Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (3 page)

While I was walking out of the KNOB building, not half an hour after the end of the show, my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Kitty. It’s Rick.”

I groaned, because while I liked Rick, him calling meant trouble. Rick was the newly minted vampire Master of Denver. I was still getting used to the idea. Still trying to figure out if he was going to stay the nice, interesting guy he’d been before—even if he was a five-hundred-year-old vampire—or if he was going to get all pretentious and haughty. I’d just touched the surface of vampire politics. It was like any other politics, bitchy clique, or virulent board meeting. Vampires may have been immortal, but they were still human, and most of them still acted like it when it came to organizing themselves. But with vampires, the players involved could stretch their Machiavellian intrigue over centuries. The Long Game, they called it, predictably. On some levels it made them myopic. On others, it made them incomprehensible.

He chuckled. “It’s nothing serious, I promise.”

Which actually was helpful, since I’d basically agreed to help keep him as Denver’s Master should the need arise. The devil you know and all that. This call must have meant that Denver
wasn’t
under attack and he
didn’t
need my help.

“Sorry. I’m still a little twitchy, I guess.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m just calling to see if you can do me a favor.”

“If I can. If it’s reasonable.”

“I hear you’re going to Las Vegas next weekend.”

“You heard the show, did you?” I said.

“It’s a great idea. But why Las Vegas? Why not LA or New York?”

Why did I feel cornered by that question? Why did I start blushing? “Why not Las Vegas?”

“You’re going to elope, aren’t you? You and Ben.”

I turned flustered. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Congratulations, at any rate.”

“Thanks. So what’s this favor?”

“Can we meet somewhere?”

I had this suspicion that vampires, at least the old ones, had an aversion to technology. Rick claimed to have known Coronado. On that scale, the telephone was still a flashy newfangled device. They preferred talking in person. Also, talking in person meant they could use their weird vampiric influence, a kind of hypnotism that left their victims foggy-brained and helpless.

“Rick, I’m sorry, I don’t have time to go traipsing all over Denver. Can’t you just tell me?”

“How about I stop by your office tomorrow evening?”

He wasn’t going to let me say no. “Make it Monday evening. Don’t make me work on a weekend.”

“Right. I’ll see you then.” He hung up.

I drove home, annoyed. Eloping in Vegas was supposed to simplify matters, and here it was, turning into a circus. City hall was starting to look pretty good. My bad attitude went away, though, when I walked through the door and Ben greeted me with a kiss that lasted longer than I could hold my breath. I sank into his embrace.

“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. . . nontraditional. . . 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?”

That successfully changed the subject, and we chatted on about the usual Sunday topics. We started to wrap up the conversation, which in itself was a drawn-out production. Finally, she said, “I heard about your Las Vegas show. That sounds like a fun time.”

“Yes, it does.” I was wary. Like an animal who sensed a trap but couldn’t tell where it was.

A long silence followed. Then, “You and Ben are going to elope, aren’t you?”

She had to be psychic, it was the only explanation. Or she just knew me really, really well.

I put on a happy voice. “It just sounds like so much fun.” I hoped I was convincing.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know her quite as well as she knew me. There seems to be a little part of our parents that we never understand. It’s like trying to imagine them before the kids, or finding out that they smoked pot in college. It both surprises you and doesn’t. Mom would react one of two ways: she’d either berate me and inflict an epic guilt trip, or she’d somehow turn my plan around and make it her own. Waiting for her answer was like waiting for a lottery drawing: have hope, expect disappointment.

“How about this. . .” she started. A compromise. She’d suggest some small boutique wedding thing, like the daughter of a friend of hers did at Estes Park, which would still be wildly expensive and require planning and be socially acceptable. I waited for the pitch, but I was still going to tell her no.

Then she said, “Why don’t your father and I come along?”

I opened my mouth to argue but made no sound. It was a free country. I couldn’t stop her from going to Las Vegas. And as compromises went, it wasn’t bad. Somehow, though, the idea of eloping in Las Vegas sounded a whole lot less sexy with your mother along for the ride.

“That’s okay, Mom, you really don’t have to—”

“Oh, no, it’ll be fun. And you’re right, one big wedding is probably enough for a family. You should do something different. Why don’t I call Cheryl to see if she wants to come along, and I imagine Mark’s folks would be happy to look after the kids for a few days—”

Well. At least there’d still be a pool and froufrou drinks.

T
hat rule about vampires not being able to enter a place without being invited was true. What the rule didn’t say is that it applied only to private residences. Public places, like office buildings, for example, were free and clear. An hour or so after dark—enough time to wake up, dress, maybe grab a bite, literally, from one of his willing donors, and drive over here—Rick appeared in the doorway of my office without any fanfare.

“Hello,” he said, and I jumped, because I hadn’t heard him coming. It was like he appeared out of thin air, and at the same time seeming like he’d been standing there for hours. Hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, he leaned against the doorjamb and quirked a smile. He had dark hair and fine features, and he dressed well and looked great, like an upper-class scion comfortable with wealth and attention. He also smelled cold. Like a well-preserved corpse, which he was.

“I hate when you do that,” I said.

“I know. Sorry,” he said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t, really. “How are you doing? The pack coming together all right?”

Taking over the pack had been weird. I’d vanished into exile, then a year later came blazing back onto the scene like the Lone Ranger to run the bad guys out of town. Some of the other, stronger wolves in the pack might have taken the opportunity to challenge me, to question my authority by starting fights. So far, I’d managed to talk everyone out of it. Rick didn’t need to know all those details.

“Great. We’re doing just fine. I think everyone’s so happy to have new management, they don’t even care who the management is.”

“Ah, the honeymoon phase. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile. “And how are the vampires doing with their new management?”

“I’m enjoying the honeymoon phase while it lasts.”

“I’ll bet you are. Now tell me about this favor.”

The longer Rick put off telling me what the favor was, the more likely it was something I wouldn’t like. During the whole of that day, I kept building it up in my mind. I marshaled my arguments. I wouldn’t get into any fights for him. It would just be me and Ben in Vegas, without the pack, and I wasn’t going to risk my mate’s safety for some petty vampire politics. If he asked for something along those lines, I was all ready to have at him.

Stepping to my desk, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “I’d like you to deliver a message to the Master of Las Vegas.”

Most major cities had a head vampire, someone who kept the local supernatural underworld in line. Why should Las Vegas be any different? But it occurred to me to wonder what kind of supernatural underworld a city like Vegas had. I shuddered to think. I suddenly wondered if I was ready to face it. Sometimes, I still felt like a pup.

“And who is the Master vampire of Las Vegas?”

“That would be Dom, owner of the Napoli Hotel and Casino. He won’t be hard to find.”

I’d heard of the place. It was one of the older hotels, not built on the current model of super-ostentatious spectacle theme hotels, but it had managed to reinvent itself and stay current enough to still be popular. It had a reputation for Old World opulence. Now that I knew it was run by a vampire, that made sense.

I took the envelope from Rick. Sealed, of course. It didn’t even have a name on it.

“And what can you tell me about Dom? Or is it Dominic?”

“He answers to both. I can’t tell you much, except that he’s been there since the forties, when the money really started pouring in, and he has some very good stories.”

That got my attention. I was always looking for material for the show. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“Can you at least tell me if he’s one of the good guys?”

Rick’s smile thinned, and he said, “He’ll do.”

He was being particularly inscrutable tonight. Not that I could expect anything different from a vampire.

“Why can’t you people use the phone? Or e-mail?”

“I’d like this to be a little more traditional.”

“And are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

Stories ran that, traditionally, lycanthropes in any given territory tended to serve the local vampires. Or the vampires treated the lycanthropes like servants and the lycanthropes bought into it. The alternative was fighting between them. Bottom line, they didn’t usually get along as equals. Rick and I were trying to change that. Neither of us was fond of the old hierarchies. Yet somehow here we were. Both of us had ended up at the top of our respective totem poles, and while Rick might not have agreed with the old traditions, he sometimes fell into old patterns.

I leaned forward over my desk, the message in hand, studying him. Actually trying to think out what to say for once, rather than blurting it all out. “Rick. We decided to form a kind of partnership here, didn’t we? I support your claim to be the Master of Denver. You support my being alpha of the local pack. But what we’re most interested in is keeping the city safe from outsiders, right?” He gave a cautious nod. “Which means that I’m not your servant. The werewolves here are not at your beck and call. We’re not your messengers.”