His expression revealed nothing. It was his stage face. “One wonders how a wolf would do in an act like that.”

Not well, I’d guess. “I’m not looking for another career. I have enough shameless exhibitionism in the one I have. Why are you so interested in what happens to me?”

“Balthasar, his people—they’re not what they seem.”

“Look, instead of a vague warning why can’t you just tell me why you don’t like them? Give me some information here.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

Exasperated, I flung my arms and shouted, “I’m a freaking werewolf! Try me!”

He was already turning away to leave.

He was trying to raise more questions about the performers in Balthasar’s show. Where did they come from? Why no wolves? If I wanted to be smug I’d say wolves were too smart to put up with that sort of thing. But wolves were more pack driven than cats and should have been naturals for a group like this. They were also wilder. I’d never heard of a trained wolf in a circus. There are no wolves in Vegas, Dom said, because it wasn’t wild enough.

What I really needed to do about all this was a bunch of research: dig up biographies, figure out where Grant learned his trade, trace Balthasar back and try to learn when he’d been infected with lycanthropy, when he started his show, and if anyone had ever guessed his secret. All that would require a stack of old newspapers, a few hours with a microfiche machine, an Internet connection, and all that good old-fashioned detective work. I was supposed to be on vacation. I was supposed to be getting married.

I decided to let it go. Whatever was going on here, whatever animosity existed between Grant and Balthasar, had started long before I got here and would most likely continue after, no matter what I did about it. Which meant it could all wait until I got back home, and I needed material for the show during a slow week.

Just this once, curiosity was not going to get this Kitty.

I had a sudden urge to see Ben. I wanted his smell in my lungs.

With only a couple of hours left before our appointment at the chapel, I went back to the room to shower and change. I had my dress, a kicky, sexy number with a short skirt and high heels. A dress that screamed I’m getting married in Vegas. How often would I get to wear a dress like that?

The rest of the night would be mine. Mine and Ben’s. I could relax. I could get married. Forget about all the weirdness. I could just be a normal person, at least for a few hours. Be a giddy newlywed.

Six was fast approaching. I’d changed into my spiffy new dress, and I looked good. But still no Ben. I tried not to pace, or tap my feet, or bite my fingernails off. Instead, I turned on the TV and compulsively flipped channels. When my phone rang, I nearly fell off the bed. Pouncing on it like it was a rabbit, I checked the display.

“Hello?” I said, and my voice squeaked.

“Is this Kitty Norville?” said an unfamiliar male voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I’m Detective Mike Gladden. I’m with the Las Vegas Police Department. Do you know Ben O’Farrell?”

My stomach dropped, my spine froze, and a million nightmare scenarios played out in my mind. What had happened to him? I shouldn’t have let him go, I should have pitched a fit, I should have—

“What’s happened?” I said. I hoped my voice sounded steady and not terrified. It seemed to take forever for Gladden to answer. All I could hear was my breathing until he spoke.

“Ma’am, Mr. O’Farrell has disappeared.”

Chapter 12

I arrived at the Olympus casino’s security offices in ten minutes. Less. Time had gone a bit wonky, moving both too fast and too slow. The elevator dragged. But part of me didn’t want to get there at all. I didn’t want to find out what had happened.

When I came through the door, a G-man-looking guy in a suit intercepted me and stared at me like I’d turned green.

I had to catch my breath before I could speak. “Hi, I’m Kitty Norville, I just spoke on the phone with Detective Gladden about Ben O’Farrell.”

He was good-looking, in the way of a polished twenty-something on the way up in his chosen profession. He also seemed to be practicing his intimidating stare. I tried to read in his expression what had happened, what he knew about Ben, but the glare revealed nothing. I braced myself and didn’t wilt.

“Detective Gladden asked me to come answer some questions,” I insisted.

Finally, he spoke. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Wait just a minute.”

Like an anxious wolf, I paced the office’s tiny waiting room, with its thin carpet, plastic chairs, and a couple of Las Vegas tourism posters on the wall. What happens in Vegas...

I didn’t want to go there.

Ben had disappeared. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. My mind kept slinking away from the thought. He’d been playing poker. That tournament. Disappeared—what did that even mean? Did he poof out of existence? Which made me think of Grant. Did Ben walk out when no one was looking? Vegas was full of crowds—didn’t anyone see anything?

At least one answer was obvious: we were in a hotel hosting a gun exhibition, with a mini-convention of supernatural bounty hunters meeting in the bar. Evan, Brenda, Sylvia, Boris. Any one of them might have had a hand in this. I crossed my arms tighter and paced faster.

G-man kept me waiting for fifteen minutes. This was driving me crazy. Ben could take care of himself, I kept telling myself. Surely he could. This was all a misunderstanding.

“Ms. Norville? I’m Detective Gladden.” A man who looked much like the G-man probably would in twenty years appeared at the door and offered his hand, which I shook. On top of that, he seemed exhausted, harried. Shadows marked his eyes, and he had a faint, ripe, well-lived-in smell to him, like he’d been wearing the same suit for a couple of days now. I recognized his voice from when we’d talked on the phone.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s happened to Ben? What’s going on?”

“If you’ll come this way, we can have a seat and I’ll answer your questions. Coffee?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He nodded at the G-man, who scowled at the chore but went to get the coffee anyway.

I didn’t get to see the darkened room with the banks and banks of closed-circuit televisions examining the casino floor from any and every angle, the one that featured in every TV special about security in Vegas casinos. Instead, I was taken through a set of cubicles, desks, computers, and filing cabinets, like any other office. This might have been a private security outfit, but it smelled and felt similar to every police station I’d ever been in: worn-out furniture and decor, frayed nerves, bad coffee that had been heating too long. All of it vaguely intimidating. The room Gladden brought me to was the same as any number of police conference—interrogation—rooms I’d sat in. It had a couple of video monitors. In Vegas, most of the evidence came on video.

The G-man brought me my coffee, and I took it gratefully. It was more to have something to do with my hands than to actually drink.

Gladden offered me a seat, and another man came in, tall and broad, brown skinned, with close-shaven hair and a trimmed beard. Heavy, searching stare. Nothing got past this guy, I bet.

“This is Allen Matthews, director of security here at the casino.” We shook hands, and I managed to get even more nervous. This did have something to do with the poker tournament, I bet.

“Thanks for coming to talk to us, Ms. Norville,” Matthews said. “We hope to have this cleared up quickly.”

And what did he mean by “cleared up”? Carefully, trying not to sound hysterical, I said, “Can you tell me what you mean when you say that Ben disappeared?”

Neither of them would look at me. Gladden straightened some papers on the table as he said, “Ms. Norville, what’s your relationship to Ben O’Farrell?”