Kitty's Greatest Hits

KITTY AND THE MOSH PIT OF THE DAMNED

It felt good to get away from the radio station.

At least that was what I kept telling myself as I tried to make my way to the back of Glamour, a nightclub that attracted a young and dissolute crowd. I was here for a concert. I squeezed along the wall, pausing every couple of steps as people surged back, threatening to crush me. I dodged full cups of beer and lit cigarettes. The dance floor was shuffle-room only. The crowd was way past fire-code capacity.

A few hundred hot-blooded beating hearts surrounded me. It was all I could do to keep from drooling. A deeply buried part of me sensed the sweat, the heat, and thought, Easy prey. I could smell ten different brands of perfume and aftershave. Someone nearby was high on pot; I could smell it on his breath. Another had done X in the last hour; I could smell it in her blood.

This part of me had to sprout fur and claws every full moon. Between moons, I was careful to keep my claws to myself.

I finally reached the secondary bar with the majority of my self-control intact. Red track lighting backlit a couple rows of liquor bottles, casting shadows over the usual detritus of napkins, lime slices, dirty glasses, and taps. I checked for spills on the black Formica, and finding a dry spot, hopped up to take a seat.

The bartender started to glare, but when he saw me, he leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Kitty, hiya.” Jax was about six feet tall and a hundred thirty pounds on a heavy day. He was shaved bald, and, living the nocturnal lifestyle he did, his skin was pale.

“Hey. When’s Devil’s Kitchen up?”

“Five minutes. Your timing is great.”

“What are the chances they’ll stick around after the show to talk to me?”

“When I tell them Kitty Norville wants to talk to them? They’ll stick around like duct tape.”

I was still getting used to the fame thing. My call-in radio talk show for the supernaturally challenged went national less than a year ago, but a lot had happened in that time. I’d revealed my werewolf identity on the air, for one. The episode put my ratings through the roof and made me one of the first lycanthrope celebrities in the country.

Fame opened doors and I had to take advantage of it when I could. I wanted to get Devil’s Kitchen on my show for an interview.

The concert started late. The crowd, sensing the minutes ticking on some internal group chronometer, pressed closer to the stage. The angry edge tingeing the air intensified. Lots of black, lots of chains, and shouting.

The room went dark, all the lights cutting off at once, and the taped music went dead. Crammed bodies that had been governed by the beat of the music milled, uncertain. Then, the stage lit up. White spots glared straight down on amps and mike stands. A drum machine started up, followed by an electrified bass line, manic and terrible, like coming war.

Spirits from shadow, the band appeared. A bald guy with a ripped T-shirt and denim overalls played bass—Danny Spense. He came on stage and played like he was digging his own grave, with a kind of intense desperation, focusing only on his hands clutching the instrument, wincing in anguish.

Lead guitar, Kent Hayden, had a fascist look, slick-backed black hair, black T-shirt and jeans, fingerless leather gloves. He stared at the crowd impassively while his fingers danced on the frets of his instrument.

Together, they set up a textured rain of sound, melody struggling to escape chaos.

Eliot Ray, lead singer, leapt to the fore, grabbing the mike and pressing his mouth to the foam. He wore work boots, cutoff shorts, and a three-sizes-too-big T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He shut his eyes and wailed, but it was controlled, playing with the rhythm and song; it was, after all, music. I forgot to pay attention to the lyrics.

The crowd in the pit surged toward the stage, screaming. Fists pounded the air, a hundred bodies jumped in time with the beat.

Near me, Jax leaned on the bar, as enthralled as I was. Nobody wanted to buy drinks now.

Shouting into his ear over the music, I asked him, “How much security you guys have tonight?”

“Every bouncer on staff—and each of ’em brought a buddy. Ambulance waiting around the corner.”

Over the last year, Devil’s Kitchen had started headlining the club circuit. Their recent East Coast tour had made news: They’d left a trail of injured concertgoers in their wake. Every show they did, someone was hospitalized with injuries way beyond the usual cuts and cracked ribs of the mosh pit. It became part of the show in a way—a new kind of extreme sport, like rock climbing in Afghanistan. The more publicity they got about the casualties, the more popular their shows became. People had started following them from show to show like they were some kind of postapocalyptic version of the Grateful Dead.

They attracted a dangerous crowd. Part of this was the music they played, heavy as granite, sharp as razors, drawn from the old European industrial scene and punk they’d cut their teeth on as kids. Most of it was the band’s reputation for putting people in the hospital. Not that any of the spike-haired heroin-thin manic kids currently in the mosh pit thought that they were in danger of getting hurt. But they sure wouldn’t mind watching someone else break a bone.

I had some theories about the band and the kind of energy they generated. They, or maybe just one of them, were vampires. Maybe not the standard bloodsucking undead, but some kind of psychic variety, feeding on danger, aggression, and bloodshed. What better venue to generate such emotions?

Eliot had more energy than any one person had a right to, leaping from one end of the stage to the other, bent over with the mike stand clutched in both hands one minute, stretched to his full height the next. He was fun to watch. I was screaming just as loud as anyone at the end of each song.

A couple of kids had started crowd surfing in the mosh pit, people passing them overhead from one end to the other. Then, one would get swallowed, disappearing in the crowd and another would spring up to take his place, riding on the upstretched arms of his friends.

They must have been four songs into the set when the first fight broke out. I didn’t notice exactly when it happened; the surge and lurch in the crowd seemed like part of the natural flow. Then, a body slammed against a railing. The guy bent, his arms limp and flailing, and slid down to the floor. Four or five other guys suddenly locked together, grappling, and a space of a foot or two cleared around them. In the press of people trying to get away, more punches and body slams crashed. Eliot kept screaming into the mike, and a swarm of bouncers descended on the crowd.

A half-dozen people, men and women, with bloody cuts streaming over their faces were dragged past me. The music faded, reverb whining over the speakers and echoing in my ears.

“We’re taking a break,” Eliot said. Kent and Danny were unplugging their instruments. “Round two, ten minutes. Don’t move.” They disappeared behind the stage.

All that blood. My shoulders tensed, hackles rising. I had to get out of here.

I jumped off the bar and ran, climbing stairs to the catwalk circling the pit, dodging the press of onlookers. The pit was a war zone, half the mob still thrashing to the taped music now playing, the other half trying to pick fights, struggling against bouncers and friends who held them back. At the other end of the walkway, I slipped over the rail and hopped to the back of the stage.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, it’s not even ten minutes into the show and they’re already killing each other! That’s a record even for us. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Come on, it’s what they’re paying for. You don’t think they’re actually coming for the music, do you?”

The green room was a piece of the club’s storage area that had been curtained off and decorated with a minifridge and sofa. I stood at the edge of the curtain’s opening and listened.

“Shit like this is not supposed to happen every show!” The angry voice—I could tell he was stalking back and forth across the space by the stomp of his boots—belonged to Eliot.

“So what’re you going to do?” said the other one. “Quit in the middle of a gig? What kind of riot do you think that’ll start?”

Eliot threw something and kept pacing.

“Just chill, Eliot. You’re not going to quit, so stop bitching.” I was guessing that was Kent. Calm and pragmatic. The third, Danny, hadn’t spoken. “We’re going to go back and play. The crowd’ll fight like they always do. Then we’ll go home. We’re not paid to worry about what those jerks do to each other. Not our problem.”

“Just once,” Eliot said between deep, careful breaths, “I’d like to get through an entire gig without stopping because of a fight.”

He threw back the curtain on his way out and ran smack into me. It was my fault; the possibilities presented by this conversation—dissention within the band, the fact that they, or at least not all of them, knew what was going on—so intrigued me that I missed him stomping toward me. We stared at each other, startled. His jaw clenched, and he looked like he was about to yell a string of obscenities.

I forestalled this by smiling. “Hi. You must be Eliot Ray. I’m Kitty Norville.” I stuck out my hand for him to shake.

He looked at my hand, looked at me, his snarl twitching. “Kitty Norville? The fuckin’ talk show chick?”

“Yeah.”

The snarl melted into a smile, and he shook my hand. “Cool. I’m a big fan.”

“Thanks.” I looked over his shoulder. Kent stood with his arms crossed. Danny sat on the couch, shoulders hunched. “I’m real interested in talking to you guys. Maybe after the show? Would that be possible?”

“You want to talk to us?” Eliot threw a grin at the others. “Now we really are famous, if Kitty Norville wants to talk to us. You’re, like, the Barbara Walters of freaky shit.”

Kent, frowning, shoved past Eliot and me. “You’ll have to set it up with our manager.” He stalked toward the stage door.

“Sorry about that. I think he’s got a thing against werewolves.”

“Werewolves or nosy people? So—this kind of thing happens every show?” I nodded toward the chaos still rumbling from the main part of the club.

His expression tightened; he looked like he was going to yell again. But he just ducked his gaze and scuffed his boot on the concrete floor. “Yeah.”

“You ever think it might be caused by something—oh, external? Like someone’s manipulating things to cause the violence?”

“You mean—not our fault?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Not specifically. It’s just something to think about.”

Danny was staring at me from the sofa. I couldn’t read anything in his expression. Just a hard, interested stare. It made me twitch.

“Come back after the show,” Eliot said. “We’ll talk.”

“No calling the manager?”

“Our manager doesn’t know dick.”

“Thanks.”

The show must go on. The bouncers had cleared away the injured and the survivors were hungry for more. It was a wall of emotion, of anger and hate. More fights were waiting to break out. All my instincts said to get the hell out of here—I couldn’t hold my own in a fight, not with this many people. Even if I sprouted claws and fought like a wolf. I returned to the safety of Jax’s bar.

Jax was nervous, too, standing tense and clutching the edge of the bar, white-knuckled.

“This is really weird,” I murmured.

“This is totally fucked up,” Jax said, without a trace of sarcasm.

So, Eliot didn’t know anything. Moreover, he was upset about the violence. There was more to him than his image suggested. Kent seemed perpetually anxious. Who wouldn’t be, with kids beating each other up over his music? And Danny—who knew what was going on in his head?

The lights went dark. The smoke came up, and the band was back, pounding its way through another set. The crowd slammed to the music as if there hadn’t been a break. It was like they were on a switch, still one moment, and in the next ramming each other and screaming. Like throwing a bloody carcass in the middle of a pack of wolves. Except a pack of wolves is more organized and has manners.

About fifteen minutes into the set, with the volume and mayhem of the crowd increasing the whole time, Eliot stopped singing. The musicians carried on a few more bars, unaware that his voice was missing from the feedback. Then, Eliot jumped off the stage.

It wasn’t unusual for punk and metal musicians to dive into the mosh pit. But when the others finally stopped playing, I knew something was wrong. Eliot was beating people, grabbing them and shoving them out of the way, hitting them to get their attention and forcing them back.

He was clearing a space in the middle of the floor. The body of a young man lay there, twisted and bloody.

When people saw this, they moved voluntarily. This left a circle of empty floor, the body in the middle, and Eliot crouched beside it, touching the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

Somehow, there was silence when he straightened, scanning the crowd with a hooded gaze, his mouth twisted in a snarl.

“You people are fucking maniacs! He’s dead. Do your puny little brains even understand what that means?” He looked like he might scream, his fists clenched and his whole body tensed. But he just shook his head, like he was shaking free of an insect. “I’m done,” he said. “I’m outta here.”

He stalked off toward the hall that led to the front of the club.

“Eliot!” Kent lurched to the edge of the stage. “You can’t go. We have to keep playing.”

Eliot turned, and this time he did shout. “Why? Look at that—” He pointed at the dead boy on the floor. “What are we doing that can justify that?”

Kent said, “The—the music. You know, we have to stay true.”

“This isn’t about the fucking music!” Eliot brought his fists to his temples, like he was going to start pulling his hair. Danny looked on, his bass hanging limp in one hand.

Kent said, “Just calm down—”

Eliot marched to the stage, reaching it in a few large strides. He grabbed Kent’s guitar and, swinging it by the arm, smashed it against the floor, over and over. Still plugged into the amp, the thing squealed like a living thing, doubling over in hissing feedback. I curled up and covered my ears. Most of the clubbers did the same. Jax didn’t flinch.

Kent screamed, covering his ears and staring at the broken instrument as if it had been his child. “God, Eliot—do you know what you’ve done?”

Eliot stood, splintered guitar in his hand. His feet were apart, his shoulders hunched, and he was breathing hard, a grimace on his face challenging Kent to fight him.

The floor had cleared of moshing kids by this time. I’d assumed most of them had fled the club, not wanting to be questioned about the death. But none of them had left. Two hundred kids huddled around the edges of the floor, clinging to the railings, staring at the unfolding drama with hungry eyes. Pasty-faced Goth chicks leaned forward; leather-clad metalheads bounced in place, like a single guitar chord would get them started again. Paramedics were stalled at the front hallway, unable to push through the crowd.

Straightening, Eliot dropped the instrument and brushed his hands. “I quit.”

He started his exit one more time, but someone blocked his way.

A tall, lithe man with silver hair and sharp features stood in front of Eliot, barring his way. I thought I would have noticed someone pushing his way through the crowd. Surely I would have noticed him if he’d already been here. He was taller than anyone else in the room. Or maybe he just seemed taller.

I crouched on the bar, legs tucked under me, balanced on my hands, ready to run.

Jax cracked his knuckles and frowned at the stranger.

“Who is he, Jax?”

“Bad news.”

“Vampire?” Vampires didn’t come to Glamour—too many groupies. And I thought I knew most of the vampires in town.

“Does he smell like a vampire?”

I straightened a little, lifting my face to the air. I could smell the fresh blood pooling on the floor. My nostrils flared. Vampires smelled dead, preserved, cold-blooded. In a crowd of pounding hearts, I could spot a vampire across the room with my eyes closed. This guy didn’t smell like a vampire. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, mentally filtering out the blood, sweat, and anger of the crowd.

“He smells … different,” I said, confused. I couldn’t put a name to any of the things I smelled in the current the stranger left in the air. “Midsummer. Starlight. He smells like—” I opened my eyes and looked at Jax. My nose tingled, taking in more scents. “He smells like you.”

Jax glared at me.

Jax had been part of the local club scene for as long as I’d known the local club scene existed. He told stories about him and his droogs picking fights with skinheads when he had a blue mohawk, when moshing was slamming, before punk had splintered into Goth and industrial and rave, and before alternative was mainstream.

He wasn’t a vampire, wasn’t a were-creature. It had never occurred to me to wonder if he was anything other than the bartender punk veteran he appeared to be.

The drama unfolded.

“Who are you?” Eliot said.

“You’ve no right to question me. Step aside,” he said in a rich, arrogant voice.

Wrong thing to say to Eliot. He bristled, shoulders bunching and tensing for a fight. Unconcerned, the stranger tilted his head, raised an inquisitive brow—

And backhanded Eliot clear across the floor. He landed hard and slumped like a sack of wheat.

Claws scratched at the inside of my hands. I was scared, and the Wolf wanted out.

The stranger knelt by the dead mosher, dipped his finger in the kid’s blood, and tasted it. Then he stood, faced Kent, and spoke with chilling calm.

“Kent Hayden. You were doing so well. And now—silence?”

“Temporary,” the guitarist said desperately. “Eliot’s temperamental. I’ll get him back, we’ll start again. We have another gig tomorrow—”

“You said the band was with you. You said you spoke for all when we made our bargain.”

“Kent? What bargain?” Danny ventured, his voice cracking.

The stranger only spared him a glance, saving most of the power of his stare for Kent, who was wilting under the pressure. “You know the one. Everyone knows it: The Devil’s bargain at the crossroads.”

The deal with the Devil … you’d sell your soul to play great music … music to die for.

“That explains it,” I murmured. “All the weirdness—Kent Hayden sold his soul to the Devil—” And got more than he bargained for, evidently. This guy was after more than souls. He wanted blood.

Jax said, “Technically, he’s not a devil. He just acts like one.”

“So what are you?”

He shrugged. “Same coin, different side. Kitty—distract him. I need to sneak in the back and get the nail gun.”

“Nail gun—what?”

“Cold iron. Just make a distraction.”

Cold iron—as opposed to hot iron? “How?”

“Keep him talking. You’re good at that.” He pushed through the crowd toward the back door.

Jax was already halfway around the crowd. He didn’t want the stranger to see him. So … I had to do something. But if that guy tried backhanding me like he had Eliot, I was going to Change. When it came to self-defense, I couldn’t hold it back.

Off we go, then. I reached into my pocket and turned on my mini–tape recorder. Just in case.

I slipped through the crowd, ducking low and shoving until I reached the rail around the dance floor. On the other side of the rail another layer of people blocked my way. I stood on the rail and screamed.

“Eliot!” I jumped, and everyone got out of my way as I hit the floor running. What was the good of being a werewolf with superhuman strength and agility if you couldn’t show off every now and then?

I skidded to a stop next to the singer. Eliot was starting to recover, pulling himself upright by gripping the rail. He held a hand on his forehead and winced.

“You okay?” I said.

“I think so.”

“What are you?” the stranger said, sounding like twilight: clear voice, hinting at darkness. He was looking at me, his arms crossed.

“Radio talk show host. Can I get an interview?”

“What are you really?”

The air around him shimmered a little, like he was shivering with repressed emotion, a taste of coming action. I was afraid. I wanted to growl, to make him back off. But I didn’t think a warning like that would have any effect on him. My skin flushed, my heart raced. Keep it together.

His lips thinned into a smile. He knew very well what I was.

Something touched my shoulder and I flinched. Eliot drew back his hand, startled.

“Are you okay?”

I was crouched on the floor, balancing on one hand, ready to spring. All I had to do was sprout fur and I was gone. I lowered my head and took a breath.

I looked at Kent, standing at the edge of the stage like he might jump off and try to run for it.

“What was the deal, Kent? What exactly did you agree to?” I asked.

Kent stammered. He couldn’t look at the gleaming man before him. “F-fame,” he said. “I wanted fame.”

Eliot laughed, a thin, almost hysterical noise. “Shit, Kent—you made the wrong bargain! You were supposed to sell your soul to become a great musician. But you sold it for fame? You, of all people. You were supposed to be for real.”

“I was tired,” Kent said. “I worked, I practiced—and I still wasn’t good enough. What happens then? What was I supposed to do?”

“Take the easy route, of course,” the stranger said.

“You have a contract signed in blood?” I said. I tried to remember every story I knew about Devil’s bargains, Faustian deals, the whole nine yards. There was always a loophole, right? Always a way to get out of it.

I always liked the version of Faust where he gets dragged screaming into hell.

“Of course,” the stranger said, drawing a tied roll of paper from inside his waistcoat.

“I didn’t sign that contract,” Eliot said.

“Me neither,” Danny said, raising a hand.

“Kent—did you sign in blood?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You see? He, at least, belongs to me now.” The smarmy bastard grinned.

For all my experience, for all that I liked to think I knew, I didn’t know what to do with a soul-stealing demon. If that was really what this guy was.

“We’ll keep playing!” Kent went to a second guitar case sitting at the back of the stage. In moments he was plugging the instrument into the amp. “We don’t need Eliot. Come on, Danny. We can keep going!”

Danny dropped his bass, which moaned.

I moved closer to the stage, so I was standing between Kent and the stranger. “Let me see if I understand this: You promised him fame, in exchange for his soul”—I pointed to the stranger, then to the guitarist—“They’d have fame, just as long as the band kept performing, no matter what.” The body still lay in front of us. I got a better look at him: the kid, male, with a short mohawk and a nose ring, must have been about eighteen. “But if the band stops, you”—I pointed back at the stranger—“get their souls.” No arguments so far. “So what you really want isn’t their souls. You wanted the violence. The bloodshed. You get that, they get fame.”

He inclined his head, smiling a crooked, amused smile.

“The music is a catalyst. The music covers up the real source. The violence comes from you. What are you?”

“An agent of chaos.” He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

In the far corner of the dance floor, the restless energy that had been pressing against the crowd burst. Someone fell, or tripped, or shoved himself against a wall of bristling moshers. They reacted instantly by beating on the assailant. His friends came to the rescue, and a full-blown fight erupted. Half a dozen bouncers waded in and were overwhelmed. The shouts of the crowd were deafening.

“Stop it!” Behind me, Eliot screamed with berserker fury. “Make it stop!”

Fists curled into hammers, he rushed the guy.

In a real fight with a normal human, Eliot would have pounded into the guy, pummeling his head, overpowering him with sheer brutal fervor. But the stranger wasn’t human. He merely held out his hand and swept Eliot aside. Eliot went tumbling back the way he’d come. He lay still.

The stranger looked at me, and I held my place. The fights were still going on around us, the crowd moshing without music, keeping its own violent rhythm, slaves to this being’s power. I was hemmed in.

“I can make you fight,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “I can make you Change, turn on the crowd, and rip out the throats of everyone here.”

I believed him and knew I’d do better to let him smack me unconscious. So I did.

At least, I tried. I rushed him, much like Eliot had. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. Jax said to distract him, so I did. I thought if he knocked me out at least he couldn’t make good his threat. Maybe he was bluffing, but I couldn’t take a chance on him making me hurt people.

I forgot one thing: I was a lot tougher than Eliot. As a lycanthrope, I could take more abuse, I healed faster. The blow that had knocked him unconscious knocked me to the floor and pissed me off. Rather, it pissed off my Wolf. She’d been itching for a chance to run loose all night. So now, in the name of self-defense, she took it.

The claws sprouted, and I lost it.

… the fur is free, the claws are free. Blood on the air smells sharp. But sharper is the figure of a creature. He glows, shining and dangerous. Hackles rise and finally she can growl, loud and fierce. She braces, backed against the wall. Time to fight. Find his throat. Muscles tense, and like a spring she’s away, launched from a standstill, flying at him. Teeth bared, claws ready to rip.

And he flings her away. His fist catches her under her ribs and she yelps. She sprawls on the floor, splay-legged and ungraceful. He’s so much stronger, no way can she win.

But she scrambles to her feet and tries again.

Someone shouts. Familiar voice. Her ears prick and she turns, just as the enemy kicks her hard with a boot like steel. Hits the wall, vision flashing. Shakes her head and looks for the next blow.

Another figure is there. Shimmering and strong. Raises a hand—he’s holding something. And the thing flashes with power, over and over. And the enemy falls, screaming.

She huddles, hackles as stiff as they can go, not sure which of them to hate.

The newcomer looks at her. She growls. If she could run away she would but she can’t, so she’ll fight.

—Kitty, it’s me. It’s Jax.

The familiar voice. In another life she knows that voice. But he smells like the enemy.

—Kitty, come back now. Change back.

In spite of herself, she listens. She blacks out.

I woke up not knowing how much time had passed. Time moved strangely for the Wolf. What was it they said, seven canine years for every human one? I was comfortable, and that was good. Warm, head resting on a friendly lap.

And that, so incongruous with my last memory, was disconcerting. I sat up and found myself wrapped in a heavy leather trench coat. Eliot was there, holding an ice pack to his head with one hand. His other hand rested on my shoulder. It was his lap I’d been using as a pillow.

“You okay?” he asked.

I didn’t really want to know how I ended up like this. I settled back, snuggling more firmly into the trench coat. I was, of course, completely naked under it.

I smiled at Eliot. “I think you just passed the lycanthrope equivalent of the drunk test.”

“Huh?”

“The drunk test: If you get throwing-up drunk in front of a guy, and he’s still there when you wake up, he’s a keeper.” I shrugged, indicating my postlupine state. “If you turn into a wolf in front of him, and he’s still there when you wake up…”

His blank expression took on a more thoughtful quality, lips pursed and brows raised. “Hm. How about that?”

I looked around. The club had been cleared. Somehow, they’d gotten everyone out. The kid’s body was gone. The stranger was lying spread-eagle on the floor. I buttoned up the coat and inched closer to get a better look.

He’d been nailed to the floor—long iron nails driven through his hands and ankles. Another dozen nails protruded from his chest. He was gasping for breath, but not dead. The wounds smoked, but they didn’t bleed.

Jax stood over him, holding a nail gun. He was talking to him, the words angry and spitting. It was a language I’d never heard before. Then Jax grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet. The nails popped out of the floor. The stranger yelped and cowered where Jax put him.

Next, Jax went to the stage. Danny was pressed against the wall of amps. Kent still stood at the edge of the stage, trembling. He’d dropped the guitar. Jax took his collar and hauled him off stage.

In English he said, “I’m sending him back Underhill. You’re going with him. He was right—you signed the contract. You belong to him.”

“But—but—but—” Kent didn’t get out more than that. Jax shoved him at the stranger, who gathered him in an embrace. Kent started screaming.

“Tithe to hell, man,” Jax said.

The stranger disappeared, taking Kent with him.

The room was very quiet after that.

I stared at Jax. When I became a werewolf, I’d had to reevaluate what I previously considered to be fable, folklore, mythology. Fairy tale. Things that could never exist before became possible, and I had to wonder where the truth of the stories lay. I filed through my mental catalog of folklore for a hint of Jax.

“What are you?” I said, more than a little awestruck.

He gave me a wry look—not unlike the stranger’s crooked grin—with narrow, knowing eyes. When he answered, it was in that odd language, complex and musical.

I sighed. I should have known better than to expect a straight answer. At least I could guess now why vampires didn’t show up here. Someone tougher was guarding the place. Glamour.

My clothes were in a pile nearby. I reached for my jeans and the tape recorder in the pocket. Still going. I stopped, rewound, and played.

Nothing. Static. Not even the screaming of possessed moshers. Damn.

So there was only one thing left to ask. “Any chance you’d do an interview on my show?”

Jax smirked. “Not a chance in hell, Kitty.”