“Thank you for listening. This is Kitty Norville, Voice of the Night.” Cue the wolf howl. Another one in the can.
I sat back and sighed.
Senator Duke was staring at me. “It won’t come to that.”
I shrugged. “That’s what they said in Berlin in the thirties.”
“I would think people like you would want to be helped.”
“The trouble is in how many definitions of ‘help’ there are. Everyone thinks they have the right answer. I did mean it, though—I appreciate your being on the show, Senator.” I stood and offered my hand to shake. Frowning, he looked at it. “I can’t hurt your with just a handshake. Honest.”
Nodding crisply at his bodyguards, he turned his shoulder to me and left.
I blew out the breath I’d been holding. That was rough. But never let it be said my show was one-sided.
I went to the control booth, where the engineer handed me the phone. “Hey, Matt.”
“Hey, Kitty. Sounded good.” Matt still worked on the show remotely, coaching the local guys on how to run things, making sure the phone number got transferred, stuff like that.
“Cool. Thanks. It only sounds good ’cause you’re the best.”
“Yeah, I’ll believe it when Ozzie gives me a raise. Hey, speak of the devil. Talk to you later, Kitty.” There was a rustling as he handed the phone over.
Ozzie came on the line. “Great show, Kitty. Just great. You had that bozo sweating, I could tell.”
“You think they’re all great, Ozzie.”
“That’s ’cause they are. I’m your biggest fan. Are you going to be in Albuquerque next week, or someplace else?”
“Someplace else, I think. I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know.”
“I wish you could tell me why you’re doing the fugitive bit.”
“You don’t really want to know. Trust me.”
“Just remember, if you need anything, anything at all, you call me.”
“Thanks, Ozzie. Give Matt a raise.”
He grumbled, and I laughed.
Who said a pack had to be all werewolves?
I bought a car, a little hatchback with enormous gas mileage. I doubled my salary when I stopped paying off Carl. Maybe I’d even buy myself some new clothes. With a car I could go anywhere. I’d be traveling at my own speed from now on. And traveling, and traveling.
I checked in with my parents before I left Albuquerque; I checked in with them every week. They bought me a cell phone so I could be sure to call, no matter where I was—and so they could always find me. They weren’t happy about my situation. They kept inviting me to stay with them however long I needed to. I appreciated the thought. But I couldn’t do that to them.
I kept a lookout for Elijah Smith and the Church of the Pure Faith. There was still a story there. My ultimate goal was to get Smith himself as a guest on the show. Not likely, but a girl could dream. Every now and then I found a flyer, or someone sent one to me, advertising his caravan. I always seemed to be a week behind him.
Detective Hardin got hold of me through Ben O’Farrell. God help me, I hired the lawyer on retainer. I had my mail forwarded to him, and he had my contact information. He’d been calm and straightforward the night Zan died. In daylight hours, outside the stress of the police station, he proved just as straightforward. He was never above giving advice on something as mundane as car insurance.
Best of all, Hardin had to talk to him before she could get to me. But even O’Farrell couldn’t put her off forever. We talked on the phone the week I stayed in Albuquerque.
“We found your DNA on the first werewolf’s body, in his mouth and under his fingernails. That makes you an assault victim. Then we found your DNA in the saliva on the wounds of the second body, which could get you in trouble. But we’re willing to make a case for self-defense since he also had your blood under his fingernails.” She made it sound so technical. This was my blood we were talking about.
If it hadn’t been my blood involved, I would have laughed at how the whole thing sounded like some werewolf version of a Mexican standoff. I admired Hardin for trying to sort out who had attacked whom first.
“We found a fourth set of werewolf DNA in the saliva on the wounds of the body outside your apartment. It’s the only link unaccounted for. All I need is a name.”
The implication was that I could be charged with a crime in the middle of this mess. O’Farrell wanted me to fess up.
I didn’t have anyone to protect anymore.
“T.J. Theodore Joseph Gurney. He lives in the cabin behind the garage at Ninety-fifth and South. I don’t think he’s there anymore.” Present tense. If I told Hardin he was dead, she would just open another murder investigation. I could have pointed her to Carl in that case. But I didn’t. This had to end somewhere.
“Then where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” That at least was true. I didn’t know where he was now. “He didn’t tell me.”
“Can I believe you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave town?”
“I had to. It wasn’t safe for me to stay, after what I did.”
“You were afraid of ending up like that body outside your apartment.”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “You might be interested to know, the powers that be are actually listening to me.”
“You mean you say ‘werewolf’ and they believe you?”
“Yeah. The alternative is the theory that some ritual slaying specialist came up with about a cult of cannibals to explain why they found shredded bodies with pieces missing. The idea is the cult imploded when it turned on itself and the members started eating each other. Werewolves sound downright rational compared to that.”
Except there was a hint of truth to the cannibal theory as well.
She said, “If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
We parted civilly.
Hardin was a good person. I felt grateful for her open-mindedness and her professionalism through all this. I just wished I hadn’t been the focus of her efforts.
I didn’t even have a picture of T.J.
I was closing in on Austin when NPR aired a report. I cranked up the volume when I heard a key phrase.
The reporter said, “. . . Paranatural Biology, releasing findings to Congress in response to questions that have been raised regarding unusual appropriation requests. Doctor Paul Flemming, an assistant director of the National Institutes of Health overseeing the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, offered this statement at a press conference held earlier today.”
Then Doctor Flemming spoke:
“I am authorized at this time to announce the formation of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology within the National Institutes of Health. In conjunction with the British Alternative Biologies Laboratory, we are prepared to release findings recognizing the existence of alternate races of Homo sapiens, races that were once considered only legend . . .” Blood rushed in my ears. This was the government, a spokesperson for the government. They were blowing my world wide open.
More than that, I recognized the voice. Deep Throat. My secret government spook. I stifled a laugh as he went on to explain the report in terms of taxonomy and science.
“These conditions are mutations brought on by as yet unidentified infectious agents. The following conditions have been identified . . . Homo sapiens sanguinis . . . commonly known as vampire. Homo sapiens lupus . . . commonly known as werewolf. Homo sapiens pinnipedia . . .”
I had his name. As soon as I stopped for the afternoon, I was going to find his phone number and give him a call.
At a gas station somewhere in West Texas, I went into the store to stock up on road trip munchies. On my way to the cash register, I passed a rack of newspapers and stopped cold. I stared. I smiled. I bought a paper, the latest issue of Wide World of News.
I would frame it, and as soon as I had a wall, it would go up. Th
e headline read:
“Bat Boy to Appear as Guest on The Midnight Hour.”
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!
Please turn this page for a special preview of
Kitty Goes to Washington
Coming in Summer 2006.
* * *
We have Beth from Tampa on the line. Hello.”
“Hi, Kitty. I have a question I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time. Do you think Dracula is still out there?”
I leaned on the arm of my chair and stared at the microphone. “Dracula. As in, the book? The character?”
Beth from Tampa sounded cheerful and earnest. “Yeah. I mean, he’s got to be the best-known vampire there is. He was so powerful, I can’t really believe that Van Helsing and the rest of them just finished him off.”
I tried to be polite. “Actually, they did. It’s just a book, Beth. Fiction. They’re characters.”
“But you sit there, week after week, telling everyone that vampires and werewolves are real. Surely a book like this must have been based on something that really happened. Maybe his name wasn’t really Dracula, but Bram Stoker must have based him on a real vampire, don’t you think? Don’t you wonder who that vampire was?”
Stoker may have met a real vampire, may even have based Dracula on that vampire. But if that vampire was still around, I suspected he was in deep hiding out of embarrassment at being associated with the book.
“You may be right, there may be a real vampire who was Stoker’s inspiration. But the events of the book? Sheer fabrication. I say this because Dracula isn’t really about vampires, or vampire hunting, or the undead, or any of that. It’s about a lot of other things: sexuality, religion, reverse imperialism, and xenophobia. But what it’s really about is saving the world through superior office technology.” I waited half a beat for that to sink in. I loved this stuff. “Think about it. They make such a big deal about their typewriters, phonographs, stenography—
this was like the techno-thriller of its day. They end up solving everything because Mina is really great at data entry and collating. What do you think?”
“Um . . . I think that may be a stretch.”
“Have you read the book?”
“Um, no. But I’ve seen every movie version of it!” she ended brightly, as if that would save her.
I suppressed a growl. No need to chew her out, when she was being so enthusiastic. Patiently I said, “All right. Which is your favorite?”
“The one with Keanu Reeves!”
“Why am I not surprised?” I clicked her off. “Moving on. Next caller, you’re on the air.”
“Kitty, hey! Longtime listener, first-time caller. I’m so glad you put me on.”
“No problem. What’s your story?”
“Well, I have sort of a question. Do you have any idea what kind of overlap there is between lycanthropes and the furry community?”
The monitor said this guy had a question about lycanthropes and alternative lifestyles. The producer screening calls was doing a good job of being vague. Though if I really thought about it, I knew this topic would come up eventually. It seemed I’d avoided it for as long as I possibly could.
Oh well. The folks in radioland expected honesty.
“You know, I’ve hosted this show for almost a year without anyone bringing up furries. Thank you for destroying that last little shred of dignity I possessed.”
“You don’t have to be so—”
“Look, seriously. I have absolutely no idea. They’re two different things—lycanthropy is a disease. Furryness is a . . . a predilection. Which I suppose means it’s possible to be both. And when you say furry, are you talking about the people who like cartoons with bipedal foxes, or are you talking about the people who dress up in animal suits to get it on? Maybe some of the people who call in wanting to know how to become werewolves happen to be furries and think that’s the next logical step. How many of the lycanthropes that I know are furries? It’s not something I generally ask people. Do you see how complicated this is?”
“Well, yeah. But I have to wonder, if someone really believes that they were meant to be, you know, a different species entirely—like the way some men really believe they were meant to be women and then go through a sex change operation—don’t you think it’s reasonable that—”
“No. No, it isn’t reasonable. Tell me, do you think that you were meant to be a different species entirely?”
He gave a deep sigh, the kind that usually preceded a dark confession, the kind of thing that was a big draw for most of my audience.
“I have this recurring dream where I’m an alpaca.”
“Excuse me?”
“An alpaca. I keep having these dreams where I’m an alpaca. I’m in the Andes, high in the mountains. In the next valley over are the ruins of a great Incan city. Everything is so green.” He might have been describing the photos in an issue of National Geographic. “And the grass tastes so lovely.”
Okay, that probably wasn’t in National Geographic.
“Um . . . that’s interesting.”
“I’d love to travel there someday. Have—have you by any chance ever met any were-alpacas?”
If it weren’t so sad, I’d have to laugh. “No, I haven’t. All the were-animals I’ve ever heard of are predators, so I really don’t think it’s likely.”
“Oh,” he said with a sigh. “Do you think maybe I was an alpaca in a past life?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be more of a help. I genuinely hope you find some answers to your questions someday. I think traveling there is a great idea.” Seeing the world never hurt, in my opinion. “Thanks for calling.”
The producer gave me a warning signal, waving from the other side of the booth window, pointing to his watch, and making a slicing motion across his throat. Um, maybe he was trying to tell me something.
I sighed, then leaned up to the mike. “I’m sorry, folks, but that looks like all the time we have this week. I want to thank you for spending the last couple of hours with me and invite you to come back next week, when I talk with the lead singer of the punk metal band Devil’s Kitchen, who says their bass player is possessed by a demon, and that’s the secret of their success. This is The Midnight Hour, and I’m Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”
The On Air sign dimmed, and the show’s closing credits, which included a recording of a wolf howl as a backdrop, played. I pulled the headset off and ran my fingers through my blond hair, hoping it didn’t look too squished.
The producer’s name was Jim something. I forgot his last name. Rather, I didn’t bother remembering. I was in Flagstaff, this week, but I’d be at a different radio station next week, working with a different set of people. For the better part of a year, most of the show’s run, I broadcast out of Denver. But a month ago, I left town. Or was chased out. Depending on who you talked to.
I wrapped things up at the station and went to my hotel to sleep off the rest of the night. Locked the door, hung out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Couldn’t sleep, of course. I’d become nocturnal, doing the show. I’d gotten used to not sleeping until dawn, then waking at noon. It was even easier now that I was on my own. No one checked up on me; no one was meeting me for lunch. It was just me, the road, and the show once a week. An isolated forest somewhere once a month. A lonely life.
My next evening was spoken for. Full-moon nights were always spoken for.
I found the place a couple of days ago: a remote trailhead at the end of a dirt road in the interior of a state park. I could leave the car parked in a secluded turnout behind a tree. Real wolves didn’t get this far south, so I only had
to worry about intruding on any local werewolves who might have marked out this territory. I spent an afternoon walking around, watching, smelling. Giving the locals a chance to see me, let them know I was here. I didn’t smell anything unexpected, just the usual forest scents of deer, fox, rabbits. Good hunting here. It looked like I’d have it all to myself.
A couple of hours from midnight, I parked the car at the far end of the trailhead, where it couldn’t be seen from the road. I didn’t want to give any hint that I was out here. I didn’t want anyone—especially not the police—to come snooping. I didn’t want anyone I might hurt to come within miles of me.
I’d done this before. This was my second full-moon night alone, as a rogue. The first time had been uneventful, except that I woke up hours before dawn, hours before I was ready, shivering in the cold and crying because I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten to be naked in the middle of the woods. That never happened when I had other people there to remind me.
My stomach felt like ice. This was never going to get easier. I used to have a pack of my own. I’d been surrounded by friends, people I could trust to protect me. A wolf wasn’t meant to run on her own.
You’ll be okay. You can take care of yourself.
I locked the car, put the keys in my jeans pocket, and walked away from the parking lot, away from the trail, and into the wild. The night was clear and sharp. Every touch of air, every scent, blazed clear. The moon, swollen, bursting with light, edged above the trees on the horizon. It touched me, I could feel the light brushing my skin. Gooseflesh rose on my arms. Inside, the creature thrashed, and it made me feel both drunk and nauseous. I’d think I was throwing up, but the Wolf would burst out of me instead.