Carrie Vaughn - Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand

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.