Kitty Raises Hell (Kitty Norville 6)

“Please. It shouldn’t be opened. It’s sealed like that for a reason.”

“Why? It’s not radioactive, is it?”

“It, uh, has the breath of Elvis inside?”

The expression on his face changed, subtly. The lines around his eyes grew softer, the hard edges of his frown vanished. It was a shift from a “dealing with crazy people” look to a “dealing with crazy but harmless people” look.

I’d take that.

He put the bottle in the little box, the little box in the big box, not bothering to arrange the packing or reseal the tape. He handed the box back to me, with crushed newspaper spilling out the top. “You folks have a nice flight.”

“Thank you,” I said around gritted teeth. Quickly, we retreated. I didn’t even pause to rearrange the packing. Time enough to do that while we waited to board—which was in about ten minutes, thanks to Mr. Vigilant.

“So,” Ben said. “That went well.”

I glared at him.

It was near dawn when Peter met us at Las Vegas’s McCarran Airport in Grant’s car. He seemed to be in a rush. Excited, at least. Positively gleeful, like a plan was coming together. We climbed into the car’s backseat.

“Is that it?” He nodded at the box.

“Yeah,” I said. “So what’s the plan? What’s Grant cooking up?”

Grinning, he shook his head. “I think Odysseus Grant is the freakiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s so cool.”

I glared. “You’re having way too much fun, Peter. What’s going on?”

“Grant said to tell you to just be ready with the jar.”

I hated all this man-of-mystery crap.

Even at this hour, Las Vegas was overstimulating. The Strip, the main street, home to all the mega hotel resorts and most of the crowds, was all lights, bleached slightly by the first hint of the rising sun. I had to squint against the glare. It was like a giant parade that had stalled out in the desert.

We turned a corner, crossed the Strip, and continued toward a great concrete ziggurat.

Ben groaned. “We’re not going where I think we’re going.”

But yes, we were. The Hanging Gardens Hotel and Resort, home of the Balthasar, King of Beasts Show, now fronted by Nick, since were-lion Balthasar died in a blaze of silver-bulleted gunfire. Right before he tried to sacrifice me on his unholy fake altar. We were heading toward where this whole sleigh ride started.

Peter pulled into the drive and handed the keys to the valet parking guy. He barely broke stride while collecting his ticket, turning to us, and saying, “We need to hurry.”

“But what are we doing?”

“You’ll see.”

I held the box under one arm, and held Ben’s arm with the other, as we followed Peter. He walked briskly, almost jogging through the lobby and past the tourists and gamblers and noise. I was so focused I barely registered the area. I was in hunting mode, and the prey was in sight.

Peter led us to the King of Beasts theater, then to a side door. It was unlocked. We went in, and before us was the stage, just as it looked at the end of the show: torches, palm trees, vegetation dripping off the backdrop of a giant fake ziggurat, like we’d landed in some lost jungle temple. I’d seen

the show—way up close. It was on this stage and setting that the cult of Tiamat had tried to kill me.

Now Odysseus Grant stood downstage center, next to a six-and-a-half-foot-high coffinlike box, painted black and covered with faded decorations, vines and flowers, arcane symbols. Part of his magic show, he put people inside and made them disappear. He always brought them back—during the show, at least.

I knew better than to ask how he’d managed to get the box here from his own theater at the Diablo Hotel, at least a mile away. Grant just did things.

Ben hadn’t seen any of this. He’d just heard the aftermath stories. He stopped halfway down the aisle and stared at the setting, agog.

“When I said this was fucked up, that was an understatement,” he said.