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

“The show sounded good,” he said. “How do you feel?”

He listened to my show. He asked how my day was. This was why we were getting married. As if I needed reminding.

I gave him a goofy smile. “I feel just great.”

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that part of the attraction of eloping in Vegas meant not having to deal with the huge crowd of invitees—friends, family, coworkers, werewolves, and so on. Keep it simple. If we didn’t invite anyone, then everyone we knew could be offended equally.

Unfortunately, my mother also listened to my show and could read between the lines better than anyone I knew. Almost, she was psychic, which was a terrifically scary thought. But it would explain a couple episodes in high school.

We practically lived in the same town. Mom and Dad lived in the same house in the suburb they’d been in for the last twenty-five years, a short freeway trip away from the condo Ben and I shared. Still, Mom called every Sunday. I could almost set my watch to it. She liked to check up on things. It was comforting, in a way—I could never disappear without anyone noticing, because Mom would notice, sooner rather than later.

When the phone rang on Sunday, I thought I was ready for it.

“Hi, Kitty, it’s your mother.”

“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Better now that they’ve stopped changing my medication every week. I seem to be approaching something resembling equilibrium.” The woman had cancer and yet managed to sound cheerful. She was turning into one of my heroes.

“Cool. That’s great.”

“How are the wedding plans coming?” She said this in the suggestive mother voice, with a wink-wink nudge-nudge behind the words. This was another reason to elope in Vegas: so my mother would stop grilling me every week about how the wedding plans were coming. I didn’t think I could deal with that tone of voice for the eight months it would take to plan a conventional wedding. But Ben was right. She’d kill me when she found out. I didn’t want to tell her.

Why did I suddenly feel twelve years old again? “Um. . . okay. We haven’t really decided on anything yet. I figure we have time.”

“I don’t know, you remember with Cheryl’s wedding, the photographer they wanted was booked a year in advance. You really have to take these things seriously.”

My older sister Cheryl had had a big, traditional wedding. My pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress was hanging in one of Mom’s closets, cocooned in plastic, never to be worn again. I had vowed not to perpetrate pink taffeta on anyone.

“You know, Mom. We’ve had one big wedding in the family. Ben and I were thinking of something a little smaller.”

“How small?” she said, suspicious.

“Um. . . city hall?” Just testing the waters.

“Oh, you don’t really want to do that, do you? I remember at Cheryl’s wedding you were so jealous, you kept talking about how much bigger yours was going to be.”

I didn’t remember that at all. “That was years ago, Mom. Things change.” You meet a scruffy lawyer who wouldn’t be at all happy with a big wedding. You become a werewolf who isn’t comfortable in crowds of people who look like they’re attacking you when all they want is a hug.

“Well. You should at least pick a date so we can tell people what weekend to save.”

Oh, why couldn’t I just tell the truth? This was going to get messy.

“Mom, if we decide to do something a little. . . non

traditional. . . you promise you won’t be angry?”

“It depends on how nontraditional. We’re not talking skydiving or nude or anything, are we?”

“No, no, nothing like that. More traditionally non-traditional.” I winced. And yet I kept on digging that hole.

“If you’re worried about the expense, your father and I are happy to help—”

“No, that’s not it, either. I think it’s just that Ben and I aren’t very good at planning this sort of thing.”

“Well, you know I’d be happy to—”

That was exactly what I was afraid of. “No, no, that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. So how are Cheryl and the kids?”