Kitty's Greatest Hits (kitty norville)

by Carrie Vaughn

  She pulled back her head to look at him; kissed him lightly, then slowly—staying slow, forcing him to match her pace. She controlled his movements now. She unbuttoned his shirt, drawing out every motion, brushing the bare skin underneath with fleeting touches. Lingering. Teasing. Heightening his need, feeding his desire. Driving him mad. He was melting in her arms. She could feel his muscles tremble.

  Taking hold of his hands—she practically had to peel them off her backside—she guided them to her breasts and pressed them there. His eyes widened, like he’d just won a prize, and she smiled, letting her head fall back, feeling the weight of her hair pull her back, rolling her shoulders and putting her chest even more firmly into his grasp. Quickly, he undid the buttons of her shirt, tugged aside her bra, and bent to kiss her, tracing her right breast with his tongue, taking her nipple between his teeth. For all that had happened, for all that she’d become, her nerves, her senses, still worked, still shuddered at a lover’s touch. Her hands clenched on his shoulders, then tightened in his hair. She gasped with pleasure. She wanted this. She wanted this badly.

  She pulled him toward the bedroom. Didn’t stop looking at him; held his gaze, would not let him break it. Her own veins were fire—controlled fire, in a very strong furnace, directed to some great purpose, a driving machine. She needed him, the blood that flushed along his skin. His very capillaries opened for her. She did not have a heartbeat, but something in her breast cried out in triumph. He was hers, to do with as she pleased.

  She ran her tongue along her top row of teeth, scraping it on needle-sharp fangs.

  He tugged at her shirt, searching for more bare skin. She shivered at his touch on the small of her back. His hands were hot, burning up, and for all her desire, her skin felt cold, bloodless.

  She would revel in his heat instead.

  She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, then wrapped herself around him, pulling as much of that skin and heat to her as she could.

  “You’re so warm,” she murmured, not meaning to speak at all. But she was amazed at the heat of him. She hadn’t felt so much heat since before … before she became this thing.

  He kept his mouth against her, lips working around her neck, pressing up to her ear, tasting every inch. Her nerves flared at the touch.

  And suddenly, finally, she understood. It wasn’t just the blood that drew her kind to living humans. It was the heat, the life itself. They were bright sunlight to creatures who lived in darkness. They held the energy that kept her kind alive and immortal—for there would always be people, an endless supply of people, to draw that energy from. She was a parasite and the host would never die.

  Neither, then, would she.

  With new reverence, she eased him to the bed, made him lay back, and finished stripping him, tugging down his jeans and boxers, touching him at every opportunity, fingertips around his hips, along his thighs. She paused to regard him, stretched out on his back, naked before her, member erect, whole body flushed and almost trembling with need. She had brought him to this moment, with desire burning in his eyes. He would do anything she asked, now. She found herself wanting to be kind—to reward him for the role he’d played in her education, in bringing about the epiphany that so clarified her place in the world.

  This exchange would be fair. She would not simply take from him. He would have pleasure as well.

  She rubbed her hands down his chest, down his belly. He moaned, shivered under her touch but did not interfere. She traced every curve of his body: down his ribs, his hips. Stretched out on the bed beside him, she took his penis in her hand. Again, their mouths met. His kissing was urgent, fevered, and she kept pace with him. He was growing slick with sweat and smelled of musk.

  She laughed. The sound just bubbled out of her. Lips apart, eyes gleaming, she found joy in this. She would live, she would not open the curtains on the dawn. She had power in this existence and she would learn to use it.

  “Oh my God,” Chris murmured. He froze, his eyes wide, his blood suddenly cooled. In only a second, she felt the sweat on his body start to chill as fear struck him. He wouldn’t even notice it yet.

  He was staring at her, her open, laughing mouth, the pointed canine teeth she’d been so careful to disguise until this moment, when euphoria overcame her.

  In a moment of panic like this, it might all fall apart. An impulse to run struck her, but she’d come too far, she was too close to success. If she fled now she might never regain the nerve to try again.

  “Shh, shh, it’s all right,” she whispered, stroking his hair, nuzzling his cheek, breathing comfort against him. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine.”

  She brought all her nascent power to bear: seduction, persuasion. The creature’s allure. The ability to fog his mind, to erase all else from his thoughts but his desire for her, to fill his sight only with her.

  “It’s all right, Chris. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take good care of you.”

  The fear in his eyes ebbed, replaced by puzzlement—some part of his mind asking what was happening, who was she, what was she, and why was she doing this to him. She willed him to forget those questions. All that mattered were her, him, their joint passion that would feed them both: his desire, and her life.

  He was still hard against her hand, and she used that. Gently, carefully, she urged him back to his heat, brought him again to that point of need. She stroked him, first with her fingertips, then with her whole hand, and his groan of pleasure gratified her. When he tipped back his head, his eyes rolling back a little, she knew he had returned to her.

  The next time she kissed him, his whole body surged against her.

  She twined her leg around his; he moved against her, insistent. But she held him, pinned him, and closed her mouth over his neck. There she kissed, sucked—felt the hot river of his blood so close to his skin, just under her tongue. She almost lost control, in her need to take that river into herself.

  Oh so carefully, slowly, to make sure she did this right and made no mistakes, she bit. Let her needle teeth tear just a little of his skin.

  The flow of blood hit her tongue with a shock and instantly translated to a delicious rush that shuddered through her body. Blood slipped down her throat like honey, burning with richness. Clenching all her muscles, groaning at the flood of it, she drank. Her hand closed tight around his erection, moved with him, and his body responded, his own wave of pleasure bringing him to climax a moment later.

  She held him while he rocked against her, and she drank a dozen swallows of his blood. No more than that. Do not kill, Alette’s first lesson. But a dozen mouthfuls would barely weaken him. He wouldn’t even notice.

  She licked the wound she’d made to hasten its healing. He might notice the marks and believe them to be insect bites. He would never know she’d been here.

  His body radiated the heat of spent desire. She lay close to him, gathering as much of it as she could into herself. She now felt hot—vivid and alive. She could feel his blood traveling through her, keeping her alive.

  Stroking his hair, admiring the lazy smile he wore, she whispered to him. “You won’t remember me. You won’t remember what happened tonight. You had a nice dream, that’s all. A vivid dream.”

  “Emma,” he murmured, flexing toward her for more. Almost, her resolve broke. Almost, she saw that pulsing artery in his neck and went to drink again.

  But she continued, “If you see me again, you won’t know me. Your life will go on as if you never knew me. Go to sleep. You’ll sleep very well tonight.”

  She brushed his hair with her fingers, and a moment later he was snoring gently. She pulled a blanket over him. Kissed his forehead.

  Straightening her bra, buttoning her blouse, she left the room. Made sure all the lights were off. Locked the door on her way out.

  She walked home. It was the deepest, stillest hour of night, or early morning. Streetlights turned colors but no cars waited at intersections. No voices drifted from bars and al
l the storefronts were dark. A cold mist hung in the air, ghostlike. Emma felt that she swam through it.

  The stillest part of night, and she had never felt more awake, more alive. Every pore felt the touch of air around her. Warm blood flowed in her veins, firing her heart. She walked without fear along dark streets, secure in the feeling that the world had paused to notice her passage through it.

  * * *

  She entered Alette’s townhouse through the kitchen door in back rather than the through the front door, because she’d always come in through the back in her student days when she studied in Alette’s library and paid for school by being Alette’s part-time housekeeper. That had all changed. Those days—nights—were finished. But she’d never stop using the back door.

  “Emma?” Alette called from the parlor.

  Self-conscious, Emma followed the voice and found Alette in her favorite chair in the corner, reading a book. Emma tried not to feel like a kid sneaking home after a night of mischief.

  Alette replaced a bookmark and set the book aside. “Well?”

  Her unnecessary coat wrapped around her, hands folded before her, Emma stood before the mistress of the house. Almost, she reverted to the teenager’s response: “Fine, okay, whatever.” Monosyllables and a fast exit.

  But she felt herself smile broadly, happily. “It was good.”

  “And the gentleman?”

  “He won’t remember me.”

  “Good,” Alette said, and smiled. “Welcome to the Family, my dear.”

  * * *

  She went back to the bar once more, a week later. Sitting at the bar, she traced condensation on the outside of a glass of gin and tonic on the rocks. She hadn’t sipped, only tasted, drawing a lone breath so she could take in the scent of it.

  The door opened, bringing with it a cold draft and a crowd of college students. Chris was among them, laughing at someone’s joke, blond hair tousled. He walked right by her on his way to the pool tables. Flashed her a hurried smile when he caught her watching him. Didn’t spare her another glance, in the way of two strangers passing in a crowded bar.

  Smiling wryly to herself, Emma left her drink at the bar and went out to walk in the night.

  YOU’RE ON THE AIR

  Jake leaned his elbows on the counter by the cash register and stared out over vacant aisles. His shoulders were bunched, his back slouched. This was way bad for his posture. Like he cared.

  The store had been empty for hours. Half an hour ago somebody had pulled up to the gas pumps outside and paid by credit card. Really, they didn’t need him here minding things. Put a vending machine outside for the stoners and the store would make a profit.

  Then again, it was just as well they hired him for the graveyard shift. What else would he do for money?

  Graveyard shift. That was funny.

  He didn’t do much these days. Slept during daylight hours, got up, grabbed a bite, came to work. Went home and was asleep again by dawn. He hadn’t seen the sun in … he couldn’t remember how long it had been. He only had these glaring white fluorescent bulbs. They hummed like insects.

  The radio, a beat-up model sitting on the shelf behind him, crammed between cartons of cigarettes, scratched a folk rock song, which faded, and a voice cut in.

  “Good evening, and welcome to The Midnight Hour. This is Kitty Norville, your ever-cheerful hostess.”

  Oh, score. It was Friday. He’d forgotten. He turned up the volume. This was his favorite show.

  “Tonight it’s all vampires, and all calls. I want to hear from you…”

  * * *

  Jake couldn’t understand why anyone would want to become a vampire. And yet, they called into Kitty’s show all the time. Wannabes. They had no clue.

  “I’m ageless,” said the underage caller breathlessly. “Ageless as the grave.”

  “Okay, this is not the kinderbat poetry hour,” Kitty said, which made Jake laugh, which was the reason he listened to the show. “You’ll want—oh, I don’t know—public access television for that.”

  “Whoa, what a wicked cool idea,” the kid said.

  If that ever happened, Jake would find the kid and beat the crap out of him himself. Thankfully, Kitty switched calls. “Please, someone with sense call me so we can discuss Byron or something. Next caller, hello.”

  “I knew him, you know.”

  Jake perked up. That cool assurance in a voice usually meant a vampire. A real one.

  “Knew who?”

  “Lord Byron, of course.”

  “Really,” Kitty drawled, clearly disbelieving. “You know, there are about as many vampires who say they knew Byron as there are reincarnation freaks who say they were Cleopatra in a past life. Which would mean Byron had, like, hundreds of obnoxious simpering twits trailing after him wherever he went. When he really only had Keats and Shelley.”

  The guy huffed. “How very droll.”

  “I’m sorry, you just hit one of my buttons, you know?”

  “You’ve never considered that perhaps one of those vampires who say they knew Byron might be right?”

  The call went on for a few more moments, and Jake’s attention faded. He was thinking about what he wanted to say to this guy. More than anything he wanted to talk to another vampire—a powerful one, a reasonable one. Someone who could explain to him what was supposed to be so great about being a vampire. There had to be more to it than beating up winos who didn’t even notice the parasites on their necks, all for a pint of stolen blood.

  He’d changed—he could feel this humming in his muscles, like he ought to be stronger. Like if he tilted his head a little bit he ought to be able to see into other dimensions. So maybe he did have powers, but what was he supposed to do with them when he spent all his time hiding? He never talked to anyone anymore except to say, Here’s your change.

  There had to be a way to dig out of this hole he was in.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Destiny,” the vampire said.

  What the hell did that even mean, Jake thought.

  “Right, the big question. Like, why are we here, what’s the point to life, that sort of thing?”

  “I’m curious to hear what you think about it.”

  “That’s my line.” Kitty sounded put out.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  She sighed, a hiss over the radio. “All right. I’ll bite. Here’s what I think, with the caveat that I may be wrong: I think we’re here to make the world a better place than we found it. I think we don’t always deserve the cards that we’re dealt, good or bad. But we are judged by how we play the cards we’re dealt. Those of us with a bum deal that make it harder to do good—we just have to work a little more is all. There’s no destiny. There’s just muddling through without doing too much damage.”

  Jake admired Kitty: She was so down-to-earth and practical and yet inspiring, all at the same time. All she really wanted was for people to stop feeling sorry for themselves, get off their asses, and make their lives better. She made it sound like anyone could do it.

  It was almost enough to inspire him get off his ass and make his life better.

  “Hmm, that’s very nice,” the vampire said, and the condescension in his voice made Jake fume, gritting the back of his teeth in frustration. Easy for him to be arrogant.

  On a whim, he picked up the phone and dialed. Kitty was always telling her listeners to do something—here he was, doing something.

  “All right. I know you’re just trying to bait me. Why don’t you come out and say what you want to say.”

  The caller’s attitude got even worse.

  “You talk about us, vampires and lycanthropes, like we’re afflicted. Like we have a handicap. And I suppose if your goal is to pass as human, to blend in with society, then it is a handicap. But have you ever thought that we are the chosen ones? Fate marked us, and we became what we are. We are superior, marked by destiny, and one day we will rule the world…”

  Jake gripped the edge of
the counter until the plastic cracked. He let go, startled. Cheap crap. And the guy on the radio was still talking. This was the glorified stereotype, the reason why some people actually wanted to be vampires. This was all those stories of elegant men and women, hundreds of years old, stalking the night like predators—such a sexy picture that made. Made it sound like you’d actually get something good out of the transformation.

  The guy didn’t say anything about what happened when you got your throat ripped out in the back alley of a convenience store. Jake never saw what did it—a piece of shadow broke away from the night and swallowed him, and he remembered thinking this was it, he was done, and he’d always meant to go back to college and finish that last semester, and now he never would and what a waste it all was. He’d woken up freezing cold, in a dark room, and had assumed it was hell, and you didn’t just go to hell for being bad—you went there for being nothing. But no, it wasn’t hell, not like that. The thing that attacked him transformed him, saved him, because he thought it would be funny, and then abandoned him.

  Oh, please let his call get through so he could rant at this guy.

  The phone rang. Three rings, four rings. She wouldn’t even pick up the phone. But at least it wasn’t busy …

  After five rings, someone answered. “You’ve reached The Midnight Hour.”

  Then it happened so fast. He talked to a guy, a screener, gave his name, what he wanted to talk about, “That guy who said he knew Byron made me so mad,” was what he thought he said. The screener told him to turn his radio off—and the show, Kitty’s voice, piped through the phone.