Kitty and the Midnight Hour, Page 3

  This was supposed to be my night.

  Usually, I melted around Carl. His personality was such that it subsumed everyone around him—at least everyone in the pack. All I ever wanted to do was make him happy, so that he’d love me. But right now, I was angry.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d ever been more angry than scared. It was an odd feeling, a battle of emotions and animal instinct that expressed itself in action: fight or flight. I’d always run, hid, groveled. The hair on my arms, the back of my neck, prickled, and a deep memory of thick fur awakened.

  His truck was parked around the corner. He guided me to the passenger seat. Then, he drove.

  “I had a visit from Arturo.”

  Arturo was Master of the local vampire Family. He kept the vampires in line like Carl kept the werewolves in line, and as long as the two groups stayed in their territories and didn’t harass each other, they existed peacefully, mostly. If Arturo had approached Carl, it meant he had a complaint.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He wants you to quit your show.” He glared straight ahead.

  I flushed. I should have known something like this would happen. Things were going so well.

  “I can’t quit the show. We’re expanding. Syndication. It’s a huge opportunity, I can’t pass it up—”

  “You can if I tell you to.”

  I tiredly rubbed my face, unable to think of any solution that would let us both have our way. I willed my eyes to clear and made sure my voice sounded steady.

  “Then you think I should quit, too.”

  “He says that some of his people have been calling you for advice instead of going to him. It’s a challenge to his authority. He has a point.”

  Wow, Carl and Arturo agreed on something. It was a great day for supernatural diplomacy.

  “Then he should tell off his people and not blame it on me—”

  “Kitty—”

  I slouched in the seat and pouted like a little kid.

  “He’s also worried about exposure. He thinks you’re bringing too much attention to us. All it takes is one televangelist or right-wing senator calling a witch hunt, and people will come looking for us.”

  “Come on, 90 percent of the people out there think the show’s a joke.”

  He spared a moment out of his driving to glare at me. “We’ve kept to ourselves and kept the secret for a long time. Arturo longer than most. You can’t expect him to think your show is a good idea.”

  “Why did he talk to you and not me?”

  “’Cause it’s my job to keep you on your leash.”

  “Leash or choke collar? Sorry.” I apologized before he even had a chance to glare at me.

  “You need to quit the show,” he said. His hands clenched the steering wheel.

  “You always do what Arturo tells you to?”

  Sad, that this was the best argument I could think of. Carl wouldn’t want to think he was making Arturo happy.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “For whom? For Arturo? For you? For the pack?”

  “Is it so unbelievable that I might have your best interests in mind? Arturo may be overreacting, but you are bringing a hell of a lot of exposure on yourself. If a fanatic out there decides you’re a minion of evil, walks into your studio with a gun—”

  “He’d need silver bullets.”

  “If he thinks the show is for real, he just might have them.”

  “It won’t happen, Carl. I’m not telling anyone what I am.”

  “And how long will that last?”

  Carl didn’t like the show because he didn’t have any control over it. It was all mine. I was supposed to be all his. I’d never argued with him like this before.

  I looked out the window. “I get a raise for every new market that picks up the show. It’s not much right now, but if this takes off, it could be a lot. Half of it’s yours.”

  The engine hummed; the night rolled by the windows, detail lost in darkness. I didn’t even have to think about how much I’d give to keep doing the show. The realization came like something of an epiphany. I’d give Carl all the syndication bonus to keep doing the show. I’d grovel at his feet every day if he wanted me to.

  I had to hold on to the show. It was mine. I was proud of it. It was important. I’d never done anything important before.

  He took a long time to answer. Each moment, hope made the knot in my throat tighter. Surely if he was going to say no, he wouldn’t have to think this hard.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “But I might still change my mind.”

  “That’s fair.” I felt like I’d just run a race, I was so wrung out.

  He drove us twenty minutes out of town, to the open space and private acreage that skirted the foothills along Highway 93 to the west. This was the heart of the pack’s territory. Some of the wolves in the pack owned houses out here. The land was isolated and safe for us to run through. There weren’t any streetlights. The sky was overcast. Carl parked on a dead-end dirt road. We walked into the first of the hills, away from the road and residences.

  If I thought our discussion was over, I was wrong. We’d only hashed out half of the issue. The human half.

  “Change,” he said.

  The full moon was still a couple of weeks away. I didn’t like shape-shifting voluntarily at other times. I didn’t like giving in to the urge. I hesitated, but Carl was stripping, already shifting as he did, his back bowed, limbs stretching, fur rippling.

  Why couldn’t he just let it go? My anger grew when it should have subsided and given way to terror. Carl would assert his dominance, and I was probably going to get hurt.

  But for the first time, I was angry enough that I didn’t care.

  I couldn’t fight him. I was half his size. Even if I knew what I was doing, I’d lose. So, I ran. I pulled off my shirt and bra as I did, paused to shove my jeans and panties to my feet, jumped out of them, and Changed, stretching so I’d be running before the fur had stopped growing.

  If I didn’t think about it too much, it didn’t hurt that badly.

  Hands thicken, claws sprout, think about flowing water so she doesn’t feel bones slide under skin, joints and muscles molding themselves into something else. She crouches, breathing deep through bared teeth. Teeth and face growing longer, and the hair, and the eyes. The night becomes so clear, seen through the Wolf’s eyes.

  Then she leaps, the Wolf is formed and running, four legs feel so natural, so splendid, pads barely touching soft earth before they fly again. Wind rushes through her fur like fingers, scent pours into her nose: trees, earth, decay, life, water, day-old tracks, hour-old tracks, spent rifle cartridges from last season, blood, pain, her pack. Pack’s territory. And the One. The Leader. Right behind her, chasing.

  Wrong, fleeing him. But fleeing is better than fighting, and the urge to fight is strong. Kill her if she doesn’t say she’s sorry. But she is sorry; she’d do anything for him.

  Run, but he’s bigger, faster. He catches her. She tumbles and struggles, fear spurring her on, but he holds her fast with teeth. Fangs dig into her shoulder and she yelps. Using the grip as purchase, he claws his way to her throat, and she’s on her back, belly exposed. His control ensures that he never breaks her skin.

  She falls still, whining with every breath. Stretches her head back, exposing her throat. He could kill her now. His jaw closes around her neck and stays there.

  Slowly, only after she has stayed frozen for ages, he lets her loose. She stays still, except to lick his chin over and over. “You are God,” the action says. She crawls on her belly after him, because she loves him.

  They hunt, and she shows him he is God by waiting to feed on the rabbit until he gives her permission. He leaves her skin and bones to lick and suck, but she is satisfied.

  I awoke human in the gray of dawn. The Wolf lingered, bleeding into my awareness, and I let her fill my mind because her instincts were better than mine, especially where the One was concerned.

  Sh
e lies naked in the den, a covered hillock that is his place when he sleeps off his Wolf. He is there, too, also naked, and aroused. He nibbles her ear, licks her jaw, sucks her throat, and pulls himself on top of her, leveraging her legs apart with his weight. She moans and lets him in; he pushes slowly, gently. This is what she lives for—his attention, his adoration.

  Speaking in her ear he says, “I’ll take care of you, and you don’t ever need to grow up. Understand?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He comes, forcing her against the earth, and she clings to him and slips away, and I am me again.

  Alpha’s prerogative: He fucks whomever he wants in the pack, whenever he wants. One of the perks of the position. It was also one of the reasons I melted around him. He just had to walk into a room and I’d be hot and bothered, ready to do anything for him, if he would just touch me. With the scent of him and the wolves all around us, I felt wild.

  I curled against his body, and he held me close, my protector.

  I needed the pack, because I couldn’t protect myself. In the wild, wolf cubs had to be taught how to hunt, how to fight. No one had taught me. Carl wanted me to be dependent. I wasn’t expected to hunt for myself, or help defend the pack. I had no responsibilities, as long as I deferred to Carl. As long as I stayed a cub, he would look after me.

  The next afternoon at the studio, I jumped at every shadow. Every noise that cracked made me flinch and turn to look. Broad daylight, and I still expected vampires to crawl through windows, coming after me.

  I really didn’t think anyone took the show that seriously. I didn’t take it that seriously half the time.

  If Arturo really wanted me to quit the show, and I didn’t, there’d be trouble. I didn’t know what kind of trouble, but one way or another it would filter back to me. Next time, he and his cronies might not bother going through Carl as intermediary. He’d take his complaint straight to me. I walked around wishing I had eyes on the back of my head. And the sides. I contemplated the fine line between caution and paranoia.

  Carl might not always be there to look after me. He couldn’t come to work with me.

  I found Matt, the show’s sound engineer, as he came back from supper. One of the benefits of my newfound success: Someone else could pay attention to make sure the right public service announcement played at the right time. He was laid-back, another intern turned full-timer, and always seemed to have a friend who could do exactly the job you needed doing.

  “Hey, Matt—do you know anyone who teaches a good self-defense class?”

  Chapter 3

  I’m Kitty Norville and you’re listening to The Midnight Hour, the show that isn’t afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there. Our first call tonight comes from Oakland. Marie, hello.”

  “Hi, Kitty. Thank you for taking my call.”

  “You’re welcome. You have a question?”

  “Well, it’s a problem, really.”

  “All right. Shoot.”

  “It’s about my Master. I mean, for the most part I have no complaints. He’s really sexy, and rich, you know? I get lots of perks like nice clothes and jewelry and stuff. But—there are a couple of things that make me uncomfortable.”

  I winced. “Marie, just so we’re clear: You’re human?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you willingly enslaved yourself to a vampire, as his human servant?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  She certainly wasn’t the first. “And now you’re unhappy because—”

  “It isn’t how I thought it would be.” And Marie certainly wasn’t the first to discover this.

  “Let me guess: There’s a lot more blood involved than you thought there would be. He makes you clean up after feeding orgies, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, no, the blood doesn’t bother me at all. It’s just that, well—he doesn’t drink from my neck. He prefers drinking from my thigh.”

  “And you’re quibbling? You must have lovely thighs.”

  “It’s supposed to be the neck. In all the stories it’s the neck.”

  “There are some vampire legends where the vampire tears out the heart and laps up the blood. Be happy you didn’t hook up with one of those.”

  “And he doesn’t wear silk.”

  What could I say? The poor girl had had her illusions shattered.

  “Does he make you eat houseflies?”

  “No—”

  “Marie, if you present your desires as a request, not a demand—make it sound as attractive as you think it is—your Master may surprise you. Buy him a silk shirt for his birthday. Hm?”

  “Okay. I’ll try. Thanks, Kitty.”

  “Good luck, Marie. Next caller, Pete, you’re on the air.”

  “I’m a werewolf trapped in a human body.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s kind of the definition.”

  “No, really. I’m trapped.”

  “Oh? When was the last time you shape-shifted?”

  “That’s just it—I’ve never shape-shifted.”

  “So you’re not really a werewolf.”

  “Not yet. But I was meant to be one, I just know it. How do I get a werewolf to attack me?”

  “Stand in the middle of a forest under a full moon with a raw steak tied to your face, holding a sign that says, ‘Eat me; I’m stupid’?”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “So am I! Listen, you do not want to be attacked by a werewolf. You do not want to be a werewolf. You may think you do, but let me explain this one more time: Lycanthropy is a disease. It’s a chronic, life-altering disease that has no cure. Its victims may learn to live with it—some of them better than others—but it prevents them from living a normal life ever again. It greatly increases your odds of dying prematurely and horribly.”

  “But I want fangs and claws. I want to hunt deer with my bare hands. That would be so cool!”

  I rubbed my forehead and sighed. I got at least one of these calls every show. If I could convince just one of these jokers that being a werewolf was not all that cool, I’d consider the show a success.

  “It’s a lot different when you hunt deer not because you want to but because you have to, because of your innate bloodlust, and because if you didn’t hunt deer you’d be hunting people, and that would get you in trouble. How do you feel about hunting people, Pete? How about eating people?”

  “Um, I would get used to it?”

  “You’d get people with silver bullets gunning for you. For the last time, I do not advocate lycanthropy as a lifestyle choice. Next caller, please.”

  “Um, yeah. Hi.”

  “Hello.”

  “I have a question for you. Werewolves and vampires—we’re stronger than humans. What’s to stop us from, oh, I don’t know . . . robbing banks? The police can’t stop us. Regular bullets don’t work. So why aren’t more of us out there wreaking havoc?”

  “Human decency,” I said without thinking.

  “But we’re not—”

  “—human? Do you really believe that you’re not human?”

  “Well, no. How can I be?”

  I crossed my arms and sighed. “The thing I keep hearing from all the people I talk to is that despite what they are and what they can do, they still want to be a part of human society. Society has benefits, even for them. So they take part in the social contract. They agree to live by human rules. Which means they don’t go around ‘wreaking havoc.’ And that’s why, ultimately, I think we can all find a way to live together.”

  Wow. I shocked myself sometimes with how reasonable I made all this sound. I might even have believed it. No, I had to believe it, or I wouldn’t be doing the show.

  The caller hesitated before saying, “So I tell you I’m a werewolf, and you’ll tell me that you think I’m human?”

  He couldn’t know that he was asking me to label myself. “Yes. And if you live in the human world, you have to live by human laws.”

  The trick with this show was confidence. I only had to sound like I
knew what I was talking about.

  “Yeah, well, thanks.”

  “Thanks for calling. Hello, James, you’re on the air.”

  “I have a question, Kitty.” His voice came low and muffled, like he was speaking too close to the handset.

  “Okay.”

  “Does a werewolf need to be in a pack? Can’t he just be on his own?” A sense of longing tainted the question.

  “I suppose, theoretically, a werewolf doesn’t need a pack. Why do you ask?”

  “Curious. Just curious. It seems like no one on your show ever talks about being a werewolf without a pack. Do they?”

  “You’re right, I don’t hear much about werewolves without hearing about packs. I think—” This was where the show got tricky: How much could I talk about without bringing up personal experience, without giving something away? “I think packs are important to werewolves. They offer safety, protection, a social group. Also control. They’re not going to want a rogue wolf running around making a mess of things and drawing attention to the rest of them. A pack is a way to keep tabs on all the lycanthropes in an area. Same thing for vampire Families.”

  “But just because a werewolf is on his own doesn’t mean he’s automatically going to go out and start killing people. Does it?” The guy was tense. Even over the phone I could hear an edge to his voice.

  “What do you think, James?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I called you. You’re always talking about how anybody, even monsters, can choose what they do, can choose whether or not they’re going to let their natures control them, or rise above all that. But can we really? Maybe—maybe if I don’t have a pack . . . if I don’t want to have anything to do with a pack . . . maybe that’s my own way of taking control. I’m not giving in. I don’t have to be like that. I can survive on my own. Can’t I? Can’t I?”

  I couldn’t do it. From the night I was attacked until now, someone—T.J., Carl, or somebody—had been there to tell me I was going to be okay, that I had friends. They helped me keep control. They gave me a place to go when I felt like losing it. I didn’t have to worry about hurting them. If I didn’t have that, what would I do? I’d be alone. How many people were there—people like James, who didn’t have packs or Families or anything—how many of them were listening to my show and thinking I had all the answers? That wasn’t what I’d planned when I started this.