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

“May I ask why?” I said, annoyed.

Grant nodded toward the theater. “It’s intriguing, isn’t it? It’s less a trained-animal show than a dance.”

“Yeah. Kind of,” I said. “When you know what to look for. Otherwise it looks like magic. Kind of like your act.”

His smile lasted the length of a blink. “Balthasar has certainly taken an interest in you.”

“What’s your problem with him? Why the warning? It seems like they’re just my kind of people—lycanthropes using their abilities to make their way in the world. Turning lemons into lemonade and all that.”

His expression revealed nothing. It was his stage face. “One wonders how a wolf would do in an act like that.”

Not well, I’d guess. “I’m not looking for another career. I have enough shameless exhibitionism in the one I have. Why are you so interested in what happens to me?”

“Balthasar, his people—they’re not what they seem.”

“Look, instead of a vague warning why can’t you just tell me why you don’t like them? Give me some information here.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

Exasperated, I flung my arms and shouted, “I’m a freaking werewolf! Try me!”

He was already turning away to leave.

He was trying to raise more questions about the performers in Balthasar’s show. Where did they come from? Why no wolves? If I wanted to be smug I’d say wolves were too smart to put up with that sort of thing. But wolves were more pack driven than cats and should have been naturals for a group like this. They were also wilder. I’d never heard of a trained wolf in a circus. There are no wolves in Vegas, Dom said, because it wasn’t wild enough.

What I really needed to do about all this was a bunch of research: dig up biographies, figure out where Grant learned his trade, trace Balthasar back and try to learn when he’d been infected with lycanthropy, when he started his show, and if anyone had ever guessed his secret. All that would require a stack of old newspapers, a few hours with a microfiche machine, an Internet connection, and all that good old-fashioned detective work. I was supposed to be on vacation. I was supposed to be getting married.

I decided to let it go. Whatever was going on here, whatever animosity existed between Grant and Balthasar, had started long before I got here and would most likely continue after, no matter what I did about it. Which meant it could all wait until I got back home, and I needed material for the show during a slow week.

Just this once, curiosity was not going to get this Kitty.

I had a sudden urge to see Ben. I wanted his smell in my lungs.

With only a couple of hours left before our appointment at the chapel, I went back to the room to shower and change. I had my dress, a kicky, sexy number with a short skirt and high heels. A dress that screamed I’m getting married in Vegas. How often would I get to wear a dress like that?

The rest of the night would be mine. Mine and Ben’s. I could relax. I could get married. Forget about all the weirdness. I could just be a normal person, at least for a few hours. Be a giddy newlywed.

Six was fast approaching. I’d changed into my spiffy new dress, and I looked good. But still no Ben. I tried not to pace, or tap my feet, or bite my fingernails off. Instead, I turned on the TV and compulsively flipped channels. When my phone rang, I nearly fell off the bed. Pouncing on it like it was a rabbit, I checked the display.

“Hello?” I said, and my voice squeaked.

“Is this Kitty Norville?” said an unfamiliar male voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I’m Detective Mike Gladden. I’m with the Las Vegas Police Department. Do you know Ben O’Farrell?”

My stomach dropped, my spine froze, and a million nightmare scenarios played out in my mind. What had happened to him? I shouldn’t have let him go, I should have pitched a fit, I should have—

“What’s happened?” I said. I hoped my voice sounded steady and not terrified. It seemed to take forever for Gladden to answer. All I could hear was my breathing until he spoke.

“Ma’am, Mr. O’Farrell has disappeared.”

Chapter 12

I arrived at the Olympus casino’s security offices in ten minutes. Less. Time had gone a bit wonky, moving both too fast and too slow. The elevator dragged. But part of me didn’t want to get there at all. I didn’t want to find out what had happened.

When I came through the door, a G-man-looking guy in a suit intercepted me and stared at me like I’d turned green.