Kitty and the Midnight Hour

Chapter 6

The cops kept me for two hours. They were nice. Very polite. Hardin put me in a bland holding room with off-white carpet and walls and plastic chairs, got me coffee, and patted me kindly on the shoulder. Most of the others gave me a wide berth, staring at me as I walked past. Rumor traveled quickly. The whispers started as soon as we arrived at the station. That's her. The werewolf. Yeah, right.

Hardin didn't seem to notice.

I gave her my rundown of what had happened. Just a formality—we recorded the whole show. It was all there on tape. But Hardin kept me around, trying to talk sense into me.

"You sure you don't want to press charges? We can pin felony stalking on this guy. Criminal mischief, attempted murder—"

I'd made a deal with Cormac. I'd stick by it, and despite everything I trusted him to stick by it, too. I'd been so used to running under the law's radar—we made our own rules, us and people like Cormac. But if I told Hardin, "We take care of our own," she probably wouldn't appreciate it.

Ouch. What was I thinking? Cormac probably belonged in jail.

"Don't tell me this really was just a publicity stunt," she said finally. If possible, her frown grew even more irate.

"No." It might turn out that way. I might have to thank Cormac. "I think I just want to go home, if that's okay." I tried to smile like a demure little victim.

"It'll be a lot easier to prosecute this guy with your cooperation. I can hold him overnight, but not any longer than that without pressing charges."

"No one got hurt. It's okay, really."

She put her hand on the table next to me and leaned close. "Attitudes like that get girls like you killed."

I blinked, cringing back. She straightened and marched out of the room. I got to leave ten minutes later.

Outside the door of the police station, Carl and T.J. were waiting for me. T.J. put his arm around me; Carl took firm hold of my elbow.

I thought I would have argued with them. I thought I would have gotten huffy and shrugged away, asserting my independence. Instead, I nearly collapsed.

I leaned against T.J., hugging him tight and speaking into his shoulder in a wavering voice, "I want to go home." Carl stayed close, his body like a shield at my back, and kept watch. He guided us to his truck, and they took me home.

They just held me, and that was enough. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to be independent. I could say to Carl, "Take care of me," and he would. Part of me wanted nothing more than to curl up at his feet and feel protected. That was the Wolf talking.

I had a studio apartment, decent if small, with a kitchen on one side, a bathroom on the other, and everything else in the middle. I usually didn't bother turning the futon back into a sofa.

T.J. sat on the futon, his back to the wall, and I curled up on his lap like a puppy. Carl stalked back and forth between the apartment's window and door. He was convinced someone was going to come after me—Cormac wanting to finish the job; some other bozo who had it in for me on principle. I barely noticed—if T.J. was here, I didn't have to worry.

"What am I going to do?" I sighed. "They're going to can me. It's all going to blow up. God, it's going to be all over the Enquirer."

"You might make Newsweek with this one, babe," T.J. said, patting my shoulder.

I groaned.

The phone rang. Carl nearly hit the ceiling before springing for the bedside phone. I got to it first. "Hello?"

"Kitty. It's your mother. Are—are you okay?"

I had almost forgotten. How could I have forgotten? I was only beginning to deal with this.

I should have called her first.

"Hi, Mom."

"Cheryl called; she was listening to your show and she said… she said that you almost got killed and that you said… you said…"

Cheryl was my older sister. I barely registered how the rest of the call went Mom couldn't bring herself to say the word "werewolf." I said a lot of "Yes, Mom. It's true, Mom. I'm sorry… no, I'm not crazy. I don't think, anyway. No, I couldn't tell you… it's hard to explain. No, I'm not going to die, at least not right now. About three years now, I guess. Yes, that long." Mom started crying.

"Yeah, I'll talk to Dad. Yeah… Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Kitty. How are you?" And he sounded sensible, like he always had, like I might have just been calling from college to tell him I'd wrecked the car, and he was assuring me everything was going to be okay.

I wiped away tears. "Shell-shocked. But I'll recover."

"I know you will. You're a good kid. I know that, and so does Mom. She's just a little off-balance right now."

"Thanks—that means a lot. Is she going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. I bet if you call back this evening she'll be better."

"Okay."

"Are you alone? Is there someone you can stay with? Do you want me to come up there?"

That was all I needed, for Dad to come and find me tangled up in bed with the pack. "I've got friends here. They're looking after me."

After demanding about three more times that I call back tonight, he hung up.

T.J. smiled. "I could hear him on the phone. He sounds great. You're real lucky."

He hadn't let go of me all morning. No matter what happened, he'd be right there. He was pack, and he cared.

"Yeah," I said to him. "I am."

Carl crossed his arms. "That's it," he said. "You'll quit the show now."

I pressed my face to T.J.'s leg. I didn't answer; I didn't argue. In the face of all the evidence, he was right. I should quit. I didn't know how to explain to him that I couldn't. So I didn't. T.J. tensed, like he knew what I was thinking.

"He's right, Kitty," he whispered.

I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear this. I sat up and scooted away from T.J. until I was in the middle of the bed, and hugged my knees.

"Aren't you even the least bit upset at Arturo for hiring that guy in the first place?" If it was even Arturo. I was going to have to find out. Maybe Rick knew something.

Carl bristled, his shoulders twitching, his mouth turning in a snarl. "This isn't about Arturo. This is about you putting yourself in danger."

"I have to find out if Arturo was behind this. You could talk to him. Will you help me?"

Carl didn't answer. He just glared at me. T.J. looked back and forth between us, waiting for some cue.

T.J. settled his gaze on me and said, "If you quit the show, I'll call out Arturo for you."

Carl jumped onto the bed. I yelped; T.J. scrambled away, slipping off the bed and crashing to the floor. He rolled onto all fours in a heartbeat, but kept his distance. Carl pinned me, trapping me with his hands propped on the bed on either side of my head, his weight on my body. Trembling, I tried to pull away.

I wasn't ready to take on Carl.

"I don't bargain," he said, his voice low. He glanced sideways at T.J., who looked away, submissive. "You will do as I say. I'll take care of Arturo."

I didn't believe him.

I squeezed my eyes shut against tears, looking away even as I felt his breath on my cheek. He was close enough to bite. I nodded, wanting only for him to leave me alone, wanting only for it to stop. If we were human, and this was a human relationship, I'd have been expected to leave him. This was abuse.

After a moment, he wrapped himself around me, holding me tight. He only wanted to take care of me. The Wolf loved him so much.

It took until noon to convince them I was all right I told them I needed to rest I needed to go back to KNOB, if only to tell them I was finished. When I told them this, I believed it myself.

But by evening, all I felt was angry.

Everyone—receptionist assistants, teenies—stared at me as I walked through the reception area at the station that afternoon. No one said a word. It felt like one of those naked dreams. The Wolf—she loved it. All those chunks of living meat quivering like prey. But I kept it together. I'd had lots of practice keeping it together.

I didn't know what they were all thinking, how many of them thought it was for real, how many thought I was crazy. Some fear misted the air. Also curiosity.

I hadn't had a chance to talk to Matt last night. The police dragged us to separate rooms for our statements. I didn't know what he thought about me now. He'd worked on the show long enough, I was pretty sure he believed.

He met me in the hallway. Grinning, he handed over a shoebox full of messages. I took it studied him. A little bit of fear tensed the edges of his jaw. His shoulders were tight his heartbeat thudded a little too loud. But he kept cool, managing to stand there like nothing was wrong. I loved him for it.

"You okay?" I said.

"Yeah. You?"

I shrugged. "It's weird. Everything's different now. Like I sprouted a second head."

"Or a tail and claws—sorry. But—you're for real, aren't you?" I nodded, and he shook his head. "You're right. It's weird. That guy was right. Kitty's a pretty funny name for a werewolf."

"I'm never going to live it down."

"Ozzie's in his office. He wants to see you."

Oh, great. I smiled grimly in thanks and continued down the hall.

Ozzie stood when I opened the door. He was definitely nervous. So was I, for that matter. I tucked the box under my arm and cringed against the doorjamb. What the hell was I going to tell him?

Then I realized—I'd gone submissive, but he couldn't read the cues. He was my boss; it made sense, but still… I made a conscious effort to stand straight.

"Hi, Ozzie."

"Kitty. This is—" I waited for him to speak, ducking my gaze, apologetic, not sure why I felt like I had to apologize. Then he melted, pleading with his hands. "Aw, Kitty, why couldn't you tell me? You didn't have to keep it secret."

"I kind of did, Ozzie. There are people out there who don't really like people like me. It may be tough to deal with after this."

"Do you need more security? We'll get you security—"

And what would Carl and T.J. say about that? I was supposed to be quitting. I glanced at some of the messages. Some I expected—reporters from National Enquirer, Wide World of News, Uncharted World. Some I didn't—CNN? Newsweek! Geez, why did T.J. always have to be right?

I shook my head. "No, I've got friends. It's okay. Any word yet on how this is playing out?"

He handed me a paper marked "Preliminary Ratings." The numbers were… big. This couldn't be right.

"We're flooded with requests to replay the show. An instant poll suggests the show's credibility shot through the roof last night. At least among the people who believe all this shit. Before, you were just easy to talk to. Now, you know what you're talking about. The people who don't believe it think it's a publicity stunt to garner ratings, and they're dying to see how you're going to keep it going. This is gold, Kitty. Can you keep it going?"

Carl would just have to deal. I'd show him his half of the money when the next expansion went through. Then he could deal, I was sure. "Absolutely."

"Right… look for the message from Howard Stern. He wants to do a joint show, kind of a double interview with both of you taking calls. Cross-pollination of audiences, I think it sounds great. I talked to Barbara Walters—"

"I'm not going on TV. I think you know why." My website didn't even have a photo of me.

"Yeah, yeah I do. Even so—you're going to be the country's first werewolf celebrity."

I had suspicions. "Only the first one to admit it. Thanks, Ozzie. Thanks for being nice to me."

"You're still Kitty after all, right? Hey, you look like you didn't get any sleep last night. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? After you call Howard Stern back."

I called T.J. as soon as I got home. The phone rang five times. I thought he'd gone out. Then he answered.

I said, "It's me. I'm going to Arturo's. Will you come with me?"

This was stupid, calling him. He'd tell Carl. There was no way he wouldn't tell Carl. Then I'd be in serious trouble. But I had to call. Who else could I call?

Maybe I was hoping he'd help me without any arguing.

"Have you quit the show?" I didn't answer. I think I even whined. He sighed. "You can't just pay Carl off, you know. This isn't about the money."

"No, it's not. You don't think that's why I keep doing it, do you?"

"No. I know how much it means to you."

"Then how can you ask me to quit?"

"Because it's changing you. You never would have argued with me like this six months ago. You've been picking fights, for Christ's sake."

I shut my eyes. My voice was hushed. "Is change all bad?"

"You're going to get yourself killed. And not because of people like that assassin."

"I'm an adult. I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't."

And that's what this was all about, wasn't it? Which one of us was right?

"Well, I guess we're going to find out."

I hung up.

I made it as far as the alley behind Obsidian.

Obsidian was a stylish art gallery that specialized in antiques and imports. The whole place was a front. Arturo lived in the lower levels below the basement. Under the posh downtown facade, the place was a vault where the city's vampires slept out their days.

Six months ago, the idea of going to Arturo's den by myself would have made me catatonic with fear. Now, at least, I could entertain the idea. But I couldn't walk those last few steps that would take me to the stairs leading to the basement door. I stood in the alley, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket. It was midnight, full dark. At any moment, a swarm of vampires would come crawling up those stairs. They'd take my being here as a territorial infraction and defend themselves accordingly. I could see the headline now: "Radio Show Host Murdered in Gang Dispute."

If I were lucky, if I stood here long enough, maybe Rick would show up and I could get his advice. Or get him to talk to Arturo. He owed me a favor for working on the Elijah Smith thing, didn't he?

In the end, fear won out over anger. I only stood there a minute before turning and walking away. I was still just a cub.

When I got to the corner, hands grabbed me. No, claws. Hands turning into claws. My vision flashed with stars as I was slammed against the wall, my head cracking on the brick. Someone held my shoulders in a viselike grip, pinning me to the wall, and the claws of his thumbs dug into my throat.

It was T.J.

His fingers were shortening, his hands thickening as his wolf came to the fore. He was strangling me. His face was inches from mine, his eyes flecked with gold. His teeth were bared, filtering a growl so low it rumbled through his limbs.

I stared wide-eyed, gasping for breath. Wasn't a whole lot else I could do.

He said, jaw taut, "You disobeyed. Every instinct I have is telling me to beat the fucking shit out of you. Why don't I?"

I swallowed. He could rip me apart, though he hadn't yet broken skin. I could fight him. I knew I could—Wolf was writhing, screaming for a chance to escape or fight I couldn't beat him in a fight. But that almost didn't matter. I wasn't whining. I wasn't going to just roll over for him.

That scared me. I didn't want to fight T.J. I had to concentrate to keep my own hands away from him. I managed to draw enough breath to speak.

"Because sometimes we have to listen to the human side."

He was shaking. His hands trembled on my shoulders. I didn't move. I held his gaze, saw the creases in his brow and at the corners of his eyes, like he was too angry to keep it in, but he was trying. Please, please. I hoped he saw the pleading in my eyes, that he was still human enough to read the human expression.

Then he let me go. I sagged against the wall. He stared at me, a snarl pulling at his lips. Sweat matted his dark hair to his brow. I tried to say something, but I didn't know what I could say, and my throat was tight.

He turned and ran. He pulled off his shirt and threw it away as he rounded the corner. A sheen of slate-gray fur had sprouted on his back. He was gone.

I sat hard and pressed my face to my knees. Fuck fuck fuck. How had I gotten myself into this?

So. I didn't talk to the vampires, and I didn't quit the show.

"… all I'm saying is that if this is a cry for attention, you should maybe talk to someone, a therapist or something, about your need to act out your aggressions…"

I leaned into the mike. "Hey, who's the pop-psychologist hack here? Frankly, I host a popular radio show. You think I want more attention? Next caller, please."

My stomach had been turning cartwheels all evening. Before the broadcast, I was scared to death. Not of Carl or T.J., though I hadn't seen either of them all week. Full moon was coming up. I didn't know what I was going to do. Go to the pack and get my ass kicked. Or spend it by myself.

No, it was because I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen during the show. I got Ozzie to postpone the guest who was previously scheduled. I wanted the full two hours to deal with cleanup. I was going to open the line to calls, anything and everything. I was going to have to explain myself—over and over again.

It wasn't so bad. It never is, I suppose. Anticipation is always the worst. Half the calls so far had been supportive, the rallying cries of devoted fans: "We're behind you all the way." I spent a lot of airtime saying thanks. Some disbelief, some threats, and some of the usual advice calls. Lots of questions.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Three different callers had asked that one. "No. I'm strictly a venison kind of girl."

"How did you become a werewolf?"

"I was attacked. Beyond that, I prefer not to talk about it."

"So it was, like, traumatic?"

"Yeah, it was."

One girl came on the line crying. "I don't understand how you do it. How can you talk about this stuff and sound so calm? There are days I just want to rip my own skin off!"

I made my voice as soothing as I could. "Take it easy there, Claire. I know how you feel. I have those days, too. I count to ten a lot. And I think talking about it helps. I'm not as scared when I talk about it. Tell me something: What do you hate most about being a werewolf?"

Her breathing had slowed; her voice was more steady. "Not remembering. Sometimes when I wake up, I don't remember what I did. I'm scared that I've done something horrible."

"Why is that?"

"I remember how I feel. I remember how the blood tastes. And—and I remember that I like it. When I'm human, it makes me want to throw up."

I didn't have to mince words anymore. I could answer her from experience now, which I couldn't have done before last week. She probably wouldn't have called me before last week.

"I think when we Change, a lot of human is still there. If we want to be a part of civilization, it stays with us. It keeps us from doing some of the things we're capable of. I guess that's part of the reason I'm here, doing the show and trying to lead a relatively normal life. I'm trying to civilize the Wolf part of me."

"Is it working?"

Good question. "So far so good."

"Thanks, Kitty."

"One day at a time, Claire. Next caller, hello."

"I knew it. I knew you were one." I recognized the voice—a repeat caller. I glanced at the monitor, and sure enough.

"How are you, James?"

"I'm still alone." The declaration was simple and stark.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but how did you know?"

"I don't know," he said, and I could picture him shrugging. "You know what you're talking about. It's the only way you could know." Eager as a puppy, he continued. "So what's it like for you? Do you have a pack?"

Gosh, did I? I wasn't sure anymore. I'd been beaten up by T.J., I'd disobeyed Carl—when I showed up for the next full moon, I wasn't sure they'd have me. I took a chance. "Yes, I do."

"What's it like? What're they like?"

Occasionally, a werewolf attacked someone and there wasn't a pack to take care of the victim, to show him what had happened, to teach him how to live with it. James must have been one of those. I couldn't imagine that. T.J. held me my first full moon, the first time I shifted. It made it easier, at least a little.

I tried to be honest. Or honest for that particular moment in time. "Well. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

So much for a sense of humor. "I value my pack a whole lot. It's been there for me when I needed it. But it can be frustrating. There isn't a whole lot of room for argument." I wondered if Carl or T.J. were listening.

"But you think werewolves need to be in a pack."

"I think packs serve a good purpose. They keep werewolves under some sort of control, so they don't go hunting sheep. Or small children—that was a joke, by the way."

"You don't think a werewolf can make it on his own, then?"

"I didn't say that. It's just that in my experience, it would be hard."

"Oh."

"You said you're alone, James. How do you handle it?"

"I—I don't." He hung up, the line clicking off. Great. I felt queasy about that one.

"Right. Thanks for calling, James."

Matt was waving through the window, pointing at the door to the booth. Rick was standing there. I hadn't noticed him come in. He was lounging against the doorjamb like he'd been there for hours. He waved his hand in a blasé greeting.

I turned back to the mike. "Okay, we're going to break for station ID. More calls when we get back. This is The Midnight Hour."

Matt made the cutting motion that signaled we were off the air. This gave the local stations a few minutes for commercials and promotions. I pulled off my headphones and went to the door.

"Hey, Rick." I tried to sound casual. Either he was going to deliver a scathing message from Arturo or he wanted to know what I'd found out about the Church of the Pure Faith. I still hadn't learned much.

"Hello. So, this is the famous studio."

"Yeah. Not to be rude, but I'm going to have to get back to it in a minute. What can I do for you?"

"I thought we might trade information. What have you found out about Elijah Smith?"

There it was. I shrugged. "Not much. Nobody who knows him is talking. A couple of reporters tried to sneak into his caravan once and got thrown out. I'm going to keep at it. I've still got a couple of leads to try. I'm sorry I can't give you more."

He pursed his lips, masking disappointment. "Well, maybe your persistence will pay off. In the meantime…"

He offered me a manila envelope. "I heard your show last week. I thought you might be interested in this."

"What is it?"

"Evidence," he said. "Now you have no reason to go poking around Obsidian by yourself again."

I looked up. My throat got tight. "You know about that?"

He nodded. "So does Arturo. He's disappointed you didn't give him a chance to act against you directly."

"Yeah. I bet he is." How stupid could I have been? Of course Arturo had guards posted. Of course they spotted me. Score another point for cowardly self-preservation.

I took the envelope and scooped inside for the contents. There were a few photos, weirdly lit in black and white, like they had been taken with some kind of night vision camera. There was a forested area. I recognized the slope of hill behind Carl and Meg's house. A couple of people were running with a couple of wolves. One of the faces was circled. Mine, of course. A couple of photos later in the sequence, I was ripping off my clothes and my body was changing shape. These were copies of the photos that set Cormac on me. I put them back.

The rest of the envelope held a half-dozen pages of information. Some phone records, a terse written agreement—someone putting a contract on you didn't mean it was actually a contract. I didn't think hit men gave out receipts.

Rick explained. "Those show phone calls between Arturo and his go-between, and the go-between and Cormac. The go-between is a woman with ties to the local militia movement. Cormac has a background with them. She's been discussing with Arturo the possibility of, ah, signing up, as it were. She'd do anything for him."

"What else do you know about Cormac?"

"He doesn't work cheap. There are some figures listed." He showed me the appropriate piece of paper. I blinked.

"That's a lot of zeros."

"Indeed."

"Arturo wants me dead that badly?"

"Oh, I don't know. He had backing. There's a whole conglomerate that's unhappy with you."

"Who else?"

"That I'm afraid I don't know. Sorry."

"No, don't apologize. This is great." In fact, I was choked up. I'd been feeling friendless lately, and here came help from such an unexpected quarter. "Why help me like this? If Arturo finds out you did this—"

He made a dismissive gesture, as if he'd just loaned me five bucks and not saved my ass.

"Don't worry about that. He doesn't have to know. You may not believe it, but there are some of us who think you're doing good work."

There was always the possibility that Arturo had put him up to this, that this was all part of some nefarious plot to… to do something.

Rick deserved better than that kind of attitude. I sighed, humbled. "Thanks. Could you get a copy of all this to Cormac?"

"Already done."

"Thanks, Rick. I owe you one."

He tilted his head, regarding the ceiling for a moment. "You know, I could also be helping you because it would make Arturo crazy."

He winked, grinned, and slipped out as quietly as he'd arrived. He melted into the shadows at the other end of the corridor. Like a vampire or something.

Matt was staring. "Was that… was that a…" He made a gesture, two fingers pointing down from his mouth like fangs.

"Yeah. So, Matt, how do you feel about this job now?"

He shook his head, whistling through his teeth. "Never a dull moment."

The next day at work, I had a list of phone numbers sitting on top of the pile of crap spread all over my desk—ratings projections, transcripts, unanswered mail, phone messages, newspapers and magazines that I used as fodder. The headline on Wide World of News this week was "Following Kitty Norville's Lead, Dozens of Vampire and Werewolf Celebrities Confess!" They had pictures of Quentin Tarantino, David Bowie, Britney Spears (huh?), and… Bill Clinton? Yeah, right.

I'd made it to the cover of Wide World of News. I must have really hit the big time. Or something.

I crossed off phone numbers as I made calls. Reporters, police departments, people who knew people who'd disappeared into Elijah Smith's caravan. I'd already talked to the reporters from Uncharted World who'd tried to break into the caravan. One of them had a theory that Smith was actually a front for government researchers who needed vampire and werewolf test subjects. The other one sounded a bit more sane, thinking that some sort of cult of personality had formed around Elijah Smith. Neither one of them believed he was really curing anyone. We couldn't know, because we couldn't talk to any of his people.

No one left him. The caravan was growing. What if it worked?

I tracked the latest piece of the puzzle to Modesto, California, where the caravan had parked two nights ago. The police there had tried to issue Smith citations for trespassing and causing a disturbance. The two officers who'd been sent to issue the tickets woke up in their patrol car the next morning with no memory of what had happened over the last eight hours. The caravan was gone. I tried to talk to the officers in question, but apparently they were still in the hospital, for observation. I spent two hours on the phone, but no one would tell me what was wrong with them, or where they thought the caravan would appear next.

As I hung up the phone, one of the KNOB interns brought me a letter. She bopped into the room, handed it to me, and bopped out again. It didn't have a stamp or return address—it had been hand-delivered. I should have been suspicious. But I had a feeling. It smelled okay. I opened it and drew out a card, blank except for a handwritten line, You were right. I owe you one, and a phone number.