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

Well, there was an explanation, at any rate. Lycanthropic sacrifice to an ancient Mesopotamian goddess was off the scale even for my usual explanations. But I explained, in detail this time.

I finished, and after a pause Ben said, “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“But nothing happened. Between you and that guy.”

“What do you mean, nothing happened? He wanted to rape me.”

“But. . . never mind.” He settled his arms more firmly around me.

He wasn’t getting out of it that easy. I propped myself on my elbows so I was looking down on him, into his sparkling hazel eyes.

“Are you asking if I liked it?”

He smirked. “Clearly you didn’t. Even if he was hot.”

I glared at him. “What about you? What happened to you? And why do you smell like. . . like. . .” It hit me, all those smells, all those women. “Were you in a strip club or something?”

Was that a guilty look in his eyes?

“Actually, it was. . . I guess you’d call it a brothel. That’s where Faber was holding me.”

We did have a lot to talk about, didn’t we? “But nothing happened,” I said. “You didn’t. . . do anything.”

He brushed hair out of my face; his touch tingled on my skin. We lay together, heartbeat to heartbeat. “Nothing happened,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

I could smell him, and the faint trace of otherness I’d sensed on him before was gone. All I smelled on him now was him, the pack, and me.

“Yes,” I said. “I can smell that nothing happened.”

“Me, too.”

I kissed him, happy to have him close to me again. “You’re going to have to stop doing that, running off and getting in trouble and making me worry about you. What the hell happened? Why did those guys kidnap you at all?”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Well—”

His cell phone rang. He reached for it, and I flopped aside, face into a pillow.

“Yeah? Oh, really? Give us ten minutes.” He shook my shoulder. “That was Evan. He wants us to meet him at the patio bar at the Hanging Gardens. He says we don’t want to miss this.”

“I need a vacation from my vacation,” I said, moaning into the pillow.

“If Evan says this is going to be good, it’s going to be good. Come on, sunshine.” He kissed my shoulder. He was kind of hard to resist, in the end.

So ten minutes later, still looking rather the worse for wear in our disheveled shirts and jeans and mussed hair—like it wouldn’t be obvious we’d been interrupted—we arrived at the patio bar overlooking the front entrance of the Hanging Gardens.

Evan and Brenda had claimed a table with a full view of the hotel drive, including the half a dozen police cars and vans lined up. The flashing blue and red lights were hypnotic. Brenda had her club soda with lime, Evan had a tumbler of whiskey. Wasn’t it a little early in the morning for this? Actually, my brain had been left somewhere behind last night. And it wasn’t tomorrow until the sun rose. I could sure use a drink.

“Thought you’d want to see this,” Evan said, gesturing us to the empty chairs.

We sat, and Brenda pushed a second whiskey to Ben and a margarita to me. Suddenly, she was my best friend. I beamed and took a sip. Maybe everything would turn out all right, after all.

Evan continued. “The police have been swarming the theater for the last hour or so. They found five bodies brutally shot and killed. Including Balthasar.”

My heart skipped a little at that. I’d really wanted to like him. I’d wanted him to be a good guy.

I’d wondered what had happened after Grant spirited me out of there. It had to be a mess. Preoccupied with my own situation, I hadn’t thought about the aftermath and who’d be cleaning it up. I wondered when someone would call me about where I’d been and what I’d been doing.