Kami Garcia - Dangerous Dream

He let his eyes wander over Ridley leisurely, drinking her in. From the long pink streak in her hair, over the dangerously low-cut neckline of her tank, to the mile-long bare legs, he enjoyed every inch.

Suddenly, the room felt hotter and the music sounded louder. Instead of reveling in the attention, Ridley wanted to shrink back into the crowd and disappear—a feeling she had only experienced in the presence of Sarafine, Lena’s Dark Caster of a mother, and Abraham, the ancient Blood Incubus who had trapped her in a gilded birdcage. The one Link and John Breed had killed.

There was something about this guy that sent her flight instinct into overdrive. This Caster was powerful, and he knew it.

Ridley’s hands curled into fists at her sides, and she stared back at him intently. She would never let anyone make her feel powerless again. This guy was not Abraham or Sarafine. The days of bargaining for her life were over.

The set ended, and the band jogged offstage.

Someone touched Ridley’s shoulder, and she practically jumped out of her skin. “What the—” She spun around, eyes blazing.

The roadie stood in front of her, his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Ridley snapped as she stalked toward him, pointing a long, glittery fingernail at his chest. “I just don’t like Mortals touching me. It’s a hygiene thing.”

He backed away, matching her step for step. “Sampson sent me over. The lead singer from the band. I’m supposed to find out if you wanna hang out after the gig.”

“If by ‘hang out,’ he means sleep with him, I’ll pass.”

The roadie shook his head. “I’m totally screwing this up. He’s gonna be pissed. He noticed you before. He’s just inviting you—”

Ridley cut him off. “To the big game?”

The Mortal’s blue eyes widened. “No. To have a drink backstage. How do you know about the game?”

“A little birdie told me, Blue Eyes.” Ridley unwrapped a lollipop. Using her powers to extract a little information from a Mortal was certainly not the same as using them to get what she wanted from Dark Caster boys. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about it.”

The Mortal stared into Ridley’s gold eyes, transfixed. “They’re playing Liar’s Trade, tournament-style. One winner takes all.”

Liar’s Trade was a Caster take on the Mortal card game known as bullshit. Except Casters didn’t play for money.

“What are they trading?” Rid asked.

“TFPs.”

“Are you screwing with me?” Ridley must have heard him wrong.

“Talents, favors, and powers. That’s the buy-in,” he said.

No one played for TFPs anymore. Wagering your powers and talents in a game was insane, even if most people only bet enough to lose their powers for a few weeks. Rid knew what it felt like to lose her powers, and she would never risk feeling that way again.

Still, there was always a way around the rules—especially if you were a Siren.

Ridley sucked on the lollipop for a second, then pulled it out of her mouth with a loud pop. “Get me in the game.”

His expression clouded over in confusion, and he shook his head. “It’s impossible.”

She leaned closer, until she and the Mortal were nose to nose. “Anything is possible, Blue Eyes. If your life depends on it.”

If the stakes were high enough, it might take her mind off the one thing she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And how easily he had let her go.

Ridley had never seen so much blood. Commercial refrigerators lined the walls of the club’s back room. Inside, plastic freezer bags filled with blood were stacked next to bar staples, like bottles of orange and cranberry juices.

Rid glanced from the bags to the Mortal. “You’re okay with that, Blue Eyes?” Most Mortals were squeamish when it came to the Dark side of the Caster world.

He shrugged and opened a cellar door in the floor. “Better than what I had waiting for me back home. Being a Mortal is harder than you think.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ridley lied. She remembered every second she’d spent as a Mortal—life at the mercy of circumstances that were always beyond her control, and the constant sense of hope that tricked her into believing that her life could be different. That she could be different. Suffer would’ve been a better name for their world. What’s a little blood compared to that?

“You’ve played Liar’s Trade, right?”

“Of course,” Ridley lied again. She’d seen other people play, which was almost the same thing, and she didn’t actually intend to play, anyway. Just to win. Being a Siren gave Ridley the only edge she needed.

She followed the roadie down the damp stone steps and through the tunnel at the bottom. Ornate crystal sconces adorned the walls, throwing soft light on the reddish-brown water sloshing at their feet.

A rat scurried past one of Ridley’s platform heels. “Classy place.”

“It’s the Incubus VIP lounge,” he said.

For a moment, Rid tried to imagine Link hanging out in a bloodstained tunnel decorated with chandeliers that looked like they belonged in Ravenwood Manor. But she couldn’t. Even though he was a quarter Incubus now, there was nothing Dark about Link.

What a stiff.

They reached the end of the tunnel and stood before the mirrored doors of an elevator. “You’re sure you want to do this?” the roadie asked.

“Don’t worry about me, Blue Eyes. I’ve got this.” The elevator doors opened and Ridley stepped inside.

A withered Caster with dull yellow eyes manned the elevator. “Going up?”

Where else would she be going?

“Does this thing go to the Underground?” Ridley asked.

“Don’t know. I’ve been taking it up to the thirteenth floor and back here for a long time.” The doors closed, and the Caster pushed one of the two buttons on the panel: 13.

“Maybe you should broaden your horizons and find out.” Ridley raised an eyebrow. She unwrapped a piece of gum, then wadded up the wrapper and tucked it in the roadie’s jacket pocket.

“Can’t,” the Caster said. “I’m paying off a debt.” He sounded pathetic, and Ridley wasn’t in the mood for his sob story. So she ignored him until the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Ridley stepped into the hallway. Thousands of cigarette wrappers were glued to the walls, like someone locked in solitary confinement with nothing but a lifetime supply of cigarettes had gotten creative—or bored out of their mind.

Rid could relate.

As she and the roadie turned the corner, the cigarette wrapper wallpaper disappeared and was replaced by a hotel hallway right off the Las Vegas strip—black lacquer, gilded mirrors, and a bad Michelangelo-style ceiling mural. Except this hotel had only one door in the hallway.

Number 13.

The door opened before they knocked. The doorman stood on the other side. Ridley could tell he was a Sybil by the way he studied her face, as if he were reading a book. It was exactly the same way Rid’s older sister, Reece, looked at her every time they saw each other. Sybils could read your face and see your past, your present, and sometimes even bits and pieces of your future. They could also tell if you were lying, the Caster power Ridley hated most.

“She’s with me.” The Mortal nodded at Ridley.

The Sybil didn’t take his eyes off Ridley. As she stepped across the threshold, he held his arm in front of her. “Your powers stay at the door, Siren.”

“Excuse me?” Ridley tried to push past him, but the Sybil didn’t budge.

“You heard me. Caster rules. Mortal-style.” He looked her in the eye, reading her face. “That means no powers.”