Villain (Gone 8)

“—tell you to come to the Venetian right now. Steal a car if you have to.”

He gave her the suite number and hung up. Two minutes later, the doorbell to the suite rang. He walked back through the huge living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows open to Treasure Island casino across the Strip. He opened the door on a man and a woman, both very fit, both wearing identical blazers with “The Venetian” stitched onto their breast pockets.

“Casino security,” the woman said brusquely. “You need to come with us.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You don’t need to come with us, but we need to know who you are. Your ID, please.”

Dillon shook his head. “You don’t need that, either. Go away.” He slammed the door on them.

It took Saffron Silverman just fourteen minutes to get there, and when he opened the door on her, he burst out laughing. She’d evidently been lying by her pool. She was in a bikini, her black hair still damp. He focused on a tattoo on her hip—Nemo, the fish from the movie. Saffron’s parents were ex-hippie types who had met at a concert, hence the distinctive first name. At school Saffron formed her own clique of nerds and dorks, kids who could get straight As but were too cool to bother. Saffron was the non-nerd queen of nerds, the object of desire for boys and girls who spent too much of their lives writing fan fiction and editing Star Wars mash-ups. She was of average height, with Goth-black hair and a determined nose that defined a face more striking and unique than beautiful.

“Hi,” Dillon said, unable to stop a blush from creeping up his neck.

Saffron blinked and frowned. “Who are you?”

“Dillon. You know, Dillon Poe, the class clown from world history?” He had phrased it as a question, not an order requiring her to believe him. He felt reluctant to use his power on her. Well, at least now that she was actually right there in his room.

I just made the hottest girl I know come to me.

Saffron shook her head. “No, you’re not him. You look . . . not like him.” There was an appreciative note in her voice: she liked what she was seeing. Dillon took a second to glance in the nearest mirror. Yes, he was still green. Not vaguely green, but green. And yes, the flesh on the back of his hands and arms and face—and presumably elsewhere—seemed to have etched lines forming scales. And yet, Saffron seemed almost hypnotized.

“Why am I . . . where am I?” Saffron asked, frowning.

“You’re at the Venetian,” Dillon explained helpfully. “Come in. Let me get you a robe.” He found one in a closet and held it open for her, the perfect gentleman snake.

I could . . . he thought. But, no. Not to Saffron, who had occupied more than a few of his daydreams over the last year. This wasn’t just about making her do things; he wanted her to want to be part of this. Whatever this was. She was smart and she was worldly. And she was a writer who everyone said had a wonderful, dark imagination.

He was the most powerful person in the world, maybe, but he knew enough history to know that ancient kings who had all the power still had wise men advising them. Saffron was to be his wise man. Girl. Woman. He hit upon the perfect example: she would be his Merrill Markoe. Markoe had been both girlfriend and head writer for one of Dillon’s comedy gods, David Letterman.

My Merrill Markoe.

“Ever hear the one about Adam in the

Garden of Eden?” Dillon asked. “He asks God, ‘Why did you make woman so beautiful?’ God says, ‘So you would love her.’ The man asks, ‘But God, why did you make her so dumb?’ God says, ‘So she would love you.’”

Saffron frowned. Not ready to laugh. Especially not ready for a sexist joke.

Wrong joke, Dillon chided himself. You just blurted that because you’re nervous.

He ogled her hungrily as she passed by, brushing her bare shoulder against his as she shrugged into the robe, sending a physical thrill through him.

“Sit,” he said. Then, quickly, “No, on the couch, not the floor.” He sat opposite her. “I have to tell you something, Saffron.”

“Okay.” She was like a person in the first seconds of waking—confused, aware, but with fresh memories of dreams dragging at the edges of her consciousness.

“The thing is, I can make you do anything I want, Saffron.”

She laughed dismissively but not cruelly. “In your dreams,” she said.

“Not anymore,” Dillon said, smiling inwardly at memories of dreams that involved Saffron. “I can make you do anything. For example, if I told you to put a finger in your nose, you would.”

“You’re nuts,” Saffron said. She started to stand up, shaking her head the way a person does when they can’t believe what they themselves have done. “I don’t even know why I came here.”

“Saffron. Take your right pinkie finger and stick it up your left nostril. Wait! Just to the first knuckle!”

This being a Las Vegas casino suite, there were mirrors everywhere. He turned her head to make her see.