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Solomon snorted. It was far too late for any of the Bandog to turn away. Like Arthurs, they had all made pacts with him — and with Shaftiel. Most of them were fairly wealthy and influential, but certainly none of them could survive the aftermath of being connected to a demon-worshipping cult; the cult was young, but its members were well-established in their fields. At the same time, though, their willing commitment to, and belief in, Shaftiel’s power made things much, much easier. They couldn’t get away, but Solomon couldn’t do much without them. He needed them. “Damn.” David stopped for a light. “Actually, 1 have a suggestion.” Solomon glanced at him with curiosity. “The Bandog need to feel a closer connection with Shaftiel, and they need to be impressed.” The light turned green. They began to move again. “Conduct a summoning ritual.”

  “What?” Solomon sat bolt upright in his seat. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that!” He sat back slowly. “I’m not powerful enough. It takes a lot to summon even a minor demon successfully.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be a physical summoning. Let them hear their master’s voice. Whispers through the keyhole of the door between worlds. You could do that.” David glanced at Solomon and flashed him one of the rare smiles that lit his golden face. “And think. There’s a lot of preparation involved in a summoning ritual — even a simple one. Let the Bandog help you with the preparations. Get them working together. Involve some of them, maybe the High Circle. Build up to a spectacle, something big, something that will really let the Bandog taste their power. When Shaftiel speaks to them, it will be even more impressive because they helped make it happen.”

  Solomon looked at David for a moment, then turned to watch the first rays of the sun strike the cool concrete and glass of Toronto. A summoning. A spectacle. It was possible. He smiled, half to David, half to himself. He liked the idea. It shone in his mind like the edge of a knife. Something to restore the Bandog’s faith in Shaftiel, in him. Something that would bind them even more closely to the cult, and as much plain psychology as magick. A... sacrifice? Too small. It had to be big. Big enough that the Bandog would be able to see the power that the cult and Shaftiel could wield; but at the same time subtle. Solomon wasn’t the only mage or even the only Nephandus in Toronto. And mages weren’t even the only supernatural beings to haunt the city’s shadows. Whatever he did had to be subtle enough not to draw attention to the Bandog or himself. Not that all of the unseen forces of Toronto were unfriendly to Nephandi.

  Just that they would view Shaftiel’s cult as a threat to their power.

  David stopped at a corner to wave a pedestrian across. The pedestrian gestured for David to go ahead. No, no. After you. I insist. A game played out in cold, sterile politeness, a game that could only happen in Toronto.

  Solomon’s smile flickered, growing into a hungry, calculating grin. A spectacle. Big, but subtle. One that would inextricably bind the Bandog to Shaftiel’s service. Solomon slid down into his seat, his T-shirt rasping against the leather, and started to plan.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;

  Come buy, come buy.

  The big man glimpsed her movement and turned away from the fallen bouncer. So much for the element of surprise, Tango thought to herself. She crouched, waiting for the man to make his move on her. He would attack her, she was sure of that. There was unthinking rage on his face, and when he caught sight of the Pan’s logo on her staff T-shirt, he bellowed like a bull in a ring. He lunged at her, maybe a little faster than she had expected. She slipped to one side, avoiding his arms and jabbing out with a blow to his kidneys. The man turned quickly, however. The blow glanced away. He snapped an elbow back, striking her on the side of the head hard enough to make her skip aside warily. He turned again. Tango dodged his fists this time, although a third bouncer, coming to her aid, wasn’t so lucky. He received a crack to the face that sent blood flying from a split lip.

  Enough of this. Tango brought the big man around with a few more blows to his side and back. Light blows, though, just meant to get his attention. He pulled one hand back and brought it around in a fast, heavy swing... then crumpled w'ith a gasp and a squeak as

  Tango slipped in under his guard and kicked him hard in the testicles.

  The watching men in the crowded nightclub drew in their breath in a collective wince.

  Never go for the balls seemed to be one of the unspoken laws that connected men around the world. Maybe that was why they always seemed so surprised when a woman did it. The crowd was silent as Tango gestured for two more bouncers to carry the would-be troublemaker out of the club. The downed bouncer was getting up, with some assistance from the bouncer with the split lip. With the fight over, the crowd began to turn away, going back to the drinking and dancing that had brought them here. Jumping up on top of a table, Tango spotted the woman whose presence had started the fight. She pushed her way over to where she stood at the coat check. “Are you okay?” she asked over the club’s pounding music.

  “Yeah.” The woman took her coat back from the attendant. “Messy break-up. Thank you.”

  “Where are the friends you were with?”

  “They’re staying. I...” She shrugged as she put on her coat, and for a moment Tango sensed something of the anxiety the woman was trying to hold back. “I think I’d better just go home.”

  Tango nodded and pulled half-a-dozen free passes out of her pocket. “Just as long as you come back again. I’m sorry you didn’t have a better time.”

  A smile flickered across the woman’s face. “Thanks.” The smile vanished as she saw the bouncers walking her ex-boyfriend through the crowd. “I should go before he gets here.”

  “Just a second. Rick!” Tango grabbed the club’s largest bouncer, who was acting as doorman. “Make sure she gets into a cab without any trouble.”

  “Got it.”

  The woman smiled again. “Thank you.”

  “Catch your cab.” She handed the woman over to Rick, then turned to the man the bouncers were bringing to the door. She stopped them and put a hand on the man’s chest. “I don’t ever want to see you in here again.”

  He tried to focus on her and more or less succeeded. “You’re history, bitch!” he slurred. “I want you fired. I want to see the manager.”

  Tango looked up at him. He w'as massively built, easily six foot five and at least two hundred and forty pounds. She was what dressmakers so politely called “petite,” and a foot shorter than him, even in her boots. The man still went pale in front of the smile she gave him. “I am the manager, asshole.” She glanced at the bouncers. “Make sure he lands hard.”

  She turned away. Running Pan’s, one of San Francisco’s newest and hottest nightclubs, wasn’t easy, but it had its satisfying moments. That was why she insisted on being head bouncer as well as manager — the occasional turn on security was a great u'ay to release stress. Tango pulled her headset from around her neck, disentangling it from her long, brown hair, and settled it back over her ears. “All clear, Alan?” she asked, adjusting the microphone.

  Sometimes one fight would touch off a flurry of fights, a chain reaction of violence sweeping through the club. Not tonight, though. “All clear,” crackled the tinny voice of Pan’s assistant manager in her ear. “And you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “Personal. He came in just as you were asking our burly guest to dance. He said he’d wait over by the main bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tango kept herself alert, wondering who her visitor could be. She didn’t have many friends, and the ones she did have seldom came to see her at work. At least Tango hoped it was a friend. She’d made a lot of enemies over the years — she knew it was a lot easier to piss her off than to please her, and she liked it that way. It meant that the friends she did have were good ones. And that her enemies were dangerous.

  If the swirling hedonism of Pan’s could be said to have a center, then the main bar was it. It had always impressed Tango far beyond the
immense video wall or the soaring platforms and catwalks that took patrons up into the club’s rafters and attracted most of the media’s attention. The main bar was a bright oval of brushed steel, somehow managing to transcend the suburban space-cadet feel that bare metal so often had. Instead, the bar was like a movie star: sensual, begging for a caress, yet at the same time cold, aloof, haughty and untouchable. An ice queen. Dancers moved in a gleaming, chromed steel cage raised up over the bar, just as untouchable.

  People swarmed around the bar as if that icy glamor could rub off on them. Tango shoved her way through the crowd, craning her neck in an effort to spot anyone she recognized. “Alan,” she asked into the microphone, “did the person who was looking for me say he’d wait...” Fingers dug into her ribs from behind.

  Tango’s voice cut off instantly. On pure instinct she grabbed her assailant’s wrists and twisted hard. Not as hard as she might have, but hard enough to produce a yelp of pain. She flung one captured hand away and spun her assailant around, twisting his arm up behind his back so tightly his fingers were brushing his neck

  — and his close-cropped, rusty-red hair. Tango blinked and cursed. “Riley?”

  “Yes!” the trapped man hissed between clenched teeth. “Not very ticklish anymore, are you?”

  “What’s happening out there?” Alan’s voice was sharp. “Tango? I’ve got bouncers heading toward you if you need help.”

  Tango turned Riley loose. “Tell them to forget about it, Alan. I just found my friend, that’s all.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m off-duty. Buzz me if you need me.” She pulled off her headset, but left it hanging around her neck. “What are you doing here?”

  Riley looked at her cautiously. “Do you greet all your friends like that, or just the ones you like?” He worked his shoulder gingerly as he bent down to pick up a ballcap from the floor. His hair was longer on top than on the sides and he wore an untucked shirt over a T-shirt and jeans. He looked about twenty, maybe ten years younger than her. In spite of his youth, though, his fox-red hair was already starting to thin. “Jesus, Tango, have you ever thought about switching to decaf?”

  “You should have known better than to come up behind me.”

  “Winnipeg six years ago should have taught me that.” Riley straightened his round wire-frame glasses. Looking around Pan’s, he added, “Nice. I could stand to work in a place like this. I’ve got a great apartment in a building that’s full of artists and musicians, but you know how artsy types are. Up at strange hours. Loud parties. Not that that’s all bad, but it must be nice to

  be able to go home sometimes.”

  “Riley.” Tango glared at the people who had turned to watch her initial conflict with him; they quickly looked away. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He grinned. “I heard you were working in Pan’s, so I thought I’d check the place out while I was in San Francisco. You know we’ve heard about it all the way up in Toronto? There’s this bar called Hopeful — they have a wall covered with club ads and the ads from Pan’s....”

  “I don’t do the marketing.”

  “No,” Riley added thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose you do. You’ve never exactly been Miss Congeniality, have you?” Riley’s eyes followed a knot of laughing people across the club. He inhaled deeply. “Damn.” He turned to the bar and waved a bartender over. “Whiskey sour. Make it a double. You,” he said to Tango, “are still just as nasty as you ever were. You know, I’ve never needed a picture to remind myself of you. All I have to do is go out and find a rock.”

  Tango’s lips twitched.

  Riley smirked.

  Tango’s dour face fell apart completely. “You doorknob!” She swatted playfully at Riley’s bottom. This had become a game between the two. Each time they met — usually after a prolonged separation — Riley would try to make Tango laugh. Tango would resist as long as she could. That was usually about two minutes. The last time they had met, six years ago in Winnipeg, Riley had just looked at her and raised his eyebrows. She had broken down in seconds. Riley was one of her oldest friends. He might have looked twenty, but he was actually half again as old. And Tango was twice as old as that. “You’re looking good. Except for

  the hair.”

  “That started about five years ago.” Riley flushed and adjusted his ballcap self-consciously. A bracelet around his wrist caught Tango’s eye. She grabbed his arm and took a closer look at it. It was heavy and silvery, with an intricate clasp worked in the shape of a dog’s head.

  “Nice. When did you start wearing jewelry?”

  “Call it a midlife crisis.”

  “Twenty,” Tango said firmly, “is not midlife.”

  Riley stuck his tongue out at her. “Spoken like a grump. You’re acting older every time I see you. If you’d stop hanging around with hu—”

  Tango made a face as the bartender returned with Riley’s drink. Riley’s voice cut off instantly and he took the drink, pulling several crumpled bills out of his pocket to pay for it. Tango caught his hand.

  “On the house,” she told the bartender. “Anything he wants, all night. Don’t take his money.”

  “Spoilsport,” muttered Riley as the bartender nodded and moved away. He dropped the money.

  A handful of leaves fluttered down on top of the bar. Tango gave him a tired look. Riley groaned. “I’m a pooka. I can’t help it. You’ve been around humans too long, Tango. It’s not good for you. You’re getting...” he shuddered, “old.”

  “It’s going to happen to you one day, Riley. It happens to all Kithain.”

  “But if you’d spend more time with your own kind....”

  Tango sighed. Our own kind. This was another game that Riley played with her, and it was one she enjoyed a lot less.

  Once there had been faeries in the world. Noble faeries and common faeries, highborn and low. The spirits of dreams and stories. There had been fabulous parades in the moonlight, and dancing under the stars. Humans had tried to creep into faerie courts and spy on the magnificence of the Kithain. Some had been lucky and gotten away to spread tales of wonder. Others had been caught, pixie-led and pinched black and blue as punishment. A few had caught the eye of Kithain kings and queens and been spirited away to the faerieland of Arcadia as cherished guests and pretty prizes. Once there had been faeries — and then the splendor of that age had fallen. Now Arcadia was far away. There were no parades now and very little dancing, at least not the kind that the ancient faeries would have recognized. The Kithain who had been left behind in this gray, dull world had mingled with humans in order to survive. Tango and Riley were their descendants. Changelings, like the faerie children substituted for human as pranks so long ago. The last remnants of the Kithain were few.

  “Give it up, Riley,” Tango said wearily. “I’m not going back. I like humans.”

  “So do I.”

  “Only because you can play tricks on them so easily. There’s no way I’m going back to Kithain society, so don’t bother trying to talk me into it. Conversation over.” She gestured to the bartender. He brought her a club soda. Riley just rolled his eyes. Tango knew that if something didn’t have alcohol, caffeine, or at least sugar in it, he wouldn’t drink it. “So if you came to Pan’s to see me, what brought you to San Francisco?”

  “An airplane.” Tango gave him a nasty glance, and he amended hastily, “I’m here on business. A trip for the duke of Toronto.”

  ‘‘Worming our way into the duke’s black heart, are we?” .

  Riley looked pained. “I’ve lived in Toronto for ten years. I’m not exactly worming my way anywhere.”

  “Is he as cold as they say?”

  “Colder. If he were any more cold and stiff, he’d be a corpse. You wouldn’t think an Unseelie Kithain would be so rigid and tradition-bound.” Tango nodded. So much of the Kithain’s heritage had changed over years of just trying to survive, but some things stayed the same. The Kithain loved pageantry. They loved the show of court — and, of course, there would a
lways be those who were willing to rule the Kithain courts as dukes, duchesses, kings and queens. And even among the nobles of the dark, unruly Unseelie courts, there were those who held on to the chains of tradition. Especially when tradition supported their positions. “I’ve been appointed his Jester for the year.”

  “What happened to the last one?”

  “He retired. It’s harder to make Duke Michael laugh than it is to make you laugh. But there is a good side to the job.” Riley smiled. “The Jester organizes the Highsummer Night party.”

  Tango spluttered into her club soda. “Nobody organizes Highsummer parties!” Even at the darkest times, the Kithain had clung to their festivals as the tattered banners of their faded glory. Highsummer Night, July 17th, was the biggest Kithain festival of the year, a night of enchantment, feasting and pranks. A wild free-for-all revel. Tango had been to Carnival in Rio once. It was a slumber party compared to Highsummer Night.

  “They do in Toronto. Everything is organized. It’s a

  strange city. You’ll see.”

  He grinned at her expectantly. It took Tango a moment to figure out the meaning behind that grin. “No.”

  “Please? Only for a visit? You’ll have a blast. I’m here to get party favors from the Kithain court at Berkeley. They trade with a bunch of Cult of Ecstasy mages there. Do you know what the Cult of Ecstasy is?”

  “I know more about mages than you do.” Tango slammed her club soda down on the bar hard enough to make bubbles come fizzing out of the liquid. “But even if I wanted to visit a Kithain court again, I wouldn’t do it during Highsummer. I hate Highsummer Night!”

  “I can’t believe that. It would do you good, Tango. I’ve seen grumps older than you frolicking like childlings....”

  “No. Enough, Riley. I’m not going.”

  The finality in her voice made Riley turn to look at her. He was silent for a moment, then asked, “You’re serious?”

  “Why would you think I’d change my mind for a party? You know me.” Tango spread her hands. “I haven’t even set foot in a Kithain freehold in fifteen years!”