Kitty Steals the Show

  Parker stared. “No, that painting was taken down in the forties, replaced by one of my grandparents. But the bust is still there. Mostly as a conversation piece.”

  “Ah,” sighed Amelia, using Cormac’s voice.

  “How could you possibly know—”

  “It’s Amelia,” I said. “She’s here, and she knows.”

  The anger fell away, his expression falling slack—as if he’d seen a ghost. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Cormac regarded him with a flat expression—Parker had stated the obvious.

  “We need a favor, Mr. Parker,” I said. “Let us look for the hidden door in the attic of the house. If it’s not there, if we don’t find the box, we’ll leave you alone and you’ll never hear from us again. If it is—then you know we’re right.”

  Ben leaned forward. “I’m an attorney in the U.S., and while I’m not at all qualified to discuss British law, I’d be happy to look over any kind of waiver or document you’d want us to sign, protecting your rights.”

  “Except Amelia’s box,” Cormac said.

  Parker said, “Assuming you are right—what am I supposed to do with this information? You tell me a long-dead ancestor isn’t really dead—am I expected to welcome her back to the family? What do I tell my wife? My father?”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Cormac said, brusque, steady. “She’s the one who left the family, she doesn’t expect anything now.”

  “But—but what if I want … Mr. Bennett, not many people have the opportunity to speak to an ancestor. Perhaps she knows about some other treasures buried about the estate.”

  Cormac paused, the sign of an internal conversation. “If there are, she doesn’t know about them.”

  “All right, then,” he said. “You’ve got me. It may be a joke, but I’m willing to see it through. A contract won’t be necessary, Mr. O’Farrell, but you’ll understand if I leave a detailed account of this meeting behind with my associate. I assume you want to search for this hidden treasure as soon as possible?”

  “As soon as it’s convenient for you,” I said, trying to be reassuring.

  Parker said that the village was about a half hour by train from Charing Cross Station, and that he could meet us there in the morning to drive us to the house. We’d have an hour or so to look.

  “There’s always a chance someone found it and got rid of it,” Cormac said.

  “Got rid of something? From that house?” Parker said. “I don’t know what it was like a hundred years ago, but since then everything’s just gone into the attic. You may have to dig to find your compartment.”

  “That’s fine.”

  We finalized our plans, and the receptionist on the intercom announced that Parker’s next appointment had arrived, so we made our way to the door.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, shaking his hand again. “It really does mean a lot.”

  Parker remained thoughtful. “You hear about things like this in the news, but you don’t think of it because it doesn’t impact you. Then something like this happens. I have to confess, Ms. Norville, I’m not sure I know what to believe.”

  “It’s like that for a lot of us,” I said.

  Then we were back on the street, in the middle of the afternoon, among the streets and town houses that were simultaneously familiar and otherworldly.

  “That went a hell of a lot better than I was expecting,” Cormac said.

  “What were you expecting?” Ben asked.

  “That he’d say we were crazy and call the police.”

  “It’s a brave new world,” I said. “Werewolves are real. So are ghost whisperers, apparently.”

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, Emma and I sat in the lobby of the hotel’s convention center and people-watched.

  “There, that one.” She nodded at one of the few vampires who’d finally shown up at the conference. He was male, wearing a conservative suit and tie, and had a suave demeanor. “He’s one of Njal’s lieutenants. Njal was the one with the wolves in chains.”

  “So they’re bad guys.”

  “Not necessarily. Njal has a reputation for taking very good care of his people, including the werewolves. Not all vampires are like that.”

  “It just never occurs to him not to keep werewolves as pets on chains?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said, wincing. “They do because they can.”

  “Doesn’t make it right,” I said.

  “Ned says Njal’s been playing both sides. There’s no telling where he stands—or if he’ll even stick with a side once he finally decides.”

  Cormac said he had more exploring in London to do. No doubt Amelia was fascinated with the changes the city had undergone in the last century. Ben and I returned to the conference and another round of lectures and presentations. Emma had arrived after dark to take a look around—to scout on Ned’s orders, I was pretty sure.

  I debated telling her about meeting Caleb. Her, and by extension Ned. The two camps in London, vampire and werewolf, seemed autonomous and separate. Which shouldn’t have surprised me—that was how it seemed to work most places the werewolves weren’t overtly under the vampire Master’s control. Maybe I had hoped that the situation Rick and I had in Denver—independent but allied—was more common. If other places worked that way, we wouldn’t be such an anomaly.

  A few minutes later Emma pointed out another one—a thirtysomething woman whom I recognized as one of the underlings from the convocation last night arriving to talk to Njal’s lieutenant. They left together a moment later.

  “She’s with Petra, the dark-haired woman with the flashy gown,” Emma said.

  “So Njal and Petra are on the same side, whichever side they’re on.”

  “Again, not necessarily. They could be feeling each other out, trying to cut a deal, or trying to spy on each other.”

  “Can’t we make any assumptions with you people?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Not beyond the obvious. We drink blood and sleep at dawn.”

  “I can point out a dozen lycanthropes here, and they may or may not have a pack back home. Some species don’t even have packs, and even if they do most of them probably haven’t checked in with the local pack alpha. Are there any unallied vampires? Any of them here on their own and not affiliated with a Master?”

  “You do occasionally get lone vampires, but it’s rare,” she said. “Being part of a Family makes things so much easier.”

  “I’ve had people call into the show—new vampires who say they’d never even heard of Families. They were victims of random attacks, and they have no choice but to take care of themselves. What about them?”

  “They usually don’t last very long,” she said, frowning. “Denver’s Master, Rick—Alette says he was unaffiliated for centuries.”

  “Yeah. I’m guessing he was always a bit of a black sheep.” It wasn’t my story to tell. But it was a good story.

  “I’d like to meet him. He sounds interesting.”

  “He is. He’s a really good guy. You should come visit.” I spotted a familiar face across the room and nudged Emma. “There, that guy? Were-jaguar.”

  “Really?”

  Luis had spotted me by that time and strolled over, arms spread wide in greeting. “Kitty, my love!”

  I blushed. Why did I always blush? I smiled at him and tried to cover it up. “You know it’s true, you sit here long enough you’ll see absolutely everyone at the conference walk past.”

  “So you’re saying you were waiting for me?” he said, and winked.

  He looked at Emma, and his smile fell a millimeter—only a bit of chill. His nose flared, taking in her vampiric scent. He seemed uncertain, though his tone was bright as ever. “Who is this very lovely person?”

  “This is Emma, a friend of mine,” I said. “Emma, Luis.”

  “Hi,” she said, offering her hand.

  He tucked it in both of his, bowed over it, but didn’t kiss it. “Lovely to meet you.” She nodded g
raciously in turn.

  “Any plans this evening?” he said, straight to me.

  “Conference, work, hanging out with my husband.”

  “I still suspect that you’re pulling one over on me with that.”

  “It’s not a joke,” I said.

  He sighed in mock despair, hand over his chest. “Well then, I’ll have to leave you to it. We’re still having dinner tomorrow tonight, yes? You and your husband.”

  “And your sister,” I added.

  “Until then.” He prowled away, throwing a last half-lidded, cat-like look over his shoulder.

  “Wow,” Emma said. “He’s nice.”

  “Hmm, he can be. I actually met him in D.C. when I was there for the hearings.”

  Her smile seemed wistful. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like vampires too much.”

  I shifted my seat so I looked at her instead of out. She didn’t seem at all insecure or self-conscious. She sat tall, chin up, gaze out, at ease. She had all the elegance and poise I attributed to vampires.

  “Is it getting any better?” I asked. “Or easier, at least?”

  She continued gazing over the lobby as if she commanded the space. “I’ve stopped gasping for air when I think I’ve forgotten to breathe. It’s … it’s hard to describe. The rules all changed. And the new ones make perfect sense.”

  Emma was the only vampire I’d known before she’d been turned. I hadn’t known her long, then, but I remembered. She’d changed, since then. Still, people were always changed by crises, by the trauma in their lives. I’d certainly changed. I hardly recognized the naïve kid I’d been before I was attacked, or even the super scared one I’d been right after. That was years ago. How could we not change?

  If what I’d told Luis—that if you sat here long enough you’d see everyone associated with the conference walk by sooner or later—was true, I figured I’d eventually spot Paul Flemming, and I could … confront him. Not tackle and maul him, alas. Find out what he’d been doing for the last four years, besides dodging criminal charges in the U.S. But he hadn’t made an appearance.

  “Oh! You’re Kitty Norville aren’t you? Really?”

  Emma and I both jumped, startled.

  Two young-looking women, holding onto each other’s arms, came up to us, eyes wide, biting their lips, giggling. They wore skirts and T-shirts, hip scarves and jewelry, and had their pale hair bundled up in scrunchies. They were so thin they might fall over in a slight breeze. I pegged them as grad students or lab assistants of one of the attending scientists—old enough to be here, young enough to not care if they had any dignity about it. They carried on like groupies, and I felt that little flush of celebrity. Getting recognized in public was simultaneously weird and flattering. The human side of me never got tired of the feelings of validation and accomplishment. Wolf thought it felt a little like being hunted.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hi.”

  “We are huge fans,” one of them said. Might have been the one who spoke before, might not have. “We’d heard you were going to be here, but we didn’t really believe it, but here you are!”

  Emma looked like she was clenching her jaw to keep from laughing.

  “I’m glad I could be here,” I said. “I hope you’ll be able to come to my talk on Saturday.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t miss it! Um, I know you probably get this all the time, but we were wondering—can I get your autograph? I have a pen around here somewhere, and some paper—”

  A scramble in handbags for pen and paper ensued, and they found a little hotel notepad and a slightly fancier fountain pen soon enough. I gave them both autographs made out to them: Daisy and Rose. If the pair of them got any cuter I might have gagged. I put smiley faces under my signatures, and they squealed. How could I not smile back? They wandered away tittering, evidently happy.

  I beamed after them until they turned a corner and were out of sight. Then I frowned.

  “Is that weird to you, that neither of us sensed them coming?” I said. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what either of them smelled like. They should have smelled like something, even if it was overscented shampoo or soap.

  Emma pursed her lips, worried. Because yeah, that was weird.

  “Were they even human?” she asked.

  We looked at each other, blinking in the same confusion. If they weren’t human, what were they?

  Chapter 10

  I WANTED TO enjoy the trip to Sevenoaks more than I did. Under the arcing glass and steel roof of Charing Cross Station, I once again had this bubbling wonderment of being caught in a movie. I got to ride on a train, into that green English countryside. I’d only ever been on a real cross-country train once, visiting my grandmother when I was a kid. But this trip was weighted by a lingering sense of anxiety. Amelia was returning home, and none of us knew what to expect.

  “I’m still worried he’s going to have the cops waiting for us,” Cormac said.

  “Even if they are, we haven’t done anything wrong,” I said.

  “Attempted fraud?” Ben said.

  “So not helpful,” I muttered.

  We occupied a booth, four seats around a plastic table by a large window, and watched the scenery pass by as the train clacked smoothly on its rails. I could have let the movement rock me to sleep.

  “It’s all changed and yet it’s all the same,” Cormac observed softly. He leaned close to the window and stared out, studying the world.

  The city gave way to suburbs, with bits of countryside scattered between them, distant green hills and stands of old trees, villages with square brick houses, tiny train stations with only a small length of platform. The stop Parker directed us to was one of these.

  Parker was waiting for us by a nondescript sedan, a blue Renault. No police in sight.

  “Thanks for doing this, Mr. Parker,” I said.

  “Call me Nick, please. Are we ready?”

  Nick drove us away from the village along a curving road lined with hedgerows. Several side roads took us past shops, gas stations, then farmhouses, then nothing but open pastures. Here was the postcard landscape I’d been looking for. Finally, we turned onto a drive marked by tall brick pillars that must have once held up gates, but the gates were gone. Past the pillars, we continued on a gravel drive for another quarter of a mile until we approached an honest-to-goodness manor house, three stories of pale stone, rows of sashed windows, peaked roofs and narrow clay chimneys reaching up, and wide steps leading to a porch with a pair of columns marking the front door. The car stopped at the base of the steps.

  “It’s not Pemberley, but it serves,” Nick said, regarding the edifice with obvious fondness. We all climbed out, us three Americans gaping and Nick watching us gape.

  “Amelia says that there used to be hedges and flower beds on that side of the house.” Cormac pointed to a stretch of pasture-like lawn that sloped to a border of thick trees.

  “The grounds suffered some neglect between the wars. My great-great-grandfather—Amelia’s brother, I think—lost his eldest son in the First World War and never really recovered. It’s a common story, I think. In his case, he turned his attention from the property and put his time and money toward charities, causes and memorials and the like.”

  “His eldest son—James? He was just an infant when I left,” Cormac murmured, then shook the spell away.

  Nick pursed his lips, bemused, then continued. “We’ve kept up the tradition rather than reestablish the gardens. Especially since the boys in the family have taken to playing cricket on the lawn.”

  Cormac turned a smile that wasn’t his. “The house looks just the same,” he said, studying the façade with a narrowed gaze.

  “Shall we go inside?” Nick led us up the stairs and drew a ring of keys from his pocket.

  This place had some similarities with Ned’s two houses. There were bookshelves; old-fashioned wallpaper, textured and covered with flowers; collections of antiques that looked rich to my eyes. The windows had long drapes on br
ass rings, and carved wood trim surrounded the doorways. Where Ned’s houses were opulent, this was homey, lived in. It didn’t feel like a museum, and no servants lurked nearby. A box of plastic toys, trucks and balls and things, sat in a corner of the foyer.

  “The house is shut up most of the time,” Nick said, opening drapes in the front sitting room to let in light. “We spend most of the year in London. We come here on weekends and holidays.”

  Cormac moved around Parker and headed unerringly to the back of the house; he didn’t have to ask or be shown where he was going. We followed, but couldn’t match his urgency.

  The kitchen was a blend of antique and modern. A brick fireplace stood against one wall, but it seemed decorative, with copper pots and wrought-iron tools hanging around it. A gas stove had replaced the open flame. Cormac—Amelia—looked around for a moment, then went to a whitewashed closet, moved a wooden table, and forced open a door that had been painted over. He revealed a narrow staircase, which he climbed, again without hesitation.

  I ducked in behind him. He’d taken his mini-Maglite out of his pocket and shined it ahead, to the darkness. The staircase went up two stories, the height of the house, curving around narrow landings, but the other doorways had been sealed off with squares of plywood. By the time we got to the top, this felt like a cave, smelling of dust and old wood.

  The staircase ended in a smallish trapdoor set into the ceiling. Cormac shoved at this a couple of times, but it didn’t move.

  “You’ll need a key,” Nick called up. Cormac flashed the light down past me; Ben and Nick had followed us up the stairs. The latter held his hand out, offering a small, ancient iron key, which I took from him and handed to Cormac. Light in one hand to guide him, he fitted the key into the lock and jiggled it. The mechanism must have been stiff beyond reason—he wrapped his whole hand around the key to get enough leverage to turn it. Finally, though, it clicked, and the attic door popped with a puff of dust.

  He swung it open and went inside.