I gave Prescott a curt nod and slid out of the booth. “I’ll see you in Vegas. And I don’t want to find out anyone else has been following me around, all right? I can take care of myself.”
He didn’t answer me, just leveled me with a cool, unreadable stare.
Whatever. I couldn’t control him. He’d do whatever he wanted anyway.
I left the curtained booth and made my way back into the main part of the bar. It was still empty, save for the bartender who was sitting alone in one of the booths, eating the stew we’d smelled earlier and reading the paper.
My stomach growled.
I tried to ignore my growing hunger and lifted the phone to my ear. “Sido.”
“Care to tell me why a homicide detective called me this morning to ask me for more details on a case you’re apparently working for him?”
I groaned, scrubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand, and then sighed when I saw how much of my makeup I’d accidentally wiped off. “That’s a long story, and I think you’ll want to hear it in person.”
“I’m sure I would, if you would ever deign to grace us with your presence here at th
e temple. You have responsibilities, you know.”
It took all my self-control not to scream into the phone.
Yes. I knew I had responsibilities. My whole wasted adult life was one series of responsibilities after another. Gods forbid I did something for myself, which I hadn’t even had a chance to do today.
“I’m on my way in now.”
“Don’t bother. Check the app and load up. You’re heading out right away.”
I wasn’t about to argue, this was just the way things went. “Where?”
“Nevada.”
Chapter Eight
My life fit inside one duffle bag and a pet carrier.
If pressed, I could be packed and ready to leave town in five minutes flat. Since I wasn’t particularly pressed at the moment, I gave myself ten minutes, allowing me to choose if I wanted to add a purple flannel shirt in with my five black T-shirts.
Because I knew I’d be going directly from the Nevada job onward to the Convention of the Gods, I also forced myself to throw a pair of heels and a black jersey cotton dress into the bag.
Whoever invented jersey cotton should have achieved their own form of immortality. That shit is so damn comfortable and doesn’t wrinkle. In my line of work anything that doesn’t wrinkle is worth its weight in gold.
I fixed my smeared makeup while waiting for Leo to return with his bag, and then spent the remainder of my ten-minute whirlwind coaxing Fen into his carrier.
“You have to come,” I said.
He sniffed, not moving from the pillow I’d left him on earlier that morning. His enormous ears and tiny, delicate face made him look like a cartoon character some days. When he gave me this much attitude, I amended that to cartoon villain.
“Fine. I’ll leave you here and take all the food with me. You weigh three pounds, and I’m gone for at least two weeks. Tell me how long you think you’d last without food.”
Fen lifted his head and blinked at me a little blearily. I could tell by the way he was squinting that he didn’t believe I’d do it—and I obviously wouldn’t—but all the same I had his attention.
“Your immortality only stretches so far, bud. Sure, old age won’t get you, but you still need to eat.” I gave my bag a dramatic shake, letting the kibble inside rattle in its plastic jar. Then I gestured to the open crate on the floor beside me. “Plus, you know how well they feed you at the convention.”
Familiars got spoiled to almost ludicrous lengths at the annual convention. Last year I’d picked him up after a particularly trying slog of meetings and found him getting a massage.
My three-pound fennec. Getting a massage.
Now his big ears were perked right up, and he roused himself off the couch, selected a small chew toy from the box beneath the TV set, and settled himself into the carrier just as Leo arrived.