than the odds would predict.

  After a time the man scooped up his winnings and walked off. Ante followed at a discreet distance, then stopped several tables away when the man sat down to play small-ante Texas Hold ’Em. The man focused on his competitors’ faces as he played—although that was more common in poker. And again he was uncommonly lucky, leaving the table a few hundred dollars ahead only an hour later.

  Ante tailed him as he cashed in his winnings.

  With a purposeful stride, the man marched to the elevators, got into a car, and headed upstairs.

  Probably on his way to meet his girlfriend, Ante thought. Or maybe just jerk off to pay-per-view porn. Ante felt a bizarre pang of loss at the man’s departure, but dismissed it as frustration over his curiosity remaining unsatisfied.

  Ante turned and headed for the registration desk, intent on booking a room at last.

  THE hotel clerk hadn’t batted an eye when Ante asked for a north-facing room. They never did. Dorothy mentioned once that it wasn’t an uncommon request even among humans, many of whom didn’t want the desert sun blazing through their windows after a night of gambling and drinking. In any case, when Ante woke up in the middle of the afternoon, he safely stood naked in front of the glass, gazing out at the High Roller. He’d never ridden the popular Ferris wheel, mostly because small enclosed spaces unnerved him.

  He didn’t mind heights, however, and he enjoyed the view from his room. He wondered if the Croatian nobility had felt like this as they surveyed their domain from hilltop castles. Not that Vegas belonged to him, but he was comfortable here.

  After a while he ambled into the bathroom to check the clothes hanging in the shower, but they were still slightly damp. He didn’t own a second set, so getting dressed would have to wait. No matter. He could finish the spy novel or watch some TV.

  But when he tried to settle on the bed with his book, and later as he clicked through the television channels, his mind kept wandering. He wasn’t distracted by anything in particular, just wispy memories of people long dead and places he’d nearly forgotten. Some of the memories were violent and bloody, some almost tender, but most were… mundane. The feeling of snow falling onto his upturned face. Watching smoke rise from chimneys. Sharing a brief chat with an old lady who sold flowers in Krapina’s main square.

  Dammit, why was he so melancholy lately? Maybe he’d simply grown too old. Perhaps the final vestiges of his humanity were slipping away, and soon he’d be coldly vicious like Eadburg. The idea made him shudder.

  “I will destroy myself first,” he promised aloud. Nothing in the bland hotel room responded.

  Ante dressed and went downstairs before darkness fell, wandering the casino for an hour or two as he scouted out potential prey. He eventually spied a pair of men in their late forties, handsome and trim and with matching gold wedding rings. Ante watched them for a time, and when he took a seat nearby, they exchanged a quick look with each other before smiling at him. Soon he’d joined them at their table.

  “It’s our anniversary,” explained the shorter one, whose name was Tim. “Our second or our fifteenth, depending.”

  “Depending on what?” Ante asked.

  “On how you count it. We had a commitment ceremony fifteen years ago, but we didn’t get legally hitched until the Supreme Court paved the way.”

  His husband, Juan, grabbed his hand. “I finally made an honest man of him.”

  Ante lifted his beer in a toast. “Congratulations to you both.” They were on their third or fourth drinks while he still nursed his first. Alcohol didn’t affect him—it passed through just like everything other than blood.

  “What brings you to Las Vegas?” asked Juan, his arm around Tim’s shoulders.

  “I am a bit at loose ends. My employment ended and I have not yet decided what to do next.”

  “What did you do?”

  Ante smiled. “Agriculture.” True enough; they didn’t need to know his farming days ended around the time that steam-powered tractors were invented.

  Tim leaned forward. “Hey, that’s great! Juan and I run a winery in California. Old-vine Zin mostly, but we’ve been experimenting with Sauvignon blanc too. Do you know anything about grapes?”

  Actually, Ante did. Like many Croatians, his family had kept a small vineyard and proudly made their own wines. When he explained—somewhat disingenuously—that they’d used traditional growing and bottling methods, Juan and Tim were thrilled. They’d been experimenting with old-fashioned ways. They became even more excited when they learned where Ante was from.

  “Zinfandel comes from Croatia!” Tim exclaimed, loudly enough to startle an old lady sitting nearby. He was halfway through yet another beer. “They did a DNA analysis, and it’s the same as some Croatian grape that I couldn’t pronounce even if I was sober.”

  The three of them were still talking wine as they made their way to Juan and Tim’s room. But the discussion stalled once they were inside. Juan settled a hand on Ante’s shoulder. “You’re… sort of our anniversary present to each other. If that’s all right with you.”

  Ante smiled. “I am delighted to be a gift.”

  The sex that followed was slower and more tender than Ante was used to, his new acquaintances taking delight in playing with his seemingly younger body. He came twice. As he lay between them on the rumpled bed, Juan kissed Ante’s nape. “We’re heading home tomorrow. You could come with us. Um, not to our bed—this is kind of a one-time thing. But we can use some help in the winery. We can’
t pay much over minimum wage, but we have a pretty nice trailer on the property, and you could live there rent-free.”

  Tim mumbled his sleepy support of the idea.

  For a brief moment, Ante entertained a fantasy of wandering between dusty rows of vines, weighing the purple grapes in his hand. And incinerating, of course.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I think my future lies elsewhere.” He stroked each of their flanks and then climbed off the mattress. They watched him dress.

  Ante paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Happy anniversary. I wish you many joyous years together.”

  Juan sat up. “If you change your mind or just want to stop by for a visit, you’re always welcome. La Luna Nueva Vineyards, just outside Lodi. We’re easy to find.”

  “I will remember that.”

  Only when he reached his own room did Ante realize he had taken neither blood nor money from Juan and Tim, yet still he felt faintly satisfied. Perhaps they had fulfilled a different hunger for him tonight.

  THE next night Ante wanted a brief break from the Strip. He walked downtown, enjoying the chance to stretch his legs outdoors, and ended up in the Golden Nugget. It amused him that people talked about the “historic” nature of this casino, since it was a century younger than he was. He picked up a weatherman from Birmingham who’d been losing badly at craps, bought him a bottle of midprice tequila and a lime, and sat in the man’s room until the weatherman passed out. Ante drank his fill from a vein near the man’s ankle before slipping three hundred dollars from his wallet. He left the man snoring loudly on the bed.

  He’d already paid for the night at the Lucky Chalet, so after an hour or two of idle people-watching on the Strip, he returned. He didn’t want to go to his room yet, however. He’d finished the spy book and didn’t have another, and he was restless.

  It was past two in the morning when he found the beautiful man again, and was instantly fascinated. The man wore the same suit, but this time with a blackberry-colored shirt. And instead of card games, he seemed interested in the slots. He wasn’t playing, however—he just strolled slowly back and forth, eyeing the players the way a hungry person might examine a pastry case. Or the way Ante might consider the players if he hadn’t already fed.