Carrie Vaughn: Kitty in the Underworld

Before he could answer, Shaun waved from the bar to get my attention. He pointed at the door. Angelo had arrived.

Angelo was what I called an old-school vampire. Haughty and aristocratic, watching the world down his nose and lecturing lesser beings like me on my, and his, rightful place in the world. He’d done better with that when he had Master vampires to stand behind—Arturo, then Rick. He was an excellent henchvampire and gatekeeper. He wasn’t particularly happy being in charge himself, as the new acting Master of Denver. The “acting” was an odd designation, one that Angelo insisted on but I wasn’t sure if anyone really believed it. For all intents and purposes, he was the Master of Denver. We all hoped Rick would return from his religious pilgrimage someday. We couldn’t be sure it would ever happen. So I had to deal with Angelo.

As a commercial place of business, vampires should have been able to move freely in and out of New Moon. However, because it belonged to me and the pack, because we considered it something of our home and den, vampires couldn’t enter without permission. I’d had a wonderful couple of moments, standing on one side of the door, grinning out at entirely baffled vampires wondering why they couldn’t cross the threshold. But I had to talk to Angelo on a regular basis, so he’d been invited. To his credit, he hadn’t given me a reason to regret that.

He strode across the dining room and deposited himself on the chair opposite me. Cormac straightened, backing his chair up an inch or two from the table. His hands weren’t visible, which meant they were reaching into his pockets for a stake or vial of holy water. In his preprison life, Cormac had been a bounty hunter specializing in supernatural beings. He didn’t much like vampires.

We looked at Angelo, who looked back at us. I didn’t meet his gaze—the hypnotic effects of vampires’ gazes were one of the powers from the stories that turned out to be true. He could lock eyes with us, draw us in, tell us calmly and serenely to walk off the nearest cliff, and we’d do it.

Taking a seat, Angelo pointed at Cormac and looked sidelong at me. “Isn’t he that bounty hunter Arturo hired to kill you years ago?”

I’d forgotten, Angelo and Cormac hadn’t met before. Cormac smirked at the reminder of our shared history.

“Cormac isn’t really a bounty hunter anymore,” I said.

“And I’m sure that makes everything all right.” Angelo continued eyeing Cormac suspiciously.

“Angelo, shut up. This is important. Antony, Master of Barcelona, is gone,” I said.

The man actually paled. Whatever blood he’d imbibed recently washed straight out of his face. “Then it’s started. Dux Bellorum has begun his war.”

“I don’t think so. Antony went after him first,” I said, and repeated the story.

“So it’s not a total disaster,” he said. “Dux Bellorum isn’t coming after us next, is he?”

“Not until he gets this thing he’s looking for,” Ben muttered.

“And what have we got?” he huffed. “The four of us sitting around a table in a bar, looking morose?”

“We have the coins,” Cormac said. He let that hang during a long, dramatic pause. I was about to jump over the table and hang off his jacket collar until he explained, but I didn’t have to go that far. “As I was about to say, I think they’re dog tags, sort of. We knew that—that they’re identifiers Roman uses to tag his allies. But we have to consider—if what the demon said was true, and Roman isn’t really the guy in charge, then he’s a recruiter. He’s tagging his followers so the real guy in charge knows who they are.”

Roman was Dux Bellorum, the leader of war, the general. We’d come to believe there was a Caesar out there. The king. Roman might have been controlling the Long Game—but someone else was controlling Roman.

“Could we … Then maybe we could use them to follow the thread back? To find the guy in charge?”

He gave a shrug. “I don’t know yet.”

We all sighed, even Angelo, who technically didn’t need to breathe. We were still stuck at the same wall we’d been stuck at. Roman was on the move and we couldn’t do anything about it.

“At least the bastard isn’t here,” Angelo said finally. As if saying the man’s name would summon him. “He isn’t, is he? Coming here.”

I didn’t know. That was the problem. Roman, aka Dux Bellorum, aka Gaius Albinus, was a two-thousand-year-old vampire with aspirations of world domination. That might have been an exaggeration, but not much of one. He was the central figure in what vampires called the Long Game: rivals collecting allies and power in attempt to be the Master of them all. In a sentence, the one who dies with the most toys wins. Trouble was, vampires were undead …

The anxiety Angelo had been masking with his suave indifference broke through in the tightening of his jaw, the stiffening of his spine. “What about any more sign of vampire-killing demons arriving in Denver? Any of those, by chance?”

“We put up those protection spells. It should at least warn us if the demon comes back,” Cormac said. He and Amelia had cast the spells—and suggested that they weren’t entirely sure the spells would work. The demon we’d battled last year knew we were looking for her now. Next time—if there was a next time—her approach would be different.

“So what do we do now?” I asked, sounding plaintive.

“We do what Alette says,” Ben answered. “We hold tight. Nothing much we can do but keep on until we get more information. I’ll go to Wyoming, you’ll write your book and do your show—”

“You can’t possibly go to Wyoming, not after all this.”

He pursed his lips, gave me a look. “Until we know for sure that the world is ending, I’m going to work. You should, too. You can’t sit around stewing all day, every day. At least, you shouldn’t.” He furrowed his brow, probably realizing that yes, I was totally capable of stewing all day, every day, if I let myself.

But it seemed weird to just keep on the same after what had happened.

“Right, that’s the plan. We go on with our lives. Such as they are.” Angelo leaned forward. “If you see anything, hear of anything, you will let me know?”

“You ask that every time you see me. Yes. I told you about all this, didn’t I?” I hoped my thin smile was comforting. Angelo seemed unconvinced.

“Well, then. Until next time, Regina Luporum.”

“I wish people would stop calling me that,” I muttered. The title didn’t actually mean anything. I’d earned it for having a big mouth, not for having any real power. Mostly, people teased me with it. The more I complained, the more they teased. I should know better.

“If the European vampires are calling you Regina Luporum, who am I to argue?”

“They’re just teasing.” Sure enough, Cormac had his lips pressed tight together to keep from smiling, but his eyes shone with amusement.

“Whatever you say. Until next time, then. May our immediate futures be woefully quiet and uneventful.” He gave a little bow as he stood, sweeping his arm in a parody of courtliness, and walked away.

So that was the plan. Keep living our lives. Ben goes to work, I go to work …

I called out, “Hey, wait a minute—” Angelo turned, scowling, and I asked, “Do you happen to know any vampire strippers? You know, strippers who are vampires?” I winced hopefully.

He rolled his eyes and marched out. Ah, well.

I didn’t know anything about Angelo: how old he was, how he’d become a vampire, where he came from, anything. It had taken me years to learn what I knew about Rick, and now I was back at square one. I’d have to start with the needling questions all over again—if I thought Angelo would actually answer them. He wasn’t a bad guy, I didn’t think. Rick had trusted him—to a point, at least. But he didn’t choose the situation he found himself in now, and that made him surly. I could understand that. His prayer for future boredom was heartfelt.