While I’m away in China, I have a very special treat for you lovely lot. I’m sharing with you a five part story, never been read, never been published before, from the Medusa Consortium Series. Ever wonder how our fallen angel, Michael Weller, once lover of the Guardian, now Susan Ennis’s lover, and long time friend and member of Magda Gardener’s consortium lost his angel hood? Well wonder no more. This is a little peek into Michael’s backstory, taking place while Michael is with the Guardian and wants very much to give his lover a very special gift.

The Bet is complete in five parts, all of which will be posted here during the next two weeks. While I’m in China, I’ll have no access to my blog, nor email, nor Facebook, nor Twitter, so this is my gift for you to enjoy until I get back.

PART TWO

He had arrived at Buried Pleasures with nothing more than his name on the guest list, and the house had covered him in accordance with what he was willing to gamble. They were generous that way when someone was willing to go for broke. Buried Pleasures was happy to deal in unusual bets. No one was allowed in unless they were willing to risk it all, and Jack Graves always knew who was willing to take that chance. Michael confirmed Magda’s suspicions when he bet everything in the first hand. He wasn’t there for the adrenaline rush. He just wanted it to be over with. She, on the other hand, liked to linger over a good game, especially when she knew just how delectable the pay-off would be.

He proceeded to win hand after hand, becoming more agitated the more chips he raked in. At Magda’s request, a waitress brought over a bottle of Moet and Chandon and two glasses. She didn’t ask him if he wanted any, she just nodded to the waitress who poured. “A toast to winning big,” she said, lifting her glass and watching his response over the top of her shades.

He took it cautiously and sipped, as though he feared she might have slipped him a roofie. “I don’t drink,” he said with a blush, but he finished the glass in a single gulp anyway. She smiled to herself. She could have bought the cheap stuff for all it mattered to him, but it mattered to her. Besides she could afford it, and anyway, Graves didn’t stock the cheap stuff. She refilled his glass and nodded back to the cards. By now it was clear that for Michael it would be a test of endurance, a test of how badly he wanted what he thought he wanted. The old saying was never truer than it was for those who came to gamble at Buried Pleasures. Be careful what you ask for. You might just get it. But the truth was, Magda didn’t care if he really wanted what he thought he did. She only cared that he got it.

When he pushed all of his chips into the center of the table and nodded to the dealer, it was clear that what Michael wanted was to lose, big time, and Magda was about to find out just how much he was willing to risk. She offered him her best predatory smile. As her Ray-Bans slid down her nose just a smidge, she had the satisfaction of watching him shudder and grab onto the edge of the table as though he feared he might fall off the chair. It did her heart good to know even his kind were just as susceptible to her special brand of magic as anyone else. “All right,” she said stretching back languidly in her chair as though she had just awakened from the most delicious nap, “I suppose I’m up for one more hand.” She nodded her consent, and the tension drained from Michael’s broad shoulders as though he had just received a stay of execution. He had no idea, she thought.

He pulled a full house and cursed under his breath as she shoved the mountain of chips back in his direction. If Magda didn’t know better, she’d almost think there was some divine providence at play, for Michael’s own protection, of course. While he might be punished for his actions, for the results of accepting Graves’ invitation, he’d already gotten all the outside help he was likely to get.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Graves, in his regular uniform of bespoke black, watching with interest. Oh he wasn’t concerned that Michael was cheating. No one cheated at Buried Pleasures. It was simply that allowing Michael in, allowing Michael to bet, put the casino, and its owner, in uncharted waters. Very few of the punters had connections as weighty as Michael’s, though a hand full of priest and religious nutters, along with the usual smattering of filthy rich, thought they did.

Without so much as a pause, Michael shoved all the chips back into the center of the table. But this time Magda shook her head. “I’m going to quit while I’m behind. Why don’t you go cash in and enjoy Vegas.” She nodded to the chips. “You certainly can afford to. Hell,” she added with a little chuckle, “you could buy half of Sin City with what you just won, then retire and sit back and enjoy yourself.”

“I can’t retire,” he said.

She knew he couldn’t, but there was just enough cruelty in her nature to want him to squirm a little bit, to want him to sweat over the possibility that he might just fail in his mission.

His mouth was a thin line and his square super-hero jaw looked like it might have been carved from granite. “Don’t you want to win back what you’ve lost?”

She heaved a sigh that sounded like it had taken a lot of effort and toyed with a long strand of hair, which had escaped containment from the black ribbon that held the rest of her tresses in check. “I don’t want to lose any more.” At her response, his shoulders looked as though they would split the seams of the jacket.

“If you don’t have anything to bet, I’ll spot you,” he said and started to push half the chips back at her.

She raised a hand to stop him. “It’s not that I don’t have anything to bet,” she let the Ray-Bans slip again, and he squirmed and caught his breath, no doubt wondering why he suddenly felt the tightness in his chest, the sense that the floor was tilting beneath him. From her peripheral vision, she caught Grave’s frown. He didn’t appreciate her toying with the clients. She turned just a tiny bit and smiled up at him as she gave her glasses a gentle push back up the bridge of her nose. Then she focused her attention once again on Michael. “It’s just that this game has become boring, darling, what with you winning every hand.” She gave him an evil smile, and nodded up to Graves. “One could get the impression that you’re cheating.”

He ran a hand through dark hair in need of a cut and tugged at the collar of the white polo shirt he’d buttoned all the way up to the corded muscles along his throat. “I’m not cheating. Honestly I’ve never even played poker until tonight. Surely you know I’m not cheating.”

She drummed her mauve nails mutely on the felt tabletop. “That may be, but how do I know that you’re not some sort of savant or a card counter? That’s against the rules, you know. If you get caught.”

“I’m not! I’m not either one of those. Honestly. I don’t want to … I’m not trying to … cheat.”

The poor guy. As much as she loved toying with her victims, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She shoved her hair over her shoulders; the ribbon had all but lost control of the heavy locks, and she leaned across the table, nearly into his personal space. He moved back as far as he could in a chair that barely contained him. He was a big boy, and yet he was uncomfortable in her presence. That was to be expected, but she figured he’d be uncomfortable in just about anyone’s presence. Poor shy lad. Still, she was sure he would do what he had to. She was counting on it. “Michael, darling, let me give you just a little bit of advice. You don’t mind, do you?”

He blinked dark blue eyes, looked for a second as though he might protest, and then only shook his head.

She didn’t sit back. In fact she slid into the chair next to him watching the hammer of his pulse in his throat speed up at her nearness. It was the usual response from prey to predators, but there was so much more going on here than just a shy boy being uncomfortable in the presence of a beautiful woman. She shoved his shaggy hair away from his ear and his eyelids fluttered. His whole body went rigid as she whispered, “what you need to understand about gambling, Michael, is that while there is an exchange, never at
any point is that exchange fair. Consensual, yes, but never fair. And sooner or later, everyone loses.”

He squared his shoulders and with the kind of effort she’d seen often in the very shy and met her gaze. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

And there it was, the truth of the matter she’d known from the beginning, the implications of which he could not possibly comprehend. At least not just yet.

While I’m away in China, I have a very special treat for you lovely lot. I’m sharing with you a five part story, never been read, never been published before, from the Medusa Consortium Series. Ever wonder how our fallen angel, Michael Weller, once lover of the Guardian, now Susan Ennis’s lover, and long time friend and member of Magda Gardener’s consortium lost his angel hood? Well wonder no more. This is a little peek into Michael’s backstory, taking place while Michael is with the Guardian and wants very much to give his lover a very special gift.

The Bet is complete in five parts, all of which will be posted here during the next two weeks. While I’m in China, I’ll have no access to my blog, nor email, nor Facebook, nor Twitter, so this is my gift for you to enjoy until I get back.

The Bet: Part One

Magda had arranged for Michael to arrive at Buried Pleasures Casino in a white
stretch limo. Oh it certainly wasn’t done in an effort to impress him. In fact it would embarrass him, she figured. But a white limo for his last night seemed appropriate under the circumstances. She had known for a long time that he would come. Endlessly patient, she watched and waited, knowing that when the time was right and everything came together as it must, he would never truly be able to imagine the knock-on effects of the cataclysmic change he thought he so desperately wanted. But then his kind tended to be naïve, kept so sheltered as they were.

Jack Graves, the casino owner, usually furnished transport for those he had invited. But this time she asked him to allow her the honors. Buried Pleasures was by invitation only, but rules had been broken and lines had been crossed in order for Michael to be here.

She’d been careful to arrive just before he did, waiting in the shadows so she could see his response. She’d asked the driver to take the long route and make sure he gave Michael a tour of the Strip and the Downtown area before bringing him to Buried Pleasures. She wanted him impatient, even a little intimidated. She needed to see just how willing he was to do what was necessary. And she wanted him off-balance, at least a little. Though really, it was difficult for one not to be off-balanced by first impressions of Buried Pleasures. There was no glam, no glitz, only the gaping maw of a storm tunnel. Even the limos were allowed just a quick drop-off on a cracked concrete slab under the constant buzz and flutter of an aging sodium streetlight. There were very few pick-ups.

The storm tunnels beneath Las Vegas were a mind-boggling engineering feat began in the seventies to offer flood protection to a city built on bedrock and totally surrounded by mountains. The individual segments always reminded Magda of giant hollow Lego blocks made of concrete. Originally there was to be over a thousand miles of tunnels serving Vegas and the surrounding area. They were all designed to channel the waters of any flash flood that threatened the financial heart of the city into Lake Mead some thirty miles away. The project was never finished, but there were still an impressive two hundred miles of tunnels beneath the city. They now provided shelter for the homeless who didn’t mind playing the odds that their meager belongings wouldn’t get washed away in the next deluge. They also had provided a hiding place for murderers and thieves and who knew what else? Well actually, Magda knew what else. She was there when the tunnels were built. She was there long before. There were lots of reasons why Buried Pleasures was the most talked about secret hidden beneath Sin City.

The real attraction of Buried Pleasures was that everyone was dying to see what was inside, what was very literally buried under the storm tunnel façade. But only a select few were allowed in. And that exclusive clientele had nothing to do with wealth, power or fame. Beneath the dank passages crawling with scorpions and ripe with urban legends, oligarchs placed their bets next to waitresses. Beneath chandeliers the size of steamships, rock stars and famous athletes played black jack next to farmers and janitors.

Michael hadn’t waited for the driver to open the limo door. He’d unfolded himself from the back seat and stood for a moment with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of an ill-fitting sports jacket. With a quick glance he took in the complete lack of anything that would have given away the fact that he was about to enter the most exclusive casino in the world. There was no shock, no doubt, no surprise on his face. Just chiseled determination.

As he straightened his jacket and stepped toward the entrance, she made her move. For a moment she simply stood there in front of him letting the impact of her presence wash over him, a presence that assured he’d never even notice her dark glasses. No one ever did until she removed them, and then it was too late. Sometimes beauty was not only untouchable, but deadly, for a split second its subconscious impact a reminder that the sublime often exists only a hairs breadth from destruction. And once the initial moment of surging pulse and rising goose flesh had passed, she approached him casually. First impressions were lasting impressions, after all, and he would remember her for a very long time to come. “You’re first time here?” She asked as they walked into the tunnel, which would have been pitch black if not for the utility lights glowing in their protective metal cages.

He only offered a grunt of affirmation, and blushed furiously – something anyone else would have missed, but Magda saw way more than most.

“A silly question, I suppose.” She slid a hand into the crook of his elbow as though she were his date, and he tensed at her touch. “Very few people come here more than once.”

“I only need once.” He was softer spoken than she had expected, but then she doubted he’d had much experience interacting with people.

She smiled to herself. He was right. He only needed once. What he would do afterwards, though, that was what interested her.

They took one of the two service elevators down, both seeming more suitable for forklifts and men with jackhammers descending to a construction sight than for the steady stream of people anxious to bet everything. Some were dressed to the nines in designer originals, some wore faded jeans and tee-shirts. There was no dress code, and no matter how much speculation the place generated, what went on in Buried Pleasures actually did stay in Buried Pleasures. Those select few who returned from a visit to the casino never talked about it, no matter how much they were offered for their exclusive exposé.

He chose poker – after she’d recommended it. He’d never played before. In fact, he’d never gambled before, but then a lot of people invited to Buried Pleasures hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Ultimately everyone played the odds. While most people who came here weren’t very skilled, Magda knew there was far more to gambling than cards or roulette. It was all a matter of just how far they were willing to go and if they were they willing to bet it all.

Michael spoke with the careful elocution of someone who had worked with a coach to perfect the accent in a language that wasn’t his own. That was to be expected under the circumstances. And even if Magda hadn’t known who he was, what he was, she’d have assumed this was his first trip to the big city. Not that Vegas was big, and it didn’t really qualify as a city, but Michael seemed a bit overwhelmed by it nonetheless. In all fairness she doubted if he got a lot of time for recreation in his vocation. It was a risk for him to be here at all. But then he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t willing to take major risks.

“Must be beginner’s luck.” She spread yet another losing hand onto the table,
studying him from behind her dark glasses. “Looks like the guy upstairs might just be giving you the edge.”

He flinched as though she’d slapped him, and she shoved the pile of chips his way. The jerk at the corner of his mouth could in no way be misconstrued for a smile. “The guy upstairs never gives anyone the edge.”