Kitty Rocks the House kn-11

  Kitty Rocks the House

  ( Kitty Norville - 11 )

  Carrie Vaughn

  On the heels of Kitty's return from London, a new werewolf shows up in Denver, one who threatens to split the pack by challenging Kitty's authority at every turn. The timing could not be worse; Kitty needs all the allies she can muster to go against the ancient vampire, Roman, if she's to have any hope of defeating his Long Game. But there's more to this intruder than there seems, and Kitty must uncover the truth, fast. Meanwhile, Cormac pursues an unknown entity wreaking havoc across Denver; and a vampire from the Order of St. Lazaurus tempts Rick with the means to transform his life forever.

  Kitty Rocks the House

  (Book 11 in the Kitty Norville series)

  A novel by Carrie Vaughn

  For Emery Anne Vaughn

  The Playlist

  Sister Sledge, “We Are Family”

  Jefferson Airplane, “My Best Friend”

  Buddy Holly, “(You’re So Square) Baby, I Don’t Care”

  Fanny, “You’re the One”

  The Ditty Bops, “Walk or Ride”

  They Might Be Giants, “Older”

  The Cure, “A Strange Day”

  Creedence Clearwater Revival, “I Put a Spell on You”

  Rasputina, “You Don’t Own Me”

  Erasure, “Hideaway”

  Pentangle, “The Time Has Come”

  La Santa Cecilia, “La Negra”

  Chapter 1

  FOR ALL the death I’d seen, I’d been to very few funerals.

  This one was fraught, and I couldn’t sort out my feelings, or what I was supposed to be feeling. Grandma Norville had fallen and broken her hip three months ago, but the pneumonia she caught after had been the final culprit. I kept thinking I should have been there. I could have come to visit one more time if I hadn’t been so busy, if I’d just made the effort. But I thought she’d hang on longer. I thought she’d always be here. How selfish was it, to feel guilty at someone’s funeral, as if her passing were somehow my fault, or a personal inconvenience? I was sad, nostalgic, tired, shell-shocked.

  Mostly, I was worried about my father. He seemed tall and stoic enough, his chin up, eyes dry. Mom held her arm wrapped around his and kept a tissue close to her eyes. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything, though. Not the flower-drenched casket, not the dark-suited minister, not the sky or grassy lawn with its rows of modern, polished headstones. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I couldn’t ask.

  The service was graveside, the springtime Arizona weather was reasonable—sunny, but windy. I kept squinting against dust in the air. The crowd gathered was small, incongruously young. All of Grandma’s friends, siblings, and her husband had gone before her. All that was left were her three kids, their families, and a couple of staff from her retirement home. It had been a quiet ceremony.

  My husband Ben and I had driven all night to get here. We stood a little apart from the others. Not so much as to be noticeable, but enough to be comfortable for us. Werewolves didn’t do so well in groups, even ones as small as this. Especially when we were off balance. We stood side by side, our hands entwined. Ben had never even met Grandma. He was here to look out for me. A rock to stand next to. He’d pulled out polish, combing the scruff out of his light brown hair and wearing his best courtroom lawyer suit with a muted navy tie. I’d had a terrible time packing, convinced that all my clothes were inappropriate for the situation. I’d settled on a black skirt and tailored cream blouse for the service, and pinned my blond hair up in a twist. I looked like a waitress.

  The rest of the family had flown ahead of us. My sister Cheryl’s husband, Mark, had stayed home with their two kids. Standing next to Mom, hugging herself, Cheryl seemed small in her dress suit, which she probably hadn’t worn since before she was pregnant with Nicky, eight years ago now. She was staring at the flowers with a wrinkled, worried frown.

  The minister, a nondenominational chaplain from the retirement home, spoke in a calm, inoffensive voice. He’d started with a Bible verse, the one about walking in the valley of shadows and not fearing evil, and dispensed comforting words of wisdom that might have come from the lyrics of a sixties folk song.

  What would the guy say if I told him that I’d had proof that people existed in some form after death? He’d probably say, of course. He was a minister, after all. I had proof of life after death. But I couldn’t say I believed in heaven or hell. I still didn’t know what exactly happened to us after we died. What had happened to my grandmother.

  When people at the funeral told me that my grandmother had gone to a better place, did I believe them? I believed that part of her lived on. But I couldn’t say where she was. Was she here, watching us mourn for her? I resisted an urge to call out loud to her, just in case. Was the cemetery filled with the shadows of the dead, all of them watching?

  I’d met beings who claimed to be gods. Were they, or were they just powerful people who had existed for thousands of years and so built up a tangle of stories around them, and in those stories they became gods?

  When the minister called on his own God, did he really know who he was praying to?

  In matters of faith, I couldn’t believe in much of anything anymore. I had my family who loved me, my friends I could count on, and that was about it. Everything else—I saw the signs, but I didn’t know what they meant. All I could do was focus on the road in front of me.

  The chaplain said his amens, the rest of us echoed him, he closed his book, and that was that. I decided Grandma would have been disappointed with the whole thing. She’d have wanted something big and grand in a cathedral, with organ music. But this wasn’t for her, it was for the rest of us. Funny how we all seemed so anxious. I wasn’t sure having a chance to say good-bye at a funeral was any better than not having a chance to say good-bye, when the people you loved were snatched away in front of you without ceremony.

  We filed back to the cars parked along the curb, leaving the flowers and casket behind. The earth that would fill in the grave had been discreetly hidden away during the ceremony, and would be brought back after we’d all left. I spotted the cemetery employees who would do the deed lurking behind a well-groomed hedge, waiting.

  I squeezed Ben’s hand before letting go and trotted forward to catch up to my dad.

  “Dad? You okay?”

  He smiled a sad smile, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to give me a kiss on the top of my head. Without a word, he let me go and kept walking on with my mother.

  So what did that mean?

  My aunt, Dad’s younger sister, was hosting a lunch—catered, I found out after discretely poking among my cousins, which was a relief. Friends had been bringing over mountains of food as well. I didn’t want to find out anyone had been cooking for everybody, but no one had. A little less guilt there. I slipped my cousins some money to help with the cost. Wasn’t much else I could do. Ben got directions to their house; I’d never been there. I was close to my immediate family, but I didn’t see the extended family that often. Weddings and funerals, and that was it. Another cliché in a day filled with them.

  Before we reached the car, I took a last look over the cemetery’s green slope, toward the row of folding chairs and the mountain of flowers that marked Grandma’s grave. Said a farewell, just in case she was hanging around, and just in case she could hear.

  Ben had stopped a few yards away from me and gazed off to a stand of bordering trees. Two figures, a man and a woman, were standing there.

  “You see that?” he said, nodding toward them.

  “Yeah. They just keeping an eye on us or do they want to make trouble?”

  “You want to find out?”
<
br />   “I kind of do,” I said, and we started toward them.

  They’d put themselves upwind so we’d be sure to catch their scents: musky, odd. Werewolves and foreign—not part of our pack. He was a big, burly Latino; she was young and motherly, her dark hair in a ponytail, a gray cardigan over her jeans and blouse. When we approached within speaking distance, they lowered their gazes. She started fidgeting, shuffling her feet—pacing, almost.

  “You must be Andy and Michelle,” I said.

  She blushed and smiled; he nodded, only raising his gaze to us for brief moments. The werewolf pair had gone submissive, which was a little unnerving—they were the alphas of the Phoenix pack, strong and dominant. I’d been able to send a message ahead to warn them we were coming, that we had no intentions of invading, and could we please have permission to stay in their territory for as long as we needed for the funeral? They’d sent a welcoming message back. I wasn’t sure we’d even meet them while we were here, or if they’d keep their distance.

  “Thanks,” Ben said. “For letting us pass through. I hope it hasn’t caused any trouble.”

  “Oh, no,” Andy said. “I hope you haven’t had any trouble. You haven’t, have you? You have everything you need? Is there anything else we can do for you? A place to run, maybe?”

  “No,” Ben said. “Full moon’s not for another week, fortunately.”

  “Ah, good,” Michelle said. “I mean, not good—I’m really sorry about your grandmother.”

  My polite smile was feeling awfully stiff. “Thanks. We’d probably better get back to it. We’ll let you know if we need anything. Really.” I started backing away slowly.

  “It’s nice meeting you,” Michelle said. She was so earnest I could almost see her tail wagging. “I mean—you’re not really what we expected.”

  “What did you expect?” I said.

  She ducked her gaze. “Well, you both look so friendly. I guess we expected you to be…”

  “Tougher. Tougher looking,” Andy finished. His smile appeared as strained as my own felt. “Given some of the stories we’ve heard.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I think some of those stories exaggerate.”

  “Even so. It’s still pretty impressive.”

  I shuddered to think. Exactly what did I look like from the outside, anyway? I was just a talk radio host. A werewolf talk radio host who’d publically declared war on a shadowy vampire conspiracy. Alrighty, then.

  “Thanks again,” Ben said. “We’ll be out of your territory in a couple of days.”

  Their smiles suddenly seemed relieved. Ben and I waved good-bye and walked back to the cars.

  I frowned. “They’ve been keeping an eye on us the whole time we’ve been here, haven’t they? Just to make sure we wouldn’t start a fight.”

  “Seems likely.” His smile was amused, his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit jacket. I was a little offended that he wasn’t more worried, or at least insulted.

  “They acted like I might try to eat them. When did I become such a badass?”

  “Your reputation precedes you,” Ben said.

  “I don’t even know what reputation that is anymore. I don’t even recognize myself, the way they were looking at me.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “On the contrary, I think I’d rather ignore it completely.” I wouldn’t know how to act like the badass tough they’d expected.

  Cheryl was watching our approach from the edge of the groups of relatives still lingering and talking. There was one person who’d never see her little sister as a badass.

  “Do you know them?” she asked. Andy and Michelle were walking away, into a different section of the cemetery.

  “Not really,” I said, and left it at that.

  “You’re kinda weird, you know that?”

  “I’m a werewolf,” I said, glaring. “Trust me, Cheryl, you don’t want to know.”

  She rolled her eyes at me.

  It wasn’t until the reception was almost over, after Mom, Dad, and Cheryl had already left for their hotel room, after I’d said good-bye to all the relatives without knowing when I was going to see any of them again—we made noises about a family reunion, or maybe a big wedding anniversary celebration, or something—and Ben and I were walking out to our car, parked at the curb a block down the street, that I started crying. The tears burst, all at once, without warning, soaking my cheeks. I choked on a blubbering breath I couldn’t quite seem to catch.

  Stopping, I squeezed my eyes shut and held my nose in an effort to stop the stinging.

  “Kitty?” Ben had gone on a few more steps before looking back.

  I took a deep, stuttering breath that staved off the waterworks. “I’m fine. It just got me for a second.”

  He took my hand and leaned close, not to kiss me, but to let his breath play over my neck. His touch, the scent of him, calmed me. I was safe, I was protected. We stood like that for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence.

  “I’ll drive, okay?” he said finally.

  “Okay.”

  I slouched in the passenger seat, watching the suburban tract housing pass by as we drove away. I turned over the thought that had pushed me over the edge, had triggered the grief I’d kept at bay for the last few days. Grandma had always called me Katherine, refusing any less dignified nickname. Never mind that I hadn’t displayed a lot of dignity as a kid. To her, I was Katherine.

  Then it hit me: now, the only people in the world who’d call me Katherine were vampires with an overdeveloped sense of decorum. It was enough to make anyone cry.

  Chapter 2

  SOON AFTER returning to Denver, I had a meeting in the basement of a downtown art and antiques gallery. The gallery, Obsidian, was a front, disguising the vampire hideout of the Master of Denver. In a room that looked way too much like an average suburban living room to be part of a vampire hideout, I sat on a sofa with Rick, looking over the coffee table at our visitor.

  The vampire sitting in the armchair across from us defied classification. Nasser was Master of Tripoli. He appeared to be in his midthirties, and had an imposing presence—long face, serious frown, and dark, simmering eyes. His dark hair and beard were perfectly trimmed, aristocratic. He looked like he should have been riding camels with Peter O’Toole. But instead of flowing white robes, he wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit with a white shirt and conservative burgundy tie. The style of it should have dated him, making him seem more at home in the 1950s than the modern era. Instead, Nasser was timeless. He’d be at home anytime, anyplace, and pinning an age to him became impossible. Rick thought he was at least a thousand years old. That he’d come to Denver himself instead of sending a minion said something about how important this was to him. I was flattered, and wary. He’d brought an entourage of sorts, a trio of male vampire bodyguards who looked the part, with linebacker physiques and dark suits. They waited outside, sizing up Rick’s own entourage, the vampires of his Family.

  Rick’s apparent age was thirty or so. He had refined features and an elegant bearing; he made his dark silk shirt and tailored trousers look good. Though he was some five hundred years old, he’d held the position of Master for only a few years, which made him a newcomer compared to someone like Nasser. But the visitor regarded him as an equal, without a bit of condescension in his voice.

  He drew a pendant from an inner jacket pocket and set it on the coffee table before Rick and me. “I’m given to understand that you’ve seen one of these before?” His accent was crisp.

  The pendant was a bronze coin about the size of a nickel, worn and darkened with age. Whatever image had once appeared on it was mangled beyond recognition, smashed flat and scored in furious crosshatches.

  I nodded. “Several, actually.”

  His lips pressed thoughtfully, he glanced at Rick for confirmation.

  “They’re Dux Bellorum’s marks of … ownership, I suppose you’d say,” Rick said. “His followers wear them. They bind them to him. Whe
re did you find yours?”

  “It belonged to one of my predecessors. A group of us mounted a coup against him, oh, quite some time ago now.”

  I leaned forward. “How long ago? I mean for you, exactly how long ago is that?”

  “She’s very concerned with precision of timekeeping, isn’t she?” Nasser said to Rick.

  “It’s an obsession with her,” he said, shrugging with his hands, and I scowled at them both.

  I had four of the mangled coins sealed in a jar and locked in the safe at New Moon, the downtown restaurant Ben and I owned. The place was the spiritual, if not actual, center of our territory, and we’d had some evidence that vampires couldn’t cross the threshold without permission. Roman—Dux Bellorum—shouldn’t be able to track them there. Destroying the image was supposed to break the spells attached to them. But you could never be too careful about this sort of thing.

  Maybe we should have just thrown the things away, or melted them down. But I was keeping them as if they were some kind of perverse forensic evidence that we didn’t yet have the means to understand. They might be able to tell us more about their creator someday, and I couldn’t throw away a tool like that.

  That Nasser had kept his encouraged me that I’d made the right decision.

  I said, “I keep thinking there must be a way to use the magic in these against him.”

  Nasser shook his head. “I’ve searched for a wizard or magician who could do such a thing, and haven’t found one. I think such a thing is impossible.”

  “No, I don’t believe that. I’ve got a couple of leads,” I said.

  I had my own networks, my own resources to tap when a supernatural problem presented itself. Tina McCannon, resident psychic for the TV show Paradox PI, hadn’t known anything about the coins offhand, but offered to scry for information. She’d handle the coins herself the next time she was in Denver. Odysseus Grant, a magician hiding in plain sight with his own Vegas stage show, knew about the Long Game and what it meant. He offered to research the coins as well, but hadn’t found anything yet. Then there was Cormac, right here in Denver.