I perked up. “Can you do that?”
Now she sounded frustrated. “I’ll consider it.”
Which was something. For once, I felt better after a meeting with Hardin, rather than worse.
And this seemed as good a time as any to ask the big question. “Do you want to come on the show? I’d love to interview you. One of the first paranatural cops in the country—”
“No,” she said, glaring and stabbing into her newly arrived plate of french fries with her fork.
Ah well. I couldn’t have it all.
Mercedes Cook resumed her concert tour. The fallout from the public announcement of her vampirism was mixed. She was taken off the cast of the Anything Goes revival. The producers were fairly blunt about not wanting to be a party to the potential irony of having a vampire play the role of evangelizing chanteuse Reno Sweeney.
But her concerts sold out for the remainder of her tour. She added another dozen shows, and those sold out. She was in demand.
I had a feeling the whole performance gig was a sideline for her, and she didn’t much care about getting kicked off the musical, or that her concert popularity was skyrocketing. For her, it was all a means to an end.
I wondered: In how many of those cities on her tour did she inspire mayhem? How many revolutions did she leave in her wake?
And how many others like her moved from place to place for the purpose of manipulating the players on their own personal game boards?
And finally, at long last, the book came out.
Check another one off the “dream come true” list. I got to sign books at the Tattered Cover Bookstore. Awesome.
The late-evening event was totally last minute. I hadn’t planned on it—because I hadn’t planned on being in Denver when we were setting up all the publicity. But, as they often do, the plans changed. And there was the book, in hardcover, with the title blazoned across it: Underneath the Skin. With a cheesy subtitle, “Life and Lycanthropy,” which explained it all, really. The picture was from my trip to D.C. last fall, me walking through the crowd on the last day of the Senate hearings, my face looking up, determined, ready for the battles ahead. I hadn’t felt like that when the picture was taken. I’d felt like I was drowning. Ben in his polished lawyer guise was at my side, calm and ready for anything. He’d helped me get through it.
Better yet, people even showed up. A whole line of them. How cool was that? The line even stretched to the end of the room. A really interesting mix of people made up the gathering. Some of them I expected: a couple of clusters of folks dressed all in black, with stripy stockings, corsets, dyed hair, eyebrow rings, the whole nine yards. They stood right next to people who would have been at home at my parents’ country club. And everyone in between.
I even smelled a couple of vampires and lycanthropes.
Because of that, I wasn’t surprised when the line moved forward and Rick appeared in front of me.
We regarded each other for a long moment.
I spoke first. “Did you get the car back okay?”
“Yes. I even refrained from sending you the cleaning bill for the interior.”
“You mean you didn’t just—”
“Ah, no. I have some dignity left.”
I grinned at him. I had to appreciate a vampire with a sense of humor.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. I’m glad everything worked out.” Meaning: he was glad he didn’t get Ben killed. Me, too.
“So you owe me big-time, right?” He only smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask.”
“What’s the Long Game?”
He considered a moment, glancing briefly around at the line of people waiting to get their books signed, at others who might be listening. I didn’t expect him to actually speak. But he did, his voice low.
“Vampires have long lives. Long memories. Their strategies aren’t planned in terms of years or decades, but in centuries. From the start, they’ve asked the question, how much power can they get? How much can they control—how many lives, how many cities? Can anyone control it all? What would happen if one person—one being—could control it all? That’s the Long Game.”
“Control it all,” I said, baffled at the concept of trying to plan anything past next week. And here we were talking about centuries. “Why? Who’d want to?”
“That is a question I hope I never learn the answer to.” He seemed tired. Sad, maybe. The smile hid pain. “Some of us refuse to be a party to it. We keep our pockets of chaos operating.”
“This isn’t over, is it?”
He shook his head. “We’ll always have to watch.”
For usurpers, for invaders, for the ultimate evil descending upon us and stealing our souls. All of the above. I didn’t want to know.
I changed the subject. “Someday you have to tell me about Coronado. I want you to tell me where you came from and how you got here. The whole story. No dodging.”
“All right. I will, someday.”
Then he produced a copy of the book, which he’d been hiding behind his back. He gave me a gotcha look. “Can I get mine signed, too?”
Happily I took it and wrote with the most flourishing handwriting I could manage: To Rick: Always look on the sunny side of life. Love, Kitty.
Then Ben and I got this great idea. Well, I had the idea—borrowed it from Ahmed, the werewolf I’d met in Washington, D.C., who didn’t hold with packs and fighting. But Ben made it happen. Found the place and did the paperwork to set up the business.
He let me tell Shaun about it.
I picked up Shaun after he got off work and took him to the storefront on the east side of downtown. It had been a bar and grill until a few months ago, and would be again, or something like it, maybe, with luck. Shaun knew the place. He gave me a startled look when I pulled out the keys for the front door.
“It’s yours?” Shaun asked.
“Ben and I picked up the lease.” I led Shaun inside.
The fixtures had been gutted, which was fine, because I hoped we could redo it all. The bar and shelves behind it were intact, but everything else was a wide open expanse of hardwood floor. Potential incarnate.
I told him about D.C. “There’s this place run by a wolf named Ahmed. It isn’t anybody’s territory. Anyone’s welcome there, as long as they keep the peace. Wolves, foxes, jaguars, lions, anybody. People come there to talk, visit, drink, play music, relax. No pressure, no danger. You understand?”
He nodded, donning a slow smile. “Rick’s Café.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s got nothing to do—”
His grin broke full force. “Not that Rick. Casablanca.”
Oh, that Rick. “Yes. Exactly. Ahmed subsidized his place with a restaurant, but this has to be a real business. It has to support itself, and there aren’t enough lycanthropes around here to do that. So it has to be real, open to the public, everything, and still be a haven for people like us. And we need someone to run it. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Totally,” he said, not even a spot of hesitation, which gave me confidence. “Absolutely. There—that’s where the stage goes, for live music.” He marched to a corner and turned, sweeping a circle with his arms. His eyes lit up with plans. “And no TVs. I hate TVs in bars. And maybe we can have a private room in back for the pack.”
His enthusiasm was infectious. This was going to be good, I could feel it.
He said, “You know what you want to call the place?”
“I’ve had some ideas. Do you have any suggestions?”
He was still looking around, gazing in every corner, studying every wall. “New Moon,” he said.
I could already hear Billie Holiday playing on the sound system. I could smell beer and fresh appetizers, hear an espresso machine hissing away in the corner. Sense the press of bodies around me, all of them smiling. Nobody fighting.
“I like it,” I said.
“We’ll stay open all
night,” he continued. “Feed the nightclub crowd on weekends. We’ll need a liquor license, and—”
He kept going, spinning out plans, and I happily basked in the knowledge that I had chosen my minion well.
In the end, Mom was right. She’d been right the whole time, every single phone call she made to me when I was on the road, asking me when I was going to come home, making all those pleas. She knew, and I should have known, that I’d come back eventually.
For Mom’s birthday, we had a big party at their house. The spirit of celebration was headier than usual. After facing the possibility that one of these birthdays we wouldn’t have her anymore, we were determined to make a production of it. Cheryl had decorated the living room with streamers and balloons—which the kids couldn’t keep their hands off. Then Jeffy started crying when Nicky popped one in his face, and well . . . Cheryl stuffed all the balloons in a closet after that, and Dad distracted the kids with wrapping paper and boxes, the best toys ever. I’d brought a huge ice cream cake. The whole family was there, relatives I hadn’t seen in years stopped by, and with all the cake, snacks, and sodas, the whole place smelled like too much sugar.
The medical gurus decided Mom’s cancer was Stage II. The prognosis was still good, as she kept saying. She was recovering from her second chemotherapy treatment. We’d tried to schedule the party so she’d be mostly over the effects, and the plan seemed to have worked. She was up, well, and smiling. She still had her hair, but not her appetite. We’d filled the house with her favorite foods, and she couldn’t eat any of it. But she didn’t complain. She was determined to put on a good show for our guests.
I felt a shadow over her, from what Arturo had said at the hospital. That she was still sick, the cancer was still there, waiting to strike. I thought about telling her, with the idea that she could do something about it, we could attack it, really stop it. But I didn’t tell her. No matter what we did, we couldn’t know if the cancer was all gone. And Arturo could have been lying about it. All we could do was wait, which we’d have had to do anyway.
Cheryl and I were friends again. Not that we’d ever stopped being friends. But we were sisters, and sometimes that was different. We could take each other for granted.
We sat on the sofa together, kvetching.
“It was cool having a DJ for a sister,” Cheryl said, pouting a little. “I miss you just playing music all the time. You used to dig up the best stuff.”
“Like you ever listened,” I said. “I always did graveyards.”
“What do you think I listened to when I was up with the babies at midnight?”
She had a point. I let the warm glow of the compliment settle over me. My sister, my big sister, listened to my shift. “I used to think you had the best stuff. I think you’re the one who got me started on the whole music thing.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Did you ever give me back that Smiths tape?”
“Oh no, we are not starting that again—”
Mom, as usual, intervened. “What about you, Ben—what kind of music do you listen to?”
“He doesn’t like music,” I said, glaring.
Ben occupied a nearby armchair, nibbling at a piece of cake and trying to be unobtrusive. He looked at me, feigning shock and hurt. At least I thought he was feigning.
“I never said that,” he said. “I grew up watching MTV just like everyone else.”
Cheryl said, “And he’s old enough to remember when MTV played music.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ah yes, the battle cry of Generation X.” Now I had them both glaring at me. I gave up. I stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Anyone else want a soda?”
Mom watched all this, beaming, queen of all she surveyed. I stopped to hug her as I passed her chair. She was still sore, but her returning hug was strong. She’d make it, I knew she would, no matter what Arturo had said.
When I closed the fridge, I looked up to find that Ben had followed me into the kitchen.
“Can I talk to you a minute?” he said.
“What is it?” Something serious, I thought. Had to be. He had this look on his face, this too-somber and intent expression, like he was getting ready to do something difficult. To defend a client he knew was guilty. To break up with a girlfriend.
We stood for a moment, regarding each other, leaning side by side against the counter. My arms were crossed, his hands were shoved in his pockets. He was working up to saying something, and I wished he would just come out with it. I was starting to get nervous.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
“I think I already said yes, didn’t I?”
He pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it out to me. It was cupping a box. One of those little black velvet boxes from jewelry stores. I stopped breathing. Honest to God, I stopped breathing.
“I thought since we seem to have gotten the wolf side all straightened out, if maybe you’d want to make it official on the human side.” He opened the box, which was good, since all I could do was stare at it, completely dumbstruck. Sure enough, there it was. A diamond ring.
I looked at him. “You—you’re joking.”
“Oh, come on, even I’m not that big of a jerk. No, I’m not joking. Kitty—marry me.”
And I still couldn’t breathe. My eyes were stinging. I knew what to say. A shrill, obnoxious voice inside me—the DJ voice, I’d always thought of it—was screaming, Say yes, you idiot! Yes!
This was the most surreal thing that had ever happened to me. Then I realized—it was also one of the coolest things that had ever happened to me. I was about to burst, and that was why I couldn’t speak.
But something was wrong. I swallowed, thinking there must be some kind of mistake. “It’s silver.”
“Ah, no. White gold. I thought it’d be funny.” He shrugged and gave me the most sheepish, adorable grin I’d ever seen.
And it was funny, and I laughed, and threw myself at him, clinging to him, and he held me tight enough to break ribs, and I said it, “Yes, yes, yes.”
“What the hell’s going on in here?”
Ben and I pulled apart. My sister stood in the doorway. I was surprised to notice I didn’t feel at all like she’d caught me at something, like I usually did. No, I felt very, very smug.
Cheryl continued giving us her demanding big sister glare. Ben regarded her a moment. Then, with an obvious and dramatic flourish, he took the ring from the box, held it up to show her, lifted my left hand, and slipped on the ring. He looked back at her with a smug glare. I was grinning like an idiot.
She shrieked loud enough to crack glass. Ben cringed.
“Oh my God!” Then she ran to the next room and shrieked again. “Oh my God! Guess what guess what guess what—”
At least she’d left Ben and me alone again. I pressed myself close to him and nestled happily in his arms. He held me like he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon, which was just fine.
I felt him breathe out a long sigh. I could almost guess what he was thinking: That’s going to be my sister-in-law? He said, “You have too much family, you know that?”
“Impossible,” I said. “You can never have too much family.”
About the Author
Carrie Vaughn had a happy and relatively uneventful childhood, which means she had to turn to science fiction and fantasy for material to write about. An Air Force brat, she grew up all over the U.S. and managed to put down roots in Colorado, though she still has ambitions of being a world traveler. Learn more about Carrie’s novels, short stories, her dog Lily, and her fascination with costumes and stick figure cartoons at www.carrievaughn.com.
MORE KITTY!
Here is a special sneak preview of Carrie Vaughn’s next novel featuring Kitty Norville!
Coming Fall 2008
This was embarrassing. I never thought I’d become such a victim of tradition. Yet here I was, looking at the dresses in a bridal magazine.
And liking them. Wanting them. All that satin, silk, taffeta, and chiffon. Whi
te, ivory, cream—there’s a difference between white, ivory, and cream, I learned. I could even wear rose or ice blue if I wanted to be daring. Then there were all the flowers and jewelry. Diamonds and silver. If only I could wear silver without breaking out in welts. Okay, gold then. I could do gold. I’d be a princess, a vision, absolutely stunning. And all I needed was a ten thousand dollar dress.
“I can’t believe it costs this much to take a couple of pictures,” Ben muttered, studying the brochure for a photographer, one of a dozen or so we’d collected. All the brochures—caterers, reception halls, DJs, tuxedo rentals, and a dozen other services I didn’t even know we needed—lay piled on the table between us, along with magazines and notepads filled with lists, endless lists, of everything we were supposed to be making decisions about. We didn’t even have a date for the wedding yet. My mother had helpfully delivered all this information to me. She was very excited about it all.
We sat at a table for two in the back of New Moon, a new bar and grill near downtown. I had hoped we’d be out of the way of the noise at the bar, which was crowded with a group of after-work businesspeople, and the diners in the rest of the place. The place was busy, almost filled to capacity. Which was good, fantastic even, because Ben and I were the restaurant’s primary investors.
“Wedding photography’s big business,” I said, not looking up from the magazine full of dresses that cost more than I made in a year at my first job.
“It’s a racket. What if we got my friend Joe to do it? He’s pretty good with a camera.”
“Isn’t he the one who’s the crime scene photographer for the Denver PD?”
“So?”
I shook my head. My wedding was not going to be a crime scene. Not if I could help it. “Do you think I should go sleeveless? Something like that?” I held up the magazine to show a perfectly airbrushed model in a white satin haute couture gown. I wondered if my shoulders were too bony to pull off a dress like that.
“Whatever you want.”
“But do you like it?”