Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (24 page)

“Either way you’ll be dead, which is all I want. I’m simply betting that your sunny disposition won’t let you take anyone else down with you. So how about it? Shall we be going?”

Wait a minute. She basically just told me she was going to kill me, and now she wanted me to stroll out of here with her or she’d fire into the crowd? But only after capping me first. I didn’t bother asking if she had silver bullets or not.

“You’re bluffing. You have to be bluffing.”

“You willing to make that gamble?”

My voice pitched higher, almost hysterical. “This is Vegas. Shouldn’t I be?”

I had a thought then: What if this were Cormac? If he were here, threatening to open fire in a crowded lobby unless I did as he asked, would I believe him? Did I really think he’d do it? No, of course not. But looking at Sylvia, she had something more than the cold, calculating, unwavering expression that I’d seen in Cormac when he was on a job, when he was about to kill—or had just killed—something. Someone. She had a fanatical glint to her expression, a berserker edge. I remembered what Brenda said: Sylvia didn’t play by rules. So yes, I believed if I pushed her, she would shoot me here.

I started walking, and she fell into step at my arm, and a little behind, guiding me out of the lobby and down the hallway to the elevators. She was half a head shorter than I was. I could totally take her. Right until she pulled that gun. I wondered what she planned on doing. Taking me to a room, maybe. Shooting me quietly, dumping me out with the trash. Or maybe taking me out to a car, driving out to the desert, out of sight of the thousands of surveillance cameras. No one would ever know.

I tried to keep her talking. People fired guns less when they talked. “Found a buyer, then, did you? Someone willing to put a hit on me? Because most people aren’t willing to go that far. I’m famous, you know.”

She sneered. “This one’s for the fun of it.”

“So,” I asked. “Does this mean you got Ben, too?”

“Why would we want him? I sure as hell don’t know what he sees in you, but I don’t have a beef with him.”

Which meant they didn’t know he was a werewolf, weren’t gunning for him, and hadn’t gotten to him. I should call Brenda.

I swallowed and kept my breathing steady. Kept Wolf settled. Had to think. “Cormac’ll go after you when he finds out about this. You know that.”

“Cormac’s in a box. There are ways of getting to him. You don’t actually think he’s safe in prison, do you?”

A million ways someone could die in prison, and no one would think it strange. God, what a mess. I couldn’t even warn him.

Had to run, had to fight, couldn’t just give up, had to do something. I could feel fur tickling the inside of my skin. Any minute now, I’d split open and Wolf would leap out. If I couldn’t save myself, she’d do it for me. That’s how it worked.

My breathing came too quickly, and I was sweating, even in the frigid air-conditioning. We were in a quiet hallway now. Boris walked about two dozen steps behind us. The doors we passed looked like they opened to utility closets or offices—locked in both cases, inaccessible as an escape route. Maybe once we got outside I could run.

We were near Odysseus Grant’s theater. I wondered. . .

There, around the corner, was the emergency exit I’d used when I sneaked backstage.

I bolted.

What did I have to lose? We were out of the crowd. She couldn’t hold the death of innocents over me anymore. I didn’t look back to see if she was drawing her gun or not. I had to get out of there and hope I could run faster than she could shoot. I could run fast. Wolf flowed through my veins.

Footsteps sounded behind me, but I was faster. I slammed into the door, shoving it open, and kept going. In a crack of thunder, drywall exploded behind me. Gunfire. She was actually crazy enough to shoot inside the hotel. But she only hit the wall. I sped up.

I thought I could lose her in the backstage maze, circle around, find another exit, get away. Call Evan and Brenda. Call the police. Anything.

I dodged into another hallway, painted black. Then I must have taken a wrong turn, because I ended up onstage, toward the back, looking out over an empty theater and the back of Grant’s equipment. The curtains were open, and Grant himself stood downstage. He looked like he was practicing with the Chinese rings, loops of silver interlocking, clicking as they linked and unlinked so quickly I couldn’t follow.

Then, because Wolf was at the front of my senses, because everything was sharp and brilliant and the world around me was moving a little bit slower—and maybe because I was standing behind him—I could see it. The ring in his hand never moved. He kept his grip on the same spot, always hiding it from the audience, and worked so quickly he only made it look like the rings changed places, linking together, slipping apart. Two of the rings were already connected, permanently, but he kept the joint hidden, so they looked like just two more rings hanging on his arm. And one of the other rings had a gap in it. He kept the gap hidden in his hand while slipping the other rings into and out of it. He handled them fluidly, perfectly. I never would have been able to tell, if I hadn’t caught that odd glimpse.

But it was still magic, because I certainly could never manipulate the trick as well as Grant. At least not without a lot of practice.

He turned around, as if alerted by the pressure of my gaze. The rings stopped and dangled from his hands instead of dancing. At first he seemed annoyed, scowling, but I must have looked desperate, flushed and out of breath, because he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m being followed, they want to kill me,” I said, pointing behind me. I sounded incoherent to my ears, but I didn’t have time to give any more detail.

He glanced over my shoulder, and I turned, afraid that Boris and Sylvia had sneaked up behind me. They hadn’t; only the two of us stood onstage. But I could hear breathing echoing among the rigging backstage. They were close.

Grant must have sensed it, too. He marched to the painted cabinet, sitting innocuously to the side. “If you would step in here for a moment.”

I laughed, a tad hysterically. “You’re going to hide me in your trick cabinet? You really think that’s going to fool them?”

“Please, just step in here. Everything’ll be fine.” He sounded like someone urging me to drink the Kool-Aid. “And whatever you do, don’t move.”

What the hell? Maybe it would actually work. I stepped in, and he closed the door, relegating me to darkness.

Cautiously, I felt around the inside of the cabinet. I didn’t know the trick of the device that made people seem to disappear. Grant hadn’t told me, so I couldn’t activate the mechanism, spring the trapdoor, or whatever. All I could do was stand there. I strained to listen but couldn’t hear what was going on outside. Had they found me? Was Grant able to put them off?

I barely had room to move. I felt the door in front of me, the two sides around me, inches from my arms. I took a step back, expecting to come up against the back of the box. Then I took another step, and another. Three steps back. I’d walked around the cabinet; it wasn’t that big. There couldn’t be that much room inside.

Shifting my arms, I felt for the sides—which weren’t there.

Looking around, I saw shadows. Which was impossible, because the box was pitch-dark—not a sliver of light passed inside. But I could now lift my arms, stretch them all the way out from my sides. My steps didn’t echo like they should have on the wood floor of a cabinet. I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a snow-covered forest and a lamppost. I didn’t see much of anything: shifting tones of gray, like clouds passing over a nighttime sky. A breeze touched my face, ruffling strands of my hair across my face. Which was impossible—I was inside a box.

And standing on a piece of ground, with dirt under my feet. The air had a strange scent, marshy, decayed, like a swamp, or an aquarium that needed cleaning. Algae, fish, and mud. I shivered with cold, and a dampness crept under my skin, touching my bones. I hugged myself.

Then something moved. I sensed it rather than saw it, a shifting on the ground, a displacement of air that brought with it a wave of a new smell, of rotted flesh. To my right, a darker shadow moved, a surface that gleamed in an unseen source of light. Something wet and boneless, creeping toward me. I wanted to scream and run. But I couldn’t do anything.

Three steps forward would take me back to the place I’d come from. But ahead of me lay only shadow. No box at all, no cabinet, no stage, no magician. This was altogether a different kind of magic. No tricks, no mirrors.

Hugging myself tightly, I closed my eyes and stepped forward. One, two, three, exactly the way I’d come from. The air closed in around me, but I couldn’t smell the wood of the cabinet, the sweat of the stage, not like I expected. I didn’t dare open my eyes, in case I didn’t see darkness but those same half-seen shadows.

Something touched my arm, and I screamed.

A hand closed over my mouth, and another hand—the one holding my arm—pulled me forward, out of the cabinet onto the stage. Odysseus Grant looked at me, looked into my eyes. I blinked back at him, astonished, relieved, and confused. I was frozen. Even my Wolf was quiet.

Something like a smile tugged at his lips. “I told you not to move,” he said.

“What—” I stammered. Couldn’t get my voice to work, which was weird. I swallowed and tried again. “What is that place?”

“It’s just a box,” he said. “A magical cabinet.”

He guided me to a chair at the side of the stage, which was good, because I hadn’t realized how wobbly my knees were until I sat down.

“They’re gone,” he said. “They should stay off your trail for a while, but you might want to lie low.”

I wasn’t sure I could manage that. Stifling a smile, I shook my head.

“How’d you get mixed up with them, anyway?”

“This is what happens when a werewolf finds herself at a gun show,” I said. “It was bound to happen sometime this weekend. Apart from that, it’s a long story.”

“You look like you could use a drink of water. Wait here—”

“No—don’t go. I’m okay, really. I just need to sit a minute.”

“All right.” He leaned on the wall nearby and drew a pack of cards from his pocket and startled shuffling.

I needed a few moments to catch my breath, that was all. But as soon as I left here, I’d be alone again. Pack instinct had kicked in. I needed someone at my back, and right now, Grant was it.

I shouldn’t trust him. I didn’t know any more about him and his motives than I did about Balthasar. The door to the cabinet was still open. The prop loomed, but all I could see inside was darkness. That was all that was there, wasn’t it?

I said, “The box. It’s not perfectly safe inside, is it?”

“No. Not perfectly.”

“It’s not a cabinet. It’s a doorway.”

His expression didn’t change. He wore a wry, uncommunicative smile, and his gaze focused on his cards. He continued shuffling the deck, a different way each time, a dozen different methods that made the cards a blur.

“Who are you really?” I said.

“I suppose,” he said, “my act is exactly that—an act. You might say my real job is to be a gatekeeper. A guardian.”

“For what’s in there?” I took his silence as assent. Gateway, indeed. A doorway into yet another world, as if the current one hadn’t become complicated enough. I asked, “What’s in there?”

“Have you ever read Lovecraft?”

“No,” I said.

He made a wry face. “Never mind, then. Is there someone who can come get you? Someone you can stay with, in case those two come looking for you again?”

I had to shake myself from a spell. Reality was returning. . . slowly. I remembered: I’d been coming to see Grant anyway before the two bounty hunters waylaid me.

“Not at the moment. I was sort of coming to see you about that.”

He’d moved on to doing tricks with the deck of cards. He displayed a card—the three of spades—slid it back in the middle of the deck, shuffled, tapped the top of the deck, flipped the top card over. The three of spades. Shuffle, pick a card—ace of hearts this time—shuffled it back in, tap, and there it was. He did the sleight of hand another dozen times, producing a dozen cards on cue. His fingers seemed to move by instinct, as if they had minds of their own, working in a graceful, choreographed dance.

“I understand you can make people reappear after they’ve vanished,” I said.

“Given the right circumstances.”

“Trapdoors and hidden mirrors?”

“Something like that. You’re missing someone?”

“Friend of mine.” I paused, ducked my gaze. No need to be cagey, I supposed. “My fiancé. And don’t tell me he probably got cold feet and ditched me.”

“What happened?”

I told him.

Grant said, “It sounds like a perfectly mundane set of circumstances. I’m sure the mundane solutions—the police—will find him.”

He couldn’t help me. I wasn’t surprised. I’d just wanted to try everything. Leave no stone unturned. Time to hit the streets, then. But I didn’t want to leave. Somehow, even with his icy blue stare and the box that opened into a world of weirdness, I felt safe here. Feeling safe—that was a different kind of sexy. You got to a point where Prince Reliable was so much more attractive than Prince Charming. The thrill of living on the edge versus the warm glow of being cocooned and adored.

“Yeah, the cops’ll find him. But in one piece?” I sighed and looked away. “I’m sorry. I guess I believed those stories that there’s something. . . different about you a little too much. Box notwithstanding.”

“Do you know how wealthy I’d be if I could make people appear just by snapping my fingers?”

I snapped. “Poof, here’s Jimmy Hoffa?”

“Exactly. I’m not willing to pay the price for that kind of magic.”

I narrowed my gaze. “But that kind of magic exists?”

“What do you think?”

I thought that over the last few years I’d seen a lot of things that the rational mind said were impossible. A lot of magic. My whole life had become a mission to chronicle the impossible. It was how I kept myself anchored to some kind of reality, in a world where werewolves were real and I was one of them.