Passing him on the way out was the hardest thing I’d ever contemplated. He was so cool, so urbane. So uninjured. So not the vengeful god.

Those attributes made me hate him more. Or maybe it was me I hated. That damn silken suit reminded me of Ric’s shining scar-smooth back. I’d only won that triumph at the cost of a few, last lashes to Snow, but those had been knowing.

I knew he’d suffer and had decided to sacrifice his skin and his pain for Ric’s redemption. He’d known it, and, worse, possibly had leashed his guardian, Grizelle, to allow me to make my choice.

It’s easy to fight for someone you love. It’s much, much harder, I was finding, oddly enough, to wrong someone you hate.

So I knew, as I moved slowly to the door to face the enigma that was Snow, that he could be hurt and that I had been willing to do that.

No wonder he’d shown up here to undo my amateurish attempt at do-goodery. I knew I should apologize. I was too proud, and too ashamed.

“I guess,” I said, staring at the middle white button on his silken white shirt, “I should have expected you to show up and undo my self-help group.”

“Did I?” he asked.

“Well, they were mesmerized.”

“You are mesmerized. They all left. Didn’t you notice? Now you know they’re truly free, as you might describe it. Dark or light?” he asked, holding out knuckled fists.

“Chocolate. We’re talking about chocolate.”

“Of course. And your chocolate won. Congratulations.”

“White,” I said. “No, I mean dark.”

He smiled and opened empty fists. “Sorry. You’ll have to buy your own. Such an interesting world, where dark is good and light is bad. Again, I congratulate you.”

“But… you’ve lost all these women, all these devoted groupies. They’re content with high-calorie substitutes.”

“Are you?”

Oh, shit, he was right. No.

“So you’ve won,” he said again.

“You act like you… wanted them to move on?”

“Exactly.”

“And like I did just what you wanted me to do?”

“Exactly.”

“Even to the… damage?”

He paused. “It wasn’t unexpected.”

“You’re saying I’ve been manipulated into wronging you? That’s truly wicked. I hate that worse than anything.”

“Sometimes it’s necessary to sacrifice your pride.”

I’d known he’d claimed that seventh Deadly Sin from the first time we met. I just hadn’t known that was my biggie too.

“I’m-”

I thought back to the religion lessons at Our Lady of the Lake Convent School, horrified, recalling the thirty pieces of mob silver Ric and I had found in Loretta and her prince’s Sunset Park grave. Were they meant for me in some weird way?

“I’m some predestined Judas?” I asked, aghast.

“Delilah will do,” he said with a smile I wasn’t sure reached his eyes because of the dark sunglasses, which suddenly turned into mirror shades so I saw myself small and convex in them.

I wasn’t sure, either, whether his powers had morphed the sunglasses, or my own mirror magic. So either he was a sadist, which I wouldn’t argue except I’d hurt him, or I was a masochist. Either way, I knew letting my guard down would be fatal to something, my life or my pride.

“Samson took pride in his strength,” I said, “but he lost it.”

“So you’ve won,” he said again.

“If pride is your cardinal sin.” I remembered that a church cardinal had slain the medieval dragon Snow had recently raised.

“We have so much in common,” he whispered.

I had to lean close, and up, to hear.

There was something I had to say, and it was very hard. I could barely whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

He bent nearer. I felt icy heat and a heavy, sinking heart. Were our breaths mingling? Did I sense subliminal tremors of tension in us both? Can he give any kiss but the Brimstone Kiss? Did Lilith take it too? If so, what happened? His face tilted away, so did his lips a breath away from mine. They brushed the sides of my hair.

“What did you say?” he asked.

He was going to make me say it again. “I’m sorry, and apparently also a hypocrite.”

He straightened, laughing.

“Welcome, Delilah Street, to the unhuman race.”

He laughed again and I heard real joy.

“I couldn’t,” I started to explain… something.

“Shhh,” he said. “You’d better let me go, or you might be sorrier.”

“Me? Let you go?” I was keeping him here? No.

“The woman walks away,” I said. “That’s the whole point of this group.”

So I turned my back and did.

All I could think as I did my walk-away was how much I’d like to rip the expensive clothes off his back.

Not because I’m a hopeless groupie but because I really have a need to know how guilty I should feel about him. Snow is enough of a bastard to have wiped the whiplashes away like lipstick and he’d never tell me. Or even Grizelle.

Some men just love a good catfight.

I flexed my tense, aching fingers.

Me too.

OF COURSE THE point in making a dramatic exit is not to be seen again. And to not look back.

That’s the whole point of pride, too, and why it’s a sin.

I walked into the kitchen. Not one laggard was left. They’d all faced and passed the night’s surprise bogeyman with a lot less drama than I had-I, the founding mother of this exclusive club.

In fact, I hadn’t passed him at all.

Nor had any of them approached me or slipped a billet-doux into my sweating palm to offer a tip on Lilith. I’d forgotten all about her until I tangled with Snow. And the groupie murder? I’d been too surprised by the hoopla to think about that, either, although I now had all their freshest email addies.

Evening score: Snow, 10; Delilah, 0.

The kitchen smelled of cola and punch rinsed down the stainless steel sink. The rear exit was an industrial-strength door with a push bar and bold sign, warning: EXIT ONLY.

I hadn’t brought my messenger bag, just jammed my car keys into my low-rise jeans pocket. They were always a pain to worm out…

I eased the door wide with my back, bracing my feet to hold it open. Once out, I couldn’t get back in. The story of my life in Las Vegas, in reverse.

While one hand was jammed alongside my right hip dueling jagged steel key edges, the big door slammed shut, ramming me in the rear. I hopped outside just in time to avoid crushing.

Nobody was outside to have pushed it. Not even the wind.

Attar of Rose’s lime juice and older, uglier scents helped me spot a Dumpster tilting against the building’s back concrete block wall like a grounded garbage scow.

Only a faint pink-gold glow made it back here from the front parking lot lights, giving the Dumpster the odd illusion it was outlined in mercurochrome neon.

That’s Las Vegas, city of illusions and delusions.

I’d have to hike around the whole unappetizing rear area to get to Dolly up front, if I ever got her keys out. That’s what I get for buying tight jeans to wear to Los Lobos werewolf disco someday with visions of Ric jamming his hands down my back pockets during the slow dances.

I didn’t know which felt tighter, my jeans or my conscience, and I wore the same insecure mules as when the Bela Lugosi CinSim Dracula had hijacked me from the Enchanted Cottage. Then I noticed that one edge of the luridly lit rusted Dumpster was accessorized with a leaning human figure.

Quicksilver’s loss came back with a double stab of regret. In Las Vegas these days seeing a “human figure” is no guarantee of anything. I could use a partner with serious nose and fangs right now.

Oooh-eee, Delilah, Irma joined in with gusto. You’ve managed to maroon yourself in dead-end limbo with who knows what. Maybe you’d have been better off in the front parking lot, down on your knees applying first aid to that Snow character’s bare back with your tongue.