Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand Read online

  Far too late I realized: he wanted me to work the same weekend I was getting married?

  Right. Now both Ben and my mother were going to kill me.

  We’re getting married, and you want to work all weekend?” he said, in the offended tone of voice I’d expected.

  “Not all weekend.”

  I’d come home from the station, slumped on the sofa, and told Ben the big idea. He was still at his desk, where he’d been working at his computer, and regarded me with an air of bafflement. He’d be perfectly within his rights to call the whole thing off. Postpone it at the very least. I clasped my hands together and twisted the engagement ring he’d given me.

  Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his chair. “Why does anything that happens to you surprise me anymore?” He was smiling, and the smile was encouraging. His nice smile, not the “I’m a lawyer who’s about to gut you” smile.

  “So. . . you’re okay with this?”

  “Oh, sure. But while you’re working, I’m going to go lose a lot of money playing blackjack or poker or something, and you’re not allowed to nag me about it. Deal?”

  I narrowed my gaze. “How much money? Your money or mine?”

  “No nagging. Deal?”

  My fiancé, the lawyer. The werewolf lawyer. I should have expected nothing less. At least he hadn’t said he wanted to cruise all the strip clubs in Vegas.

  “Deal,” I said.

  Chapter 2

  Ozzie arranged it, and more quickly than I would have thought possible. A million things could stall a plan like this. I figured he’d have lost touch with his contact, or this person would have changed careers and was now selling used cars, or it wouldn’t be possible to put this kind of show together, or he wouldn’t be able to get airtime for it. Maybe Ozzie would lose interest, and I wouldn’t have to work the same weekend I was getting married. But he pulled it together. His producer friend thought it sounded like a great idea and signed on, found the venue, sold it to a high-profile cable network, and before I knew it the avalanche was upon me. I couldn’t say no. They picked a weekend, I told them no—full moon that weekend, no way was I going to be spending it in foreign territory. They changed the weekend, the contracts were drawn up and signed, and we had a TV show. We’d broadcast in a month. Promotion began in earnest.

  To tell the truth, I was excited. My first TV appearance had been against my will under very trying circumstances. It would be nice to be the one in charge this time.

  The month before the trip passed quickly. With the Las Vegas producer’s help we booked the theater, lined up an interesting set of local guests, and started promotion. On the wedding front, we set it all up via the Internet. No long, drawn-out stress at all. As a bonus, because this was now a business trip, the boss was paying for the hotel and plane tickets. I even found the cutest dress in the world in the window of a store downtown—a sleeveless, hip-hugging sheath in a smoky, sexy blue. Sometimes all you had to do was look around and solutions appeared like magic.

  The only problem really remaining—I still hadn’t told my mom I was planning a Vegas wedding. And wasn’t that an oxymoron? You weren’t supposed to plan a Vegas wedding. Maybe I could pretend it had been spontaneous.

  In the meantime, I still had this week’s conventional show to get through.

  “—and that was when I thought, ‘Oh, my, it’s an angel, this angel has come down from Heaven to tell me how to write this book!’ These words on the page, these aren’t my words, these are the words of the angel Glorimel, a cosmic being of pure light who in turn is channeling the voice of the universe itself! If you close your eyes you can almost hear the singing in the words, the harmony of the spheres—”

  “If I close my eyes how am I going to read the book?” Oops, that was my outside voice. I winced. Fortunately, if the fringe element of any group had one thing in common, it was an inability to recognize sarcasm.

  Chandrila Ravensun said, with complete earnestness, “The words flow through you. You just have to be open to them.”

  I set my forehead on the table in front of me, which held my microphone and equipment. The resulting conk was probably loud enough to carry over the air.

  This was the last, the very last time I did Ozzie a favor. “I have this friend who wrote a book,” he said. “It’d be perfect for your show. You should interview her.” He gave me a copy of the book, Our Cosmic Journey, which listed enough alluring paranormal topics on the back-cover copy to be intriguing: past-life regression, astral projection, and even a mention of vampirism in the chapters on immortality of the soul. I assumed that anyone who wrote a book and managed to get it published, no matter how small and fringe the publisher, had to have their act together enough to sound coherent during an interview. I had thought we might have a cogent discussion on unconventional ways of thinking about the mind and its powers and the possible reality of psychic energy.

  I was wrong.

  Fortunately, she had decided the aura of the studio was too negative and insisted on doing the interview over the phone. She couldn’t see me banging my head against the table.

  “What did it look like?” I said, feeling punchy.

  “What did what look like?”

  “The angel. Glorimel.” And wasn’t that the name of one of the elves in Tolkien?

  “I’m sorry, what do you mean, what did it look like?”

  I huffed. “You said this being came to you, appeared in your home, and recited to you the entire contents of your book. When it appeared before you, what did it look like?”

  Now she huffed, sounding frustrated. “Glorimel is a being of pure light. How else do you want me to describe it?”

  “White light, yellow light, orange sodium lights, strong, weak, flickering, did it move, did it pulse. Just describe it.”

  “Such a moment in time is beyond mundane description. It’s beyond words!”

  “But you wrote a book about it. It can’t be that beyond words.” I was starting to get mean. I ought to wrap this up before I said something really awful. Then again, I’d always been curious about how far I’d have to go before I got really awful.

  “How else am I supposed to tell people about Glorimel’s beautiful message?”

  “Psychic mass hallucination? I don’t know.”

  “Glorimel told me to write a book.”

  Okay, enough. Time to stop this from turning into a shouting match. Rather, time to take myself out of the shouting match. “I’m sure my listeners have a lot of questions. Would you like to take a few questions from callers?”

  She graciously acquiesced. I tried to pick a positive one to start with.

  A bubbly woman came on the line. “Hi, Chandrila, may I call you Chandrila?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I feel like we’re sisters, in a way. I’ve also had visits from an angelic messenger—”

  It only got stranger. I stayed out of it, taking on the role of the neutral facilitator of the discussion. And made a mental note to kill Ozzie later. No more angelic-messenger shows, never again. So I’d been called the Barbara Walters of weird shit. So I regularly talked about topics that most people turned their rational skeptic noses up at. Just because some of it had been recognized as real didn’t mean it all was. If anything, telling the difference became even more important. There’s weird shit and then there’s weird shit. The existence of Powerball doesn’t make those Nigerian e-mail scams any more real.

  But it was hard convincing people that your little realm of the supernatural was real and someone else’s wasn’t.

  Finally, Matt gave me a signal from the other side of the booth window: time to wrap it up.

  “All right, thanks to everyone who called in, and a very big thank you to Chandrila Ravensun”—I managed to say the name without sounding too snide—“for joining us this week. Once again, her book is called Our Cosmic Journey and is available for ordering on her website.

  “Don’t forget to tune in next week, when I’ll be trying someth
ing a little different. I’ll be broadcasting live from Las Vegas, in front of a studio audience. That’s right, you’ll be able to watch me on TV and maybe even get in on the act. If you’re in Las Vegas, or near Las Vegas, or thinking of going to Las Vegas and need one more excuse, please come by the Jupiter Theater at the Olympus Hotel and Casino. If you’ve ever wanted to see what it looks like behind the scenes at Midnight Hour central, now’s your chance. Thank you once again for a lovely evening. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”

  The ON AIR sign dimmed, and I let out a huge sigh. “I’ll kill him. I’m going to kill him. The bastard set me up with that woman.”

  Matt was grinning, like he thought it was funny. Not an ounce of sympathy in him. “You can’t do that banging-your-head-on-the-table thing on TV.”

  “Yes I can. It’ll be funny.”

  He gave me a raised eyebrow that suggested he disagreed.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll try not to bang my head on the table.”

  “I can’t wait ’til next week,” he said, shaking his head, still grinning.

  I was starting to think Las Vegas was a bad idea. More like a train wreck than a publicity stunt. This time next week, we’d know for sure.

  I couldn’t keep the Las Vegas trip secret. We had to do a lot of publicity if this was going to work. Generate a lot of interest. I should have been pleased that people were hearing about it. It meant the publicity machine was working. But there were a few people I wished weren’t paying quite so much attention.

  While I was walking out of the KNOB building, not half an hour after the end of the show, my cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Kitty. It’s Rick.”

  I groaned, because while I liked Rick, him calling meant trouble. Rick was the newly minted vampire Master of Denver. I was still getting used to the idea. Still trying to figure out if he was going to stay the nice, interesting guy he’d been before—even if he was a five-hundred-year-old vampire—or if he was going to get all pretentious and haughty. I’d just touched the surface of vampire politics. It was like any other politics, bitchy clique, or virulent board meeting. Vampires may have been immortal, but they were still human, and most of them still acted like it when it came to organizing themselves. But with vampires, the players involved could stretch their Machiavellian intrigue over centuries. The Long Game, they called it, predictably. On some levels it made them myopic. On others, it made them incomprehensible.

  He chuckled. “It’s nothing serious, I promise.”

  Which actually was helpful, since I’d basically agreed to help keep him as Denver’s Master should the need arise. The devil you know and all that. This call must have meant that Denver wasn’t under attack and he didn’t need my help.

  “Sorry. I’m still a little twitchy, I guess.”

  “I don’t blame you. I’m just calling to see if you can do me a favor.”

  “If I can. If it’s reasonable.”

  “I hear you’re going to Las Vegas next weekend.”

  “You heard the show, did you?” I said.

  “It’s a great idea. But why Las Vegas? Why not LA or New York?”

  Why did I feel cornered by that question? Why did I start blushing? “Why not Las Vegas?”

  “You’re going to elope, aren’t you? You and Ben.”

  I turned flustered. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Congratulations, at any rate.”

  “Thanks. So what’s this favor?”

  “Can we meet somewhere?”

  I had this suspicion that vampires, at least the old ones, had an aversion to technology. Rick claimed to have known Coronado. On that scale, the telephone was still a flashy newfangled device. They preferred talking in person. Also, talking in person meant they could use their weird vampiric influence, a kind of hypnotism that left their victims foggy-brained and helpless.

  “Rick, I’m sorry, I don’t have time to go traipsing all over Denver. Can’t you just tell me?”

  “How about I stop by your office tomorrow evening?”

  He wasn’t going to let me say no. “Make it Monday evening. Don’t make me work on a weekend.”

  “Right. I’ll see you then.” He hung up.

  I drove home, annoyed. Eloping in Vegas was supposed to simplify matters, and here it was, turning into a circus. City hall was starting to look pretty good. My bad attitude went away, though, when I walked through the door and Ben greeted me with a kiss that lasted longer than I could hold my breath. I sank into his embrace.

  “The show sounded good,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  He listened to my show. He asked how my day was. This was why we were getting married. As if I needed reminding.

  I gave him a goofy smile. “I feel just great.”

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit that part of the attraction of eloping in Vegas meant not having to deal with the huge crowd of invitees—friends, family, coworkers, werewolves, and so on. Keep it simple. If we didn’t invite anyone, then everyone we knew could be offended equally.

  Unfortunately, my mother also listened to my show and could read between the lines better than anyone I knew. Almost, she was psychic, which was a terrifically scary thought. But it would explain a couple episodes in high school.

  We practically lived in the same town. Mom and Dad lived in the same house in the suburb they’d been in for the last twenty-five years, a short freeway trip away from the condo Ben and I shared. Still, Mom called every Sunday. I could almost set my watch to it. She liked to check up on things. It was comforting, in a way—I could never disappear without anyone noticing, because Mom would notice, sooner rather than later.

  When the phone rang on Sunday, I thought I was ready for it.

  “Hi, Kitty, it’s your mother.”

  “Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “Better now that they’ve stopped changing my medication every week. I seem to be approaching something resembling equilibrium.” The woman had cancer and yet managed to sound cheerful. She was turning into one of my heroes.

  “Cool. That’s great.”

  “How are the wedding plans coming?” She said this in the suggestive mother voice, with a wink-wink nudge-nudge behind the words. This was another reason to elope in Vegas: so my mother would stop grilling me every week about how the wedding plans were coming. I didn’t think I could deal with that tone of voice for the eight months it would take to plan a conventional wedding. But Ben was right. She’d kill me when she found out. I didn’t want to tell her.

  Why did I suddenly feel twelve years old again? “Um. . . okay. We haven’t really decided on anything yet. I figure we have time.”

  “I don’t know, you remember with Cheryl’s wedding, the photographer they wanted was booked a year in advance. You really have to take these things seriously.”

  My older sister Cheryl had had a big, traditional wedding. My pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress was hanging in one of Mom’s closets, cocooned in plastic, never to be worn again. I had vowed not to perpetrate pink taffeta on anyone.

  “You know, Mom. We’ve had one big wedding in the family. Ben and I were thinking of something a little smaller.”

  “How small?” she said, suspicious.

  “Um. . . city hall?” Just testing the waters.

  “Oh, you don’t really want to do that, do you? I remember at Cheryl’s wedding you were so jealous, you kept talking about how much bigger yours was going to be.”

  I didn’t remember that at all. “That was years ago, Mom. Things change.” You meet a scruffy lawyer who wouldn’t be at all happy with a big wedding. You become a werewolf who isn’t comfortable in crowds of people who look like they’re attacking you when all they want is a hug.

  “Well. You should at least pick a date so we can tell people what weekend to save.”

  Oh, why couldn’t I just tell the truth? This was going to get messy.

  “Mom, if we decide to do something a little. . . non
traditional. . . you promise you won’t be angry?”

  “It depends on how nontraditional. We’re not talking skydiving or nude or anything, are we?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. More traditionally non-traditional.” I winced. And yet I kept on digging that hole.

  “If you’re worried about the expense, your father and I are happy to help—”

  “No, that’s not it, either. I think it’s just that Ben and I aren’t very good at planning this sort of thing.”

  “Well, you know I’d be happy to—”

  That was exactly what I was afraid of. “No, no, that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. So how are Cheryl and the kids?”

  That successfully changed the subject, and we chatted on about the usual Sunday topics. We started to wrap up the conversation, which in itself was a drawn-out production. Finally, she said, “I heard about your Las Vegas show. That sounds like a fun time.”

  “Yes, it does.” I was wary. Like an animal who sensed a trap but couldn’t tell where it was.

  A long silence followed. Then, “You and Ben are going to elope, aren’t you?”

  She had to be psychic, it was the only explanation. Or she just knew me really, really well.

  I put on a happy voice. “It just sounds like so much fun.” I hoped I was convincing.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know her quite as well as she knew me. There seems to be a little part of our parents that we never understand. It’s like trying to imagine them before the kids, or finding out that they smoked pot in college. It both surprises you and doesn’t. Mom would react one of two ways: she’d either berate me and inflict an epic guilt trip, or she’d somehow turn my plan around and make it her own. Waiting for her answer was like waiting for a lottery drawing: have hope, expect disappointment.

  “How about this. . .” she started. A compromise. She’d suggest some small boutique wedding thing, like the daughter of a friend of hers did at Estes Park, which would still be wildly expensive and require planning and be socially acceptable. I waited for the pitch, but I was still going to tell her no.