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

At least it wasn’t Brutus.

I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.

Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.

“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise, wasn’t it?”

“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.

That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.

Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”

“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”

If only Boris knew. . . I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.

“I’m her lawyer.”

That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.

Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”

“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”

The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.

Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.

Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“You here for the show?”

“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”

“I certainly do,” he said, without elaborating. But he kept giving me that look, like he was wincing at me through a gun sight. It made my skin crawl.

“We should probably get going.” Ben turned to me, raised a questioning brow, as if I’d had any part of this conversation.

“Probably,” I said.

“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you around. You take care,” Boris said.

We watched him go, walking through the lobby and out the front entrance of the hotel. Ben let out a sigh.

I said, “Who the heck is that and how do you know him?”

“That’s Boris,” he said. “Same line of work as Cormac. It’s a pretty small circle, everybody knows everybody. I’ve represented half of them in court at one time or another.”

That’s my honey, lawyer to the scary. “Have you represented him?”

“Hell, no,” Ben said, frowning. “He’s bad news.”