Heavy silence, and then, “Yeah. I told him you were sending me home, and he said that was a good idea. He didn’t say it, but I got the impression that Dashiell is hoping you won’t want to go in without backup.”

“He’s betting on me chickening out?” Well, that just made me more committed.

Stay on task, Scarlett. Chain of command seemed really important to Cliff, so I said, “Look, did Hayne officially order you to go back to LA?”

“Well, no, but—”

I interrupted him. “Then I will give you ten thousand dollars to come along tonight and be my backup. In theory, you won’t even be in danger. You’ll mostly be protecting Laurel while she does a spell.” Without waiting for his response, I outlined the plan that Lex and I had come up with. Well, mostly Lex.

There was a long pause. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Ten thousand dollars?”

“Cash. Tonight.”

He sighed. “All right, you’re on. But if Hayne calls me and gives me a direct order to come back, anytime before we actually leave, I have to do it.”

“Deal.”

A few minutes later, Wyatt hung up with Laurel. “Cliff is in,” I told him. “What did Laurel say?”

“She’s in, too,” he said, looking grim. I felt a stab of sympathy. Cliff was used to walking into dangerous situations, but Laurel was a relatively weak witch with a relatively normal job. She was only willing to do this for Wyatt. And, to some extent, for Ellen.

Guilt flared in my stomach. If Jesse were here, he’d probably tell me to abort, to go home and let Dashiell come back to Las Vegas with the cavalry. But if I did that, Jameson would almost definitely die. And Dashiell himself would be forced to take a huge risk. I’d like to think I wasn’t exactly expendable, but if something happened to me, it wouldn’t topple the whole governing system in Los Angeles. In the grand scheme of things, my death would be a brief inconvenience.

“She thinks she knows of a store near the Strip that’s open late, so she’s going to run and get the items your friend Lex suggested,” Wyatt went on. “Meanwhile, you and I need to run an errand.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”

A smile spread across his cowboy face. This particular smile made me nervous. “The guns,” I guessed.

A nod. “Can you shoot?”

“I’m better with a blade. I don’t like guns much.” This was a bit of an understatement—guns freaked me right the shit out.

“That didn’t actually answer my question,” Wyatt said mildly.

I sighed. Even I couldn’t deny that guns were probably necessary here, and I didn’t dislike them enough to go to the proverbial gunfight with only some knives. This was exactly why Jesse made me keep practicing with him at the range. “If the situation calls for it, yes. I can shoot.”

Wyatt looked at me for a long moment, assessing, then shrugged. “The situation calls for it,” he said.

I put on my bulletproof vest and my knife holster, a soft leather belt that looked like a short corset. It sat high on my waist, which let me sit and move around without stabbing myself, and held twelve small throwing knives. I covered this up with a loose long-sleeved shirt. I might get a little hot, but it could have been worse. I added my boots with their knife holsters, too.

Wyatt watched me get ready with an approving—but never lascivious—eye. I was starting to get a serious Old West gunslinger vibe off him, like maybe this wasn’t his first time walking into a firefight. When I was ready, the two of us tramped through the noisy casino to the parking garage, where Cliff was waiting at the entrance with a black duffel bag in hand. To my relief, he looked much better than he had that afternoon: more color, less stiffness in his movements. I introduced the two of them, and they shook hands, although Cliff looked a little wary. “He’s human in my presence,” I reminded him under my breath. Cliff nodded and relaxed slightly.

“How’s the injury?” I asked, nodding at his side.

“Pretty good.”

“You look like you can handle yourself,” Wyatt said, surveying the other man. “You ever been in a firefight?”

“Yeah. You?”

Wyatt nodded, but admitted, “But it’s been . . . oh, about a hundred years.”

Cliff frowned, and I hurried to change the subject. “So. Where are we going to get a bunch of guns at seven thirty on a Saturday night?” I said to Wyatt.

A wide grin spread over his face. “That, I’ve got covered.”

The three of us had to squeeze into Wyatt’s dusty blue pickup truck, which was the kind you see in music videos for country songs. Well, okay, I don’t actually watch music videos for country songs, but I’d imagine they’re full of small, well-used and well-loved pickup trucks. To my surprise, the interior was perfectly neat, even cleaner than I keep the White Whale. But then, I guess you don’t have to worry about fast-food wrappers if you don’t eat actual food. I had to sit in the middle because I was the girl. And, in all fairness, the smallest of the three of us.

Traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard was getting hairy, but Wyatt turned us off the main drag, jumping onto a highway for a little bit to form what felt like most of a large circle. At least we got to skip the bumper-to-bumper.

I lost my bearings, but eventually we drove into a part of town that was mostly closed up for the night, unlike the Strip. It was more or less a typical suburban strip mall kind of neighborhood, but Wyatt steered the pickup truck into a dark parking lot, and I squinted to see the building we’d pulled up to. “The Gun Store?” I said aloud. “Seriously?” Cliff didn’t say anything.

“Las Vegas’s premier indoor shooting range for nearly thirty years,” Wyatt said smugly, pulling around to the back lot. “They specialize in guns from throughout history. This is where you go if you want to shoot a tommy gun, or one of James Bond’s Walthers.”

“That’s really cool,” Cliff said in an almost reluctant voice, like he hated to admit he was impressed. “But I brought my own weapons.”

“Suit yourself.” Wyatt put the truck in park and climbed out. “Me, I never did get much of a taste for automatic weapons,” he added. “This store stocks the guns I know how to use.”

I hurried after him. “Wyatt, a place like this is gonna have state-of-the-art security,” I said nervously. “If you break in, the cops will—”

Wyatt held up his key chain, giving it a jingle. Then he inserted a key into the back door and pulled it open. “I’m kind of a silent partner here,” he said over his shoulder.

Oh.

Wyatt keyed a password into an alarm keypad. We followed him to a security room, where he did something to the computer, presumably erasing our tracks. Finally he turned to me. “Now,” he said, suddenly reminding me of an Old West Willy Wonka. “What do you want to shoot?”

I blinked. “Uh . . . a Glock, if you have it.” Jesse owned both a Glock and a Beretta, and made me practice with both. I preferred the grip of the Beretta, which felt more comfortable in my hand, but Jesse always pushed the Glock—a blocky, ugly weapon that would nevertheless still shoot even if it was underwater or full of dirt.

Wyatt led me to what looked like the main salesroom, flipping on the lights and going behind the counter. Without being asked, Cliff took up a spot near the front door, keeping an eye out for incoming cars. The store had only been closed for a couple of hours, and I could still smell gunfire in the air, that special mix of gunpowder and propellant and ozone. It made me nervous, since I still felt like we were breaking and entering, but then again, Wyatt was a vampire. If the cops showed up, I would suppress my radius and he could press them.

Behind the counter, weapons were hanging on hooks, presumably unloaded. There were little rectangular tubs below them, each one just the right size for a handgun and some ammo. Wyatt grabbed a familiar-looking gun off the wall and dropped it into a tub, then turned to look at me.

“What else?” Wyatt asked.

“Dude. If we’re going into a situation where I need more than one gun, we’re all gonna die.”