Kitty's Mix-Tape

by Carrie Vaughn

  “Talk to the vampire.

  I know this isn’t expected, but it’s necessary.”

  What the hell was this about?

  We are in the middle of something strange here, Cormac, Amelia observed. He’d met Amelia in prison, where she had been wrongfully hanged for murder more than a hundred years ago. She’d also been something of a wizard and had managed to preserve her consciousness inside the prison walls. They’d made a bargain: he’d carry her back into the world, and he would get her powers. In the meantime, they had become something like friends.

  Was it weird that he immediately thought of talking to Rick, the Master of Denver? He was used to hunting and staking vampires, not talking to them. He could call Kitty, she was friends with the guy, and maybe he’d know what this was about.

  So much trouble over such an innocuous envelope. He thought about ripping it open, looking inside it for some sort of clue about where it was supposed to go.

  That would be rather unethical, Amelia thought at him.

  “If they really wanted this delivered, they should have made it easier,” he grumbled.

  If it had been easy they would have done it themselves. I’m telling you, this is odd. I want to know more.

  He’d gotten the job via email. He didn’t know anything about who had hired him. It had seemed so simple.

  “I guess we have to go talk to the vampire, then,” he said, searching the ruined homestead as if someone might pop out of the broken timbers and explain everything.

  Really, it won’t be so bad, will it? Master Rick is a gentleman.

  He called Kitty.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but here I am. I don’t know if you’re the right vampire, but I had to start somewhere,” Cormac said and handed the note from the farmhouse to Rick, shrugging like he was surrendering all responsibility for their current situation. Cormac was a patient guy, but I’d never known him to like puzzles.

  Rick read the page. His gaze narrowed. Then he read it again, and glanced at Cormac, his brow furrowed. Finally he handed the note back. “Wait here a minute.”

  He vanished. In actuality, he moved so quickly he seemed to fly down the steps in a blur, his vampiric speed and power disguising him. Returning after just a couple of minutes, Rick walked up the steps at normal speed, holding a small item in his hand. A key.

  “I think you need this,” he said. The key wasn’t old, but it wasn’t new. The size of his thumb, steel maybe. Small, simple, for luggage or a strong box. He held it out. Seemingly in a daze, Cormac took it from him, studied it. Rick explained, “Fifty years ago, I was asked to keep this safe. I was told that I would know who to give it to when the time was right, and that I would be told, ‘I know this isn’t expected, but it’s necessary.’”

  Cormac lifted his sunglasses to study the key more closely, vampire or no. “Fifty years ago?” Rick nodded solemnly.

  “Who?” I burst in. “Who does that? Who keeps something safe for a stranger for fifty years?”

  “Vampires,” Cormac and Rick said at the same time. Cormac scowled, but Rick quirked a smile.

  I said. “So, fifty years ago, some stranger came to you out of the blue and said, ‘Hey, take this for me,’ and you were like, ‘Yeah, sure’?”

  Rick added, “You’ll have to trust me when I say this isn’t the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Oh, I trust you,” I said. “The person who gave this to you—were they human? Mortal?”

  “At the time I thought he was perfectly normal. White guy, short hair, about this tall. Seemed intense. But now, I’m not sure. My memory isn’t perfect.”

  “Cormac, what’s your client look like?”

  “Don’t know, they set up the job over email.”

  “So it could be the same person,” Rick said. “But why?”

  I pointed at Cormac’s hand. “I want to know what that key opens.”

  Cormac blew out a breath. “This is starting to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “You can’t quit, not now. I want to know what that opens, who that message is for, why—”

  “No,” Cormac said. “You should stay out of this.”

  “Oh no,” I said, crossing my arms. “You asked for help. I’m helping.”

  “This is why I don’t ask for help,” he muttered.

  “I bet you need me. I bet before this is all over, you’ll be calling me again, so I might as well see it to the end now.”

  “I think you’re stuck with her for this round,” Rick said. “Cat’s out of the bag.”

  Cormac rolled his eyes, and I glanced at the vampire sidelong. “Did you really just say that? Really?”

  Cormac’s gaze turned inward, which meant he was probably having a discussion with Amelia. I bet she was arguing for my side. Cormac was a loner. Strangely, Amelia didn’t seem to be. She made him act downright human sometimes.

  “Fine,” he said finally.

  This was a mystery. A quest. An epic. It was awesome. “Cool,” I said, grinning.

  “Sorry I couldn’t do more to help,” Rick said. “You’ll let me know how it all turns out?”

  “I’m anxious to find that out myself,” I said. “Have a good night, anyway.” Rick made a slight bow and returned down the stairs to his lair.

  Cormac was already walking back to his Jeep, and I hurried after him. He settled in the front seat, studying the key close-up by the interior light.

  “It doesn’t really look like a door or car key,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  “Amelia thinks she can scry, maybe get some clue where it came from.”

  “Is that an inscription?” I said, peering at the tiny letters engraved on the key’s head. He handed the key over for me to look at with my werewolf vision. I had to squint at it, tip it one way and another a couple of times—partly to make out the letters, partly because I didn’t quite believe what I was reading.

  “Foothills Savings and Loan? Is that a real bank?” I pointed out the number stamped on it.

  “Safe-deposit box, maybe?” he asked, then chuckled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Amelia. Why use magic when you can just look?”

  “Aw,” I said, sympathizing. “I have a feeling we’re going to need some magic before we get to the end of this.”

  Cormac didn’t seem happy about that. He tapped on his phone, doing a web search, it looked like. “Huh. It’s in Golden.”

  “So it is a real place.”

  “Guess so. Have to wait until morning to check it out.”

  “Should I meet you there or do you want to pick me up?”

  “Kitty—”

  “Come on, please let me tag along. You can’t open a secret safe-deposit box without me.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Yes!” I did a tiny fist pump.

  “This is weird. You’re not supposed to enjoy this.”

  “You want to get there right when the place opens, or what?”

  At home that night, I tried to explain all this to Ben. He was skeptical. “Should I be worried about him?”

  “Probably, but at least if I’m with him I can watch out for him,” I answered.

  He gave me a look.

  “It’ll be fine,” I insisted. “It’s just . . . a puzzle.”

  “I’m in court all day or I’d go with you.”

  “I’ll text you. Don’t worry.”

  “I promise not to worry if you promise not to get into trouble.”

  I furrowed my brow, because I didn’t think either of us could make good on those promises.

  Foothills Savings and Loan was a small building with an aging parking lot set back from a busy street, away from the highway and box stores on the newer side of town. It must have been built in the seventies, with that particular style of stucco exterior and wood shakes over the eaves of a flat roof. The name of the bank was painted on a nondescript sign hanging by the door. No other cars were in the lot.

 
; We stood by the Jeep and stared at the building for a moment. “This looks like it should be a dentist’s office,” I said.

  “Let’s get this over with.” He walked to the door, held it open for me, and we stepped in.

  The interior matched the exterior, with burnt umber carpet and brown wood paneling. A Muzak version of “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” played on a staticky P.A. I felt like I’d stepped through a time warp.

  “Is this a real bank?” I murmured. “This can’t be a real bank.” This was the set of a Tarantino film, surely.

  The woman at one of two teller counters seemed modern and real enough, dressed in a contemporary blouse and slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing just a bit of makeup. She looked to be in her thirties.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling widely. “Can I help you?”

  Cormac showed her the key. “Do you have safe-deposit boxes?”

  She studied the key for a moment. “Oh yes, that’s one of ours. If you’ll come this way, I can get the box for you.” We followed her to a small conference room off the main lobby. “It’ll just take me a moment,” she said pleasantly. “Can I get you coffee, tea?”

  “No thanks,” I said, my smile frozen, while Cormac studied the room like he expected to find a bomb. I whispered to him, “Don’t they usually need to see ID or something before they’ll get out a box?”

  “No idea,” he said. “I’m not going to bring it up.”

  My pulse was racing, waiting for the teller to bring in the box. What would we find? How amazing was this, a real-live treasure hunt? Cormac’s expression never changed. Could he at least pretend to be excited?

  We both twitched when the door opened again and the teller came in with a metallic box in her arms, about the size of a shoe box, locked tight. She set it on the table and turned back to the door with hardly a second glance. “Let me know when you’re finished, or if you need anything else.” She must have practiced that smile in the mirror every morning.

  The conference room door closed, and Cormac considered the box.

  “Open it, open it!” I urged, bouncing in place a little.

  Instead, he studied it, feeling along all the edges, turning it over. It seemed heavy.

  “Well?” I didn’t know how much longer I could stand the suspense.

  “Just wondering if there’s anything magical going on here,” he said.

  That set me back. “Oh. How do you tell?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a small iron nail tied to a string. This was Amelia’s work. I still wasn’t sure I entirely understood what had happened with the two of them, but I had learned to recognize when she was the one in charge. His movements became more careful, his diction more precise. Cormac had given up his guns, but Amelia’s magic was more powerful.

  He held the end of the string and let the nail dangle, balanced horizontally. A makeshift pendulum. This was so exciting, but I held my breath and tried not to interrupt.

  Nothing happened.

  We waited. Still nothing, until finally Cormac bundled the string and nail back in his pocket.

  “So. No magic?” I asked.

  “Not that we can tell from outside.”

  “Is this going to be like Al Capone’s vault? There’s not going to be anything in it, is there?” He hesitated, tilted his head. “What?”

  “I had to explain Al Capone’s vault to Amelia.”

  I wanted to scream. “Here. Give me the key. I’ll open it.”

  Cormac smirked at me and slipped the key into the box’s lock.

  So, it wasn’t Al Capone’s vault. The box wasn’t empty, but it also didn’t release a puff of stale, ancient, intriguing air like I was hoping it would. My wolfish nose took a long breath just to be sure. And . . . it smelled like an animal.

  Cormac opened the lid all the way and we peered inside. The box contained two items: a chunk of fur tied with a string, and a postcard.

  “Well, that’s satisfyingly cryptic,” I said.

  He took out the postcard first. It showed a historic Western main street against the backdrop of snow-capped peaks. LEADVILLE, COLORADO, was printed across the scene in friendly letters. The back of the card was blank.

  The fur was tawny colored, rough. “Can you tell what that came from?” he asked.

  I leaned in to get a better smell. It smelled familiar, but not. Canine, I thought. But . . . I wrinkled my nose, tried again. Then leaned back.

  “That came from a lycanthrope,” I said.

  “One of yours?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t know who it is. Just . . . it’s not entirely canine, it’s got that little bit of human in it, you know? No, I guess you wouldn’t. I don’t think it’s wolf. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Huh,” he said, frowning.

  I took the card from him, thinking maybe I could get a scent off it too, but it had been stored with the fur so long both items just smelled like each other. I studied the picture, looked over the back. Blinked. Looked again, just to be sure. Held the card up to Cormac.

  “This . . . this is newer than fifty years old.” I pointed out the copyright date on the postcard. Ten years ago. The postcard, and probably the fur, were no more than ten years old.

  “So?”

  “Rick said he got the key fifty years ago. How can the key be older than the thing it locks? How did this get locked in here ten years ago if Rick already had the key?”

  “I’m not here to ask questions. I’m just trying to do this job.”

  “Maybe there was a second key? A master key?”

  “See, logical explanation,” he said.

  I wasn’t convinced. “This is a really weird job, Cormac.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  “So I guess we’re going to Leadville?”

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  We told the clerk we were finished with the box. We didn’t tell her we’d emptied it. I had a few questions for her. “Just out of curiosity, do you have information on file about when the box was rented and who rented it?”

  She went to her computer terminal. It seemed to be a modern computer with a flat-screen monitor, so at least that was up to date. She typed for a minute, then another minute. “Hmm,” she murmured intriguingly.

  “It’s rented under the name of Mr. Crow, and the rent on it was paid in advance . . . well, for a good many years, it looks like.”

  “Do you have contact information for Mr. Crow?” I asked.

  She gave me her best, most professional customer service smile. It was soothing. “Nothing I’m allowed to give out, I’m sorry.” She really did seem to be sorry.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. “You have a great day!”

  “Thank you so much, you too!”

  We fled.

  I texted Ben to let him know we were going to Leadville, and told him to call Cormac with any questions. When Cormac’s phone rang a minute later, the hunter shut it off.

  “He’s just going to call back,” I said. We were already on I-70 west out of Denver. This trip was going to take the rest of the day, at least.

  “Then you talk to him, he’s your husband,” he said curtly.

  So I called him. “Hey there, you’re on speaker,” I said, and held the phone between me and Cormac.

  “Why are you going to Leadville?” Ben asked in a frustrated tone.

  I answered, “Because we found a postcard for Leadville in the safe-deposit box.” A long pause followed. “Ben?” Maybe we’d lost the connection.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why is your client sending you on a scavenger hunt?”

  “I’d like to know,” Cormac said. “This message is starting to feel like a grenade. I want to get rid of it before it goes off.” The original envelope was tucked in next to the driver’s seat.

  Ben muttered a curse under his breath. “I hope you’re getting paid really well for this.”

  “I even got half up front.”

 
“Well, that’s something, anyway. I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I? This feels really off.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Cormac said.

  “Kitty? Call me the minute you’re headed back home. Or if you need help. Or if you get arrested. Or—”

  “I’ll call. I promise. Love you.”

  “I love you, too. Be careful!”

  I ended the call and blushed a little, with all that emotion out in the open and Cormac looking on, stone-faced. If he cared, I’d never know it.

  “Sorry about the mush,” I said.

  We probably went another mile before he said, quickly, like he was worried he couldn’t get it all out, “You two are the best people I know. I’m glad you’re together.”

  In an incautious moment I asked, “So, no regrets?”

  He hesitated. Just for a minute. “A few. But it’s okay.”

  “It might have been fun. You and me.”

  “Maybe. And it would have ended the minute you tried to bring me home to meet your parents.”

  “Wait. You still haven’t met my parents, have you? You really should come over sometime. Maybe Thanksgiving.”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t have to stay long, just have some pie or something—”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “I am not going to meet your parents.”

  I grinned.

  Leadville was touted as having the highest elevation of any town in the U.S. Over ten thousand feet. The thin air had a crisp, heady chill to it. I filled my lungs.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  He pulled the postcard out of a pocket, tapped it on his hand. “I don’t know. Smell anything?”

  “Rocky Mountain high,” I said, drawing another deep breath. “Let’s walk around a little bit.”

  We went down the old main street, a picturesque stretch of turn-of-the-century brick and stone buildings. Lots of people wandering around like us, looking up and around, checking out the shops.

  “Maybe I should get a pound of fudge to take back to Ben, to make up for being all mysterious.” Or maybe I just wanted to buy a pound of fudge because it was there.

  Cormac wasn’t paying attention. He stopped, stepped off the curb between parked cars, and studied the front of the postcard. Flipped it over, then back. Held it up at arm’s length, then seemed to sight along it.