The lobby of The Palace is again teeming with parrots and peacocks.
Sprinting over to the concierge, I ask to see Anatolio Cezaroff.
She looks me over snootily. “And you are?”
“Gia Hyman,” I say. “His trainer.”
She types something into the computer, perhaps checking me against some “approved visitors” list. Nodding at the screen, she says, “May I see some ID?”
I show her my driver’s license.
“Thank you. Let me give him a call.”
She dials a number and waits. And waits.
“He doesn’t seem to be in his room,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Shit. Is she telling me the truth, or did he ask her not to let me up? The latter seems kind of unlikely given the ID and name rigmarole—unless she’s a magician-level liar.
“Can you give me a copy of his room key?” I ask. “I’d like to go up and see if he’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s against our policy.”
“Can I at least go up and knock on his door?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, reminding me of the nearby parrots. “That’s against our policy.”
I eye the room key cards in the box on the counter. Even with all of my prodigious pickpocketing skills, there’s no way I could grab one and get it coded for Tigger’s room without her noticing.
I heave a sigh. “In that case, I’d like to visit his brother, Kazimir.”
Her eyes widen. “Is he expecting you?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Hold on.” She dials another number and rattles out something in Ruskovian. All I can make out is my name and her overall dubious tone.
Whatever the person says on the other end surprises her enough to widen her eyes to comical levels.
Straightening her spine, she says, “His Royal Highness will see you now.”
Wow, Kaz. Power trip much? Also, will I always associate that mighty title with Tigger’s cock?
The concierge waves at a nearby pantalooned bruiser and says something in Ruskovian.
“This way,” the guy booms with a heavy accent and begins walking.
I follow him through the lobby and up a fancy staircase. Then we take a sharp right and enter a huge theater.
I look around with envy. Kaz could host a Broadway show in here if he wanted. I’d give my left pinkie—and maybe my left earlobe—to perform magic on that stage even once.
“What do you think?” Kaz asks, appearing out of nowhere.
Clutching my chest, I take a calming breath. “I think your employees should call you Your Royal Ninjaness.”
“I meant the venue,” Kaz says, and there’s not even a hint of a smile on his face.
The pantalooned guy, on the other hand, looks on the verge of tossing me out of the hotel.
Okay, got it. Henceforth, there will be no joking with His Royal Seriousness.
“What do you mean, the venue?” I ask.
Kaz gives the pantalooned guy a slight but very imperious nod.
The man bows and backs away for a few feet before turning around and rushing away.
There’s deference, and there’s that. Seems like someone’s taking the Palace theme a little too seriously.
Kaz gestures at the stage. “Are you not here to check out the venue?”
I blink at him. “Why would I be?”
His forehead creases. “This morning, Tigger convinced me to host your show here. I figured it was only a matter of time before you wanted to see if it’s acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” I stagger back, gaping at the curtains, the stage lights, the seats for thousands of people…
Is he jerking me around, or is this for real?
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Tigger talked to you on my behalf? This morning?” Then it hits me. “You’re his secret eight o’clock meeting?”
“Secret?” His lips form a disapproving line. “I didn’t realize.”
I flap my arm. “Never mind that. You said yes?”
He nods curtly. “I thought it was a great idea. We could use more variety of performances here, and illusions fit well with the hotel theme.”
Holy Houdini.
Would I look unprofessional if I did a few cartwheels?
I’m even tempted to give Kaz a grateful hug—except he seems like a person who’d welcome it even less than I would.
I can’t believe Tigger did this for me.
It’s amazing.
Unbelievable.
Mind-boggling.
Actually, I take it back. I can believe he did this. He’s always gone to extraordinary lengths for me. That’s why it hurts so much to think I’ve lost him.
Assuming I have. It’s less clear now—at least insofar as he hasn’t yet pulled the plug on this initiative with his brother.
“Where is Tigger?” I ask. “I’ve been unable to reach him.”
Kaz blinks. “I don’t know. Our meeting didn’t start until nine, as there was an emergency at the hotel that delayed me. After we spoke, he said he was going to talk to some people in the media. He thinks he can leverage his notoriety to get publicity for your show. He didn’t give me much detail, but I figured it’d be something along the lines of taking pictures of you cutting him in half, like in the classic illusion.”
Huh. Cut a royal hottie in half. I totally could do that—and maybe pull the same trick as Penn and Teller where I make it seem like a gory accident at the end.
“So he’s talking to the paparazzi?” I ask, my excitement tempered by caution.
Even if what Kaz says is true, what are the chances he hasn’t seen my texts or heard my voicemails?
Frowning, Kaz pulls out his phone and glances at the screen. “It’s been many hours. He should be long done by now.”
There goes that hope.
Tigger is ignoring me, just not from his hotel room.
Kaz’s phone rings in his hand.
Looking at it disapprovingly, he picks up. “Speaking.”
Whatever someone tells him on the other end causes his features to grow as stormy as the sky in Mordor.
Is that Tigger telling him to cut off my access to this hotel?
“When?” Kaz growls.
That question doesn’t fit my theory.
Kaz squeezes the phone in his hand. “Repeat the name of the hospital again.”
Ice floods my stomach.
Someone is talking about a hospital. To Kaz.
Blood leaves my face as I realize there’s a theory I hadn’t yet thought of.
What if Tigger isn’t ignoring me? What if he can’t take my call because—
“What happened?” Kaz’s question is an imperious demand.
I want to rip that phone from his hand so I can also learn what happened.
If expressions could kill, Kaz’s would slay the speaker on the other end of the line. “I’m his fucking brother. Tell me what—”
He stops with a growl, and I can see he’s on the verge of smashing his phone into bits.
“They hung up,” he says, staring incredulously at the device. “Didn’t like my fucking language.”
“What happened?” I yell, just barely resisting the urge to choke the information out of him.
He meets my gaze. “It’s Tigger. He’s in the hospital.”