Excerpt

1. Nobody Weird Like Me

I should've known something was wrong with the world that day. On my way to work, I breezed through every single green light like I owned the city. And I even found a primo parking spot near the center of the Strip. The promise of a weekend bubbled up before me like primordial awesomeness waiting to be tapped and turned into a stack of good memories.

So, of course, someone had to squash my optimism like an ant under a boot.

That someone was the minion of a very real, very bitchy deity. As I stomped up the path toward Caesars Palace for my next appointment, my phone rang. The ringtone—Barracuda by Heart—meant the goddess wanted my time. I wish it was a metaphor or some philosophical observation, but I mean it literally.

Nothing good ever came of these phone calls.

Without breaking stride, I rummaged through my bag and retrieved my cell. "This is Cat," I said tersely.

"Catherine, darling," sang the unctuous voice. "What a delight it is to speak with you."

"Marius," I growled. I didn't even attempt to conceal my loathing for the bastard and his smug British accent.

"I can tell by your enthusiasm that you've missed me."

"I've counted every second we've been apart. What do you want?"

"Our mistress wishes to see you," he said.

I could hear the smirk over the phone. My knuckles popped as I clenched my fist, imagining the glorious day when I could finally smack that look off his face.

"Marius, I can't play right now. I have to work. You know? The thing mere mortals do to pay the bills?"

"Yes. Tedious, that."

I snorted. "More than a little. I'm on my way to another job right now, Marius."

"Be that as it may, the Lady expects you in her office in one hour. Ta-ta, love."

The goat-legged son of a bitch hung up on me.

I hate immortals.

#

When one of the more adept techies in Las Vegas called the office with server problems, I cringed. If Tully reaches out for help it means he's probably run into some weird, arcane shit. On the plus side, it also means this girl gets to pay rent.

Like always, I met up with David Tullemore at the registration desk of Caesars Palace. When he rolled into the lobby, he was a sweaty mass of panic in a polo shirt and khakis. One look at me, though, and Tully's face sagged with relief.

"Thank God, they sent someone competent today."

Since I can say with utmost certainty that God didn't send me that day, I appreciated the compliment for what it was worth. More than once, Tully had told me how he'd called up Answers, Inc.—my employer—and his problems multiplied until they handed the reins over to me. Among our tight community of code monkeys and IT gurus, I'd built a bit of a reputation for knowing my craft.

As he escorted me through the winding halls of the casino offices, Tully and I exchanged pleasantries, dropped the mantles of contractor and helpless techie, and melted into the routine of friends.

"So, saved the world today?" he asked as he dabbed sweat from his forehead.

"Not yet. But I did rewire a celebrity's panic room this morning. Thanks to me she should be able to survive hordes of paparazzi and fanboys."

"If you did the job, she'd survive a zombie apocalypse."

"Well," I said after thinking a moment, "she'll survive if she doesn't trip over her implants."

His round face split into a leer and his eyes lit up. "Whose house?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you, Tully." I chuckled as we rounded a corner then asked, "How's the wife?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine until a few hours ago. Today, Cat, I'm in the doghouse."

"What's going on?"

"This stupid party tonight. Apparently it's been on the books for months but no one in the whole hotel knew we were hosting a gala tonight! Security is scrambling and management has called all hands. I have to pull an all-nighter to make sure nothing goes wrong with the system."

"Can't hand it off to someone lower in the food chain?"

He shook his head. "No. This isn't just some benefit dinner. This is big time. A lot of money will be walking in the door tonight. If a light bulb so much as flickers, my boss will grind me to a pulp and serve me up for tacos on the ten-dollar buffet."

"Easy, Tully," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Before you start smearing salsa all over yourself, why don't you show me what you've got for me."

Swiping his card key, Tully accessed the data center, the beating heart of the casino. Cold, dry air blasted me in the face as I stepped in. Everything in Las Vegas depends on one computer system or another. Security, gaming, hotel room lists and reservations, wi-fi: you name it.

Walking in to the clean room, the tension left my shoulders and I felt my limbs relax. As the white noise lulled me into a Zen-like peace, I could almost feel my breathing fall into a cadence with the steady rhythm of the machines around me. Rooms like this are my spa. Everything has meaning. Everything has its place. Here, everything is simple.

I wish life could be as structured and solid.

Tully rounded a corner and gestured to the work table. "This is my problem, Cat," he said. "My domain controller shut down last night and I can't figure out what the hell is wrong with it."

The domain controller is the "God server", the brain and spinal cord of the casino's systems. It ensures that everything runs as one smooth operation. I shuddered. If Tully hadn't figured it out, what kind of a mess would I find when I took a peek?

My friendly demeanor dropped as I switched into Work Mode. When I spoke again, my words were clipped and my tone all business.

"Backup controller working?" I asked.

"Backup is fine, but I want this one online before tonight."

"Understood."

I sat down at the desk and hunched over the server. I opened the case and let my eyes wander over the tangle of cables and cords connecting to circuit boards and processors. Without laying a finger on it, I acquainted myself with this machine's landscape.

I've often thought peering into the insides of a computer is a lot like reading entrails. Most people I meet think all hard drives look like the same ancient riddle, but my trained eyes see a language, a pattern, a grand design. I look into the guts of a machine and I know things.

As I took out a pair of magnification glasses, Tully slowly paced the room, his bulk rolling with each step.

"Please, God, just make this work," I heard him say. "Make this work and I will do anything."

Without taking my eyes off of the problem in front of me, I sighed and blew a stray lock of my copper hair out of my face. "Name's not God, and I don't know Him."

"Sorry, Cat," he said. "I'm nervous."

I pushed the glasses up over my forehead and regarded Tully. "You know what I think is funny? Everyone always wants to believe that some all-powerful deity is watching them and helping them out."

Tully nodded, his cheeks rippling in a nervous grin. "It's Vegas. What do you expect? Everyone wants the cards to turn their way."

"I just think it's stupid, honestly. Not the notion of the gods, but the idea that we should want them to give a damn one way or the other in what goes on in our lives."

He tilted his head. "You have some wisdom on the matter, Cat?"

Loads, I thought. I've met more deities than most people acknowledge exist. I'd just gotten off the phone with a card-carrying satyr, and my best friend was a mage who could manipulate machines and electronics. If Tully wanted to wax philosophical I could blow his paranoid, caffeine-soaked mind. But, since I figured he wouldn't want his world view rocked today, I refrained from going off on a rant.

"My advice," I said sagely, "it's when the gods take an interest in you that you should start praying."

His face fell.

I let him chew on my words and went back to work, gazing deep into the circuitous paths making up the motherboard. Like a map, the lines spread out before me, linking together to form a picture as familiar as my hometown. I found the problem by the conspicuous absence of a simple connection.

"Bingo," I cheered.

"Cat, I've been elbow-deep in that thing for hours and I couldn't figure out what was wrong. You've been here maybe five minutes."

"Sometimes, it just takes a fresh pair of eyes. Hand me the soldering kit, will ya?"

I exchanged my magnifiers for a set of safety goggles and set to the gentle work of repairing the "God Server" for Caesars Palace.

"So," I said, "tell me about this party."

Tully's excitement bubbled out of him in a long string. "Rumor is there will be a lot of high society types. Lots of money. Celebrities, rock stars, models. The works."

"Pricey entrance fee?"

"Invitation only."

"Ooh, fancy."

"Very. Security has extra staff coming in to work the ballroom and my boss has me doing grunt work so he can try to get in and schmooze."

"I feel your pain," I said. "I'm on call tonight, too."

"For us?"

"No, standard agency work." Or whatever random slog through humiliation and death-defying trickery the goddess has planned for me this time, I grumbled to myself. "But," I added cheerfully, "if something goes to hell tonight and you call for help, you'll probably get me."

"Well, that's a relief. At least I know the work would get done right the first time."

Tully stopped and loomed behind me. Distracted by the sound of his mouth-breathing and the weight of his anticipation, I slid my chin over my shoulder and gave Tully the slightest of glares. He raised both hands in apology or surrender—or both—and backed away.

I batted my eyelashes in gratitude and went back to my task.

Soldering is delicate work, but fixing a couple of loose connections is cake. There's something relaxing about it, too. Watching molten metal solidify, I can almost feel the connections being created beneath my fingertips. It makes me wonder if that's what the world looked like millions of years after the Big Bang; little dots of slag spreading out, quenching in the briny wash of the ocean to form restless continents.

When I finished, I looked over my work with a satisfied smile.

Dragging a thick hand over the greasy fuzz he called hair, Tully asked, "Is it fried?"

"Turn the key and see how she runs."

Tully plugged the server into a nearby test strip. Immediately the LED light on the front began to glow. Tully chewed on his lips and watched the monitor, waiting. When the boot sequence began he let out hurricane-force sigh of relief.

"See?" I said. "Good as new."

Tully's second chin wobbled a little as he gaped at me. I take that sort of thing as a compliment.

I bowed as Yoda might to Obi-Wan. "My work here is done. Unless you've got something else for me," I added.

He shook his head. "No, I think we're good."

Relieved—half of my hour had trickled away—I handed him a clipboard to sign off on the work I'd done, and set to packing up my tools.

As he scribbled, Tully said, "I don't know how you do it. Seriously, Cat, you're the best."

I gave a slight shrug. "It's a gift."

"Being wasted on contract work, if you ask me," he said. "Someone as brilliant as you should be the IT head of any casino in this town. Where were you when we needed a new IT guru?"

I snorted as Tully hit one of my sore spots. When people ask me questions like this—or worse, ask why I don't work for one of the big names like Google or Microsoft—I have to take a deep breath so I don't stab them with my multi-tool.

"I interviewed for the job to be your boss, Tully. Don't remind me."

"Really? Why didn't you take it?"

"I didn't get the offer."

"Seriously?" Tully said, offended. "You're the best! And I can totally tell you love what you do. I've heard you hum while you work. You'd be a way better boss than the asshole I deal with."

I nodded along with him. I've danced to this one before.

"No," I said, "I mean I didn't get the offer. My phone ate the message for a week. By the time I got it, they'd already filled the position."

Tully sagged. "That sucks. Bad luck."

You have no idea, I thought.

"Well, maybe you can get work with Apple. I mean, you've got the tattoo."

He pointed down to my left wrist and my eyes followed.

Any traces I may have had of a good mood vanished at the mention of my mark. The gold tattoo looked exactly like that apple; a stylized silhouette with a bite taken out of it. It was a common misconception. A tech nerd fixing computers for twelve hours a day and she's got a freaking apple on her arm? Yeah. Most people connect the dots and associate it with a brand. It is a brand, but not quite the type they're thinking of.

The bitch that etched her symbol on my arm waited, and I was running out of time. This was my cue to get the hell out and hoof it down the Strip.

Giving my friend a quick salute, I shouldered my bag. "Alright, Tully. I'm out. Good luck tonight." I kicked myself in gear and began the brisk walk back through Caesars's labyrinth.

"You, too," he called after me.

Thanks, I thought. I need all the good luck I can get.