I couldn’t stand it anymore. There were noises on the other side of the curtain. Crowdlike noises. I had to look. Edging up to the curtain, I pulled it back a couple of inches and peered out.
The place was almost full. I spotted a few empty seats, and a few people wandering up and down the aisles. Their voices made a rumbling ocean of noise.
I quickly pulled back and ran into Ben. “Omigod. It’s full. The place is packed.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s great. It’s fabulous. I think I’m gonna die.”
He tried to give me a pep talk. “Haven’t you ever been onstage before? You seem like the kind of person who did a lot of theater in high school.”
Not that I wanted to be reminded. “I did one play. Annie Get Your Gun. I was a dancing Indian during the politically incorrect Indian song.”
He looked doubtful. “You played an Indian? Kitty, you’re blond.”
“I wore a wig made out of black yarn. It wasn’t a very ethnically diverse high school, okay?”
A woman wearing a headset, the stage manager, caught my attention. “You’re on in two minutes, Kitty.”
“Thanks.”
Another deep breath. But not too deep. I was about to start hyperventilating.
“So,” I said. “How many people do you think are out there with silver bullets in their guns waiting to take a shot at me?” Like Boris and Sylvia?
He gave me a look. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Ha! I’m not being paranoid, you thought of it, too.”
He pressed his lips shut and didn’t say a word.
The stage manager gestured at me again. “It’s time.”
Deep breath. I mentally rehearsed my intro again, imagined myself walking out there and being brilliant. Not a problem.
Ben gave me a quick kiss. “Knock ’em dead.”
“Thanks.”
I walked out into the spotlight like I knew what I was doing.
Chapter 9
We’d been on for an hour and no one had taken a shot at me. Halfway there. I considered it a victory.
Nevada State Senator Harry Burger, the man sitting next to me on the stylish office chair we’d set up for my guests, was a classic western politician, complete with cowboy hat and boots, big silver belt buckle, and swagger to match. He could defend the Second Amendment and denounce Washington politics with the best of them.
He was explaining why he had introduced a bill to the state legislature creating a l
aw that would ban psychics, vampires, and anyone else with supernatural abilities from Nevada casinos.
“Here in the great state of Nevada we take the security of our casinos—and our guests—very seriously. When cheaters win, everyone else loses, that’s our motto, so the gaming industry has worked hard making sure none of these people get ahead. This is just another brand of cheater, and we won’t tolerate it, no sir.”
“You really think werewolves have an edge in gambling? Really?” I had to say that with a straight face, thinking of Ben.
“Ma’am, who knows what kind of powers any of them have? Not just predicting what card’s coming out of the shoe next, but mind control, telekinesis—you have any idea what kind of havoc telekinesis would play on a slot machine? I say it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Telekinesis on a slot machine? I wanted to see that. . . “Senator, seriously: is this sort of thing even a problem? Are there any kind of statistics showing how many gamblers might be beating the house because of psychic powers?”