Kitty's Mix-Tape

by Carrie Vaughn

  “Agent Martin?” I said. “And you are?”

  The man scowled like he was revealing something important. “Agent Ivers.”

  “And what exactly is the Paranatural Security Administration?” I asked.

  “We’re a division of the Department of Homeland Security,” Martin said.

  Well, that couldn’t be good. “Why haven’t I heard about you guys before now? Because I would have heard of you guys before now.”

  “We’re still a provisional agency,” Ivers said, walking around the studio, appearing to study equipment, frowning at the no-doubt subversive-looking concert flyers and new-age festival announcements pinned to the bulletin board. KNOB was public radio, what did he expect?

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  Martin peered at the monitor. “You get a lot of phone calls each week?”

  “It depends on the topic, depends on the week. Things really ramp up right around Halloween. And Christmas, weirdly enough.”

  “Do you keep records of all the calls you receive?”

  My hackles rose, a stiffening across my shoulders. If I could have growled, I would have. I steadied myself, remaining cautious. “Why do you want to know?”

  “If you got a suspicious call from a stalker, someone making threats. . .we know you’ve received threats on the air. You keep some kind of record of that to pass to the police, don’t you?”

  I was afraid to say yes. I didn’t want to say yes. That would open a door. “Look, it’s literally the middle of the night. I think you should be having this conversation with the station manager.”

  Ivers said, “You meet a lot of people doing your show, don’t you? You’ve met a lot of people—creatures—that don’t necessarily go through the station’s records. Is that right?”

  “If you’re asking if I have a life outside my job—”

  “You know people, Ms. Norville,” he continued. “People. Other things. That’s what we’re interested in.”

  I had one of them on each side of me now. They might not have had guns, but what else did they have stashed in their jackets? My phone was on the desk, plugged in, and not in my hand. I maybe hadn’t thought this through.

  “How many vampires do you personally know?” Martin asked. “I don’t know—”

  “Just a guess. I imagine it’s quite a lot.”

  Ivers, tag-teaming: “If I were to list cities, would you be able to tell me who the Masters of those cities are?”

  “What a minute,” I said. “You want me to name names. You’re asking me to name names. Like some kind of HUAC shit?”

  “We’re just asking for your help on a matter of national security,” Ivers said.

  “What national security? What’s the danger here?”

  “This is just for informational purposes.”

  The saxophone riff was still going, over and over. “I think . . . I think I’m going to refer you to my attorney.” My heart was racing. Claws pressed against the inside of my fingertips. Calm, calm. Slow breaths.

  Martin tilted her head. “Ms. Norville, are you all right?”

  “You do know that I’m a werewolf, right? You’ve seen the video. You know it’s not a good idea to stress us out.”

  They exchanged a concerned glance, then both of them looked away from me. Turned aside, non-confrontational. Body language meant to de-escalate a confrontation. They’d had some training in dealing with stressed-out werewolves. Somehow that made me more worried, not less. Who else had they been harassing?

  Martin sounded like she was trying to be soothing, but instead came across as condescending. “You’re not under investigation here. You’re under no suspicion yourself. We know that you’ll be happy to help, should the need ever arise. I’m sure you have nothing to hide—”

  “Then I have nothing to fear? Is that what you’re about to say?”

  Glancing down the barest little bit, Martin said, “It’s hard to say that line without sounding just a little ironic.”

  “And they say satire is dead,” I muttered. We could keep going in circles all night. “How about I pull the plug on George Michael over there and broadcast this conversation to everybody, hm?”

  Martin said, “I don’t recommend—”

  Her partner jumped in. “The saxophonist on that track is Steve Gregory.”

  “Well. Score one for precision. But seriously, I need to get back to the show. I can’t help you. Come back during office hours.”

  Ivers glanced out the door. “Your sound guy, Matt—he’s been with you a long time, hasn’t he?”

  A chill passed over me. “Yeah, from the start. Where is he? Where did you take him?”

  “Our colleague is just having a few words with him. Kind of like we’re doing with you. Nothing to worry about.”

  I sank into the chair at my desk. I had tried to imagine this moment. Reading the history, I had to wonder if I would have named names in front of the HUAC during the Red Scare, or if I would have stood firm and suffered blacklisting. Of course I liked to think I would stand firm, but who could say? Who really knew, until the moment was upon you, what you would do? If I had a choice between collaboration or standing for actual principles despite the risk, what would I do?

  Some people would blame me for this situation coming about in the first place. Before I started the show, werewolves, vampires, the whole supernatural world remained secret. Anyone trying to expose that world could be written off as a crackpot. Then came my show, the revelation from the NIH that this was all real—and then came the scrutiny. One of the issues the current administration campaigned on was the need for monitoring and controlling—read registering and incarcerating—vampires and werewolves, and regulating witchcraft and psychics, or even making them illegal. So far, none of this had happened, Constitutional protections had been upheld. But for how long?

  I have here in my hand a list of known lycanthropes . . .

  “I can’t do it,” I said. “There’s been talk—I know you’ve heard the talk, you all are probably at the center of it—of registering vampires and werewolves, other supernatural beings. For safety reasons, you understand. It’s simply tracking potential threats to the public. Nothing to worry about. Except the next step after registration is restriction. Travel bans, housing limitations. And the next step after that is confinement. You see where I’m going with this?”

  “It will never—”

  I held up a hand. “Say the rest of that line with a straight face. I dare you.”

  She couldn’t. Neither of them could.

  I sighed and tried to shake some of the stress out of my nerves. “If you’re looking for a specific name for a specific investigation you can get a court order, but you’ll still have to go through my lawyer—”

  “We’re not going to do that, Ms. Norville.”

  “But—” And it suddenly occurred to me: They didn’t want to go through lawyers. This was a specific investigation, they were looking for a specific name—they just didn’t want anyone to know who it was. “What is this really about?”

  They exchanged a glance, and for the first time seemed not entirely sure of themselves. Maybe even just a little bit nervous.

  “This is all back channel bullshit,” I said. “On the one hand, I’m kind of relieved this isn’t actually the start of some kind of roundup. But seriously—who is it among all my connections you’re trying to track down?” It could have been anyone, I knew some pretty far-out people. People who knew where the bodies were buried, and where they should have been, but weren’t.

  The pair was playing an unspoken game of “No, you say something,” and Martin appeared to lose. She said, “Ms. Norville, I’m really not at liberty to say—”

  “Kitty? You there?” A voice echoed from down the hallway. And with that, my anxiety vanished.

  Martin and Ivers reached into their jackets and drew out weapons. Not guns—when they took up defensive stances by the door, they each had a stake in one hand and knife in the o
ther. I bet those knives had silver worked into the blades.

  “Who’s that?” Ivers demanded.

  I smiled a wolfish, relieved smile. “My lawyer.” My husband, Ben, actually. But I thought ‘lawyer’ would scare them more. “I’m here,” I called out. “There’s company, just to let you know.”

  A pause. “The good kind of company or the interesting kind?” That wasn’t Ben answering—that was Cormac, his cousin. Hunter of supernatural creatures turned paranormal detective.

  “Interesting. They’re armed.”

  “And who is that? Another lawyer?” Ivers hissed at me.

  “That’s the muscle,” I said, leering.

  “What are they going to do?” Martin asked. She seemed the steadier of the two, gazing into the hallway outside with a look of determination.

  “If you put your toys away and walk out—nothing.” I called past them, “Hey, Ben, you see Matt on the way up?”

  “Yeah, he and your security guy seemed to be having a tense conversation with a government suit.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “Worried, but yeah. Are you okay?”

  I studied Martin and Ivers, waiting for them to answer the question. Was I okay? Martin pocketed her knife and stake first, and Ivers followed. “Come on in. Meet the rest of the government suits.”

  I checked the clock. We’d run a couple minutes over the end of the show. I was going to have to do a lot of explaining next week. Out of a sense of closure, though, I needed to unplug the music, get back on the mike, and wrap up. Maybe the affiliates would give me that extra minute.

  “All right, sorry about that, folks. This is Kitty Norville and you’re listening to The Midnight Hour. This musical interlude has been brought to you by two agents of the Paranatural Security Administration, which they tell me is a division of the Department of Homeland Security, and if you think that sounds ominous, well, you’re not alone. They tell me this new agency hasn’t been completely finalized yet and definitely hasn’t been announced to the public. So just remember, you heard it here first. Agent Martin, Agent Ivers, either of you have anything to say to the fans out there?” No, they did not. “I for one will be calling my congresspeople in the morning to see if I can learn any more about how our tax dollars are supporting this exciting new enterprise.”

  To their credit, both agents looked chagrined.

  “See you all next week,” I said. “This is Kitty Norville, and I am still your voice of the night.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that,” Martin said.

  “If wishes were horses.”

  Ben and Cormac came into the studio then, side by side, scruffy and heroic, like they were starring in their own TV show or something. The two pairs looked each other up and down, scowling, appraising.

  Agent Martin looked at me. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Norville.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I said.

  They gave one last look around the studio, like they were memorizing it, and strolled out, as if this had all gone exactly the way they’d planned. Yes, I expected I would be hearing from them again. I wondered how many watch lists I’d just been put on. I’d always trusted that my fame would protect me, but now I wondered if that would last. And if it would protect my family.

  Matt, along with the late-shift DJ, pounded into the studio next, and another flustered round of questions and reassurances followed, until Ben and Cormac finally walked me out. I wanted to go home.

  First thing first, though. “Where’s the baby?” I asked Ben.

  “Rachel’s looking after him. What’s the point of being part of a wolf pack if you can’t call in babysitting favors?”

  Rachel was the oldest member of our werewolf pack and something of an auntie to us all. The baby loved her. I was relieved. “How did you know something was wrong?” I asked.

  “You put Wham! on loop. I figured it was an S.O.S.”

  “Honey. I love you.”

  “What’re the Feds doing here?” Cormac said, hitching a thumb back to the hallway.

  “They wanted phone records. Names,” I said tiredly.

  “Did they have a warrant?” Cormac asked.

  “Never mind a warrant, it’s unconstitutional,” Ben said. “Violation of privacy, unreasonable search.”

  I got out my phone and made a call, right there in the KNOB parking lot, because I did know people and I did have numbers, and the fun thing about vampires is knowing if you call them in the middle of the night they’ll be awake.

  A calm female voice answered, “Who is this, please?” I didn’t recognize her, so there must have been new staff at the house.

  “This is Kitty Norville, can I speak to Alette please?”

  “If you could just wait a moment, Ms. Norville.”

  Some vampires had secretaries. Alette was the Mistress of Washington, D.C. She was old, powerful, and had her fangs in everything. If anyone knew what was really going on with this Paranatural Security Administration bullshit, she would. Ben and Cormac drew close, listening, and I put the phone on speaker.

  “Katherine, how lovely to hear from you, how are you?” Alette’s crisp English voice came on the line, sounding as warm and welcoming as she ever did, but leaving no doubt who had the power here.

  “I’ve just had a strange encounter, a couple of federal agents saying they’re from the Paranatural Security Administration, which as far as I know hasn’t existed until very recently. I wondered if you’d heard anything about this?”

  She remained silent for a long moment, which wasn’t like her. She was in control, she knew everything, that was why I called her. I met Ben’s gaze. His lips were pursed, concerned.

  “So they’ve been to see you already, have they?” she said finally, and wasn’t that interesting? “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. I told them to come back with a warrant and talk to the lawyers. What was I supposed to do? It felt like some kind of HUAC bullshit.”

  “How would you know what HUAC felt like?” she said, amused.

  Maybe just a little condescending.

  “But you would, you were Mistress of D.C. during the McCarthy Era. So tell me, what did that feel like? Did it feel like this? With actual politicians talking about actual registration and camps—vampires would never put up with that, they’d never let it get so far, would they? You all have survived wars, inquisitions—”

  “Katherine. Who do you think runs the inquisitions, when it suits them?”

  I could feel my heartbeat. Wolf wanted to growl. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you knew something.”

  “You’ve had a trying evening. Why don’t you get some rest? There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said starkly. “I mean, I appreciate the gesture. But I don’t believe you. The Long Game isn’t over, is it?”

  “Katherine. It’s so good to hear from you, as always. But I must be going, I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Like secret government agencies keeping tabs on supernatural beings?”

  “Goodnight, Katherine.” She clicked off.

  The Long Game, the battle for power between vampires that had lasted for thousands of years. Why had I ever thought there would be an end to it?

  “Well,” Ben said. “I think I want to break something now.” Cormac just stood there, looking out into the night as if he expected something to be watching us. Maybe something was.

  I wanted to go home. “We saved the world. I thought we could relax. I thought everything would be fine, now. Sunshine and daffodils.”

  “These things never end,” Cormac said. “Ten thousand years of human civilization and it just keeps going.”

  “We’ll do what we always do,” Ben said. “Only thing we can do, when you get right down to it.”

  I smiled, took his hand. “We look out for each other.”

  Story Notes and Playlist

  AS I WRITE THIS, I finished working on the last Kitty novel, Kitty Saves the World, f
ive years ago. I’ve written a lot of other novels and stories since then, but I keep coming back to Kitty’s world, as I knew I would. I still have questions to answer, and more corners to explore.

  Two questions I get asked a lot: First, am I sad about finishing the series? This may come as a surprise but the answer is no, because writing a cohesive fourteen-book series, plus all the short stories, and wrapping it up exactly when and how and I wanted is a hell of an achievement. I don’t feel sad, I feel triumphant. I’m really proud of what I accomplished, and I’m grateful for the readers who made the journey possible.

  Second, will I ever write more novels about Kitty? Well. I know what happens next. I know how her story continues. I’m not ready to write it yet, though. I’ve still got other threads to follow before I return to the main one—as you’ll see in these pages.

  Many of these stories were responses to specific anthology invitations: write a story about your hero’s antagonist, or about magicians, or about supernatural detectives. Some of these stories—“Sealskin,” for example—are sequels to other stories. Because in the two decades I’ve been writing professionally, I’ve learned that almost every story can lead to another story. Stories are layers, and there’s always more to discover.

  I love having a pre-existing world already in place for whenever I want to write a story about werewolves, vampires, ghosts, monsters, and the magic that seems to follow them around. It will all end up right here. Stay tuned.

  Carrie Vaughn

  January 2020

  The Kitty Playlists

  I listen to music when I write. It settles the type-A, anxiety-ridden, list-making part of my brain that is always sure I left the stove on, so that I can actually write. Frequently, I find music that fuels what I’m writing. Swing for a story set in World War II, a pavane for a Renaissance-flavored fantasy.

  When I wrote the first Kitty novel, I collected a whole list of songs that embodied the story for me, and since Kitty started out as a radio DJ, bringing those songs together in a playlist felt thematically awesome and offered another way into her personality. And sharing music is always a lot of fun! So I kept doing it, for fourteen novels and now two collections. I’ve discovered a lot of great new music, searching for the perfect songs.