Carrie Vaughn - Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand

To tell the truth, I was excited. My first TV appearance had been against my will under very trying circumstances. It would be nice to be the one in charge this time.

The month before the trip passed quickly. With the Las Vegas producer’s help we booked the theater, lined up an interesting set of local guests, and started promotion. On the wedding front, we set it all up via the Internet. No long, drawn-out stress at all. As a bonus, because this was now a business trip, the boss was paying for the hotel and plane tickets. I even found the cutest dress in the world in the window of a store downtown—a sleeveless, hip-hugging sheath in a smoky, sexy blue. Sometimes all you had to do was look around and solutions appeared like magic.

The only problem really remaining—I still hadn’t told my mom I was planning a Vegas wedding. And wasn’t that an oxymoron? You weren’t supposed to plan a Vegas wedding. Maybe I could pretend it had been spontaneous.

In the meantime, I still had this week’s conventional show to get through.

“—and that was when I thought, ‘Oh, my, it’s an angel, this angel has come down from Heaven to tell me how to write this book!’ These words on the page, these aren’t my words, these are the words of the angel Glorimel, a cosmic being of pure light who in turn is channeling the voice of the universe itself! If you close your eyes you can almost hear the singing in the words, the harmony of the spheres—”

“If I close my eyes how am I going to read the book?” Oops, that was my outside voice. I winced. Fortunately, if the fringe element of any group had one thing in common, it was an inability to recognize sarcasm.

Chandrila Ravensun said, with complete earnestness, “The words flow through you. You just have to be open to them.”

I set my forehead on the table in front of me, which held my microphone and equipment. The resulting conk was probably loud enough to carry over the air.

This was the last, the very last time I did Ozzie a favor. “I have this friend who wrote a book,” he said. “It’d be perfect for your show. You should interview her.” He gave me a copy of the book, Our Cosmic Journey, which listed enough alluring paranormal topics on the back-cover copy to be intriguing: past-life regression, astral projection, and even a mention of vampirism in the chapters on immortality of the soul. I assumed that anyone who wrote a book and managed to get it published, no matter how small and fringe the publisher, had to have their act together enough to sound coherent during an interview. I had thought we might have a cogent discussion on unconventional ways of thinking about the mind and its powers and the possible reality of psychic energy.

I was wrong.

Fortunately, she had decided the aura of the studio was too negative and insisted on doing the interview over the phone. She couldn’t see me banging my head against the table.

“What did it look like?” I said, feeling punchy.

“What did what look like?”

“The angel. Glorimel.” And wasn’t that the name of one of the elves in Tolkien?

“I’m sorry, what do you mean, what did it look like?”

I huffed. “You said this being came to you, appeared in your home, and recited to you the entire contents of your book. When it appeared before you, what did it look like?”

Now she huffed, sounding frustrated. “Glorimel is a being of pure light. How else do you want me to describe it?”

“White light, yellow light, orange sodium lights, strong, weak, flickering, did it move, did it pulse. Just describe it.”

“Such a moment in time is beyond mundane description. It’s beyond words! ”

“But you wrote a book about it. It can’t be that beyond words.” I was starting to get mean. I ought to wrap this up before I said something really awful. Then again, I’d always been curious about how far I’d have to go before I got really awful.

“How else am I supposed to tell people about Glorimel’s beautiful message?”

“Psychic mass hallucination? I don’t know.”

“Glorimel told me to write a book.”

Okay, enough. Time to stop this from turning into a shouting match. Rather, time to take myself out of the shouting match. “I’m sure my listeners have a lot of questions. Would you like to take a few questions from callers?”

She graciously acquiesced. I tried to pick a positive one to start with.

A bubbly woman came on the line. “Hi, Chandrila, may I call you Chandrila?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I feel like we’re sisters, in a way. I’ve also had visits from an angelic messenger—”

It only got stranger. I stayed out of it, taking on the role of the neutral facilitator of the discussion. And made a mental note to kill Ozzie later. No more angelic-messenger shows, never again. So I’d been called the Barbara Walters of weird shit. So I regularly talked about topics that most people turned their rational skeptic noses up at. Just because some of it had been recognized as real didn’t mean it all was. If anything, telling the difference became even more important. There’s weird shit and then there’s weird shit. The existence of Powerball doesn’t make those Nigerian e-mail scams any more real.

But it was hard convincing people that your little realm of the supernatural was real and someone else’s wasn’t.

Finally, Matt gave me a signal from the other side of the booth window: time to wrap it up.

“All right, thanks to everyone who called in, and a very big thank you to Chandrila Ravensun”—I managed to say the name without sounding too snide—“for joining us this week. Once again, her book is called Our Cosmic Journey and is available for ordering on her website.

“Don’t forget to tune in next week, when I’ll be trying something a little different. I’ll be broadcasting live from Las Vegas, in front of a studio audience. That’s right, you’ll be able to watch me on TV and maybe even get in on the act. If you’re in Las Vegas, or near Las Vegas, or thinking of going to Las Vegas and need one more excuse, please come by the Jupiter Theater at the Olympus Hotel and Casino. If you’ve ever wanted to see what it looks like behind the scenes at Midnight Hour central, now’s your chance. Thank you once again for a lovely evening. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”

The ON AIR sign dimmed, and I let out a huge sigh. “I’ll kill him. I’m going to kill him. The bastard set me up with that woman.”

Matt was grinning, like he thought it was funny. Not an ounce of sympathy in him. “You can’t do that banging-your-head-on-the-table thing on TV.”

“Yes I can. It’ll be funny.”

He gave me a raised eyebrow that suggested he disagreed.

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll try not to bang my head on the table.”

“I can’t wait ’til next week,” he said, shaking his head, still grinning.

I was starting to think Las Vegas was a bad idea. More like a train wreck than a publicity stunt. This time next week, we’d know for sure.

I couldn’t keep the Las Vegas trip secret. We had to do a lot of publicity if this was going to work. Generate a lot of interest. I should have been pleased that people were hearing about it. It meant the publicity machine was working. But there were a few people I wished weren’t paying quite so much attention.

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.