Kitty and the Midnight Hour

Chapter 8

The phone rang eight times. Didn't the guy have voice mail? I was about to give up when he finally answered.

"Yeah."

"Cormac? Is this Cormac?"

There was a long pause. Then, "Norville?"

"Yeah. It's me."

"So." Another long pause. Laconic, that was the word. "Why are you calling me?"

"I just talked to the cops. That spate of mauling deaths downtown? A werewolf did it. I didn't recognize the scent. It's a rogue."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

I'd seen his rates. Despite the show's success, I couldn't exactly hire him to hunt the rogue. Did I think he'd do it out of the kindness of his heart?

"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open. Maybe I didn't want you to think it was me."

"How do I know you're not lying to me about it now?"

I winced. "You don't."

"Don't worry. You said it yourself. You're harmless, right?"

"Yeah," I said weakly. "That's me."

"Thanks for the tip." He hung up.

What was it with everyone thinking they could just hang up on me? I never hung up on anybody. At least not outside the show. Well, not often.

Then I realized—I'd talked to the werewolf hunter about this before talking to Carl.

I was going to have to talk to Carl soon anyway. Until now, I'd been avoiding him, but the full moon was tomorrow, and I didn't want to go through it alone. He wasn't going to let the fact that I was still doing the show pass without comment. I'd sort of hoped I could just show up and slink along with the pack without any of them noticing. That was about as likely as me turning up my nose at one of T.J.'s barely cooked steaks. It was really a matter of deciding in which situation—just showing up, or facing him beforehand—I was least likely to get the shit beat out of me. Or in which situation I would get the least amount of shit beat out of me.

Maybe it would have been easier if Cormac had just shot me.

I called T.J. first. My stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick, waiting for him to pick up the phone. I hadn't talked to him since the night outside Obsidian.

He answered. My gut clenched. But it was still good to hear his voice.

"It's me. I need to talk to you. And Carl and Meg."

For a long time, he didn't say anything. I listened hard—was he beating his head against the wall? Growling? Then he said, "I'll pick you up."

I rode behind him on his motorcycle, holding on just enough to keep from falling off. We hadn't spoken yet. I'd waited on the curb for him, shoulders bunched up and slouching. He'd pulled up, and I didn't meet his gaze. I'd climbed on the bike, cowering behind him. He'd turned around and ruffled my hair, a quick pass of his hand over my scalp. I'm not sure what this said. I was sorry that he was angry at me, but I wasn't sorry for anything I'd said or done. I didn't want to fight him, and I didn't want to be submissive. That would be admitting he was right. So I wallowed in doubt. He'd touched me, which meant—which meant that maybe things weren't so bad.

We pulled up in front of Meg and Carl's house. He got off. I stayed on. I didn't want to do this.

T.J. crossed his arms. "This was your idea, remember?"

"He's gonna kill me."

"Come on." He grabbed me behind the neck and pulled. I stumbled off the bike and let him guide me up the driveway, like I was some kind of truant.

He opened the front door and maneuvered me inside.

Carl and Meg were in the kitchen, parked at the breakfast bar like they'd been waiting for us. T.J. had probably called ahead. Meg had been leaning with her elbows on the countertop; Carl had his back to the counter. Both of them straightened. With them in front of me and T.J. behind me, I suddenly felt like I was at a tribunal. I shrugged away from T.J.'s hand. The least I could do was stand on my own feet.

Carl stood before me with his arms crossed, glaring down at me. "You haven't quit the show. What do you have to say for yourself?"

I thought I'd finished with that when I moved out of my parents' house. I shrugged. "I got a raise."

He cocked his hand back to strike, and I ducked. We both froze midmotion. He stood with his fist in the air, and I bowed my back, my knees ready to give, cowering. Then he relaxed, and I did the same, straightening slowly, waiting for him to change his mind and hit me anyway.

This was so fucked up. But all Wolf wanted to do was put her tail between her legs and whine until he told us he loved us again.

His hands opened and closed into fists at his side. "Can't you say anything without trying to get a rise out of people?"

"No."

Carl moved away to stalk up and down the length of the kitchen. Meg, arms crossed, glared at me. I cringed and tried to look contrite, but she wasn't having it.

Nothing to do but plow ahead, now that I was here. What was it some weird philosophy professor had said to me once? What's the worst thing that can happen? You'll die. And we don't know that's bad…

Ah, so that was why I'd changed my major to English.

I wasn't here to talk about me. "The police came to talk to me—"

"What?" T.J. said, gripping my shoulder. Carl and Meg both moved toward me.

I ducked and turned, getting away from T.J.'s grasp and fleeing to the living room, putting the sofa between them and me.

"Just listen. You have to listen to me, dammit!" The sofa wasn't discouraging them. T.J. was coming around it from one side, Meg from the other. Carl looked like he was planning on going straight over. I backed against the wall, wondering if I could jump over him.

I had to talk fast. "A detective called me. They've got a serial killer—mauling deaths. At first they thought it was an animal, a feral dog or something. But now they think it's one of us. They asked me for help. They—they took me to a crime scene today." My breathing came fast. Talking about it, I remembered the scene, what it looked like, the way it smelled. The memory was doing something to me, waking that other part of me. My skin was hot; I rubbed my face. "I saw the body. I smelled it… I know… they're right. It's a werewolf, but I didn't recognize him. There's—it's a rogue, in our… in your territory."

Pressed against the wall, I slid to the floor, holding my face in my hands. I couldn't talk anymore. I remembered the smell, and it was making me sick. Wolf remembered, and it woke her up. Made her hungry. I held on to the feeling of my limbs, my human limbs and the shape of my body.

Then T.J. was kneeling beside me, putting his arms around me, lending me his strength. "Keep it together," he whispered into my hair. "That's a girl."

I hugged him as hard as I could. I settled down somehow, until I was calm enough to breathe normally, and I didn't feel like I was going to burst my skin anymore.

T.J. let me pull away from him. I huddled miserably on the floor. Carl looked like he was going to march over to me. Meg held him back, touching his arm. She stared at me, like she'd never seen me before.

"Why did you agree to talk to them?" she said.

"Don't you think it would have looked a little suspicious if I'd told them to fuck off?"

"What could they have done about it if you had?"

"I couldn't do that. I've got a reputation—"

"That's your problem."

I ran a hand over my hair, which was coming out of its braid and needed washing. This wasn't getting anywhere. How did I word this without seeming like I was questioning them, or ordering them around? "The pack should take care of this, shouldn't it?"

Carl glared. "If there was a rogue in town, don't you think I'd know about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's got a good hiding place. I mean, if you knew about him, he wouldn't be a rogue."

Meg blocked my exit around that end of the sofa. "You told them it was a werewolf that did this? You told them that was what you smelled?"

"Yeah."

Her shoulders were bunched, like hackles rising. She wasn't being the good cop anymore. "You should have lied. You should have told them you didn't know what it was."

Easy for her to say. I didn't lie well. Especially to cops. "They have tests for that kind of thing now. They would have found out eventually. I'm lucky they're not assuming that I did it."

"You're an easy target," Carl said, turning on me. "How many times do I have to tell you to quit the show?"

"Two hundred markets," I countered, raising an eye-brow. I could almost see him working out the math of how much money that was.

T.J. said to Carl, "If there's a rogue in town killing people, the cops can't handle it. We have to. If we don't want them paying more attention to us, we have to make the problem go away."

That was exactly what I'd been trying to say. I owed him a steak dinner.

I said, "This detective knows just enough to identify the problem, but not enough to do anything about it. T.J.'s right."

Carl paced, back and forth, back and forth, like he was caged. His jaw was tight. "Do you know anything else about this rogue besides how he smells?"

"No," I said.

T.J. said, "We could go looking. Find out where these deaths have happened. If he's marking a territory, we'll find him. I could do it on my own if you want—"

Meg said, "You're wrong. There's no rogue."

Of course she'd side with Carl. She kept glaring at me, and I didn't like the look in her eyes: cold, predatory.

"We have to do something," I said, ignoring Meg at my peril.

"Nobody's going to do anything until I say so," Carl said.

"When is that going to be?" T.J. crouched like he was getting ready to pounce.

Carl glared. "When I say so."

"And in the meantime he kills again."

Glaring down at him, Carl stepped close to T.J. His fists tightened. "Are you challenging me?"

For a minute I thought it was going to happen, right then and there. It wouldn't take much for an argument between an alpha male and his second to degenerate into an all-out fight. That was part of why T.J. sided with Carl most of the time. The least little dissension could be misinterpreted.

When T.J. didn't back down, but met Carl's gaze without flinching, I thought they would fight. Then T.J. slumped, his back bowing and his head drooping.

"No," he said.

Carl tipped his chin up with the victory. "Then it's settled. We wait. This is my pack, my territory. I'll take care of it." He grabbed my shirt and hauled me to my feet. "And you will not talk to the police again."

"Yeah, just wait until they come knocking on your door." I bit my lip. That came out more sarcastic than I'd intended.

Carl pursed his lips. "I think we need to have a little talk."

Oh, great. This was when he would put me in my place. His hand shifted to grip the back of my neck and he pushed me ahead of him, toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Meg stepped in front of him, stopping him. "Let me talk to her."

Carl stared at her like she'd turned green. Meg had never had one of these "little talks" with me. She'd always left it to Carl. Even knowing that our "talks" often ended up with him screwing me, she left him to it. It was part of being with the pack, of being wolf. Maybe she'd finally had enough.

She glared at me like she wanted to bite a piece out of me. I concentrated on cowering. I didn't want to be an alpha; I didn't want to challenge anybody. I could feel the Wolf shrinking inside me, ready to whine. I never thought I'd prefer getting dressed down by Carl. I leaned back so I was touching his body, sheltered by him.

Then Carl and Meg were the ones trading glares. A good old-fashioned staring contest. What would happen if they got into a knock-down, drag-out fight? That wasn't supposed to happen.

"Not today," Carl said and marched past her, pulling me along with him. I scrambled to keep up, dizzy with fear and the irony that at the moment I actually felt safer with him.

When we got to the bedroom at the end of the hall, he pulled me inside and closed the door. He trapped me, hands spread on the wall on either side of my head, his usual stance. He glared at me for what seemed like a long time. My heart raced; I kept my gaze lowered, waiting.

Then he went for my neck.

I might have thought he'd turned vampire, if I didn't know better. He nuzzled my hairline, and his mouth opened over my skin, kissing me. I tipped my head back, giving him access. His tongue licked, he caught my ear-lobe in his teeth, released a hot breath against my cheek. He used the full length of his body to press me to the wall. I could feel him, aroused like he'd been let out of a monastery and into cheerleading practice.

Despite my confusion, I melted in his arms. I clung to him, not wanting to lose contact with a single inch of him. There was more than one way to win submission from an underling.

"You're not angry?" I murmured.

"I'm reminding you of your place."

Carl's toy. I'd almost forgotten. I moaned a little, both turned on and frustrated that he was completely avoiding the issue.

His hands kneaded my back, working through my shirt, then slipping under my shirt and digging into bare skin. I arched my back, leaning into him.

"I can't go back to what I was." I gripped his hair in my fists, holding his head to me while he traced my throat with his tongue.

"I know," he said, his voice low. "You've gotten strong. You could move up."

Inside, I froze. Carl didn't notice. His hands were working their way to my front, to my breasts. I gasped a breath and tried to think straight. "Move up?"

"You could challenge Meg. You could take her place."

Then it was like he was necking and groping someone else. I was still clinging to him, but I gazed over his shoulder and my mind was detached. Suddenly professional.

"You're not getting along with Meg, are you?"

He went still. His hands stopped groping in favor of simple holding, and he pressed his face to my shoulder. He didn't say anything. He just held me.

I smiled a little. It was such a revelation, the idea that Carl was having relationship problems. Idly, I scratched his hair until he let me go.

He moved to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and took out a business-sized envelope. He handed it to me, only then raising his gaze to mine.

Inside, I found photos. Blurry photos taken on a full moon night, people and wolves running together. One of them was me. These were copies of the photos Rick had given me. The ones Arturo had used to hire Cormac.

"You?" My voice was tight with hurt. Whoever had given these photos to Arturo had probably also put up funds to pay Cormac. Whoever had done that wanted me dead, but wanted to keep their hands, and maybe their teeth and claws, spotless. If it had been Carl, it had probably been the money I'd been giving him that had gone to pay Cormac. That was too terrible to think about.

"Meg," he said. He stood close to me, speaking low, but sex was gone from his manner. "She said she gave them to Arturo because she was jealous of you."

"Jealous, of me?" She was Meg. She was beautiful and strong.

"Of the success of the show. The attention. The attention from me." He looked away at that, probably the most human gesture I'd ever seen Carl make. Like he was admitting that he'd been using pack dynamics as an excuse to sleep around. Like for once he realized how odd it was, this in-between world we inhabited.

"You know what this means?" I said. "She sold me down the river. She practically gave me to Arturo on a silver platter—"

And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe Carl told me it was Meg so that I'd get angry enough at her to challenge her. That he was manipulating both of us, so he could get her out of the way without getting his own paws dirty. This was assuming I'd actually win if I challenged her. I didn't want to think about that.

But Carl's brown eyes were so hurt, so lost, and I didn't think he could fake that. He'd never been able to disguise his anger or lust. He wasn't good at masking his feelings, or faking them. He was a brute-force kind of guy.

"What did you do when you found out?"

"We had a talk." That was a euphemism. So, had they had the usual kind of ass-kicking talk, or had they had the kind of talk that Carl and I had been having a minute ago?

"What did she say?"

"She said she was sorry. She'll back off."

"That's it? Just like that, she'll back off?" I didn't know who to be angry at. Was she really sorry or was Carl making excuses for her? Why didn't he do anything to her for this? "Maybe I should have a talk with her."

"Maybe you should," Carl said. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing my cheek, moving to my mouth.

I turned my face away. I shoved the photos back into the envelope and gave it to him, then left the room before he could throw a tantrum.

For a heartening moment, I thought I was going to reach the front door and escape without anyone stopping me. I touched the doorknob.

Meg put her hand on the door, in front of my face.

I didn't have to look. I felt her glare, the heat radiating off her body. Her breath feathered against my cheek. She knew I knew. Things would never be the same with us.

If I didn't react, she could stand there forever. She wanted me to react. She wanted to scare me. Where was T.J.? I didn't dare turn to look to see if he was still in the living room.

For a split second I thought that maybe T.J. was in on all this as well, though on which side I couldn't say. He wouldn't stand up for me in a fight. Suddenly, the whole world was against me.

Meg spoke, her voice low. "If he ever has to choose between me and you, don't think for a minute that he'll pick you." She meant Carl. She could have him.

"He won't fight for you," she continued. She grimaced, an expression of distaste. "He's spineless."

She may have been right. He was still in the bedroom, and if I screamed, I wasn't sure he'd come to help me.

Whispering, I said, "I don't want to fight you, Meg. I don't want anything."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

That wasn't true. Gritting my teeth, I braced for her to hit me. "I want to keep the show."

Her hand moved. I flinched, gasping. But she only touched my chin, then brushed her finger along my jaw before closing her fist and drawing away.

She opened the door for me and let me go.

T.J. was waiting at his bike, fiddling with some arcane bit of engineering.

"Can we go now?" I said, hugging myself.

"You okay? You're shaking." He wiped his hands on his jeans and mounted the bike. I crawled up behind him.

"Did you know Carl and Meg are fighting?"

"They're always fighting."

Not like this. I choked on the words. Closing my eyes, I hugged him tight.

I never watched the local TV news, so I didn't have to work too hard to avoid watching it tonight, to see if Angela Bryant had filmed my better side or not.

But at 6:15 p.m. exactly, Ozzie called.

"Kitty. Did you know you're on the news?"

Morbidly, I sort of hoped there'd be a plane crash or something that would bump a prostitute's murder off the news entirely.

"I had a feeling," I said tiredly.

"What's up with that?"

"Didn't the TV say anything?"

"They just said, and I quote, 'Well-known radio personality Kitty Norville is involved with the investigation.' That doesn't sound too great. You didn't—I mean, you're not really involved, are you?"

"Geez, Ozzie, you really think I could do something like that?"

"I know you wouldn't. But there's that whole werewolf thing…"

I sighed. I couldn't win. "I'm an unofficial consultant. That's it."

"So there are werewolves involved."

"I don't want to talk about it."

He grumbled like he wanted to keep arguing. Then he said, "You couldn't have worked in a little free publicity for the show?"

"Good-bye, Ozzie." I hung up.

The phone blinked at me that there was a message waiting. Someone had called while I was talking to Ozzie. I checked.

It was Mom. "Hi, Kitty, this is Mom. We just saw you on the news, and I wanted to make sure everything is okay. Do you need a lawyer? We have a friend who's a lawyer, so please call—"

Again, I hung up.

Yet again, full moon night. My thirty-seventh. How many more would there be? For the rest of my life, full moon nights were planned and predetermined. How much longer could I keep this up? Some nights, the light of it, the wind in the trees, the rash of my blood made me shout with joy, a howl lurking at the back of my throat.

Some nights, I thought surely this time my body would burst and break, my skin split apart and not be able to come back together again.

I waited outside the house until the pack spilled out the back door and into the scrub-filled backyard, and the trees and hills beyond. Like a hiking club going for a midnight stroll. Some of them started Changing as soon as their feet hit the dirt. They trotted, then ran to the trees, melting into their other forms. Where people had gone, wolves circled back, urging their friends to hurry.

I stayed at the corner of the house, hugging myself, hearing their call. T.J., naked, silvery in the moonlight, looked back, saw me, and smiled. I didn't smile back, but I pulled myself from the wall and moved forward, toward him. Like my Wolf was dragging me by her leash.

Someone grabbed me from behind.

Meg squeezed my arm and came close, speaking into my ear.

"You've gotten too big for your skin. You're arrogant. And you're in danger of splitting this pack apart. I won't let that happen. You think you're pretty hot right now, but I'll remind you where your place really is." Her hand pinched my arm. A growl was starting in my chest. I swallowed it back.

She didn't want to be the one to start the fight. She was alpha, and she wasn't going to stoop. She could chastise, dominate, threaten, but she wouldn't start the knockdown, drag-out stuff. I had to be stupid enough to challenge her. She talked like she thought I'd be stupid enough to challenge her. Like she wanted me to, so she'd have a chance to take me down.

I looked away, wondering how I could get away from her. Wolf was ready to fight to get away. Once, Meg's fingers digging into me would have had me cowering.

"I'm not trying to split up the pack. I just—I just need space." Like I was some kind of rebellious teenager.

"I know what you want. I know how this works, a young thing like you moving up in the world. And if you think you can have Carl, if you think you can have the pack, you have to talk to me about it. I'm still tougher than you."

I shook my head. "I don't want to fight you. I won't."

And I held it together. I didn't move. I kept still. Just let me run. I'd leave her alone if she'd let me. Almost unconsciously, I leaned away, toward the pack, the wolves, my family, where I could Change and be anonymous.

Her hands were shifting, claws growing. She didn't loosen her grip, so the claws broke my skin, blood trickling down my arm. I looked at her, but still I didn't move. Our gazes met again, I held my breath so I wouldn't growl.

A few of the others, wolves now, watched us, ears pricked forward, aware that something was happening. They trotted over, free-flowing animals burst loose from their prisons for this one night. We had an audience.

I caught the scent of my own blood. Wolf kicked and writhed; the smell made her crazy. But if I didn't react, Meg would leave me alone.

She let go of my arm. Halfway through my not-very-well-suppressed sigh, she slapped me across the face—open-handed, claws extended. My cheek lit with pain, so much pain I couldn't feel the individual cuts. Three, I thought, based on how she'd been holding her hand. A quick swipe. Probably felt worse than it was. Blood gathered in a rivulet trickling down my jaw.

I didn't fight. But I also didn't cower.

Finally, she turned away.

My body was fire. My skin was burning away, my breath coming in quiet sobs.

The wolves surrounded us. The whole pack had joined us. Wolves nudged us, bumping our hips with their shoulders. Pale, cream, slate, silver, and black fur moved in a sea around us. My vision went white and helpless.

I let Wolf rip out of me with a howl.

Like shaking off dead fur, shedding out last year's coat, she convulses, then runs free.

She follows his scent. Him, the One. Running, she can reach him at the head of the pack. He is pale, coppery, wondrous in the moonlight. She runs into him, knocking him. She bows, playing; yips, trying to get him to chase her. She licks his face and cowers before him, tail low to show him he is stronger, he can do what he likes with her. In the other life she can't say these things to him, but here she can, here she knows the language.

That other part of her is too proud. But Wolf knows better.

The One's mate snaps at her—not playful but angry. Keeps her away from the One—and the One doesn't protect her. He growls, snarls, dives at her. Whining, she runs away, tail tight between her legs. Then he leaves her. Trots away like she is nothing. She is left alone. The others snap and tease her for this rejection, but she doesn't feel like playing anymore.

That other part of her knows the heartbreak for what it is.

By the time I shifted back to human the next morning, the wounds had healed. At least, the cuts Meg gave me had healed.

Nights passed.

I didn't know where to find Rick. He'd always come to me. I knew where I might start looking, and if he wasn't there I could probably find someone who did know where he was. Assuming I didn't get beaten up first.

The nightclub Psalm 23 was a favorite vampire hunting ground. Despite what a lot of the legends said, vampires didn't have to kill their prey when they fed. They usually didn't, because littering the surroundings with bodies attracted too much attention. They could seduce a young thing with nice fresh blood, drink enough to sustain them but not enough to kill, let the victim go, and the poor kid might not have any idea what had happened. Supernatural Rohypnol. The process didn't turn the victim into a vampire.

In the right subculture, a vampire could find willing-enough volunteers to play blue-plate special. Psalm 23 was dark, stylish, played edgy music, and Arturo was a silent partner.

I had to dress up; they'd have turned me away at the door if I'd shown up in jeans. I wore black slacks, a black vest, and a choker. Understated. I didn't want to draw attention to myself.

Outside, I could hear the music, something retro and easy to slink to. The doorman let me in without a problem, but I hadn't gotten three feet inside when an incredibly svelte woman with skin so pale her diamond pendant looked colorful fell into step behind me.

I stopped. So did she, close enough that her breath brushed my neck when she spoke.

"I know you," she said. "You're not welcome here."

"Then you should have stopped me at the door," I said without turning around. "I already paid my cover."

"You're here without invitation. You're trespassing."

I stopped myself before saying something stupid. Like fuck territory. Any territory marking that was done was done by Carl, and I was on the outs with him right now. I didn't want to go so far as to say that.

I turned. "Look, I'm not interested in facing off with anybody. I need to find Rick; is he here?"

Her gaze narrowed; her lips parted, showing the tips of fangs. "I might ask for an additional cover charge from you." She ran her tongue along her teeth, between the fangs.

"You won't get it." Werewolf blood was apparently some kind of delicacy among vampires. Like thirty-year-old scotch or something.

"You're in our territory now. If you want to stay, you will follow our rules."

I backed away, bracing to run. I didn't want to fight. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here. Maybe I thought I could handle it on my own, and maybe I was wrong. I kept testing those boundaries and I kept falling on my ass, didn't I?

I'd never meant to cause trouble with any of this.

Someone stepped beside me, interposing himself between me and the woman. It was Rick. "Stella, Ms. Norville is my guest this evening and is under my protection."

She stepped back from him, gaping like a fish. "When Arturo finds out she was here—"

"I'll tell him myself and take responsibility for the consequences. I'll also make sure she doesn't cause trouble. Like start a fight with an aggressive hostess." He touched my arm and gestured me to a quiet section of the bar. The woman, Stella, stalked off with a huff. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"Thanks for the save," I said as we took seats.

"You're welcome. Drink?" he said as the bartender drifted over.

Tequila, straight up? "Club soda. Thanks."

"The question remains—what are you doing here? It's not exactly safe for you."

"I wanted to let you know, I got a tip that Elijah Smith is coming back to this area in a week or so, probably out toward Limon. I found that on the Web so take it with a grain of salt. But it's the best I've got right now."

"It's more than I have. Thanks."

"I'll tell you when I get more. Maybe you could leave me a phone number for next time?"

He had the gall to laugh.

"I take it you don't like phones," I said.

"Why don't I come see you at your office in a week instead?"

"Damned inconvenient," I muttered. It would have been nice to have someone agree with my suggestion for once.

He looked thoughtfully at me. "No one gets that put out over not getting a phone number."

A seething pit of frustrated intentions, that was me. I frowned. "Could you give me some advice?"

He blinked, surprised. "Well. I thought you had all the answers."

I ignored that, glancing back at where the monochrome Stella had gone to harass someone else. "You must be in pretty tight with Arturo, to toss around his name like that."

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm nearly as old as he is. Nearly as powerful. The only difference is I don't want to be Master of a Family. I don't want that kind of… responsibility. He knows this, knows I'm not a rival. We have an understanding about other things."

"Ah. Why are you even here at all? Why even follow him?" This was touching on what I wanted to talk to him about. He'd been around for a long time—he'd just admitted as much. He had answers I didn't.

He sat back, smiling like he knew what I was really asking and why I was asking. "Being part of a Family has its advantages. Finding sustenance is easier. There's protection. A guarded place to sleep out the days. These things are harder to find alone."

Dejected, I propped an elbow on the bar. Those were all the things I needed Carl for. What was I supposed to do if I couldn't stand him anymore?

Rick continued. "I spent about fifty years on my own, around the end of the nineteenth century. I… angered a few dangerous elements, so I set up a place in one of the Nevada boomtowns during the Comstock Lode silver rush. You wouldn't believe how well the mining operations in a place like Virginia City kept away a certain kind of riffraff."

I grinned, drawn into the story in spite of myself. "You pissed off a pack of werewolves."

"You didn't come to hear stories. You mentioned advice. Though this seems a strange place to find it."

"I'm running out of friends."

"Nonsense. You have half a million listeners who adore you."

I shot him a glare. "Someone asked me recently who I went to when I needed advice. And I couldn't answer. I didn't know."

"You still haven't told me what you need advice about."

I asked him because he was old and presumably experienced. And, ironically, he'd never given me a reason to be afraid of him.

"I don't understand what's happening. I don't know why Carl and Meg are acting the way they are. I don't know why I can't make them understand why I feel the way I do. I wish—I wish they'd leave me alone, but then I'm not sure I want them to. Especially Carl." There, I thought I'd gotten it all out.

"You're not looking for advice. You're looking for affirmation."

And I wasn't getting it from the people I most wanted it from. God, he made it sound so obvious. If someone had called in with this problem, I'd have been able to rattle off that answer.

I rubbed my face. I felt like I was five years old again. See, Daddy, look at the pretty picture I made, and what is that kid supposed to do when Daddy tears it to shreds? I didn't want to think about Carl as a father figure. More like… the tyrant in his harem. Or something.

Rick turned a wry smile. "It's growing pains. I've seen it before. It happens in a werewolf pack any time a formerly submissive member starts to assert herself. You're coming into your own, and Carl doesn't know what to do with you anymore."

"How do I make everything okay again?"

He leaned back. "If life were that easy, you'd be out of a job."

Right. Time to change the subject. I wanted to hear about the silver rush and Virginia City during the frontier days. I couldn't picture Rick in a cowboy hat.

"So, you want to be a guest on the show and tell some stories about the Old West?"

He smirked. "Arturo would kill me."

The trouble with this crowd was, you didn't know when that was a joke.

About a week later I came home from work and found Cormac leaning against the outside wall of my apartment building. It was well after dark. He had his arms crossed and stood at the edge of the glow cast by the light over the door. I stared for a good minute before I could say anything.

"You know where I live."

"Wasn't hard to find out," he said.

"Am I going to have to move now?"

He shrugged. "The place is kind of a dump. I thought you'd be making better money than this."

He didn't have to know about Carl's payoff. "Maybe I like it here. What do you want?"

My neck was tingling. I needed to get the hell out of here. But he wasn't armed tonight. At least not that I could see. Without all the guns he looked less like a hit man and more like a good-guy biker.

"You remember that cop? Hardin? She got in touch with me about those murders."

Just like that, the anxiety went away. The big picture took over. Being pissed off that someone was going behind my back took over. "Really? She told me she didn't trust you enough to talk to you about it."

"She seems to have the idea that you're too loyal to your 'kind' to be any help."

"Just because I wouldn't name names."

"Do you have a name?"

"No. Geez, it's like thinking that because someone's—I don't know, an auto mechanic—that they know every other auto mechanic in town."

"Werewolves are a little less common than mechanics."

I changed the subject "Why are you helping her? Last time I talked to her, she wanted to prosecute you for stalking and attempted murder."

"She offered to keep off my back if I helped catch this guy."

Hardin knew how to be everyone's friend. "Convenient."

"I thought so." He paced a couple of steps toward me. "Listen. You have information about this killer that I can't get—the scent. Is there something you're not telling the cops?"

I huffed. "I didn't recognize the scent. It's not one of ours. At least I don't think it is."

"Okay. I'm not the cops. I'm not territorial about information. We can get closer to catching this guy if we pool what we know."

"What do you know?"

"How to kill werewolves."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

Defeated, I let out a sigh. "What do you want me to do?"

"If you see this guy, give me a call. You go places I don't, meet people I can't. You have contacts."

"You don't agree with Hardin? You don't think I'll protect him just because he's a werewolf?"

"I think you'll do the right thing. You have my number." He turned to walk away.

"Who owes who a favor now?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm keeping track."

Matt leaned against the doorjamb between the sound booth and studio. "Kitty? There's a live one on line three. Might be a crank, but she sounds like she's really in trouble. You want it?"

I could say no. This was my show, after all. It would be a lot easier and better for everyone if I transferred her to a hotline. Too bad there wasn't a hotline for troubled vampires and werewolves.

I nodded, listening to my current caller's ornate commentary about miscegenation and purity of the species. Standard canned reactionary rhetoric.

"Uh-huh, thank you," I said. "Have you considered a career as a speechwriter for the Klan? Next caller, please."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" The woman was sobbing, her words unintelligible around the hysterics.

"Whoa, slow down there. Take a breath. Slow breaths. That's a girl. Estelle? Is this Estelle?"

She stopped hyperventilating somewhat, matching her breathing to my calm words. "Y-yes."

"Good. Estelle, can you tell me what's wrong?"

"They're after me. I'm hurt. They're coming after me. I need help." Her words came faster and faster. My heartbeat sped up along with them. Her voice lisped, like she held her mouth too close to the phone.

"Wait a minute. Explain your situation. Who's after you?"

She swallowed, loud enough to carry over the line. "Have you heard of Elijah Smith? The Church of the Pure Faith?"

I stood and started pacing. More than heard of him, I was almost ready to show up at his door and let him have at me just to learn something new. I so wanted to expose him for a charlatan. Right now, the church caravan was parked some sixty miles away from the studio.

"Yes, I've heard of them."

"I left. I mean—I want to leave. I'm trying to leave."

"Oh. I mean—oh." I, who made my living by my voice, was speechless. No one had ever left the Church of the Pure Faith. None of Smith's followers had ever been willing to talk about him.

I had so many questions: What was she? Had she gone looking for a cure? Did it work? What was Smith like? This was the interview I'd been waiting for.

"Okay, Estelle. Let me make sure I'm clear on this. You are—what, vampire? Lycanthrope?"

"Vampire."

"Right. And you went to the Church of the Pure Faith seeking a cure for vampirism. You met Elijah Smith. You—were you cured? Were you really cured?" What would I do if she said yes?

"I—I thought so. I mean, I thought I was. But not anymore."

"I'm confused."

"Yeah," she said, laughing weakly. "Me, too."

Estelle sounded exhausted. How long had she been running? The night was half over. Did she have a safe place to spend the day? And why had she called me!

Witnesses. We were live on the air. Thousands of witnesses would hear her story. Smart. Now if only I could live up to her faith in me.

"Are you safe for the moment? Are you in a safe place or do you need to get out of there right now? Where are you?"

"I lost them, for now. I'm in a gas station; it's closed for the night. I'll be all right until dawn."

"Where, Estelle? I want to send you help if I have to."

"I don't think I want to say where. They might be listening. They might follow you here."

This was going to be tough. One step at a time, though. I covered my mouthpiece with a hand and called to Matt. "Check caller ID, find out where she's calling from." Through the booth window I saw him nod. I went back to Estelle. "When you say they're after you, do you mean Smith? Do you mean his people? Do they want to hurt you?"

"Yes. Yes!"

"Huh. Some church. Why don't people leave him?"

"They—they can't, Kitty. It's complicated. We're not supposed to talk about it."

Matt pressed a piece of paper against the booth window, pay phone—unknown, it read.

"Estelle? Walk me through the cure. You saw a poster announcing a church meeting. You showed up at the tent. How long ago was this?"

She was breathing more calmly, but her voice still sounded tight, hushed, like she was afraid of being overheard. "Four months."

"What happened when you got there?"

"I arrived just after dark. There was a group of tents, some RVs, campers and things. They were circled and roped off. There were guards. About eight of us gathered at a gate. There was a screening process. They patted us down for weapons, made sure none of us were reporters. Only the truly faithful ever get to see Smith. And—I wanted to believe. I really wanted to believe. One of the people they searched, I think he was a werewolf—they found a microphone or something on him, and they threw him out."

They threw out a werewolf. That took some doing. "People who've tried to break into the Church have met up with considerable force. Who works on the security detail?"

"His followers—everyone who lives and works in that caravan is a believer."

"But they've gotta be tough. Whole werewolf packs have gone after him—"

"And they're going up against werewolves. And weretigers, and vampires—everything. It's fighting fire with fire, Kitty."

"So they're not really cured."

"Oh, but they are. I never saw them shape-shift, not even during the full moon. The vampires—they walked in daylight!"

"But they retained their strength? They were still able to deal with a werewolf on equal terms?" Lose the weaknesses without losing the strengths of those conditions? Some might call that better than a cure.

"I suppose so."

Interesting. "Go on."

"I was brought inside the main tent. It looked like a church service, an old-fashioned revival, with the congregation gathered before a stage. A man on the stage called to me."

"This was Smith? What's he like?"

"He—he looks very normal." Of course. She probably wouldn't even be able to pick him out of a lineup. I expected to be preached at, lectured with all the usual biblical quotes about witches and evildoers. I didn't care; I would have sat through anything if it meant being cured. But he didn't. He spoke about the will to change. He asked me if I wanted to change, if I had the will to help him reach into my soul and retrieve my mortality, my Me. Oh, yes, I said. His words were so powerful. Then he set his hands on my head.

"It was real, Kitty. Oh, it was real! He touched my face, and a light filled me. Every sunrise I'd missed filled me. And the hunger—it faded. I didn't want blood anymore. My whole body surged, like my own blood returned. My skin flushed. I was mortal again, alive and breathing, like Lazarus. I really was! He showed me a cross and I touched it—and nothing happened. I didn't burn. He made me believe I could walk in the sun."

When Estelle first started talking, I thought I'd gotten someone who'd been disillusioned, who'd be ready to expose Smith's secrets and tell me exactly why he was a fake. But Estelle didn't talk like a disillusioned ex-follower. She still believed. She spoke like a believer who had lost her faith, or lost her belief in her own right to salvation.

I had to ask: "Could you, Estelle? Could you walk in the sun?"

"Yes," she said, her voice a whisper.

Goddamn it. A cure. I felt a tickle in my stomach, a piece of hope that felt a little like heartburn. A choice, an escape. I could have my old life back. If I wanted it.

There had to be a catch.

I kept my voice steady, attempting journalistic impartiality. "You stayed with him for four months. What did you do?"

"I traveled with the caravan. I appeared onstage and witnessed. I watched sunrises. Smith took care of me. He takes care of all of us."

"So you're cured. That's great. Why not leave? Why don't those who are cured ever go away and start a new life for themselves?"

"He's our leader. We're devoted to him. He saves us and we would die for him."

She was so earnest, it made me wonder if I was being set up. But I was close to something. Questions, more questions. "But you want to leave him now. Why?"

"It—it's so stifling. I could see the sun. But I couldn't leave him."

"Couldn't?"

"No—I couldn't. All I was, my new self, it was because of him. It was like… he made me."

Oh, my. "It sounds a little like a vampire Family. Devoted followers serving a Master who created them." For that matter it sounded like a werewolf pack, but I didn't want to go there.

"What?"

"I have a couple of questions for you, Estelle. Were you made a vampire against your will or were you turned voluntarily?"

"It—it wasn't against my will. I wanted it. It was 1936, Kitty. I was seventeen. I contracted polio. I was dead anyway, or horribly crippled at best, do you understand? My Master offered an escape. A cure. He said I was too charming to waste."

I developed a mental picture of her. She'd look young, painfully innocent even, with the clean looks and aura of allure that most vampires cultivated.

"When did you decide you didn't want to be a vampire anymore? What made you seek out Elijah Smith?"

"I had no freedom. Everything revolved around the Master. I couldn't do anything without him. What kind of life is that?"

"Unlife?" Ooh, remember the inside voice.

"I had to get away."

If I were going to do the pop-psychology bit on Estelle, I'd tell her she had a problem with commitment and accepting the consequences of her decisions. Always running away to look for a cure, and now she'd run to me.

"Tell me what happened."

"I was mortal now—I could do whatever I wanted, right? I could walk in broad daylight. I was assigned screening duty at the front gate two nights ago. I lost myself in the crowd and never went back. I found a hiding place, an old barn I think. In the morning, I walked past the open door, through the sunlight—and I burned. The hunger returned. He—he withdrew his cure, his blessing. His grace."

"The cure didn't work."

"It did! But I had lost my faith."

"You burned. How badly are you hurt, Estelle?"

"I—I only lost half my face."

I closed my eyes. That pretty picture of Estelle I had made disintegrated, porcelain skin bubbling, blackening, turning to ash until bone could be seen underneath. She ducked back into shade, and because she was still a vampire, immortal, she survived.

"Estelle, one of the theories about Smith says that he has some sort of psychic power. It isn't a cure, but it shields people from some of the side effects of their natures—vulnerability to sunlight and the need for blood in the case of vampires, the need to shape-shift in the case of lycanthropes. His followers must stay with him so he can maintain it. It's a kind of symbiotic relationship—he controls their violent natures and feeds off their power and attention. What do you think?"

"I don't know. I don't know anymore." She sniffed. Her voice was tight, and I understood now where her hushed lisp was coming from.

Matt came into the studio. "Kitty, there's a call for you on line four."

Four was my emergency line. Only a couple of people had the number. Carl had it. I bet it was him, still trying to be protective.

"Can't it wait?"

"No. The guy threatened me pretty soundly." Matt shrugged unapologetically. He'd let me mess with the threats from the supernatural world. One of these days he was going to quit this gig, and I wouldn't be able to blame him. I needed to get Ozzie to give him a raise.

"Estelle, hang on for just a minute. I'm still with you, but I have to take a break." I put her on hold, punched the line, and made sure it wasn't set to broadcast. The last thing I needed was Carl lecturing me on the air. "What?"

"Hello, Katherine," said an aristocratic male voice.

It wasn't Carl. Oh, no. Only one other person besides my grandmother ever called me Katherine. I'd met him only a couple of times in person, during territorial face-offs with Carl and the pack. But I knew that voice. That voice made my bone marrow twinge.

"Arturo. How the hell did you get this number?"

"I have ways."

Oh, please. On the phone, behind the microphone, I had the power. I switched the line over to live. "Hello, Arturo. You're on the air."

"Katherine," he said tightly. "I wish to speak to you privately."

"You call me during the show, you talk to my listeners. That's the deal." Maybe if I was brazen enough, I'd forget that he'd tried to have me killed.

"I do not appreciate being treated like your rabble—"

"What do you want, Arturo?"

He took a deep breath. "I want to talk to Estelle."

"Why?"

"She's one of mine."

Great. This was getting complicated. I covered the mike with my hand. "Matt, how does three-way calling work again?"

A few seconds later, I had Estelle back on the line. "Estelle? You still there?"

"Yes." Her voice was trembling. She swallowed.

"Okay—I have Arturo on the other line—"

She groaned like I'd just staked her. "He'll kill me. He'll kill me for leaving him—"

"On the contrary, my dear. I want to take you home. You're hurt and need help. Tell me where you are."

Her breath hiccuped. She was crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"It's far too late for that," he said, sounding tired.

I couldn't believe what I was about to say. "Estelle, I think you should listen to him. I don't know what I can do for you. Arturo can get you to a safe place."

"I don't believe him. I can't go back, I can't ever go back!"

"Estelle, please, tell me where you are," Arturo said.

"Kitty?" Estelle said, her voice small.

"Arturo—you promise you aren't going to hurt her?"

"Katherine, you're being harsh."

"Promise."

"Katherine. Estelle is mine. She is part of me. If she is destroyed, part of me is destroyed as well. I have an interest in protecting her. I promise."

Drama, tension, excitement! What a great setup for a show! But at the moment I would have given my pelt to have the whiny goth chicks back.

"I'm going to break for station identification. When we return, I hope I'll have a wrap-up for you on our sudden special broadcast of 'Elijah Smith: Exposed.'" I switched the phone lines off the air and said, "All right, Estelle. It's up to you."

"Okay. Okay. Arturo, come get me. I'm at the Speedy Mart on Seventy-fifth."

Arturo's line clicked off.

"You okay, Estelle?" I asked.

"Yeah. Yes, I'm all right." She had stopped crying and seemed almost calm. The decision had been made. She could stop running, for a little while at least.

I had one more call to make—to the cavalry, just in case. I should have called the police. Hardin—she'd help Estelle. Yeah, she'd take Estelle to a hospital. And they wouldn't know what to do with her. They wouldn't understand, and it would take too long to explain.

A normal person would have called the police. But I pulled a scrap of paper out of my contact book, got an outside line, and dialed. After six rings, I almost hung up. Then, "Yeah." Mobile phone static underlaid the voice.

"Cormac? Have you been listening to the show tonight?"

"Norville? Why would I be listening to your show?"

Oh, yeah, he could pretend, but I knew the truth. He'd listened once, it could happen again. "One of my callers is in trouble. Arturo says he'll help her, but I don't trust him. I want to make sure she doesn't get caught in a cross fire. Can you go help? Make sure nobody dies and stuff?"

"Arturo? Arturo is helping? She's a vampire, isn't she." It might have been a question, but he didn't make it sound like one.

"Yeah, actually."

"You're out of your mind."

"Yup. Look, chances are Arturo will get to Estelle first and the Church people won't even find her. But if the Church people do show up, they'll have some pretty hardhitting supernaturals with them. You might get to shoot one."

"Whoa, slow down. Church?"

"Church of the Pure Faith."

"Hm. A buddy of mine was hired to go in there and never got through. I've been wanting to get a look at them."

"Here's your chance," I said brightly.

"Right. I'll check it out, but no promises."

"Good enough. Thanks, Cormac." I gave him the address. He grunted something resembling a sign-off.

Matt was signaling through the window. Time up. On-air light on. Okay. "We're back to The Midnight Hour. Estelle?"

"Kitty! A car just pulled up. It's not Arturo; I think it's people from the Church. They'll kill me, Kitty. We're not supposed to leave; they'll take me back and then—I've told you everything and now everybody knows—"

"Okay, Estelle. Stay down. Help's on the way."

Matt leaned in and didn't bother to muffle his voice for the mike this time. His expression was taut and anxious. He actually looked harried. "Line four again."

Maybe it was Arturo checking in. Maybe I could warn him. He was Estelle's only chance to get out of there. "Yeah?"

"Kitty, do you need help?" said a gruff, accusatory voice.

Not Arturo. Carl. Why was he worried about whether I needed help now of all times?

"I can't talk now, Carl." I hung up on him. I'd catch hell for that later.

Carl and I were going to kill each other one of these days.

Switched lines again, had to double-check to make sure it was the right one. "Estelle? What's happening? Estelle?" A sound rustled over the mouthpiece, then a banging noise like something falling. My heart dropped. "Estelle?"

"Yes. I'm hiding, but the phone cord won't go any farther. I don't want to hang up, Kitty."

I didn't want her to hang up. A nasty little voice in my head whispered ratings. But the only way I was going to find out what happened was if she stayed on the line.

"Estelle, if you have to hang up, hang up, okay? The important thing is to get out of there in one piece."

"Thank you, Kitty," she said, her face wet with tears. "Thank you for listening to me. No one's ever really listened to me before."

I hadn't done anything. I couldn't do anything. I was trapped behind the mike.

After that, I had to piece together events from what I was hearing. It was like listening to a badly directed radio drama. Tires squealed on asphalt A car door slammed. Distant voices shouted. The phone slammed against something again: Estelle had dropped the handset. Running footsteps.

I paced, my hands itching to turn into claws and my legs itching to run. That happened when I got stressed. I wanted to Change and run. Run far, run fast, like Estelle had tried to do.

I called Cormac back.

"Yeah?"

"It's me. Are you there? What's happening?"

"Give me a break, it's only been a minute. Give me another five." He hung up.

Then on the other line, bells jingled as the door opened and closed. Footsteps moved slowly across a linoleum floor. I heard a scream. Then sobbing.

What was it about Elijah Smith that could make a vampire afraid of him?

"Estelle. Won't you return to me? You can regain what you have lost. I'll even forgive this betrayal." A calm, reasonable voice echoed like it came from a TV in the next room. It sounded like a high-school social studies teacher explaining a lurid rite-of-passage ritual as if it were a recipe for mashed potatoes. A smooth voice, comforting, chilling. This voice spoke truth. Even over the phone, it was persuasive.

Elijah Smith, in his first public appearance.

"What are you?" Estelle said, as loud as she'd yet spoken, but the words were still muffled, filled with tears. "What are you really?"

"Oh, Estelle. Is it so hard for you to believe? Your struggle is most difficult of all. The ones who hate themselves, their monsters—their belief comes easy. But you, those like you—you love the monsters you have become, and that love is what you fear and hate. Your belief comes with great difficulty, because you don't really want to believe."

I sat down so heavily my chair rolled back a foot. The words tingled on my skin. He might have been talking to me, and he might have been right: I didn't believe in a cure. Was it because I didn't want to?

"A cure is supposed to be forever! Why can't I leave you?"

"Because I would hate to lose you. I love all my people. I need you, Estelle."

What was it Arturo had said: She is part of me. If she is destroyed, part of me is destroyed as well. Could Elijah Smith be some sort of vampire feeding on need, on his followers' powers?

If only I could get him to pick up the phone.

Yet again, I called Cormac.

"Yeah?"

"Has it been five minutes? At least keep the line open so I know what's happening."

"Jesus, Norville. Hang on. There's an SUV parked here. Three guys are standing guard in front of the building. I don't see weapons. They might be lycanthropes. They've got that animal pacing thing going, you know? Arturo's limo is parked around the corner. Lights off. Wait, here he comes. He's trying to get in. I gotta go." I heard the safety on a gun click, then rapid footsteps.

I hated this. Everything was happening off my stage. I was blind and ignorant. For the first time, I hated the safety and anonymity of my studio.

Then Cormac said, "Don't move. These are loaded with silver."

"You!" That was Arturo. "Why on earth—"

"It's Norville's idea. Get your girl and get out of here before I change my mind. You, step aside. Let him through."

I had two lines open on a conference call. Two feeds of information culled from static and noise, all of it broadcasting. Outside, nothing. Cormac must have had something big trained on Smith's goons, because I didn't hear a grumble from them.

Then, from inside—

"Estelle? Time to come home. Walk with me." This voice was edgy, alluring. Arturo.

"Estelle—," Smith said.

"No. No no no!" Estelle's denial became shrill.

"Estelle." Two voices, ice and fire, equally compelling.

"Estelle, pick up the phone! Pick up the phone and talk to me, dammit!" I shouted futilely.

I wished I could talk to her. What would my voice do to the mix? What could I possibly say to her except: Ignore them! Ignore us all! Follow what heart you have left, if any, and leave them.

She gave one more scream, different from the previous shrill scream of fear. This was defiant. Final. There was a crash. Something broke, maybe a set of shelves falling to the floor.

A pause grew, as painful and definitive as a blank page. Then, "This is your fault," said Arturo, his voice rigid with anger. "You will pay."

"You are as much to blame," said Elijah Smith. "She killed herself. Anyone would agree with me. Her own hands are wrapped around that stake."

For a moment, I could feel the blood vessels in my ears, my lips, my cheeks. I felt hot enough to explode.

I could piece together the bits of sound I'd heard and guess what had happened. A piece of split wooden shelf, maybe a broken broom handle. Then it was just a matter of aiming, falling on top of it.

Goddamn it. My show had never gotten anyone killed before.

Arturo said, "What are you?"

"If you come to me as a supplicant, I will answer all your questions."

"How dare you—"

"Everyone get out before I start shooting." That was Cormac, showing admirable restraint.

Quick, angry footsteps left the room, growing distant. Calm, slow footsteps followed. Then, nothing.

Cormac's voice burst through my silence, in stereo, coming through both lines now.

"Norville? Are you there? Talk to me, Norville."

My hands dug into the edge of the table. The plastic laminate surface cracked; the sound of it startled me. When I looked, my fingers were thickening, claws growing. I hadn't even felt it. My arms were so tense, my hands gripping the table so hard, I hadn't felt the shift start.

I pushed away from the chair and shook my hands, then crossed my arms, pressing my fists under my elbows. Human now. Stay human, just a little longer.

"Norville!"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Did you get all that?"

"Yes. I got it all."

I hadn't even said thank you to her. Thanks for the interview. I knew better than anyone how much courage it sometimes took just to open your mouth and talk.

"There's a body here. A girl. It's already going to dust. You know how they do."

"I should have done more for her."

"You did what you could."

A new sound in the background: police sirens.

Without a closing word, Cormac hung up, and I heard silence. Silence inside, silence out.

Silence on the radio meant death.

Matt said, "Kitty? Time's up. You can go thirty over if I cut out the public service announcements."

I gave a painful, silent chuckle. Public service, my ass. I sat here every week pretending I was helping people, but when it came to really helping someone—

I took a deep breath. I'd never left a show unfinished. All I had to do was open my mouth and talk. "Kitty here, trying to wrap up. Estelle found her last cure. It's not one I recommend.

"Vampires don't talk about their weaknesses as weaknesses. They talk about the price. Their vulnerability to sunlight, wooden stakes, and crosses—it's the price they pay for their beauty, their immortality. The thing about prices, some people always seem willing to pay, no matter how high. And some people are always trying to get out of paying at all. Thanks to Estelle, you now know what Elijah Smith and his Church offer, and you know the price. At least I could do that much for her. As little as it is. Until next week, this is Kitty Norville, Voice of the Night."