"Stand aside, Doctor," Duke said. "Let the man work. She can't possibly say anything that will save her from what's coming. Let her incriminate herself."
Stockton called Ozzie on the land line—no mobile reception in the basement. He managed to get the phone cord to stretch halfway across the room, and the handset barely fit through the tray slot.
Ozzie launched right in. "Kitty, what's going on, what's wrong?"
"You'll see it soon enough," I said with a sigh. "Did Stockton bring you up to date?"
"Yeah—he says you're televising the show. But it's not Friday, we haven't announced anything—"
"Just set it up, Ozzie. Make it legal. Secure the rights, grant the license to the network, whatever you have to do."
"Are you okay?"
"No. But don't worry about me. I'll get through it." I hoped. I really, really hoped. "Call Ben O'Farrell for me, will you? Use his cell number."
"Sure. Put that reporter back on."
I handed the phone back and immediately missed Ozzie. I wished he were here.
They talked for a couple minutes, then Stockton hung up.
"Roger. Can I have that phone back for just a minute? I just want to make a call." Two—I wanted to call Alette, and I should call Ben myself while I was at it. Ben and Cormac both. Three calls. No, make that four—Mom. I should call Mom.
Stockton glanced at Flemming, who shook his head.
That was it, then.
Stockton brought the bags to the cell. "If I open the door, will I regret it?"
How far did he think I'd get if I made a run for it? "That depends. Is Mr. Black Ops over there packing silver bullets?"
We looked at the remaining soldier, who didn't twitch a muscle.
"Silver bullets?" Stockton asked.
He nodded, once, curtly. I had no doubt he was a very good shot.
"I'll stand back," I said wryly. Of course, I could let him shoot me and spare myself the next few hours.
Stockton got Flemming to unlock the door and open it a crack—just wide enough to shove in the shopping bags, before shutting and locking it again.
Well, I'd missed my chance to go out in a blaze of glory.
I went through the bags. It was a little like Christmas. He'd brought me a portable CD player with speakers and batteries, a stack of disks, a couple of books—London, Thoreau. And the meat, which I shoved in the corner for later. Couldn't think about that now, even though I could smell it through the plastic.
"You ready?" Stockton said, shoving a personal mike through the door slot.
I wasn't, but I'd have to be. I took the mike—still attached to a cord, which ran through the slot to the news team's broadcast equipment—and clipped it to my shirt. "How's that?" The sound tech gave me a thumbs-up.
I finished searching the CDs. One of them had a youthful and comparatively unaltered Michael Jackson on the cover.
I glared at Stockton. "Thriller? You brought me Thriller?"
"You know. Thriller!" He clawed a hand at me and snarled like he was an extra in a certain music video.
The man had no tact. I tore the plastic off and put the disk on anyway. But I cued it up to "Billie Jean" and turned up the volume.
I watched out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough, by the second bar of music, the two news guys were tapping their feet. Stockton was bobbing his head a little; he probably didn't realize he was doing it. Hey, when the music said to dance, you had to dance.
Duke looked like he was fuming himself into a fit; his face was actually going red. But he couldn't do anything but stand there. His aide—who seemed old enough to remember freaking out over this album in grade school—shifted nervously. Like he wanted to tap his feet, but didn't dare.
Flemming's expression didn't change at all.
"Just tell me when we're on the air," I said to Stockton. He conferred with the crew's tech guy, then nodded quickly.
"We'll be in time for the ten o'clock news," he said.
I could imagine it, the regular anchor interrupting the newscast with a very special report from Roger Stockton: Kitty Norville, Exposed.
It wouldn't quite work like that. I hoped. I had maybe an hour before the Wolf took over completely. Had to make it count.
I cut off Michael and put on John Fogerty. CCR's "Bad Moon Rising" was the show's theme song on regular nights. It wouldn't have felt right without it.
Wait for it… wait for it…
"Okay, Kitty, you're on in three… two… one…" He pointed at me. I punched the play button. I let the guitar strum a few chords before looking out the glass wall and facing the camera.
Think happy thoughts. No different than being behind the mike. Don't think about the fact that I can't hide, that I can't be anonymous anymore. This was about revenge, about turning the tables, and to do that I had to be on top.
I smiled. "Greetings! Welcome to the first televised edition of The Midnight Hour, the show that isn't afraid of the dark—or the creatures who live there. I'm Kitty Norville."
The inside of the cell was lit as brightly as the outside, and the camera was at an angle. They'd made sure there wouldn't be any glare. Everyone could see me. All of me.
"If you're not familiar with The Midnight Hour, let me tell you what this is all about. Every Friday night for a few hours, I talk to people on the radio. I take calls, I invite guests on for interviews—politicians, writers, musicians, anyone I can convince to talk to me. What do we talk about? Nightmares: werewolves, vampires, witches, ghosts, demons, and magic. All those stories you read under the blanket with a flashlight, that kept you awake on nights when the wind rattled your bedroom window? You may not be ready to believe it, but those stories are real. And if you don't believe it now, just stick around. Because in an hour or so, I'm betting you'll change your mind. I'm a werewolf, and tonight I put my money where my mouth is." Money shot? Hoo-boy.
I turned the music down but let it keep playing. It distracted the part of my brain that was starting to gibber. "If you are familiar with the show, you may notice something a little different about the format. You may also notice this isn't the usual time slot. And those of you who are very astute might notice that tonight's the full moon, and you might be asking yourself, what the hell am I doing locked in a room? Those are really good questions. Let me introduce you to the people who've made this possible. Can we get the camera pointed that way for a second? Great, thanks." The cameraman obliged, pivoting the camera toward the other side of the room.
Flemming backed away, shaking his head. But he didn't have anywhere to go. The camera lens pinned him against the wall. Duke, a little more used to appearing on camera, didn't flee. But he glared bullets.
"Let's see, to your right is Dr. Paul Flemming, director of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, whose laboratory I'm currently locked up in. Across the room you might recognize Senator Joseph Duke, who's heading up hearings regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Camera back here, please. Thanks." Keep smiling. Beauty queen smile, frozen and glittering. Oh, yeah.
"I want to add at this point that I'm here completely against my will. You see, Flemming and Duke are both afraid that cheap talk in a special committee hearing isn't enough to convince the government or the American public that werewolves are real. They both really want to do this, because Flemming wants to keep his funding for the lab, and Duke wants to start a witch hunt. Wolf hunt. Whatever. So they arranged to tie me up with silver, lock me up, and broadcast the results live on national television. You know why they think they can get away with this? Because they don't believe I'm human."
"No, that isn't—" Flemming stepped forward, beginning some kind of protest. I glared him to silence.
"If you thought I was human you wouldn't have agreed to this. You wouldn't have this jail. So. I sort of made a deal to try to tell my side of the story before things get hairy. I mean, really hairy.
"A couple of things before we go much further. Mom, Dad, Cheryl?" If Cheryl was
watching, she'd have called my parents by now. She was always telling on me. "I'd really appreciate it if you turned off the TV right now. You do not want to watch this. It'll upset you. You're probably not going to listen to me, but don't say I didn't warn you. I love you guys. And Ben, if you're watching? Just one word: lawsuit. No, make that two words: multiple lawsuits."
I rubbed my hands together. "Right. Let's get started then. Roger, come on over here."
The reporter slicked a hand over his mussed hair, smoothed the front of his shirt, and adjusted the mike he'd clipped to his collar before moving to stand by the door of the cell. We glared at each other through the Plexiglas, as if we could pretend it wasn't there.
"Also here tonight is Roger Stockton, a reporter for the supernatural expose show Uncharted World. Hello, Roger. As I recall, you insisted on conducting an interview. Is now a good time for you?"
He smirked. "As long as you're not busy."
"I'm a captive audience. Do your worst."
As much as I hated to admit it, his interview was good. I wished it had been under more comfortable circumstances. He made it a conversation, letting one answer lead into the next question, rather than rattling off a rote list of prepared questions. He didn't jump on the ends of my answers, letting me finish before talking again. He began by asking about the show, how it started, what my policies were, behind the scenes insights. He might not have been entirely pleased with my answers: I didn't say anything that I hadn't already said at the Senate hearing or on the show at one point or another.
Stockton started the wrap-up. "One last question, Kitty. Tonight, those of us here along with the audience at home are going to witness the legendary transformation of a werewolf, with your help)—"
"—my completely involuntary help, I want to make that clear."
"Um, yes. Of course. Can you tell us a little about what we can expect to see?"
"Sure. Out of all the movies I've seen, Robert Carr's werewolf films like New Tricks and Bloody Moon are the closest I've seen to depicting what it's really like. That's because at the end of the transformation you see something that looks like a real, wild wolf—Canis lupus. The only difference is the werewolf is usually bigger because of conservation of mass. The average full-grown person weighs more than a wild wolf. What happens in between—it's hard to explain. Bones re-form, skin grows fur, teeth change—all of it."
"Is it painful?"
"Usually. But most of the time it happens quickly. You try to make sure it goes quickly."
"How do these changes happen without killing the person? Without destroying the body completely?"
"People have been studying this, but no one has a good physical explanation for how the body changes shape without being destroyed. When all is said and done you still have to label this as the supernatural, because it goes beyond what we understand."
"Propaganda!" Fuming, Duke stormed into the camera's line of sight. His face was red and he was shouting, almost to the level of sounding incoherent. "This is a ploy by the left-wing radical media to undermine the truth of the Good Book, which tells us thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! This is what happens when you listen to the words spoken by an agent of Satan!"
Stockton stared at him, round-eyed and blinking.
"I'm not an agent of Satan," I said tiredly. Not that it would do any good.
"Time will tell! You're no more human than the beast inside of you!"
"Senator, for the last time, I have a birth certificate that proves I'm an American citizen, and you're currently violating my civil rights in a big way. Don't make me add slander to the charges I'm going to bring against you."
"Make your threats. I have great faith that the people will thank me for what I've done here tonight."
"Senator, look at this, look at this picture you're showing people: you've got me in a"—uh, probably shouldn't say that word on network TV—"a freaking cage! You're standing there slobbering like a madman, calling a reasonably cute blond an agent of Satan, and you think this makes you look like a good guy?"
"History will prove me right. When hordes of your kind overrun the homes and neighborhoods of God-fearing folk, people will know I'm right and my actions will be justified!"
Hordes? Huh? "Oh, you can just keep talking, because you're digging yourself a hell of a hole, monkey boy!"
"Kitty, maybe not so much yelling," Stockton said.
That stalled the tirade for the moment. I was breathing hard, like I'd just been in a fight. Duke and I glared at each other through the glass. Yeah, he could be a tough guy when I was locked in here. But put him in here with me…
I grunted as pain washed through me and ducked to hide my grimacing features. Too late. I'd run out of time. Pain burned through my nerves, down my limbs. I could feel every pore on my body. In moments, fur would sprout.
"Both of you, get away from the window," I said, my voice low and scratching. Surprised, they did so. I had to pull it together for just another minute.
I straightened and looked at the camera.
"Of all the authors I've read, Jack London gets my vote for most likely to have been a werewolf. Even if he wasn't, he spent a lot of time writing about the line between people and animals, civilization and the wild—how that line usually isn't much thicker than a hair, and how it gets blurred. He understood that space better than anyone. That's a lot of what being a werewolf is about: living in that blurred space and learning to reconcile the two sides. The other thing you learn is that a person doesn't have to look like a monster to be one. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night. If you remember nothing else about this broadcast, please remember my voice. I'm not going to have it anymore."
T.J. had held me the very first time I shape-shifted. I imagined his arms around me now, his voice. You'll be okay, you'll be okay—
The Change slammed into me, fast and brutal. A flood bursting the damn. My punishment for keeping it locked in too long. I bent double, trying to pull off my shirt. I couldn't help it—I screamed, and my sight disappeared.
Hate and fear. And all she could do was watch.
The next day I watched a recording of what Stockton's camera crew broadcast. The news station had framed the video with all sorts of nifty graphics, "Special Report!" and "Live!" logos and the like. It made the whole thing seem cheaper, somehow. As I shape-shifted, I ripped out of my shirt—I went bra-less on full moon nights—and squirmed half out of my jeans and panties. Half naked, tawny fur rippling down my back, I toppled to my side, writhing. My limbs melted and re-formed, my face warped—I'd seen this happen to other people, I'd been through it myself so many times. But watching it happen to me was strange, like what I saw didn't match what I knew I'd felt. The transformation looked fluid, one form morphing into the other in a change that rippled outward from the center of the body. What I'd felt was ripping: the human form ripping apart to let the Wolf out of her cage.
In a few seconds a large, adult wolf lay on the floor of the cell, kicking her hind legs to untangle herself from the jeans still pulled halfway up. She was sand-colored, darker fur trimming her ears, spreading down her back, and tipping her tail. On her chest and under her body the fur turned light, cream-colored. She was sleek, alert, her eyes gleamed a bright amber.
She was beautiful. She was me.
Immediately, she ran. Caged, frightened, she searched for the way out, which meant running along the window, whirling at the silver-painted wall, running back and forth. Unfortunately, she covered the length of the cell in a single stride. She pivoted back and forth, staring out at her captors, like the ultra-neurotic predators in a zoo who seem hypnotized by their own movements.
A domestic dog who's angry or afraid might bark itself hoarse—as they were bred to do in their role as watchdogs. In the wild, wolves rarely bark. My Wolf was silent. The whole lab was dead silent, except for the click of her claws on the linoleum. The personal mike still lay on the floor, clipped to my discarded shirt, picking up the sound of it.
D
uke dropped to his knees before the window, laughing harshly. "You see? You see what we're dealing with? You can't ignore this!" He looked at the camera and pointed at Wolf.
She shied back, startled, head low and ears pricked forward, waiting for a challenge.
Evidently expecting a slavering, howling beast slamming herself against the window in an effort to attack him, Duke frowned.
"Don't give me that," he said. "Don't play coy. You won't get anyone's sympathy. You'll show them what you really are. I'll make you show them!"
He scrambled to his feet and lunged at Stockton, who stood on the other side of the cell. The reporter put up his arms in a startled defense.
Eyes wide, lips snarling, Duke grabbed Stockton's arm and pulled him off balance. Then he opened the tray slot in the door and shoved the reporter's hand into it.
Stockton shouted in a panic and struggled to pull away, but Duke kept him locked in place, bracing with his entire body. Spry old guy, wasn't he?
"Go on! Bite him!" Duke shouted. "Show us what you are, what you're like! Attack him!"
Wolf's tail dropped and she backed away, putting distance between herself and the raving madman in front of her. She knew how to keep out of trouble.
With a soft whine and an air of sadness, she settled in the far corner of the cell—as close to the corner as she could get without touching the walls—lying flat and resting her muzzle on her front paws.
Duke stared, mouth open, disbelieving. Stockton took the chance to break free and pull away from the door.
Everyone stared at the wolf huddled in the corner. Frightened, she just wanted to be left alone. She didn't even go for the meat.
The broadcast cut off there. Watching a miserable wolf wasn't that exciting, the network decided.
Chapter 12
I woke up shivering. The linoleum was cold. I hugged myself, but I was naked, lying curled on the floor, unable to get warm. My jeans were all the way in the middle of the floor. My shirt was torn, I couldn't tell if it was salvageable.
Kitty Goes to Washington kn-2 Page 21