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

“It’s you,” he said. His smile lit up his face. My heart skipped a beat.

We watched each other for another bemused moment. Then I had the agonizing thought, I’m a cradle robber. This kid’s too young for me. I’d never thought that about a guy before, and it made me feel old. But it was true. I kind of wanted to take him out for ice cream.

“Er. . . I really need to talk to Balthasar. He suggested I should stop by and talk to you guys. You know, in person. Human-like.” I swore I’d have been wagging my tail, if I’d had one at the moment. This was ridiculous.

Then Balthasar sauntered up behind Avi. And he looked even better than Avi. He was plenty old enough for me. He wore a rumpled dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. He was also barefoot.

“Kitty,” he said. “What a surprise.”

He didn’t say nice surprise, which left me wincing. “I’m sorry, I should have called first. But I really need to talk to you.”

“It’s fine,” he said, chuckling. “It’s good to see you. Are you married yet?”

“No. In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“I’ve never met a werewolf before,” Avi said, beaming. “I can smell it.” He glanced at Balthasar, as if for confirmation. “It’s different.”

“Werewolf and female,” he said, studying my curves under the dress. “Exotic all the way around.”

I couldn’t tell if I was blushing from being tipsy or from being flirted at. I hoped my smile managed to be polite instead of silly. “Not really. There’s lots more where I come from.”

Balthasar opened the door wide. “Why don’t you come in? You can meet the others, and we can all talk.”

The two invited me in. Avi closed the door behind me.

It hit me that I was walking into the heart of another lycanthrope’s territory. That sobered me up. No one was acting threatening or aggressive, but I started to pay more attention. I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder to the closed door.

We continued to the inner room of the suite.

I had to say this much: Avi didn’t act like he was a prisoner, or here under duress. He didn’t seem tense or wary, and he held himself with the same graceful ease that his leopard persona had displayed. I had to wonder: how did a teenager get himself in a position to be bitten by a were-leopard? Maybe I could get him to tell me the story.

The first room—a large foyer, maybe, but I wanted to think of it as a great hall—was open, with a low ceiling. Chairs and sofas were low to the ground and piled with cushions. They looked fluffy and comfortable enough to jump on. A thick red carpet muffled footfalls. Columns painted lapis blue and trimmed in gold supported the ceiling at regular intervals. Sconce-style lamps on the walls cast warm, gold light. The closest thing I’d ever seen to this was a fancy Moroccan restaurant.

The place must have been designed by the same people who did the whole hotel. Murals covered the walls, line drawings done in such detail I thought they were printed wallpaper at first. But they’d been painted in dark lines on beige backgrounds, so that they almost seemed like stone carvings. Processions marched away on either side of me: men and women, life-size, in single file, staring forward, fists clenched. The motifs seemed ancient. The figures had the curling beards and tall hats of Babylonian kings. They weren’t all fully human. They had human faces, but the bodies of lions, bulls, deer, even birds.

Some lycanthropes believed that our disease—whatever made us what we are—had its origin in the very beginnings of civilization, from a time when people were closer to nature, when people and animals talked to each other, like in so many of the old stories. We bridged the space between them, reminded people of that time. It was an optimistic, environmentally friendly attitude toward lycanthropy.

Other people—a little less nice, a little more inclined to believe in a vengeful God—believed we were spawn of the devil.

Maybe that was why I preferred to think of this as a disease. A strange disease, but still quantifiable. Because if lycanthropy was a disease, it meant I was just unlucky. Not part of a giant cosmic scheme I had no control over, not to mention no knowledge of.

The smell of the room washed over me, brilliant as any color or light. They were unfamiliar, undomesticated scents: not just the human-mixed-with-fur smell of lycanthrope, the smell of skin covering something wild. This was even more animal. Like the fur covered skin instead, and nothing tempered the animal side of the equation. It was the smell of instinct, of fighting for food, for space. Communication happened through scent—not just pissing to mark territory. Fear, anger, joy, lust, all had their own scents. A lot of emotion had been spent in this place. A lot of hunger, meaty and ripe.

Balthasar gestured, taking in the decor around us. “What do you think?”

“I like it. Not sure I’d want my own living room to look like this, but it’s. . . exotic.” I’d almost said sexy. “The figures—what are they? Babylonian?”

“Right in one,” he said, nodding in acknowledgment. “Do you know the old stories?”

“Some of them. Daniel and the Lion’s Den—the version where he’s a were-lion. The Epic of Gilgamesh. Mostly through modern interpretations in English lit classes and all.”

“There’s a lot we can learn from the ancients. In some ways, those were better times.”

“I don’t know, I sort of like modern medicine, TV, women being able to own property and vote. All the modern conveniences.”

“I did say in some ways.” He moved closer. I probably wouldn’t be able to just step out of his grasp. Goose bumps traveled up my arms. But I didn’t move away from him.

Behind my shoulder now, he looked at the murals, the procession on the wall, and pointed. A row of smaller, human figures lined up before a throne, where a lion-bodied god crouched and accepted the offerings, the boxes and jars they set before him. “There was a power in those times. We hide ourselves now. Then, the gods and their servants were painted on every wall, for all to see. The statues stood guard at the gates of every city. How do you think it would be, to be celebrated by your society instead of looked on as a curse? To be an avatar of the gods?” His voice was hypnotic.