Kitty Steals the Show

Chapter 7

CORMAC GOT back to the town house even later than we did and was gone in the morning before I had a chance to ask him if he’d had any luck finding Amelia’s family. I hoped he was all right.

For my part, no matter what the vampires had said, or the implications of last night’s macabre presentation, the conference was important, did mean something, and I was going to treat it as such.

Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher and Joseph Tyler’s presentation on lycanthropes in the modern military focused on the case study of a group of werewolves who formed an Army Special Forces unit that had served in Afghanistan. The unit had been entirely unofficial—a captain and lone wolf took it upon himself to create other werewolves in order to form a squad uniquely suited to the challenges of battling extremists in the mountainous wilderness of Afghanistan. The experiment had started well—the unit had an impressive record of accomplishing its objectives—and ended disastrously. When the captain, the alpha of the pack, was killed in an explosion, the rest of the pack lost its moral compass and all control. They began fighting each other for dominance until only three remained. Those three returned to the U.S. damaged by post-traumatic stress and trapped by their wolf sides. It was assumed they’d never be able to leave their cages, much less rejoin human society. Shumacher called me in to help. I did what I could to teach them how to live with lycanthropy, the monster inside. Mostly, I failed, and two more died in a violent escape attempt. Sergeant Joseph Tyler was the only survivor of the original unit.

They’d gotten permission from the army to tell their story. Tyler was no longer active duty, and Shumacher’s scientific sensibilities wanted the information made public, so no one else would make the same mistakes. She felt that Captain Gordon couldn’t have been the first person who ever thought of using werewolves for combat.

I sat in back and listened to the story, told clinically and professionally, which made it seemed detached from my experience of it—it had all happened to someone else, and I’d never seen those men whose faces appeared in the photographs on the slide show.

The conclusion she left the audience with had been my own—taking soldiers and making them werewolves was ill-advised. They had training that made them excellent warriors, but none of the skills they needed to control the terrors that came with lycanthropy. A more successful project was taking werewolves, people who had already successfully adjusted to lycanthropy and had learned to deal with the drawbacks as well as the abilities, and training them to be soldiers.

Even that left something to be desired, I thought. Probably because I wished we didn’t need soldiers at all.

Tyler answered questions at the end.

Joseph Tyler was a solid black man, tall and broad, with a stern expression and distant gaze. He held himself apart, and his quiet strength was intimidating. At first, the questions came slowly, as people hesitated, unsure of him. He loomed over the podium. But he was articulate, and met the gazes of everyone who spoke to him. People were able to talk to Tyler the person and not Tyler the big scary werewolf. They asked personal questions about his choices, his emotions, the fallout, his recovery. He answered calmly—or politely declined to—and even said “yes, sir” or “no, ma’am.” I wondered how much of his military training was keeping him upright.

At the end of the session, I hung back to watch as people mobbed Tyler. Some asked questions, some tearfully thanked him and expressed sympathy—pity—for his predicament. They seemed to be thanking him for his simple existence. A few handed him business cards. Tyler handled it all with grace, though he kept glancing at the exits as if looking for escape. As she put away her presentation, Shumacher looked on like a proud teacher.

Finally, my turn came. Tyler saw me and smiled wide. “Kitty! Good to see you.”

“You look great!” I said, opening my arms and feeling gratified when he stepped forward into a hug, which wasn’t at all a wolfish gesture, but he was special. One of my extended pack members—family, practically. “You’re pretty popular, I see.”

He winced at the handful of business cards people had given him and drew more from his suit pocket. People must have been mobbing him all day.

“Recruiters, can you believe it?” He handed the cards to me, and I read them: private security firms, foreign militaries, government offices. “Mostly consulting jobs. At least that’s what they say now.”

“You think you’d ever go back to that? Take up one of these offers?”

“I’ll tell you, I’d never go back, and I wouldn’t even be here, except I’m pretty sure some of these outfits have already tried recruiting werewolf soldiers, who may be sitting in a cage somewhere, out of control and miserable like we were, with nobody there to help them.”

“And you want to help them.”

“Not even because they’re werewolves, but because they’re soldiers.”

I squeezed his arm, a gesture of solidarity. Tyler was one of the good guys.

As I shuffled through the last of the cards before handing them back to him, a name caught my eye. The card itself was simple, just words on white stock, no logo, no affiliation, no business name or government listed. But the name blazed forth: DR. PAUL FLEMMING.

I held the card up. “Where did this come from?” The edge to my voice was sharp.

“Same as the others, some guy wanting to recruit.”

“Describe him.”

“Kind of mousy, bookish. Didn’t wear his suit well. He smelled like he doesn’t get out much. Kitty, what’s wrong?” His brow furrowed with worry.

“He’s here? At the conference?” I looked around, scanning the few faces remaining in the lecture hall.

“Yeah—”

“Dr. Shumacher?” I called over his shoulder.

She’d put away her laptop, collected her things, and brought them over to join us. She was a contrast to Tyler: a prim white woman with short dark hair, glasses, and a focused expression. She wore a cardigan over a blouse and skirt. “Yes?”

“Flemming’s here.” I showed her the card.

“He wouldn’t dare,” she muttered, but she looked at the printed name and her eyes widened.

“Who is he?” Tyler asked.

“He ran the center before I took over,” Shumacher said. “He wasn’t entirely ethical.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “I recommend not taking a job from him.”

“What are we going to do?” he said. The card had a phone number and e-mail address, but not a physical address. And want to bet the number went to a pay-as-you-go untraceable cell phone?

Shumacher shook her head. “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. I think there’s still a warrant for his arrest outstanding in the U.S., but I’m not sure what good that does here.”

Tyler took back the card. “I’ll drop this off at the embassy. Let them know he’s here.”

Maybe they could track him down and at least let us know where he was staying, so we could avoid him. And here I’d thought the conference was going to be the safest place this week.

“… AS THE work of my colleagues has shown. Dr. Brandon demonstrates here that the cellular stasis present in vampire physiology prevents the mitosis necessary for embryonic development. On the male side, the motility of sperm appears to be zero in every case. Male vampires simply do not produce sperm and female ova appear to be entirely inactive.

“Moving on to the lycanthropes involved in our study…”

I perked up and readied my pen to take notes.

“Unlike the victims of vampirism, both male and female lycanthropes appear to have entirely normal, viable sperm and ova…”

I knew I had viable ova. That wasn’t the issue.

“In fact, we have evidence that male lycanthropes have fathered normal, healthy children with uninfected women.”

I had evidence of that myself. I was reasonably sure that General William T. Sherman had been a werewolf, and had been one during the Civil War. One of his sons had been born after the Civil War. Too bad I’d decided to keep the evidence I had of Sherman’s lycanthropy secret.

“The obstacle in sexual reproduction among lycanthropes is not fertilization or embryonic viability, but gestation. Implanted embryos do not survive the physical trauma of shape-shifting.”

Again, this wasn’t anything I didn’t already know.

“A few obvious solutions present themselves—in vitro fertilization and surrogacy could allow the offspring of two lycanthropes to be carried to term. However, on review, such procedures may not be advisable. A lycanthrope’s preternatural healing ability makes many surgical procedures—such as the retrieval of ova—problematic. But another issue may be biological—an as-yet-undiscovered reason why lycanthropes cannot sexually reproduce, and the trauma of shape-shifting on lycanthropic reproductive capabilities is, in effect, a fail-safe to ensure that such reproduction is impossible. More experimental data is required to confirm some of these speculations.”

I needed a few minutes to parse what the lecturer was saying. Oh, I understood it well enough, my brain processed it, but the lump in my gut rose to my throat and I had to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, fighting tears of disappointment. I had been looking for a revelation, a solution, a bit of magic. For hope. That I didn’t find it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But that hope had been stronger than I thought. I had let myself hope more than I’d intended.

The lecture was done, the projector shut off, and everyone had filed out of the room. There didn’t seem to be another presentation after because the room stayed empty, and I remained sitting in the middle of the back row, my blank notepad resting on my lap, staring and thinking.

It was just a thing. A branch on the road, one of the ones you didn’t get to pick, like getting infected with lycanthropy or losing your best friend. You just dealt with it. We could adopt. Once our lives settled down a little, we could adopt.

I lurched out of the seat and stomped off to find Ben and someplace to get a drink.

BEN MUST not have been out of his latest session. I called him—we’d all gotten quad band, internationally capable phones—but he must have had the thing switched off, because it rolled to voice mail.

“Hi. I’m ready for a drink and food that bleeds. I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby.” I switched the phone off and tried to calm down. I wanted to run.

Through the wide glass doors at the front of the lobby, I could see the protesters were back, rowdy as ever. Police barricades and supervision kept them away from the doors and mostly off the street. I’d made a habit of ducking out the side doors in and out of the hotel; I wanted to avoid the gauntlet if I could help it. On the street, one of the red double-decker buses made its way slowly past the crowd, changing lanes in preparation for turning. It had one of the Mercedes Cook ads on its side. My gut sank, and not just because Mercedes was on my shit list and after last night the very sight of her made me ill. The ad had been vandalized, spray painted over in sloppy, drippy black: STAKE THE DEMONS, with the vampire’s face crossed out by an angry scribble. I could hate Mercedes on principle, but this was a bigger issue. Maybe I had another topic for my keynote speech.

I caught his scent just before he pounced and turned to face him.

Luis had been stalking, his arms raised for grabbing, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He was within reach, but I crossed my arms and glared. “Hello, Luis.”

“Aw, I was moving from downwind so you wouldn’t smell me.”

“Luis, we’re inside, there is no downwind!”

He grinned like he knew that fact very well and didn’t care. “You look like you’re just waiting for someone to sweep you away to dinner and dancing.”

Hmm, dinner and dancing, escaping the cares of the world with a big bottle of wine … “I am. Ben’s meeting me here and we’re going for lunch and drinks.” Any minute now …

“Ah. Right. He seems very nice.”

“He is.”

“I have to admit, Kitty, I just never pictured you as the marrying type.”

“Why not?” I said, pouting. “Just because I happened to jump into bed with you within hours of meeting you?”

His smile went vague and he gave a heartfelt sigh. “That was a very good night, wasn’t it?”

And why on earth had I brought it up? My skin shouldn’t have been tingling like that at the memory. “Yeah, it was. It was also years ago and I met the right guy in the meantime.”

“Yes, and so much has happened we clearly have a lot of catching up to do. I read your book—it was really good. Really thoughtful. I very much enjoyed it.”

My expression melted into a smile. “Oh, you did? It was? Thank you! I’m thinking it’s time to do another.”

“That’s great. Seriously, I’d love to take you to dinner and we can talk about what we’ve been up to. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Okay. I think we can manage that. Maybe your sister can come along?” Sister, chaperone …

He reached out and caught my hand, cradling it gently in his as he brought it to his lips and gave the knuckles a light kiss. Truly a lost art, the kissing of hands.

Of course that was when Ben walked up.

I pulled my hand away, and Luis hung onto it for just that extra moment before I could take a step back. I didn’t know why I was blushing, I didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. Ben had his hands in his trouser pockets as he strolled up to me, but kept a hard gaze on Luis.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Just fine,” I said. “Ready to head out?” I hooked my arm around his and steered him toward the lobby’s side exit.

“I very much look forward to dinner tomorrow night,” Luis said, waving after us.

Ben and I had gone ten or so strides when I looked at him and said, “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said.

“You were thinking it.”

“You want to have dinner with an old friend. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except…”

“The guy gives me the creeps, that’s all.”

“Because he’s a were-jaguar?”

He glanced at me. “He’s a little slimy, don’t you think? That whole hand-kissing thing?”

“Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”

“Me? The guy who can’t remember to bring home flowers on our anniversary?” He actually sounded a little sad.

I hugged his arm. “You cook. That’s better.”

We made it outside and down the street, took our life in our hands by crossing the street, which was helpfully marked with arrows pointing the direction we needed to look to keep from being plowed into by oncoming cabs in bizarro traffic land. I’d get used to looking right first just when it was time to go home.

The pub was called the St. George, and was exactly what I imagined an English pub should be: a mock-Tudor building with a painted sign hanging over the door showing a mounted knight fighting a lizard-like dragon; gas lamps mounted over the windows and flower boxes housing ivy and pansies under them. I was pretty sure it was all built this way for the American tourists.

The English pub theme-park décor continued inside, with wood paneling, boxy booths, brass fixtures on the bar, and darkened paintings of hunting dogs and dead pheasants. I recognized people from the conference among the customers—doctors, scientists, journalists. A couple waved at me, and the place began to feel a little more friendly. Ben ordered lagers for us at the bar, and I found us a small, round table and chairs in the corner. We sat with our backs to the wall and looked out. The alcohol warmed me, and I began to relax.

I noticed the burly man who smelled like werewolf sitting at the bar, but didn’t worry about him until he stood and looked over at Ben and me—and I recognized him as the man I kept seeing in the back of conference rooms, watching me.

My hand closed on Ben’s leg, and I was on the verge of standing to face the wolf who was staring a challenge at us, but Ben said, “Wait.” So I waited.

After giving us a moment to look him over—as he looked us over—he approached and gestured at a third chair. “Mind if I join you?”

“Go ahead,” I said, guarded. He pulled over the chair and sat, sprawling, knees and elbows out, and regarded me like I was a problem.

He wasn’t a large man but he gave the impression of bulk—broad shoulders, stout through the middle, a jowly face. He must have been in his fifties. He had thick, working-class hands that looked like they could punch through walls. He wore comfortable trousers, a white shirt untucked, and a plain vest.

More gazes in the pub turned to us, watching. They seemed casual enough, sitting in pairs or small groups. No one else would have noticed them, but they carried themselves like sentries, like they were on watch for something. The way they seemed aware of each other and their surroundings made me think they were part of a pack. My gaze darkened, less friendly by the moment.

“I’m Caleb,” the stranger said in what might have been a permanently annoyed tone of voice. His brow was furrowed, his gaze hooded. “And you’re Kitty Norville.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, trying to figure out what was going on.

Caleb didn’t smile, didn’t move. His expression remained hard. The longer we sat looking at each other, the more Wolf wanted to tuck her tail and grovel. But I couldn’t look away—I stayed straight and kept my gaze steady. Next to me, Ben sat just as still, like a statue. I prompted, “And you’re here because…”

“I’m the alpha of Britain.” He just kept staring, like he expected me to do something.

I blinked. I didn’t doubt what he’d said, but I sure wasn’t expecting it. One man declaring himself the werewolf leader of the entire country? It seemed a little … much.

“You’re pretty unassuming about it,” I said.

“Don’t particularly see a need for posturing. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

I had a feeling that was what he was here to find out.

“I’ve been asking about you. Ned said he’d introduce us,” I said.

The werewolf snorted a chuckle, brief and full of commentary. “Of course he did. Are you that much under his thumb, then?”

“Is that what it looks like?”

“You’re in awfully tight with the Master of London.”

“You’ve been watching me. A lot.”

“There’s a whole lot of people watching you. The foreign vampires, their wolves, those protestors, a gaggle of scientists. You really put yourself out there.”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t tell if he was judging me or admiring me. We were circling, snapping at each other to no purpose. “So, alpha of Britain?” I said, to distract myself as much as to gather information. “I didn’t know there could be such a thing. All the packs I’ve known have been local, maybe regional. But you have a whole country?”

“Two,” he said. “Ireland reports to me as well. I’ve got all the bloody islands.”

My professional instincts overcame my wolfish ones, and I leaned forward. He didn’t even flinch at what most other wolves would have taken as an aggressive stance. “How does that even work?”

Caleb looked at my husband. “You’re Benjamin, correct? You ever think about putting a muzzle on her?”

“Nope,” Ben said. “Things wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if I did that.”

“Like you could,” I said to him.

He shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a sensitive New Age werewolf.”

Caleb didn’t even flicker a smile. Did he ever?

“To answer your question,” he said, leaning back and tucking his hands in his pockets. “It’s safer this way. We have a network, havens, rules. These islands have been through a lot of turmoil the last hundred years or so, and our forefathers decided we’d get a lot further working together than not. This way we don’t have to depend on the vampires for protection, the way the wolves in Europe do. London stays an open city, with no one scrabbling for territory around it.”

“Did you have to fight for the spot, or did you draw straws?” Ben asked.

He chuckled. “The way I see it, if you have to fight to be alpha, you’re doing it wrong. Better if you can scare the piss out of the buggers without layin’ a hand on ’em.”

It was all I could do not to roll over and show him my belly. An alpha after my own heart.

I glanced at Ben. “Can you imagine if we tried to do some kind of United Packs of America thing back home? We’d get laughed at.”

“At best,” he said.

“You lot don’t need it,” Caleb explained. “You have lots of wide-open spaces and no history of entrenched feudalism. You don’t like the locals you just go somewhere else. Am I right?”

I remembered my own flight from my first pack. I’d had the freedom to be a lone wolf with relative ease. “You don’t get too many lone wolves here, then?”

“Oh, occasionally. As long as they keep the peace, I leave ’em be.”

“If I’d known who to contact, I’d have asked permission to enter your territory, if that’s what you’re here to talk to me about.”

“If I’d said no, would you have stayed out?”

“I’d already bought the plane tickets.”

He smiled like he’d won a point. “Lucky for you that’s not what I’m here about.”

“Oh?”

“Where do you stand?” he said. His tone made the question very large indeed.

“On my own two feet?” I suggested. Ben snorted a laugh.

“Regarding the vampires,” Caleb answered, not missing a beat. “The vampires here, in Europe, in your own country. Do you serve them?”

People kept asking me that. Kept making assumptions. “No,” I said. “I’m friends with some of them. But I protect my pack. That’s all.”

“You sure about that? It’s rare, for a territory’s wolves to be so … independent.”

“I think I know what you’re really asking,” I said. “I met some of the vampires of Europe last night. And some of their wolves. I didn’t like what I saw.”

“You’ve never seen wolves as slaves, you mean.”

“No,” I said. “Not like that.”

“It’s been that way for centuries on the Continent,” Caleb said. “It’s different, here. The arrangement Ned and I have is unusual.”

“What arrangement is that?”

“We leave each other alone.”

“The European vampires don’t like either one of you because of that.”

“They’d take Ned out, if they could.”

“And if they took him out, the wolves here could lose their autonomy.”

“It won’t come to that,” he said, but it sounded like bluster. His gaze fell, the tiniest sign of a loss of confidence. “There are rumors that a war is coming. Between those who want us in the open and those who don’t. Between us and regular people. What do you think? Is war brewing?”

War was such a big word. I wanted to deny it. “I think so, yes,” I said.

“This conference of yours has brought the likely instigators to my doorstep. What am I supposed to do with that?”

He said it like it was my fault. Like the conference was even my idea. Or maybe that the war was. “I suppose that depends on which side you’re on.”

“I’m on the side of angels, love.”

I liked him. That didn’t mean I could trust him. I looked to Ben for his opinion. He kept a neutral expression; his hackles were down, though, his shoulders and back relaxed.

I turned back to Caleb. “Does the name Roman mean anything to you? Or Dux Bellorum?”

“No, but if I run into these fellows what should I do?”

“Stake the hell out of him,” Ben said.

Caleb smiled. “That bad, eh?”

“If there is a war coming,” I said. “It’s because of him.” In a hushed voice I explained what I knew of the Long Game, that two-thousand-year-old Roman had been gathering allies and taking control of territory, for the purpose—near as anyone could figure—of having the most power. Of ensuring that the supernatural world, controlled by him, had supremacy over humanity in whatever conflict, instigated by him, ensued.

“Not even the vampires know which of them’s aligned with Roman and who isn’t,” I said. “I think it’s on purpose. Keeps them at each other’s throats. At least that’s what happened last night.”

“Better each other’s than ours. They’re nervous,” Caleb said, thoughtfully scratching the stubble on his chin. “Things are changing too fast for ’em—they’re used to watching the world move slowly around them, manipulating events behind the scenes. They can’t do that so much now.”

“If Roman can gather allies, then so can we. The more people know about him, the less power he has. So now you know.”

The alpha werewolf leaned back in his chair. “You’re all right, Kitty Norville. Unfortunate name, there.”

“Don’t start,” I muttered.

He chuckled. “One more question for you. There’s another American werewolf here for the conference, a Joseph Tyler. What do you know about him?”

I straightened, hackles stiffening again. “What about him?” I said, my voice low.

“Steady there,” he said. “Friend of yours, I take it?”

“If you hurt him—”

He huffed. “What makes you think anyone can hurt him? He’s a tank. That’s what I want to ask—is he going to be trouble while he’s here?”

I was shaking my head before he’d finished talking. “No, not at all. He’s had enough trouble. He was Special Forces in Afghanistan, he’s worked really hard to adjust to civilian life. To werewolf civilian life. He’s a really good guy.” I could defend Tyler for hours.

Caleb nodded. “All right. I trust you.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “I don’t know if you’ll still be here for full moon, but if you need a place to run, to let off steam or whatnot, I can show you territory where you won’t be bothered.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

“Can we get you a drink? You and your friends?” Ben asked, gesturing to the handful of other wolves in the place obviously keeping watch.

“Maybe next time,” he said. “I should be going.”

We exchanged phone numbers before Caleb and his pack left, and I felt like I had another ally.

Ben and I finished our drinks, ate some food, and were on our way out when my phone rang, making me jump. Just when I felt like I was able to let my guard down … caller ID said Cormac.

“Yeah?” I said in greeting.

“I need to talk to you. Is Ben there?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“Where are you?”

“That pub a couple of blocks from the hotel.”

“Right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Cormac, wait—” But he’d already hung up. I looked at Ben. “Cormac’s on the way.”

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, concerned. I had to shrug.

We went back inside and ordered another round of drinks while we waited.