Kitty and the Midnight Hour Read online

  That wouldn’t help me with vampires.

  What the episode with the punching bag taught me was that I had to be very careful sparring against humans. I didn’t know how strong I was or what I was capable of. I had to pull every punch. I didn’t want to hurt anyone by mistake.

  I didn’t want to hurt anyone at all. The Wolf part of me groveled and whined at the thought of fighting, because she knew Carl wouldn’t like it. Wolf, ha. I was supposed to be a monster. Ferocious, bloodthirsty. But a monster at the bottom of the pack’s pecking order might as well be as ferocious as a newborn puppy.

  Dutifully, I lined up with the others and gritted my teeth.

  We practiced delivering and taking falls. Tripping, tackling, dropping, rolling, getting back up and doing it all over again. I fell more often than not, smacking on the mat until my teeth rattled. I didn’t mind. My sparring partner was Patricia, a single mom on the plump side who’d never even thought about sports until it looked like her eight-year-old son, a Tae Kwon Do whiz, was going to be able to beat up Jackie Chan soon (she claimed), and she wanted to keep up with him. Patricia seemed gleeful at the idea that she could topple a full-grown adult with a couple of quick moves. A lot of these women had to overcome cultural conditioning against hurting other people, or even confronting anyone physically. I was happy to contribute to Patricia’s education in this regard.

  “You’re holding back, Kitty.”

  I was flat on my back again. I opened my eyes to find Craig, six feet of blond zeal, staring down at me, weirdly foreshortened at this angle. He was all leg.

  “Yeah,” I said with a sigh.

  “Come on, get up.” He offered his hand and helped me to my feet. “Now I want you knock me all the way across the gym.”

  He had the gall to put a twinkle in his eyes.

  The rest of the class formed a circle around us, an audience that I didn’t want and that made me bristle. Wolf hated fighting. She was better at cowering. Inside, I was whining.

  Craig bent his arms and hunched like he was getting ready to charge me. If he charged, I was supposed to drop, letting him trip over me, and shove, making sure he lost his footing. Sure enough, he ran at me. I dropped. Instead of tripping, though, he sidestepped. If I’d shoved like I was supposed to, he would have lost his balance. But I just sat there, allowing him to jump behind me and lock his arm around my neck.

  “I know you can do better than that. Come on, let’s try it again.”

  I could fight, I was strong enough. But I had no will for it. Too used to being picked on, a victim by habit. I closed my eyes, feeling like a kid who’d flunked yet another test. Slowly, I got to my feet.

  Craig faced me again. “Okay, let’s try something. This time, imagine I’m your worst ex-boyfriend, and this is your chance to get even.”

  Oh, that was easy. That would be Bill. All Craig had to do was say it, and I saw Bill there, and all that anger came back. I clenched my fists.

  Being angry meant not holding back, of course. I wasn’t sure I could have pulled the next punch if I’d wanted to, once I had Bill on the brain.

  Craig charged. I ducked. Then I shoved, leading with my shoulder and putting my whole body behind it. I connected with his side. He made a noise, a grunt of air, and flew. Both his feet left the mat. Women squealed and dodged out of his way as he crashed to the floor, bouncing twice. He lay on his back and didn’t move.

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach and I nearly fainted. I’d killed him. I’d killed my self-defense instructor. Shit.

  I ran to where he lay and stumbled to a crouch at his side, touching his shoulder. “Craig?”

  His eyelids fluttered. A few panicked heartbeats later, he opened them. Then he grinned.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! You gotta learn to hit people.” He was breathing hard. He had to gasp the words out. I’d probably knocked the wind out of him. “Now, never do that to me again.”

  I gave him a hand up. He was rubbing his head. I bet he would hurt in the morning. How embarrassing.

  “Wow,” Patricia, coming to stand next to me, said. “Your ex must have been a real winner.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Between my mystery phone call and Rick’s visit, I had my research assignments for the next week set. I worked on my mystery caller first.

  The Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology was the government agency that had conducted the study on lycanthropy and vampirism overseen by the CDC and NIH. It was relegated to footnotes in the back pages of the obscure report that had been all but buried in the CDC archives. I couldn’t find any names of people there I could contact. No one wanted to be associated with it. The people I called at the CDC hadn’t heard of it. The NIH referred me to the CDC. It probably wasn’t a real agency, but some kind of think tank. Or smoke screen.

  I didn’t usually buy into conspiracy theories. At least not where the government was concerned. After all, when Congress had trouble voting itself enough money to continue operating, how was I supposed to believe that this same government was behind a finely tuned clandestine organization bent on obfuscating the truth and manipulating world events according to some arcane plan for the domination of the minds and souls of all free people?

  Unless vampires were involved. If vampires were involved, all bets were off.

  I worked on Rick’s flyer next.

  As much as I hated to admit it, I started with the website for Uncharted World. The Internet had a thriving community that dealt in supernatural news. The trouble was separating the hoaxes and fanatics from the real deal. Most of what Uncharted World posted was sensationalist and inaccurate. But they had a search engine that filtered for “news of the weird,” and with enough patience and by following enough links, I could trace the Web to good sources and cross-check the information to verify it.

  I hit pay dirt when I found a collection of bulletin board postings and some missing persons reports filed with various local police departments. It seemed that about four months ago, an old revival-style tent had sprung up in the middle of the night on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. Posters appeared all over the bad parts of town, the likely haunts of lycanthropes and vampires, advertising a cure based solely on faith and the intercession of a self-

  proclaimed holy man, Elijah Smith. I couldn’t find any documentation of what happened during that meeting. The tent had disappeared by the next morning and a week later showed up in Wichita, Kansas. Then Pueblo, Colorado. Stories began circulating: The cure worked, this guy was for real, and the people he healed were so grateful, they didn’t want to leave. A caravan of followers sprang up around that single tent.

  Smith’s congregation was known as the Church of the Pure Faith, with “Pure faith will set you free” as its motto. I couldn’t find any photos, any accounts of what went on inside the caravan or what the meetings were like. I couldn’t find any specifics about the cure itself. No one who wasn’t earnestly seeking a cure could get close to Smith or his followers. People who came looking for their friends, packmates, or Family members who had disappeared into that tent were threatened. Interventions were forcibly turned back.

  I came across a couple of websites warning people away from Smith. Some people screamed cult. After reading what I could find, I was inclined to as well.

  Vampirism and lycanthropy were not medical conditions, so to speak. People had studied us, scanned us, dissected us, and while they found definite characteristics distinguishing us from Homo sapiens, they hadn’t found their sources. They weren’t genetic, viral, bacterial, or even biological. That was part of what made us so frightening. Our origins were what science had been trying to deny for hundreds of years: the supernatural. If there were a way to cure vampirism and lycanthropy, it would probably come from the supernatural, the CDC and Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology notwithstanding. In the case of a vampire, how else could one restore the bloodless undead to full-blooded life? Faith healing just might be the answer. That was the p
roblem with trying to expose Smith as a fraud and his church as a cult.

  I didn’t believe there was a cure. Someone would have found it by now.

  “Welcome to The Midnight Hour. I’m Kitty Norville. Tonight I have a very special guest with me. Veronica Sevilla is the author of The Bledsoe Chronicles, The Book of Rites, and a half-dozen other best-selling novels that follow the trials and tribulations of a clan of vampires through the centuries. Her newest novel, The Sun Never Rises, has just been released. Ms. Sevilla, thank you for being on the show.”

  “Please, my dear, call me Veronica.”

  Veronica Sevilla, whose birth name was Martha Perkins, wore a straight, black knit dress, black stockings, black patent-leather heels, and a black fur stole. Her dark hair—dyed, I was sure—framed her pale face in tight curls. Diamond studs glittered on her earlobes. She sat back in the guest chair, hugging herself, hands splayed across opposite shoulders. It wasn’t because she was cold or nervous—it was a pose. Her official biography gave no age or date of birth. I couldn’t tell how old she was by looking at her. Her face was lined, but not old. She might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. There might have been surgery involved.

  She wasn’t a vampire. She smelled warm and I could hear her heart beat. But she sure was trying to act like one. I couldn’t stop staring at her, like, Are you for real?

  “All right, Veronica. You write about vampires in a way that makes them particularly vivid. Some critics have commented on your ability to take them out of the realm of standard horror fare and turn them into richly realized characters. They’re the heroes of your stories.”

  “Yes, of course, why shouldn’t they be? It’s all a matter of perspective.”

  “You’ve gathered a following of admirers who seem to identify strongly with your vampire protagonists. Quite a few of them insist that your novels aren’t fiction, but factual accounts of real vampires. What do you say to this?”

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that was totally lost on the radio.

  “I wouldn’t know where to find a real vampire. Vampires are a product of the human imagination. My books are all products of my own imagination.”

  I had my doubts. Putting Sevilla’s rabid fans and her florid overwriting aside, she got too many details right. The way vampire Families worked, the things they said to one another, the dominance and posturing games that went on among them the same way they went on among werewolves—details that an outsider wouldn’t be able to make up. So, she either did a great job on her research, in which case I wanted to know what her sources of information on vampire culture were, or she had connections. Before meeting her, I half-expected her to be a vampire, or a human servant of one, or something.

  “Why do you think your fans are so attracted to your characters and stories? Why do people want to believe in vampires?”

  “My books create a world that is enticing. My world, the Bledsoe Family, vampires in general—these are all metaphors for the power these poor children wish they could have in life but can’t because they are so . . . so . . .”

  “Insecure?”

  “Outcast. Misfit. Badly adjusted.”

  “Are you saying your fans are social misfits?”

  She touched a bitten-down fingernail to her lip. “Hm, that is imprecise.”

  “You have fans who come to you wanting to learn about vampires, wanting to become vampires. They see you as an authority on the subject. What do you tell them?”

  “I tell them it’s fiction. Everything I have to say is there in the books. What do you tell them, when people ask you such questions?”

  “I tell them that maybe being a vampire isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Have you ever met a vampire, Kitty?”

  I paused, a smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, I have. And frankly, I find that your novels are pretty accurate.”

  “Well. What am I supposed to say to that? Perhaps you could introduce me to one.”

  I thought about it and decided that Arturo would love to have her for lunch—but he had better taste.

  “Why vampires? You write centuries-long family sagas—why not write historical epics without any hint of the supernatural?”

  “Well, that would be boring, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, God only knows what Tolstoy was thinking. Seriously, though, what’s your inspiration? Where do you get your ideas?”

  “Writers hate that question.”

  “I think writers only say they hate it to avoid answering it.”

  “Is that any way to speak to a guest?”

  I sighed. She was used to being pampered. Dressing room and a bowl of peanut M&Ms with the green ones taken out, that sort of thing.

  “I apologize, Veronica. I tend to be a bit on the blunt side.”

  She looked me up and down, nodding slightly, agreeing.

  The interview wasn’t one of my best. We got off on the wrong foot, and she was entirely too closemouthed to make it work. She didn’t want to be here. Her publicist had set up the interview as part of the promotional tour for the new book. She’d probably done a dozen of these appearances already.

  I took some calls and got the expected round of gushing, ebullient fans. Veronica handled them better than I did, but she’d had lots of practice.

  At last, like the door of a prison cell slamming open, the show ended and we were done. I pulled off the headphones and regarded Veronica Sevilla.

  “Thanks again for being on the show. I know my listeners got a kick out of it.”

  I expected her to humph at me, make a dismissive gesture, and stalk out leaving a trail of haughty slime behind her. Instead, she licked her lips. Her lipstick needed touching up. Her gaze downcast, she straightened and took a deep breath before speaking.

  “I owe you an apology, Ms. Norville.” Oh? “I was not entirely truthful with you. I have met a vampire. My son is one.”

  I had no response to that. I tried to look sympathetic and waited for more.

  “I don’t want that information made public. With a little imagination I think you can understand why. My fans are forward enough as it is. But I wanted you to know the truth. I hope I can trust you to keep this secret.”

  I nodded. “I’m good at keeping secrets. I’ve got a few of my own. How—I mean, if it isn’t too brazen of me to ask—how did you find out?”

  “He’s been a youthful eighteen for twenty years now. I got suspicious. I asked for his secret, and he told me. My stories—they’re about him. My son will not have the life I envisioned for him, and these novels are my way of reconciling myself to the life he does have. If one can call it life.”

  I saw her to the door, where she adjusted the mink stole around her shoulders and walked out, chin up, the epitome of dignity.

  Full moon night. Time to run.

  T.J. picked me up on his bike, which was behaving itself, rumbling smooth and steady like a grizzly bear. He drove fast and took the turns tight. I didn’t wear a helmet so I could taste the air whipping by. I tipped back my head and drank it in, as the city scents of asphalt and exhaust gave way to the countryside, dry grass, earth, and distant pines. The sun was setting, the moon hadn’t yet risen, but I could feel it, a silver breath that tugged the tides and my heart. A howl tickled the back of my throat—the pack was near. I clung to T.J., smiling.

  The pack gathered at Carl and Meg’s house, at the edge of the national forest. It might have been just another party, the dozen or so cars parked on the street, the collection of people congregating in the living room. But tension gripped the room, anticipation and nerves. The veil to that other world we lived in was drawn halfway. We could see through, but had to wait to enter. Carl wasn’t here yet.

  Twenty-two wolves made up the local pack. They came from an area of a couple-hundred-mile radius, drawing from the urban areas up and down the Front Range, from Colorado Springs to Fort Collins. Most of them I only ever saw on full moon nights. We knew our places. I slunk around the edges of t
he room, trying to be innocuous.

  My skin itched. I hugged myself, trying to stay anchored. So close. She, the Wolf, was waiting, staring out of my eyes. Her claws scraped at the inside of my skin, wanting to push through the tips of my fingers. She wanted fur instead of skin. Her blood flowed hot.

  I flinched when the presence of another entered my awareness, like a force pressing through a membrane that surrounded me. I felt Zan before I saw him move to block my path.

  He was young, my age, but he’d been a wolf since he was a teenager. He had pale skin, unkempt dark hair, and an animal stared out of his eyes.

  I hated him. His scent tinged my nightmares. He was the one who’d attacked me and made me this thing.

  He followed me around sometimes, like he was waiting for a chance to finish what he’d started. Like he could still smell blood on me. Or like he thought I owed him something. I stayed away from him as much as I could. T.J., Carl, and Meg backed him off the rest of the time. He wasn’t that tough.

  T.J. was in the kitchen. I’d have to cross the entire room to get to him. Zan cornered me.

  “What do you want?”

  “You.” He leaned close. I was already backed against the wall and couldn’t move away when he brought his lips close to my ear. “Run with me tonight.”

  That was a euphemism among werewolves. Zan went through this whenever Carl wasn’t around. I usually cowered and slunk away to hide behind T.J. Zan could take me, but he couldn’t take T.J. That was how the dominance thing worked.

  I was so not in the mood for this shit.

  “No,” I said, not realizing what I was saying until the word was out of my mouth.

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  I straightened from the wall, squaring my shoulders and glaring at him. My vision wavered to gray. Wolf wanted a piece of him.

  “I mean no. I mean get out of my face.”

  His shoulders bunched. An annoyed rumble sounded in his throat.

  Shit. I’d just challenged him. I’d questioned his dominance, and he couldn’t let it pass without severely beating me up. Carl and T.J. wouldn’t save me because I’d gotten into it all by myself.