I drove Dolly home to the Enchanted Cottage, downed a couple of Darvons and gave Quicksilver a midnight bath in the Jacuzzi tub. He loved the jets.
He seemed to take my checking for wounds as an extra thorough petting, grinning and panting and wagging his tail. He was, miracle of miracles, free of fang marks, so I towel-dried him and let him go rinse his mouth of jackal or hyena or whatever hair and blood at the kitchen water bowl.
I cleaned the dog hair out of the drained tub, refilled it, and took a long soak in fresh, steaming hot water, letting my aching belly, back and thighs sink against the pummeling jets. Not my time of the month to play Superhero Street, even if I was used to toughing it out through the paralyzing pain. A career woman didn't want to look wimpy on the job. I particularly didn't dare look wimpy on this job.
While wrinkling in the tub-the silver familiar retreated into a thin metal ribbon holding my hair up out of the water-I thought about Sansouci's startling confession.
Why would he tell me that? He was betraying his boss/master, Cesar Cicereau. Was he planning to break the agreement of sixty-some years ago and desert Cicereau and the Gehenna? Was it part of a vampire comeback? Or was it what he said it was? He thought he could use me to topple the werewolf mob.
I shuddered to consider what he really was: a daylight vampire. Able to withstand sunlight, fuck as well as suck, and do both delicately enough to leave a woman healthy and hearty and ready for the next round.
It was no secret why he enjoyed being so cooperative. I'd finally faced myself in a mirror enough to understand what I hadn't back in Kansas. I was a natural-born Goth girl, with death and resurrection built-into my dramatic black-and-white coloring. Most ordinary girls figure out pretty young what their type of look is, and who their type of guy is. What attracts what. I'd been repulsed by the half-breed, pushy, hungry vamp boys I attracted, but had finally encountered a mature vampire with a smooth barside manner.
I was a slow learner, but I was making giant strides.
Okay. So Sansouci might be attracted to me. That might mean I could use him.
It didn't mean for a moment that he wouldn't try to use me, whether I survived it or not.
Sitting by my laptop on the bedroom dressing table-even my increased makeup use was still light enough that I used the surface as a computer desk-I sipped a glass of the Bailey's Irish Cream I'd saved for cramp and cram nights since college and cruised the Web for scavenger dogs.
I came up with jackals and hyenas. Both were native to the African and Indian continents. Jackals were sand-colored, sharp-eared and foxy, smaller than wolves. What had attacked me and Quicksilver were clearly hyenas, which I'd thought as the third-world version of wolves. No such luck.
Hyenas were bigger, stronger and weirder. They had a bear-like look because their rounded ears and small heads seemed out of sync with their thick, solid bodies, and their back legs were shorter than their front ones.
The weird part was that these heavy-set creatures- who could go carnivore or scavenger-were considered to be related to dainty, agile critters like meerkats and mongooses.
In fact, they were such formidable beasts I was awed.
Quicksilver and I had beaten them back, even with an assist from Sansouci in full fang, not that I'd gazed long on his handsome face in carnivore mode.
The spotted hyena seemed to be the variety most partial to digesting all my most inedible parts outside the Dead Zone. Although the hyena bite is bone-crushing and bear-trap strong, the beasts' best survival weapon is industrial-strength stomach acid that can turn bone, gristle, tooth, claw and hoof to liquid nutrition.
And then there's that eerie, taunting, ghostly laugh. Some African tribes thought the hyena laughs were calling the name of their next victim.
Oooh. De-lie-lah-ha-ha-ha.
My name lent itself to hyena mockery, but I'd yet to hear the creatures laugh.
I had to wonder why some naturalists consider this gibbering kitchen trash compactor as having intelligence near that of apes, but there was no doubt why the hyena's reproductive system made them the eternal object of fear, superstition and hatred.
I read on with interest, so much so that Irma started reading over my shoulder. Or whatever.
Oh me-oh-my-o. This is better than Animal Planet porn. Did you see that? Hyena females dominate the smaller males. Wow. Complete control over who, or what, gets the goodies. This is where Women's Lib has gone! And what a physiology. Gross.
I read on about the female hyena's outsize clitoris, a pseudo-penis that also functions as vagina and birth canal. I wondered about her cramping problems. Could account for being really nasty-tempered.
All modern hyenas live in arid environments like African savannahs and deserts. Check for Las Vegas. Close. Their ability to digest all the hard, horny nasty bits got them associated with gluttony, uncleanliness and cowardice. African witches and sorcerers are thought to fly on them or shift into their forms. And many tribes regarded them as inedible and greedy hermaphrodites.
Ooh, said Irma. Hyenas couldn't be eaten, so they'd naturally multiply in peace. And people believed in "werehyenas," like we didn't have enough wolves and tigers and bears "wereing" around after the Millennium Revelation?
Even Ovid, the Roman poet, thought the hyena changed its sex from male to female and back again. No doubt due to that large, multi-useful clitoris.
I sat away from the computer screen, needing to think.
Why would anyone sic supernatural hyenas on a girl and her dog in Las Vegas?
What had I done to rile the mongoose-meerkat mob? Just the idea of these small fur-bearing creatures, born to be stuffed toys, sending hyenas after me made me smile. Yeah, a mongoose could fight and kill a cobra, but it was still just a small furry animal designed to root out poisonous vermin.
Hyenas were big, formidable predators. Guess that was why they'd turned up in Las Vegas: desert environment, big hotel moguls, predatory mob bosses and supernaturals.
So who did this four-footed gang work for? I couldn't see Cesar Cicereau needing a hyena pack to compete with his werewolves. And Snow... he'd never underwrite any beast as greedy and clumsy and mismade as a hyena.
I pulled out an older drawn map of Strip attractions. The unending building boom outdated maps faster than shoe styles. Which were the African desert-themed hotels? Problem was, most were history. I discovered a Web site about Vegas hotel implosions adorned by fireworks, with photos and videos, just another form of larger-than-life entertainment.
The aging desert-themed hotel-casinos had been key targets of destruction. Was that an accident, or someone's master plan?
The Dunes had been the first to go, in 1993, making way for the Bellagio. The Sands had fallen in 1996 for the Venetian. The Aladdin had gone bankrupt in the eighties and risen from the ashes of a 1998 implosion with a whole new Arabian theme, opening in August of 2000, just before the Millennium Revelation.
The terrorist attack of September 2001 had made Arabian themes unmarketable and the hotel had morphed into Planet Hollywood by 2007.
In 2001, the venerable Desert Inn took a dynamite dive to become mogul Steve Wynn's namesake high-roller palace, the Wynn.
I moved on to other sites. In 1993, twenty years ago, one last oasis of desert mythology went up at the south end of Strip. My fingertip pinned the shape of a pyramid to the tabletop. The Luxor had been the first Egyptian-themed hotel in Las Vegas, and Egypt was in North Africa.
Luxor was the modern name for ancient Thebes. Vegas bigwigs back then had liked the implication of "luxe" in the word. The Luxor 's pyramid shape boasted a light beaming from the peak that was visible in outer space. It once had an inside waterway with "Cleopatra's barges" giving tourists a lift.
That idea had been lifted from the first boutique Vegas hotel, the Crystal Phoenix, which had pioneered the idea of a "Love Moat" back in the day. Now the Venetian had its gondola canals, the Inferno its "river" to gambling "Hell" and the massive new Karnak, built a year ago in 2012, had its own " Nile."
And an eighteen-foot-high statue of a hyena-headed gambling god in the main casino. I suppose for the Egyptians, Lady Luck had two faces and possibly two genders.
I remembered the demon parking valet at the Inferno who'd noticed Dolly when he parked her. He'd worn the beaded collar, linen kilt and jackal-head mask of a Karnak employee.
Maybe I had an "in."
By the time I'd finished researching on the Web, it was 4:00 a.m. After another hot Jacuzzi soak for my cramps, I doped myself up on more Darvon and curled up with two old-fashioned rubber hot water bottles in soft fleece coverings I'd found in the bed.
I'd spent ages on my feet on hard surfaces yesterday and felt just like a beat cop: I ached from the soles of my feet, up my legs all the way to my waist. Girls just want to have fun, as Cyndi Lauper sang.
This wasn't the kitchen witch's territory, so I didn't know who or what my bed warmer was, but my cold feet and cramped tummy appreciated the thought and I slept like a lamb, Quicksilver on the area rug by the bed, until mid-afternoon.
Holy hyenas! I needed to burn rubber, and not the ones filled with cold water in my bed. Ric had left a message on my cell phone, but I'd call him later, when I had something to tell him.
"This is a solo outing," I told Quick after I threw on some casual clothes and got myself down to the kitchen, where a fresh hot bag of McDonald's awaited me. The kitchen witch was an extremely practical supernatural, and always knew when I needed a fast hand in the food department.
He growled, so I threw him some of my precious limp French fries.
"Really, Quick. My aching, crampy back needs a break from that heavy fake cop gear I'd need to wear so you could get into the hotel-casinos with me as a K-9 dog. Next time, buddy."
Those heavenly blue eyes watched me with eerie understanding, even about the cramps part. Meanwhile, that big maw snapped up every fry I tossed its way.