Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Steals the Show

“So you’re the wolf with the big bad mouth,” Esperanza said in a quick voice with a lilting accent. I liked her already.

“That’s me. I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” I said, and we both looked at Luis.

“I said you’d get along well because you’re both crusaders.”

“What’s your crusade?” Ben asked her.

“Loggers think half the jungles in Brazil are haunted, because of me. They can’t get anyone to work in some sections.” She smiled with pride.

“Any of them sue you yet?”

She glared. “What are you, a lawyer?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Don’t you dare give anyone that idea,” she said, pointing.

He held up his hands. “Never.”

“What do you do for a living?” Esperanza looked at Cormac.

He hesitated a moment before saying, “I’m a consultant.”

“In what area?” Luis asked.

He twitched a smile. “Usually when nobody knows what the hell is going on, they call me.”

“So can you explain British politics to the rest of us?” Esperanza asked.

“I have limits,” he said.

We ordered a bottle of wine; Luis and his sister argued over labels. We ordered food—all of us wanted steaks, rare as the chef would make them, and the server looked at us funny but didn’t say anything. I wondered how many lycanthropes from the conference had eaten here this week. The evening progressed nicely after that as we discussed the conference and whether or not we thought it was accomplishing anything, the protests, and the state of public recognition and acceptance of the supernatural in our respective countries. Regarding the conference, the jury was still out—while it was nice that everyone was getting together and talking with relatively little fur flying, so to speak, we’d have to wait until it was over to see what came out of it. The protests bothered us all but we were relieved that no actual violence had come of it, so far. Recognition of the supernatural—that was a stickier question.

“It’s turning things upside down,” Esperanza said. “We’re at what’s meant to be a scientific conference, trying to apply logic and science to these questions. And back home attendance at religious services is up over forty percent, and people say the reason is that they’re scared. If there’s magic and monsters in the world, they want some kind of protection against it, and they’re going to church to get it.”

Ben said, “One of the sessions I went to yesterday was a presentation by a lawyer from Tanzania who’s been involved in prosecutions of murderers of albinos. Some people there believe the body parts of albinos have magical properties, so people with albinism are killed and dismembered and sold off for potions and good-luck charms. The trade’s apparently gotten very profitable over the last few years. He said they’ve had a tough time getting convictions, but got some help when a well-known traditional healer came out and declared that albinos aren’t any more magical than anyone else. He also said that not everyone listens to the guy. Magic’s real, people say. Why shouldn’t this be, too? As if that justifies killing someone for their hair.”

“We think we’re solving one problem and five more rise up,” Esperanza said.

What a topic for dinner table conversation. I was horrified. I pursed my lips, staring into the ruby depths of my wine.

“Kitty?” Ben prompted.

“I’m trying to figure out how to gracefully change the subject to something a little more cheerful,” I said. “Like I wonder if there are any fairy rock bands? Surely if they’re eating in restaurants they’ve got rock bands.”

Ben said, “Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places. Have you seen Prince’s videos?”

“No, I think a real fairy rock band would be a little more subtle than that. Like Jethro Tull, maybe.”

“You call that subtle?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“What did I tell you?” Luis said, leaning close to his sister. “Never a dull moment.”

“Hmm, I can’t wait for your keynote speech,” she said—purring, almost. “What are you going to talk about?”

I closed my eyes and rested a hand on my forehead, a gesture of suffering. “Oppression,” I said dramatically.

Dinner was good. Nice, mellow, out with friends, no pressure. Ben may even have stopped glaring at Luis for a few minutes. Naturally, the respite couldn’t last.

We’d finished eating and had moved on to coffee and more conversation when activity at the front door caught Luis’s attention. He stared, frowning.

“What is it?” I asked, glancing over to see.

“Friends of yours?” he said.

Three men, smelling distinctly of lycanthrope, had just entered and surveyed the restaurant. They were tough guys, in leather jackets, designer jeans, and boots. Two had beards, and all were broad through the shoulders. Moving like fighters, they were shoulder to shoulder, attention out—stalking, like predators. The one in front spoke to the maître d’, who nodded toward our table. He shook his head in response, and the trio moved to the bar, where they perched warily, uncomfortably.

“Werewolves?” Cormac said.

“Yeah,” Ben answered.

“Problem?” the bounty hunter answered.

They were here looking for me, obviously. But this wasn’t the place to start trouble. So far they were just watching.

“Let’s wait and see,” I answered.

We tried to pretend that the strangers weren’t obviously here to keep a watch on us.

Esperanza said, “When you first got here, those two girls at the bar—they were watching you, too.”

“No, that was just a coincidence,” I said, because I couldn’t cope with much more paranoia.

“Right,” Ben said. “Didn’t mean a thing, they were just fairies.”

Luis chuckled. “Really? Like leprechauns and pixies?”

“Not exactly,” I said, waving him off. “But yeah, sort of.”

His smile broadened. “Makes you wonder what else is hanging around the conference.”

I sighed. “Djinn, wizards, gods, goddesses.”

Esperanza leaned forward. “Did you say gods?”

My mouth opened to start an explanation, then closed again. Where did I start?

We paid our bill, collected our things, and went toward the door. When the trio of werewolves at the bar moved to intercept us in the restaurant’s vestibule, I wasn’t surprised. I caught the leader’s gaze and held it. His companions flanked him just as Ben and Cormac flanked me. Luis and Esperanza stood aside, wary.

“Kitty Norville,” he said. His accent was rolling, quick. French or Italian, maybe. His frown twitched, nervous.

“Yes?”

“I serve the Master of Venice. He sends a message—a warning.” I stepped forward, offended, ready to argue; he stepped back and looked away, a submissive move. A peace offering. He wasn’t here to fight. “A friendly warning. You do not know what you’re meddling with. You do not know the true situation among the vampires of Europe and you’d be better to stay away. Your enemies are powerful.”

Wasn’t anything I didn’t already know. The trick to facing off with another wolf pack was to stand your ground, not flinch, not let your gaze slip for even a moment. He was probably six feet tall, leaving me quite a bit shorter than him. I tried not to show it. “A message like that is a sure way to keep me interested. Like waving a red flag at a bull.”

“Please, that is not my Master’s intention—”

The front door opened again, letting in a cool breath of night air and a fresh wave of werewolf scent. Caleb and one of his wolves, a shorter man with close-shaven hair and a surly expression, entered, and frowned past me to the other wolves.

“You can step away from her now,” Caleb said.