Kitty and the Midnight Hour Part 3

"It isn't how I thought it would be." And Marie certainly wasn't the first to discover this.

"Let me guess: There's a lot more blood involved than you thought there would be. He makes you clean up after feeding orgies, doesn't he?"

"Oh, no, the blood doesn't bother me at all. It's just that, wella"he doesn't drink from my neck. He prefers drinking from my thigh."

"And you're quibbling? You must have lovely thighs."

"It's supposed to be the neck. In all the stories it's the neck."

"There are some vampire legends where the vampire tears out the heart and laps up the blood. Be happy you didn't hook up with one of those."

"And he doesn't wear silk."

What could I say? The poor girl had had her illusions shattered.

"Does he make you eat houseflies?"

"Noa""

"Marie, if you present your desires as a request, not a demanda"make it sound as attractive as you think it isa"your Master may surprise you. Buy him a silk s.h.i.+rt for his birthday. Hm?"

"Okay. I'll try. Thanks, Kitty."

"Good luck, Marie. Next caller, Pete, you're on the air."

"I'm a werewolf trapped in a human body."

"Well, yeah, that's kind of the definition."

"No, really. I'm trapped."

"Oh? When was the last time you shape-s.h.i.+fted?"

"That's just ita"I've never shape-s.h.i.+fted."

"So you're not really a werewolf."

"Not yet. But I was meant to be one, I just know it. How do I get a werewolf to attack me?"

"Stand in the middle of a forest under a full moon with a raw steak tied to your face, holding a sign that says, 'Eat me; I'm stupid'?"

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I! Listen, you do not want to be attacked by a werewolf. You do not want to be a werewolf. You may think you do, but let me explain this one more time: Lycanthropy is a disease. It's a chronic, life-altering disease that has no cure. Its victims may learn to live with ita"some of them better than othersa"but it prevents them from living a normal life ever again. It greatly increases your odds of dying prematurely and horribly."

"But I want fangs and claws. I want to hunt deer with my bare hands. That would be so cool!"

I rubbed my forehead and sighed. I got at least one of these calls every show. If I could convince just one of these jokers that being a werewolf was not all that cool, I'd consider the show a success.

"It's a lot different when you hunt deer not because you want to but because you have to, because of your innate bloodl.u.s.t, and because if you didn't hunt deer you'd be hunting people, and that would get you in trouble. How do you feel about hunting people, Pete? How about eating people?"

"Um, I would get used to it?"

"You'd get people with silver bullets gunning for you. For the last time, I do not advocate lycanthropy as a lifestyle choice. Next caller, please."

"Um, yeah. Hi."

"h.e.l.lo."

"I have a question for you. Werewolves and vampiresa"we're stronger than humans. What's to stop us from, oh, I don't knowa robbing banks? The police can't stop us. Regular bullets don't work. So why aren't more of us out there wreaking havoc?"

"Human decency," I said without thinking.

"But we're nota""

"a"human? Do you really believe that you're not human?"

"Well, no. How can I be?"

I crossed my arms and sighed. "The thing I keep hearing from all the people I talk to is that despite what they are and what they can do, they still want to be a part of human society. Society has benefits, even for them. So they take part in the social contract. They agree to live by human rules. Which means they don't go around 'wreaking havoc.' And that's why, ultimately, I think we can all find a way to live together."

Wow. I shocked myself sometimes with how reasonable I made all this sound. I might even have believed it. No, I had to believe it, or I wouldn't be doing the show.

The caller hesitated before saying, "So I tell you I'm a werewolf, and you'll tell me that you think I'm human?"

He couldn't know that he was asking me to label myself. "Yes. And if you live in the human world, you have to live by human laws."

The trick with this show was confidence. I only had to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

"Yeah, well, thanks."

"Thanks for calling. h.e.l.lo, James, you're on the air."

"I have a question, Kitty." His voice came low and m.u.f.fled, like he was speaking too close to the handset.

"Okay."

"Does a werewolf need to be in a pack? Can't he just be on his own?" A sense of longing tainted the question.

"I suppose, theoretically, a werewolf doesn't need a pack. Why do you ask?"

"Curious. Just curious. It seems like no one on your show ever talks about being a werewolf without a pack. Do they?"

"You're right, I don't hear much about werewolves without hearing about packs. I thinka"" This was where the show got tricky: How much could I talk about without bringing up personal experience, without giving something away? "I think packs are important to werewolves. They offer safety, protection, a social group. Also control. They're not going to want a rogue wolf running around making a mess of things and drawing attention to the rest of them. A pack is a way to keep tabs on all the lycanthropes in an area. Same thing for vampire Families."

"But just because a werewolf is on his own doesn't mean he's automatically going to go out and start killing people. Does it?" The guy was tense. Even over the phone I could hear an edge to his voice.

"What do you think, James?"

"I don't know. That's why I called you. You're always talking about how anybody, even monsters, can choose what they do, can choose whether or not they're going to let their natures control them, or rise above all that. But can we really? Maybea"maybe if I don't have a packa if I don't want to have anything to do with a packa maybe that's my own way of taking control. I'm not giving in. I don't have to be like that. I can survive on my own. Can't I? Can't I?"

I couldn't do it. From the night I was attacked until now, someonea"T.J., Carl, or somebodya"had been there to tell me I was going to be okay, that I had friends. They helped me keep control. They gave me a place to go when I felt like losing it. I didn't have to worry about hurting them. If I didn't have that, what would I do? I'd be alone. How many people were therea"people like James, who didn't have packs or Families or anythinga"how many of them were listening to my show and thinking I had all the answers? That wasn't what I'd planned when I started this.

Had there been a plan when I started this?

Who was I to think I could actually help some of these people? I couldn't get along without my pack. Maybe James was different.

"I don't know, James. I don't know anything about your life. If you want me to sit here and validate you, tell you that yeah, you're right, you don't need a pack and everything's going to be okay, I can't do that. I don't have the answers. I can only go by what I hear and think. Look at your life and decide if you're happy with it. If you can live with it and the people around you can live with it, fine, great, you don't need a pack. If you're not happy, decide why that is and do something about it. Maybe a pack would help, maybe not. This is a strange, strange world we're talking about. It'd be stupid to think that one rule applies to everyone." I waited a couple of heartbeats. I could hear his breathing over the line. "James, you okay?"

Another heartbeat of a pause. "Yeah."

"I'm going to the next call now. Keep your chin up and take it one day at a time."

"Okay, Kitty. Thanks."

Please, please, please let the next call be an easy one. I hit the phone line.

"You're on the air."

"Hi, Kitty. So, I've been a lycanthrope for about six years now, and I think I've adjusted pretty well. I get along with my pack and all."

"Good, good."

"But I don't know if I can talk to them about this. See, I've got this rasha""

I had an office. Not a big office. More like a closet with a desk. But I had my own telephone. I had business cards. Kitty Norville, The Midnight Hour, k.n.o.b. There was a time just a few months ago when I'd a.s.sumed I would never have a real job. Now I did. Business cards. Who'd have guessed?

The show aired once a week, but I worked almost every day. Afternoons and evenings, mostly, in keeping with the nocturnal schedule I'd adopted. I spent an unbelievable amount of time dealing with organizational c.r.a.p: setting up guest interviews, running damage control, doing research. I didn't mind. It made me feel like a real journalist, like my NPR heroes. I even got calls from the media. The show was fringe, it was wacky, and it was starting to attract attention from people who monitored pop-culture weirdness. A lot of people thought it was a gimmick appealing to the goth crowd. I had developed a set of canned answers for just about every question.

I got asked a lot if I was a vampire/lycanthrope/ witch/whatever; from the skeptics the question was if I thought I was a vampire/lycanthrope/witch/whatever. I always said I was human. Not a lie, exactly. What else could I say?

I liked the research. I had a clipping service that delivered articles from all walks of media about anything pertaining to vampires, lycanthropes, magic, witchcraft, ghosts, psychic research, crop circles, telepathy, divining, lost citiesa"anything. Lots of grist for the mill.

A producer from Uncharted World called to see if I wanted to be on the show. I said no. I wasn't ready for television. I was never going to be ready for television. No need to expose myself any more than necessary.

I got fan mail. Well, some of it was fan mail. Some of it was more along the lines of "Die, you satanic b.i.t.c.h from h.e.l.l." I had a folder that I kept those in and gave to the police every week. If I ever got a.s.sa.s.sinated, they'd have a nice, juicy suspect list. Right.

Werewolves really are immune to regular bullets. I've seen it.

Six months. I'd done the show once a week for six months. Twenty-four episodes. I was broadcast on sixty-two stations, nationwide. Small potatoes in the world of syndicated talk radio. But I thought it was huge. I thought I would have gotten tired of it by now. But I always seemed to have more to talk about.

One evening, seven or eight o'clock, I was in my officea"my office!a"reading the local newspaper. The downtown mauling death of a prost.i.tute made it to page three. I hadn't gotten past the first paragraph when my phonea"my phone!a"rang.

"h.e.l.lo, this is Kitty."

"You're Kitty Norville?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Who is this?"

He hesitated a beat before continuing. "These people who call youa"the ones who say they're psychic, or vampires and werewolvesa"do you believe them? Do you believe it's real?"

I suddenly felt like I was doing the show, on the phone, confronting the bizarreness that was my life head-on. But it was just me and the guy on the phone. He soundeda ordinary.

When I did the show, I had to draw people out. I had to answer them in a way that made them comfortable enough to keep talking. I wanted to draw this guy out.

"Yes, I do."

"Do they scare you?"

My brow puckered. I couldn't guess where this was going. "No. They're people. Vampirism, the rest of ita"they're diseases, not a mark of evil. It's unfortunate that some people use them as a license to be evil. But you can't condemn all of them because of that."

"That's an unusually rational att.i.tude, Ms. Norville." The voice took on an edge. Authoritative. Decisive, like he knew where he stood now.

"Who are you?"

"I'm attached to a government agencya""

"Which one?"

"Never mind that I shouldn't even be talking to you like thisa""

"Oh, give me a break!"

"I've wondered for some time now what your motivations are in doing your show."

"Let me at least take a guess. Are you with the NIH?"

"I'm not sure the idea would have occurred to someone who didn't have aa personala interest."

A chill made my hair stand on end. This was getting too close.

I said, "So, are you with the CDC?"

A pause, then, "Don't misunderstand me, I admire the work you're doing. But you've piqued my curiosity. Ms. Norvillea"what are you?"

Okay, this was just weird. I had to talk fast to fend off panic. "What do you mean, 'what am I?' "

"I think we can help each other. An exchange of information, perhaps."

Feeling a bit like the miller's daughter in Rumpelstiltskin, I took a wild stab. "Are you with the CIA?"

He said, "See what you can find on the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology." Then he hung up.

Great, I had my own personal Deep Throat.