Vegas by The Professor Dan Benson has assumed many names and many roles, but none as strange as this one.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?”

The man who asked that over my shoulder was the last person I would have expected to say that. Lieutenant Matt Henshaw, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, had probably seen more strange things than most people could ever imagine. I didn’t answer him, because if I said yes, I’d be compromising classified material, but in fact, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen anything like it–or rather pictures of it during my training.

The naked body was only a few steps inside the casino perimeter, and perhaps ten feet away from the actual entrance to the casino at the Elysian Hotel. The poor victim had probably not realized that the magic suppressors set up a field a few feet beyond the casino entrance and had run right into the field. If his body hadn’t been in the middle of a transformation, he would have been fine, but I estimated he had been changed to the point that he was about one-third female. His internal organs, protected by the transformation spell, were too much in flux to survive the loss of the magic spell. It wasn’t a pretty way to die.

“Do you recognize him?” Matt asked.

“No,” I lied.

“I thought since he had that class ring in his hand...”

I examined the ring. It was a US Air Force Academy ring all right. The star sapphire in the setting reflected the overhead lights in the nearly-deserted casino. I looked at the year on it: 1994–six years earlier than my own Academy ring proclaimed.

“We’ll check it out,” I told Matt, doing my best to keep the emotion out of my voice. I couldn’t let him know who the victim was. As the old joke went, if I told him, I’d have to kill him.

Except it wasn’t necessarily a joke.

Matt sighed. “Okay, we’ll bag and tag him. I’ll make sure you get a copy of the file–just in case he is one of yours.”

“I’d appreciate that, Matt,” I told him.

Matt motioned to the two men from the Clark County Coroner’s Office. They nodded back and began to get the body ready to go.

“Hold on a minute!” someone called out from the police line in the lobby.

I looked up in time to see Andy Wallace, an FBM Special Agent, flashing his ID to the uniformed cops at the perimeter. Leave it to Andy to be late. He was practically the antithesis of Matt. While Matt was always prompt to the scene of a crime, Andy tended to show up late–often after a more junior agent had already done most of the legwork. Matt did a lot of his own grunt work. Maybe that was why he tended to be lean and a little tired in appearance, while Andy was a little pudgy and unusually energetic for an FBM type. They were usually more laid back, but Andy was a good little puppy dog and wanted to get ahead in the Bureau. Shame he didn’t have the brains for it.

“The Bureau’s already been here,” Matt called out to Andy. “Talia left about thirty minutes ago.”

Andy smoothed his wind-ruffled blond hair with his fingers and gave Matt and me a friendly grin. “I’ll just be a minute. Just need to check a few details.”

Matt nodded at the nervous casino manager waiting back by the craps tables who obviously wanted his casino reopened before the early risers got up to start the day. His casino had been closed since three in the morning–nearly four hours earlier–and given the cost of running the magic suppressors, he could see visions of big money flying right out the doors.

Andy turned to me. “What are you doing here, Dan?”

I shrugged. “The vic was found with an Air Force Academy ring in his hand. Matt thought he might be somebody missing from the base.”

“Was he?”

I shook my head. “Not as nearly as I can tell.” There–I’d lied again. ‘Sorry, Martin, you deserved better than this,’ I thought.

Andy knelt down by the body. “Jeez, this is a nasty one, isn’t it?”

“Bad way to go,” Matt agreed.

“What do you figure happened to him?” Andy asked.

“We think he was kidnapped and was being changed against his will. Somehow, he got away but stumbled too close to the casino entrance where the spell was stopped.”

Andy nodded and confirmed, “It looks like it.” As an FBM Special Agent, I figured Andy had just about seen it all, too. He might not have been the brightest FBM Agent I had ever met, but he was experienced.

Matt went on to update Andy with all the information he had already given me. I could have left and gone home to shower and change into a uniform before heading to my office at Nellis Air Force Base, but I decided to stick around and listen to Matt–just in case I heard something I’d missed before.

Matt related again how the victim had rushed naked into the casino, screamed in pain and fell to the floor. Security cameras showed that he had rushed into the Elysian from outside, but no one knew where he had come from. The streets are busy all night in Vegas, but believe it or not, a naked man running down them might easily go unnoticed. At least from the security cameras, it was known he had been running north to south along the Strip, but that didn’t help much. Beyond the Elysian to the south was mostly desert.

“You think he came from one of the other casinos?” Andy asked. “Have you checked their security cameras?”

Matt gave the FBM agent an exasperated look. “Hey, Andy, do you think you’re dealing with amateurs? Of course we checked them. Wherever he came from, it wasn’t one of the other casinos.”

I wasn’t learning anything new. “Gotta go, guys,” I announced. Matt and Andy both gave me distracted nods.

I stepped out of the casino, glad to be in the fresh, clean air of a Nevada morning. It was one of the few perks of living in Vegas. And besides, I hated the stale, smoky air in the casinos. Thank god there were only four of them in town.

I got my Mustang and drove back up the Strip, heading for my apartment near Nellis. Things were relatively quiet at that time of day in Las Vegas. I often wondered, though, what the town would have been like in a world without magic. I knew it had been billing itself as the Gambling Capital of the World back before Webster and Kline had unwittingly released magic on the world. But of course, once people started developing magical powers, gambling became pretty much impossible.

Casinos all over town had closed up. How could you have slots when Pushers could control the mechanisms? The same went for roulette wheels and even dice. Telepathic powers made poker and a host of other card games impossible. The promise of endless prosperity for Las Vegas right after World War II was over practically before it really got off the ground.

So Las Vegas tried a different tactic. Overnight, it became the Sex and Entertainment Capital of the World. Where casinos once stood, there were now big stage productions with naked or nearly naked girls (and in some cases boys). But they weren’t just shows: they were smorgasbords. Customers could enjoy the show and then, for the right amount of money, cull out one of the entertainers for a little after-hours activity.

Sure, stuff like that went on all over the world, but what was a business (the second oldest business, according to some pundits) elsewhere had become an absolute art form in Las Vegas. Every kink and fetish on the planet could be found in Vegas, and magic had even created a few new ones. And it was all perfectly legal: Las Vegas needed the income.

Then, five years ago, somebody developed the magic suppressor. The good news was that suppressors could nullify the effects of magic over an area large enough to house an impressive casino. The bad news was that a magical suppressor installation cost over ten million dollars, plus a substantial sum to keep running every day. Gambling had returned to Las Vegas, but the day of the small casino or restaurant with a few slots in the lobby seemed over for good.

Of course, if anyone knew what was being worked on just a short drive from Las Vegas...

But that was my job–to make sure no one did find out.

Driving through the Main Gate at Nellis AFB was like taking a transporter to another world. Outside the gates, sleaze and sex prevailed. Bars and sex clubs advertised every imaginable sexual experience for the Air Force personnel as they left the base with good government money jingling in their pockets. I understood a couple of the larger clubs had even been casinos back before magic, so the shakedown of our boys in blue had been going on for a long time.

Inside the gate, though, nearly fourteen thousand men and women worked every day, keeping America safe. Three Air Wings and an assortment of other strategic commands kept the base humming. The desert air seemed somehow cleaner inside the gate.

‘Have I mentioned how much I hated Las Vegas?’

But this was where I was assigned–or at least to all but a few in the know, it was where I was assigned. Nearly everyone thought I was Captain Daniel R. Benson, attached to Base Security. They would have been surprised to learn that not only was that not my real assignment, but it wasn’t even my real name.

Even though I was early, several of my people were already at their desks. TSgt Campbell looked up from his desk. Unlike me, he really was Base Security full-time. To him, I was just another security officer. He looked up at me, adjusting his glasses through the graying hair at his temples. “Good morning, Captain. Colonel Edwards asked you to see him as soon as you got in.”

Colonel Edwards–one of the few in the know–and I had spoken during the night. I had planned on seeing him right away, and he knew it, but issuing the requirement to see him through my section made it look normal–just another routine security matter to be discussed with the boss.

“I’m on my way,” I replied, taking a few seconds to drop my cover and my briefcase before walking down the corridor to Colonel Edwards’ office.

Colonel Edwards was in charge of all security on the base. He was two pay grades over the normal occupant of that post, and it was assumed by just about everyone at Nellis that he was a washed-up officer, his career stymied, on a twilight tour–the tour just before retirement. All the other senior officers from the Base Commander through the Wing Commanders left him alone. Ambitious officers on their way up usually avoided the ones seen as losers in the race for flag rank–their failure just might rub off.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Like me, Colonel Edwards was a cipher–neither his assignment nor his name were real. Oh, he was really my commanding officer all right, but his command was known (in the rare places where the name was even spoken) as Security Group Talon. As for his career, the stars of a brigadier general were already approved for him under his real name. The various officers on the base who were trying so hard to associate with the real winners would have done well to be noted by “Colonel Edwards,” if only they had known who he really was.

I briskly entered his office, closed the door, and snapped off a crisp salute. I had worked for Colonel Edwards for three years now, and although we were relatively close, I realized he was a stickler for military protocol, hence the salute.

“At ease, Captain,” he told me from behind his desk after returning the salute and motioning me to a chair. When I was seated, he asked, “You’re sure it was Ralston?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “The changes had already started, but there’s no doubt that it was him. I even examined his class ring.”

“Damn!”

“Yes, sir.” Major Martin Ralston was one of Talon’s top agents. He had been successfully infiltrating operations hostile to the United States for ten years. His magical talent was as a Persuader. It was an unusual talent, considered secondary by magical scientists. Unlike Whisperers, who could force unsuspecting victims to do their exact bidding, Persuaders were like con men–They could make you more willing to believe you were who they said they were–a perfect talent for infiltration.

And infiltration had been Major Ralston’s assignment. He had been placed in Las Vegas masquerading as a potential weapons technology buyer. We had been investigating a security breach for months–one that could potentially do great damage to our country. Major Ralston had uncovered a conduit right here in Las Vegas and had been trying to nail down all the involved parties. The only thing we had been able to pin down is that one of the four city casinos was probably involved.

“Do we know which of the casinos is the most likely suspect?” the colonel asked.

I shook my head. “No, Major Ralston’s last drop said he was going to check out something at the Versailles, but that was three days ago.”

The colonel snorted, “That would make sense. That bastard Rothman who runs the Versailles is rumored to like changing anyone who crosses him into a chorus girl and whoring them out. Ralston must have crossed him and been captured. It looks as if Rothman planned to change him into one of his little whores. If he hadn’t gotten free before the transformation was completed, we’d have never known.”

“Yes, sir.” I agreed with the colonel, and I realized why he was so frustrated. Rothman was a crook and an ass, but without ironclad evidence, he was bulletproof. Although he didn’t own the Versailles, he ran it for a group that was said to secretly involve several powerful men–including a US Senator and a former state governor. He had been one of the men responsible for the magical suppressors sprouting up around Las Vegas. No, he hadn’t invented them: instead, he had bought them from the French, who had built them with technology stolen from us. We had cooked them up at Area 51. Rothman was believed to be behind the theft of that technology–although, of course, no one had been able to prove it.

“We could have the Vegas police bring him in for questioning,” I suggested.

Colonel Edwards shook his head. “What good would that do? You told me earlier that Major Ralston had not been seen coming out of any of the casinos, so there’s nothing to connect his capture to Rothman. Besides, he owns the Las Vegas police.”

“Lt. Henshaw seems like a good cop,” I pointed out.

“If you say so,” my boss allowed grudgingly. “Even if they brought him in, he’d be out the minute his lawyer showed up.”

I had to admit to myself that he was right about that. As I said... bulletproof.

“So what can we do, sir?”

The colonel’s eyes bored into mine. “Get some hard evidence on this Rothman. I don’t care how you get it. Use this Henshaw if you want, and coordinate with the FBM. But don’t let any of them know what this is about.”

“That will probably stifle the investigation,” I pointed out.

Colonel Edwards drilled me with his gray eyes. “Captain, no one outside Talon is to know anything about the wand. Is that clear?”

I knew better than to argue. I rose and saluted again. “Yes, sir.” I started to walk out, but Colonel Edwards called me back.

“Mike...” he began, using my real name.

I turned. “Yes, sir?”

“The wand is due for a test at Area 51 within the next three or four weeks. If we’re right, and there is an information leak regarding the project, Rothman may be behind it, and he needs to be stopped. If anyone gets their hands on the wand, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Back in my own office, I spent the next fifteen minutes just staring into space. I knew we were close on tests of the wand, but hadn’t realized just how close. Protecting any knowledge of its existence was our highest priority, and already, it had cost one of our number his life.

Personally, I hoped the wand didn’t work. Most of the world had shied away from us back when Webster and Kline had unwittingly released magic on an unsuspecting world, but at least most of the talents had been limited. And over time, everyone outside North America realized that a lot of magical talents were reduced as Americans, Canadians, and Mexicans most affected by magic travelled to Europe and Asia and beyond. Then, along came magic suppressors–expensive, but at least foreign governments and businesses could install them and be assured of safety from magical eavesdropping or interference.

But now, potentially at least, there was the wand...

The wand was literally that–it looked like something the Good Witch of the North might carry around, and it made magical power both stronger and infinitely portable. Slip a wand in your suitcase and your magic would be stronger in Paris or Moscow than it would without the wand back home in Pittsburgh or Dallas–at least ten times as strong if the math proved right. And if used in North America, where magic was strongest, the power of a spell would be almost incalculably higher. It was the atomic bomb of magic.

That’s just what we needed, I thought to myself, more amateurs with enhanced magical powers. Even my own weak Pyro powers, good mostly for starting fires at barbeques without lighter fluid, would be strong enough to torch entire buildings with the wand in my hand. That sort of power wasn’t good for anyone. Like my power, too many magical abilities that were relatively benign would become downright lethal.

Of course, the government had no intention of unveiling the wand to the general public, but then again, they hadn’t intended to release the suppressor technology either, but Rothman and his fellow casino owners had glommed onto it somehow.

“Sir?”

I looked up to see one of my administrative people at the door. She looked hesitant to disturb my reverie, but as upset as I was getting with the whole idea of the wand, I was just as happy to be interrupted. “Yes?”

“There’s a Lt. Henshaw from LVMPD at the front gate. Shall I have him escorted in?”

“By all means.” Maybe Matt had something to get me out of my gloomy mood.

He did–sort of.

When Matt came into my office, he looked like he hadn’t taken a break since I had seen him early that morning. He badly needed a shave, and his sport coat looked as if someone had driven over it a few times–with him in it. As for his tie... well, he might as well not have worn one. It was loose around his neck and looked like it was ready to melt.

In spite of his appearance, he was upbeat as he tossed a file on my desk. “We got it figured out,” he announced proudly. “It was Rothman.”

I looked up without opening the folder. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Look through the file. There’s pictures of your boy running down the strip from the direction of the Versailles.”

I thumbed through the pictures. It looked like Colonel Edwards had been right on the money. The pictures weren’t great, but how good did they have to be? All of them showed a naked person running through the sparse early morning tourists on the strip, and the first one in the series clearly showed him running near the entrance of the Versailles.

“Do you have any shots of him actually coming out of the Versailles?” I asked.

Matt shook his head. “No, but the security cameras around there glitched for a few minutes.”

That wasn’t good.

“So you’re going to arrest Rothman?” I asked.

Matt plopped down in my uncomfortable government-issue guest chair. “Yeah, soon. We just want to put together a few details so we have Rothman dead to rights. If we don’t have everything put together right, his lawyers will have him sprung before the ink is dry on his arrest papers.”

That was probably true, I realized. Rothman covered his tracks pretty well. At the moment, all Matt really had was a record of someone running from the vicinity of the Versailles in the process of being transformed. There was nothing, other than the open speculation about where Rothman got his girls, that could tie him to this case.

“His lawyers will argue that you don’t have conclusive proof that the vic came out of the Versailles,” I noted.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, “but it looks pretty clear that he was coming out of there.”

“So when will it go down?” I asked casually.

Matt shrugged. “Probably not until tomorrow. The DA wants to check everything over before we make the bust. You want to come with us when we do?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to seem too interested in the case or Matt would wonder what was up. I wanted him to continue to think that we were just mildly interested parties because of the Academy ring.

Matt studied my expression. Like most detectives, his power was psychic–in his case, a very low-level telepathic ability, but not enough to make him a full-fledged Teep, but enough to get a decent read from an untrained mind. Fortunately, mine was well-disciplined, so there wasn’t much for him to see. The Air Force spends a small fortune training Talon agents to discipline their minds against magical mental encroachment.

I could see Matt’s frustration. He hadn’t been able to sense anything from my mind. So he tried the direct path. “Ever find out who our vic is?”

“Not a clue,” I responded smoothly–I’d had lots of practice when it came to giving convincing lies. “We’re not really looking, though. There’s no evidence he was Air Force–except for the ring.”

Matt grunted. As convincing as I had tried to be, I don’t think he believed me. He got up and tried unsuccessfully to neaten up his wilted tie. “I’ll call you when we’ve got Rothman,” he promised.

“Thanks.”

Rothman was in and out of police custody in less time than it took a sucker to lose all his cash in the Versailles casino. Matt didn’t even have to call, because I saw it all the next day on TV. In the news report, I could see Matt and a couple of his people in the background, while Rothman’s attorneys did their spin for the media. Rothman himself stood behind them, a smug little smile on his pudgy face.

I wasn’t surprised.

Then, the station interviewed Andy Wallace to get the FBM slant on the story. It seemed, according to Andy, as if Matt’s team had blown the investigation, and the FBM was on the case. Matt wasn’t going to be very happy with Andy about that.

Neither was I. That was going to produce some problems for me. Sure, we were both Federal agencies, but our agendas were significantly different, especially when you took into account that Andy knew nothing of Security Group Talon or my real mission. He would have official jurisdiction on the case, since it appeared a magical felony had occurred. I had no way of asserting my authority (which was actually higher than his) without betraying the National Magical Security Act, as well as a few other choice Federal laws. In other words, Major Ralston’s name and mission couldn’t be brought into the forefront. If it was, the general public would learn of the wand and all hell would really break loose.

There was only one thing to do: call Andy and see if I could work with him. I wasn’t very hopeful, though. Andy, like most FBM Special Agents, didn’t play well with others. Hell, he didn’t even play well with his own people.

“I’ve been expecting your call,” Andy sighed when I was put through. “And the answer is no. This is our case, Dan. The crime didn’t happen on Air Force grounds. According to Nellis, nobody’s missing from the base. And even if the vic was former Air Force, this doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“I just want to help if I can,” I replied disarmingly.

“Things slow out at the base?”

“A little.” If you didn’t count the case I couldn’t tell him anything about.

“Then just relax,” he suggested. “Get in some golf, or drop a few bucks on the Strip.”

He hung up, leaving me on the outside looking in. There was nothing to do then but see my boss and try to convince him to open the kimono for the FBM. But I knew what his answer was going to be.

“No,” he said bluntly once I was seated in his office. He wasn’t in a very good mood. He had just gotten back from identifying Major Ralston’s body, so I couldn’t blame him.

“I don’t see how I can proceed without compromising the group,” I pointed out.

Colonel Edwards thought about that for a minute. At last, he said, “Maybe there is a way...”

I perked up at that. “What, sir?”

“Maybe you should take Andy up on his suggestion,” the colonel began. “I think you should hit the casinos and see what you can learn–especially at the Versailles.”

“But they know me in all the casinos,” I pointed out.

He smiled and shook his head. “We can change that. All we need to do is change your appearance a little.”

“You mean magically?” I tried to clarify nervously. I didn’t like where this conversation was going. “You’re going to call in a Shifter?”

The colonel shook his head. “No, this won’t be complicated enough to require flying in a Shifter.” Shifters were fairly rare. They could turn themselves or other into different men in a matter of minutes. As a result, all Shifters were required to work for the government. Their powers were considered too dangerous to be unregulated. “Our local techs will be able to do everything we need done.”

“So we’re not talking about big changes...?”

“That’s right: nothing too big,” he nodded. “It’s not that bad. I’ve been changed a couple of times in my career. This will just be a few easy spells done by our techs. We can just make a few minor changes, and then change you right back after the mission.”

He was right. It wasn’t that big a deal. Males could be changed from identity to identity with impunity. Something about the Y chromosome allowed it to happen. A man could be tall, thin and Caucasian and in just a couple of hours made to look short, dumpy and Afro-American by a true Shifter. Lesser techs could change you, but not so radically. That didn’t mean I liked the idea. Even a simpler process wasn’t without some risks. Every now and then, the change back didn’t work right. Deformities and even in rare instances deaths were real risks.

Colonel Edwards was an Empath, so he quickly added, “Mike, complications are very rare–you know that. Usually, the problems only occur when a Shifter is used. You’re safer getting altered this way than you are flying from here to Los Angeles.”

I realized there was no way around it. After all, it was my job. That’s why the Air Force paid me the little bucks.

And so by nightfall, I wasn’t exactly feeling like myself. Once the techs got done with me, I had a broader face, darker hair complete with a receding hairline, a moustache of the same color, and a nondescript look that would allow me to blend in with all the tourists from Las Penis, Texas, or some other dump.

“Do I really have to wear the damned aloha shirt?” I growled as they dressed me in khaki shorts and sneakers.

“You’re right,” Colonel Edwards agreed, inspecting me with a certain amount of perverse glee. He looked over at one of the techs. “That might stand out too much. Just give him that tan polo shirt so he’ll blend in more.”

“Blend in? I’ll disappear,” I remarked, but not unpleasantly. That was, after all, the idea, wasn’t it? I could wander around the casinos unnoticed, so long as I behaved myself.

“Okay,” I added. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“NSA reported that an arms dealer is interested in the wand. That dealer is willing to pay an obscene amount of money for it. Whoever is leaking the info on the wand at 51 has a go-between who’s supposed to be meeting with the dealer this week.”

“And Rothman is the go-between,” I surmised.

The colonel nodded. “We’re pretty sure he is. All of Ralston’s intel before he was killed supported that. Of course, we are also watching the other casinos as well, just in case.”

The colonel motioned to a non-com who whipped out a portfolio and opened it crisply on the desk in front of me. Inside were the pictures of about twenty men–and women. They ran the gamut from scruffy-looking, nondescript men of every imaginable ethnicity to a couple of absolutely stunning women, one an upscale blonde and the other an African-American woman who looked like a young Tina Turner.

“I hope I see one of them,” I commented pointing at the two beauties.

“No you don’t,” Colonel Edwards told me. “The black woman is Clarice Burrows. She’s an Omni with several magical powers–some of which, if you read her file there, have yet to be identified. As for the blonde... that’s Dominique Marceau. She caught one of her lieutenants skimming from her a few years ago and had him changed into a woman with a sex drive so strong that the rumor is she literally fucked herself to death.”

“That sounds like bull to me,” I scoffed.

“Maybe,” he allowed, “but take my word for it–she’s as dangerous as a rattlesnake. She may even be the worst of the lot.”

I nodded and began a detailed study of the file. Worst–best–either way, it didn’t matter. Any of the dealers in the file would have cheerfully sold their own grandmothers and thrown in free delivery if the price was right. It might seem that memorizing the faces of twenty potential dealers was hard, but when your life might depend on it, it got a little easier.

So the mission was in place. I would spend my days and nights wandering around the casinos, looking for suspicious behavior that our in-place agents at those casinos might have missed. Of course, the in-place security agents were not Talon: very few of us were. Still, they had been given orders to look for the same people Talon sought, but not why. As plans went, it wasn’t much to go on, but it was all we had.

I started the first evening at the Elysian. I had booked a room there as well. Since Ralston had run into the Elysian, it seemed the least likely of the four casinos to be involved. I planned to spend a couple of hours there before moving on to the Tropicana, London Tower, and finally our most likely suspect, the Versailles.

So why didn’t I start at the most likely spot? The answer was simple: orders. Colonel Edwards wanted to make sure we hadn’t missed anything at the other three casinos before moving in on our prime suspect. I didn’t really agree, but orders were orders.

Frankly, the whole thing was something of a fool’s errand as far as I was concerned. The likelihood that one of the arms dealers would be meandering through the public areas of any of the casino hotels was pretty small, and my chances of spotting any of them were even smaller. My best chance–and it was pretty slim also–was to get at one of the hotel terminals without being spotted and find out if one of them was registered. Even if one of them was registered, I realized, it was likely he–or she–was not registered under a true name. We knew some of their aliases, but they could always have come up with a new one.

Besides, one of the male ones could be disguised magically just as I was, in addition to having a new alias. And even the women could be disguised the old-fashioned way–wig, different makeup, and so on.

But what else could we do? I kept reminding myself. With Ralston dead, we were back at square one. There was nothing to do but wander around and hope that we tripped over something worthwhile–it was the old “even a blind chicken can sometimes find corn” philosophy.

I made short work of the Elysian–there was nothing suspicious and midweek business was a little slow–and moved on to the Trop. It was the only survivor of the pre-magic era. It had survived by the skin of its teeth and was owned by some New York company. As I expected, I spotted no one. Things there were even slower than at the Elysian. It seemed that in spite of the Chamber of Commerce’s optimistic talk, gambling had sort of left the American mainstream after Webster and Kline.

The next night, I tried London Tower, but no one worth talking about was there, either. At least a couple of decent stage shows there seemed to be packing them in, but that was about it.

I did manage a look at the hotel registrations, though. Don’t ask how. That’s classified. Let’s just say the government has devices capable of tapping most everyday computers. It’s a little bit science and a little bit magic, but that’s as much as I can say.

Finally, about ten that evening, I was in the casino at the Versailles. I planned to make a night of it there. Although I still had little hope of success, the Versailles was the most likely suspect.

It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the Versailles, even if you’ve never been there. Gaudy imitation crystal chandeliers, crappy gold paint, and lots of phony French Provincial furnishings were everywhere. Word was that Rothman went to France just before deciding to build the casino on a mission to buy his magic suppressors and was impressed with what he saw. ‘He might be ruthless and crafty,’ I thought, ‘but that didn’t mean he had good taste.’

He was on the casino floor for much of the night, but none of our suspect dealers were in evidence. Since he was somewhat overweight, he almost seemed to lumber across the casino floor. His only companion was Frieda, his Nordic-looking bodyguard. Despite his weight, Rothman cheerfully made the rounds, chomping on an expensive cigar and nodding to the big losers, the chandelier lights reflecting off his hairless head. Frieda, on the other hand, watched for enemies everywhere, her nearly-white blond hair, swinging back and forth, just barely staying out of her ice-blue eyes.

About midnight, I was about to give up when a new patron caught my eye. No, it wasn’t one of the arms dealers: I should have been so lucky. Instead, it was someone I knew well. Andy Wallace sauntered into the casino. He was dressed casually, so I figured he was off duty. Even FBM agents had to have a personal life, I guessed. He just wandered around for a while, dropping a dollar or two in the slots here and there–all very innocent. Or at least it was until I realized he was slowly but surely approaching Rothman.

He whispered something to Rothman as he passed him. Most people probably wouldn’t have even noticed, but I wasn’t most people. Rothman looked surprised for a moment, then looked around the casino as if looking for someone. He then whispered something to Frieda. She nodded and walked quickly to the casino exit.

His message delivered, Andy casually left the casino. ‘So Andy was dirty,’ I thought. Well, it wasn’t the first time. Las Vegas has that effect on people. It’s just that I had always thought the FBM guys were pretty straight arrows.

Unfortunately, while Andy might have incriminated himself, Rothman had done nothing wrong that evening. This hanging around the casinos on the hope of catching a glimpse of one of the arms dealers simply wasn’t working. I decided to go back to my hotel room, get a decent night’s sleep, and contact the colonel the next morning. This stakeout was getting us nowhere.

I suppose I had let down my guard. I was genuinely surprised as I left the casino and one of the security men sidled up next to me. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely, showing me his ID. “Could I see you for a moment?”

The security man was pretty big, but I think I could have taken him. Of course, that was if he lacked any magical powers. And even if I could have taken him, it didn’t take a Talon agent to see two other beefy security men watching to see what I might do next. So I shrugged and said, “Yeah, no problem. What’s this all about?”

“Just follow me, please, sir,” was his reply. He turned around, expecting me to follow him. Since the other two security goons fell in behind me, I sort of had to do it.

I wasn’t really too worried. I suspected Andy had tipped Rothman off that there was a government agent in the casino, but so what? I didn’t think they were certain that I was the one they were after, and even if they were, I hadn’t seen anything. Odds seemed good that they’d just lean on me for a little while and let me go. All I had to do was keep my cool.

Unfortunately, I had guessed wrong. Instead of a small, nondescript interrogation room, I found myself in the spacious office of none other than Leo Rothman. He was situated behind a desk half the size of my entire office, leaning back in an expensive leather chair while Frieda stood at his side, smirking at me.

“Good evening, Captain Benson,” he said cheerfully.

My heart skipped a beat or two, but I decided to bluff. “Sorry? I don’t know a Captain Benson...”

He shrugged. “I suspect Benson isn’t really your name anyway, is it?”

“Sir,” I went on, “I’m Fred Wilkerson. It says so right on my driver’s license. I’d be glad to show you...”

“I’m sure it does,” he chuckled. “But did you know, Captain Benson, that magical changes to the human body are detectable for up to seventy-two hours?”

Actually, I did, but the talent to detect them was rare. Knowledge of the talent outside classified circles was even rarer. It seemed there were more security leaks than we had realized.

“One of my men here,” he continued, nodding at the security man who had shown me his ID, “has such a talent.” He nodded for the men to leave, and then motioned at a comfortable chair in front of his desk. “Although he only verified what we already knew. You see, you were spotted the minute you entered the casino.”

That meant Rothman might not have been talking to Andy about me, since he already knew what I looked like. So what had he been talking with him about?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. It even sounded lame to me, but what else could I do?

“Please, Captain, let’s dispense with the games. I know who you are and why you’re here. What I don’t know is who is trying to set me up.”

I sat down. “Set you up?”

He nodded. “I didn’t have anything to do with that unusual death at the Elysian the other night, but someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it appear that I did, even tampering with my security cameras somehow to deprive me of visual proof of my innocence.”

He was right. It was time to lay down our cards. I dropped any pretence of ignorance. “And why should I believe you?”

“Because, Captain,” he replied menacingly as he leaned forward, “If I had been responsible for transforming that poor unfortunate the other evening, he would not have gotten away.”

Strangely enough, I tended to believe him. But I wasn’t ready to say it just yet.

“And this all has to do with the wand, doesn’t it, Captain?”

That was more like it. So he was involved in the attempt to get the wand. “Who are you selling the wand to, Rothman?” I asked in response.

To my surprise, he laughed, and Frieda even smiled, too.

“I have nothing to do with the wand,” he told me. “Of course, I know about it. You foolish intelligence agents think you can keep secrets in a time where magic exists. I would say that everyone in Las Vegas who has any connections at all knows at least of the existence of the wand. Frankly, it’s too hot a property to interest me, but I know you and your superiors would never believe that.”

He was right about that. No matter what happened tonight, he would remain our prime suspect. He had the contacts and the resources to acquire the wand and sell it to the highest bidder. He was also the most ruthless of all the casino bosses.

“In any case,” he continued, “I’ve made arrangements to get your people to back off my operation.” He nodded as Frieda, who nodded back and walked over to the door.

When she opened it, two men entered. One was wearing a suit, but he didn’t look like Rothman’s goons. Instead, he was slight and wore glasses. He looked familiar, and in a moment, I recognized him. He was one of the techs from the base who had transformed my features for this assignment. So maybe Rothman didn’t have anything to do with the sale of the wand, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have resources at Nellis. I should have realized. If he could have an FBM agent on the payroll, why not an Air Force techie?

The other man was about my height and weight and...

He looked enough like me to be my brother.

“Mayfield here,” Rothman explained, pointing at my would-be sibling, “is being transformed into you. As you can see, he’s not quite there yet, but he will be before you’re missed.”

That didn’t sound good at all. “Missed” undoubtedly meant “disappeared.”

Rothman’s beady eyes twinkled. “I see you understand, Captain. Yes, you’ll be replaced, just as we’ve already replaced your FBM friend. See? You didn’t even know that, did you? Under magical interrogation, we’ll get all the information about you that we need to replace you, and then with you and the FBM in our employ, we’ll be able to move your investigation in a different direction.”

I was more worried that I would be moved in a different direction as well. I fully expected to be killed.

I should have been so lucky.

Well, I had expected to be taken to an interrogation room first thing. When it hadn’t happened, I hadn’t been disappointed at all. Now, though, my initial expectations were being met–in spades.

Frieda led the way, talking to me over her shoulder in that soft, sexy accent so many Scandinavian girls seem to have. Somehow, though, being practically dragged by two bozos each about the size of a small SUV sort of made the accent seem more menacing than sexy.

“I think we have an interesting surprise for you,” she told me as we walked down a poorly-lit, industrial corridor somewhere beneath the Versailles. “I’m sure your training has included resisting magical interrogations...”

She was right about that.

“...but I don’t think you’ll be able to resist Alex. Are you familiar, Captain, with the term ‘Ripper’?”

My blood ran cold. If I had been the simple security officer they thought I was, I wouldn’t have had the foggiest notion what a Ripper was. It was a term reserved for the intelligence community, and referred to a type of magical power that was, fortunately, extremely rare. While the knowledge about Slavers was working its way slowly but surely into the minds of the general public, Rippers were still a big secret. A Ripper could pull information out of a person’s mind like a gardener pulls weeds. Like a weed, the information sometimes “grew back,” but not for some time. Even then, the Ripped thoughts would usually be returned only to the subconscious. Few Ripped people ever got their memories back in any usable fashion. It was thought that the more disciplined a person’s mind was, the greater the chance of recovering from a Ripper’s intrusions, but no one knew for sure. How do you measure a “disciplined” mind anyhow?

Then, the Ripper could transfer that information directly into the mind of another person. It was a tricky process, though. Pull too much information and transfer it and you ran the risk of making the recipient into a mental duplicate of the victim–not usually a desired result. Instead, the successful Ripper would blend the information into the recipient’s mind, so that the individual retained his original mind and loyalties, but could draw upon the new data whenever needed.

I don’t want to go through all the details. Actually, I couldn’t if I wanted to. Those memories were so close to the surface of my mind that their removal was apparently permanent. The Ripper was... well, I don’t even remember what he (or she) looked like. That information was ripped completely out of my head. I just remember sitting in an over-lit room looking into the eyes of... someone. I do remember my duplicate blurting out, “Holy shit: he’s Talon!” But soon after that, everything receded into a dreamlike state. I think I was walked back to a cell where I fell down on an uncomfortable cot and dropped into a troubled sleep.

I’m not sure when I awoke. It could have been an hour later or a day. With effort, I could remember who I was. I was a man named Mike... Mike... My last name eluded me. I remembered that I once wore a uniform of some sort. Was I military? Yeah, I thought so. Air Force, I thought, but I wasn’t really sure.

So why was I in a cell? That was obviously what it was. There were white cinderblock walls, a metal door with a slot and a peephole in it, a cot, a toilet and sink in one corner, and strangely enough, a full-length mirror.

I rose up from the cot, holding my head. I needed a couple of aspirin in the worst way. Yeah, I vaguely remembered being mentally assaulted by the Ripper, and I knew somehow that my head would probably be throbbing for at least another day, no matter how many aspirin I took.

It took me a moment to clear my head enough to recognize that I was completely naked. I had a couple of bruises on my arms, too, so apparently I hadn’t been passively thrust into the cell. My entire body ached a little as well, as if something wasn’t quite right.

Where was I? I asked myself as I sat there on the edge of the cot rubbing my temples. I didn’t think I was in jail. As far as I knew, jailers didn’t take away all of their prisoners’ clothes on a regular basis.

Some of what had happened to me began to sift back into my memories. Slowly but surely, I began to remember who I was and what my assignment had been, but it was very spotty. Faces, names, conversations, situation, were all there (or at least I thought they were all there), but they were jumbled, like dreams.

I finally got up and walked over to the mirror. At least my beard stubble might be an indication of how long I had been out cold in the cell. Looking at my image, I thought it looked about normal, but...

Weren’t my eyes supposed to be blue?

I distinctly remembered having blue eyes, but the eyes which stared back at me were brown–very, very brown. Had they been made brown when I was given my disguise? I couldn’t remember.

Come to think of it, my hair had been lighter in color, too, even with my disguise–now it was darker than I remembered, and a little too long for an Air Force officer.

As for the color of my hair, if it was getting darker, wouldn’t the same be true of my beard? Instead of my fairly light beard, even a few hours in captivity should have produced a five o’clock shadow worthy of former Vice President Richard Nixon. But no, there was no five o’clock shadow. As I ran my hand along one cheek, I found there was no stubble at all.

If it hadn’t been what the Ripper had done to me, I would have already known what was happening to me. As it was, my recollection of meeting Rothman slowly returned, and with it, my memories regarding what my boss had said about him: anyone who crossed him might find himself changed into a woman–a chorus girl and whore, no less.

I looked again at my image, panic arising within me. Was I being changed into a woman? It was too early to tell, but something was happening to me, and whatever it was, I didn’t think I was going to like it.

In another few hours, I had my answer. I had napped, my body tired from its ordeal, and probably exhausted from trying to resist what was being done to me. I had been fed once–a halfway decent meal, no less, thrust silently through the slot in the door. Although I wasn’t hungry enough to eat much of it: my entire digestive system seemed to be in an uproar.

After the meal, I looked in the mirror again. I wasn’t entirely surprised with what I saw. My hair had continued to darken until it was nearly black, and it had grown perhaps another inch or two. The contrast against my natural skin would have been significant, but that, too, had darkened. It was now more olive than usual, and my nipples were swollen and darker still.

My memories were still scrambled and incomplete, but I wasn’t so off balance that I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. I seemed to remember a man–heavy-set and hairless... smoking a cigar. He did this sort of thing to his enemies, didn’t he? Was that what Rothman looked like? Was I his enemy? I wasn’t sure.

I was, however, sure that I was being turned into a girl.

I was taking it all fairly calmly, I congratulated myself, considering that something from my Ripped memories told me that once the process of magical sexual change into a woman had begun, there would be absolutely no going back. I suppose being Ripped had robbed me of my sense of identity. As my memories returned–if my memories returned–I would probably become more upset at what was being done to me.

Not that I wasn’t already upset–I was, but I was still in control. I wasn’t lying on the floor, bemoaning the approaching loss of my manhood. The calmness seemed almost a learned trait, as if there was something I had been taught over time that allowed me to suppress consternation over what was being done to me–especially if there was nothing I could do to prevent it. After all, I was still alive. If my captors had wanted me dead, I was sure they had had ample time to kill me. So I was alive and likely to remain so for the time being. Where there is life, there is hope, some eternal optimist once said.

That being said, my mental identity was that of a male. The idea of having my sexuality literally turned inside out wasn’t a pleasant one. As a girl, I would undoubtedly be smaller and weaker. I would also probably be more a victim of my own emotions. I know that sounds very sexist, but in my experience, women were more ruled by emotions than men. These were not traits that would serve me well–I was certain of that.

I know, I know. I obviously saw my impending change of sex as a bad thing. Being a woman, in my mind, meant I would be significantly less than I was as a man. That was just the way I saw it. If you don’t like it, sue me.

But what sort of a woman would I be? It was too early to tell, but I was certainly not being turned into a blonde. More than likely, my skin would continue to darken, until I was ethnically either Mediterranean or African-American. Oriental wasn’t entirely out of the question either, although I had noticed no change in the shape of my eyes.

I still had my dinner plate–a flimsy disposable one. I tore off a small corner of the plate and jammed it as near to head high as I could manage into the narrow gap between the mirror and the frame. That would give me a reference point for how much height I had lost. I couldn’t say why, but it seemed to me as if this information might be important.

It made me wonder once again who I had been in my male life. Whoever I had been, I must have been very self-disciplined. Perhaps rather than a military officer, I had been a police officer, or some other position in law enforcement. I resolved to hold on to as much of my old identity as possible, and that meant maintaining my self-control.

I disposed of the plate and the remaining food, shoving them back through the slot in the door. Then, I took a piss, grimly realizing it was probably one of the last times I would do so standing up. That out of the way, I sat on the floor, trying to ignore its hardness and coldness. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes in meditation–a technique I seemed to know well. Dropping myself into a mild trance, I tried to start putting my memories back together.

I seemed to remember from my training that Ripped memories are easier to bring back if the Ripee remains calm and mentally disciplined. Memories are contained in more than one part of the human mind. That’s why victims of serious head injuries often get back lost memories over time. The mind somehow sorts archived memories back into the Ripped slots unless disturbed by panic.

The technique worked quite well, and by what I estimated to be that evening, I remembered my assignment and who I worked for, although my personal memories were still vague. I suppose it was because the more recent memories were stronger, while memories of my personal life stretched back over perhaps thirty years (I wasn’t too sure of my age, either).

I remembered being some sort of military security man. My job required me to be a good fighter with a keen, steady mind. No wonder I was already regretting my loss of strength and size, and concern that as a woman, my emotional side would affect my reasoning abilities.

Of course, memories of being a man were further hampered by what was happening to my body. I knew from somewhere (probably my training again) that sex-change spells tended to take two days to a week to accomplish. The difference was cost. Cheap spells took a long time to complete themselves, while expensive ones acted quickly.

From my appearance just before I went to sleep on the cot, this one was designed to work quickly. A final evening glance in the mirror showed a boyish but undeniably feminine shape. I now had small breasts, with nipples pushing outward. I was probably about as developed as the typical thirteen-year-old girl. My waist was indented, and my hips had flared outward. Except for my head and a patch of dark, curly hair nesting my shrinking penis, I was hairless.

When I stood up against the mirror, I could also see that I was shorter by perhaps three inches from when I had placed the marker in the frame. Of course, I had probably already shrunk down some before I had marked my height by the mirror, so say I had been asleep for at least as long as I had been awake, that meant I had lost around six inches in height. How tall had I been before all of this started? I seemed to remember being perhaps six three or so.

Tired from the stress of transformation, I flopped down onto the cot. I didn’t really want to sleep, for I knew that the biggest changes often came when the body was at rest. However, there was no avoiding it, and in a few minutes, I was fast asleep.

The next morning (or at least I assumed it was morning), I was awakened by something tickling my nose and cheek. My mind was still muddled–both by sleep and by the memories which had been Ripped out of my head. It took me a few moments just lying there, batting at what I thought to be an insect, before I woke up completely. To my dismay, I realized that what had been tickling me were strands of long, nearly black hair.

I arose from the cot, nearly falling out to the floor as a ponderous weight on my chest shifted suddenly. It was so unexpected that even the flow of long hair over my shoulders and down my back went almost unnoticed.

Almost.

Looking down at my chest was like gazing down a long, narrow canyon. I had resigned myself to waking up with female breasts, but nothing had prepared me for this sight. Inches from my face were two golden brown hills, crested with even darker brown nipples which rose up when exposed to the cold air and sudden movement. Just how big was I?

I swung myself off the cot–carefully, mind you, since my entire sense of balance had been altered. I could feel flesh pooling in my hips and ass, and the two large breasts on my chest got even more pronounced as they shifted into standing mode... and I do mean standing.

I hurried over to the mirror, feeling my hips guide my steps more one in front of the other than I would have done as a man. Once in front of the mirror, I gasped, hearing the sound of my voice for the very first time. I couldn’t help but think that the gasp sounded almost like a woman’s voice when being penetrated. It was a bedroom voice.

Before me stood one of the most exotic women I had ever seen. She–I, I suppose now–was fairly tall for a woman. Checking the marker I had placed on the mirror frame, I thought I must be about five-five or so. My figure was a little exaggerated, but only a little. Although my breasts felt monstrous to me, I could see that they were roughly proportional to the rest of my body. My legs were slender but actually a little muscular, as if strengthened by running or dancing. My arms were slender and lacked the muscular definition I had enjoyed as a man. I doubted if I could pick up twenty pounds without straining.

As for my skin, it was smooth and brown, and coupled with my long, almost black hair and deep brown eyes, I was a perfect candidate for Miss Mexico.

I didn’t get much of a chance to continue the visual exploration of my new body, for at that moment, the cell door opened. I assumed I had been under observation. I’m sure more than one guard had had to excuse himself to go to the restroom and whack off at the sight of me.

I turned away from the mirror to face a blonde woman who was appraising me as diligently as any man would have. After a moment of searching through my fuzzy memory, I recognized her as Rothman’s bodyguard, Frieda. I thought for a moment about trying to run past her until I noticed two goons standing just outside the door.

“My, you turned out very nicely,” she commented, favoring me with a cold Nordic smile.

I said nothing. I knew my voice would be sweet and feminine, so any threats I made would be laughable, considering the body I now wore–and would wear for the rest of my life.

“I thought you’d like to know that your... replacement has taken over for you with no problems. You won’t have to worry about being missed.”

No, I wouldn’t be, I realized. I had no family still living that I was aware of. It was one of the requirements for being in Talon. Yes, I had remembered the name Talon. My boss, Colonel Edwards was the name I seemed to remember, probably knew me better than anyone else, but with the Ripped memories now ensconced in my duplicate’s head, he was not likely to be any the wiser.

“Now,” she went on, “would you like to know what we have planned for you?” She didn’t wait for me to reply–I wouldn’t have in any case–so she went on, “As you’ve probably already been briefed on, my employer–our employer now–has a particular interest in showgirls. You’ll be joining his International Review over in the Marseilles Room.”

I vaguely remembered the show. It consisted of about thirty women from an equal number of foreign countries in sort of a Las Vegas version of the Miss World pageants. Of course, there were important differences. In the Miss World pageant, I was pretty sure the girls weren’t whored out after the show.

“I can’t dance,” I pointed out. Sure enough, my voice was all sweet and girly. For emphasis, I added, “And I don’t plan on learning how.”

Frieda laughed. “Oh, that’s not going to be a problem. Do you remember Alex?”

I must have looked puzzled. Who was Alex? It seemed as if I should know who he was...

“Oh that’s right,” Frieda grinned maliciously. “Alex always removes all traces of his identity after he’s finished Ripping. But you’ll meet him again, dear. He has a whole new life planned for you–one in which your dancing skills will be just fine.”

Okay, now I was frightened. It was bad enough to be turned into a buxom Hispanic girl probably ten years younger than I had been as a man, but it was quite another thing to be manipulated by a Ripper. I knew what could be done–and probably would be done–to me. A talented Ripper could pull memories out of one person and overlay them over another person, of course. He had already done that with my doppelganger. But with my duplicate, the memories had obviously been compartmentalized to keep him from becoming so much of me that he was no longer Rothman’s tool.

But that was just the beginning of what a Ripper could do to his victim. That’s right: Talon had utilized Rippers as well, so I knew what I was talking about. A Ripper could overlay a false personality so complete that the victim would lose all awareness of having ever been any other person. Given the body I now had, I was pretty sure that was about to happen to me, and I was even more sure that any new “personality” I was given wouldn’t be a desirable one.

Frieda’s grin became, if anything, even nastier. “I see you get the idea, don’t you, Captain? And you’re right. We’re going to make you into a sweet, obedient little muchacha. You’ll be ignorant, horny, and subservient to our employer’s tastes. But don’t worry–you won’t need to be well-educated or independent to do your job. And as for the horny part, you’ll get plenty of help satisfying your sexual urges.”

My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would explode right through my new breasts. I wanted to defiantly tell her that I would never be what they planned me to be, but I knew that wasn’t true. They had already made massive changes to my mind and body–what could stop them from making a few more? I was about to lose my identity–to become a mindless whore for the amusement of my enemies–and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it!

The door to my cell opened, and the Ripper entered, flanked by two burly guards who were obviously there to see that I didn’t cause any trouble. To this day, I don’t remember what the Ripper looked like, or even if he was, in fact, the same one who had initially worked on me. I could probably sit right across the table from him and not be able to identify him. That was the way Rippers operated. No one ever recalled what they looked like.

I have the impression now that he was a small man, almost wimpy, and partially bald. But for all I know, the Ripper may have been an athletic woman, blonde and six-two. The wimpy image might have just been planted in my mind by the Ripper to keep me from ever identifying him–or her.

The experience of having a Ripper take things from your mind is a walk in the park compared to having him place new, false memories there. My duplicate had been lucky: he had been given only enough surface memories of mine to pass himself off as me. I, on the other hand, was getting the full treatment–I was being given an entire life. The feeling was as if someone was pumping water into my brain, causing my skull to feel as if it were bursting. Images, thoughts, feelings all rushed through my consciousness like a flock of frightened birds taking to flight.

I fought what was being done to me, but my efforts were futile. The events of my life that I had so painstakingly managed to resurrect were taken from me again, but this time, new memories were jammed in to replace them. I was born male–no, female. I was Anglo–no, Hispanic–I was... I was...

“Enjoy your new life, Lucinda,” Frieda taunted, but I could scarcely hear her over my own feminine screams.

I awoke to the feeling of silk on my cheek. I sighed softly, the silk covering of my pillow rubbing against my flawless flesh. I opened my eyes and looked out the window at the sunlight sliding across the floor. I knew the time of day from the position of the sun, and like a sleek cat, I slid over the silk sheets until a sunbeam rested on my bare shoulder. It was going to be a beautiful day, perhaps warm enough to lie out by the pool with some of the other girls.

I might even find a customer to spend some time with, if the right man walked past my pool chair. I preferred things that way: it was better to select a man rather than having him select me out of the chorus line. When a man selected me from beside the pool, it was as if I were a precious treasure, unearthed by a man with full appreciation for an unexpected find. I always tried to give such men something a little extra.

Then, I remembered there might be no time for that. Today was the day I was supposed to meet Senor Rothman for lunch. Lunches with the boss were long–not that we ate too much, but the languorous sex would take at least a couple of hours. I giggled to myself. For an older man, Senor Rothman certainly had the stamina of a true stallion. “Mi caballo largo,” I thought to myself with a shudder of pleasure.

I loved Senor Rothman. All the girls did. He had done so much for all of us–especially me, I realized. Who else would have been so kind as to take in the skinny seventeen-year-old refugee from the poverty of Mexico and turn her into a beauty who loved to dance almost as much as she enjoyed fucking?

My pussy twinged at the thought. I would spread my legs for Senor Rothman all afternoon, then dance that evening before the eyes of admiring men, and finally finish the day with one of them in my bed, demonstrating to them that the money they had paid to spend the night with me was a bargain at any price.

In the two years I had been one of Senor Rothman’s girls, I had experienced no greater joy than the days he had called for me. Of course, sex with all men was a great pleasure, but sex with Senor Rothman was something special–muy, muy agridable!

I dressed very, very sexy for him–a snappy little red mini dress with built-in support that raised my already large breasts into something nearly spectacular. As I smoothed the dress down over my luscious thighs, I debated about whether to wear panties, finally deciding they would be unnecessary. They would be off in no time even if I had worn them. Besides, I was already getting damp at the thought of Senor Rothman’s large member. It would be a shame to waste a pair of my pretty panties so quickly!

My legs were so brown and smooth, I needed no stockings, so I settled for slipping on a pair of three-inch red sandals, pleased to notice that their color matched my sweet little toenails. I also attached a gold chain to my ankle. Senor Rothman had given it to me himself, and I liked to wear it for him. He said it symbolized that I was his possession, and that thought always sent a ripple of pleasure through my nipples and my pussy.

Hair and makeup didn’t take long. A girl like me had to look her best at all times, so I had learned a few shortcuts over my formative years at the Versailles that made the process both quick and alluring. Still, I took an extra moment to perfect my eyes. Senor Rothman loved my eyes, so I did my best to make them into deep, dark pools that he would surely drown in.

As for jewelry, it was understated–a gold bracelet that matched my ankle chain, and two gold hoop earrings half-hidden by my long, shiny black hair, were all that were needed. Senor Rothman didn’t like for me to wear rings, Without rings, I could gently hold his penis with a sure caress.

At last, I picked up my matching purse and slung it over my shoulder. I didn’t really need it for the quick elevator ride, but I had it already equipped with a few delightful sex toys that would keep Senor Rothman interested all afternoon. While he was recovering between our sessions of lovemaking, he enjoyed watching me pleasure myself with the toys. I have to admit, they were fun for me as well.

I smiled at the floor guard as I waited for the elevator. He gave a small smile in return, pressing in the elevator code for Senor Rothman’s private floor where we wouldn’t be disturbed. Moments later, the door opened again, and Senor Rothman’s private apartment lay before me, with its sweeping view of the whole Strip.

“Ah, Lucinda!” his voice came, and I turned toward the bar to see Senor Rothman standing there in a silk burgundy robe, opening a bottle of expensive champagne.

Lucinda? Was that my name? Oh, of course it was. Silly me. I was Lucinda... What was my full name? I mentally shrugged, guessing that my full name really wasn’t very important, was it?

I jumped as the champagne cork popped, losing whatever it was I was thinking about. Whatever it had been, it was not importante... important.

Senor Rothman said something to me in English, but I couldn’t understand all of it. I never could speak it very much–just a little–mostly just a word here and a word there. He was saying something about me, but I didn’t understand. I just smiled and posed for him, saying two words in English I did know: “You like?”

He smiled. “I like.” Then he handed me a glass of champagne. I giggled as I sipped it: the bubbles–they ticked my nose.

Then he took the glass from my hand, putting it with his empty one on the bar. Saying a few more words I didn’t understand, he pulled me to him, my breasts pushed against his silk robe. It felt good against the top of my breasts. He kissed me–hard. Then, to my surprise, he chuckled, but I couldn’t figure out what was funny.

Unconsciously, I began to rub against him. Through the robe, I could feel him getting very, very hard. That was good, though, because I was getting very, very wet. Thank God the floor was uncarpeted. I would soon be dripping all over the expensive inlaid wood.

“Let’s fuck,” he said after a few minutes of this. He said it in English, but of course, I knew what that meant. I had heard the words from many, many men, and I never tired of hearing them.

I led him to the bed, tingling in anticipation. Before I could get him to lie down, though, he said something else to me, which I couldn’t understand. Then, he gently forced me to my knees in front of him. Then I understood. How could I have been so stupid? Senor Rothman always liked me to give him a chupada–a blowjob.

As I enthusiastically worked on him, he ran his fingers through my long, dark hair, moaning, “Oh, Lucinda!” If I could have, I would have smiled to hear him enjoying it so. He wasn’t a young man, but a bruja, she had made him strong there, and the release into my mouth was so strong, it surprised me with its power. I was strangely embarrassed for just a fraction of a moment. Porque? I was not certain. It was almost as if I had never given a blowjob before and had no idea what to expect. But Senor Rothman did not seem to notice. Besides, that was such a silly notion. I had been giving blowjobs to big, strong men most of my life... since I was a little girl back in Mexico.

I was on fire now, as he pulled me up and threw me onto the bed. I laughed in pleasure, knowing that like many rich men, he had had himself enhanced so we would not have to wait any longer to fuck. I would, of course, exhaust him eventually, and then I would use my toys. But that would come later. Now, he was very, very hard and I was very, very wet. Madre de Dios, I needed a fuck badly!

He didn’t disappoint me, my magnificent patron. His enhancements were the finest available, and I screamed in delight as he pounded into me. Then, when we were finished, he poured more champagne for us, and after we drank it, he repeated my glorious fucking twice more.

We ate a small lunch while he regained his strength. I wasn’t very hungry, wanting to enjoy more sex more than I wanted to eat. I compromised, though. I had inserted a large dildo into myself before sitting on the couch with Senor Rothman to eat the light lunch of tapas frias and champagne he had arranged for us. Every bite I took reminded me how I would rather be swallowing his member, and every sip of champagne I swallowed made me hungrier for his cum.

We disposed of the lunch in a few minutes, and it was back to the bed. I clamped down on the dildo within me as I sucked him off again. Then, I took it out, and rubbed myself against his massive cock. In moments, he was ready again...

I was practically exhausted when I got back to my room, but I didn’t have much time to get ready for the evening shows. I bathed quickly and dressed in a cute little black miniskirt with a tank top that barely contained my breasts. I didn’t bother with makeup or jewelry, since that would all be provided when I dressed for the show. I slipped on a pair of black platform sandals so I would walk so very sexy when I took a client back to my room later.

Once in the dressing room, I smiled at the other girls. They smiled back. No one bothered to say anything, since we all spoke different languages, or at least dialects so foreign that even those of us who spoke Spanish barely understood each other. No matter. Except for meals and some time by the pool, our days were too full to socialize much with each other.

I slipped into my costume gracefully. It was a boned strapless satin teddy which sparkled in gold. I adjusted the top so that my nipples were barely hidden. Underneath it, I wore a simple gold g-string, since the second half of the act would be topless. That was the part of the act where I really got noticed. My breasts were so big and firm that I usually had two or three bids for after the show.

Then came all the other accessories–big gold hoop earrings, gold pumps with four-inch heels, and finally, a feathered headdress with the red, white and green colors denoting that I was from Mexico.

“Okay, girls,” the stage manager told us when we were all ready and lined up. “Curtain in two minutes!”

This was always the hardest part of the day for me. I couldn’t help but have the strangest feeling that I didn’t really know how to dance, but that was silly, of course. I knew each of the routines cold, and I would prove it when the curtain went up.

As the MC’s voice rose with the words, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, The Versailles proudly presents the most beautiful women in Las Vegas in The International Review!” my smile froze in place.

As the music began to the loud applause of our audience, I began along with the other girls the most polished performance on the Strip. For the next hour and a half, we performed flawlessly, and when I performed my Mexican hat dance topless, the crowd went wild.

After the show, as usual, I could see three men haggling with the escort manager to spend the night with me. Each would give him their bid, followed quickly with even higher bids from the other two. When it was finally sorted out, I was pleased that the winner was fairly young–about thirty or so I reckoned–and appeared from the swelling in his pants to be about to explode.

He smiled at me and said something in English that I couldn’t understand, but that was never an impediment when I was with a man. I knew what he wanted. I knew what he needed. The language of sex was one we both could speak without words. I took his hand and led him back to the elevators that led to our rooms, smiling at his incomprehensible patter.

In the elevator, I debated whether or not to unzip his pants and caress his penis, as sort of a small teaser for what was to come. As much as I wanted to do it, though, I decided against it. He was already so hard that I feared he might go off right there in the elevator. That would embarrass the poor man, I was certain. Better than to wait until I had him in my room.

Once back in the room, he wasted little time, and for good reason. As I had figured in the elevator, he was about ready to cum in his pants. He lasted for so short a time when he took me that I felt very incomplete. I liked my men to take their time. Still it was only his first time for the evening. I barely had to help him get it up again, and the second time was much better for me.

We had a fun night together. In all, I managed to get him off five times, and only one of those was orally. He was good–not great, mind you, but good. And he left a big tip.

Not that I needed the money. All of my wants and needs were taken care of, and I never left the building without one of Senor Rothman’s men close at hand. He was that concerned about us girls. He made sure we were always protected. I felt all warm inside just thinking about that.

All in all, it was just a normal day (and night) in my very happy and very pampered life...

Except for the dream.

Like most men, my client, once fully satisfied, just left some money on my nightstand and tiptoed out as I slept. I was okay with that–no long goodbyes for this girl. But as I slipped back into a sound sleep, content to be alone for a few hours, the dream started.

In it, I seemed to be someone else–a man, no less. And it was almost as if I was more than one man, or at least I seemed to have a lot of different names. I was in the military, too, in the blue of an Air Force officer, but I didn’t think I was supposed to be a pilot.

Then suddenly, I was myself again, standing nude before this man who was somehow also me. He didn’t look very happy. I could see him saying something to me, but I couldn’t understand it. It was in another language–a guttural, harsh tongue. I thought it was probably English.

I awoke the next day feeling not quite myself, but at least the feeling passed as the day went on. I sunned by the pool, getting the attention of several young men. One asked me out, but I told him who I was and suggested that he put in a bid for me that evening. He did, and to my amusement, his was the winning bid.

He proved to be as good as I hoped he would be, pounding into me with seemingly endless stamina. I was sore after he was finished with me, but it was a good sore–the kind that left me longing for more, no matter how sore it made me. Madre de Dios! If only all men were such as he!

Then, that night, after my new client had left, the dream came back, even stronger than before.

Once again, I was the nameless man in a nondescript, nearly-dark room. Only this time, the sensation of being male was stronger than before. I remembered no name or any past, other than the fact that I felt like a man–and felt that I had always been one.

Again I saw myself–my female self–but this time, I didn’t feel my identity transferred to her. Instead, I felt something swelling between my legs. Similar things had penetrated my body many times, so I knew what it was. The strange thing was that the swelling didn’t seem foreign to me. It felt...natural.

I woke suddenly, and the absence of anything between my legs felt wrong. I was breathing hard and drenched in sweat as I felt around between my legs, trying unconsciously to bring myself to climax, to reaffirm my female identity.

To my relief, that climax happened quickly. Yes! I was a woman. I had always been a woman. I only wanted to be a woman–to feel some man’s hot prick thrusting between my legs. That was all I wanted...

Wasn’t it?

Exhausted from pleasuring myself, I dropped back into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

This went on for several days. I was very worried that there was something wrong with me, but I didn’t want to tell anyone. If Senor Rothman or his assistant, Frieda, thought there was something wrong with me, they might keep me from seeing men for a while, that I did not want. I needed a man in me as often as possible–certainly every night. So I said nothing.

At last, though, it became difficult to hide. I began acting more masculine. No, I don’t mean that I started drinking beer (yuck!), belching and farting, and hanging around our little recreation room trying to pick up the other girls. In fact, they didn’t even notice, but I did. It was as if I was two people sharing the same body. And the other person was most masculine. Every now and then, I would find myself walking or gesturing in an unfeminine way. Fortunately, I would always catch myself, so that no one noticed. But I was starting to feel as if the other person sharing my body was, in fact, a man. Part of me was beginning to feel like a man trapped in a woman’s body–something I certainly didn’t want. After all, I was all girl and had a string of happy clients who would attest to that!

One girl did finally notice, though: I was sure of it. She was in some ways the most exotic of all of us. She was black–and I do mean black, as if there wasn’t a trace of white blood in her body. Her hair was long, very curly, and down to her ample ass. That’s right: she was downright voluptuous, too, and the man in my dreams seemed to get excited just looking at her. Whatever language she spoke, none of the rest of us had even a clue as to its identity. Except for her costumes, I never saw her wear a stitch of clothing. She walked around the room completely naked, and the way she looked at the other girls, I had a hunch she was reserved for female clients, since I had never seen her chosen by a man.

Then everything changed nearly four weeks after my dreams began. I had awakened that morning–late, of course, since I had been servicing a client–and saw a generous tip on my nightstand, accompanied by a note. I looked at the note. It was very sweet of him to leave it, but I thought it would be incomprehensible to me since the man had spoken to me only in English. I looked at it anyway, though.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that although it was in English, I could read every word of it:

Lucinda,

Thank you for a wonderful evening. I look forward to seeing you again next time I’m in town.

-Tom

Why could I suddenly read English? And if I could read it, could I also understand it? I hurriedly turned on the television, which I almost always left on Telemundo. I didn’t have much of a chance to watch TV, but I liked to catch Decisiones de Mujeres in the afternoons when I wasn’t sleeping. I changed the channel to CNN in English. Imagine my shock when I realized that I could understand what the newsreaders were saying!

No, I wasn’t exactly fluent in English. I found myself mentally translating each of the words and phrases into their Spanish equivalents, but before that day, I had only been able to speak perhaps fifty words of English, and most of those had to do with sexual instructions from my clients.

What was wrong with me? I was starting to think like a man–or at least a little less girly. I had to consciously practice female gestures in the mirror before I trusted myself to interact with anyone else. And now I was able to read and understand English–something I had never been able to do before.

Then I remembered that Senor Rothman had asked me to join him for lunch that day. But how could I see him? He’d notice something was wrong. If I forgot myself and did something that wasn’t girlish, or suddenly indicated that I understood everything he said to me in formerly-incomprehensible English, I was sure to upset him. I didn’t want to upset him. After all, I owed him my very life...

Or did I?

Somehow, my life before a few weeks ago seemed suddenly very hazy. When I tried to pin it down, I suddenly remembered my oldest strong memory came from having lunch with Senor Rothman–when... three or four weeks ago? Oh, I remembered my “history,” but I couldn’t flesh out any details of my childhood in Mexico, or coming to Las Vegas and meeting Senor Rothman. It was as if I had read about all of those things in a book without illustrations.

Something was very wrong, and a little voice deep inside me was warning me not to let anyone know that I knew–especially Senor Rothman. Before, I had feared upsetting him because he was my benefactor. Suddenly, I feared upsetting him because maybe–just maybe–it would be hazardous to me.

Just to make sure no one knew, I made a special effort to look extremely feminine and alluring. Since my “textbook” memories seemed to require that, I would have to conform to them–for now.

I didn’t really realize it at the time, but I was becoming an entirely different person. “Lucinda” was beginning to seem more and more unreal all the time. But if I wasn’t Lucinda, who was I? The answer to that would have to wait until after I had visited Senor Rothman. And he expected to see Lucinda, no matter who I thought I might be. I was determined to give him exactly what he wanted. I had a disturbing feeling my life might be in significant danger if I did not.

When I entered Senor Rothman’s suite, I had never looked sexier. I hadn’t bothered with a dress–just a smoking hot red teddie, with matching shoes and stockings. I had matching red ceramic hoops through my ears and matching bracelets on my wrists. Even my nails and lipstick were the same shade of fiery red. I thought Senor Rothman was going to cum the moment he saw me. I’m pretty sure the guard in the hall did, too, when he saw me.

“My dear,” he hurried to say, rushing to the entryway where I stood posed like a lingerie model. “You look absolutely incredible!”

I nearly replied to thank him in English, but at the last second, remembered that I supposedly didn’t speak that language. “Incredable?” I questioned, using the Spanish form of the word.

“Yes... Si,” he managed, taking my hand. His palms were sweaty. I could feel his hand shaking as if he were a fifteen-year-old boy with his first girl.

It really wasn’t as difficult as I had thought it would be. My body was used to the experience of being female, and all that seemed to be required was nibbling daintily at the lunch that was set out and smiling suggestively at my host. I had done it many, many times before–or I thought I had–so it wasn’t that complicated.

The thorny problem would be making love to my anxious host, and that appeared to be what he wanted to do first. Again, I had done it muchas veces–many times–but with the seemingly male attitudes encroaching on my confused mind, it seemed somehow wrong.

There was no way out of it, though, I realized. Whatever was wrong, my inner voices were telling me not to raise any suspicions on the part of this man. He expected a sexy, compliant girl, and that was what he would get–no matter what my new thoughts were urging. Besides, this body–my body–wanted him in me. It was designed for exactly that purpose, and it would not be denied, regardless of what my reawakened male thoughts were telling me.

I suppose I really shouldn’t have worried. The way I looked, all so hot and sexy, I could have crossed my legs like a man and called for a beer and I don’t think he would have noticed. Why should he, when he could look at my big, dark nipples through the flimsy material and even see my neatly-trimmed pubic hair, damp behind the scanty bikini panties?

He led me over to his bed, smiling and speaking to me in a language he thought I was ignorant of. He was just mumbling inane compliments, and even though I wasn’t supposed to understand him, I knew that Lucinda would know what he meant without understanding the words. I smiled back at him, letting him conduct me to the silk sheets as he anticipated.

My body was starting to quake with anticipation. My nipples were hard and tingling, and between my legs, I was so wet and ready that I could scarcely stand it. I had been this way for weeks, I realized, and regardless of my recovered sense of male identity, I knew I would be this way for the rest of my life–horny and needy. I could never be a man again, and eventually, my feminine needs would overwhelm my recovered male identity.

“Oh yes, you are lovely,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “I was sure you’d make a wonderful girl. The macho ones always do make the best girls. It’s a shame we can’t let you know who you were before: you’d hate every moment of this. It would be absolutely delicious.”

‘I might be an ignorant girl now with limited access to my former life’s memories,’ I thought to myself, ‘but I wasn’t so ignorant that I was unaware of magic or what had been done to me.’ My soap operas spoke of such things often. One–El Magico–even used it a key element of the plot. It was coming as no surprise to me to learn that I, like one of the characters in El Magico, was a woman who had once been a man and remembered her male life. I didn’t know exactly who I had been just yet, but I was certain now that I had been a man once. I was determined to not let on to Senor Rothman that I was nearly as aware of the truth as he had idly wished. It would have both alarmed and pleased him to know.

It took every bit of will within me to continue the ruse. I slid gracefully onto the sheets, lying on my back and smiling as I let him gently pull my legs apart. Part of my mind was actually looking forward to the experience. My body had been moulded to become aroused with little or no foreplay–an advantage for a woman who earns her keep on her back. I felt an animal desire to be filled, even if it was by this man who had most likely been instrumental in my transformation.

Deep within me, a voice–a very male voice–seemed to be crying out a warning that this wasn’t right: it wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. It told me that this was the man who had taken away my own manhood, and replaced it with a slit. I knew instinctively that the voice was correct, but what could I do? I was a weak woman, under close scrutiny, and expected to act the part I had been given. If I did anything other than what was expected of me, the consequences might be serious–perhaps even fatal.

Senor Rothman entered me with the confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and when he wanted it. To my shame, the sensation of him assaulting my quivering vagina was actually very satisfying. I even sighed from the sensation as he slid masterfully into me. Unconsciously, I wrapped my brown legs around him, pulling him into me as the muscles of my vagina happily massaged his penis.

Before he came, I had already cum once and was building towards a second orgasm. I unwrapped my slender legs around his torso, then wrapped my arms languidly around his back and shuddered in the sheer pleasure of the experience. For a moment, the man within my mind seemed gone, and I was Lucinda once more–completely and absolutely. It was not an unpleasant experience. The Lucinda part of my mind wanted very much for my unbidden male thoughts to disappear completely, so it could continue to be filled like this for all time.

The experience didn’t last forever, though. As Senor Rothman let go with an impressive orgasm of his own, something inside my mind sense something horribly wrong. Even my own third orgasm couldn’t completely eliminate the feeling.

To my relief, he was so exhausted, he didn’t demand an immediate return engagement, although I suspected he had been magically enhanced sufficiently to have me again right then. He rolled off me with a satisfied smile and said, “Ah, Lucinda, let’s enjoy our lunch now, shall we?”

The slang Spanish word for “lunch” is similar to that in English, so I didn’t give myself away by getting up when he did and heading for the kitchen table where our meal was waiting for us. I remembered to eat daintily, and to take small sips of the chilled white wine, but I hoped he didn’t notice how uncomfortable I was sitting there naked with his cum dripping out of my body. It was getting cold and feeling sticky–sensations I had not minded in the past.

Thankfully, I was given a few minutes to clean myself up before we returned to the bed. I was not nearly as horny as before our after-lunch session, but the sex was still enjoyable. When we were done at last, Senor Rothman said idly, “Oh my dear Lucinda, you outdid yourself today. You were magnificent!”

I smiled a vapid little smile. “Magnifico?”

“Si,” he laughed. “Magnifico.”

Then his face clouded. “Almost too much so...” he breathed.

It was then that I realized I might have overdone things just a bit. I was sore from all the sex, so maybe I had been too exuberant. I would have to remember to restrain myself in the future, until I could figure out what to do about all of this.

But then he shrugged, musing almost to himself, “But I suppose it’s just the way we made you, isn’t it?”

I smiled vacantly. “Que?”

Then he laughed. “Don’t worry, Lucinda. You were very good. Muy bueno.”

Impulsively, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Muy bueno?”

“Si,” he grinned. “Muy, muy bueno!”

As my afternoon with Senor Rothman ended, and I was escorted by him to the door where a waiting guard walked me back to my room, I was actually grateful that he thought I spoke no English. I could tell by his looks of concern that he suspected something was wrong with me, given the pensive expression on my face, but since he thought I couldn’t answer his queries in English, I managed to get by without raising his suspicions too much.

With as much effort as I could muster, I managed to get through the evening shows without making a fool of myself. Oh, I still remembered the routines just fine, but the thoughts roiling through my confused mind left me preoccupied even on the stage.

After the show, I took a client back to my room. He was a big black man, and as nearly as I could tell, he was both a drug dealer and a pimp back home in Detroit. These were things he told me, even though I pretended once again to speak no English, other than an occasional word or two dealing with our business. As he was fucking me, he even grunted out that he wished I was one of his girls back in Detroit and that maybe he’d talk to Rothman about selling me to him.

In spite of his size, he tired quickly, leaving me once more to my thoughts. I was still trying to sort things out while pretending to sleep as he stole silently from my bed, slipped a substantial tip out of his wallet, left it on the nightstand and tiptoed out of my room.

To my surprise, I found myself tearing up. I knew this had been a typical day for me–or at least a typical one recently. But I also knew without a doubt that I had been a man–probably an American, given my newly-acquired abilities in English and my dreams about American military uniforms. I missed my old life, even though I couldn’t remember any of it. It was as if my very existence had been stolen from me, leaving me with this poor substitute life as a showgirl and whore.

I needn’t have worried, though. As I slipped off into a troubled sleep, the answers started to come at last.

The military man was there in my dreams once more. He was ruggedly handsome, my woman’s mind told me, standing fully erect in his blue Air Force uniform, and he was looking at me. His eyes were blue, or at least they were supposed to be I somehow knew. But as he stared at me, they appeared almost black, as if he was looking not just at my body, but at my very soul. I tried to look away from him, but I couldn’t. My eyes were fixed firmly on his.

“Who... who are you?” I heard my dream-self ask. Strangely, my dream-voice was speaking English. Hadn’t I always dreamed in Spanish before?

He smiled. It wasn’t a comforting smile, but rather one of amusement. “I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

No, he didn’t. Some part of me knew exactly who he was “You’re me?” I ventured. It came out as a question, but a rhetorical one, I realized.

He nodded. The smile became a little gentler. “Yes. This is who you used to be.”

I returned the nod. “So I really was a man? I wasn’t imagining it?”

It certainly explained why I was suddenly encumbered with the feeling that my gestures were becoming more masculine. I had somehow been programmed to be a woman, and some of that programming–the mental programming at least–was starting to break down.

Was I becoming a man? I looked down. My body was still female in every physical way. Even in my dreams, I was destined to remain a woman, regardless of the man I used to be.

“Think about who did this to you,” he prompted encouragingly.

At his urging, I remembered a room–no, really more of a cell. In the cell, there was a man–the man in the uniform who was guiding me. Except he didn’t look like the same man. He had been changed, altered into a different man–less attractive and more... common. I somehow knew, in spite of the difference in appearance, that I was the man before me... and I wasn’t. I was part him and part the woman I had become.

“Further back,” he urged.

How had he known that? I wondered. Then I realized–this was only a dream. I was him and he was me. I did as he suggested, trying to push my fragmented memories back further and further.

There!

I was in a room... an office. Senor Rothman was seated behind a desk, and that horrible Frieda woman who followed him around was standing at his side. I couldn’t tell what they were saying to me, but suddenly two men were in the room with us, and they took me away and... and...

And I remembered all of it. Well, most of it anyway. I remembered being an Air Force officer named Mike something-or-other. I remembered my rank: captain. I was Anglo-American and not Hispanic. I was male and not female.

I was on a mission and not a whore.

The wand! I had been checking on leads to find out who was selling the secret of the wand, but I had come up dry. In retrospect, I had been chasing my tail, assigned to wander about the casinos in a desperate search to locate the buyer and the go-between and trace things back to the leak. I had failed, and now I wore this sexy little Latin body as punishment.

I gasped in the darkness.

I found myself sitting up in bed, the thoughts rushing back into my mind as the dream faded away. I hadn’t even realized that I was awake until then. I looked around. The sun wasn’t even up yet. I was naked, the expensive silky sheets strewn around me.

Then I remembered my client. Where was he? Oh yes, he had tired early and left. I looked in disgust at the fifty dollar bills lying there on my nightstand, illuminated by the red numerals on my alarm. I shuddered in revulsion at the thought of what I had done to earn that money. I was a whore–a big-breasted, sultry, submissive whore. I shuddered again at what I had become. Even though I had had no choice in the matter, to suddenly realize that I had been made into a vapid little sex toy over the past few weeks was the most embarrassing thought imaginable.

I slipped out of bed, grimly aware of the movement of my breasts and the sway of my hips. Long, dark hair slithered down over my nipples, causing an unwelcome sensation of pleasure. They had made me a whore who enjoyed her work, I realized, brushing the hair away. Even with the realization of what they had done to me, my hands lingered over my hardened nipples for a moment longer than they should have.

In the bathroom, I turned on the light, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Then, I looked into the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door. God, I was beautiful–in a slutty sort of way. My face was dark and exotic with lips designed for sex. They had been used for just that a few hours ago on a client’s cock, and I quickly turned back to the sink and washed out my mouth with water. There was still a foreign aftertaste in my mouth. I knew what it was, but I tried to ignore it as I turned back to the mirror.

My slim hands examined my body, touching the breasts (but not the nipples, again, or I would probably have cum right then and there), the smoothness of my legs... Then, I started to reach between my legs, but stopped when I saw the perfectly triangular swatch of hair there was matted down. I wondered why Senor Rothman had not required me to shave my pubic hair as I knew many whores did, but realized he must have preferred his girls that way. After all, it wasn’t as if we were cheap whores turning several tricks a night. Instead, we were very expensive whores–probably among the best in Las Vegas–and that was saying something.

Still, sex had left my pubic region sticky and unpleasant. I must have fallen asleep right after my client had finished with me and not washed up.

I quickly turned on the shower, diving in as soon as the water was warm to purge myself of any evidence of recent sex. If I could have done so, I would have purged myself of the entire body I now wore–the breasts, the pussy–no, whores called it a pussy. It was a... my vagina. Whatever it was called, I wanted it gone. I wanted my male body back. I knew I couldn’t have it, though, and I began to sob inconsolably at what had been taken from me. Once a woman, always a woman. Nothing in science or magic could ever change that to my satisfaction. I would have to go through the rest of my life looking like a little hot tamale. My legs gave way and I sank to the floor of the shower heaving in self-pity.

Eventually, I recovered, but it took most of the morning. At first, I looked in my bedroom for something to wear. I wanted something loose and opaque to hide this sexy body from even my own eyes, but I was thwarted. Nothing in my wardrobe fell into that category. Besides, I realized, the other girls would be milling around our recreation room, eating a late breakfast and socializing as much as any of us could, given that none of us spoke the same language. They would all be dressed in lingerie and light robes, flaunting both their sexy bodies and their leisurely lifestyle. I knew that well, because until now, I had done the same thing each day. A few might even show up nude. And yes, I had done that before, too.

Resigned, I realized I would have to act the part of one of Rothman’s whores whenever I was in public, or I would be involuntarily signing up for another session with the Ripper. And I was certain if the Ripper got his mental clutches on me again, he would make certain that I would never be anything else but a sex-starved Latin bimbo too submissive for words. So I found a white baby doll that pushed my breasts out proudly, and covered myself in a matching diaphanous robe that barely covered my eye-catching ass.

At least none of the girls wore heels in the mornings. We all wanted to look sexy, but among our compatriots, there was no sense in getting uncomfortable during our off hours. Simple cloth slippers sufficed. That was a relief, for with my original male thoughts conflicting with my artificial female ones, I wasn’t sure I could handle heels.

I smiled at some of the other girls, and we greeted each other with what was probably “good morning” in each of our languages. Then I filled a small plate with fresh fruit and low-fat yogurt, balancing it in one hand as I drew a cup of coffee. The room wasn’t very full, so I chose a four-person table away from the few other diners.

I wasn’t alone for long, though. Before I had taken more than a couple of bites, the exotic black girl I thought might have noticed me before sat down across from me. Her breakfast looked much like mine. She picked up her coffee cup and held it in front of her lips, but didn’t drink just yet.

“Buenas Dias,” I said politely, wondering what she was up to.

She lowered the coffee cup for a moment, smiled, exposing a set of teeth so white in contrast to her black skin that they looked unnatural. She said something back to me in unintelligible gibberish–probably my greeting returned in her “native” tongue. Then she put the coffee cup back in front of her mouth and softly said, “Good morning.”

She had done it to gauge my reaction–and it worked. My eyes widened, and I nearly dropped my own cup. “You speak English?” I blurted out.

“Not so loud!” she hissed, looking around to make sure no one had heard me. Fortunately, no one had. Once she was certain no one had heard, she continued softly, “Rothman’s goons like to spy on us. They’ve got cameras and microphones all over the place. I’ve checked this area and there are no microphones, but there is a camera over there by the coffeemaker.” She nodded her head slightly. I stole a quick look above the coffeemaker and noticed for the first time that she was right. She went on, “If they see us communicating, they may get suspicious.”

“Who are you?” I asked as quietly as she had spoken, my coffee cup in front of my mouth like she held hers.

“You first,” she countered. “You’re the Fed Rothman caught poking around, aren’t you?”

No sense in denying it. I nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Good,” she returned. “Then you may be able to get both of us out of here. My name is–was–Leon Ambler. Now, I’m just called Leona. Dominique likes to call me that, anyway.”

I remembered that name from my initial briefing. I couldn’t remember much else about her, but I seemed to remember that she was one dangerous bitch. “Dominique Marceau?”

“One and the same. I worked for her, and... well, let’s just say we had a falling out. She had Rothman make me like this and keep me here for her personal amusement. She’s a dyke, by the way.”

I hadn’t known that. Apparently, Talon didn’t know it either, or that would have been in her file. Maybe it was, I thought to myself. I couldn’t remember everything yet, and might never do so. But I couldn’t remember reading anything in her file that would indicate that she preferred women.

“She made it so the only way I can get off is pleasuring her,” she went on. “She amplified my attraction to women, but I’m still wired to get off like a man with anybody but her. And since I don’t have a dick anymore... well, you get the idea.”

I certainly did. I suddenly remembered a rumor in her file relating to a wayward associate. Apparently the rumors about her changing a disloyal lieutenant into an insatiable whore who literally fucked herself to death hadn’t been quite accurate. To my way of thinking what her former boss had done to her was even worse than that. At least girls like me could get off at the drop of a hat. Having all that sexual need bottled up inside, unable to be satisfied with only one partner, seemed like living hell. Especially when I suspected that her only source of relief didn’t come around nearly often enough.

“And she left you all of your old memories,” I assumed, prompting her to continue.

She shrugged. “So far as I know. They brought in a Ripper to make me mentally into what you see, but I’m not sure if any memories were taken from me, except my ability to speak English. I think she wanted me to remember who I had been and why she had done this to me. But all I’m supposed to be able to speak or understand is some obscure African language. I’m not even sure what it’s called.”

“But you speak English now,” I prompted.

“Yeah,” she said with a moment’s grin. “It happens sometimes after a girl’s been here for awhile. The memories come back. Somebody told me once that the brain remembers stuff in more than one place. I guess that’s what happens to some of us. Usually, Rothman’s apes figure it out. They’re trained to look for the telltale signs, you know.”

“What happens when they figure it out?” I asked, sure that I didn’t really want to know the answer.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You never see them again. Maybe they sell them, or ship them off to some Third World brothel. Maybe they just kill them.”

I nodded slightly. That was pretty much what I had figured.

“But they haven’t caught you.”

She didn’t answer me right away, as two other girls, cute little Oriental twins dressed in matching red bikinis walked past. We all smiled at each other, and the twins said something that sounded Chinese. Then they giggled and moved on toward the exit.

“They haven’t caught me because I’m careful,” she told me when they were gone. “I’ve been able to speak English for a couple of months, and I pretty much remember everything else. The problem I’ve got is that I figure if I’m going to get out of here, I’ll need some help.”

I nodded. That made sense. The guards were on the alert for one girl who regained her memory and obviously had tried and true plans to handle such a situation. Two girls remembering at the same time just might be outside their ability to contain, especially if the girls worked together.

“By the way, you haven’t been acting like you had your old memories before today. And you’ve only been here three or four weeks. That’s pretty fast to get your memories back. Is this some new government technique?”

If it had been, I wouldn’t have been able to talk about it for security reasons. I hadn’t been able to give much thought to why I had gotten my old memories back, but I had a theory. I suspected that my training to submerge my real identity to play a part when I was undercover had somehow allowed me to retain my real identity back in a remote corner of my mind–just as I had to on a mission.. Or maybe some people just remembered quicker after they had been Ripped. The human mind was still a mysterious landscape. And she may have been right about the “technique.” Agents, I seemed to remember, were trained in a variety of mental exercises to improve memory and heighten the powers of observation.

“Let’s call it a technique for discussion’s sake,” I replied cryptically. I might as well convince her I had a few useful talents, I told myself.

She nodded. “Okay. Good enough.”

“You said something about us getting out of here,” I prompted.

“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” she said. “We’ve already talked too long. Meet me here tomorrow for breakfast and I’ll run a plan past you.”

I could scarcely contain myself for the rest of the day. I had to appear “normal,” though, so I dampened my anticipation as much as possible. Neither of us spoke that evening before the show, and afterwards, I became the evening plaything of an Australian rancher who was so rambunctious that he apparently didn’t get into town much. I think the last female he must have had had been a kangaroo.

Still, he wasn’t a bad lover–and I was becoming an unwilling connoisseur of male lovers. It was strange–almost like two identities sharing the same body. The cold, calculating agent and the sweet, submissive little Latin whore both physically enjoyed the experience (in spite of the agent’s mental disgust), but the agent part of my mind was doing its best to detach itself from the whore’s desire to please her client. It wasn’t easy, and I was pretty sure I’d have a hard time holding myself together long enough to escape. I marvelled at how Leona had kept her sanity.

Then I had an uncomfortable thought: maybe she hadn’t.

Good to her word, Leona met me at breakfast the next morning. My Australian had gone back to the Outback or wherever his ranch (station, he corrected me when I called it a ranchero) was located. Leona, I assumed, had spent another sexless night craving her absent tormentor.

“I’ll make this quick,” she said without preamble. “You’ll be having your period pretty quickly, and–”

“What?”

“Not so loud!” she chastised me. “You’ve been here almost four weeks. What did you think–that you only looked like a girl? I can assure you, honey, you’re the real thing!”

I searched my female memories. Artificial as they were, they confirmed that I would be experiencing a period in the next day or two. I reluctantly recalled memories of using tampons and experiencing bleeding. I also recalled some bloating and discomfort prior to my flow. Come to think of it, I felt a little bloated right then...

Leona smiled, realizing what I was going through. “Good. It’s almost time. You won’t have any clients during your period. With the money these guys are paying for your services, they don’t want messy sex, and they’re certainly not going to pay that much for a blowjob or taking you up the ass.”

“So what’s the plan?” I pressed, trying to forget about my upcoming unpleasant experience.

“Simple. The first night you’re off duty, we walk out of here.”

“Huh? That’s not much of a plan,” I told her. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there are guards all over the place, and the elevators are run by key cards.”

She shrugged. “So, we’ll knock out the guard and take his key card.”

“You’re insane!” That plan might have worked if we had both been male and I was restored to my former strength. But all the guards I had seen were pretty good-sized, and neither one of us topped a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet.

“You still remember your martial arts training don’t you?” When I looked a little surprised, she explained. “Oh come on, you were Talon. That bitch of Rothman’s–Frieda–she’s been bragging all over the place that you were Talon. Most of the ‘girls’ don’t have the foggiest idea what Talon is, but I do. You’ve been trained in a dozen different martial arts techniques.”

Actually, fifteen, but I didn’t mention it. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not big enough to take out all the guards and get away.” With my reduced size, I could probably still handle three or four of them, but that would be the max.

She grinned. “At night, there’s only one on the floor and another in the lobby. I figure I distract him and you take him on.”

That seemed like awfully sloppy security, but then I realized that most of Rothman’s stable was like I had been a few days earlier–completely submissive and happy to be a good little whore. Even if one of the girls remembered who she had been, a single guard would have been sufficient to subdue her. Additional guards would just disturb the clients.

“Okay,” I finally agreed, as anxious to get out of Rothman’s clutches as she was. “So what happens if we get out of here?”

She shrugged. “I go my way and you go yours. It’ll make us harder to find if we split up,” she added, apparently anticipating I’d want us to stay together. But she was wrong about that. Once I got out, I was pretty sure she and I would be on different sides.

I was also still pretty sure Leona was the lieutenant of Dominique Macreau’s who had crossed her some time ago. I remembered everything I had read or heard about the incident by now. But when Colonel Edwards had told me about that, he had been wrong about what had happened to him–or rather, her. She hadn’t been fucked to death–that wouldn’t have been any fun for the sadistic weapons broker. Instead, she had been turned into her former boss’s personal play toy. I almost think that was crueller than being fucked to death, but then again, I had been made into a woman who loved only men.

Whatever her past, I was pretty sure Leona had skimmed money that was even now residing in some tidy little account in the Caymans. She wouldn’t want to share it with her temporary partner, so once we were free, she’d be off to parts unknown and I’d be on my own again. And that was fine with me. I actually found myself hoping that she had socked enough away to find someone with the magical power to let her live a satisfying life. To my way of thinking, she’d been punished enough.

Leona got up from the table with one last statement: “Let me know the minute your period starts. They’ll take you off duty at once. We’ll leave that night.”

I didn’t keep her waiting long. The very next evening, my flow started. It was unpleasant, but thankfully not as debilitating as I had thought it would be. The stage manager noted that I was carrying a tampon to the restroom and stopped me. She smiled a wicked little smile and said in halting Spanish, “No cliente por usted esta noche.”

I wondered if she knew how to say that in all the languages the other girls spoke, but I obviously couldn’t ask her without raising suspicion. I just nodded and said, “Si.”

A small, uncontrollable part of me was actually disappointed that I wouldn’t be spreading my legs for one of the men who gazed lustfully at the bevy of beauties who danced for them that evening. Out of sheer meanness, though, I tried to favor them with extra sexy smiles, wondering if any of them would clamor for my services that night, only to be disappointed when they found that I wasn’t available.

After the show, I nodded silently to Leona, who nodded back in understanding. Then I hurried back to my room to get changed into street clothes. Well, maybe I should say almost-street clothes. All of us had some outfits we could wear outside the hotel. Sometimes, the clients wanted to take us out for a late dinner or for dancing, just so they could show us off. Our wardrobes consisted of barely-legal (in most cities–not in Vegas) clothing that revealed as much as they hid–short slit skirts, platform heels, nearly-transparent blouses that clung tenaciously to our braless breasts... and so on.

I selected the most conservative outfit I could find–a very skimpy black cocktail dress that had enough support to lift my hefty breasts up, leaving deep cleavage for the plunging neckline. Garters with smoky hose, four-inch heels, and matching gold jewelry completed the look, and left little doubt as to what my profession was–especially since I still had on heavy makeup from the show.

Pushing the male part of my brain back into the back of my mind, I expertly changed my tampon, the female portion of my brain thinking it an annoying but not unusual necessity. Still, the male side of my mind cringed at the realization that I was now and forever a fully-functioning woman, quite capable of getting pregnant.

There was a soft tap on the door. I opened it and saw Leona dressed in a very similar outfit. “The guard’s watching TV, so he won’t spot us until we’re practically at the elevator. Let’s go!”

True to her word, the guard was absorbed in some sports event–it looked like Australian football to me. He probably had a bet on the game, or he wouldn’t have been watching so intensely. Since American football had taken a hit with so many incidents of magically-enhanced players, it had only limited betting potential. Australian rules football was now all the rage, since Australia had very strict rules about not allowing magically-proficient foreigners into the country.

We were almost to the elevator when he spotted us, and came out to stand between us and the elevator door. At least he wasn’t really suspicious. All the girls were magically docile, so he wasn’t immediately suspicious–more like confused. He looked down at a clipboard and said, “Ladies, I don’t have anything on tonight’s schedule for you...” He was shaking his head, too, and motioning with one hand for us to turn around and go back to our rooms, assuming that we really couldn’t understand him.

Leona did her part. She gave him a sweet, sexy smile and said something which seemed to indicate that she didn’t understand a word he said. She leaned over and began whispering seductively in his ear.

I didn’t think I’d get a better opportunity, so I nailed him with a quick kick of my pointed high heels, right in the groin. The point didn’t hit him, but the heel did. He doubled over, and I hit him in the back of the head with my oversized purse, which I had thoughtfully filled with a heavy statuette that had been an accent piece of art in my room. He crumpled to the carpeted floor with only a faint “oof” as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Leona looked at me with new respect. “You’re good,” she commented.

I just nodded. After all, I knew I used to be much better. Before my transformation, I would have put him out without the use of a heavy object. Now, though, my feminine hands weren’t tough enough or strong enough to do the job right.

The elevator emptied out near the casino, as most elevators in Las Vegas seemed to do. It was after two in the morning, but the casino was still humming away. The brightness of the area, with all its swirling electronic displays was almost enough to blind me after the near darkness of the floors above. If any guards had been waiting, they could have probably taken us both right then. But security had been just as light as Leona had promised. The only guards on the casino level were busy watching the gambling patrons. We were probably to their appraisal just two more party girls looking for a winner to tap.

One guard did give us a look, but that was probably just because he was bored and horny. I just smiled at him and hefted my heavy purse up a little more, regretting that I had brought along the statuette, but I had thought it still might come in handy before the night was over.

The weather outside the air-conditioned casino was hot and dry–typical for the season, so my skimpy little black dress wasn’t too light for the evening air. We walked together silently for a block or so. Then Leona stopped and said, “This is where we part company.”

“Wait!” I called, snagging her arm.

“What?” She thought about pulling my arm away, but then I think she remembered what I had done to the guard and relaxed.

“You said Dominique Marceau used you exclusively.”

“Yes...”

“Do you know when she’s going to visit again?”

Leona laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “Oh yes. She wants me to know: she wants me to anticipate her visits. She’ll be here in three days. That’s why you were such a godsend to me. Now I’ll never have to pleasure that bitch again.”

She seemed oddly gleeful that the only person who could give her sexual release was no longer an issue. I had a sneaky suspicion Leona had stashed much of what she had skimmed from her former boss well before her transformation, since she seemed very self-assured and pleased now. That meant she knew of someone who could release her from her addiction to Dominique Marceau and allow her to lead a more normal life–normal for a woman, that is. That “someone” obviously would not sell his services cheaply, though. Good for her.

“Anything else?” she asked impatiently.

“No,” I replied. “Thanks, Leona.”

“Good luck,” she said over her shoulder as she turned to walk away. In moments, she had turned a corner away from the bright streetlights of the Strip and disappeared from view. I never saw her again.

Okay, so now I was free, but what could I do with my freedom. Unlike Leona, I didn’t have a small fortune (or in her case, maybe a large one) tucked away somewhere. In fact, I didn’t have a dime on me. I was broke and alone on the Strip in the early hours of the morning in the body of an exotic young prostitute–not exactly the most desirable situation to be in.

I remembered my mission–sort of. I remembered all about the wand and what it was designed to do. I felt a sense of purpose in trying to complete my mission of finding the leak and preventing the technology for the wand from getting into the wrong hands. The problem was that several weeks had already gone by, and I didn’t know the status of the wand project or Talon’s efforts to protect it.

So how much time really had gone by? I couldn’t depend upon my Lucinda memories, for they told me I had been at the Versailles for a couple of years at least. However, the experience of having a period seemed somehow new to me, as if despite what my memories tried to tell me, this was my very first one.

I seemed to remember that Colonel Edwards had said something about the people at Area 51 planning to test the wand in the next three or four weeks. If I was right about how long I had been a girl, that meant it was possible the tests were going on at this very hour. If so, I might be just a hair too late. However, something deep inside me told me the project had been plagued with frequent delays–a common occurrence when technology and magic were blended. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be too late to complete my mission.

Also, Leona had said Dominique Marceau would be arriving in three days. If she was the buyer for the wand, the timing would be just about right. Tests could still be a day or two away if that were so. That meant there might still be time for me to accomplish my mission. But I couldn’t do it alone. As far as the world was concerned, I was nothing but a chorus girl and stripper–not some sort of secret agent.

Sure, my first impulse was to try to get out to Nellis and report in to Colonel Edwards. That was out, though, I realized glumly. As far as he was concerned, my male identity was still on the job, and when it came to proving my identity, the Ripper had most certainly assured that my duplicate was more versed on my former life than I was. In fact, other than my basic identity and current mission, I could remember almost nothing valuable from my previous life. I wasn’t even sure I could find the place where I had lived as a man. Maybe it would all come back to me eventually, but it wasn’t there now.

Going to the FBM was out, too. If a phony Andy Wallace was on Rothman’s payroll, others in the local FBM office could be, too. Besides, the FBM had access to a lot of magic spells, and if I ran into someone dirty at their offices, I might just end up with a lifetime of turning tricks in some whorehouse in Mexico before I knew what hit me.

The only place I could think of to turn was the local police. Well, not really the police in general, since at Talon we had learned that many of the locals were on the take, but specifically Matt Henshaw. I remembered Matt from my current mission, and I knew instinctively that I had known Matt ever since I had come to Vegas, and he was a man I could trust with my life. Of course, that’s exactly what I was going to be doing, come to think of it.

But how to get there? Matt’s office was some distance away, in downtown Las Vegas, I thought, dredging up another small memory. That was way too far to walk, especially in this body and in heels.

“Hey, cutie, you lookin’ for a date?”

It was probably fortunate that the female side of my brain realized dejectedly that the man who had sidled up behind me wouldn’t want to be having sex with a girl “on the rag,” as he would probably crudely express it. Still, there was always oral sex...

My mind, I realized, instinctively reacted as the prostitute I had been made to think I was. Of course, I had been high class enough to not be walking the streets looking for business, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t know how to go about it.

No, I might have been made to think I was a whore, but that wasn’t my real nature, I reminded myself with the male side of my mind. I might be forever encased in the body of a luscious Latin lovely, but I was still an agent of Talon–in mind if not in body.

“Huh? How about it?” he pressed.

A plan formulated in my mind–it was a fusion of both the male and female parts of my psyche. I’m sure my superiors wouldn’t approve, but it was necessary if I was to continue my mission.

I turned toward him and smiled, looking him over at the same time. Actually, my Lucinda side found him to be reasonably attractive. I had fucked worse. I was actually a little horny, too. This was my first night since being transformed that I had been without a man in my bed. I felt... empty, in spite of the tampon.

The Talon side of my brain was more analytical, though. Although he was about six feet tall, he was slim but not muscular, and his movements projected those of a man unaware of his own body. His brown hair was on the long side, so he wasn’t military, and his shorts and red and white aloha shirt stamped him as an unsophisticated tourist just looking for something female and within his limited budget.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked coyly, a hand on my hip and one leg slightly forward in a sexy pose.

“Uh...” he began, a little unsure of himself now, “my hotel’s just ahead a block or so...”

I threaded my arm through his. “Then let’s go.”

I had pegged him right. His hotel was a typical tourist joint a block off the Strip. If it weren’t for fake slots in the lobby (no magic suppressors here!), it could have been a similarly branded hotel in Fargo. Still, I cooed to him and told him how nice the place looked.

In the elevator, he told me his name was Tony–undoubtedly a lie, but then again, I had told him my name was Maria, so we were even. The way I hung on his arm, I could have told him my name was Fidel Castro and he would have still been as hard as a rock.

I made my move within a minute after he closed the door to his room behind us. He would never have expected a girl my size to be able to take him down and knock him out cold before he could even cry out. I sighed in relief. I hadn’t even had to start undressing before he gave me the opening.

I didn’t feel right about rolling him, but I was on a deadline, and the sooner I could get a cab and get to Matt’s office, the better off I’d be. “Tony” had nearly five hundred in his wallet, with the smallest bill a twenty, and I yanked it all out. If I hadn’t gone for all of it, the police would have noted it and raised a red flag. I didn’t leave with all of it, though. I let the three one-hundred dollar bills float to the floor, as if I had been sloppy stuffing them into my purse. I didn’t want to spoil all the poor guy’s fun.

I was careful to leave by a different entrance, so none of the staff would notice me. A couple of them had been leering at me when I came in, and if they saw me leaving so quickly, they would figure out that one of their guests had just been rolled. The police would be there before I could get away.

I ignored an available cab in front of the hotel. I didn’t want to be too easy to track, so I walked as innocently as I could in a short, black dress back to the Strip, walking an extra block so that I’d be further away from “Tony’s” hotel. Even at this time in the morning, there would be several sweet young things walking around in short, black dresses, so it would take the police longer to trace me.

My feet were positively aching by the time I slipped into the back seat of a Yellow Cab. Lucinda was used to walking around in heels, but she wasn’t entirely in charge now. Besides, I had walked a little quickly since I wanted to get away from the Strip before Rothman’s men started looking for me.

“Where to, miss?” the cabbie asked, figuring me for a prostitute from the way he ogled me. Why else would a woman be dressed like me in the middle of the night? He probably thought I was trying to get another john under my belt before sunrise. So my destination came as something of a surprise to him.

“Metropolitan Police Headquarters,” I told him, ignoring his stares. Actually, the stares stopped pretty quickly. Rather than just another whore, he had suddenly decided that I just might be an undercover vice cop. He muttered a chastened “Yes, ma’am,” and headed downtown. I relaxed a little. It was probably the first time I had managed to get any respect while wearing a skirt.

When magic first ruined gambling in Las Vegas, the Strip was fairly new, so the effects weren’t too apparent. Most of the hotels turned to the suddenly-legalized sex trade, closing their casinos entirely. Downtown Las Vegas was hurt worse. I suppose the results might have been the same even if there were no magic, since the Strip was becoming more popular with the new gamblers, but downtown wasn’t configured correctly to take on the new sex trade–too many casinos were just that–casinos, with no hotel rooms to convert themselves into sex clubs. Now, downtown consisted of a few sleazy sex clubs for the budget-minded and a fair number of deserted buildings.

Metropolitan Police Headquarters was located right in the center of what the locals called “Ground Zero.” There was talk of cleaning up the area, but so far it was just talk. There simply wasn’t enough money to go around, even with the re-emergence of gambling. I thought to myself that there would be even less money if the wand ever became commonly available.

Given its location, there were a few unsavory folks hanging out at the entrance to police headquarters. I managed to ignore them, though, and nobody gave me any trouble. Of course, that didn’t stop any of the sleaze balls from trying to look up my skirt as I hurried up the front steps. Well, let ’em look, I thought, because looking was all they’d ever be able to do.

“Yeah?” a gruff, aging desk sergeant greeted me at the desk just inside the door.

“I’m here to see Lt. Henshaw,” I told him, not allowing him to stare me down.

“Lady, it’s the middle of the night. Henshaw’s probably home in bed banging his old lady right now.”

‘Wrong on both counts,’ I thought. My memories of Matt were growing stronger. I had talked to Matt many times in the middle of the night. Murder has a tendency to happen at odd hours. As for “his old lady,” Matt had been divorced from his second wife long before I knew him. I as much as told this to the ape behind the desk, so he settled down, realizing that I must know Matt.

“Uh... okay. I think he’ll be in about seven. You wanna come back then?”

I nodded toward the waiting area just to the left of the desk. “No, I’ll wait,” I told him.

The sergeant left me alone after that. I had no intention of leaving the station until I saw Matt. By now, Rothman was probably combing the city for me. He wouldn’t know if I had my memory or not, so I doubted if he would suspect I would go straight to the police. I was undoubtedly safer right there, with the low-life of the city passing right by me, than any other place I could think of.

I could have badgered the sergeant into calling Matt, but I figured that would be a mistake. Matt certainly wouldn’t be expecting an urgent call from a hot little Latin honey, so better to let the desk sergeant wonder just who I was. Otherwise, without seeing Matt in person, I’d be written off as just another bimbo with a beef for the cops.

Besides, sitting there gave me some time to think–something I hadn’t really done since my mind had begun to clear. Maybe the adrenalin I had pumped during our escape had carried some of the memories back, but whatever the reason, I now pretty much remembered everything important about who I had been and what I had to do.

For starters, I thought about what I had to do–and what, as I remembered, I had already done. My assignment had been next to impossible from the beginning. Major Ralston had been the point man, and he had managed to get himself killed. Colonel Edwards had slotted me as Ralston’s backup, but with virtually no clues–other than the high probability that Rothman had ordered Ralston’s abortive sex change–I was supposed to stop wand technology from being stolen. It should have been the job of a dozen agents–and even then there would have been no assurances of success.

Of course, I knew there were other agents–and maybe even other agencies–who were trying to find the source of the leaks. Talon’s job was to backstop the operation, and make sure that the information was never passed on to anyone else. Still, it was like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, since we had no idea who would be shopping for it or what help they would have. Running across Dominique Marceau’s trail was just a stroke of luck–but it had required me to get changed into a girl to accomplish it.

Now, hopefully with Matt’s help, I might be able to perform my part of the mission. With any luck at all, we’d stop Marceau and keep the wand from falling into the wrong hands.

Then, with time on my hands, I thought about my own memories that had slowly returned to me–memories about who I really was. The answers were disappointing. Like all Talon agents, I had no family–I had been an only child and my parents had died in a car accident while I was still at the Air Force Academy. I was pushing thirty as a man, and my job had become my life, causing me to assume cover identities for so long that I could barely remember my own identity even without the services of a Ripper. No wonder it had taken me so long to remember my true identity: for all practical purposes, I didn’t really have one–at least not one that mattered much.

I didn’t like the idea of being stuck in the body of a young Latin prostitute, but in a strange way, it was a more satisfying life than my real one. Of course, weeks of making love to men had pretty well changed my sexual identity forever. In the core of my mind, I might still be male, but circumstances had caused me to appreciate the pleasure women have with sex. And given the wide variety of sexual experiences I had been subjected to in those weeks, I found them strangely satisfying. I wondered what it might be like now to make love to a man on my own terms–to pick one out of the pack and screw him blind.

I looked around for a moment at the few people milling around the reception area. All of them were male, but none of them was exactly an example of exemplary manhood. Ragged, unshaven, and generally low lives, the civilians were a sorry bunch. And the cops on duty weren’t a lot better–just neater and cleaner. It seemed if I was going to be a woman, I was going to be a rather picky one. After being a high-priced whore, I knew what I had to offer, and on my own, I wasn’t about to offer it to just anyone.

Matt strolled in about seven. I was dozing, but fortunately, the desk sergeant flagged him down and told him I was waiting.

“Yes, miss?” he asked, waking me up.

“Oh, hi, Matt,” I managed to say, stretching unconsciously so that my breasts perked right up in front of him. “You got any coffee around here?”

“Uh... do I know you?” I could see that he honestly wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know me or not. Believe it or not, he was almost as rumpled at the start of the day as he had been when I saw him late in the evening. He looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep in a few days. Being a cop in Las Vegas could do that to you, I supposed.

“Let’s talk in your office, Matt,” I told him with a coy smile.

I wasn’t just leading him on. What I had to tell him was Top Secret, and I didn’t want any inkling of my identity to be leaked to any of the cops hanging around the lobby. If an FBM agent was on Rothman’s payroll, odds were good a few Las Vegas officers were on the take, too. They might tell Rothman that sure, there was this hot little Hispanic chick hanging around waiting to see a detective, but that happened all the time in Las Vegas. Even if Rothman was told about me, the fact that I was speaking perfect (if slightly accented) English made it unlikely that I was the one he would be looking for.

Matt’s office was small, but at least it was private. After he got me a cup of coffee, I sat down across from him at his desk and we got down to business.

I told him everything, leaving out only some of the Top Secret details about the wand. I told him who I was first and who I really worked for. To his credit, he listened without interrupting. When I was finished, he asked calmly, “You say you are Dan?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“But I just saw Dan last night,” he pointed out.

I shook my head. “You saw a doppelganger.”

He grinned. “I thought as much. He told me how much he liked working in Las Vegas. You’d never say that, would you?”

“Facts can be ripped,” I told him, probably telling him something he already knew. “Attitudes are a little harder.”

Matt nodded. “I’ve heard you grumble a dozen times about how you hate Las Vegas. Telling me that, plus the rest that you’ve let me in on makes me tend to believe you.”

I was relieved that it didn’t take long to convince him. In a world where magic is common and Rothman’s proclivities were well known, it didn’t take a lot of convincing.

“I’ve got something else to tell you, Matt,” I continued. “It’s something relating to this case...”

He got a little heated when I told him I knew who his half-man half-woman victim was, though. “Damn it, Dan, you had me chasing my tail all over town over that case, and now you tell me you knew who it was all the time!”

“I couldn’t tell you, Matt,” I reminded him. “It was all Top Secret, remember? I wouldn’t be telling you any of this now, but–”

“I know,” he growled. “Now you need my help.”

“So will you help me?” I prodded hopefully. Matt was really the only one I could turn to, and I think he softened a little when he saw the plaintive look on my face.

The scowl disappeared, and he gave me a sly grin. “Sure, I’ll help you. I never could turn down a pretty girl.”

“Damn you, Matt!”

There was a lot to be done, but when it puts its mind to it, even bureaucracies can move quickly. By the end of the morning, Matt and I had sketched out a plan of attack. I wasn’t entirely happy with it, but Matt was in charge since I was somewhat at his mercy. If I contacted Colonel Edwards, my impersonator was bound to hear of it, and the imitation Andy Wallace was sure to find out if I went to the FBM, so my usual federal resources were useless. Besides, I trusted Matt about as much as anyone I knew in Las Vegas (not exactly a town known for a high percentage of trustworthy individuals).

In effect, I was now a de facto undercover agent for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police, especially after Matt got me some convincing-looking identification that verified exactly that.

“Isabella Raseda Hernandez?” I snorted as I read the new name on my driver’s license and Police ID.

“Isabella is a very pretty name,” Matt said defensively. “It means consecrated to God.”

“Great,” I muttered. “I suppose you know what Raseda means, too?”

Matt didn’t skip a beat. “It means fragrant blossom.” He grinned. “You don’t work for the police in this town very long without picking up some Spanish. Besides, one of my grandmothers was from Mexico, and she taught me to speak a fair amount of the language.”

My eyes narrowed. “So this stupid name is your doing,” I accused.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “Actually, it’s the real name of a prostitute who died here a couple of years ago. We found out her real name after all the paperwork was done under her working name. When we get one like that, we sort of hold it back in the files, so if we need one for Witness Protection, it’s there. You were lucky. The only other Spanish-sounding name in the file was Esmeralda Tia Gonzales.”

I supposed it wasn’t so bad being Isabella, given the other option. Besides, once this whole mess got straightened out, I could get it changed pretty easily courtesy of Security Group Talon. After all, I had used so many different names in my career that none of them seemed especially real. At least this new identity would stand up to examination long enough to complete my mission.

Then I had the unpleasant thought that my days at Talon might be over. Sure, there were a few female Talon agents, but most of them were pretty buff and able to take care of themselves as well as any of the male agents. Here I was now, looking like an escapee from a Mexican high school, complete with a sweet little girly look that didn’t exactly inspire military confidence.

“We need to change your look, too,” Matt told me once I had slipped the new ID’s into my purse.

“My look?”

“You look like a teenage hooker.”

He had just about read my mind. There wasn’t much to say in rebuttal. Until a few hours ago, I had been a teenage hooker–or one who at least looked teenage. Given that magic could only affect one’s age by roughly a decade, I supposed I was actually no less than the low twenties, but I sure didn’t look it.

“You need to look more like a cop,” he continued. “A female cop, of course.”

I nodded. “Of course.” That would be a good idea. Besides, by now, Rothman would have put my description all over town. A phony identity wouldn’t be enough to stop some low life from kidnapping me and returning me to Rothman. And if that happened, I was pretty sure he’d make certain that there were no further opportunities for escape. I’d probably find myself whoring in some other city–or maybe even another country–with my memories magically suppressed to a degree that I would never be able to access them again.

“So when did you become an expert in women’s fashions?” I asked him dryly.

“I’m not,” he admitted. “But I know someone who is.”

Matt took me to a salon that owed him one (or maybe more). The owner, whose name I learned was Magda, ushered Matt and me to a private room and asked, “What do you want her to look like, Matt?”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t really know about those things. Make her look professional–I mean business professional,” he added, blushing a little. “I guess change the hair–shorten it some–and do something with the face.”

“You’re a big help,” she sighed. “Okay. Give me a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours!” I blurted out. We didn’t have a lot of time. Plans for the wand, or maybe even the wand itself, could be changing hands any time now.

“How long did you think it would take?” Magda returned. “Haven’t you ever been to a... Hey, you haven’t, have you?”

“This is not a subject for discussion,” Matt broke in, but it was too late. I flushed as I could see the amusement in Magda’s eyes. She knew I’d once been a man and never set foot in a beauty salon in my life. It was humiliating enough to be who I was, but it was even worse when someone like Magda realized the truth.

“Sit down, honey,” she ordered me, “I’m gonna give you an education!”

She didn’t need to explain everything to me, since after examining my face, she quickly learned that although I might have once been male, I had been a woman long enough to understand the basics of makeup. Unfortunately, the style of makeup I had been exposed to as a woman was a little... extreme for the new role I was to play.

After Matt left to run some errands, Magda did her magic on me. And yes, part of it was magic. Although it was impossible to alter me physically, I was amazed at what she could do with magically-enhanced cosmetics.

Before that, though, she lightened my hair until it was a lighter brown rather than black. Then, she trimmed it up, so that it fell just below my shoulders. Once she got my hair the way she wanted it, she had a girl come in and work on my fingernails, shortening them a bit and trimming away the French cut I had had before. Instead of frosted red polish, she left me with clear but glossy nails.

Then, the real changes came–she worked on my face with her enhanced cosmetics, telling me as she applied them how I could repeat the process. Since as I have said, I had been given female memories, she didn’t have to get too basic, but some of the cosmetics would be a little tricky to reapply.

The great thing about Magda is that she didn’t ask any embarrassing questions. Not that I would have answered them anyway, but it was nice to know I could ask her questions about the professional look she was giving me without getting any questions in return. Whatever she owed Matt, she had come a long way towards paying it back in my book.

Magda was still working on me as Matt returned, carrying several packages.

“What’s all that?” I asked, rising up from the chair just enough to nearly cause Magda to screw up the blush she was applying. I ignored her swearing.

“Clothes for you,” he told me without really looking at me. He set the sacks down in the dressing room, calling out, “We want you to have a different look, you know.”

“But you didn’t ask me my sizes,” I protested.

Matt turned and grinned. “I’m pretty good at guessing girl’s sizes. Plus I had a couple of Magda’s girls help me.”

“Sharla and Connie know what they’re doing,” Magda reassured me. “Your friend here was just along to provide the credit card.”

“You paid for all of this, Matt?” I asked. Matt wasn’t known as a big spender, so the surprise in my voice was enough to make him blush.

“Well,” he said at last, “it was really the Department’s money.”

I grinned as he proudly handed me a sack from Victoria’s Secret. I opened the sack and looked at the labels on the bra.

“Thirty-four C, right?” he asked confidently.

“Uh... it’s a little small, Matt,” I told him, blushing.

Matt had the good graces to blush as well.

By the time he returned with the right sizes, Magda had finished with me. She wouldn’t let Matt come in this time, though. She told him she wanted my appearance to be a surprise.

She then helped me pull the tags off my new clothes, including the exchanged thirty-six C bra I now required, and helped me dress in the lightweight gray women’s business suit and white frilled blouse that Matt had found. I found the smoky pantyhose a little challenging, though. While in captivity, I had worn either garters, stay-ups, or no stockings (or anything else) at all. I slipped my feet into a pair of two-inch black pumps and let Magda lead me over to the mirror.

I didn’t realize until that moment exactly how whorish Rothman had made me look until I saw the more wholesome me. Gone was the hot little Latin teen with the heavy makeup and the trampy clothes. Oh, I was still hot, but in a more everyday sort of way. Put a briefcase in my hand and a pair of glasses on my nose and I would have looked like your everyday starting woman attorney or accountant. In short, although I was still obviously Hispanic and young, I looked nothing like Lucinda.

Then Matt was brought back to see Magda’s handiwork. If I thought I had been wide-eyed at observing my new look, Matt was absolutely awestruck.

“Good God, Magda, if I didn’t know who she was, I’d never be able to identify her,” Matt said. Then he pulled something out of his pocket. “Here. One more touch.” He handed me a pair of glasses with small, feminine frames in gold. When I hesitated to put them on, he assured me, “They’re just clear glass. Don’t worry.”

I hadn’t been worried about that, I admitted only to myself. The feminine instincts I had been given just warned me that I might be less attractive wearing glasses. After I put them on and looked at my face in the mirror, I realized I needn’t worry. If anything, they made me look sexier, and now all I needed was that briefcase...

“Come on,” Matt urged. “You can look at yourself later. We have work to do.”

“Do you have to do that?” Matt asked as he drove us down the Strip.

“Do what?” I asked, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about.

We were stopped at a traffic light, so Matt turned toward me–or rather he turned toward my legs.

“Do you have to cross your legs like that?”

I looked down. What was he yammering about? “Isn’t this the way all girls cross their legs?” I returned, a little miffed. What did he expect Did he want me to cross my legs like a man, my heel practically in his lap, scratch myself and ask for a beer?

“Well... yeah,” he admitted. “But I mean, your legs are... are...”

“Sexy?” I batted my eyes, watching his nervous expression as a honk from behind alerted him that the light had turned green. I smiled to myself. This was actually kind of fun. My mind and body had been programmed to act femininely, and I was discovering that I had been made to be sexy without even trying. With a stranger, I would have probably been upset, but Matt was an old friend. I knew I was safe with him, in spite of the boner that was embarrassingly starting to tent his pants.

“God damn it!” he cursed. “Are you sure you’re really Dan–or whatever your real name is?”

“Dan will do,” I laughed. Of course, he knew I was who I said I was. I hadn’t been in town as long as he had, but he and I had been friends practically from the day I arrived. We had already fallen into a familiar banter–only this time it was sexually charged.

Seeing that Matt was getting riled, I changed the subject. “Are you ready to start the plan?”

“I guess,” he said, calming down. “But I still think we should just raid Rothman’s hotel and shut his whorehouse down.”

I shook my head. “That’s no good, Matt. I’m sure his paperwork is all in order, and even if it wasn’t, he’s probably paying off enough local politicians to get it taken care of. Besides, prostitution is legal in your town, remember?” This was another reason for me to hate Las Vegas–between the gambling and the prostitution, security work was always harder in a wide-open town. “All you’ll do is cost him a few days of revenue, and he’ll probably get his lawyers to go after the city for that.”

“I just don’t like waiting,” he muttered.

“We’re not waiting. Besides, this was your plan,” I reminded him. “But Dominique Marceau is our target, remember? We’ve got to make sure we’ve got everybody in place to spot her when she shows up. According to Leona, she’ll be here in three days. We need to catch her in the act, if possible, so we can find the leak. Otherwise, our traitor will just try to sell the wand to somebody else.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So why are you suddenly down on your own plan?” I asked.

“Never mind,” he snapped. “Let’s get the surveillance teams briefed, okay?”

Why was he so testy? “Okay,” I agreed, without asking that question out loud.

It was time to meet the surveillance team Matt had gathered. Twenty officers, all in civvies, including four women dressed as if they planned to spend the evening in the casino, were assembled in the meeting room when I followed Matt to the podium. I got a few low whistles when I entered. I wasn’t supposed to hear them, but hear them I did. I just tried to ignore the ogling. When I was in Rothman’s employ, I probably would have smiled at the attention, but not now. The old professional me was back–for the most part at least. Only the package had changed and not the contents.

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Rothman’s Ripper had given me all the sexual urges of a promiscuous young woman, and I was starting to realize for the first time in my short female life, I had gone two days without getting laid. The absence of sex was starting to wear on me. I had heard somewhere that some women get hornier during their periods. I guessed I was one of those women. Still, I had to stay professional, so I just ignored the signals some of the male (and a couple of the female) cops were broadcasting.

It was during our meeting with the surveillance team that I found Matt’s low-level telepathic powers had another use besides reading simple surface thoughts. His power also persuaded, allowing me to be introduced as a Detective Sergeant and his second in command, although none of the officers questioned for a minute why not a single one of them had ever heard of me. Las Vegas’s police force was big, but I was pretty sure a Detective Sergeant who looked like me would have been well known throughout the department.

I was pretty sure Matt’s powers fell short of being considered a full-fledged Whisperer, but with the job to concentrate on, all of the team just seemed to accept that I was exactly who Matt had said I was. Still, I made a mental note to stay in my role all the time. That meant when I got over my period, all of these guys would be off limits. If I wanted to scratch my growing sexual itch, I’d have to do it someplace else.

I did my best to play the part, too, but I wasn’t entirely successful. After all, Rothman had had me turned into a whore who genuinely enjoyed being fucked. While I remembered who and what I had been, my body was programmed to be sexy, horny, and submissive. Just as I had to work at it to think in English, I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t really Lucinda No-Last-Name.

The problem was that I kept looking at the men, almost unconsciously sizing them up, trying to figure out which ones had the biggest, juiciest dicks or could set me on fire in bed. I needed to get laid. And it wasn’t like it had been for me when I was a man. Sure, there had been times back then that I had needed to get laid in what I thought then was the worst way. But I had been wrong: this was the worst way. As I stood there beside Matt, I was constantly reminded that there was an emptiness between my legs–an emptiness that needed to be filled soon or I’d go absolutely ape shit. ‘But not with one of these guys,’ I reminded myself again.

“Any questions?” Matt asked, bringing me back to the situation at hand. At least I knew I hadn’t missed anything. Matt and I had already gone over the plan in detail. In spite of earlier misgivings, I had been convinced that Matt had things under control.

“Where will the command post be?” One officer–a nice big hunk of a guy, I thought longingly–asked.

“We’ll be set up across the street at the Orlando.” The Orlando was a hotel just across the Strip from the Versailles. It only had about two hundred rooms–way too small to have its own casino, since the magical dampeners would have cost more than the entire hotel. It lived mostly on overflow from the Versailles. “We’ve booked four rooms on the eighth floor along the front of the building. The numbers are in your briefing sheet.”

Another officer, even hunkier than the first raised a hand. “Sir? Is Sergeant Hernandez married?”

That got a big laugh from the male officers and a look of resignation from the women. Matt looked pissed, but I handled that one. “No,” I purred. “Are you interested?”

This time, it was the men who looked a little embarrassed while the women teased the questioner.

“Okay!” Matt called out. “Enough of that. Let’s get to work.”

Stake-outs are without a doubt the most boring activities endured by anyone who has ever been in law enforcement. I had been on too many of them to count. When you managed to catch a perp, or gather just the evidence you needed, you felt your time was well-spent, but until that happened, they were all boring.

And for me, this one was the worst ever.

I was not only bored, but I was as horny as a bitch in heat. I was pretty sure I was being magically influenced, but I also kept remembering that bit about many women getting even hornier during their periods.

Oh yeah, my period. Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad. It had already let up quite a bit. The tampon I had pulled out of myself during my last break hadn’t been too disgusting. Considering that I understood some women experienced problems for a week or so meant mine was mild by comparison. It figured that Rothman would make me into a woman who was quickly finished with her periods. After all, time was money, and any time I was lying in bed without my legs being spread for a paying customer was time and money lost.

The male side of my mind surfaced enough to be totally disgusted with the act of shoving a tampon into myself (not to mention removing the old one). Fortunately, the purse Matt had procured for me somewhere had an ample supply of them. There were only men in the command post, and asking one of them to find me a tampon would have been more than my self-image could have tolerated.

And speaking of men...

Was every cop in the Las Vegas Metro Police Department a hunk? No, I supposed not, but most of them looked better than my typical customer. I suppose if you have to buy a whore when you’ve got lots of money, you must be lacking in either the personality or looks department–or both. Instead of aging Asian businessmen and pock-marked South American drug dealers, the Las Vegas officers looked pretty fine to me. I could hardly wait until this damned period was over. Then, I’d go off-duty for a few hours and satisfy my urge.

Yeah, I know: I promised myself that I wouldn’t seduce one of Matt’s men, but that was before I realized that I was just going to keep getting hornier until I found somebody to give me a good workout.

And that brought up another thought as I sat there changing my tampon in the little girls’ room: could I get pregnant? I couldn’t recall taking the pill while I was in Rothman’s stable, but I was pretty sure he must have done something to keep me from getting knocked up. Like I said: time is money in the sex trade, and being pregnant wasn’t conducive to high whorish productivity.

Although the pill was still in use, many women settled on magic spells to keep from getting pregnant, and I was probably one of them. Still, I had no way of knowing for sure. Even if I did have the benefit of a spell to keep me from getting knocked up, the spell might only be good for a finite time. After all, some of Rothman’s girls were eventually married off to good clients, and the inability to bear children might be considered a disadvantage. I’d have to have a magic consultant test me to make sure before I did the deed with anyone. I wasn’t ready to be a mama–not now and maybe not ever.

“Problem?” Matt asked when I rejoined him in the command post.

“Girl stuff,” I muttered.

He got the message and nodded uncomfortably, looking very disappointed. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought my old friend was thinking about hitting me up. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. Sure, I was horny, but Matt was... well, he was Matt. He was a friend. All the other guys I had been ogling were just big juicy dicks with a cop attached. That was different, wasn’t it?

Matt and I left the command center about midnight. Nothing had happened, and we hadn’t really expected anything to pop for a couple of days. The stake-out was early just to make sure, and also to work out any bugs in our surveillance.

Matt offered to buy me a late dinner before dropping me off at one of the rooms over at the Orlando that had been set up for us when we were off duty. Since I hadn’t eaten except snacky crap all day, I was ready for a decent meal. I might have a smaller stomach now as a girl, but it got just as nasty when it was empty.

We settled on Churchill’s over at London Tower. It was a cop favorite, I knew, because they gave deep discounts to police officers. Matt had taken me there before when I was still male. Maybe that’s why I didn’t think anything of it: it sure wasn’t a date or anything in my mind. Besides, we were both professionally dressed, so anyone should have been able to see the dinner was just two colleagues discussing business after a long day.

Somehow, though, it felt different to me. When I had been under Rothman’s power, I had, upon occasion, gone out with a client for a meal. Of course, I had been wearing far more provocative outfits then, and hadn’t minded being on display for the male patrons. Now, though, as several male heads turned to watch me as Matt and I were seated, I became aware that even though this dinner was innocent enough on the surface, there are always undercurrents when a male and a female relax together.

For example, Matt held my chair for me. When I had been Lucinda, a number of men had done that simple gentlemanly act for me, and I had, as my programming demanded, smiled and sat demurely. Now, with Matt, I found myself doing the same thing, but my smile was nervous. When he was seated, I whispered to him, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, unfolding his napkin.

“You know, hold the seat for me.”

He just smiled. “Get used to it, Isabella.”

I cringed a little. “That’s not my real name.”

He shrugged. “And I suspect neither is Dan Benson. What was your real name, anyway?”

“It’s classified,” I lied. I supposed it didn’t matter now if he did know what my born name had been, but I was pragmatic enough to realize that name belonged to a man who no longer existed. If I was to move on, he would have to remain buried in a nameless mental grave. But I still wasn’t sure about the name Isabella. It sounded like a name for some woman fanning herself with a lace fan while dancing flamenco.

“Well then, Isabella,” he stressed my new name, “I think it’s time you realized you are a beautiful woman.”

“You’re not coming on to me, are you, Matt?” I asked with a frown. My body was reacting differently, though. The fact that Matt found me attractive pleased the inner me that was beyond my conscious control.

“Not really,” he replied, but he still shifted a little uncomfortably. “I’m just pointing out that you need to accept who and what you’ve become. There’s no going back.”

“I know that. I’ve spent the last few weeks learning that in spades. It’s just that now that I remember who I was before the change, I don’t want to lose myself in some weak girly life.”

“I’m not suggesting that you do,” he assured me. “I’ve worked with a lot of woman officers over the years. Quite a number of them were as tough as their male counterparts. But the best of them all knew one thing you need to keep in mind.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s that the best of them knew when to be all girly and when to be tough as nails. When you were Dan–or whatever your name was–you didn’t have to worry about that. Now you do.”

We were interrupted by a waiter, complete with a British accent in keeping with the Churchill’s English motif. I ordered something low-cal out of recently-acquired habit–broiled fish, veggies, no potato, and iced tea. Then I had to keep myself under control as Matt ordered a big steak, lots of fries, and a cold beer. It was what Dan would have ordered, but I knew I wasn’t Dan anymore. Still, it was going to be torture to watch Matt chow down on that steak while I daintily chewed away on something bland that wouldn’t increase my dress size.

“So you’re sure this Dominique Marceau is the one you’re looking for?” Matt asked after our meals had been delivered and he had wolfed down a delectable-looking chunk of his steak.

“Not a hundred per-cent sure,” I admitted, “but everything seems to fit. Rothman jumped me the minute Andy Wallace fingered me. And by the way, Matt, Andy isn’t really Andy. He’s a replacement. Anyhow, our intel indicated Rothman was the go-between. Then he changed me into this and got me out of the way in his little brothel. Now it turns out this Marceau woman is on her way here just about the time we figured the buy would go down. She looks like a winner to me.”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean. But what if you’re wrong?”

The bite of fish I had been about to eat fell off my fork onto my plate. “What do you mean?”

“I mean shouldn’t we be watching for some of the other dealers, too?” he replied. “It seems as if you’re putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“Damn, Matt, what makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “Call it cop instinct. The fact is you don’t know who the seller is or who the buyer is. All you’ve got is a suspicious character–Rothman–and an arms dealer who might just be coming into town to see her favorite girl. Did you ever think of that?”

“But if that’s the case, we’re screwed,” I muttered, suddenly not hungry anymore.

“Not necessarily,” Matt countered. “We could divide our teams up–use a little more electronic surveillance and cover all the big casinos. Of course, if our dealer is staying at one of the little places, we can’t cover everything.”

I shook my head, my long dark hair brushing my ears. “No, dealers like big hotels. It’s easier to get lost in a crowd. Also, whoever is selling can be more unnoticeable in a big hotel. There’s always a lot of people wandering around.”

Matt pulled out his phone. “Okay then, I’m going to reposition our teams. Okay?”

I hesitated for a moment. I was so sure the go-between had to be Rothman. Why else would he have changed me into one of his whores? But what if Matt was right? Could we afford to, as Matt had said, put all our eggs in one basket? Besides, Matt had actually put together a bigger task force than I would have expected. Like I said, he seemed to be good at persuading people. Why not take advantage of that manpower?

“Okay,” I sighed. “Let’s reposition.”

As much as I wanted to be there to take down Rothman, Matt convinced me it would be better if I took one of the other hotels, since there was a chance I’d be identified at the Versailles. Reluctantly, I had to admit he was probably right. Besides, if I got spotted anywhere near the Versailles, I could blow the whole operation. I picked the Elysian, since next to the Versailles, it was the largest of the four casinos.

I think in some ways, Matt was trying to get me away from the Versailles for another reason: I think he was afraid I was so pissed at what had been done to me that I would have done anything to see Rothman brought down. He was right, of course. I had plenty of reasons to hate Rothman. He had taken away my memories and my sex, made me a whore, and used me as his own personal sex toy. I would have considered it a distinct honor to have the privilege of putting a bullet right between his eyes.

But that being said, I was still a Talon agent, whether Talon knew it or not, with a mission to perform. If Rothman wasn’t involved–a highly unlikely prospect from my point of view–I could ignore him for now. Once I had found the leak at Area 51 and arrested him, as well as the go-between and the arms dealer, I could worry about Rothman.

Officially, I wasn’t in Matt’s chain of command. I was more like a liaison, in steady contact with him by radio. I could live with that, being military. I knew the importance of the chain. I wasn’t really a police officer, so I just laid back at the smaller command post Matt quickly established in a single room across from the Elysian and watched the monitors until my eyes were too tired to continue. It was then that I realized I had been up for over twenty-four hours.

Metro managed to get two more sleeping rooms in a little sleazebag hotel across from the Elysian, so I took a few hours off to get some sleep. I thought about playing with myself a little. There was a sex shop right in the lobby, and I could always pick up a dildo and do myself. But no, I didn’t want one of Matt’s men to spot me coming out of there with a little pink and black sack. Besides, I was still bleeding–spotting I realized it was called. I’d wait one more day before trying to take the lid off this pressure cooker of a body I’d been given.

Of course, that didn’t keep the sexy dreams from coming. It seemed as if every time I drifted off, some big hunk with a stiff one strolled into my dreams and stuck it where it would do the most good. I’d wake up for a few minutes in a pool of sweat, wet and sticky between my legs.

Still, I managed to get a reasonable amount of sleep. The next day, I got up, feeling almost human. I opened some more clean underwear Matt had provided and a new pair of pantyhose. He had even gotten an extra blouse for me, similar to the one I had worn the day before. I had to wear the same suit and heels as the day before, but they were still in pretty good shape.

I had just finished freshening my makeup when the radio beeped.

“Want some breakfast?” Matt’s voice sounded chipper. Didn’t that man ever sleep? Maybe he had been keeping the same hours I had last night.

“Yeah,” I called back. “Where are you?”

“Down the hall,” he replied. “In the command post.”

“On my way.”

Matt briefed me as we walked across to the Elysian for breakfast. Their big breakfast restaurant, Eos, was glitzy and overdone like every other restaurant in Las Vegas, but I had to admit, they served one of the best breakfasts in town. I took my seat at the table, allowing Matt to sit where he could get a look at the fresco of the big-boobed goddess rising from the sea on white wings. Maybe if he got a look at the goddess, he’d stop trying to sneak peeks at my breasts.

Matt’s people had done a pretty thorough job, and I had to admire their dedication to a boring assignment. I couldn’t help but think that if we at Talon had done our job better, we wouldn’t have to have Matt’s people involved in a last-ditch, low probability of success stakeout.

I wondered if any Federal agency was having any success in ferreting out the leak. With both Talon and the FBM compromised, the chances of success were lessened, but experience told me the NSA, CIA, and two or three highly-classified alphabet soup agencies were out there, too. I hoped they were making more progress than Matt’s task force.

“So in short, nothing’s happening,” I surmised from Matt’s briefing.

“Pretty much,” he admitted. “But your contact is sure this Marceau woman is really coming?”

“Affirmative,” I replied, as a waiter dressed in a toga filled my coffee cup. I took a moment to look at him. He looked pretty good in a toga...

Damn! I was getting horny. Well, when I changed my tampon that morning, there hadn’t been much there. This was looking like my last day. Then, I’d have to get laid, unless Matt knew of someone with any spells to dampen my sexual urges. And even if he did, I had a funny feeling the spells Rothman had put on me might override them.

Matt and I ordered, then just chatted until breakfast was brought. We didn’t talk about anything consequential, which was okay. We just kept the conversation light and general. If anyone had been listening in, they would have been bored by talk of baseball (Matt and I were both Dodgers fans), local politics, the weather, and other banal subjects.

I could tell Matt was holding back on me. His higher-ups were probably already pushing him for proof that the stakeout would produce results. Stakeouts are expensive–lots of people on lots of overtime. Capturing a known arms dealer would be a feather in the department’s cap, but an expensive stakeout that produced no results would not look good. Matt had gone way, way out on a limb for me in cobbling together a task force, and if it didn’t pay dividends relatively quickly, he’d probably be the fall guy on that one.

To make matters worse, I could see in his eyes that Matt was having some doubts, too. Still, he had committed this stakeout to me, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t ready to back out just yet. Both of us were avoiding discussing Matt’s growing concern that we were barking up the wrong tree.

That all changed when Matt’s radio announced, “We’ve spotted her!”

Matt looked relieved at me and grinned. “I guess maybe you were right.”

I grinned right back. I don’t know which of us was more relieved.

We were in such a hurry to leave that I nearly knocked over a very attractive-looking black woman as we rushed out. “Sorry!” I called back to her, wondering for a moment where I had seen her before. She looked a little like someone famous...

No time for that now, though, I thought, doing my best to rush after Matt in my high heels as he briskly covered the three-block distance to the command post for the Versailles. I couldn’t blame him for walking, though. Given the traffic on the Strip, it was faster than driving. We managed to get there in less time than if he’d called for a car.

“That’s her all right,” I confirmed, looking at the picture one of Matt’s teams had snapped. Dominique Marceau was a beautiful woman, but the look on her face conveyed anger to such an extent that all but the bravest of men would have been frightened away. She was flanked by two bodyguards just inside the lobby of the Versailles. Also in the picture were Rothman and his bodyguard. Frieda looked like she was ready to take on both of Marceau’s bodyguards. I would have laid even odds that she could have taken them, too.

“Nobody looks very happy,” Matt commented, looking over my shoulder at the picture.

“No surprise there,” I said. “Marceau has lost her little lovebird. She had expected to mix business with pleasure. I’d say from the picture that Rothman had to tell her that her favorite love toy isn’t around to play with.”

“Wait a minute!” one of the officers watching the monitors called out. “It looks like Marceau is leaving the hotel.”

“This could be it,” I told Matt.

“No,” the officer corrected me. “I mean she’s leaving, like in checking out.”

“What?”

I looked at the monitor. Sure enough. Her bags were being loaded into a cab, and in moments, she was off. I could see her face in the back seat. She was very unhappy about something, and I was pretty sure it had to do with her little sex toy having flown the coop. But why was she leaving when there was still business at hand? She couldn’t have already met with anyone about the wand, could she have?

“Follow that cab!” Matt ordered in the radio, and a voice quickly confirmed, “On it!”

Then a thought struck me. It wasn’t a very pleasant thought, but it made sense to me. I was thinking about the woman I bumped into at Eos...

“Matt,” I said, putting a hand on his arm in a very feminine fashion, “I think we’ve been had!”

“Huh?”

“Rothman’s not part of the deal,” I explained, kicking myself for being so anxious to take Rothman down that I had ignored a clue I had literally bumped into.

Matt ushered me out into the hall. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who fingered Rothman in the first place.”

“Matt,” I insisted, “I was set up to finger Rothman–and Dominique Marceau. Or at least I was set up to finger them if I managed to get away.”

“Set up by whom?” Matt asked, frustrated.

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. Everything you had and everything we had at Talon pointed to Rothman.”

“You think I set you up?” Matt was as angry as I’d ever seen him.

“Oh, Matt, of course not!” I assured him. “You’ve always been a good friend to me. I could no more suspect you than I could suspect my own boss. Both of you had information leading to Rothman, but somebody managed to fool both of you, while hiding the real operation.

“You see, when we were leaving Eos, I nearly knocked over a woman who looked familiar. I thought she was just somebody I knew from the movies or TV–you see a lot of stars out here. But when things here started to look like a bust, I remembered where I’ve seen her before. I saw her picture at Talon. Her name is Clarice Burrows. She’s an arms dealer, too, and a dangerous one, according to my boss. She’s an Omni.”

“Oh crap.”

My thoughts exactly.

“She may still be in Eos,” I told him. “If we hurry, we can catch up with her.”

Matt radioed ahead, and discovered that Burrows was still in Eos. Two of his men were in there now, discretely watching her. I hoped that whatever powers she had, none of them would allow her to detect our surveillance. Omnis were unpredictable, often exhibiting all sorts of nasty magical powers. The very fact that she was apparently alone and unprotected spoke volumes about her potential powers.

Whatever her powers were, though, she apparently lacked the ability to notice her watchers. She was sitting nonchalantly eating a light breakfast of fruit and toast while sipping on a cup of coffee when we arrived.

Matt and I didn’t go into Eos. I was afraid that she would get suspicious if she saw me again, since she had seen me leave the restaurant only a few minutes earlier. Instead, we stayed in the lobby area just outside the restaurant, but only a few decorative planters lower than the tables separated the interior of the restaurant from the lobby, so we could see her fine from our vantage point, but since her back was to us, she couldn’t see us.

“It looks like she’s meeting someone,” Matt murmured to me.

I nodded in agreement. The scene was designed to look like a normal business meeting. She was facing the entrance and carefully seemed to scrutinize each new customer, as if she had not met her contact before. Clarice Burrows was dressed in a stylish brown suit with a tan blouse. It would look good on me, I thought idly, then cursed for distracting myself like that.

Still, I had been made into a woman, and I had been given the appreciation of all things feminine. Clarice Burrows might be an arms dealer and one of the targets of my mission, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t admire her taste in clothing, which was excellent. And I wondered where she got that purse...

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait very long. Two men, casually dressed in slacks and polo shirts, walked into Eos and made their way to the isolated table the attractive arms dealer had purposefully selected. I didn’t recognize either man, but I was pretty sure what their respective roles were. One was a mousy little guy who kept furtively glancing around, as if he expected the police to zero in on him any second–which was exactly what we had planned. He was partially bald, and approaching fifty, his unstylish glasses adding a few more years to his age. I had him pegged for the scientist traitor from Area 51.

As for the other guy, he was big and well-built. The horny girl in me wondered what he was packing in those Dockers. But the Talon agent in me realized from the way he moved and the confidence he exuded that he was more than likely an experienced intelligence agent in his own right. Maybe Andy wasn’t the only dirty FBM agent in the city, or maybe this guy was from one of the other alphabet soup agencies of the government.

Matt pressed the radio to his mouth and said softly, “Move in... Eos.” He gave a brief description of the three suspects, including the fact that one of them was an Omni of unknown talents. Then he and I stood back to watch the fireworks.

His task force took several minutes to form up. If I hadn’t been in on the operation, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the police officers getting ready. Even knowing, I was impressed with their professionalism. One came out of the kitchen, looking like an assistant manager or something as he looked over the room and straightened things up at a table that didn’t really need straightening. Two more, a man and a woman, took a table as close to the suspects as they dared and pretended to peruse the menu. And so it went until six officers were in place.

“What are they waiting for?” I asked Matt as quietly as I could.

“Her,” Matt nodded at a well-dressed Oriental woman who rushed into the lobby with a cell phone to her ear. “That’s Sergeant Kim. She’s a Omni, too. The rules state we never go after an Omni without one of our own in place.”

That made good sense. As Omnis, they would have different talents, but hopefully our Omni could surprise and overpower Clarice Burrows before she exhibited any of her own powers.

With an affirmative nod from Matt, the officers moved in.

The conspirators were caught completely by surprise, but it still wasn’t a clean takedown. The little guy was the first to fold. He jumped up, hands in the air, and was hustled off by two officers who had been standing in reserve.

Clarice Burrows put up a hell of a fight, though, sending the few remaining customers at the end of the breakfast rush scrambling for the exits. It turned out that her biggest magical power was as a Pusher, slamming a couple of the officers backwards until they tumbled over an unoccupied table before the police Omni proved she was an even stronger Pusher, knocking her counterpart back into a planter. Then, Sergeant Kim used another talent, that of a Holder, magically holding Burrows immobile on the floor, as if she was held there with glue.

It wasn’t over yet, though. Burrows was a Flasher, flooding the room with intensely bright light that temporarily blinded Kim and the other officers, but Kim’s Hold was too strong for her to break while the officers regained their vision.

‘That’s two down,’ I thought to myself smugly, but it turned out my exultation was a little premature. I looked over toward the table, expecting to see the big man in custody, but instead, there were two officers just getting up off the floor, nursing respectively an arm and a leg.

“Where’s the other guy?” Matt called to them.

“He got away,” one of the officers groaned. “I’ve never seen a guy fight like that.”

“He won’t get far,” Matt promised, pulling out his radio and giving all officers in the area a description.

Unfortunately, it was a promise he couldn’t keep. In spite of a detailed description and the attention of every police officer on the strip, the big man managed to disappear without a trace.

“He couldn’t have gotten away,” Matt grumbled to me as we drove together back to his office. “We had twenty officers in the vicinity and a complete description of him.”

“He’s a Shifter,” I told Matt suddenly.

He looked at me. “What the hell? Are you holding out on me?”

I shook my head. “No, but it’s pretty obvious, unless someone has perfected invisibility.” To my knowledge, no one ever has. “He’s got to be a Shifter.”

Matt snorted. “A Shifter? What the hell are you talking about? Nobody can Shift in so little time.”

“Sure they can,” I insisted, “at least if they don’t have to Shift much. Our bad guy was–what–six three or so, blond hair, good build...” And probably a really nice... No, don’t go there.

“Yeah, about that.” Matt was curious now. I had his attention.

“Then all he had to do was change his hair–maybe lose it and leave a little brown fringe. If he shifted just his face to make it look heavier or thinner, it would only take him a few seconds.”

“Okay,” Matt allowed reluctantly. “But he’d have to be good.”

“Real good,” I agreed.

“But wait a second!” Matt said triumphantly. “What about his clothes? He couldn’t change his clothes. Shifters can’t do that. You think he’s an Omni who can Shift and change inanimate objects? That’s a little bit of a stretch.”

“It sure is,” I agreed, “but he wouldn’t have to change the clothes. All he’d have to do is get rid of the blue polo shirt he was wearing and change his skin to look like a shirt.”

“What?”

“It can be done,” I pressed. “It won’t hold up to close inspection, but if he changed the color and texture of his skin to look as if he was wearing a beige or light brown polo shirt, he might slip out unnoticed–especially when every cop on the Strip is looking for a guy wearing a blue shirt.”

“You really think he’s that good?” Matt asked.

“He got away, didn’t he?” I pointed out.

Sure enough, when Matt had his men check, they found a blue polo shirt discarded just inside the casino. The cops on the inside had seen a man in a blue polo exit, but the cops on the outside saw a different guy in a different shirt. The guy really was that good.

As my memories of my time with Talon continued to come back, I could remember going up against guys that good only on rare occasions, and when I did, I found they were usually professionals like me. It figured, I supposed. Whoever could infiltrate Area 51 and turn one of our researchers without being discovered had to be damned good. And since we now knew he could Shift himself with impressive speed, the chances of catching him wouldn’t be good.

Realistically, we had one shot at getting him–grill the little guy. Oh sure, there was always Clarice Burrows, but people like her are hard to lean on. She’d be flanked by a couple of attorneys that would advise her to say nothing. She knew all she had to do was sit tight until her lawyer got there. Since we really couldn’t pin anything on her. We had moved in before we had anything concrete on her. The objective had been to plug the leak and not to take down an arms dealer. She’d walk in a few hours, and everybody–including her–knew it.

The little guy, though...

He was facing a lifetime in prison, and given his less than impressive size, he was sure to be somebody’s little bitch before he was in prison for a week. If he watched enough prison movies, he’d have a pretty good inkling of his eventual fate.

When Matt and I walked into the interrogation room, he was visibly shaking in his chair. Matt had left him there for about fifteen minutes, with nothing but bare walls to stare at, so he had had time to work himself up into a nervous wreck. I guess maybe he really had seen a few of those prison movies.

Matt and I eyed each other, recalling a discussion we had had a few minutes earlier. We had agreed that Matt would lead the interrogation, but that I would have a role in it as well. Considering it was my case, I would have insisted on being the primary interrogator, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to assert my claim. I had agreed with Matt that until we had all of the suspects in custody, this would remain a Las Vegas police case–hence, Matt’s lead role.

We had also discussed that if our suspect was still as nervous as he had appeared when we first collared him, we’d play out the old “Good Cop, Bad Cop” act. Sure, it was old, but it was also tried and true. Besides, our mousy little suspect didn’t look like the sort who watched shows like The Closer. He looked liked strictly a PBS type–except for the prison movies.

We plopped down across the table from our suspect. Once we were seated, Matt announced without fanfare, “I’m Detective Lieutenant Henshaw and this is Detective Sergeant Hernandez. Now who are you?”

We already knew who he was. The arresting officers had gotten all of that for the booking. It was just a way to start him talking–get him to answer a simple question first. Once he started talking, it would be easier to draw out the really important information.

“I... I’m Stanley Merkel,” he stammered. Then, as if remembering he was a highly educated man deserving of at least some respect, he straightened up a little and amended, “Doctor Stanley Merkel.”

Matt just looked at him blandly, determined not to be impressed. He didn’t see a learned scientist sitting before him. All he saw was a little runt of a traitor. “Doctor of what?”

“Physics and Magical Sciences,” Merkel replied, a little pride in his nervous voice.

“Okay, Doctor Stanley Merkel,” Matt said snidely, “how much was Clarice Burrows paying you for the wand?”

Merkel gaped at us. He had to know that a project as secret as the wand was way over any security clearance a couple of local police officers would have. “Who are you?” he blurted out.

“I think you can figure that out,” Matt replied laconically–not exactly lying, but making Merkel believe this was really a Federal operation. “Now answer the question. How much were you being paid?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He might have been scared and unused to grilling from police officers, but he was well aware that selling US secrets was a treasonable offense, and any admission he might make would condemn him to a long stretch in a Federal prison–and not one of those “country club” jobs, either.

It was my turn. “Look, Dr. Merkel,” I began, trying to sound reasonably friendly as I lied through my pretty white teeth, “we know what you did. You’re not the one we’re anxious to get, though. Clarice Burrows will go down, but we want the other man who was with you as well. Help us get him and it will go in your favor at your trial.”

“I... shouldn’t I have a lawyer?” he stalled for time.

I shrugged. He’d already been read his rights, but the key to getting what we needed was to make him blab now. “If you want. But we can cut a better deal with you right now, since the longer we wait, the harder it will be to track down the man we want. He was your go-between, right?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably, and I knew why. Technically, a deal was his to cut, but he knew if I pushed, I could throw this case into Federal court in a heartbeat, so he let me play my game.

Merkel thought it over. He might be nervous, but he was plenty smart. I could see the wheels turning, trying to figure out what his best course of action was. Fortunately, for our investigation, he picked one that would allow him to feign innocence while still giving us what we needed.

“His name is Malcolm Johnson,” he began. “I... I just met him, really. He told me that he had a firm interested in hiring me...”

Matt broke in, “Are you trying to tell me you thought you were on a fucking job interview?”

What little color was in Merkel’s face drained away. Before he pissed himself, I asked, “Where did you meet this Johnson?”

“At Area–I mean, at my lab.”

I smiled. After almost selling a Top Secret device to a weapons dealer, he suddenly decided to remember security protocol and not admit that there really was an Area 51.

“So this Johnson has a high security clearance,” I said, more as a statement than a question. This would cut down the number of potential suspects considerably. Not that I really thought “Johnson” was his real name.

“I didn’t say that!” Merkel blurted nervously, as if afraid he had said exactly that. In a matter of speaking, he had.

“No one but an individual with a high security clearance could have gotten into your lab, could they, Dr. Merkel?”

He lowered his eyes sheepishly, as if he had been tricked into revealing a deep, dark secret. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted.

“So tell me everything you can about this Johnson,” I pressed, knowing full well that his name had no more been Johnson than mine was really Hernandez. Still, anything he could tell us might narrow the search further. Merkel had just been weak, and snagging him had just solved the immediate problem. This Johnson, though, was another matter. Somehow, he had induced Dr. Merkel to provide him with information about the wand. Maybe he offered money, or maybe he had something on Merkel, and if he could do it to Merkel, he could probably do it to someone else assigned to the wand project. Now that Merkel was in our custody, this Johnson would just try to coerce that someone else on the project–unless we caught him first.

Merkel shrugged. “I don’t have much I can tell you. You all saw him, and I assume you took pictures of him?”

I nodded. All the pictures showed was a man about thirty-five, blue eyes, brown hair, fair skin, a little over six feet tall–in short, no distinguishing characteristics. Half the guys walking around on the Strip could probably answer to most if not all of that description.

Unfortunately, that was all he could tell us. We pumped him for a few more minutes until we were satisfied that he was telling us all he knew.

“What now?” Matt asked as Merkel was taken back to his cell.

I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair I had taken in the interrogation room. Even with the additional padding I now sported on my ass, the chair was hard as a rock. “I think we’ve gotten everything we can get out of Merkel,” I sighed. “The only thing we don’t know is his motive–blackmail, money, or whatever. I think it’s time I contacted my boss at Nellis and let him know what’s happened.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Why contact him now? I thought you said he wouldn’t believe you.”

I smiled. “With Merkel and Burrows in custody, he’s got to believe me. Besides, it’s obvious the go-between has a top level clearance. Without Talon’s help, we’ve got no place else to go.”

Colonel Edwards made it to Matt’s office at police headquarters in less than an hour.

And he wasn’t happy.

He laid into Matt immediately. “Lieutenant, what are you doing interfering in an Air Force matter? And where is Captain Benson?”

“Right here, sir,” I replied, standing at attention.

Colonel Edwards looked at me and then back at Matt. “Is this some sort of a joke?”

Matt had contacted Colonel Edwards at my suggestion. Since as far as my boss was concerned, Captain Benson was hale and hardy, carrying out his assignments with no problems. Matt had simply told him that Las Vegas police officers had been involved in a security matter and that Captain Benson was involved, to discourage Colonel Edwards from calling my doppelganger. As if that wasn’t enough to bring him running, news that Matt had two Talon suspects in custody certainly made the colonel hustle.

Matt and I finally got him calmed down and explained what had happened to me and why we hadn’t contacted him before.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me without proof,” I told him in summation.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not entirely sure I believe you now,” he admitted.

I supposed that after this operation was over, higher-ups would probably recommend some sort of code phrase to ensure that any agent magically changed could still identify him (or her, in my case) self. To my knowledge, though, I had the dubious distinction of having been the first Talon agent to have his sex switched.

I thought for a moment. There had to be some way to prove my identity that the colonel would accept. Then, I had an idea.

“Colonel,” I ventured, “you’re one of the strongest Empaths I’ve ever known. Can your power be used to examine me and see the conflicts I’m having?”

“What sort of conflicts?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, Rothman had me imprinted with the identity of a Hispanic call girl, but when I regained my memories, it set off sort of a split personality. I’m both that call girl and Daniel Benson, wrapped up in the same body. You should be able to sense that Empathically,” I suggested.

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. Let down your mental defences and let me examine you.”

Strange, he had never asked me to do that before. His Empath powers were normally strong enough to break through any of the mental barriers we had been trained to use. Still, I did as he said. He stared at me for a time, then grunted, “All right: you’re Daniel Benson. Or at least you were. Now what do you know about the man who got away?”

I shrugged. “Not much. The only thing we know is that he has a pretty high security clearance or he wouldn’t have been able to visit Merkel in his lab.”

Colonel Edwards nodded thoughtfully. “Yes... I think you’re right. It seems I have some work to do–after I’ve dealt with your double.”

“I’d be happy to take care of that for you, sir,” I volunteered.

“Better let me do it,” he replied. “Your... condition would be a little hard to explain right now. Even getting you back on the base could be a problem.”

“But you know who I am,” I argued.

“Yes I do,” he agreed. “But as you know, Empaths can’t even testify in court. We can only read emotions and not thoughts. Even though I believe you, others might not, without a lot of further testing, and that takes time. I want you to continue working with Lt. Henshaw. Go ahead and get this Rothman case taken care of. I want Rothman charged for what he did to you.”

“But what about the go-between?” I asked.

“I’ll get our people working on it right away. In the meantime, I’ll start working on restoring your clearance. Hopefully, we’ll have the go-between in custody before your identity is even established. I’m sure you would agree that we need to jump on that first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and one other thing,” Colonel Edwards said. “I want Dr. Merkel in Federal custody.”

Matt was about to argue, but I cut him off. “That will take a little time to arrange, but we’ll see to it.”

The colonel nodded and left.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked me after Colonel Edwards had left. “You look like something’s eating at you.”

“There is,” I said, looking out the window to watch Colonel Edwards making his way to a blue Air Force sedan. “That’s not Colonel Edwards.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think Colonel Edwards is any more real than my double,” I told him.

“I don’t understand...”

I ticked off several items on my fingers. “In the first place, he had me drop my defences to read me. Colonel Edwards is the strongest Empath I’ve ever known. He can read me right through my defences and always has been able to do so.

“Second, I realized today that the colonel should have been able to sniff out my double in a heartbeat. Talon agents keep their magic powers secret. I’m sure Rothman had no idea Colonel Edwards was an Empath, so even though my double had all my past knowledge, he should have been just like me to my boss–a split personality.

“And finally, the colonel has been doing his best to keep me away from this case. First, he had me on an ineffective stakeout at the Versailles, and now, he’s trying to keep me away from the search for our go-between. Plus, he wants to take charge of Merkel. He either has some use for Merkel or he wants to dispose of him. Either way, I’m just leading him on. There’s no way we should turn Merkel over to him.”

Matt slammed a notebook down on his desk so hard that it sounded like a muffled shot. “Damn it! If you knew all of that, why didn’t you have me arrest him? Right now, he’s on his way back to the base where we can’t reach him.”

“Because no one would believe me,” I reminded him. “And if you had arrested him, take my word for it–there would have been several Federal officers in your boss’s office demanding your immediate suspension. I know Edwards better than most people. Our sort don’t have many close friends.” Or any close friends, I told myself. “There would be no one who could definitively say he wasn’t the real Colonel Edwards.”

“Except you,” he pointed out, but I shook my head.

“No, not even me. Even if we could get someone higher up to believe I was really who I claim to be, there’s a chance I’m wrong. It’s just a gut feel–instinct, if you will.”

“Or feminine intuition?” Matt teased.

“Don’t go there,” I warned him.

“Okay. So we can assume Edwards, or whoever he is, is involved in this case. But how?”

“I think he’s the guy that got away.”

Matt looked confused. “But he doesn’t look anything like that guy. Are you saying he got magically changed, too, like your double?”

“Yeah,” I grinned, thinking about how my double and Colonel Edwards’ double had spent the last few weeks trying to fool each other.

“So what’s the next move?”

Before I could answer, Matt’s radio barked, “Lieutenant, this is Diaz over at the Versailles. That Marceau dame just showed up again.”

“I think we’d better go back to the Versailles,” I told him.

We waited around on the stakeout just across from the Versailles for most of the evening, watching the videos of Marceau’s unexpected return and scanning the photos of every person who entered the building. We had people in the lobby, in the casino, and even on her floor, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. She had simply checked in, gone up to a suite about the size of the average suburban house, and settled in. Her staff wouldn’t even let Rothman in the door, and believe me, he tried.

There was only one reason for her to turn around–she must have heard about her competitor getting busted and figured there might still be deal to be made on the wand. I didn’t know how she figured that, though. Merkel was in custody, and unless there was another magical scientist out there willing to risk a long prison sentence for a pile of cash, she was going to be shit out of luck.

Frankly, by nine, I was too tired to worry about it. My stomach felt like it was on fire from all the snack food and coffee we had been living on for the last few hours. And on top of that, I was so damn horny I couldn’t think straight. If it wouldn’t have been unprofessional, I would have taken one of the off-duty officers back to my room and screwed his brains out. Instead, I had to make do with a little autoeroticism.

My recently-restored male mind quailed a bit at the sight of my naked body in the bathroom mirror.. I had just let the clothes drop in a pool around me since Matt had stocked my closet with a new outfit for the next day. What I saw in the mirror was a sexy little number who could slump carelessly and still look as if she was poised for some real action. If Mattel ever dropped Barbie and made a doll that looked like me, every boy in America would buy one.

I sighed resignedly and turned away from the mirror and turned on the water. I slipped into the shower and let the water cascade over me, dampening my hair, then turning to get a stream of water on my chest. My nipples responded happily to the shower of water, and I gently massaged my breasts to add to the arousal.

Okay, I needed a shower anyway, but my real purpose had been exactly this. Rothman had turned me into a real live sex machine, with necessary but quite short periods to give me more working days each month. He had also made sure that when my short period ended, I would have merrily screwed a fireplug to get satisfied. No fireplug was available at the moment, so my hands were the next best thing.

I managed to bring myself to climax, and it felt damned good, but as I dried off after my shower, I couldn’t help but think how much better it would have been if a man had been pounding me.

I felt downright disgusted at the thought. The hot little Hispanic whore I had become was battling aggressively with my newly-awakened male mind, and I knew that in the end, she would win. As much as I might remember my life as a man, I was now a woman with some very insistent needs. Besides, the last few weeks, I had been getting laid on a regular basis, and take it from me, sex as a woman is pretty good if the guy doing it knows how to do it right.

Matt had even supplied me with a nightie, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t picked it or any of my other stuff out. It was short and lacy, and my breasts practically burst out of the ruffled top. If Matt had bought this for me, he would have been red-faced all day long. Undoubtedly one of the women officers had been sent on a shopping run to Nordy’s, judging from the label. I slipped it on. It fitted. Another reason one of the women officers must have gotten it: if any male officer had picked it out, it would have been the wrong size. I had met several of the women officers during the day, and I knew from my limited female experience that women have a pretty good idea of guessing other women’s sizes.

I crawled into bed wondering what I was going to do when all of this was finally over. Technically, I was still an Air Force officer, and if I could convince the right people of my true identity, I could probably still continue to serve. The problem was that I was no longer a big, strong guy, and that was the only type of agent Talon had. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my career sitting at a desk filing papers and fending off the advances of my fellow officers. Besides, with my libido, I probably wouldn’t be able to fend them off at all, and soon I’d have the reputation of being a slutty little officer with lots of admirers but no respect.

I could probably muster out of the service and become a real police officer, either in Vegas or someplace fresh, but it would mean starting all over again. Besides, women police officers got some pretty shitty assignments, like decoy prostitutes and all that. I might have been made to sleep with men for money, but I had never had to parade up and down the Strip looking for johns, real or pretend.

Of course, being a high-class whore wouldn’t be the worst life I could have, I realized as I fought the urge to play with myself some more. Besides, I now had chorus line experience, too. All I had to do was tell the male part of my brain to take a hike and I could live pretty well. Of course, that life had its limitations, too, and even though I could do it and be free of Rothman, like all prostitutes, I’d need protection–probably male protection–and the idea of working for a pimp was out.

Maybe I should just settle down and find a man to take care of me. With my looks and sexual skills, I could rope, tie and brand just about any stud on the Strip.

But no, I wasn’t the type to settle down. As a man, I’d jumped at the chance to get involved in Talon. I loved the excitement, and yes, the danger. Call me an adrenalin junkie if you will, but that was what I was. I didn’t want a husband now any more than as a man I had wanted a wife.

Oh well, I thought sleepily, there’d be time to figure out what to do with my life later. Right now, there was a case to solve.

I woke up the next morning in a bad mood.

Well, strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. I had gotten nine hours sleep according to the clock in my room–plenty to refresh my stressed body. The problem was that a rap on my door had awakened me from a very erotic dream where I was getting it from two big studs, one at either end, and it felt so very good. Actually, I reflected as the rapping came again, it was more a memory than a dream. These two guys from France were...

“Isabella!”

“Coming, Matt,” I groaned. Of course, the groan was because I wasn’t coming the way I really wanted to.

I was still dressed in the elegant but skimpy nightie–I threw open the door without thinking. I instantly regretted it, because the look on Matt’s face was enough to make me think I should have called 911. It was hard to believe that I now had the power to stop my old friend dead in his tracks. Actually, though, it felt sort of good in a perverse sort of way.

“What’s up, Matt?”

“Uh... should you be answering the door like that?”

I grinned and struck a pose right out of Playboy. “How should I be answering it, Matt?”

“Can it,” Matt growled, finally getting control of himself (except for the rise in his shorts). “Colonel Edwards is dead.”

I stood up straight. “What?”

“It was a gunshot to the head,” he continued. “Last night, here in town. They just found his body this morning in a dumpster behind the Strip.”

“Who killed him?” I asked, slipping on a robe since the time for teasing Matt was obviously over.

Matt shook his head. “We don’t know. Some wino found him in an alley downtown. He’d been dead for several hours.”

I mentally kicked myself. I should have urged Matt to collar him when we had the chance. Now we had a John Doe on our hands who was undoubtedly a Shifter, and he had been both the go-between and the phony Colonel Edwards. But we had no idea of his real identity, or what had gotten him killed.

“So that’s it, huh?” I muttered. “I suppose Marceau’s already left again.”

Matt shook his head. “No, she’s still here.”

I was confused. That meant the deal might still be on, but how could it be with Merkel in jail and the go-between iced? And for that matter, who iced him?

“There’s more,” Matt began. I had a nasty hunch what he was going to say next, and I was right. “Merkel’s escaped.”

“Escaped? How?”

“The videos show him being taken from his cell by me.”

“You?” Then it dawned on me. “The Shifter.”

Matt nodded. “Fortunately, I have an iron-clad alibi or I’d probably be in a cell right now.”

“So if the Shifter is still on the loose, that means he Shifted someone else to look like Edwards, then shot him. But why?”

“Shifters have a primary identity,” Matt explained to me. “Sure, they can Shift their appearance at random, but unless they stay in the same primary identity for twelve hours a day, they start to destabilize. I’d say the Shifter was using Edwards as a primary identity until he sensed you might realize he wasn’t really your boss. So now, he’s Shifted twice more–once into me and once into someone else. He wouldn’t dare stay as me, though.”

“And it could be anybody else,” I groaned.

Suddenly, Matt’s phone rang. “Yeah, this is Lieutenant Henshaw.”

Matt listened to the voice on the other end, throwing in an occasional “but,” which apparently got him nowhere. He frowned and replied, “Yes, sir. We’ll be there.”

“What was that all about?”

“That was the Chief of Police. FBM caught wind of our operation. They’re taking over, and we’re supposed to cooperate.”

“Shit!”

“Worse yet,” Matt said. “Andy Wallace will be running the show.”

“But Andy’s dirty!” I protested. “In fact, he’s not even really Andy.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Matt replied cryptically.

Matt’s people had provided me with a power suit for the day–blue pinstriped suit, white blouse, black pumps, and all the accessories, including gold costume jewelry. I only wished it was really a “power suit”–something that would make me big enough and strong enough to knock Andy Wallace on his traitorous ass. But Matt had cautioned me to be civil, so I was.

Matt requested a meeting with just him, Andy and me before Andy’s agency picked up the investigation. Andy looked a little surprised but agreed.

When we were all settled in the hotel room that doubled as a conference room, Andy asked bluntly, “Okay, what’s this all about?”

“It’s about you being on Rothman’s payroll,” I shot back. “And you aren’t really Andy Wallace anyway.”

Andy’s brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I jumped up, trying at my reduced height to loom over Andy. “You did this to me! You fingered me to Rothman. Don’t try to deny it, because I saw you do it!”

He didn’t deny it. In fact, his mouth dropped open. “Dan?”

“Of course it’s me, you son of a bitch!” Weak girl or not, I got ready to take a punch at him. Matt jumped up, too, though, and grabbed my arm before I could swing.

“Damn it, Isabella, listen to him!” Matt commanded.

I looked at Matt. It was obvious he knew something I didn’t know. As much as I wanted to try to punch Andy’s lights out, I wanted to know, too.

“Dan... Isabella...” Andy started out, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, but I was ordered to do it.”

“Ordered? By whom?” I demanded.

“Well, technically by my boss in Los Angeles,” he admitted. “But it was interagency. Your boss, Colonel Edwards, had proof you had turned–that you were involved in the operation to steal the wand.”

“You’ve got to be joking!” I practically screamed. Okay, I knew that the Colonel Edwards who had set me up wasn’t the real one when we had met the day he died, but I didn’t realize that he had been replaced before my transformation. How long had he been in place, anyway?

He shook his head. “No joke. It was damned conclusive evidence. He showed us pictures of you meeting with Dominique Marceau...”

“Pictures can be faked,” I reminded him. “It doesn’t even take magic to do that.”

“We know that now,” he assured me with a sigh. “That’s why we turned our investigation on your boss, but somebody got to him first. Anyhow, the FBM wanted Rothman to think I was the replacement on his payroll.”

“So you fed me to him,” I surmised.

Andy nodded. “Yeah. I was ordered to tell Rothman that you were working with a team trying to shut him down. I told him you were trying to frame him on a spy rap. So he nailed you and slipped in a replacement.”

I had been double-crossed. Rothman had done my fake boss’s dirty work for him, getting me out of the way. My sex, my career, my life had all been sacrificed just to get me out of the way. I felt stinging tears of frustration. I was going to spend the rest of my life in heels and skirts because the FBM fucked up and believed I was a traitor.

“Rothman says you’re a plant–not really Andy,” I pointed out.

To my surprise, he grinned. “The joke’s on him. We caught his man before he could replace me. He’s dead and Rothman thinks I’m his man. You can verify that with Matt. He had me checked out.”

I turned to Matt, who nodded. “He’s telling the truth,” he verified. “We’ve been working a joint operation with the FBM to nail Rothman.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” I asked.

“We didn’t know you were Talon,” Matt explained. “As far as everyone knew, you were just a low-level Air Force security officer.”

“Talon agents are identified on a need-to-know basis,” I pointed out. “You didn’t need to know.”

“Yes we did,” Andy countered. “Just like you needed to know what I was up to with Matt’s help. But my identity was need-to-know also.”

He was right. We had both been hoisted on the petards of government red tape and secrecy. I hadn’t been the key agent on the wand case–Major Ralston had been. He and Colonel Edwards (presumably both the real one and the fake one) would have known about Andy, but I had never been told–just as Andy and the rest of the FBM weren’t told by the phony Colonel Edwards that I was now in the loop and would need to know about Andy’s mission. Whoever the phony Edwards had been, he certainly knew how to play one government agency off against another one.

I sat back down, afraid that I’d start shaking if I remained standing. “So where’s my replacement now?”

“We don’t know,” Andy replied. “We think he may be the one who shot your boss.”

“He wasn’t my boss,” I corrected him.

Andy looked puzzled, so Matt brought him up to speed on what I had told him the day before.

Andy nodded thoughtfully. “That all makes sense. If you’re right, the real Colonel Edwards must have been replaced some time ago.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I concurred. Then I started wondering about when Colonel Edwards had been replaced. It was a complicated puzzle, as cases where magic is present usually are. Andy had nearly been replaced. Colonel Edwards had definitely been replaced. I had been replaced and changed into a woman. Rothman or maybe the Shifter had nearly changed Major Ralston into a woman...

But how did it all fit together?

Suddenly, a light went off inside my head. There was something we hadn’t considered before, but it answered the question. “I think I know when, too. And if I’m right, I have a pretty good idea where our Shifter is right now.”

On the surface of things, it was a wild shot. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. It had to do with the timing, as I explained to Matt and Andy.

“Edwards–or whoever he really was–knew we had Merkel: we actually told him. But he didn’t know that I was on the loose, because I might be able to tell he was an imposter.”

“Which you did,” Matt confirmed.

“Okay, so after he met with us, he knew what he had to do–he had to ditch Edwards as his primary identity and do it quickly, before we talked the Air Force into investigating him. And since Andy just told us the FBM was looking into his activities, that might not have been as hard as we would have imagined.”

“So you think he had another identity already lined up,” Andy supplied.

I nodded. “Yeah. And I’m pretty sure I know who he is now.”

Matt and Andy looked at me, puzzled.

I gulped. Yeah, I was pretty sure where our Shifter and Merkel were. The problem was going to be proving it.

“You’re sure the Marceau woman is still in the hotel?” Matt asked his team leader.

The man nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got the Versailles covered. Marceau is still in her room.”

“What about Rothman?” I asked him.

The officer shrugged. “He’s still in his office with that icy bitch of an assistant,” he told us.

“Doesn’t he usually check out the casino about this time?” Andy broke in.

“Yeah,” the officer agreed. Then he peered out the window at the last vestiges of the desert sun. “He’s a little late today. Nobody on the floor over there has seen him.”

I nodded in satisfaction. Matt noticed and growled, “You’d better be right about this. If you’re wrong, we’ll be in so much shit we’ll have to call in a septic service.”

“Oh, I’m right,” I said with confidence I didn’t really feel. Still, it made sense. Our Shifter had to get to Dominique Marceau now that we had Burrows in custody. Sure, there were lots of arms dealers around the world who’d love to buy info on the wand, but none of them were immediately available. Whatever Merkel was selling had to be moved quickly, before the authorities moved in on him and his Shifter buddy.

If I was right, the Shifter had managed to get to Rothman and replace him. I was starting to suspect that our Shifter was almost one of a kind. Sure, there were some powerful Shifters in the world, but this one could change himself and others quickly–maybe in a matter of a few minutes. Most Shifters took hours, or even days to make the Shifts our guy could make in a few ticks of the clock. The rules about stabilizing in a primary body probably didn’t apply either.

I figured he had replaced one of Rothman’s guards, gotten in to see the man by himself, and replaced him, probably changing Rothman’s body into the guard’s after he had replaced and killed him. Of course, he would have had to pick a time when Frieda wasn’t with her boss, and then fool her–probably not the easiest tasks in the world–but I was pretty sure our Shifter had the ability to do it.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Isabella?” Matt asked me under his breath.

“We can’t just go storming in there,” I reminded him. “The Versailles is like a maze when you get behind the scenes.” Actually, all major casino-hotels are, with offices, security rooms, and scores of secret passageways. “I know them better than anyone we can send in. Besides, I won’t be in any danger. You’ve got me wired, right?”

I struck a pose, and I’m sure Matt’s team leader was dying to know where they had hidden a wire on me, dressed as I was in a little nothing of a black dress which left more bare than covered. As tight as it was and as high as my heels were, the wire had better work, because if I got caught, I wasn’t going to be able to run away.

The “where” was in the tiny black purse I was carrying. It was disguised as a tube of lipstick, and its signal was magically generated, courtesy of Andy and the FBM. It would pass any electronic screen the Versailles had, and would work everywhere except, of course, the casino, where the magic suppressors would temporarily disable it.

“Okay, guys,” I sighed. “Let’s do this.”

I sauntered into the Versailles like I owned the place. Nobody stopped me as I wiggled my way to the promenade, although I knew I was being watched. All the things that had been used to disguise me and make me look more like a cop were gone. I looked like pure sex, breasts jutting out proudly with the top of my dress almost down to my nipples, long, perfect legs encased in smoky hose, long, black hair flowing down my mostly-bare back, and a look on my face that said I was sexy and knew it.

If any of the guards didn’t recognize me, they must have been blind. After all, I wasn’t just one of Rothman’s upscale whores–I was the one who got away. Every guard in the place had been drilled to identify me on sight and get me in front of Rothman as quickly as possible. I had known all of that going into the Versailles. That was part of the plan.

If I had been expecting several of the security goons to rush up to me all at once, I was disappointed. They actually seemed cautious. I couldn’t blame them. They had to be asking themselves exactly what I thought I was doing, boldly returning to my place of captivity as if I was invulnerable.

Finally, one of the senior guards approached me. “Well, Lucinda,” he began, “I never expected to see you back here again.”

I turned on the Mexican accent. “Oh, senor,” I breathed. “It is so dificil... difficult... in town. I just want to be... home again.”

Okay, so it was hokey, but to the guard, it made some sense. After all, he had to know I’d been conditioned to be a good little whore, content to take care of Rothman’s high-rolling clients while thinking of nothing but sex. As far as he knew, I’d managed to stray away from all of that until the conditioning reasserted itself. He had too much faith in the process to think I might have actually gotten my old memories back.

He shrugged. “Okay, let’s go see the boss.”

He waved away a couple of other guards, who looked very disappointed. They hadn’t made their moves fast enough, and now, my escort would get all the credit. He might even embellish the story of my capture a little to win favor with his boss. If I had anything to say in the matter, his favor would be short-lived.

He directed me to an out of the way corridor that led to an elevator that only stopped at Rothman’s floors. After motioning to the guard who was assigned to make sure nobody got on that elevator who wasn’t supposed to, he got part of his reward early–he got to frisk me. It really wasn’t necessary. I was pretty sure there were wards and spells in the corridor and the elevator that would detect any weapon I might be carrying, but that didn’t stop him. His hands roughly checked out my entire body, including all the places where I had bare skin and obviously couldn’t have hidden anything if I’d tried. He spent only a moment going through my purse, and didn’t bother checking out the lipstick.

I have to admit that I was nervous as the elevator door opened on the floor of Rothman’s quarters. After all, I had spent several weeks in this building as a happy little sex slave, and part of me was still that worshipful little Hispanic girl, going to see her master and benefactor. In my captivity, I had been kept safe and happy with lots of great sex. It took a fair amount of willpower to keep from surrendering to the feeling that this was now my home. I wondered to myself if I’d ever get over such feelings.

Of course, if things didn’t work out the way I had planned them, I might never have the opportunity to get over them. Rothman would have me back under the care of Rippers, Whisperers, and whatever else to make sure I stayed a happy little whore forever.

A familiar scene awaited me in Rothman’s suite. He stood there behind his desk, confident and smiling. Frieda was there, too, although she looked uncomfortable. I wondered if she suspected what I did–that her boss wasn’t real.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little whore,” Rothman chuckled.

“Oh... Senor Rothman...” I began breathlessly.

“Can it, honey,” he snapped. “You think I didn’t recognize you with your cop friends?”

So I was right: Rothman and our elusive middleman were one and the same–he was alluding to the scene back at Eos where we had nearly nabbed him. But I didn’t think this was the real Rothman, so I dropped the accent as much as I could and challenged, “You’re not really Rothman, are you?”

He grinned. “I am now.” Frieda didn’t look surprised. That meant she knew Rothman had been replaced.

The new Rothman casually walked around his desk and stood right in front of me, looking me over as I were a whore he had just bought for the evening. “And that’s all that matters.” I just hoped the device in my purse was operating as advertised, and Matt and Andy were picking up everything.

“So the real Rothman is dead,” I hypothesized. “When did you replace him?”

“Right after I got finished impersonating your pal Henshaw,” he shrugged. “Of course, I had to change to get our friend Merkel out of jail before I could become Rothman,” he added, nodding to Frieda.

The false Frieda turned red. “You didn’t have to tell her that,” she muttered.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” the Shifter admonished her. “You’ve still got your dick, so I can and will change you back after we’ve concluded our business.”

I hadn’t expected him to turn Merkel into Frieda, but it made sense, I supposed. Frieda knew Rothman too well to be fooled by an imposter, so she had to be replaced. And who better to fill that role than our traitorous scientist, since the Shifter would be able to keep her–or I supposed technically him–close by throughout the entire affair.

“And you’re wrong about Rothman,” the Shifter continued lightly. “He’s not dead. Given the fact that I didn’t have immediate access to a Ripper, I was forced to keep him alive in case I needed to pick his brain.”

“I’m surprised he cooperated with you,” I said.

“Oh, it took some persuading,” he told me with a twinkle in his eye.

I was pretty sure I knew what he was intimating. Rothman had ordered plenty of men to be changed into high-priced whores. I was certain he was aware that this Shifter could do the same thing to him–or worse. I was also pretty sure the Shifter had eliminated the real Frieda. He’d have no use for her, and even his powers would be able to make only small cosmetic changes in her. Well, I wasn’t going to shed any tears over her fate.

The Shifter looked at his watch. “We have a couple of hours until our new client has the money ready for the wand plans. I think we should use them, don’t you?” He pressed a button on his desk, and one of the doors leading further into the suite opened. An unfamiliar man with dark, piercing eyes entered. He wore a suit as dark as his expression. Add to that his bland white shirt and nearly-black tie, and was pretty sure of what he was.

The Rothman imposter verified it for me. “This is Mr. ... Well, I suppose it’s not necessary to introduce you. In a few minutes, you won’t remember his name anyway. He is one of the finest Rippers in the business–far better than that amateur Rothman used. When he discovered you were Talon, he should have killed you on the spot. Talon agents have the mental discipline to override the work of amateur Rippers.

“You’ll be happy to know, though, that my friend here is anything but an amateur. He’ll make certain that within the hour, you are the ignorant little horny whore you appear to be.”

Where the hell were Matt and Andy? We had agreed that once we had the evidence recorded that we needed, they’d come barging in. They had to have plenty now. What was keeping them?

“Until you got your memories back,” the Shifter continued, “you were one fine little whore. Oh yes, I patronized you several times in a variety of identities. I can honestly say that you give the finest blowjobs I’ve ever experienced. I’ll make sure our Ripper friend doesn’t change a thing about that.”

Then he grinned even wider when he saw the worried look that I could no longer hide. “Looking for your friends?” he taunted. “I’m afraid they’ll never find you. I made some security improvements around here, and at the moment, your locator is sending out a garbled signal. It’s currently telling your friends that you are still walking around the casino. It will take them a while to realize you’re not really there, and by then, it will be too late.”

I was on the brink of being terrified, but I was also curious. How could a Shifter–even one as powerful as this one–know so much about Talon and about state-of-the art security devices which were supposedly immune to both magical and electronic interference? I looked my adversary in the eye and asked, “Just who are you, anyway?”

“I’m disappointed in you,” he replied. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now. After all, we worked together for several months.”

It dawned on me suddenly, but then I told myself that it had to be wrong. There was no way he could be...

“Martin? Martin Ralston?”

The name slipped out of my mouth not so much as a declaration, but rather as an incredulous misstatement. Because I knew Major Ralston was dead. I had seen his body, half transformed into a woman, just inside the Elysian’s casino. I had watched them zip up the body bag and cart him off to the morgue.

“You can’t be Martin Ralston,” I protested. “He’s dead.”

The imposter grinned. “Are you sure?”

“The medics were sure!”

“It’s a simple trick for a good Shifter,” he reminded me. “Beef up the skin on the wrists so there’s no pulse, slow the metabolism to the point that heartbeat and breathing are unnecessary for a minute or so at a time...”

“Persuading and Shifting both–that makes you an Omni,” I pointed out, slowly conceding that the person in front of me was, in fact, Major Ralston.

“Yes,” he admitted, “but not a terribly strong one on the Persuading side. As a Shifter, though, I’m without peer.”

“So why wasn’t your Shifting ability on your record? I would have noticed if it had been there.”

“It wasn’t there,” he explained, “because I never admitted to being a Shifter. You know what the government does with Shifters.”

Yes, I knew. Shifters either worked for the government or, in rare cases, had their magical talent suppressed by invasive drugs. It had been suspected for years now that a few Shifters managed to slip through the cracks, their talents undiscovered, and their efforts attributed to common transformation spells that got loose.

“I’ve managed to make a tidy sum on the side using my talents,” he bragged. “My assignments at Talon have given me access to... shall we say, opportunities.”

“But nothing like the wand,” I prompted.

He nodded. “That’s right. Nothing like the wand. The money that Burrows–and now Marceau–is willing to spend for that technology... well, let’s just say it was enough that I didn’t need my Talon paycheck anymore.”

Things were falling into place for me now. I was beginning to understand Ralston’s plan better. After faking his own death, he set a trap for Colonel Edwards. When our boss went in to identify him formally, the colonel would have naturally requested some time alone with the body to see if any information could be gleaned from it. That was a bad mistake. Once alone with the colonel, Ralston would have the element of surprise, killing Edwards and transforming his body into the presumed body of the rogue Talon agent. He had proven he could Shift far faster than any other Shifter, so no one would have suspected what had happened.

The next step would have been to get me off the case, giving Ralston a clear path for selling the wand technology. He made sure Rothman got word that I was investigating him. Posing as Colonel Edwards, he requested through the FBM liaison that Andy finger me to Rothman, explaining to the Bureau that I was dirty and needed to be disposed of.

The result? All I had to do was look down at my body for the answer to that. The only reason the plan didn’t work was that the Ripper Rothman had on the payroll wasn’t as skilled as anticipated, and, coupled with my own mental training, my memories came back.

Even then, the plan would have worked if I had gone to Colonel Edwards. If it wasn’t for my friendship with Matt, I might have tried to do just that, but I was afraid “Colonel Edwards” would believe the imposter Rothman had put in my place instead of me.

Boy, was I wrong about that. Ralston must have had a fun time working with my doppelganger, knowing all the time that the real Talon agent was turning tricks over at the Versailles.

“Well, enough talk,” Ralston announced, rising from his chair. “The lovely Frieda and I have a meeting to attend, and our friend here needs to work on you.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe I’ll have him leave you here, so I can sample his work when I return.”

It was now or never. I had only a minor power, but it was time to see if it was enough to save me. If I had been a strong Pyro, I could have lit one of my opponent’s clothes on fire, distracting them at the least, or taking them out of the match at the most. But no, my power was too weak for that.

It was, however, strong enough to fool the contact points in the fire suppression system. All such systems, whether mechanical or, as I assumed, electronic, fired if too much heat was detected, the typical electronic system causing two contact points to meet if sufficient heat is applied. I was spending what might be my last productive moments aiming my magic at a detector just over Ralston’s head.

Before the Ripper had the opportunity to take command of my mind, all hell broke loose. Alarms went off with a shrill shriek and a mist of water came cascading down, drenching everyone and everything in the room.

The Ripper was the first to react. Independent Rippers were a slippery breed–they had to be. If caught, the Ripper would be given a choice: either work for the government or be sequestered for the rest of his life. Rippers were too dangerous to let them walk around loose, even drugged. Self-preservation triumphed over completing his mission. The Ripper fled through the same doorway he had entered shortly before.

Merkel didn’t know what to do. The transformed scientist looked about in panic, as if expecting to see flames all around him–or her, take your pick. Unused to long, feminine hair, he didn’t know what to do as the cascading water weighted down his blond locks and pushed them over his eyes. He tried to get away, but stumbled over a nearby chair. He was out of the picture, too, as far as I was concerned.

As expected, though, Ralston quickly regained his composure. In his borrowed eyes, I saw a momentary flicker as he sized up the situation. I was a potential danger, being a trained agent, but so was he. And he had the advantage of size on me. He decisively pulled an automatic from inside his suit coat and carefully trained the weapon on me as he jerked Merkel back to his feet.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he warned me as he backed away toward the door. He knew the alarm would not only bring rescuers–it would bring my people as well, and he wasn’t about to stick around to confront them.

I, of course, had no intention of trying to stop him. Even without the gun, the odds would have been against me, but even the best agent has no chance of outrunning a bullet. Avoiding one is another matter, though.

Once he was at the door, dragging his prize with him, he fired at me, emptying the clip. I had already begun my dive behind Rothman’s large oak desk, though, before he had a chance to fire. As I had hoped, the distraction of the sprinklers and the haste in which he had to fire made him shoot for where I had been standing. The bullets passed overhead–closer than I would have hoped for, but still missing me entirely.

Over the alarm and the gush of the water, I heard muffled shots beyond the door, but was hesitant to show myself in case Ralston had another weapon.

“Isabella,” a familiar voice called out. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay!” I returned, wishing that I had a power that would stop the sprinklers as easily as I had started them. “Did you get them?”

Matt walked into the room from the direction Ralston and Merkel had exited. “Rothman’s dead,” he told me, matter-of-factly. “Frieda’s unhurt, though.”

Rothman? Frieda?

Oh, yeah.

“Wait, Matt,” I cautioned. “That wasn’t really Rothman. He’s...” I began, but stopped when I realized I had nearly identified a Talon agent–a definite no-no. “He’s an imposter,” I amended. “He took over Rothman’s identity to do the deal with Marceau. And that isn’t Frieda either. That’s our traitor–she’s really still male, technically at least.”

“Jeez,” Matt muttered. “They must have had a hell of a Shifter on the payroll. Or is our Rothman impersonator the Shifter?”

“Right in one,” I grinned.

“Who was he?”

I shrugged innocently. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.” I might have been working closely with Matt on this assignment, but I was still prohibited from telling him anything else about Talon–especially about a traitor in our own ranks. I had already told Matt more about Talon than my superiors would have liked.

“How about the Ripper?” I asked.

“What Ripper?”

Our Ripper had been right to run. He had managed to get away–for now. If he was smart, though, he’d get out of Las Vegas before Talon made a concerted effort to track him down. For that matter, The FBM would be on his tail, too.

I followed Matt out of the room and nearly stumbled over Ralston’s body, my vision still obscured by the spraying water. When I looked down at him, he appeared to be dead all right. There was a neat bullet hole in his forehead.

Or was there?

I examined the body, paying special attention to the killing wound. It was certainly deep enough, but a Shifter could easily have faked it. I checked his breathing–nothing–same with the pulse. But again, with a Shifter as good as Ralston, you never could tell.

The deciding factor, though, was when I rolled his head to one side and saw the exit wound. There was no way any Shifter could fake the shards of skull and pieces of brain tissue that were leaking from the wound.

“Satisfied?” Matt asked me, teasing just a bit.

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Just one thing, though. Lock up whatever room you put the body in–and don’t let anybody go in there alone.”

It paid to be safe. Ralston had faked his own death once–and once was enough.

Since I had become a woman, I had worn a uniform on rare occasions–usually the traditional starched white nurse’s uniform that no self-respecting nurse had worn in over a generation, or, on rarer occasions, a dom-style policewoman’s uniform (for clients who had been extra bad). But this time, it was for real, and I wasn’t sure I was going to like it.

Once the dust had cleared from our take-down of Ralston and his co-conspirators, the paperwork, followed by the second-guessing, began. I turned myself in to Air Force authorities and soon found myself authenticating my identity to a Talon major who, I suspect, found my situation more than a little amusing. I fully expected to be drummed out of Talon at the very least, and maybe out of the Air Force. After all, sexy little tamales like me with a Latin accent and a sultry gait didn’t exactly score well when it came to officer qualifications.

To my surprise, though, Talon welcomed me back with open arms.

“You have no idea,” said General... well, come to think of it, his name is classified, “how valuable you can be to us.”

“Valuable, sir?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in the conference room chair where I had been directed by the same major who found my predicament amusing. He had saluted briskly and left me with the General. It wasn’t just being in the presence of the General that was making me uncomfortable. I had been provided with standard issue BDUs, and after weeks of wearing silky women’s clothes, they were, frankly, a little scratchy on my delicate skin.

“Absolutely.” The General smiled, admiring my body the BDUs did little to hide effectively. “Women aren’t seen as a threat. But with your hand-to-hand and weapons training, you’ll be unexpectedly effective. Of course, we’ll need to put you through a refresher course, since you aren’t used to martial arts in that body.”

I just nodded. I knew I’d need a few new courses on how to be even more effective fighting. After all, women needed to use finesse rather than brute strength to be truly proficient in combat. Still, I was relieved to know that my career would go on. I hadn’t been looking forward to any of the alternatives.

“Then I assume, sir, I’ll be reassigned to somewhere where my looks and language skills will be more effective? Latin America, perhaps?” I had visions of performing important missions in Central and South America–missions that would be challenging and rewarding.

But my hopes were dashed quickly.

The General shook his head. “No, you’re too valuable to us right here. The wand isn’t the only project we’re worried about, and you have the experience and the contacts with local law enforcement agencies we need to stay on task. You’ll be right here in Las Vegas for the foreseeable future–an enviable assignment I should think.”

“Yes, sir,” I sighed. ‘Have I mentioned lately how much I hate Las Vegas?’

So there I was, attired in my dress uniform–blue jacket, skirt, heels, and cover bulging just slightly from the long, black hair I had twisted up to make my hair regulation length. I knew I should get it cut, but it was just so damned sexy when I was in civvies and could let it range free.

I frowned as I walked up the steps to the Police Department headquarters. There was one of those thoughts again–thoughts about how sexy I was. The Psychs had done everything they could for me, but there were limits to what magic and science could do, and once the Ripper had implanted girlish thoughts about being sexy and feminine in my estrogen-soaked brain, I would always see the world through the mental filter of a beautiful Hispanic woman.

While I knew as I stood in the lobby waiting for Matt that I appeared quite sexy in my fresh uniform, I also felt just a little frumpy. After all, my body had been built to wear far more feminine things. It wanted the feel of silk, and the sensation of cool air on my breasts almost down to the nipples. It wanted to feel the tickling hem of a skirt several inches above the military regulation one I now wore. And it wanted heels higher to balance my sexy thighs in a more provocative pose.

In short, I wanted to look like the little chica prostitute Rothman had made me.

But at least I was in control–mostly–and the whorish side of my mind was tucked away ineffectively–mostly.

Matt looked a little surprised when he saw me, and I just grinned at him. He had been told that a Lieutenant Martina Lopez was there to see him, but that wasn’t the name he knew me by. Still, he had presence of mind enough to play the game. He formally extended his hand and said, “Lieutenant Lopez, I’m Matt Henshaw.”

I took his hand and raked a regrettably shorter fingernail (regulations again) along the inside of his palm in a flirty but unseen manner. “Could we speak somewhere private?” I asked professionally.

“Of course,” Matt nodded, indicating with a hand the direction I should go–the direction of his office.

I smiled at him and strolled toward his office, purposely adding a little non-regulation sway to my hips. I could almost feel his pain as he walked stiffly–in more ways than one–behind me.

Once seated in his office with the door closed, my legs crossed in a feminine fashion as I let the frumpy skirt ride up scandalously, I smiled. “Good to see you again, Matt.”

“I thought they were going to drum you out of Talon and transfer you,” he commented, once he managed to control his stiffy enough to sit down behind his desk.

“I thought so, too,” I admitted. “But apparently, our success in stopping Ralston made them believe I could still be an effective agent here.”

“But I thought you hated Las Vegas.”

“I still do,” I told him. “But I have to admit, if there was ever a town where a security agent could be a girl like me, well... I guess it’ll have to do.”

“But they demoted you,” he observed.

I shook my head and laughed. “No, not really. The rank is just a cover. I look too young to be more than a lieutenant. Actually, they promoted me to major, but nobody at Nellis knows that. At least a major’s pay goes into my bank account.”

“So what brings you here today?” he asked.

“I just need to make sure the details of this operation have been buried. My superiors want to make sure Talon remains secret.”

He looked a little disappointed. Poor baby. I had the natural instincts of a woman now, and I knew how to read men. Even good old shoot-straight-from-the-shoulder Matt had a little corner of his mind where he entertained some dirty thoughts. Well, I couldn’t really blame him. If I had still been a man and somebody like the new me had walked into my office and closed the door (as I had), I’d be entertaining the same fantasies.

Of course, I had one or two about him, too. The Psychs couldn’t eliminate natural sexual fantasies without eliminating my entire sex drive. All they had been able to do is instil in me a natural feminine restraint when it came to sex, and even with that restraint, I couldn’t help but wonder what Matt would be like in the sack.

Matt composed himself and shrugged. “I guess there’s not really much to tell you. Ralston stayed dead this time–but you knew that.”

I nodded. Matt had posted round the clock guards–at least two at any time–on Ralston’s body until the authorities (Talon) claimed the body. By now, Ralston’s brain was probably being carved up in some government lab to determine how he could Shift so quickly and so often. They probably wouldn’t find anything, though. Whatever gave us magical powers didn’t seem to leave a physical trace in the brain, but that wouldn’t stop the squints from trying.

“Your people have Merkel and Marceau in custody,” he went on. “By the way, did you ever change Merkel back?”

“That’s classified,” I said with a straight face. Then, when I got the crestfallen look out of Matt that I wanted, I giggled and added, “Just kidding.”

“Okay,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “So did you change him back?”

Actually, it was classified, but I wasn’t going to hold it back from Matt. I owed him to much. I grinned. “Not yet. He’s going to remain a she-male until we get everything out of him we want.”

I didn’t bother to add that even if we did change him back, he wouldn’t ever be out of Talon custody. He knew too much about wand research, and we couldn’t let a known security risk go free. I had overheard some talk about changing him all the way into a female and keeping her around for her on staff whether she wanted it or not, but that wasn’t my department. I’m sure he would have shed no tears if he had known what Rothman had done to me, and conversely, I wasn’t going to shed any tears for him... her... oh, whatever.

“So what about Rothman?” I asked.

Matt leaned back in his chair. “He’s still in custody. We got some of his girls to testify against him. He’ll be busy fighting kidnapping, slavery, and about half a dozen other charges for some time to come. The DA plans to shut down operations of the Versailles until the courts sort everything out. The other owners of the Versailles are having a fit, so I doubt if the place will be closed long.”

I imagined that was true. Gambling was big business in Vegas, and getting bigger. The other owners would be applying as much political pressure as possible to get the place reopened, but I was sure that when it did, the International Review and Rothman’s stable of forced whores would be gone.

Not that the girls who had worked with me would ever be anything else except the whores Rothman had turned them into. A small percentage were responding to magical treatment, but most were too seriously damaged by the Ripper to ever be anything else.

“But there’s no mention of Talon’s involvement, is there?”

He shook his head. “None at all. And I and all of my officers involved in the operation have been sworn to secrecy by your people. Satisfied?”

I smiled. I had argued with Talon that it wouldn’t be necessary to Rip any knowledge of Talon out of Matt’s people. Other than Matt, none of them really knew much, anyway. “Satisfied.”

Matt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Apparently Mr. Stiffy was still involved in the conversation. “Look, uh... Martina, is it now?”

“That’s right. Martina Lopez.”

“Yeah... uh, Martina... I was just thinking... maybe we could go have dinner and... well...”

How did this guy ever get laid with a line like that?

I fluttered my eyelashes innocently and began unbuttoning my service blouse. “Or, we could do it the other way around... you know, go out later if we’re still hungry.”

His eyes got wide as he leaned forward, watching my nimble little hands as I stripped off the blouse. “You’d... you’d do that for me?”

“Well of course, Matt,” I said coyly. “After all, what are friends for?”

The End