Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Steals the Show

At the end of the session, I hung back to watch as people mobbed Tyler. Some asked questions, some tearfully thanked him and expressed sympathy—pity—for his predicament. They seemed to be thanking him for his simple existence. A few handed him business cards. Tyler handled it all with grace, though he kept glancing at the exits as if looking for escape. As she put away her presentation, Shumacher looked on like a proud teacher.

Finally, my turn came. Tyler saw me and smiled wide. “Kitty! Good to see you.”

“You look great!” I said, opening my arms and feeling gratified when he stepped forward into a hug, which wasn’t at all a wolfish gesture, but he was special. One of my extended pack members—family, practically. “You’re pretty popular, I see.”

He winced at the handful of business cards people had given him and drew more from his suit pocket. People must have been mobbing him all day.

“Recruiters, can you believe it?” He handed the cards to me, and I read them: private security firms, foreign militaries, government offices. “Mostly consulting jobs. At least that’s what they say now.”

“You think you’d ever go back to that? Take up one of these offers?”

“I’ll tell you, I’d never go back, and I wouldn’t even be here, except I’m pretty sure some of these outfits have already tried recruiting werewolf soldiers, who may be sitting in a cage somewhere, out of control and miserable like we were, with nobody there to help them.”

“And you want to help them.”

“Not even because they’re werewolves, but because they’re soldiers.”

I squeezed his arm, a gesture of solidarity. Tyler was one of the good guys.

As I shuffled through the last of the cards before handing them back to him, a name caught my eye. The card itself was simple, just words on white stock, no logo, no affiliation, no business name or government listed. But the name blazed forth: DR. PAUL FLEMMING.

I held the card up. “Where did this come from?” The edge to my voice was sharp.

“Same as the others, some guy wanting to recruit.”

“Describe him.”

“Kind of mousy, bookish. Didn’t wear his suit well. He smelled like he doesn’t get out much. Kitty, what’s wrong?” His brow furrowed with worry.

“He’s here? At the conference?” I looked around, scanning the few faces remaining in the lecture hall.

“Yeah—”

“Dr. Shumacher?” I called over his shoulder.

She’d put away her laptop, collected her things, and brought them over to join us. She was a contrast to Tyler: a prim white woman with short dark hair, glasses, and a focused expression. She wore a cardigan over a blouse and skirt. “Yes?”

“Flemming’s here.” I showed her the card.

“He wouldn’t dare,” she muttered, but she looked at the printed name and her eyes widened.

“Who is he?” Tyler asked.

“He ran the center before I took over,” Shumacher said. “He wasn’t entirely ethical.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “I recommend not taking a job from him.”

“What are we going to do?” he said. The card had a phone number and e-mail address, but not a physical address. And want to bet the number went to a pay-as-you-go untraceable cell phone?

Shumacher shook her head. “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. I think there’s still a warrant for his arrest outstanding in the U.S., but I’m not sure what good that does here.”

Tyler took back the card. “I’ll drop this off at the embassy. Let them know he’s here.”

Maybe they could track him down and at least let us know where he was staying, so we could avoid him. And here I’d thought the conference was going to be the safest place this week.

“… AS THE work of my colleagues has shown. Dr. Brandon demonstrates here that the cellular stasis present in vampire physiology prevents the mitosis necessary for embryonic development. On the male side, the motility of sperm appears to be zero in every case. Male vampires simply do not produce sperm and female ova appear to be entirely inactive.

“Moving on to the lycanthropes involved in our study…”

I perked up and readied my pen to take notes.

“Unlike the victims of vampirism, both male and female lycanthropes appear to have entirely normal, viable sperm and ova…”

I knew I had viable ova. That wasn’t the issue.

“In fact, we have evidence that male lycanthropes have fathered normal, healthy children with uninfected women.”

I had evidence of that myself. I was reasonably sure that General William T. Sherman had been a werewolf, and had been one during the Civil War. One of his sons had been born after the Civil War. Too bad I’d decided to keep the evidence I had of Sherman’s lycanthropy secret.

“The obstacle in sexual reproduction among lycanthropes is not fertilization or embryonic viability, but gestation. Implanted embryos do not survive the physical trauma of shape-shifting.”

Again, this wasn’t anything I didn’t already know.

“A few obvious solutions present themselves—in vitro fertilization and surrogacy could allow the offspring of two lycanthropes to be carried to term. However, on review, such procedures may not be advisable. A lycanthrope’s preternatural healing ability makes many surgical procedures—such as the retrieval of ova—problematic. But another issue may be biological—an as-yet-undiscovered reason why lycanthropes cannot sexually reproduce, and the trauma of shape-shifting on lycanthropic reproductive capabilities is, in effect, a fail-safe to ensure that such reproduction is impossible. More experimental data is required to confirm some of these speculations.”

I needed a few minutes to parse what the lecturer was saying. Oh, I understood it well enough, my brain processed it, but the lump in my gut rose to my throat and I had to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, fighting tears of disappointment. I had been looking for a revelation, a solution, a bit of magic. For hope. That I didn’t find it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But that hope had been stronger than I thought. I had let myself hope more than I’d intended.

The lecture was done, the projector shut off, and everyone had filed out of the room. There didn’t seem to be another presentation after because the room stayed empty, and I remained sitting in the middle of the back row, my blank notepad resting on my lap, staring and thinking.

It was just a thing. A branch on the road, one of the ones you didn’t get to pick, like getting infected with lycanthropy or losing your best friend. You just dealt with it. We could adopt. Once our lives settled down a little, we could adopt.

I lurched out of the seat and stomped off to find Ben and someplace to get a drink.

BEN MUST not have been out of his latest session. I called him—we’d all gotten quad band, internationally capable phones—but he must have had the thing switched off, because it rolled to voice mail.

“Hi. I’m ready for a drink and food that bleeds. I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby.” I switched the phone off and tried to calm down. I wanted to run.

Through the wide glass doors at the front of the lobby, I could see the protesters were back, rowdy as ever. Police barricades and supervision kept them away from the doors and mostly off the street. I’d made a habit of ducking out the side doors in and out of the hotel; I wanted to avoid the gauntlet if I could help it. On the street, one of the red double-decker buses made its way slowly past the crowd, changing lanes in preparation for turning. It had one of the Mercedes Cook ads on its side. My gut sank, and not just because Mercedes was on my shit list and after last night the very sight of her made me ill. The ad had been vandalized, spray painted over in sloppy, drippy black: STAKE THE DEMONS, with the vampire’s face crossed out by an angry scribble. I could hate Mercedes on principle, but this was a bigger issue. Maybe I had another topic for my keynote speech.