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

He gave me another of those “that’s a silly question” looks. Grim-faced, he watched traffic sliding along the Strip. Even at this hour, there was traffic.

“Chaos is everywhere,” he said. “It would swallow us all, if it could.”

We passed the Hanging Gardens on our way to the Olympus. Police cars, four or five of them, lights flashing, blocked most of the entrance. Investigating gunshots in the theater, no doubt. I felt sorry for the cop who had to write up that report.

We pulled into the drive in front o

f the entrance of the Olympus. I opened the door and started to thank Grant, when he said, “I didn’t see any sign of your friend in that place. But I’m sure he’s all right.”

I stared at my hands. My bare hands. “I lost my ring. When I shifted, probably. It’s probably still at that temple.” It was almost the last straw. Almost, I wanted to simply curl up under the covers of my bed and never come out again.

“Check your left pocket,” Grant said.

I did. All the way at the bottom, my fingers brushed something metal. Something small. When I pulled it out, I had my engagement ring, safe and sound. A diamond on a white gold band. White gold that looked like silver because Ben thought it was funny. I almost cried.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Everything will work out.” He smiled and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Someone was walking up the sidewalk, scruffy and lanky, looking even worse than I did. But I knew him. I’d know him anywhere.

I could only flash Grant a grin before leaping out of his car and running.

Ben and I stopped with about three paces left between us. Not quite falling-into-his-arms distance. He wore what I last saw him in yesterday morning, but a bloody splotch covered the left side of the shirt. It was mostly dried and crusty now, but it smelled ripe.

I stared. “You’ve been shot.”

He smiled tiredly. “And you should have seen the look on the guy’s face when I didn’t fall down.”

“Oh my God, Ben.” I fell into his arms, bloody shirt and all. His arms closed tightly around me. We stood like that for a long time, resting in each other’s embrace, smelling each other’s scent. I couldn’t guess where he’d been, he gave off such a mixed-up mess of smells, like a gangster movie if you could smell a gangster movie: sweat in a closed, hot room; blood; cigar smoke; booze. Women—other women. Hmm. . .

After a moment he looked at me, his brow furrowed. “You smell like you’ve been running around with a bunch of were-somethings. You smell like you just shifted. Where have you been?”

We must have been looking at each other with exactly the same befuddled expression. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“You first.”

I sighed. “It’s a long story. And you?”

“Same. You know what?”

“What?”

“I hate this town.”

Chapter 18

It was true. Something about the adrenaline spike of extreme danger and a near-death experience could give a mega-boost to a person’s sex drive. Ben and I retreated to our hotel room with the intention of cleaning up and changing clothes, and ended up tangled in bed together, enthusiastically reasserting our identities as a mated alpha pair.

It didn’t make the rest of the world go away.

I lay half on top of him, my head pillowed on his chest, clinging to him with arms and legs, catching my breath. He held me close, one hand woven in my hair, the other braced around my hips. I could feel his own heavy breathing against my scalp.

Then he said, “Okay. Tell me again how you ended up smelling like the King of Beasts show and wearing Odysseus Grant’s shirt.”

“That does seem pretty compromising when you put it that way.”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.”