Kitty Takes a Holiday

by Carrie Vaughn

  I held the phone to my ear but had stopped paying attention to the voice on the line. I was too busy enjoying the dimly lit studio, taking it all in, the sights and smells, the hum of jazz playing on the current music program.

  “…don’t take too many this time, let yourself get back into practice.” Matt, the show’s original sound guy from back in Denver, was talking at me over the phone. Giving me a pep talk or something.

  “Yeah, okay,” I rambled.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes.” I was unconvincing.

  Matt sighed dramatically. “I was saying you shouldn’t take too many calls. Don’t overwhelm yourself. You should spend most of the time on your interview.”

  For tonight’s show I had scheduled a phone interview with Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher, the new head of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, now organized under the auspices of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. I liked her a lot—she was smart, articulate, and much more forthcoming than the Center’s previous director.

  Next week was going to be even better: I’d convinced Tony and Alice to come in to talk about what had happened in Clay. They’d talk about where each of them learned their particular brands of spellcraft, and I’d get to tell my own personal ghost stories.

  I hadn’t yet found anyone willing to come on the air to talk about skinwalkers. I planned on running my mouth about it and hoped someone called in with a good story.

  Yeah, The Midnight Hour was back, just like the old days.

  Matt was still talking. I should have been more responsive.

  I interrupted. “How about I take a lot of calls, but let Dr. Shumacher deal with them? I’ll just referee.”

  He paused for a beat, then said, “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”

  “Stop worrying, Matt. I’ll be fine. You know if it gets really bad I’ll break for station ID anyway.”

  “I just keep thinking that one of these days you’ll break for station ID and not come back.”

  “Come on, I always come back.”

  “Then if you’re all set, I’ll hand it over to the local crew.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Ben came into the room then. I beamed at him and waved. He smiled tiredly and sat in a chair by the wall.

  “I can stay on the line to help out if you think—”

  “Matt—we’re fine. If we need you we’ll call.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Thank you, Matt.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  We hung up, and I turned my attention to Ben.

  He’d just come from Cañon City where he’d checked on Cormac, who now and for the next four years resided at the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility. The very thought of it was gut-wrenching. But it could have been so much worse. That was what we’d all ended up telling each other. It could have been worse. This way, he’d be out in no time. We’d see him again soon.

  I’d just have to make sure I kept out of trouble until then.

  Ben looked exhausted. His hair had that sweaty, spiky look that meant he’d been messing it up for hours. A nervous habit. Then I noticed he carried a thick stack of paper, bound together by a rubber band, under his arm. It was the manuscript for a book. My book.

  I’d finished it. I’d given it to him to read. Now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t want to know.

  Yes, I did.

  “Well?”

  “Well, he’s doing okay. Says the food stinks, but what do you expect? Says he’s catching up on his reading.” In fact, Cormac—the bastard—had asked me for a reading list, since I was always saying nobody read anymore. “I’m wondering if maybe the time off will do him some good. Does that sound weird?”

  I felt bad that I’d really been asking about the book. I gave him a sympathetic smile. “No, it doesn’t. You want him to find something else to do with himself. Give up the hunting.”

  “This all does seem kind of like a sign in that direction, doesn’t it?”

  “What would he do if he didn’t do the bounty-hunting thing?”

  “I don’t know. He grew up on a ranch, like me. His dad was an outfitter, guided hunting expeditions and that sort of thing. Cormac used to work with him. Yeah, I guess I’m thinking that spending some time without a gun in his hand will give him the idea that he can do something else.”

  I was torn between agreeing with him, and writing the whole idea off as silver lining bullshit. I wanted Cormac out. I wanted him free.

  Even with Ben here, even with everything that had happened to build the bond that now existed between us, part of me still asked, What if. What if Cormac hadn’t run off, what if we’d managed to make a connection—

  “I already miss him,” Ben said. “My phone rings and I keep hoping it’s his number on the caller ID. Even though I know better.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You know what he said, at the end of that last meeting in Walsenburg?” Ben raised a questioning brow, and I answered, “He asked me to take care of you. To keep you out of trouble.”

  “Did he, now?” Ben said, smiling. “He said the same thing to me about you.”

  I might have blushed. I did look away. It was almost like Cormac was giving us each a mission, to keep our minds off him.

  I said, “Does he have so little faith in our ability to take care of ourselves?”

  “Can you blame him?”

  No, I couldn’t. “Is he going to be the same when he gets out?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been through worse than this. But who knows? Am I the same? Are you the same? I wonder sometimes what you were like before the lycanthropy, if we would have had the time of day for each other. I guess—some of him’ll be the same, some’ll be different. We’ll just have to see what stays and what doesn’t.”

  Like peeling back the bandages after surgery, hoping it worked. Praying it isn’t worse. It made me feel so out of control.

  “How did you do?” What I meant was: how did his wolf do.

  “I kept it together. But I hate how that place smells.”

  I bet he did. I didn’t want to think about how it smelled. “So. What did you think of it?” I gestured to the manuscript in his lap.

  Idly, he flipped through the top half of the pages, around the rubber band, wearing a studious expression. He made some noncommittal noises that might have expressed a positive or negative opinion. My anxiety increased. If the whole thing was crap, I wasn’t sure I could start over.

  “I have to admit, I especially like the chapter called ‘Ten Ways to Defeat Macho Dickheadism.’ ” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Or if the joke was at my expense.

  I felt like I was eight years old and begging. “But what about the whole thing? Did you like it? Is it any good? Should I just give it all up and go into accounting?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. Then, he set his joking manner aside. “It’s good. It’s not what I was expecting… but it’s good. I think it’ll go over like gangbusters.”

  It hadn’t turned out the way I was expecting either. The publisher came to me wanting a memoir, a look back at my past experiences. It had ended up being more about the present, and a little about the future.

  “Thanks—I mean, thanks for reading it. I really needed you to read it since you and Cormac ended up in it, at least a little bit.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I wasn’t expecting. But it’s subtle. You don’t use our names, but it’s all there. I don’t know how you got some kind of message, some kind of optimism out of that mess.”

  “Don’t you know I’m an idealist?”

  “God help us all.”

  The producer from the station, a young woman, the usual public radio night owl staff, leaned in the doorway and said, “Kitty, you’ve got one minute. We have Dr. Shumacher on the line.”

  “Thanks,” I said to her, and she ducked back out. To Ben I said, “You going to stay and watch
?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t. I was glad to have him around. I found the headphones, adjusted the mike, checked the monitor, found my cue sheet. I didn’t think I’d listen to Matt; I’d take as many calls as I wanted. Because when I got right down to it, everybody was right: I loved this. I’d missed it.

  The on air sign lit, and the music cued up, guitar chords strumming the opening bars of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising.” Sounded like angels. And there I was, just me and the microphone. Together again. Here we go—

  “Good evening, one and all. I’m Kitty Norville, bringing you an all-new episode of The Midnight Hour, the show that isn’t afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there…”

  About the Author

  CARRIE VAUGHN survived the nomadic childhood of the typical Air Force brat, with stops in California, Florida, North Dakota, Maryland, and Colorado. She holds a master’s in English literature and collects hobbies— fencing and sewing are currently high on the list. She lives in Boulder, Colorado, and can be found on the Web at www.carrievaughn.com.

  MORE KITTY

  Here is a special sneak preview of Carrie Vaughn’s next novel featuring Kitty Norville!

  Kitty and the Silver Bullet

  Coming Winter 2007-2008

  I hated the smell of this place: concrete and institutional. Antiseptic. But all the cleaning in the world couldn’t cover up the unhappiness, the sourness, the faint smell of urine. The anger.

  The prison guard at the door pointed Ben and me to empty chairs by a table, between wall dividers, in front of a glass partition. Only a phone line would connect us to the other side.

  I was shaking. I didn’t like coming here. Well, I did, and I didn’t. I wanted to see him, but even being here as a visitor made me feel trapped. The Wolf side didn’t handle it very well. Ben took hold of my hand, pulled it under the desk, squeezed it.

  “You okay?” he said. Ben had been coming here once a week to see Cormac. I didn’t come quite as often—once a month. I’d never get used to this. In fact, it seemed to get harder every time, not easier. I was so tense, just being here exhausted me.

  “I think so,” I said. “But this place makes me nervous.”

  “Don’t let him see you upset,” he whispered. “We’re supposed to be supportive.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I held his hand with both of mine and tried to stop the trembling. I was supposed to be the strong one. I was supposed to be the one who helped Ben keep it together, not the other way around.

  On the other side of the partition, a guard led out a man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. His light brown hair was cut shorter than it used to be, which made his face seem more gaunt. I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t thinner. His mustache was the same. So was his stoic frown.

  He sat in front of us, on the other side of the glass. My smile felt stiff and fake. He’d know it was fake. Had to be cheerful, couldn’t let him see how upset I was. Ben was right.

  He was handcuffed. When he picked up the phone to talk to us, he had to hold both hands up to his face. Ben held our phone between us. Leaning close, we could both hear.

  “Hey,” Ben said.

  “Hey.” Cormac smiled. Broke my heart, him smiling like that behind the glass. “Thanks for coming.”

  “How you doing?”

  Cormac shrugged. “Hanging in there. No worries.”

  He was here on felony manslaughter charges. He’d killed to save my life, and now he was serving time for it. Four years. I owed him a huge debt, which hung on me like lead weights.

  It could have been worse. That was the only way we could all sit here smiling at each other and thinking of how much worse it had almost been.

  He didn’t seem to grudge me the debt. He’d probably never mention it. Right from the start, he’d approached this prison sentence as doing penance, just like he was supposed to. Just another obstacle to overcome, another river to cross.

  Ben handled this better than I did. “You need anything? Besides a cake with a file baked in?”

  “No. Just more of the same.”

  I’d been ordering books for him—having them sent, since private citizens weren’t allowed to send packages to inmates. It had started out as a joke after I’d accused him of being illiterate. But then it turned earnest. Reading kept his mind off being trapped. Kept him from going crazy.

  “Any requests?” I said, and Ben tipped the mouthpiece so he could hear me.

  Cormac shook his head. “I’m not picky. Whatever you think is good.”

  We had an hour for small talk. Very small talk. I couldn’t say I’m sorry, because then I’d get upset, and we were supposed to be cheerful. Leave on a happy note. Ben and I wanted more than anything to make sure Cormac got out of here in one piece, or at least not any more damaged than he was when he went in.

  “Would you believe some of the guys listen to your show?” Cormac said.

  “Really? That’s kind of weird.”

  “I tell them you’re not that mean in person. I’m ruining your reputation.”

  “Great,” I said, smirking. “Thanks.” Ben turned away, chuckling.

  “You two look good,” Cormac said, leaning back in his chair. “You look good together.” His smile turned satisfied, almost. Comforted.

  He’d told us both to look after each other. Like he couldn’t trust either of us to take care of ourselves, but together we’d be okay. He was probably right. Ben and I had cobbled together our little pack of two, and we were doing okay. But it still felt like we were missing something. He was sitting across from us, on the other side of the glass. And we were all pretending like everything was okay.

  We all had to pretend like everything was okay, or the whole façade would come crumbling down around our ears.

  A guard loomed behind Cormac. Time’s up.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Ben said.

  Cormac said, to me specifically, “Thanks for coming. Everyone in here’s ugly as shit. It’s nice to see a pretty face once in a while.”

  Which broke my heart again. There had to be more I could do than sit here and be a pretty face. I wanted to touch the glass, but that would have been such a cliché and hopeless gesture.

  Then he put the phone up, stood, and was gone. He always walked away without turning to look, and we always stayed to watch him go until he was out of sight.

  Ben put his hand on my shoulder, urging me away. Hand in hand, in dead silence, we left the prison gates and emerged into too-bright summer sun and a baking parking lot. Quietly, we slipped into the car—Ben drove. Then the blowup happened.

  He closed the door, settled for a moment, then hit the steering wheel with a closed fist. Then again, and again, throwing his whole body into it. The car rocked. I just watched.

  After a moment, he slouched back, his breaths heaving. He gripped the steering wheel, bracing himself.

  “I hate this. I hate that he’s in there, and there’s nothing I can do.”

  He blamed himself as much as I blamed myself. If I hadn’t needed saving, if Ben had found the right legal out— and there was Cormac, insisting that he deserved it all.

  I touched his forearm and squeezed, like I could push out the tension. He sighed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  Friday night, time to party.

  “Good evening, and welcome to The Midnight Hour. I’m Kitty Norville, your ever-cheerful hostess. Tonight it’s all vampires, and all calls. I want to hear from you about those mysterious bloodsuckers of the night. Questions, problems, nothing’s off-limits. Tell me a story I’ve never heard before. It’s getting pretty tough to scare me these days, but I’d like you to try. Or even better—let’s see if someone out there can give me a little hope. I’ve had one of those days.”

  I was such a lucky girl. My monitor lit up with calls. My listeners had been waiting with their fingers over the speed dial button. One of these days, I’d ask for calls and the phones would come up s
ilent. Then I’d have to retire for sure. But this wasn’t that night.

  “Our first call this evening comes from… Maledar… Maledar? Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.” The light male voice managed to drip with pretension.

  “Your parents actually named you Maledar.”

  “No.” He sounded pouty. “That’s the name I chose for myself. I’m preparing for my new identity. My new life.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. A wannabe. Even more pretentious than the real thing. “Am I to understand it, then, that you want to become a vampire?”

  “Of course. Someday. When I’m older.”

  It clicked then—the voice, the name, the utter cheese of it all. “Wait a minute—how old are you? You know you’re supposed to be eighteen to call in.” The kid had lied to my screener. Fifteen, I bet. And to his credit smart enough to know how much it would suck to get frozen at age fifteen for all eternity.

  “I’m ageless,” he said breathily. “Ageless as the grave.”

  “Okay, this is not the kinderbat poetry hour. You’ll want, oh I don’t know, public access television for that.”

  The pause was ominous. Then, “Whoa, what a wicked cool idea.”

  Dear God, what have I done? Hurry, move on quick before I got into more trouble. “I don’t know what your question was, but you’re leaving now. Bye. Please, somebody with sense call me so we can discuss Byron or something. Next caller, hello.”

  “I knew him, you know.” This was a suave male voice, coolly assured. The real thing. An older vampire showing off his hard-earned ennui.

  “Knew who?”

  “Lord Byron, of course.”

  “Really,” I drawled. “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?”

  “And you never once stopped to think that perhaps one of those vampires who say they knew Byron might be right?”