Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Steals the Show

Ned delivered a report, condensed from information gathered by the police, the American authorities, and British intelligence. This had gone quite high up, apparently. They theorized that Flemming learned about Sergeant Tyler’s unit of werewolves in Afghanistan. The unit had originally been led by one of Flemming’s own interview subjects, the werewolf Special Forces captain who had turned the others. When the opportunity came to get his hands on the sole surviving member of that unit, he couldn’t resist. He’d never really been one for conventional methods—or civil liberties, for that matter.

He’d hired himself out as a paranormal security consultant, and a third party—an as-yet unidentified third party—had agreed to fund the “acquisition” of a real-live Special Forces werewolf. The project had two purposes: recruit Tyler himself, and use him to train up a new unit of paranormal soldiers. They had felt confident Tyler could be recruited, or suborned, which just went to show how bad their information was.

The fact that Flemming had been killed in the course of Tyler’s escape was known, but suppressed. As was the fact that Tyler had help. Ned’s people, Caleb’s, and mine were all left out of it. Apparently, we had Ned’s influence to thank for this.

Ned had fed them all the information he could about Roman, but the mastermind remained invisible.

“Is Tyler going to have to watch his back for the rest of his life?” I asked.

“Probably,” Ned said. “But he’ll have help, now that his own government is aware of the issue. Your Dr. Shumacher is on the need-to-know list for the report. Don’t look so distraught. It’s like you said this afternoon: knowledge is power. Our enemies have blown their cover. They won’t find it so easy to hide anymore.”

Conversation turned casual after that. As casual as it could with Cormac sitting near the doorway, his hand occasionally touching the stake he kept in an inside jacket pocket. He never took off the leather jacket. The vampires didn’t seem offended. Antony asked how I got into the talk-radio business, then how I met Cormac, and so on. I poked them with a few questions of my own—where they’d come from, who they’d known, interesting and harmless historical anecdotes. Fascinating, to hear them talk about London’s Great Fire like it happened a year ago.

We relaxed. This almost felt normal. Except that out of the seven of us only three had heartbeats.

Antony and Marid excused themselves to retreat to their lairs, Antony to Barcelona and Marid to … wherever. Antony at least offered us an invitation to come visit.

I should have been comatose with exhaustion, but I kept wanting to draw out the evening. I only had another hour or two to spend with Emma and Ned until dawn took them away. Time enough to sleep later.

“I have a question for you,” I asked, and Ned cocked his head, inquiring. “Why? You’d lived a long and successful life before you became a vampire. What happened? Did you choose it?”

His smile was wistful; his gaze looked back through time. “No, I did not. Do you know the story, that during a performance of Faust I managed to conjure a real demon? And because of that I quit acting, left the stage forever?”

“I think I read about that one,” I said.

“It was true, in a manner of speaking. Though it wasn’t a demon I conjured but a vampire. He became a bit of a fan, you could say. I was on my deathbed. You’re right, I had lived a long and fruitful life. I felt I’d atoned for my sins with monumental acts of charity—a school, a hospital. I was ready to slip from this world. But he thought the world should not have to lose me.

“It was a strange thing. I suppose I could have ended my existence anytime I chose after that. Emma’s told me about her first days after being turned, and I felt much the same way. But even in such a state, suicide is not instinctive. Then there was the school, the chance to see it continue. It’s still here. Isn’t that amazing? Did you know there are streets named after me? They’re still putting up signs and statues to me in Dulwich? How many people get to see their legacy bear such fruit? I’ve been privileged to witness it. So you see, I found reasons to go on, as most of us do. I had a chance to look after my city. I took it. And here I am.”

“You should write a book,” I said. “Memoirs covering four hundred years. That would be awesome.”

He seemed to consider, this new thought lighting his eyes. “Perhaps I will.”

WE HAD one last adventure before leaving the U.K. As promised, Caleb and part of his pack took us running in British wilderness, in the Dartmoor region in Britain’s southwest peninsula. “ Hound of the Baskervilles territory,” he told us, winking.

The land was rugged, windswept, marshy, desolate. Rolling hills covered with grass and scrub, outcrops of weathered gray stone, a blustery sky overhead. It was beautiful, perfect for running, as Caleb had promised. We Changed, stretched our four legs, and ran for hours, pounding out the stress of the week. I remembered little about that time but the cleansing wind rippling through my fur.

Caleb’s pack took us in as respected guests, but Ben and I kept apart. This wasn’t home. Even the rabbits we caught tasted different. We woke up restless in the shelter of rocks that weren’t Rocky Mountain granite.

We agreed: it was time to go home.

IN AN ideal world, everyone who heard the speech would take me seriously, the UN would set up a supernatural task force to promote equality and understanding, and forces around the world would unite to locate and oppose Roman. It would be a new golden age. What would probably happen—everyone would ignore me, and I’d go back to being a cult talk-radio host. But then there was the worst that could happen. Torches and pitchforks, I joked with Ben. The wrong kind of people would take my speech seriously.

I hadn’t been home a week when police in Boston caught an arsonist who had burned down an apartment building because he believed vampires were living in the basement. He declared to the judge during his arraignment that he was justified because a war was coming, and he had to destroy them before they came after him. Investigators didn’t find any evidence of vampires in the wreckage—not that they would have. But a young couple whom neighbors described as goth were killed in the fire. Police theorized that the crazed young man had seen them, constantly dressed in black, and made a misguided assumption.

Commentators discussed how “polarizing influences” could only make this kind of tragedy more common. They didn’t mention me by name, but they might as well have.

I SAT in the KNOB conference room with Ozzie and Matt. They’d been my producer and sound engineer from the beginning. We’d had dozens of meetings in this room, with its timeworn walls and scuffed carpet, cheap laminate tables and stained whiteboard. I remembered sitting in on programming meetings back when I was a late-night variety DJ and not a syndicated talk-show host, before anyone knew I was a werewolf. Before any of this. The smell of a decade’s worth of spilled coffee tinged the air. It smelled safe to me. This room should have been safe, but Ozzie was regarding me with such a look of disappointment, and Matt wouldn’t look at me at all.

“We’ve only had twenty outright cancellations,” Ozzie said, looking more harried and middle-aged than usual. Only. As if that wasn’t an actual, measurable percentage of our market. “We’ll probably have more, depending on how you follow up. Do you know how you’re going to follow up?”