Kitty Goes to Washington

by Carrie Vaughn

  And there was Jeffrey Miles, watching me with a quiet, sympathetic look in his eyes, wearing a grim smile.

  I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, but it didn’t work. Tears fell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, handing me a tissue. He had it ready, like people burst into tears in front of him all the time. “This isn’t the time or place for this.”

  “No, it’s okay. I asked for it, didn’t I?” I chuckled halfheartedly. “I can almost hear him sometimes. You’re saying it’s real?” Jeffrey Miles was for real. I felt like a jackass.

  “I think he’s been watching out for you. Not a ghost, nothing so strong as that. But he’s interested.”

  “Where—where is he?”

  “Even I don’t know that. They come to me. I can’t find them. Who was he?”

  “Don’t you know? I thought you were psychic.”

  “He’s not a forthcoming presence.”

  “Got that right. T.J. My best friend. I got him killed.”

  “I don’t think he sees it that way.”

  And I knew he was right. Somehow, that nagging little voice that I had mistaken for my conscience told me that it wasn’t my fault. It had been there the whole time, telling me I was okay, to stop being silly. I hadn’t believed it. T.J. had wanted that last fight with Carl, not just to defend me, but because the fight between them had been brewing for months. He’d wanted to win, but that hadn’t happened. Stop asking for forgiveness.

  After that, I wasn’t sure I was ready to sit in that room for two hours, but the security guards were about to close the doors, and Jeffrey urged me inside.

  Ben was already in place in the back row, his laptop open on his lap, typing away at something that may or may not have had anything to do with the hearings. I sat with him, and Jeffrey joined us.

  “You okay?” Ben whispered. I nodded, waving him off.

  Everyone looked back at a commotion brewing by the doors. The security guy seemed to be talking to someone who wanted in. After a moment, he opened the door and let in something of an entourage: a middle-aged man with short-cropped, steely hair, wearing a dark turtleneck and slacks, flanked by a couple of hefty bodyguard types.

  All my hair stood on end and a shiver passed along my spine. Those two were werewolves, big and scary, and there was something about the way they followed the first one that was unnatural. Or un-supernatural. It was like they walked too close to him, or watched him too closely. Like Labrador retrievers with separation anxiety. Not wolf-like at all.

  “Who’s he?” I murmured.

  Jeffrey leaned over. “That’s Elijah Smith. He’s a self-styled faith healer to the supernatural.”

  My blood chilled and the gooseflesh thickened. My shoulders stiffened, and I swallowed back a wolf-inspired growl. “I know him. I know of him. We had an encounter, sort of.”

  “You didn’t try to join his church, did you?”

  “No. This was indirectly. I met someone who tried to leave his church. It didn’t turn out well.” In the end, she’d killed herself. The vampire had staked herself to get away from him.

  As exploitative celebrities went, Smith was in a class by himself. Jeffrey and I were little more than entertainers, to some extent. Our hearts may have been in the right places, wanting to help people, but we were also sort of freak shows. Smith, on the other hand, professed to save people.

  He called his organization the Church of the Pure Faith. Preaching the motto “Pure faith will set you free,” he claimed to be able to cure vampires and lycanthropes of their conditions through his style of old-fashioned, laying-on of hands faith healing.

  The so-called church had more in common with a cult. Once healed, his followers never left. They traveled with him in a caravan that crisscrossed the country, collecting true believers who were utterly loyal, like the two werewolves seemed to be. My informant had said he really could cure them: vampires could walk in sunlight, werewolves never suffered the Change. But only if they stayed with him forever. For some, the loss of freedom might not have been too high a price to pay. The trouble was, Smith didn’t tell them what the price was before they signed up.

  What could he tell the committee? What was the point of having him here?

  “How the hell did they manage to get him to testify?” As far as I knew, the few police who’d tried to investigate the church hadn’t been able to touch him. Nothing persuaded Smith to leave his compound, and his followers defended him like an army. Jeffrey shook his head.

  Ben piped in. “Rumor has it Duke offered his church official recognition and tax-exempt status. Then he can start collecting monetary donations.”

  “Can Duke do that?”

  Ben said, “It really only takes an application with the IRS, but Smith may not know that. Maybe Duke can expedite the application.”

  Didn’t that just beat all?

  Jeffrey watched Smith distantly, lips pursed. After a moment he said, “I don’t like him. He’s dark. I don’t think he’s human.”

  I looked sharply at him. “Vampire?”

  “No, I don’t think so. This is different. Thicker. Would it be too melodramatic to say he looks evil?”

  I was right there with him. My favorite theory about Smith at the moment was that he was some kind of spiritual vampire. Rather than feeding on blood, he consumed people’s devotion, awe, and worship. He didn’t cure his followers; rather, he had the power to suppress their weaknesses, the vulnerability to sunlight, the need to shape-shift. My acquaintance, a vampire named Estelle, thought she was cured, but when she left Smith’s caravan, the condition returned. She burned in sunlight again. He was powerful enough to control vampires and lycanthropes, and sinister enough to use them.

  I didn’t know enough to guess what he was, especially if Jeffrey was right and he wasn’t human.

  Jeffrey testified first. He flashed me a smile and a thumbs-up before he went to the table. If he had a lawyer with him, he kept the attorney hidden. He had a prepared statement, speaking carefully and nonthreateningly about being open to strangeness in the world, to mysteries we didn’t understand and might possibly fear. He stated a belief that the universe was basically good, and if we approached each new encounter with the unknown with that attitude, we would be rewarded with knowledge and understanding. It sounded a little metaphysical and New-Agey for my tastes. He’d obviously never encountered a hungry werewolf in the middle of the night. Wasn’t much knowledge and understanding at the end of that meeting.

  Either the television celebrity garnered more respect from the panel of senators, or Jeffrey did a better job of winning them over with his charisma and amiability. He treated them like a talk show audience, engaging them, telling jokes.

  He did what Duke probably brought him here to do, which was to testify to the existence of the supernatural, at least his own little branch of it. To think, a couple months ago anyone with a rational thought in his head would have written Jeffrey off as a New Age kook at best, or a manipulative charlatan at worst. But in this context, this new frame of reference, where vampires were real, the U.S. Congress had to take him seriously. I wondered if he felt at all smug or vindicated by the turn of events, the change in attitude. He just looked calm.

  I leaned forward when Elijah Smith took the stand.

  Smith never left his caravan. People who wanted to join him were screened before they were let inside to meet him. He’d never spoken publicly, until now. Finally, I got to see him in the flesh.

  Whatever Jeffrey saw in him that indicated he wasn’t human, I didn’t see it. He moved with confidence, holding himself with a somber poise. His werewolf bodyguards stayed behind, seated in the first row among the audience. They kept their gazes focused on him, refusing to let him out of their sights.

  “Heaven’s Gate,” Ben whispered to me. I looked at him, raising my eyebrow to invite him to explain. He said, “The suicide cult. He’s got that suicidal calm thing going. Jim Jones, David Koresh, you know?”

  That didn’
t reassure me.

  He didn’t have a statement, so the committee launched right in to basic questions: where did he reside, what was his profession. Smith claimed to be based in California. I’d never been able to trace him to any permanent place of residence. His caravan was nomadic. Maybe he kept a post office box somewhere.

  As to profession, he answered, “Spiritual adviser.”

  Which was about as surreal as when Jeffrey had said “communications facilitator.” For some reason no one felt they could come before the Senate and say he was a professional medium or a faith healer.

  Duke said, “I understand that you serve as a spiritual adviser to a specific group of people. Could you describe them?”

  “They’re vampires and lycanthropes, Senator.” He spoke coolly, with maybe a hint of amusement.

  I’d heard him before, from a distance over a tenuous phone connection. Even then his voice had had a haunted quality, hypnotic. He drew listeners to him, like any good preacher could. There was something else, though, in the way his voice hinted at mysteries to be revealed, at the dark secrets he would tell.

  In person, that sense was doubled, or more. I leaned forward, head cocked, determined to hear every word. I wished the room’s ambient noises—papers rustling, people coughing—would stop.

  “And how do you advise them, Reverend Smith?” Duke said. This was the most respectful Duke had been of any of the witnesses. Did he actually think Smith was a good Christian preacher?

  “I help them find their way to the cure.”

  Henderson spoke next. “Earlier this week, Dr. Flemming testified that he’d had some difficulty discovering a cure. Are you saying you’ve had better luck than medical science?”

  “Senator, these states of being cannot be fully explained by medical science. They have a spiritual dimension to them, and the cures lie in the spiritual realm.”

  That was what I’d always thought. I wondered if it would be rude of me to move chairs so I was sitting closer. I didn’t want to miss anything Smith had to say.

  “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  Senator Duke turned to his colleague. “He’s saying what I’ve been telling you, these people are cursed, possessed, and they need to be exorcized.”

  “We’re not living in the Dark Ages, Senator Duke.” Henderson returned to his witness. “Reverend Smith?”

  He said, “I believe that those afflicted may look within to purge themselves of the taint of their . . . diseases.”

  “Through prayer,” Duke prompted.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Prayer, yeah. That was all I had to do, it sounded so simple. I wanted to talk to him, to learn from him, because I’d struggled all this time to find some kind of peace in this life but he made it sound so simple—

  “Kitty!”

  My brain rattled. I blinked, disoriented. Jeffrey was shaking my arm. He’d hissed into my ear loud enough that the people in front of us looked back.

  “What? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Ben was staring at me, too. “You looked like a cliché there for a minute. I think you were even drooling.”

  “I was not.”

  But both men watched me closely, worriedly. Despite his flippant remark, Ben’s brow was furrowed. Had I fainted? Passed out? I’d just been listening to the testimony, to Smith—

  That steady, haunting voice filled the room. I could feel it against my heart.

  “Oh, my God,” I murmured. “Is it just me? You guys don’t feel it—”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “Not like that, but I can see it. It’s like he’s on fire. It started when he spoke.”

  Something about his voice sounded so reasonable, so pure. It hardly mattered what he said, because what I heard was, Here is someone I can trust.

  I put my hands against my temples, quelling the headache I suspected I was developing. “This is seriously twisted.”

  “I think I understand his church a little better,” Jeffrey said.

  “No doubt.” The cure was only the start of his power, it seemed. He could draw vampires and werewolves to him just by speaking. He hardly needed to cure them, if all he wanted was a flock of devoted followers.

  If he had that power over me across the room, how was I going to get close enough to learn more about him? Did I dare bring him onto the show for an interview, and broadcast his voice across the country?

  Then we were done for another day. The hearing adjourned.

  Smith immediately came down the aisle between the two sets of chairs, his escort trailing him devotedly. I watched him the way a wolf watches a hunter approaching with a rifle: head down, eyes glaring, lips ready to snarl a challenge if the intruder comes too close. If Jeffrey and Ben hadn’t been there, I might have followed along after him, as eager and devoted as his pets.

  I wasn’t anybody’s pet.

  As he passed by, he caught my gaze. For a half a second, his lips twitched a smile—a cold smile—and his gaze held triumph.

  He knew he’d gotten to me.

  Some vampires and werewolves liked to say they were top of the food chain. Stronger than mortal humans, able to hunt mortal humans.

  But we might have found the thing that could top us. I had to find out what he was. If I didn’t risk getting closer to him, I’d never learn.

  I scrambled past Jeffrey to get to the aisle. I was too late to intercept him, but maybe I could catch up.

  Ben called after me, “Kitty, what are you—”

  I’d only taken a couple steps toward Smith when the werewolves turned on me. Their lips pulled back in grimaces, their shoulders tensed, bunching up as if they were preparing to cock their arms for a punch. A couple of werewolves, getting ready to rumble. A shot of panic charged through me; I couldn’t take these guys and my Wolf knew it. I had to work to stand there and not look away. Not cringe and cower. Please don’t beat me up . . .

  I looked past them to Smith, who had turned to see what the disturbance was.

  “Hi, Reverend Smith? I’m Kitty Norville from the talk show The Midnight Hour. I was wondering, could I ask you a few questions? I think my audience would be very interested in learning more about you. Maybe you could come on the show.”

  He stared at me for a long time, and my heart beat faster and faster, in anticipation of what he might say, and what his words would do to me. Fight or flight. I should run. I should get out of here.

  “If you come to me as a supplicant, I will answer all your questions.” He smiled a thin, knowing smile.

  They were true words; I knew they were. If I came to him, gave myself to him, I would have no more questions—at least, no will to ask them. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t go to him, I couldn’t do it, because I’d lose myself, and I’d fought too hard to claim myself. My own two feet stood on the floor, and I was anchored to them, and I would not let his gaze swallow me.

  I looked after him as he walked away, and the retreating bodyguards blocked my view of him.

  Something touched my shoulder. I gasped and pulled back.

  It was Jeffrey, forehead creased with concern. “That wasn’t the smartest thing you could have done.”

  I’d been accused of a lot of things, but flights of genius wasn’t one of them, so I couldn’t argue.

  We had to clear the room for the next set of hearings, a different committee, a different subject. The wheels of government rolled on, no matter what little paradigm shifts were going on in my head. I lingered outside in the hallway, arms crossed, shoulders hunched in and angry.

  “Can we sue him?” I said to Ben. “There’s got to be something we can sue him for.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll look into it. I’m always game for a frivolous lawsuit.”

  “It’s not frivolous! There’s something seriously creepy about that guy. We have to figure out what he’s really doing with that church of his, because I know it’s just horrible. It has to be.”

  “If he hasn’t broken any laws, then
there probably isn’t anything we can do.”

  How could we know if he’d broken any laws if we didn’t even know what he was really doing? Really, he was just inviting people to an old-fashioned revival meeting, and if they wanted to stay with him, well, that was their choice, right?

  I had to find out what he was. “Jeffrey, if Smith isn’t human, what is he?”

  “I was hoping you’d have a guess,” Jeffrey said.

  I humphed. “Believe it or not, you probably have more experience with that kind of stuff than I do. I mean, you can see that he isn’t right. If we find out where he’s camped, take a look, maybe you’d see . . . I don’t know. Something.”

  “I’m not sure I’m willing to get close enough to try that. He’s dangerous, Kitty. I can see that much about him.”

  “Ben?”

  “Don’t look at me. Somebody’s got to stay behind to bail your ass out of jail when things go wrong.”

  That vote of confidence was staggering.

  Ben said, “If you’re about to do something prosecutable, I don’t want to know about it until afterward. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He started off down the hallway, waving over his shoulder.

  Jeffrey watched him go. “He’s your lawyer, huh? He’s . . .”

  “Brusque?” I said.

  “I was going to say honest. He’s got a good aura.”

  Well, that was something, I supposed. I apparently had an honest lawyer.

  I sighed. “Since I don’t know where Smith’s caravan is, the whole plan to go looking for him is moot anyway.”

  I couldn’t really see me climbing into a cab, flashing a fifty at the driver, and saying, “Follow that man!” I started to ask Jeffrey if he would do an interview on the show, when Roger Stockton stepped around from behind us, where he’d been lurking, eavesdropping, and who knew what else. He still had the camera, but at least he held it down and not pointed at me.

  “I know where Smith is camped,” the reporter said. “And I know he isn’t human.”