We reached the shelter of the relatively quiet hallway, where Shumacher and Tyler were waiting.
I winced. “I suppose you saw the speech.”
Shumacher’s lips pressed into a thin, anxious line. “I’d say you were scare mongering if not for what happened to Sergeant Tyler yesterday. Flemming’s vanished again.”
“Yes,” I said flatly.
Tyler had recovered admirably. His gaze was steady, determined, and his body was a wall, standing firm. A well-muscled, intimidating wall. “If you need me, for anything at all, call me.”
And he would come running. I could count on him. “Thank you.”
“You’ve rescued me twice now. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me,” I said, shaking my head. “We help each other, that’s what friends do.”
“I owe you.”
“Don’t argue,” Ben said near my ear. Right.
“You guys off tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’ll be really nice to get back home.” His sigh was heartfelt.
I smiled. “Say hi to Susan for me.”
He ducked his gaze, but not before I caught the gleam in his eyes.
* * *
AFTER DARK, we returned to the house in Mayfair, where Cormac was waiting for us. In any other context, we’d all have a lovely farewell dinner with our hosts. In this case, however, we’d made sure to eat before the gathering.
Marid stood at the front gate, and we lingered. The old vampire leaned on his cane, gazing upward, as if he could see stars.
“When are you heading back home?” I asked, drawing his attention from the sky. “Where is home, by the way?”
He shrugged. “I’m like Mercedes, I don’t have a city of my own. I’m a Master by dint of age, nothing more,” he said. “I’m thinking of moving on, anyway. It’s time to wander a bit.”
“Oh?”
He narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps look for Roman while I’m at it.”
“Ah.” I nodded thoughtfully.
“You did it,” he said, strolling along the narrow courtyard without needing the cane. “I told Ned you would. He wasn’t sure. He said you’d be too worried about protecting your loved ones. He was sure you’d play it safe in the end, rather than expose us all. I told him you’re a crusader. I was right.”
Ben and I faced him, our arms touching. There was only one of him, and we were strong.
“People need to know,” I said. “That’s all. Roman can’t work in secret if everyone knows.”
“But have you warned everyone about the coming war—or dragged them into it when they might have been safe?”
“They wouldn’t have been safe,” I said. “Not in the long run.”
“How like a vampire, to speak of the long run.”
“I can’t tell—are you happy about what I said, or not? Is Ned?”
“Oh, Ned and Antony both approve. They like you very much. They like the idea of a Regina Luporum. They cheered when they watched the video of your speech.”
“Regina Luporum—I still don’t even know what that means,” I said.
He chuckled. “It’s not anything official, it doesn’t come with a crown or any real power or territory. It’s more … an idea. Rex Luporum, Regina Luporum. That there exist wolves who will stand up to vampires, that will choose solidarity over warfare. Do you know the story of Romulus and Remus?”
“The founders of Rome who were raised by … a wolf…” I stared.
“Many of the old stories are simply metaphors.”
“You’re saying that a werewolf helped found Rome? And that she had children?” That spark of hope hadn’t quite died out, apparently.
“Werewolves can’t have children, Kitty,” he said. “It’s a metaphor.”
“So Regina Luporum is a label you made up. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means whatever you want it to.”
He didn’t show any sign of retreating back inside, so I stayed with him. “Did you know her? The wolf of the Rome story?”
“Yes,” he said.
I waited for another long pause. “And…?”
“She’d have liked you, I think.”
“And…?” He didn’t offer anything else. I sighed. “So what about you—did you like the speech?”
“Honestly, Kitty, one way or another it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, happens. I know how to go to cover if I need to.”
You didn’t get to be twenty-eight hundred years old by joining crusades, I supposed. “Then we won’t be able to depend on you when the time comes?”
“Perhaps when the time comes, I’ll call on you,” he said, smiling a sphinx’s smile. “Shall we go in?”
Ned and Emma had arranged a pleasant gathering in the parlor, and I again flashed on those BBC costume dramas. Emma and I ought to be wearing empire-waist gowns, the men should have had cravats. Ned was the only one wearing a cravat tonight. The three of us who lived and breathed had tea and a decadent selection of pastries. The vampires watched us indulgently.
Ned delivered a report, condensed from information gathered by the police, the American authorities, and British intelligence. This had gone quite high up, apparently. They theorized that Flemming learned about Sergeant Tyler’s unit of werewolves in Afghanistan. The unit had originally been led by one of Flemming’s own interview subjects, the werewolf Special Forces captain who had turned the others. When the opportunity came to get his hands on the sole surviving member of that unit, he couldn’t resist. He’d never really been one for conventional methods—or civil liberties, for that matter.
He’d hired himself out as a paranormal security consultant, and a third party—an as-yet unidentified third party—had agreed to fund the “acquisition” of a real-live Special Forces werewolf. The project had two purposes: recruit Tyler himself, and use him to train up a new unit of paranormal soldiers. They had felt confident Tyler could be recruited, or suborned, which just went to show how bad their information was.
The fact that Flemming had been killed in the course of Tyler’s escape was known, but suppressed. As was the fact that Tyler had help. Ned’s people, Caleb’s, and mine were all left out of it. Apparently, we had Ned’s influence to thank for this.
Ned had fed them all the information he could about Roman, but the mastermind remained invisible.
“Is Tyler going to have to watch his back for the rest of his life?” I asked.
“Probably,” Ned said. “But he’ll have help, now that his own government is aware of the issue. Your Dr. Shumacher is on the need-to-know list for the report. Don’t look so distraught. It’s like you said this afternoon: knowledge is power. Our enemies have blown their cover. They won’t find it so easy to hide anymore.”
Conversation turned casual after that. As casual as it could with Cormac sitting near the doorway, his hand occasionally touching the stake he kept in an inside jacket pocket. He never took off the leather jacket. The vampires didn’t seem offended. Antony asked how I got into the talk-radio business, then how I met Cormac, and so on. I poked them with a few questions of my own—where they’d come from, who they’d known, interesting and harmless historical anecdotes. Fascinating, to hear them talk about London’s Great Fire like it happened a year ago.
We relaxed. This almost felt normal. Except that out of the seven of us only three had heartbeats.
Antony and Marid excused themselves to retreat to their lairs, Antony to Barcelona and Marid to … wherever. Antony at least offered us an invitation to come visit.
I should have been comatose with exhaustion, but I kept wanting to draw out the evening. I only had another hour or two to spend with Emma and Ned until dawn took them away. Time enough to sleep later.
“I have a question for you,” I asked, and Ned cocked his head, inquiring. “Why? You’d lived a long and successful life before you became a vampire. What happened? Did you choose it?”
His smile was wistful; his gaze looked back through time. “No, I did not. Do you know
the story, that during a performance of Faust I managed to conjure a real demon? And because of that I quit acting, left the stage forever?”
“I think I read about that one,” I said.
“It was true, in a manner of speaking. Though it wasn’t a demon I conjured but a vampire. He became a bit of a fan, you could say. I was on my deathbed. You’re right, I had lived a long and fruitful life. I felt I’d atoned for my sins with monumental acts of charity—a school, a hospital. I was ready to slip from this world. But he thought the world should not have to lose me.
“It was a strange thing. I suppose I could have ended my existence anytime I chose after that. Emma’s told me about her first days after being turned, and I felt much the same way. But even in such a state, suicide is not instinctive. Then there was the school, the chance to see it continue. It’s still here. Isn’t that amazing? Did you know there are streets named after me? They’re still putting up signs and statues to me in Dulwich? How many people get to see their legacy bear such fruit? I’ve been privileged to witness it. So you see, I found reasons to go on, as most of us do. I had a chance to look after my city. I took it. And here I am.”
“You should write a book,” I said. “Memoirs covering four hundred years. That would be awesome.”
He seemed to consider, this new thought lighting his eyes. “Perhaps I will.”
* * *
WE HAD one last adventure before leaving the U.K. As promised, Caleb and part of his pack took us running in British wilderness, in the Dartmoor region in Britain’s southwest peninsula. “Hound of the Baskervilles territory,” he told us, winking.
The land was rugged, windswept, marshy, desolate. Rolling hills covered with grass and scrub, outcrops of weathered gray stone, a blustery sky overhead. It was beautiful, perfect for running, as Caleb had promised. We Changed, stretched our four legs, and ran for hours, pounding out the stress of the week. I remembered little about that time but the cleansing wind rippling through my fur.
Caleb’s pack took us in as respected guests, but Ben and I kept apart. This wasn’t home. Even the rabbits we caught tasted different. We woke up restless in the shelter of rocks that weren’t Rocky Mountain granite.
We agreed: it was time to go home.
Epilogue
IN AN ideal world, everyone who heard the speech would take me seriously, the UN would set up a supernatural task force to promote equality and understanding, and forces around the world would unite to locate and oppose Roman. It would be a new golden age. What would probably happen—everyone would ignore me, and I’d go back to being a cult talk-radio host. But then there was the worst that could happen. Torches and pitchforks, I joked with Ben. The wrong kind of people would take my speech seriously.
I hadn’t been home a week when police in Boston caught an arsonist who had burned down an apartment building because he believed vampires were living in the basement. He declared to the judge during his arraignment that he was justified because a war was coming, and he had to destroy them before they came after him. Investigators didn’t find any evidence of vampires in the wreckage—not that they would have. But a young couple whom neighbors described as goth were killed in the fire. Police theorized that the crazed young man had seen them, constantly dressed in black, and made a misguided assumption.
Commentators discussed how “polarizing influences” could only make this kind of tragedy more common. They didn’t mention me by name, but they might as well have.
* * *
I SAT in the KNOB conference room with Ozzie and Matt. They’d been my producer and sound engineer from the beginning. We’d had dozens of meetings in this room, with its timeworn walls and scuffed carpet, cheap laminate tables and stained whiteboard. I remembered sitting in on programming meetings back when I was a late-night variety DJ and not a syndicated talk-show host, before anyone knew I was a werewolf. Before any of this. The smell of a decade’s worth of spilled coffee tinged the air. It smelled safe to me. This room should have been safe, but Ozzie was regarding me with such a look of disappointment, and Matt wouldn’t look at me at all.
“We’ve only had twenty outright cancellations,” Ozzie said, looking more harried and middle-aged than usual. Only. As if that wasn’t an actual, measurable percentage of our market. “We’ll probably have more, depending on how you follow up. Do you know how you’re going to follow up?”
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m not looking for an apology, I’m looking for an explanation,” he said.
“I told the truth.”
He began pacing, gesturing broadly, lecturing in a tone of frustration. “You’re supposed to be the one calling bullshit on the conspiracy theories, and here you are, drinking the Kool-Aid—”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t believe it.”
Ozzie put his hands on his hips and sighed. Neither one of them would look at me now. I stared at Matt, trying to get him to glance up. He’d always been on my side. He’d seen some of this firsthand. I thought he would trust me.
They didn’t believe me. My Wolf side bristled, crouching in a figurative corner, teeth bared in challenge, growling. My body tensed, my gaze narrowed. They couldn’t read the signs.
I didn’t belong here.
Ozzie continued, oblivious. “Kitty. This show is your baby. You made it what it is, no one’s going to argue about that. No one else could have done what you’ve done with it. I’ve never told you what to do, what to talk about, how to run things. I’ve never suggested an agenda. But I’m telling you now—you have to backpedal. Get back to basics. Bring on some cream puff interviews. Because if you keep on, if you turn The Midnight Hour into a paranoid soapbox—no one will listen to you.” No one but the real crazies, he meant.
“It’s not paranoid—” I stopped. I’d been about to say, if they’re really out to get you. I thought I knew what this looked like from the outside—crazy, ranty, unbalanced. I thought if I could just convince them, if I could prove to them that I wasn’t crazy … Maybe I didn’t know what it looked like. Maybe I really had turned a corner. How would I ever know?
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said finally. “I have to think about it.”
“Take a couple of weeks off if you need to,” Ozzie said. “We can always rerun old episodes.”
“That won’t look bad,” I muttered.
“Then come up with something,” he said. “Come back Friday and do something about it.” He marched out of the room, his lips pursed with pity and disappointment.
I waited for Matt to do the same. He was my age, stout, cheerful, with dark hair and faded T-shirt and jeans. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and finally regarded me like he was listening to a new album and trying to decide if he hated it.
“Well?” I finally asked because I couldn’t stand it anymore.
He ducked his gaze, hiding a smile. “Kitty. I’m with you. I’ve been with you since you sat in that studio”—he pointed down the hall—“and said you were a werewolf. I can’t say I understand any of this. I can’t say I ever did. But I’m not going to quit on you now.”
If he had … I don’t know what I would have done. Found someone to replace him, I supposed, but it wouldn’t have been the same.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice cracking.
“You’re welcome.”
* * *
THURSDAY NIGHT, I was at New Moon. Cormac had checked in with his parole officer—no harm done there—and was back at his warehouse job, playing the good citizen. He was getting pretty good at it. Ben had had a client call him from the county jail. The client wouldn’t talk over the phone about why he’d been arrested, so with a long-suffering roll of his eyes, Ben had run to the rescue. Life was getting back to normal.
Shaun was managing the restaurant tonight. He’d been hovering, crestfallen when I snapped at him to leave me alone. I was reading a popular history of London I’d picked up at the airport on the w
ay home, and had a pen and notepad to make notes. I was trying to think of some innocuous anecdote to focus the show on, but I found myself wanting to talk about Ned, the convocation of vampires, Flemming, what had happened to Tyler, and every encounter I’d had with Roman and Mercedes. Maybe I could come up with a compromise.
The e-mail comments I’d gotten through my Web site—not to mention blog posts, forum comments, op-ed pieces, essays, and rants—gave me an idea of what to expect when I opened the line for calls next time. Half the commentary was some form of, “Are you crazy?” Had I finally gone around the bend? Was I even really a werewolf or was this all an elaborate hoax? I hadn’t heard that one since my Senate testimony. I expected all of that. The problem was the other half of the comments, which assured me that I was exactly right, there was a mysterious global conspiracy, and here was the lengthy detailed explanation. My favorite so far described the baby-eating lizard aliens who made their home in a tunnel system deep below Denver International Airport. Awesome.
When I said, “But I’m right, my conspiracy is real,” I sounded just like the baby-eating lizard alien people.
Ben and I had started looking at houses in the western foothills. He was right, it was probably time. The condo felt too temporary for our increasingly settled lives. If I wanted to start a family like I kept talking about, more space would be useful. The trouble was, lost market share meant lost income. Even if I could put a book proposal together and sell it tomorrow, I couldn’t count on seeing the money for months. Ben was confident we could scrape together enough for bigger mortgage payments. I wasn’t so sure. I seemed to have lost my optimism somewhere along the way.
When my phone rang, the sound startled me. I’d been lost in my own world, and I hadn’t expected anyone to reach into that world to grab hold and yank me out.
Caller ID said Rick, which was a relief. He couldn’t possibly be disappointed in me. “Hello?”
“Kitty. Do you have time this evening to stop by Obsidian? I’d like to show you something.”