Kitty Goes to Washington

Chapter 2

The animal, rabbit, squeals once, falls still. Blood fills mouth, burns like fire. This is life, joy, ecstasy, feeding by the silver light—

If turning Wolf felt like being drunk, the next day definitely felt like being hungover.

I lay in the dirt and decayed leaves, naked, missing the other wolves terribly. We always woke up together in a dog pile, so to speak. I'd always woken up with T.J. at my back. At least I remembered how I got here this time. I whined, groaned, stretched, found my clothes, brushed myself off, and got dressed. The sky was gray; the sun would rise soon. I wanted to be out of here by then.

I got to my car just as the first hikers of the morning pulled into the trailhead parking area. I must have looked a mess: hair tangled, shirt untucked, carrying sneakers in my hand. They stared. I glared at them as I climbed into my own car and drove back to the hotel for a shower.

At noon, I was driving on I-40 heading west. It seemed like a good place to be, for a while. I'd end up in Los Angeles, and that sounded like an adventure.

The middle of the desert between Flagstaff and L.A. certainly wasn't anything resembling an adventure. I played just about every CD I'd brought with me while I traveled through the land of no radio reception.

Which made it all the more surreal when my cell phone rang.

Phone reception? Out here?

I put the hands-free earpiece in and pushed the talk button.

"Hello?"

"Kitty. It's Ben."

I groaned. Ben O'Farrell was my lawyer. Sharp as a tack and vaguely disreputable. He'd agreed to represent me, after all.

"Happy to hear you, too."

"Ben, it's not that I don't like you, but every time you call it's bad news."

"You've been subpoenaed by the Senate."

Not one to mince words was Ben.

"Excuse me?"

"A special oversight committee of the United States Senate requests the honor of your presence at upcoming hearings regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. I guess they think you're some kind of expert on the subject."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Yeah, I'd heard him, and as a result my brain froze.

Senate? Subpoena? Hearings? As in Joe McCarthy and the Hollywood blacklist? As in Iran-Contra?

"Kitty?"

"Is this bad? I mean, how bad is it?"

"Calm down. It isn't bad. Senate committees have hearings all the time. It's how they get information. Since they don't know anything about paranatural biology, they've called hearings."

It made sense. He even made it sound routine. I still couldn't keep the panic out of my voice. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to go to Washington, D.C., and answer the nice senators' questions."

That was on the other side of the country. How much time did I have? Could I drive it? Fly? Did I have anything I could wear to Congress? Would they tell me the questions they wanted to ask ahead of time, as if I could study for it like it was some kind of test?

They didn't expect me to do this by myself, did they?

"Ben? You have to come with me."

Now he sounded panicked. "Oh, no. They're just going to ask you questions. You don't need a lawyer there."

"Come on. Please? Think of it as a vacation. It'll all go on the expense account."

"I don't have time—"

"Honestly, what do you think the odds are that I can keep out of trouble once I open my mouth? Isn't there this whole 'contempt of Congress' thing that happens when I say something that pisses them off? Would you rather be there from the start or have to fly in in the middle of things to get me out of jail for mouthing off at somebody important?"

His sigh was that of a martyr. "When you're right, you're right."

Victory! "Thanks, Ben. I really appreciate it. When do we need to be there?"

"We've got a couple weeks yet."

And here I was, going the wrong way.

"So I can drive there from Barstow in time."

"What the hell are you doing in Barstow?"

"Driving?"

Ben made an annoyed huff and hung up on me.

So. I was going to Washington, D.C.

I seemed to be living my life on the phone lately. I could go for days without having a real face-to-face conversation with anyone beyond "No, I don't want fries with that." I was turning into one of those jokers who walks around with a hands-free earpiece permanently attached to one ear. Sometimes, I just forgot it was there.

I went to L.A., did two shows, interviewed the band—no demon possessions happened in my presence, but they played a screechy death metal-sounding thing that made me wish I'd been out of my body for it. That left me a week or so to drive to the East Coast.

I was on the road when I called Dr. Paul Flemming. Flemming headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, the focus of the Senate hearing in question. Until a month ago it had been a confidential research organization, a secret laboratory investigating a field that no one who wasn't involved believed even existed. Then Flemming held a press conference and blew the doors wide open. He thought the time was right to make the Center's work public, to officially recognize the existence of vampires, werewolves, and a dozen other things that go bump in the night. I was sure that part of why he did it was my show. People had already started to believe, and accept.

I'd been trying to talk to him. I had his phone number, but I only ever got through to voice mail. As long as I kept trying, he'd get so sick of my messages that he'd call me back eventually.

Or get a restraining order.

The phone rang. And rang. I mentally prepared another version of my message—please call back, we have to talk, I promise not to bite.

Then someone answered. "Hello?" The car swerved; I was so surprised I almost let go of the steering wheel. "Hello? Dr. Flemming?"

There was a pause before he answered, "Kitty Norville. How nice to hear from you."

He sounded polite, like this was a friendly little chat, as if there wasn't any history between us. He wasn't going to get away with that.

"I really need to talk to you. You spent six months calling me anonymously, dropping mysterious hints about your work and suggesting that you want me to help you without ever giving any details, then without any warning you go public, and I have to recognize your voice off a radio broadcast of a press conference. Then silence. You don't want to talk to me. And now I've been subpoenaed to testify before a Senate committee about this can of worms you've opened. Don't get me wrong, I think it's a great can of worms. But what exactly are you trying to accomplish?"

He said, "I want the Center to keep its funding."

At last, a straight answer. I could imagine what had happened: as a secret research organization, the Center's funding was off the books, or disguised under some other innocuous category. An enterprising young congressman must have seen that there was a stream of money heading into some nebulous and possibly useless avenue and started an investigation.

Or maybe Flemming had wanted the Center to be discovered in this manner all along. Now the Senate was holding official hearings, and he'd get to show his work to the world. I just wished he'd warned me.

"So all you have to do is make sure the Center comes off looking good."

"Useful," he said. "It has to look useful. Good and useful aren't always the same thing. I'd heard that you'd been called to testify. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be," I said lightly. "It'll be fun. I'm looking forward to it. But I'd really like to meet you beforehand and get your side of the story."

"There's nothing much to tell."

"Then humor me. I'm insanely curious." Wait for it, wait for it—"How about I interview you on the show? You could get the public behind you."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Good thing I was driving across Texas—no turns and nothing to run into. Flemming had all my attention.

"This may be your only chance to tell your side of the story, why you're doing this research and why you need funding, outside of the hearings. Never underestimate the power of public opinion."

"You're persuasive."

"I try." Carry them along with sheer enthusiasm. That was the trick. I felt like a commercial.

He hesitated; I let him think about it. Then he said, "Call me again when you get to D.C."

At this point, anything that wasn't "no" was a victory. "You promise you'll actually answer the phone and not screen me with voice mail?"

"I'll answer."

"Thank you."

Mental calculation—the next show was Friday, in four days. I could reach D.C. by then. I could get Flemming on the show before the hearings started.

Time for another call, to Matt this time. "Matt? Can you see about setting up this week's show in Washington, D.C.?"

For years I hadn't left the town I lived in, much less driven across country. I didn't want to leave the place where I was comfortable and safe. It was easy to stay in one place and let my packmates, my alpha, take care of me. Easy to stagnate. Then the show started, and the boundaries became too narrow. What was supposed to happen—what happened among wild wolves, behavior that carried over to the lycanthropic variety—was that a young wolf moved up through the pecking order, testing boundaries until she challenged the leaders themselves, and if she won, she became the alpha.

I couldn't do it. I challenged and couldn't lead. I left town. I'd been essentially homeless since then. Wandering, a rogue wolf.

It wasn't so bad.

I drank coffee, which put me on edge but kept me awake and driving. Before I left Denver I'd never done this, driven for hours by myself, until the asphalt on the highway buzzed and the land whipped by in a blur. It made me feel powerful, in a way. I didn't have to listen to anyone, I could stop when I wanted, eat where I wanted, and no one second-guessed my directions.

I took the time to play tourist on the way. I stopped at random bronze historical markers, followed brown landmark highway signs down obscure two-lane highways, saw Civil War battlefields and giant plaster chickens. Maybe after the hearings I could set some kind of crazy goal and make it a publicity stunt: do the show from every state capital, a different city each week for a year. I could get the producers to pay for a trip to Hawaii. Oh, yeah.

Matt set me up at an Arlington, Virginia, radio station. I got there Friday around noon. I was cutting it close; the show aired live Friday night.

Lucky for me, Flemming had agreed to be a guest on the show.

The station's offices and broadcast center, a low brick fifties-era building with the call letters hung outside in modernist steel, were in a suburban office park overgrown with thick, leafy trees. Inside the swinging glass doors, the place was like a dozen other public and talk radio stations I'd been to: cluttered but respectable, run by sincere people who couldn't seem to find time to water the yellowing ficus plant in the corner.

A receptionist sat at a desk crowded with unsorted mail. She was on the phone. I approached, smiling in what I hoped was a friendly and unthreatening manner—at least I hoped that the dazed, vacuous smile I felt would pass for friendly. I could still feel the roar of the car tires in my tendons. She held her hand out in a "wait a minute" gesture.

"—I don't care what he told you, Grace. He's cheating on you. Yes… yes. See, you already know it. Who works past eleven every night? Insurance salesmen don't have night shifts, Grace… Fine, don't listen to me, but when you find someone else's black lace panties in his glove box don't come cryin' to me."

My life could be worse. I could be hosting a talk show on normal relationship problems.

After hanging up the phone she turned a sugary smile on me as if nothing had happened. "What can I do for you?"

Wadded up in my hand I had a piece of paper with the name of the station manager. "I'm here to see Liz Morgan."

"I think she may be out to lunch, let me check a minute." She played tag with the intercom phone system, buzzing room after room with no luck. I was about to tell her not to worry about it, that I'd go take a nap in my car until she got back.

"I don't know. I'll ask." She looked up from a rather involved conversation on one of the lines. "Can I pass along your name?"

"Kitty Norville. I should be scheduled to do a show tonight."

Raised brows told me she'd heard the name before.

She didn't take her gaze off me when she passed along the answer.

"Says she's Kitty Norville… that's right… I think so. All right, I'll send her back." She put away the handset. "Wes is the assistant manager. He said to go on back and he'll talk to you. Last door on the right." She gestured down a hallway.

I felt her watching me the whole way. Some time ago I'd stated on the air, on live national radio, that I was a werewolf. Listeners generally took that to mean a couple different things: that I was a werewolf, or that I was crazy. Or possibly that I was involved in an outrageous publicity stunt pandering to the gullible and superstitious.

Any one of them was stare-worthy.

I arrived at the last door, which stood open. Two desks and two different work spaces occupied the room, which was large enough to establish an uneasy truce between them. The man at the messier of the two stood as soon as I appeared and made his way around the furniture. He left a half-played game of solitaire on his computer.

He came at me so quickly with his hand outstretched, ready to shake, that I almost backed out of the way. He was in his twenties, with floppy hair and a grin that probably never went away. Former college cheerleader, I'd bet.

"Kitty Norville? You're Kitty Norville? I'm a big fan! Hi, I'm Wes Brady, it's great to have you here!"

"Hi," I said, letting him pump my hand. "So, um. Thanks for letting me set up shop here on such short notice."

"No problem. Looking forward to it. Come in, have a seat."

What I really wanted was to have a look at their studio, meet the engineer who'd be running the board for me, then find a hotel, shower, and supper. Wes wanted to chat. He pointed me to a chair in the corner and pulled the one from his desk over.

He said, "So. I've always wanted to ask, and now that you're here, well—"

I prepared for the interrogation.

"Where do you come up with this stuff?"

"Excuse me?"

"On your show. I mean, do you coach callers? Are they actors? Do you have plants? How scripted is it? How many writers do you have? At first I thought it was a gag, we all did. But you've kept it up for a year now, and it's great! I gotta know how you do it."

I might as well hit my head against a brick wall.

Conspiratorially, I leaned forward over the plastic arm of the retro office chair. He bent toward me, his eyes wide. Because of course I'd give away trade secrets to anyone who asked.

"Why don't you stick around tonight and find out?"

"Come on, not even a little hint?"

"Now where's the fun in that?" I stood. "Hey, it's been great meeting you, but I really should get going."

"Oh—but you just got here. I could show you around. I could—"

"Is he bothering you?"

A woman in a rumpled navy-blue suit a few years out-of-date, her black hair short and moussed, stood in the doorway, her arms crossed.

"You must be Liz Morgan," I said, hoping I sounded enthusiastic rather than relieved. "I'm Kitty Norville. My colleague should have been in touch with you."

"Yes. Nice to meet you." Thankfully, her handshake was perfectly sedate and functional. "Wes, you have that marketing report for me yet?"

"Um, no. Not yet. Just getting to it now. Be ready in an hour. Yes, ma'am." Wes bounded to his desk and closed the solitaire game.

Liz gave me exactly the tour I wanted and answered all my questions. Even, "That Wes is a bit excitable, isn't he?"

"You should see him without his medication."

She saw me to the door and recommended a good motel nearby.

"Thanks again," I said. "It's always kind of a crap shoot finding a station that'll even touch my show."

She shook her head, and her smile seemed long-suffering. "Kitty, we're five miles from Washington, D.C. There's nothing you can throw at us that'll compare with what I've seen come out of there."

I couldn't say I believed her. Because if she was right, I was about to get into things way over my head.

I returned to the station a couple of hours early and waited to meet Dr. Paul Flemming. I fidgeted. Ivy, the receptionist, told me all kinds of horror stories about traffic in the D.C. area, the Beltway, the unreliability of the Metro, all of it giving me hundreds of reasons to think that Flemming couldn't possibly arrive in time for the show. It was okay, I tried to convince myself. This sort of thing had happened before. I'd had guests miss their slot entirely. It was one of the joys of live radio. I just had to ad-lib. That was why the phone lines were so great.

Somebody was always willing to make an ass out of themselves on the air.

Ivy went home for the evening, so at least the horror stories stopped. Liz and Wes stuck around to watch the show. I paced in the lobby, back and forth. A bad habit. The Wolf's bad habit. I let her have it—it gave her something to do and kept her quiet. Anxiety tended to make her antsy.

Me. Made me antsy.

Fifteen minutes before start time, a man opened the glass door a foot and peered inside. I stopped. "Dr. Flemming?"

Straightening, he entered the lobby and nodded.

A weight lifted. "I'm Kitty, thanks for coming."

Flemming wasn't what I expected. From his voice and the way he carried on, I expected someone cool and polished, slickly governmental, with a respectable suit and regulation haircut. A player. Instead, he looked like a squirrelly academic. He wore a corduroy jacket, brown slacks, and his light brown hair looked about a month overdue for a cut. His long face was pale, except for the shadows under his eyes. He was probably in his mid-forties.

In the same calm voice I recognized from a half-dozen phone calls, he said, "You're not what I expected."

I was taken aback. "What did you expect?"

"Someone older, I think. More experienced." I wasn't sure if he intended that as a compliment or a mere statement of fact.

"You don't have to be old to have experience, Doctor." And what did he know about it? "Come on back and I'll show you the studio."

I made introductions all around. I tried to put Flemming at ease; he seemed nervous, glancing over his shoulder, studying the station staff as if filing them away in some mental classification system for later reference. I wasn't sure if that was his academic nature or his government background at work. He moved stiffly, taking the seat I offered him like he expected it to slide out from under him. The guy was probably nervous in his own living room. Maybe he was relaxed, and this was how he always acted.

I showed him the headphones and mike, found my own headset, and leaned back in my chair, finally in my element.

The sound guy counted down through the booth window, and the first guitar chords of the show's theme song—Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising"—cued up. It didn't matter how many different stations I did the show from, this moment always felt the same: it was mine. I had the mike, I was in control, and as long as that on air sign stayed lit, I called the shots. Until something went horribly wrong, of course. I could usually get through the introduction without having a crisis.

"Good evening. This is The Midnight Hour, the show that isn't afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there. I'm Kitty Norville, your charming hostess.

"I have as my very special guest this evening Dr. Paul Flemming. As you may or may not know, a little over a month ago Dr. Flemming held a press conference that announced scientific recognition of what used to be considered mythical, supernatural forms of human beings. Vampires, werewolves—you know, people like me. He has an M.D. from Columbia University, a Ph.D. in epidemiology from Johns Hopkins, and for the last five years has headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Welcome, Dr. Flemming."

"Thank you," he said, managing to sound calm despite the anxious way he perched at the edge of his seat, like he was getting ready to run when the mortars started dropping.

"Dr. Flemming. The Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Am I correct in stating that this is a government-funded organization dedicated to the study of what I believe you've called alternate forms of human beings? Vampires, werewolves, et cetera?"

"Only in the simplest terms. The nature of the research was not always explicitly stated."

"You couldn't exactly put down 'Give me money for werewolves,' could you?"

"Ah, no," he said, giving me the tiniest smile.

"So this was a secret government research program."

"I don't know that I'd go that far. I don't want to enter the realm of conspiracy theory. The Center's findings were always available."

"But in the most obscure outlets. No attention was drawn to a potentially explosive area of research. I would have thought, as part of this research team, you'd have wanted to announce your findings a lot sooner."

"It's not so simple. You can appreciate that we risked a great amount of criticism if we drew too much attention before we were ready. We needed to have data in hand, and a good potential of public support. Otherwise we would have been relegated to the back pages of the annals of bad science."

"In your mind, this is clearly a scientific endeavor."

"Of course. The best way to approach any line of inquiry is through the scientific method."

I was quite fond of postmodern literary analysis myself, as a line of inquiry. "What drew you to the scientific study of a subject that most people are all too happy to dismiss as folklore?"

"So many legends have a seed of truth. In many cases, that seed of truth persists, even in the face of great skepticism. The existence of a real-life King Arthur for example. How many legitimate historical and archaeological investigations have been inspired by Arthurian literature? Vampire and shape-shifter legends exist all over the world, and I've always been struck by the similarities. I simply pursued the seeds of truth at their core."

I said, "I read a book once about how many vampire mythologies might have grown out of primitive burial practices and superstitions—bloated corpses bursting out of shallow graves with drops of blood on their mouths, as if they'd been feeding. That sort of thing. By the same token, some scholars traced werewolf legends to actual medical conditions marked by excessive hair growth, or psychological disorders that caused periodic animalistic, berserker-type behavior. That's where scientific inquiry into these subjects usually leads: to rationalizations. What told you that there was something real behind it all?" I was fishing for a personal anecdote. He'd had a run-in with a were-dingo as a small child and it changed him forever, or something.

"I suppose I've always appreciated a good mystery," he said.

"But there are so many other mysteries for a medical doctor to unravel. Like a cure for cancer. Surefire weight loss on a diet of chocolate ice cream."

"Maybe I wanted to break new ground."

"Why now? Why last month's press conference? Why draw attention to your research at this point and not earlier?"

He shrugged and began obviously fidgeting—wringing his hands, adjusting his seat. I felt a little thrill—was I getting to him? Was I making him squirm? Maybe he was just shifting his position on the chair.

"Ideally, a complete report would have been published in a respected journal, making all our findings public. But this isn't always an ideal world. Members of Congress began taking an interest, and if Congress wants to ask questions, who am I to argue? I wanted everyone to be clear that this project isn't shrouded in secrecy."

Could have fooled me. In a rare show of restraint I didn't say that. I had to be nice; wouldn't do any good to totally alienate my only source of information.

"What do you ultimately hope to accomplish with the Center?"

"To expand the boundaries of knowledge. Why embark on any scientific endeavor?"

"The quest for truth."

"It's what we're all trying to accomplish, isn't it?"

"In my experience, this particular subject evokes a lot of strong emotion. People vehemently believe in the existence of vampires, or they don't. If they do, they firmly believe vampires are evil, or they're simply victims of a rare disease. Where does this emotion, these strong beliefs, fit into your investigations?"

"We approach this subject only from the standpoint of fact. What can be measured."

"So if I asked what you believe—"

"I think you know what I believe: I'm studying diseases that can be quantified."

This was starting to sound circular. And dull. I should have known that Flemming wouldn't be an ideal interviewee. Every time I'd ever talked to him, he'd been evasive. I'd really have to work to draw him out.

"Tell me how you felt the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes."

Until that moment, he hadn't looked at me. That was pretty normal; there was a lot in a studio booth to distract a newcomer: dials, lights, and buttons. It was natural to look at what you spoke to. People tended to look at the foam head of the microphone.

But now he looked at me, and I looked back, brows raised, urging him on. His gaze was narrow, inquiring, studying me. Like he'd just seen me for the first time, or seen me in a new light. Like I was suddenly one of the subjects in his study, and he was holding me up against the statistics he'd collected.

It was a challenging stare. He smelled totally human, a little bit of sweat, a little bit of wool from his jacket, not a touch of supernatural about him. But I had a sudden urge to growl a warning.

"I don't see how that's relevant," he said.

"Of course it isn't relevant, but this show is supposed to be entertaining. I'm curious. How about a cold hard fact: when was the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes?"

"I suppose it would have been about fifteen years ago."

"This was before you started working with the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology?"

"Yes. I was in the middle of a pathology residency in New York. We'd gotten an anomalous blood sample from a victim of a car accident. The report from the emergency room was horrendous—crushed rib cage, collapsed lungs, ruptured organs. The man shouldn't have survived, but he did. Somehow they patched him up. I was supposed to be looking for drug intoxication, blood alcohol levels. I didn't find anything like that, but the white blood cell count was abnormal for a sample with no other sign of disease or infection. I went to see this patient in the ICU the next day, to draw another sample and check for any conditions that might have accounted for the anomaly. He wasn't there. He'd been moved out of the ICU, because two days after this terrible accident, he was sitting up, off the ventilator, off oxygen, like he'd just had a concussion or something. I remember looking at his chart, then looking up at him, my mouth open with shock. And he smiled. Almost like he wanted to burst out laughing. He seemed to be daring me to figure out what had happened. I didn't know what he was at the time, but I'll never forget that look in his eyes. He was the only one who wasn't shocked that he was still alive. I never forgot that look. It made me realize that for all my knowledge, for all my studies and abilities, there was a whole world out there that I knew nothing about."

"And the next time you saw that look"—the challenge, the call to prove one's dominance, like the one I'd just given him—"you recognized it."

"That's right."

"Did you ever find out more about him? Did he ever tell you what he was?"

"No. He checked himself out of the hospital the next day. He didn't have health insurance, so I couldn't track him. He probably didn't think he needed it."

I'd seen werewolves die. It took ripping their hearts out, tearing their heads off, or poisoning them with silver.

"You wanted to find out how he'd survived. How his wounds had healed so quickly."

"Of course."

"Is that as far as your research goes? You mentioned once the possibility of a cure."

"Every scientist who studies a disease wants to find the cure for it. But we don't even understand these diseases yet. Finding a cure may be some time off, and I don't want to raise any hopes."

"How close are you to understanding them? I've heard every kind of theory about what causes them, from viral DNA to unbalanced humors."

"That's just it, the most interesting feature of these diseases is that they don't act like diseases. Yes, they're infectious, they alter the body from its natural form. But far from causing damage or sickness, they actually make their victims stronger. In the case of vampirism, the disease grants near immortality, with relatively innocuous side effects."

He called the need to drink human blood an innocuous side effect?

He continued. "To learn the secret of how that happens would be a fantastic discovery."

"You're talking about medical applications." He hesitated again, folding his hands on the table in front of him and visibly reining back his enthusiasm. "As I said, I don't want to raise any hopes. We've barely begun to scratch the surface of this field of study."

I had a feeling that was all I was going to get out of him.

"Okay, I'm going to open the lines for calls now. Do you have any questions for the good doctor—"

His eyes bugged out, like I'd pulled out a gun and pointed it at him. Surely he knew I'd be taking questions from listeners.

Shaking his head, he said, "I'd rather not answer questions from the public."

Um, problem? "I'm the public," I said. "You answered my questions."

"No, not like this," he said. He put down the headset and pushed his chair away from the table. "I'm sorry."

Liz, Wes, and the sound guy stared through the booth window, helpless to stop him as he set his shoulders and rushed out of the room.

"Wait, Doctor—" I stood to go after him. Who did that bastard think he was, walking out on me? The wire trailing from my headset tugged at me. The show, I couldn't leave the show. Damn.

I settled back into my seat. I had to talk quick to cover up the silence. "I'm sorry, it looks like Dr. Flemming has urgent business elsewhere and won't be able to answer your questions. But I'm still here, and ready for the first call of the evening. Hello, Brancy from Portland…"

The Senate hearings were scheduled to start Monday, but I drove into D.C. proper Saturday evening. I had reservations at a hotel close to the Capitol, and within walking distance of many of the tourist attractions. I'd never been to the city. I saw no reason not to make a vacation out of this. I wanted to see the Smithsonian, dammit.

It was hard to drive and keep my eyes on the road, not craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial. I'd checked a map; it had to be close. I didn't even know if I was looking in the right place. The sun was setting, casting a smog-tinted orange glow over the city. Sightseeing would have to wait until tomorrow it seemed. Traffic ahead slowed. One of Ivy's notorious jams, on a Saturday no less. I was impressed. Then I spotted the flashing red and blue lights. Accident, maybe. The cars ahead crept to a stop. The trick was not to be impatient. I wasn't in a hurry. I hit the scan button on the radio, hoping to find something catchy. I could play drums on the steering wheel while I waited.

Orange reflective cones squeezed three lanes of cars into one. Up ahead, barricades blocked the road. A pair of police cars were parked on the shoulder. Four cops, flashlights in hand, were checking cars and license plates, asking the drivers questions, looking over passengers. A security checkpoint. Not surprising in these parts, I supposed. I hadn't heard anything about a terror alert or heightened security. Trust the powers-that-be not to tell anyone about a real threat.

My turn came to get waved through the checkpoint. A couple of uniformed cops approached the car from each side, shining their lights on the license plates, the interior, and finally at me. I rolled down the window. "Can I see some ID?"

I had to dig in my backpack for a minute, then I showed him my driver's license. I smiled politely.

"Ma'am, could you pull over to the side of the road here?" He pointed to a spot on the shoulder beyond the barricade. He didn't give me back my license.

My stomach lurched. I suppose everyone's does when they get pulled over by the cops, no matter how innocent they are. I was pretty sure I was innocent.

"Um. What seems to be the problem, Officer?" That may have been the most cliche thing to ever come out of my mouth. In the movies, only guilty people said that.

"Just pull over and we'll get to you in a minute."

While I watched, the cops removed the barricades, cleared the cones, and worked to get traffic flowing normally again. The roadblock had served its purpose. Apparently, they'd gotten what they were looking for: me.

I refused to believe this was all for me. I really didn't consider myself a terrorist threat. There was something else going on.

I found my cell phone and brought up Ben's number. My finger poised on the call button, I watched.

A dark sedan, coming from the other direction, did a U-turn over the median, zipped across the three lanes to this side of the road, and pulled over in front of me. The driver was so smooth the move only took a minute, and the tires never squealed.

Two men climbed out, one on each side. They wore dark suits, conservative ties, and looked clean-cut and unremarkable. They seemed big, though, broad through the shoulders, and confident.

Holy cow. Genuine, honest-to-God Men In Black. This had to be a joke.

The cop handed the driver of the sedan my license and pointed at me. Unconsciously, I shrank down in my seat, like I could melt through the floorboards.

I should have called Ben, but I waited, wanting to see where this was going to go. Surely this was all a misunderstanding.

The two Men In Black stalked toward me. Actually, they probably walked perfectly calmly and normally. To me, though, they stalked. The Wolf wanted to growl. And she wanted to get the hell out of here. I was still in the car, I could still drive—and so could the cops. I waited. Had to listen to the human half, this time.

Thinking before acting. Good girl. That was what T.J. would have said if he'd been here. Maybe he'd even have given me a scratch behind the ears. I felt a little better.

They stopped by my window, peered in, and looked me over. My nostrils widened; I took a breath. Human, they were normal humans beings. Warm blood coursing through live veins, so they weren't vampires. No hint of lycanthropy about them, either. Lycanthropes had a sort of musky, wild scent that couldn't be covered up. They had fur just under the surface and it always showed, if you knew what to look for.

But there was something about them, something cold. They made my shoulders bunch up, and the hairs on my neck stand up—hackles rising. I gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled. I met the driver's gaze. Couldn't show weakness.

His gaze dropped first.

He offered my license back to me. "Ms. Norville? Alette, the Mistress of the City, wishes to extend her hospitality. If you'll step out of the car, please?"

I stared in disbelief, and a wave of spent adrenaline washed through me, making my muscles feel like rubber. The fear left with that wave, but now I was annoyed. Severely annoyed.

"Mistress of the City? As in vampire?" I said, and I realized what I'd sensed about them. They weren't vampires, but they had a little of the scent on them. Human servants, who spent far too much time with vampires than was healthy. They were too pale.

"Yes. She's pleased that you're visiting her city and is anxious to meet you."

"Her city? The U.S. capital and she's calling it her city?" But then, what did I expect from a vampire?

The MIB pursed his lips and took a deep breath, as if collecting himself. He was probably under orders to be polite. "Will you accept Alette's hospitality?"

"Why should I?"

"She fears for your safety. You don't know the situation among your kind here. You lack protection. She wants to keep you safe."

"How did she know I was coming?"

"It's her city."

I wondered what she thought she'd get out of keeping me safe, because she surely wouldn't offer me protection out of the kindness of her undead heart. I also wondered what exactly the situation was that would put a lone wolf like me in danger. It meant there was an alpha here who didn't like intruders on his territory.

Right now, an alpha werewolf out for blood scared me more than a vampire.

"All right," I said.

"If you'll please come with me, I'll drive you to meet her."

"What about my car?" I loved my car. We'd been across the country together. "And my hotel reservation?"

"We took the liberty of canceling your reservation. Tom will drive your car to the building. We'll keep it safe for you while you're here. Free parking in D.C., Ms. Norville. Not something to refuse lightly."

Actually, this sounded like one of those offers you weren't allowed to refuse at all.

I put my phone away and got out of the car.

The other MIB, Tom, slipped into the driver's seat as soon as I was out of the way. I looked longingly at my reliable little hatchback, like I was never going to see her again.

The first guy escorted me to the sedan.

I said, "Just so we're clear: the city's vampire Mistress has the D.C. cops in her pocket, or at least enough of them in her pocket that she can order a roadblock on one of the major arteries, just to find one person."

"It would appear so," he said.

"She could have just called me, you know."

He glanced sidelong at me, and I rolled my eyes. This was a vampire we were talking about. It was all about theatrics.

At least as a passenger I could look for recognizable landmarks a little more safely. After making sure Tom was following us with my car, I leaned over the dashboard and peered out the windshield, searching.

"The other guy's Tom. What's your name?" I asked.

After a pause he said, "Bradley."

Tom and Bradley. Didn't sound very sinister and Men In Black-ish.

"So, Bradley, where's the Washington Monument?"

"We're going the wrong way to see it."

I sat back and sighed, not bothering to contain my disappointment. How frustrating, to be so close to a major national landmark and not see anything.

Bradley glanced at me. Sounding amused, he said, "Give me a couple minutes and I'll swing back that way." He flicked on the blinker and made a sharp right turn.

Wait, was he being nice to me?

Back in Colorado, I could see. The sky was big, and I could look west and always see the mountains. I always knew where they were, where I was. I needed landmarks. Here, and pretty much everywhere I'd been back East, I felt vaguely claustrophobic. Thick trees grew everywhere and blocked the horizon. Even in autumn, with their leaves dried and falling, they formed walls and I could only see the sky by looking up, not out.

We turned a corner, and Bradley said amiably, in tour-guide fashion, "We now approach the famous Washington Mall. And on your right, the Washington Monument."

I pressed my face to the window. My gut gave a little jump, like it did when I saw someone famous. It was just like the pictures, but bigger. The towering obelisk was all lit up, and the lights gave it an orange cast. In the center of the vast swath of lawn that was the Mall, it stood alone in the dark.

"Wow." I watched it until we turned another corner and left it behind.

I kept track of our route. We ended up driving the opposite direction, back toward the freeway, but we veered off and continued farther west until we came to a quiet row of townhomes in the area Bradley said was Georgetown. Even in the dark I could tell it was nice, and old.

Tree-lined streets held rows of brick houses, with slatted shutters and window planters, painted doors, and fancy wrought-iron fences out front. Georgetown University was nearby. Bradley turned into an alley, then into a cobbled driveway wide enough to hold several cars. My car was already there.

I didn't get much of a sense of what I'd gotten myself into until we entered the town house, up a set of steps and through a back door.

That surprised me. Most vampires, even the heads of Families and cities, made their homes underground. It reduced the chance of them or any of their retainers suffering sunshine-related accidents. But Bradley and Tom led me into the house, through a hall, and to a parlor. This vampire held court in a room with windows—covered with heavy brocade drapes, but windows nonetheless.

The place managed to look cluttered and opulent at the same time: crammed with furniture, chaise lounges and wingback chairs, mahogany sideboard tables, end tables, and coffee tables, some with lace runners, others with lamps, both electric and oil. Curio cabinets held china collections, and a silver tea service was on display on the mantel above the fireplace. Persian rugs softened the hardwood floor. All the lamps were lit, but softly, so the room had a warm, honey-like glow. Scattered among the other decorations were pictures, small portraits, a few black and white photographs. Faces stared out of them all. I wondered who they were.

The decor didn't surprise me. Vampires lived for hundreds of years; they tended to carry their valuable collections with them. If the room reminded me of a Victorian parlor, it was probably because it was the real deal. As was its occupant.

A woman set a book down on a table and stood from an armchair that sat nearly hidden toward the back of the parlor, near a set of bookshelves. She was pale, cold, dead. No heartbeat. I couldn't guess her actual age, of course. She looked about thirty, in her prime and haughty. Her brunette hair was drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck; her face was round, the lines of her lips hard, her gaze dark and steady. She wore a wine-colored dress suit with a short, tailored jacket and a calf-length, flowing skirt—a feminine-looking outfit that brought to mind Ingrid Bergman or Grace Kelly.

I decided she wasn't Victorian. She was older, much older. She had a gaze that looked across centuries with disdain. The present was only ever a stepping-off point for the really old ones. The oldest vampire I'd ever met was probably around three hundred years old. I couldn't be sure—it was rude to ask—but I bet this woman was older.

I had planned on being brazen. If she could disrupt my life, I could be snotty about it. But for once, I kept my mouth shut.

"Katherine Norville?" she said, an inquiring tilt to her head. She had a wonderfully melodic British accent.

"Um, Kitty. Yeah."

"I am Alette. Welcome to my city."

I still wanted to argue the my thing, but this woman had me cowed into silence. I didn't like the feeling.

"Bradley, Tom, any problems?"

"None, ma'am," Bradley said.

"Thank you, that will be all."

The two men actually bowed—smartly, from the waist, like trained butlers or footmen in a fairy tale. I stared after them as they left through the doorway to another part of the house.

"I do hope they treated you well."

"Yeah. Well, except for the whole getting stopped at a police roadblock thing. That was a little nerve-wracking." And this wasn't? I didn't think I could escape from her even with my claws out. What did she want with me, really!

"I won't apologize for that. It was necessary."

"Why?" I said. "I host a call-in radio show—my phone number is public knowledge. You could have called."

"I couldn't let you say no."

I started pacing, which required maneuvering around an expensive-looking armchair to find a straight, clear path along the edge of a rug. Alette watched me. She was elegant and regal, and I couldn't help but feel like she was indulging me this little outburst.

"You know if you try to keep me here against my will, I've got people I can call, I don't have to put up with this."

"Katherine—Kitty. If you'll please have a seat, we might discuss this in a civilized manner. I fear you're currently in danger of reverting to your other nature."

Pacing was a wolf thing. I'd been stalking back and forth, my gaze locked on her, like an animal in a cage. Obediently, I stopped and took a place on the chair she indicated. I took a deep breath and settled down. She sat nearby, at the edge of the sofa.

"I have a little better control of myself than that," I said sullenly.

"No doubt. But I am aware that I've placed you in strange surroundings and a possibly dangerous situation. I'd best not aggravate you, hmm?"

Carefully maintaining a calm to match hers, I said, "Why did you bring me here?"

Sitting with her ankles crossed, one hand resting on the arm of the sofa, she was no less poised and dignified than standing. She might have been a duchess or something, one of those proud noblewomen in a Gainsborough portrait, draped in silk and diamonds, calmly superior.

She gave an annoyed frown. "The werewolves here are wild and ungoverned. They might see you as easy prey, or an easy target to challenge and dominate. There is no alpha to control them. You'll have enough on your mind while you're here, I didn't think you'd want to worry about that as well."

Got that right. But I was betting there was more to it. From what I gathered from stories, throughout history werewolves had either been vampires' servants or rivals. At best they came to uneasy truces when they lived near each other.

I had never seen what it looked like when there wasn't a truce. Sometimes I felt so ignorant. My old pack, my old alpha, hadn't taught me much about the wider world. With them, I'd learned how to cower. Then I'd learned how to take care of myself.

"What else?" I said. "What do you get out of it?"

She smiled for the first time, a thin and enigmatic expression. "My dear girl, this Senate hearing will be the first time in centuries that one of our kind—vampire or lycanthrope—has been summoned before a nation's government in any official capacity. You seem to have made yourself an authority on the subject."

I shook my head, wanting to laugh. "I've never claimed to be an authority—"

"Nevertheless, many people turn to you. And now, so is the government. And when you speak before the Senate you will, however indirectly, be speaking on my behalf as well."

I didn't want that kind of authority. I didn't want that responsibility. Before I could deny it, she continued.

"I've brought you here to take the measure of you. To learn whose interests you serve. Whose interests you will be serving when you speak before the Senate committee."

Which web of political entanglements was I caught up in, she meant. She wanted to know who was pulling my strings, because in her world, everybody had strings.

She wasn't going to believe me when I told her.

"I serve my own interests," I said. "I left my pack. I don't have any other associations. I'm not sure I have friends anymore. There's just me. And my show. Ratings and the bottom line. That's it."

I was sure she didn't believe me. She narrowed her gaze, maintaining a vaguely amused demeanor. Like she didn't care what I said, because she'd figure out the truth eventually. She had time.

"I suppose," she said finally, "that makes you less corruptible than many. True capitalists are extraordinarily predictable. But I've listened to your show, and there's more to you than that."

"If you've listened to my show, then you know me. Because that's all it is. I parlayed my big mouth into a career. That's all."

"You may very well be right."

I looked away, because her gaze was on me, searching, looking for the layers to peel back. Legends said vampires could entrance you with the power of their gazes. That was how they lured their prey to them, and why some people were all too happy to bare their necks and veins to them.

I wasn't tied to anyone. I wanted to keep it that way. She said, "If you are right, and there is nothing more to you than what I see before me, then I would be honored if you would accept my hospitality, which is, if I may be so bold, some of the finest in the city."

I would. I knew I would, probably the whole time I'd been here. Maybe because the room was nice and comfortable, and as intimidating as she was, she didn't make my hairs stand on end. Her use of the word hospitality seemed to have an Old World meaning behind it: it was more than offering a meal and bed for the night. It was a mark of pride and honor. It was an insult to refuse.

"Thank you," I said, striving for politeness though I felt ragged beside her.

Alette stood. Automatically, I stood with her, smoothing out my jeans and wondering if I should buy some nicer clothes while I was here.

"Welcome to Washington," she said and offered her hand, which I shook, a normal gesture that I accepted gratefully, even if her skin was too cold. "I've set aside a room on the second floor for you. I do hope you like it. Emma will show you to it. The kitchen is also entirely at your disposal. Tell Emma anything you need and she'll take care of it." A young woman, Emma I presumed, had appeared, called by some signal known only to her and Alette. She was fully human, bright-eyed and eager. Old World hospitality indeed. Alette had maids. "My only request, Kitty, is that you tell me if you plan to leave the house for any reason. I have offered you my protection and I will see the offer through."

That almost sounded like a challenge: could I get out of here without her knowing? What would she do if I tried?

And what if there really were ravening werewolves waiting to find me alone? That was a tough call.

"All right," I said noncommittally, and Alette gave me a skeptical look.

"If you'll excuse me, I have other business. Good evening to you."

She left Emma and me at the foot of a set of narrow, curving stairs outside the parlor.

"This way," Emma said, smiling, and gestured up.

Sometimes human servants were vampires in training, waiting for their masters to initiate them into true undeadness. Sometimes they were simply servants, although their brand of service usually involved a bit more than dusting the furniture. I looked around the collar of her blouse for telltale scars, signs of old bite marks. I didn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there, somewhere.

We reached the top of the stairs and entered a narrow hallway. More framed photographs and portraits decorated the walls. They represented different times, different eras; the hair, clothing, and demeanors of the people changed from portrait to portrait as we continued. Did Alette have some kind of obsession with collecting these images?

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Emma said. She was probably about nineteen. Hell, she might have been working her way through college.

I had to ask. "Do you know what she is?"

She smiled wryly and ducked her gaze. "My family's worked for her for generations. We followed her here from England two hundred years ago. She's been good to us." She opened a door at the end of the hall, then looked at me. "You know better than anybody, they aren't all bad."

I couldn't argue.

My duffel bag had already been brought up to the bedroom. The suite included a full bathroom, with brass handles on the sink and shower. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea. I might even get spoiled. Emma showed me an intercom by the door, a modern amenity in the antique house. "Just ring if you need anything."

I asked for a sandwich. Then sleep. Sleep was good. Sleeping meant I wasn't wondering where the rest of Alette's vampire clan was hanging out, because human minions could only do so much and I was pretty sure she didn't rule her empire all by herself.