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.

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.