Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (Kitty Norville 5)

I gave my evilest smile. People probably thought it was cute. “It’s nice. Can you tell me why you thought it was a good idea to schedule this in the same hotel as a gun show?”

She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be a big deal. The convention has the ballroom and a floor of conference rooms. The theater and everything around it is ours.”

“It’s just”—how could I explain this, without sounding like a loon?—“it makes me nervous. Some people who go to. . . things like that have what you might call a prejudice against people like me.”

Erica—the black woman—gave me a seriously ironic look, and I felt like a heel. I glanced at the ceiling for a moment and tried to sound more coherent. “Let’s just say that whole silver-bullet thing is for real, and I’m willing to bet someone in that ballroom is selling silver bullets.”

The ironic look didn’t go away, and I had to wonder if she was one of those people who, despite the evidence, couldn’t let go of a lifetime of believing this stuff was nothing more than campfire tales. This was the strange thing about being a werewolf in modern America. I’d been outed. The whole supernatural world—vampires, lycanthropes, more unbelie

vable things—had been acknowledged as existing by the government. I’d been filmed transforming into a wolf on live television. And some people still didn’t believe. Or didn’t want to believe. They still looked at me like I was crazy when I talked about it. Though to be honest, it was probably either that or run screaming.

But Erica wasn’t one of those. Better yet, she wasn’t freaked out. She just thought it was funny. “You’re a werewolf—how are you afraid of anything?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said, wearing a thin smile.

“We’ll have security on the job,” she said. “We’ll get extra security if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t feel any better. I’d just have to muddle through. I’d been in way scarier situations than this, right? Surely this was one of those times when my paranoia was running away with me. Besides, I had a show to put on.

Erica walked across the stage, gesturing as she explained how the setup would work. “We’ve got everything in place but the phones. Ozzie put me through to your sound guy, what’s his name, Matt? He says you’ve done remote work before and can walk us through getting the calls transferred. Not to mention coaching the screener. But you know, I’ve listened to your show: do you actually have screeners?”

“Believe it or not.”

“You have a backup plan if something goes wrong with the phones?”

“I usually have a rant or two I can pull out. And some interviews with guests. I can probably squeeze in one or two more if I find someone good.”

“Who do you have so far?” she said.

“I found this Elvis impersonator who was born the same day Presley died—within the hour—and he claims to be the King reincarnated. Wild, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard of that guy. He tried to sell the network the tape of his session with a past-life-regression therapist. We weren’t buying. You can do better than that.”

That was exactly what I was hoping she’d say. Always ask the locals about the good stories. I tried to look skeptical. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Where to start. You know the good stuff never gets the publicity, right?”

“And why is that?”

“Who’d believe it?”

“Oh. I’d believe it.”

She crouched down by the edge of the stage and started counting off on her fingers. “First off, this town is filled with vampires. Absolutely crawling with them. This place is perfect for them—nothing ever shuts down, right?”

“How do you know they’re vampires?”

“Even before the NIH outed all you guys, I called those creeps vampires. They hang around in bars looking for all the depressed and beaten-down people who’ve lost all their money. Easy pickings. There’s nothing else to explain why people that sexy would hit on such losers.”

“I’m intrigued. I’ll check it out.” And maybe they could help me get Rick’s message to Dom.

“Second, you know anything about the history of Vegas? How it got to be the way it is?”

“A little. All about the Mob and Frank Sinatra, right?”

“Bugsy Siegel built the Flamingo, one of the first big casinos. The latest version of it is still right here on the Strip. But he was also up to his neck in the Mob, and he pissed off the wrong guys. So bang, they kill him. And the story is he’s still here, haunting the garden at the Flamingo.” She raised a suggestive brow.

“That’s so cool,” I said. Spooky, even. I could imagine a slick gangster in a fedora lingering under the palm trees. “You ever see him yourself?”