Kitty Rocks the House

Chapter 3

FRIDAY NIGHT saw me where most Friday nights saw me: at the KNOB main studio, in front of the monitor and microphone, watching for the next entertaining morsel.

“Welcome back to The Midnight Hour. I’m going to take the next call, now. Diane from Eugene, you’re on the air.”

She came on breathless, exhausted. “Hi, Kitty, thanks so much for taking my call, you have no idea how much it means.”

“You’re welcome, Diane. What’s your problem?”

“It’s my husband. I think—I think he’s a zombie.”

I smiled. “Believe it or not, I get this one a lot. Can you describe his behavior? Why do you think he’s a zombie?”

She huffed. “He doesn’t do anything! He sits on the sofa all day watching TV and that’s it.”

Leaning into the mike, I said, “I’m not sure that makes him a zombie. Lazy, but not zombie, you know?”

“But he doesn’t even get up for meals. If I put a sandwich in his hand he’ll eat it. He shuffles to the bathroom a couple of times a day. But ask him to come to the table? Take out the trash? Wash the car? It’s like I’m not even here.”

Oh, to have a secret video feed into her world. Radio was a challenge, because the only information I had to go on was what she told me and the tone and quality of her voice. She sounded desperate, and the details could have meant anything. I had to dig.

“How long has this been going on? Did you notice anything strange about him around the time it started? Did he have contact with anyone you don’t know?”

“He works in construction. Or he used to. He could have been in contact with anyone. He just came home one day, sat down on the sofa, and that was it. That was a month ago. He’s lost his job, and I can’t go on like this.”

“What exactly are his symptoms? Can he move? Do his eyes focus? Does he say anything or just make noises, or nothing at all?”

“His skin’s kind of clammy. He smells kind of rank. And he doesn’t do anything. That’s why I figured he must be a zombie.”

“Or he hasn’t taken a shower in a month. The reason I’m asking all this is because I encountered a zombie once, and it’s … well, it’s a form of poisoning, may be the best way to describe it. It damages neurological function. If he really is a zombie, I think it would be more obvious.”

“What do you mean if?”

“Because zombies don’t just sit there. They’re enslaved to someone, and they’re compelled to follow that person, or search for the supernatural element that binds them to their captor. So I’m thinking something else is going on—not that it’s not a problem, mind you. But this may be more … how do I put this? Psychological rather than supernatural.” I tried to find a way to soften how this sounded. “Has your husband ever been diagnosed with depression? Have you considered that he may need help? I mean, more help than a late-night radio talk show can offer.”

“Wait a minute—you think he may just be depressed?”

I winced. “I don’t think there’s any just about it. I tell you what—either way, this is a medical issue. You should really call a doctor.” I didn’t wait for her response, because I wasn’t qualified to diagnose a case of depression over the radio or anywhere else, and I didn’t want her trying to argue with me about whether or not he needed real help. I hoped she listened to me. Really, though, all I could do was switch to a different line. “Next caller, you’re on the air.”

Ozzie, station manager and producer of the show, sat in a corner of the studio beaming at me. He was an aging hippy, complete with thin gray ponytail and a lot of attitude. I tried to ignore him, forcing the frown off my face. He’d decided to sit in on the show tonight, to “observe” as he’d put it. He’d done that a lot over the last few months, in an effort to keep me in line. Making sure I didn’t climb on any conspiracy soapbox regarding vampires taking over the world. I’d tried that, and had lost some credibility—and market share. Ozzie wanted that market share back. Stick to what I knew, he insisted: human interest, fluffy features, sensationalist advice. “That’s always been the meat of your show. Your bread and butter,” he’d say. I’d tell him to stop mixing metaphors because it was giving me a headache.

But he was right. My ratings stopped falling when I stopped talking about vampire conspiracies. So much for getting the word out.

“Hi, Kitty. Thanks for taking my call. I have a really serious question.” He was male, soft-spoken, grim.

“They’re all serious, as far as I’m concerned.” You wouldn’t necessarily know that by listening to me.

“Yes, but, this is really serious.”

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“Do you believe in interspecies dating?”

I’d even gotten this one before, though maybe not in such blunt terms. “What, you mean dogs and cats, living together?”

“I mean do you think a relationship between, oh, like a vampire and a werewolf, or a were-lion and a normal human could ever work?”

“You call that interspecies dating, do you?”

“Well, yeah.”

I double-checked the name on the monitor. “Well, Ted, I believe we’re all human beings. A relationship between any of them has about as much chance of working out as a relationship between any other combination of people. Nothing interspecies about it.”

“You know what I mean.”

I decided to be difficult. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Care to explain it to me?”

“They may have started out human, but they’re nothing alike. How are they supposed to have relationships when they have nothing in common?”

“Except that they’re all human, at the core,” I said, insistent.

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Did you call in to argue with me about it?”

“No, I just wanted to ask, and I think you’re wrong. It’s been proven over and over again.”

This was where I was supposed to say, Some of my best friends are vampires … “Proven by whom?” I said instead, and didn’t give him a chance to answer. “While I do think it’s difficult for an uninfected human being or mortal lycanthrope and a vampire to carry on a relationship, because they age and the vampire doesn’t, I know it can work because I’ve seen it happen. As cliché as it sounds there really are cases where love conquers … if not all, then a lot.”

“You still believe that? After how many years of people calling you with all their problems? If you were right, you wouldn’t have a show.”

“The very fact that people call in with their problems gives me hope that those problems can be solved, and that people want to succeed. I mean, sticking two people who are human together doesn’t guarantee a successful relationship, does it?”

“Well, no…”

“Word of advice—never attribute to supernatural malice what just may be human nature. Next caller, lay it on me.” I hit the line.

“Um, hi. Yeah. Um, thanks for taking my call. I think.”

Okay, this guy was more nervous than even my more anxiety-prone callers. He sounded hushed, like he had laryngitis. Or like he was trying to disguise his voice. This ought to be good.

“You have a problem you want to talk about?”

“Yeah, um, I do.” He took a breath, gathering himself for the coming ordeal. “I’m a werewolf. And I’m okay with that, most of the time. That is, I think I’m pretty well-adjusted. But I’ve met this girl. Woman. My girlfriend. And she’s great.” A wistful tone entered his voice. “She’s more than great. I—I really want to ask her to marry me.”

“But—” I prompted. There was always a but.

“She doesn’t know I’m a werewolf. And I don’t know how to tell her. On top of that I want to introduce her to my pack, but I don’t know where to even start with that. I have a pretty good pack, they’re good people…”

“But—”

“I shouldn’t complain, my alpha pair are really laid back, as long as we don’t run around killing anything they let us do pretty much what we want. They encourage us to do what we want. But sometimes I could use, you know, a little guidance.”

“They sound like the parents who provide the beer at their teenagers’ parties.”

“Funny you should mention beer. I mean, um, what I really want is some advice about how to tell my girlfriend what I am. I shouldn’t ask her to marry me until she knows that.”

His voice had become clearer, more confident. And familiar. It was the line about the beer that did it. His alpha pair, providing the beer for the parties.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Where are you calling from?” The monitor said “Bob from Westminster.” Westminster, the suburb of Denver. Right. I knew him.

“Um…” he said, the anxiety back in his voice.

“Listen, caller from Westminster, could you stay on the line just a second? Thanks. And now I’m going to break for station ID. I’ll be back in a couple of howls.” I made a desperate waving motion at the window, and my engineer Matt cued up station ID and PSAs, and the ON AIR sign dimmed. Then I took my caller off hold and talked through the headset.

Bob? I didn’t think so. “Trey, is that you? Tell me that’s not you.”

“It’s me.” The man sighed, his secret revealed at last.

“What are you doing calling me on the show? On the air? You can talk to me anytime you want. Why didn’t you just call my regular number?”

“You’re not exactly the easiest person to pin down. If you’re not working, you’re traveling, or you’re wrapped up in some plot. It never seems like the right time to sit down and talk, or you’re too busy, and, well. I figured this was the one time I’d get you where you’d be ready to listen.”

Hearing this from Trey didn’t quite feel like getting kicked in the gut, but it was close. I leaned my head on my hands, glad he couldn’t see me slouching, tail between my legs.

“Wow. Okay. Message received. I’m really sorry, Trey. I hadn’t realized I’d been so … so…” I couldn’t think of a word for what I’d been. I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend he was this serious about. “I’m sorry. But your girlfriend. That’s great. I’d really like to meet her.”

“If you think you can pencil me into your schedule.”

“Fine. I get it. I’m a bad den mother.”

“Kitty, I didn’t say that. I just…”

I waited for him to finish the thought, but he didn’t. “Look,” I said. “Name a time. We’ll get together—”

Matt’s voice cut in through my headset. “You have a minute, Kitty.”

Of course I only had a minute. I closed my eyes and sighed.

“Trey, I’m not sure if this is irony or just a stupid joke, but I have to get back to the show now. I’ll call you.”

“Sure. I’ll take my answer off the air.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. At least he waited for me to hang up first.

I watched Matt count down to the next segment and the ON AIR sign lit. “All right, thanks for waiting. The question we have is how to tell your significant other that you’ve been keeping a pretty big secret. The answer: very carefully. How you tell depends a lot on your significant other, how well you know them, and how well they’re likely to take something like this. But I’ll stand by the answer I always give in cases like this: if this person really loves you, she’ll stick by you and be willing to work it out. Normal human beings really can carry on relationships with lycanthropes and others. I’m not saying it’s easy. But nothing that’s really worthwhile is, is it?” Stupid platitudes. Would that be enough for Trey? Probably not. I wanted to meet his girlfriend, and for his sake I really hoped she could handle it. “Next caller, you’re on the air.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m such a big fan,” the guy gushed. “I’m, like, your biggest fan.”

“Well, thank you very much,” I said, trying to be gracious. “Did you have a question?”

“Oh, yeah. I was just so excited about finally getting through…”

“What’s your question, then?”

“I really just want to know … what do you think about prosthetic fangs? I mean, I know you really discourage people from wanting to become vampires, but if they wanted to pretend…”

Yeah, well. It’s a living.

ABOUT A week later, Ben and I were at New Moon. One of our packmates, Shaun, ran the place for us, and he’d brought a funky hipster vibe to what otherwise would have been just another downtown bar with brick walls, exposed ductwork in the ceiling, and a lot of pretension. New Moon had good bar food, no TVs, a casual atmosphere, and late hours. It did okay as a business, but it worked splendidly as a central home for the pack. And the menu specialized in steaks and ribs. On any given night, a few werewolves were here, having a beer or grabbing a bite to eat. They felt safe here, and for me that was a victory.

Cormac had joined us tonight at our usual table in back, and I’d taken the jar of Roman’s coins out of the safe so he could study them. Cormac, or Amelia. I’d been having trouble telling the difference lately.

Ben’s cousin Cormac had been a bounty hunter specializing in supernatural targets. He’d spent two years in prison for manslaughter, and while there met the ghost of a Victorian wizard. Lady Amelia Parker died over a hundred years ago, wrongfully executed for murder. When Cormac was released, she came with him. He assured me it wasn’t possession, that she wasn’t hurting him. But sometimes, she was in charge, the one speaking or doing. When Cormac worked magic, it was really Amelia the magician. The two had formed a partnership—she got to leave the prison walls she’d been haunting for over a century, he got access to a different kind of power than he was used to using, since as a convicted felon he could no longer legally carry firearms. However odd it appeared, the system seemed to work.

The man sitting across from me and Ben at a back table at New Moon looked and smelled like Cormac, with his rugged thirtysomething build, lined face and almost permanent frown under a trimmed moustache, and his scent of worn leather jacket and male musk. He usually acted and sounded like Cormac. But sometimes, every once in a while, Amelia came through. I would get a sense of displacement, watching Cormac doing something odd, or say something profoundly out of character. Sometimes, he even smelled different, a taste of burning candle and old books. She had crept into his life that extensively.

Sometimes, I felt as if our territory had been invaded. At the same time, I suspected that Amelia was helping to keep Cormac in line and out of another prison sentence. He had incentive to stay straight now, whereas I wasn’t sure he did before. I was grateful for that.

He held what looked like a jeweler’s loupe, a lens set in an aged brass housing, and examined each of the coins through it.

“Nasser isn’t convinced we can use these against Roman,” I said. “But is there any chance they still carry some of his magic?”

Cormac shrugged. “It’s like I said back in San Francisco, they’re inert. No magical activity that I can see.”

“Just chunks of old bronze, now,” I said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “They carry traces of what they were. But unless we wake them up, recharge them, I can’t guess what they might do.”

“How do we wake them up?” Ben asked. We all looked at him.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said.

“I agree. But we can do some more research,” Cormac said. “Mind if I take one?”

“If you promise you can keep it safe.”

“Sure I can. Probably.”

Probably. What a great word. I gave one to him—the one that had once belonged to Anastasia. He wrapped it in a white handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“Consider this a job,” I said. “Standard rate.”

He looked away, surly, like I knew he would. “You don’t have to pay me anything—”

Ben grinned at him. “We’re going to force you into business whether you like it or not.”

Cormac just scowled, because while he might argue with me, he wouldn’t argue with his cousin.

Supernatural PI: Cormac was particularly suited to the job, if he would only admit it. We were working on him, slowly.

I put the other three coins back in the jar and went to the restaurant’s back office to lock the jar back in the safe. When I came back to the table, Cormac was gone.

“What, he just left?” I said to Ben.

“Said he wanted to get started.”

“It’s past midnight, the library’s closed.”

He made an exaggerated shrug, indicating his cousin didn’t make any more sense to him than he did to me.

“I can’t decide if I want him to find a way to use them or not,” I said.

“I think I’d just as soon have the coins turn out to be harmless.”

“But then we don’t have anything we can use.” I fidgeted, tapping my feet. I’d gotten to where I half-expected Roman to show up anywhere, anytime; I always felt like he was looking over my shoulder. Ben regarded me with an amused hazel gaze, the lines around his eyes crinkled. His hair was shaggy, always two weeks overdue for a cut. I reached up and brushed it. He caught my hand and kissed it. Warmth passed between us, and once again I felt a tingle—he was my husband. The fact often amazed me.

He pulled away, turned to his briefcase, and drew out a stack of papers—way too many real estate listings. “To get your mind off conspiracies, you want to start making some decisions?”

I called for a round of beers.

We were supposed to be looking for a house. Ben had been doing most of the work, narrowing down choices, checking out neighborhoods. I kept dragging my feet. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to move into a house—preferably one on the edge of civilization, with access to forest and places to run. The condo we shared had gotten a little cramped over the last couple of years. But I was having a hard time taking that first step. If I was really honest, I was afraid of change, of moving into a situation that resembled far too closely that of the previous alpha pair who’d led the Denver pack. Having a house in the wilderness where the pack could gather would make us look a little too much like them, and they had been abusive and evil and incompetent.

Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that even after being in the position for years, Ben and I really were the alphas of the Denver pack. People kept coming to us for answers. I would never get used to it.

“Kitty—” Ben must have sensed my consternation.

“I know, I know. What have we got?”

He shuffled the pages in front of me. “These are all the ranch-style houses on at least one acre of land between Castle Rock and Boulder.”

“Closer to Denver would be better.”

“Agreed. We have Golden, Evergreen, Georgetown, Idaho Springs, Brighton—”

“I’d rather be in the mountains than out east, if we can swing it.” Frankly, the listings had all started to look the same to me. They all said the same things: lovely, sunny, big yard. Lots of character, which I’d come to believe was the real-estate version of “has a nice personality.”

He shuffled a few more pages, pulled one out. “What about this one? It’s the right size, great location, it backs up to open space—”

I pulled the page out of his hand and stared. I knew this house—the ranch design, the roof shape, the spread of the driveway, the landscape around it. I checked the address just to be sure, and my stomach flopped. I swallowed back nausea.

“No,” I said, wadding up the page and shoving it back at him.

“But it’s got everything we’re looking for—”

“That was Carl and Meg’s house.” I’d had no idea it was on the market. I didn’t even know what happened to it after they died. After I killed them, rather. It should have been funny, seeing it for sale. It should have been really funny that it had made Ben’s list. Carl and Meg, former alpha pair of the Denver pack. The two werewolves I vowed I’d never be anything like. What was the saying, that you always turned into your parents whether you wanted to or not. Did that include wolf parents?

“Really?” Ben said, sounding equally unhappy. He took the lump of paper from me, smoothed it out, and studied it. “I didn’t even notice. I was only there the one time. And I guess I was a little distracted.”

Tortured, he meant. Beaten and bloody. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he didn’t remember the house. He couldn’t have known. The pictures on the listing made the place look so pretty. Those back windows had a great view.

“It’s the place. I spent a lot more time there than you did,” I said.

“Right. Not this one.” He tore the page in half, then into quarters, then into eighths. I wished we were a smoking restaurant, so I could burn the bits in an ashtray. I took Ben’s hand, he squeezed it back, and kissed my hair, lingering there, letting his warm breath play on my scalp. And all was well, for that moment in time.

He threw the torn-up pieces away behind the bar. If only the memories were so easy to discard.

That tiny bit of exorcism performed, we spent the next twenty minutes narrowing down the choices until we had a dozen or so we actually wanted to look at. The idea of moving started to feel like it was really going to happen.

The restaurant had cleared out, and about ten minutes before closing, Shaun was wiping down the bar when he called, “Hey, Kitty?”

I looked, and he nodded to the front door, where a man in a black wool overcoat was knocking on the glass. He was short, round, with silver hair so close-shaven he almost appeared bald. He seemed hunched, urgent inside the coat, as if he was hiding.

The man caught my gaze through the glass of the door, and my vision swam for a moment. I couldn’t have said what color his eyes were; I couldn’t have said much of anything. I felt like I had walked into a room and forgotten what I came there for.

I shook my head and looked at Shaun. The moment of vertigo passed. “You haven’t locked up yet, have you?”

“No,” he said.

“Then why doesn’t he just come in?” I said, moving to the door.

“Kitty. Careful,” Ben said, tapping his nose.

I paused and took a breath, scenting around the beer and fried food, the eddies of people coming and going all night, the signature of the pack that permeated the corners and made this our territory.

The door had enough of a draft that I caught the chill from the outside, a thread far too cold for the weather outside. Which explained why he couldn’t just walk in—he was a vampire, and he hadn’t been invited.

I sauntered up to the door, arms crossed, donning an amused smirk. I didn’t meet his gaze this time.

“Hi there,” I said, full of false cheer. “What can I do for you?”

“I cannot enter here. Why not?” he said, the door muffling his voice. He had a rolling, cadenced European accent. Italian maybe, which made me wonder if he was part of some kind of vampire Mafia. That would have been too much.

“It’s our home,” I said.

“It’s a place of business,” he declared. “A public thoroughfare.”

“Yeah, about that. Turns out it’s enough of my pack’s territory to make a difference. It’s our home. I have to invite you in.”

“Then invite me in.”

Here was a guy used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “No, I don’t think so.”

The last time this had happened—a vampire showing up on the doorstep of New Moon, cranky and frustrated because he couldn’t enter—it had been Roman. Dux Bellorum. Lesson: strange vampires showing up demanding to be let in could only mean trouble. All I had to do was not let him in.

He spread his arms. “I mean you no harm, believe me.”

“I’m still not letting you in,” I said. Ben had sidled up to the bar and leaned there, casual but wary. Shaun watched, worried.

“We would both be more comfortable if we spoke inside, where it’s warmer.”

Cold didn’t bother vampires. Or me, much. “You’re used to werewolves doing what you tell them to, aren’t you?”

The stern expression cracked into the tiniest of smiles. “You must be Kitty Norville.” The name trilled with his accent. “I was told I could find you here.”

“And you are?”

“I am Father Columban.” He inclined his head in a bow. “Now will you please invite me into your home?”

My brow furrowed. “Father? Like a priest?” He nodded assent. I was confused. “How is that even possible?”

“Invite me in, and I will tell you.”

“No. Tell me why you’re here first,” I said. “Did Nasser send you?” That would be just like a Master vampire, to go ahead and do what he wanted despite what we’d told him.

“Nasser of Tripoli?” He waved his hand dismissively, then took a deep breath, which was an affectation—vampires didn’t need to breathe except to speak. But he could demonstrate that he was about to make a speech, and how much trouble I was causing him. “I need to speak to Ricardo, Master of this city, but I do not know where he keeps his domicile. I’m given to understand that you can reach him. I would be most grateful if you could arrange a meeting between us.”

Sometimes I wished Rick would just publish his number in whatever vampire directory existed, so people wouldn’t go through me. Arranging a meeting wouldn’t be hard; Rick would want to talk to this guy. A vampire priest? I had no idea.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “I don’t need to let you in for that. Hang on just a sec.”

“But—”

I turned my back on him and called Rick. The phone rang four, then five times. I didn’t know what I was going to do if he didn’t answer. Tell this Columban guy to come back later? Send him to Rick’s secret hideout? That’d go over well.

Finally, he picked up. “Yes? I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“What could you possibly be doing that you can’t immediately drop to come take care of my problem?”

He hesitated a beat. “Sometimes I can’t tell when you’re joking.”

“It’s my secret pain. But I wouldn’t bug you if it wasn’t important. I’m at New Moon and there’s a vampire here wanting to talk to you.”

“That’s never good.”

“No. He says his name is Father Columban.”

“Father—like a priest?” He sounded more startled than I had.

“That’s what he said. Interested?”

“Are you sure he’s for real?”

“Just a sec,” I said and lowered the phone to speak to Columban through the door. “Do you carry a coin of Dux Bellorum?”

He cocked his head, narrowed his gaze. His tone held astonishment. “How do you know about the coins?”

The answer didn’t tell me anything, really. Except that he was as neck deep in this as the rest of us, one way or another. “I get around. So, do you?”

“No,” he said, with such earnest simplicity that I was inclined to believe him.

Back to the phone I said, “Did you get that?”

“I did. I’m intrigued.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d be. Where do you want to meet?”

“Do you mind letting him into New Moon? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

I kind of did. This was our sanctum, and this made it vulnerable. I glanced back at Ben, who shrugged. Shaun didn’t do anything—leaving it to the alphas.

I sighed. “Okay. Come on in.” I opened the door for Columban. “Welcome to New Moon.”

He gave another precise bow. “Grazie, signora.”

Inside, he looked over Ben and Shaun and passed them by to sit at a table in the middle of the room. Ben and I lingered by the bar.

We waited.

I HELPED Shaun close up the restaurant, and after the kitchen staff was done cleaning up, I sent everyone home. Ben kept his eye on the vampire, who didn’t move, didn’t speak. Didn’t make trouble, at least. He might have been meditating.

When I got back to the front, I tried to start a conversation.

“So. How old are you?”

Columban only raised an eyebrow at me, as if asking how I could possibly be serious. I looked back expectantly. He didn’t say a word. Ah well.

A tapping at the locked front door drew our attention. Rick smiled at me through the glass and glanced with interest at the other vampire. Columban stood, fingertips resting on the table. I opened the door for the Master of Denver.

Rick swept into the restaurant in a puff of cool night air, his coattails fluttering around his knees. He paused as the door closed behind him, gazing around the place. Chairs had been put upside down on tables, the floor had been swept.

“Hello,” Rick said, regarding us all, his expression calm. Columban bowed his head the barest inch. Neither made a move.

We might have stood there all night, nobody saying anything. Except I wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Rick, he says he’s Father Columban,” I started the introductions. “And this is Rick.” I figured after that, my work here was done. I could be a spectator.

Rick waited a long time for Columban to say something, but the self-proclaimed priest just stood there, studying him.

“Shall we sit?” Rick finally said, gesturing to the table.

The man looked at Ben and me, standing off to the side. “Should they remain here while we talk?”

“It’s their restaurant.”

“Then you allow wolves to learn your secrets?”

“Not only that, I feel better with them watching my back.” Rick gave me a quick look, nodding. I straightened, pleased with the vote of confidence.

Columban’s expression darkened, as if he’d discovered a part of the universe had fallen out of alignment. “Very well,” he said, with a pointed sigh, as he sank back into his chair.

Rick sat across from him, and I inched over to Ben. The two of us stayed standing, where we could at least pretend like we had some dominance over the situation.

Columban continued. “I suppose I should thank you, then, for speaking with me at all.” His voice held something like wonder, or maybe confusion.

“Father Columban. That’s an affectation, of course,” Rick answered.

“I assure you, it isn’t.”

“Then you were a priest before. I know priests can be turned—”

“No. I became a priest after.”

“How?” Rick said, curt and disbelieving. “Surely you don’t carry or wear a crucifix—”

“I carry the symbols in my heart. Before I answer your questions, may I ask a question or two about you? I have heard only a little. You are Spanish, yes? From the seventeenth century?”

Rick hesitated, looking as if he was about to lay down a hand in a game of poker. “Sixteenth.”

“How long have you been in the Americas?”

“Five hundred years.”

“Then you were here from the start.”

“From the first wave of Spanish colonization, yes.”

Columban leaned back, nodding as if impressed, and pleased. As if he had found what he was looking for. “Then you are Catholic.”

Rick turned a wry smile. “It’s difficult to be very religious at all in my condition.”

The so-called priest’s hands were on the table. He leaned forward and asked, “Yes or no. Are you Catholic?”

A long, anxious moment followed, and my heart thudded, racing on Rick’s behalf. Why did this feel like an inquisition? What answer was this man looking for? I’d known Rick for years, and I didn’t know what he was going to say.

Rick’s voice caught before he murmured, “Yes. Still. Somehow. Whether or not God thinks so. When you haven’t actually taken communion in five hundred years—”

“This isn’t about God. If the pope says you’re Catholic, you are, yes?”

Rick seemed taken aback at that. “If you insist on leaving God out of it—I suppose it depends on the pope.”

“You’re making this too complicated,” Columban said. “If we are wise, we judge men by their actions. Not by the labels other people use on them.”

“I’m fairly certain my drinking human blood on a semiregular basis justifies at least one of the labels used on me.”

“But do you believe in one holy and apostolic Church? Are you Catholic?”

“Are you here to tell me that if I do, then I am? That if the pope says I am—”

“Yes,” Columban said.

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “The pope knows about vampires? Has the pope always known? Have all the popes known? What has the pope got to do with vampires?”

“Kitty, maybe you should let them talk,” Ben said.

“But—” They were all looking at me now, so I shut up.

Columban turned to Rick. “You have not asked what order I belong to.”

“A liberal one, obviously,” Rick said.

“I belong to the Order of Saint Lazarus of the Shadows. Those who return from the dead to do God’s work on earth.”

“That’s not the original Order of Saint Lazarus,” Rick said. “The leper knights of the Crusades—”

“We were hidden among them. Now that lepers and crusades are not as common as they were, we are all that remain.”

Rick stared. “An order of vampire priests? That exists with the blessing of the pope? Really? That’s…”

“Crazy. Yes. It is, rather. Ricardo, I am here to ask you a question: Would you like to become one of us?”