Kitty Raises Hell kn-6 Page 21

  A very serious-sounding man said, “Hi. Kitty. Clearly, Islamo-fascist terrorists are not just targeting us on the mortal plane. Obviously they’ve sent their netherworld demons after us, as well. We should have expected this. Those people will stop at nothing to destroy the American way of life.”

  I winced. I should have known, as soon as I broadcast someone speaking Arabic, the paranoid political loons would raise their freak flag. “Actually, I have it on pretty good authority that this is a personal attack directed at me in response to... well, in response to various things. Trust me, this isn’t an ideological attack rooted in international terrorism. I’m not so egocentric or paranoid to think that I’d even be a target for international terrorism.”

  “That’s exactly the sort of liberal head-in-the-sand attitude that is going to bring this great country to its knees! You’ll never see reason because you’re part of the biased left-wing media establishment.” I swore the guy was slavering.

  A sane talk radio host would cut the guy off right about there. Instead, I spoke calmly, baiting the guy. Because, you know, it was funny.

  “Let’s say for a minute you’re right,” I said, in the space where the caller paused to take a breath. “And this is a terrorist campaign waged by Islamic extremists. And, by the way, my research has indicated that the Koran does acknowledge the existence of genies. What would you do to counteract the attack? How would you stop it? Should I try throwing Republicans at it?”

  He didn’t get the sarcasm. They never get the sarcasm.

  “Kitty,” he said evenly, in all seriousness, “to rid yourself of this demon you must accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior.”

  “Actually, exorcism is pretty high on the list of recommendations. But if we’re right about this thing, a Muslim cleric would probably be more helpful than yours. Moving on.”

  Some folks weren’t convinced it was a genie.

  “Hi, Kitty. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “It’s my pleasure. You’ve got something for me?”

  “It’s not a genie. It’s the Human Torch,” Mike from Austin said.

  “As in the superhero? From the movie?”

  “No, I’m talking about the Golden Age Human Torch. He was a scientific experiment that got out of control, escaped the confines of his underground tomb, then became the archenemy of the Sub-Mariner, and—”

  “So what you’re saying is the Human Torch is fictional,” I said, wincing.

  “Yeah, but he could totally do everything you described.”

  “Except that he isn’t real. And if he was, wasn’t he a hero? Didn’t he help people, not burn them down?”

  The guy huffed. “The Wolf Man isn’t real, either, but you’re still sitting there, aren’t you?”

  “There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t know where to start. Next call, please. Hello.”

  I was definitely grasping at straws here. But at least it was entertaining.

  “Hi—could it be a phoenix? Because I think of fire and I think phoenix. Maybe it’s like a were-phoenix...”

  “... or a will-o’-the-wisp. Like they say happens with burning swamp gas...”

  “... a thunderbird spirit...”

  “Pyrokinesis is a well-documented phenomenon, and I believe it’s more widespread than anyone imagines...”

  Most of what we got wasn’t entirely helpful.

  “You’re supposed to put genies back in their bottles, right? So that’s all you have to do.”

  “And how would you suggest I do that?” I said the fourth time someone made that recommendation.

  “Uh, I don’t know. You just kind of stuff it in?”

  “Hard to do when you can’t even see the darn thing,” I said, frustrated, and hung up.

  By the last half hour of the show, we hadn’t gotten anything substantial. I was getting frustrated, and Wolf was pushing against the inside of my skin. Then one of the calls listed on my monitor said “Nick from Las Vegas.” What were the odds? I punched up the call to find out.

  “Hello, you’re on the air.”

  “Kitty, baby, I expected to hear from you about this days ago.” The voice was male, suave. So full of himself there was obviously little room in there for tact, or raw intelligence.

  I recognized the voice. It called up a picture in my mind of a young man with a Chippendale physique, sun-baked blond hair, a sultry smile, and the strong scent of lycanthrope—were-tiger, specifically, sleek and feline. The new alpha of the Band of Tiamat.

  “Nick,” I said, speaking as brazenly as I could. I put a smile on my face and sugar in my voice, no matter how angry I felt. I curled my hands into fists and squeezed tight, because I could feel claws trying to break out. “What an unpleasant surprise. Listeners, I have here as my sudden unexpected guest Nick, a real genuine were-tiger and the star of the King of Beasts show at the Hanging Gardens Hotel and Resort in Las Vegas. Bet you didn’t know the whole act is made up of lycanthropes, did you? Well, now you do.” To think, when I’d first met them I’d been so sensitive about revealing their true natures. Keeping their secret. If only I’d known. I felt no compunction about blathering on about them now.

  “If you think that kind of exposure bothers me, you’re wrong,” Nick said. “I always thought we should go public. I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of Balthasar. He was holding us back.” Balthasar, their old leader, who was killed in the course of my escape from them.

  “You may have called in to taunt me, but I don’t actually have to let you talk at all.”

  “But you will, because you like talking. Tell me, how’s life been for you? Getting a little hot?”

  Ha, so it was the Band of Tiamat and not Roman who summoned the genie. Rick was wrong. Unless of course he wasn’t, and the two were working together. No time to think about it now.

  “Well, Nick, since I’ve got you on the line, maybe you could help me out with that. I’m really curious about where you dug up this thing. Do you have some kind of grimoire of evil demons? You flipped through and decided this one looked like more fun than a plague of locusts? Or is there a mail-order catalog that will deliver underworld creatures to an address of your choosing? I have to tell you, if that’s the case I think you got ripped off, because their gift-card option sucks.”

  He laughed, which aggravated me. I refrained from growling. I tried not to growl on the air.

  Tina and Jules were watching me, wide-eyed.

  He said, “I thought you’d learned during your visit here that these are powers you don’t understand, can never understand. You’re dealing with the consequences of trying to interfere with them.”

  I groaned. “The consequences of saving my own life, you mean? And there is nothing more boring than the old ‘dealing with powers you don’t understand’ shtick. I think that’s a lame excuse used by people who don’t have any better clue what’s happening. Is that it? You and your priestess unleashed this thing, and that’s all you could do with it? You don’t understand it yourselves, and you can’t control it. Once it’s loose, you can’t stop it.”

  That was a terrifying thought I hadn’t considered until now. I had entertained the notion that if I figured out how to placate the Band of Tiamat and its priestess, they might call off their demon. But what if it wasn’t theirs to control? Their cult was all about chaos. They might not want to control it.

  He didn’t answer right away. A couple seconds of dead air ticked over, and I started to switch to a new call.

  Then he said, “I thought you of all people could appreciate anarchy.”

  “Anarchy only works when everyone’s sane,” I shot back. “I have another question for you: Where’s Odysseus Grant?”

  Nick hung up.

  Shit.

  Deep breath, had to keep going. I could panic over what was happening to Grant in, oh—I checked the clock—about ten minutes.

  “Well,” I said at my microphone. “I don’t know much about laying curses, but if any of
you do know anything about laying curses, I know someone who needs cursing right about now. Next caller, hello.”

  The woman spoke with an accent, something clipped, refined, Middle Eastern.

  “Kitty, this thing that haunts you. You’re right. It is djinn.” She pronounced the word with a different inflection, and I could hear the different spelling. She was pronouncing it correctly.

  “Go on,” I said, glancing at Jules and Tina. They were listening closely.

  “The djinn are said to be fallen angels, or sometimes spoken of as a kind of person made up solely of spirit, where humans are made of matter. Among the djinn there is the ifrit. An ifrit is a spirit of fire, and it loves mischief. I think this is what has found you.”

  There it was, the chill up my spine, the gooseflesh on my arms. The ring of truth.

  “I think you may be right,” I said. “Now. How do I stop one of these ifrit?”

  She hesitated. “This is a difficult thing. There is anger here, and vengeance. I risk drawing it on myself, if I help you more than this. He would know.”

  “Wait a minute,” I begged, because my on-air sixth sense told me she was about to hang up. “If you know this much, you must know how to protect yourself. You know how to stop it.”

  “I have only listened to your show for a little while, Kitty, but I can tell you understand much. That in every tale there is a grain of truth. The trick is to separate truth from tale.”

  “You’re right, I’ve found grains of truth in a lot of tales. But how do you separate them?”

  “Wisdom. Intuition. We are not so far from the times when the tales ruled us. Our hearts remember.”

  “Maybe we can do this with twenty questions,” I said. “The bottle part—stuffing it back in the bottle. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And how does one go about stuffing a djinn into a bottle?”

  “You don’t stuff,” she said. “You coax. You lure.”

  “All right. Makes sense. How do we do that?”

  “Aren’t you a scholar of the arcane arts? Aren’t you versed in the principles of spells and curses?” Her voice had turned playful. I recognized teasing when I heard it.

  “Only the kind of curses I’m not allowed to say on the radio.”

  “Something had to call it to this world, to its current hunt. Learn what it was. Use that to banish him out of it. He will not be able to resist.”

  God, who was this? She talked like the old vampires did, or the real magicians. Who needed conspiracy theories when these guys were around?

  “May I ask you a question? What are you?”

  She put a smile into her answer, and for some reason, I imagined her winking. “Let’s leave that another mystery, shall we?”

  “Are you one of them?” I said, impulsively. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A djinn? Can djinn even use the phone? What—”

  But I was talking to air, because she finally did hang up.

  From the corner, where they were stationed with their laptop, Jules and Tina were looking back at me. Their eyes gleamed, and they smiled. They’d found something, then. Maybe now we had everything we needed to stop this.

  But first, the show. “All right, faithful listeners. I’m about at the end of my time with you tonight. I have to say, some days I finish off the show feeling more confused than I did when I started. Just when I think I’ve encountered everything there is to encounter, something like this comes along and smacks me upside the head. But that’s a good thing. It keeps me on my toes. Until next week, be careful out there. Look under the bed one more time before you go to sleep. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”

  And that was it. I was done.

  With the credits still rolling in the background, Matt came out of the booth. Fuming, he pointed at me. “There’s no way you can convince me that I Dream of Jeannie is after your ass.”

  I blinked. “I wouldn’t do that. This thing’s a little more with the flaming death and less with the cute blond nose wiggle.”

  “I think the nose wiggle was Bewitched,” Ben said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Details. So what is it? What have you got?”

  Tina and Jules had been writing and making sketches on a pad of paper. Jules said, “Your caller was right. Some symbols, some basic principles, are the same in nearly every culture. The circle, for example, as a symbol of eternity and protection. She seemed to be suggesting that any sort of banishment spell ought to work on this thing.”

  “So we’re back to exorcisms,” I said.

  “Sure,” Tina said. “But we’ve seen this thing before, we’ve seen what it can do. Jules and I have a spell that ought to work.”

  “Custom banishment,” I said. I almost said it wouldn’t hurt to try, but it could. If we didn’t succeed in trapping it this time, what would it do next when it lashed out? Why did I get the feeling the djinn—the ifrit—listened to the radio and knew we were up to something?

  “We’ll need some of your hair,” Jules said with a perfectly straight face.

  I stared.

  “Just a strand or two,” he said quickly. “Nothing terrible.”

  Using something personal like someone’s hair was a common bit of spell lore from all over the world. I found the end of my ponytail and pulled out a few hairs, wincing. “Should I even ask?”

  “The thing’s after you—we’re just going to make sure it knows you’re around.” He smiled as he stuffed the strands into a plastic bag.

  Tina tapped a pencil against the table. “The thing I can’t figure out is what kind of bottle we need to use. I mean, it seems kind of gauche to use just a plastic soda bottle or something. Like maybe we ought to use something all glass and fancy.”

  “Don’t use plastic,” Jules said. “It’s not sturdy enough. Those oil lamps, like you see in the Aladdin story, are made of brass, right?”

  “So what do we do?” I said. “You have a plan, right?”

  Jules took a deep breath. A “here goes nothing” breath. “We’ll go someplace we know the thing’s been before—Flint House. We use components we know affect it—your potion. Something of yours because it has a connection to you—your hair. Build a trap, set the bait, and there you are.”

  “So it’s a plan,” I said hopefully.

  “It’s something,” Tina said.

  “Then let’s get going.” The sooner we got started, the sooner we’d find out if it worked. Or not. I didn’t want to think about that.

  “I swear, this job gets more surreal every week,” Matt said, wandering back to the safety of his booth.

  Chapter 21

  Tina and Jules rode in the Paradox PI van with Gary to pick up a few supplies. They were still debating about what kind of bottle to use: clear, opaque, plain, decorated, screw top, corked. Something without cracks, I told them jokingly before we parted ways. They didn’t think that bit was funny. Ben and I drove together to Flint House.

  Hardin called, not five minutes after the show ended.

  “You’ve got a plan. I want in on it,” she said.

  I sighed and started to argue with her, because the last thing I wanted was another person in the line of fire. Trouble was, she’d keep pestering me until I told her, or she’d sic a patrol car on me. She’d probably already dug up the trail of accident reports from all our adventures this week and could check those locations as places we’d likely turn up again. The thought of arguing with Hardin made me tired.

  Then again, another ally in the fight was always a good thing.

  “Any chance you could get a fire truck on the scene?” I asked. “Just in case?”

  She paused. “I do not like the sound of this.”

  “When do you ever?”

  I told her where we were headed without going into too much detail about what we’d be doing there. Hardin promised me a fire truck.

  “Hardin, right?” Ben said after I’d hung up. “Don’t tell me the cops are going to be there.”

 
; “It looks like the cops are going to be there.”

  “I’m glad we’re married so I don’t have to be your official lawyer anymore. I don’t envy whoever has to deal with it when you get charged with something.”

  Oh, God forbid, I didn’t even want to think of it. “We’re not breaking any laws. If anything, having the cops there makes it better, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  Soon after talking to Hardin, I called Peter’s phone. And got no answer, which meant he was probably in trouble along with Grant. I couldn’t help them right now, though. Get through the next hour, then worry about them.

  We all arrived at Flint House within a half an hour of each other. We each had a job and we set to work, anxious to get this over with. Gary and the PI production crew were at it again, setting up their cameras and monitors in a quest for elusive documentation. The hour was god-awful late at night, par for the course when doing battle with the supernatural. Typical creature-of-the-night bullshit. Didn’t a standoff at high noon mean anything to these beings?

  “I don’t like this,” Ben said, following me, not willing to let me out of his sight. I tried not to snap at him over it. He had a right to be worried, after everything that had happened. “I don’t like going into this with a half-baked plan.”

  “It’s not half-baked,” I said. “It’s mostly baked. Just a little soft in the middle.” Actually, that was bravado.

  “This’ll work,” Tina said, helping Gary with some of the remote cameras. Her nervous fidgeting belied her chipper demeanor.

  I retrieved the latest batch of Grant’s protection potion from the trunk of the car. I hoped this wasn’t like antibiotics, that overusing it wouldn’t encourage some sort of spell-resistant superdemon. I’d have to ask Grant about it. I felt a pang at that—I hoped Grant was okay, so that I could ask him about it. I dripped the potion in a circle around the house, like I’d done with every other building in my life. This time, though, I left an opening, a six-foot gap in the circle in front of the door, giving the djinn a way in. Our way.