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

“No. But I have a friend who’s a dealer over there, and she’s got a couple of stories.”

“I might have to get her number from you.”

“Then there’s this magic act over at the Diablo. Really straightforward, the usual stuff. Card tricks, people vanishing, that sort of thing.”

The hair on my neck started to stand up, because my instincts had already guessed what she was going to say. “And?” I prompted.

“Some people say when he does those tricks, it’s real. Not sleight of hand—the things actually happen.”

Once upon a time, I would have laughed. I’d have written off a story like that as sensationalist bunk. This magician started these rumors about himself as a way to attract publicity. Then five years ago, I was attacked by a werewolf and infected with lycanthropy. I’d had to acknowledge a lot of unlikely realities: vampires, werewolves, psychics. And magic. Exploring these topics had become the bread and butter of my show.

“You’ve seen his act?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said in a way that made it clear that she was one of those people who might actually believe.

“Why do people think he’s really doing magic?”

“Just go see him. You could probably catch the afternoon show.”

“Okay. I’ll check it out.”

She looked back at her clipboard and the endless checklist. “We need you to pick what furniture you want. We brought in a couple of chairs and sofas. But you’re from radio—do you even have a style?”

“Maybe it’s about time I find one.”

I made a few phone calls. First, Ben. He answered this time.

“Hey, Kitty,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I can’t talk long, but I got your message.”

“And should I be worried?” I said.

“I don’t think so. She was probably just sizing you up. If she were really after you, you wouldn’t have seen her at all.”

“Why isn’t that entirely comforting?”

“Oh—the break’s up. Listen—I’m in a satellite game for this tourney and I think I may actually be winning. But I have to go.”

So he probably didn’t want to come see a magic show with me. But he sounded excited. And hey—winning. That was good, right?

“Can I at least make dinner reservations?” I said.

“Sure. I’ll see you then.”

My next call was to make those reservations, and the call after that was to the Diablo, to see if this show still had tickets left, and it did. I took a cab over there.

The Diablo’s theme seemed to evoke the seedy underbelly of a Mexican resort town. All polished and made nice for the tourists, of course, so no drug pushers or out-of-control spring breakers. I did spot a few girls going wild. The cocktail waitresses wore leopard-print skirts. The rest of it was almost carnival-like, lots of reds, lots of lights, lots of garish. And like every other casino, too much noise, too many people. I couldn’t even smell anything anymore.

Odysseus Grant didn’t bill himself as a magician who really worked magic. That would have made him sound like every other magician who’d ever pulled a rabbit out of his hat over the last hundred years. All of them were “real,” inviting their audiences to guess how else they could evoke such impossible illusions.

Instead, Grant advertised himself as “classic.” Retro, even. No sequined purple leisure suit for him. No rock soundtrack, no fireworks, no making 747s disappear, no ultra-high-tech stunts. His show’s poster, hanging in the lobby of the Diablo, displayed a photograph of a man in his late thirties, dressed in an elegant tuxedo. He held a deck of cards fanned in his hands. A serious expression creased his face, as if he was saving the world and not performing a card trick. He might as well have stepped out of a vaudeville broadsheet.

I was intrigued. I’d see the show, then try to talk to him after.

Even the theater was retro: red plush seats lined up in rows before a proscenium stage, thick red curtains hanging on either side. Blue-and-gold-painted art deco trim and light fixtures decorated the side walls. The effect was warm and enticing; I felt like I was being drawn into another world and was ready to watch with wide-eyed wonder.

I didn’t think I’d be able to tell if Odysseus Grant’s magic was real or not. I knew vaguely how some of the tricks worked: sleight of hand, mirrors, hidden pockets, fake thumbs. But I didn’t obsess over it. I hadn’t studied it. Usually, I was perfectly willing to suspend my disbelief and let the illusions work on me. This time, I planned to watch Grant, study him, to see if I could tell. Make sure I was looking where he didn’t want me to, to spot the palmed cards. If I couldn’t, though, I was right back where I started: just because it looked like magic didn’t mean it was.

Being a werewolf gave me some advantages: heightened smell, hearing, speed, strength. I could walk into a crowded bar with my eyes closed and tell if a friend of mine was there. But I couldn’t tell real magic from a trick. I wasn’t psychic, telepathic, or clairvoyant. I couldn’t read auras or ley lines. I was just a big scary monster. Well, I was sort of a monster trapped in an average blond female body.