Kitty Steals the Show (Kitty Norville)

by Carrie Vaughn

  “The devil! You’re all from the devil!”

  I fielded one of these calls about every fourth show. The fanatics had learned to say what they needed to say to scam the screening process, and when they finally got on the air they’d give The Speech—the supernatural was the spawn of Satan and the world was racing toward Armageddon on our backs. Blah blah blah. Sometimes, we’d let the calls through on purpose, because the best way to counter these jokers was to let them keep talking.

  “You can dress it up in all that science double-talk, but science is the devil’s tool! This conference is another sign of the End Times, the new world order. There’s a reason it’s called the number of the beast. That’s the best thing about this, once you’re there you’ll all be stamped with the number, so the rest of us can see you, and you won’t be able to hide anymore.”

  I leaned into the microphone and used my sultry voice. “I wasn’t aware I’d been hiding.”

  “There’s a war coming, a real war! You may sound all nice and sweet, you may have brainwashed thousands of people, but it’s a disguise, a deception, and when the trumpet sounds, Lucifer will call his own to him, even you.”

  “I like to think I’ll be judged by my deeds rather than what some crazy person says about me.”

  “All your good deeds are a trick to hide your true nature. I’ve listened to you, I know!”

  “So what does that make you? A media consumer of the beast?”

  The caller hung up before I did, which was a pretty good trick. The game of “who gets the last word” meant that no matter how badly I mocked them, no matter how agitated they got, they kept on the line, thinking I’d somehow, eventually, admit that they were right. They always seemed to think that they were different than the last guy I hung up on. Suckers.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if I’m the spawn of Satan someone sure forgot to tell me about it. And I believe we have time for one more call. Hello, you’re on.”

  “Uh, hi, Kitty. Thanks.” He was male, laid back. He sounded kind of stoned, actually.

  “You have a question or comment?”

  “Yeah. So, this thing’s in London, right? You’re going to London?”

  “I think that’s what I’ve said about a dozen times over the last hour in a shameless bid for self-promotion.”

  “Right.” He sniggered, like he was suppressing giggles. “So, that’ll make you”—more sniggering—“an American werewolf in—”

  I cut him off. “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost that call. And I’d better not hear any Warren Zevon references, either. Sheesh, people. Let’s break for station ID.”

  I had a feeling I was going to be hearing a lot of cracks like that over the next few weeks, I didn’t need to start now.

  * * *

  THE BIGGEST issue about me attending the conference wasn’t time, expense, or inclination. It certainly wasn’t whether or not the conference wanted me there—they’d invited me, after all. The problem was whether or not Ben and I, as werewolves prone to a bit of claustrophobia, could reasonably survive the flight to London, sealed in a metal tube with a few hundred people our lupine selves classified as prey, and no escape route. My longest flight since becoming a werewolf had been to Montana, an hour or so away. Ben hadn’t been on an airplane at all since becoming a werewolf.

  I called a friend for advice.

  The last time I’d talked with Joseph Tyler, formerly of the U.S. Army, he’d become part of the Seattle werewolf pack and was rooming with a couple of the other bachelor werewolves. I liked the idea of him having people to look after him—he suffered from post-traumatic stress related to his service in Afghanistan in addition to being a relatively new werewolf.

  So I was a little surprised when a woman answered his phone. “Hello?”

  “Um, hi. May I speak to Joseph Tyler?”

  “Yeah, just a minute,” she said, and a rustling signaled her handing over the phone.

  “Yeah?” came Tyler’s familiar, curt voice.

  “Hey, it’s Kitty.” His enthusiastic greeting followed. “So who’s the girl?” I asked.

  I could almost see him blushing over the phone line. “Um, yeah … that’s Susan. She’s … I guess she’s my girlfriend.” He said it wonderingly, like he was amazed by the situation.

  “Is she a werewolf?”

  “Yeah—I met her just a little while after I moved here. And, well, we hit it off. She … she’s been really good for me.”

  I grinned like a mad thing. “That’s so cool. I’m really happy for you—and her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not to distract from the much more interesting topic of your relationship status, but I have a question for you. Really long trans-Atlantic flights—how do you do it without going crazy?”

  He chuckled. “I’m about to find out—I’m headed to London for the Paranatural Conference, too. Dr. Shumacher asked me to be there for her presentation on werewolves in the military.”

  The conference was sounding better and better. “Oh, that’s great! But wait a minute, you flew to Afghanistan—”

  “On military transports, with no civilians around.”

  “I don’t think I can get a military transport to London,” I said, frowning. “I don’t suppose it’s realistic for us to see about chartering a private jet, just for werewolves?”

  “Shumacher’s springing for first-class tickets,” he said. “That and a sleeping pill to take the edge off should do it.”

  First-class tickets—what an elegant solution. More space and free cocktails. I wondered who I could convince to spring for first-class tickets of my very own. “You’re sure it’ll work? It’d suck getting a couple of hours into the flight and finding out the sleeping pills don’t work.”

  “I don’t expect them to work—it takes a lot of drugs to knock one of us out. But it should help. It’s like you’re always saying—you just work on keeping it together. I really want to go to London. This’ll work.”

  If Tyler could do it, we had to try. I thanked him for the advice and congratulated him again on Susan. I wanted pictures. I wanted to fawn over them. It was adorable.

  Then I called my producer, Ozzie, to ask how we could foot the bill for a first-class upgrade.

  Chapter 2

  I DIDN’T KNOW that some organizations offered grants for people like me to travel to scientific conferences. On the other hand, Ozzie did, and as a result we—Ben, Cormac, and I were all going—got first-class tickets to London. Ozzie sold me as “a socially conscious journalist breaking new ground in the emergent arena of paranatural research.” He made me sound good. I told him this, and he grumbled, “That’s my job. Somebody has to do it.”

  We had a week of hectic preparation getting ready for the trip—checking passports, reassuring Shaun and the pack, squaring away Ben’s law practice, packing, and wrapping up my own work. I still hadn’t written my keynote speech for the conference. I could get a start on it on the flight. Maybe it would distract me. Ben kept having to reassure me, tell me that everything would be fine, that we weren’t going to have any trouble. Cormac looked at us like we were crazy.

  Then I had to deal with my mother. My endearing, chatty, cancer survivor mother was incredibly hard to say no to. She was just so darned enthusiastic. She called me every day of the week leading up to the trip. She usually only called on Sunday.

  “Take lots of pictures. You got that link I sent you about the walking tours, right? They’re supposed to be really good—”

  “Mom, I’m just not sure how much time I’m going to have for sightseeing.”

  “I looked at the map and you’ll practically be right in the middle of London, surely you could pop out and see something.”

  “I’ll try. You’ve done all this planning on my behalf—when are you and Dad going to London?”

  “Oh, we’re talking about it … You’ll have such an amazing time, Kitty. And be careful.”

  Yeah, that was Mom.

  * *
*

  FINALLY, THE day of the trip arrived.

  We solved part of the problem of the long flight by stopping for a night-long layover in Washington, D.C. I wanted to visit with Alette, the vampire Mistress of the city.

  The living room—parlor, rather—in her Georgetown town house was filled with Victorian elegance. Lush carpets, perfectly kept antique furniture, curio cabinets, shelves full of books, polished silver tea service on display on the mantel. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn over the windows overlooking the street.

  Alette herself waited in a wingback chair by the fireplace. She wore a tailored suit jacket with a calf-length skirt, a cream-colored blouse, and ankle boots, an outfit that recalled a bygone style without seeming old fashioned. An ebony clasp held back her chestnut hair, and a single pearl on a chain around her neck was her only decoration.

  When we arrived, she rose and reached for my hand, clasping it. Her skin was cool. She spoke in a crisp British accent. “Kitty, it’s very good to see you.”

  “How are you, Alette?”

  “Enduring,” she said with more than a little pride. I wondered if that was a vampire inside joke. Her apparent age was around thirty—no longer girlish, her beauty came from her dignity, her haughtiness. She stood with her chin up, gazing at us appraisingly.

  “I know you met them briefly before. But, well—this is my husband, Ben O’Farrell, and our friend Cormac Bennett.” Ben came forward to shake her offered hand; Cormac did not, moving instead to the back of the room, away from us. In fact, he was wearing his sunglasses, at night and indoors. Not like that was real obvious. But Cormac was Cormac. Alette only glanced at him, her smile wry.

  She had tea brought for us, and gestured for us to sit on the sofa across from her. Tom, who’d driven us from the airport, stood at attention at the doorway. Smartly turned out in a tailored suit and tie, he might have served the role of butler, waiting for a command from Alette. But he was more than that—he kept most of his attention turned toward Cormac rather than Alette. Tom was as much bodyguard as butler.

  Alette kept above it all and said conversationally, “You weren’t a lycanthrope the last time you visited my city, Mr. O’Farrell. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, Kitty—”

  “God, no!” I said.

  “It was an attack,” Ben added, more sedately. “By someone else.”

  “Ah, I see. So much for my romantic notions, then. If you don’t mind my asking, how are you managing?”

  “I have a lot of help,” he said.

  “I have no doubt on that score,” she said, giving us both a sly, knowing look. She glanced to the back of the room. “Mr. Bennett, are you all right?”

  Cormac was pacing along the front of the room, like a wolf looking for an exit from a cage. On each pass, he twitched the curtains back an inch and peered out.

  He paused. “Fine,” he said flatly. He eyed Tom, whose gaze remained blank, disinterested.

  “I remember you’re not particularly comfortable around vampires,” she said.

  “It’s fine,” he muttered again. Cormac was a bounty hunter specializing in supernatural targets—including vampires. At least he had been before serving a prison sentence for manslaughter. He was still adjusting to his changed circumstances—but vampires would always make him nervous.

  I wondered what Tom would do if Cormac drew one of the stakes he no doubt had stashed in a jacket pocket.

  “He’s quite the friend, to follow you into this,” Alette said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Now, what did you want to discuss?”

  “I’m hoping for your opinion. How much do you know about Dux Bellorum? Roman?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “You’ve been turning over all kinds of stones, haven’t you? I can’t say I know very much at all. He’s a vampire, quite old by most accounts. He’s also a shadow. A myth, even. The Master of masters, all knowing, all seeing, all powerful. I’ve heard enough about him to believe that he’s real. He’s manipulative, driven, obsessed with some arcane plan of his own. But I know little else. I’ve never met him myself. Tell me, Kitty—what do you know of Dux Bellorum?”

  “He’s the chief player in the Long Game,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about, as if the very concept didn’t terrify me. “He’s collecting allies, and I—I have a grudge against him.” From my pocket I drew a pendant on a leather cord. It had once been a bronze Roman coin, but the image on it had been smashed, so that the blackened layer of verdigris was flattened and mangled beyond definition. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

  I lay the coin across her hand and she studied it, rubbing a thumb across it. “I haven’t. What is it?”

  “Roman gives these to his followers,” I said. “Maybe you haven’t met him, but I’m betting you know a few vampires who have one of these.”

  “They have some kind of magic attached to them,” Cormac said from his place by the window. “Binding, identification.”

  She frowned at the coin before giving it back to me. “Extraordinary. I had no idea. Roman—Dux Bellorum—has always kept his cards so close, revealing so little. But now he’s letting spells get away from him.”

  “He’s showing his hand,” I said. “I think he’s getting ready to make a move.”

  She leaned back against the chair, her gaze pursed, studious. “And the world gathers in London. The vampires are gathering in London as well, you know. This conference of yours will be a tempting target for him.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Then it’s good you’re staying with Ned. He’ll do well by you. You can depend upon him and Emma to protect you.”

  Ned was the Master vampire of London and an old friend of Alette’s. Very old, I imagined, though she wouldn’t give me details. Emma was her own protégé, a young vampire as well as a biological great—lots of greats—granddaughter. They’d offered me and mine a place to stay in London. It was Emma who convinced me to accept that offer.

  “We don’t need that kind of protection,” Cormac said curtly. Tom actually took a step forward at that, and he and Cormac finally met gazes. Tom stepped back and stood at ease quickly enough that I wondered if he’d even moved. They both had too much self-control to want to be the one to start something. Alette’s lips pressed together, as if she was hiding a smile, amused at their behavior.

  “Can we trust them? Really?” Ben said. He’d gone tense, and I rested a calming hand on his knee.

  “You’re right not to trust vampires,” Alette said, not appearing the least bit offended. “Especially in the Old World. I had many reasons for leaving Europe—the Masters there are a big one. I find them … frustrating.”

  “But Ned’s not like that?” I asked.

  “Ned is, as you like to say, one of the good guys. But he’s a character—don’t let him charm you.”

  Ben’s expression had turned sour—he generally had the same attitude about vampires that Cormac did. And yet, they kept listening to me when I insisted on calling them my friends.

  “We’ll be careful,” I said. I always said that, and yet, I could only keep an eye out for the dangers I knew about. What would the conference throw at me that I couldn’t possibly expect?

  Alette asked, “Do you know, will Dr. Flemming be at the conference? This seems exactly his milieu.”

  “He wouldn’t dare show his face,” I said. “He’s notorious.” Dr. Paul Flemming had once headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. If this conference had happened a few years ago, he would have been one of the people running it. Then his predilection for experimenting on unwilling human subjects came to light. The last time I saw him was the night he locked me in a cell during the full moon and trained a camera on me to broadcast my transformation live to the world. The video had five million views on YouTube, baby. He’d skipped town rather than face kidnapping charges. If the two of us ever ended up in a room together, I might get violent.
r />   She said, “But it wouldn’t surprise you if he did make an appearance, would it?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  The night and conversation wore on after midnight, until Alette agreed that we ought to sleep, in preparation for the flight tomorrow. I took her up on her offer of guest rooms, and a ride to the airport bright and early.

  Before we went upstairs, she took hold of both my hands and beamed. “Kitty, you’ve come so far since I first met you. I thought then that you might do well, but you have exceeded my expectations.”

  “Thanks, I think. I just hope…” I thought a moment, then shook my head. “I just hope it all works out.”

  “Oh, my dear, you live as long as I have you realize it never all works out. You’re giving the keynote address at the conference, aren’t you? Do you know what you’ll be speaking about?”

  I wasn’t able to suppress a groan. “I wish people would stop asking me that. I’m going to work on it on the flight over.” I had to change the subject before she offered me suggestions. “How is Emma?”

  “You’ll hardly recognize her. Give her a kiss for me, won’t you?”

  “I will. Thanks, for everything.”

  Chapter 3

  IN THE end, the trans-Atlantic flight wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting. We just had to grit our teeth and settle in for a few hours. Like Tyler said, you had to not concentrate on being locked in a metal tube flying at an insane height and speed—you focused on going to London. I ate, slept, watched movies, slept some more.

  Then night fell, and I was in London. We gathered our things and stumbled off the plane.

  I hardly knew what to think. I was euphoric, exhausted, glassy-eyed all at the same time. I’d never been out of the U.S. before. I’d just flown across the Atlantic. I was in England. I’d just spent eight hours surrounded by people in a little metal box and wanted to run as far and fast as I could. I wanted to see a castle. I wanted to sleep.

  Once off the plane, a wide corridor filtered us toward immigration. The crowd filed along like cows being herded to the slaughterhouse, making me twitch. Heathrow’s international terminal, a modernist structure of glass and girders, gave a deceptive impression of space, light, and freedom, until we reached the side room with a maze of barriers separating the lines of people into different areas, signage directing the lines, and a general air of resignation. The place smelled antiseptic and tired, wholly unnatural. Wolf tensed.