Kitty and the Midnight Hour
Page 10
She wouldn't let up. "I know you don't like me worrying about you. But you used to be so outgoing, and now—" I could picture her shrugging in lieu of cohesive thought. "Is everything okay?"
Sometimes I wished I could tell her I was a lesbian or something. "Everything's fine, Mom. I'm just busy. Don't worry."
"Are you sure, because if you ever need to talk—"
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't imagine what sort of nightmare scenarios she'd developed about what I was doing when I said I was busy. But I couldn't tell her the truth. She was nice. Normal . She wore pantsuits and sold real estate. Played tennis with my dad. Try explaining werewolves to that.
"Mom, I really need to get back to work. I know you're worried, I appreciate it, but everything's fine, I promise." Lying through my teeth, actually, but what else could I say?
"All right, then." She didn't sound convinced. "Call me if you change your mind about the wedding."
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
The sound of the phone clicking off was like a weight lifting from my shoulders.
A telephone. Business cards. Next, I needed a secretary to screen my calls.
When a knock on my door frame sounded a few minutes later, I just about hit the ceiling. I dropped the newspaper I'd been reading and looked up to see a man standing in the doorway. My office had a door, but I rarely closed it. He'd arrived without my noticing.
He was of average height and build, with dark hair brushing his shoulders and refined features. Unassuming in most respects, except that he smelled like a corpse. A well-preserved corpse, granted. He didn't smell rotten. But he smelled of cold blood instead of hot blood, and he didn't have a heartbeat.
Vampires had this way of sneaking around without anyone noticing them. He'd probably walked right past the security guy in the lobby of the building.
I recognized this vampire: Rick.
I'd met him a couple of times when Carl and Arturo got together to resolve squabbles. He was a strange one. He was part of Arturo's Family, but he didn't seem much interested in the politics of it; he always lingered at the edges of the Family, never close to Arturo himself. He didn't cultivate the demeanor of ennui that was ubiquitous among vampires. He could actually laugh at someone else's jokes. When I asked nicely he told stories about the Old West. The real Old West—he'd been there.
Sighing, my hair and blood prickling with anxiety, I slumped back in my chair. I tried to act casual, as if his presence didn't bother me.
"Hi, Rick."
His lips turned in a half-smile. When he spoke, he showed fangs, slender, needle-sharp teeth where canines should have been. "Sorry if I startled you."
"No you aren't. You enjoyed it."
"I'd hate to lose my knack for it."
"I thought you couldn't come in here unless I invited you."
"That doesn't apply to commercial property."
"So. What brings you here?" The question came out tense. He could only be here because I hadn't quit doing the show and Arturo wasn't happy about it.
His expression didn't waver. "What do you think I'm here for?"
I glared, in no mood for any more mind games tonight. "Arturo told Carl to make me quit the show. I haven't quit. I assume His Mighty Undeadness is going to start harassing me directly to try and get me off the air. He sent you to deliver some sort of threat."
"That's a little paranoid, isn't it?"
I pointed. "Not if they're really out to get me."
"Arturo didn't send me."
I narrowed my gaze, suspicious. "He didn't?"
"He doesn't know I'm here."
Which changed everything. Assuming Rick was telling the truth, but he had no reason not to. If he was seeing me behind Arturo's back, he must have a good reason.
"Then why are you here?"
"I'm trying to find some information. I wondered if you could help me." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and handed it to me. "What do you make of this?"
It was a flyer printed on goldenrod-colored paper. The production value was low. It might even have been typewritten, then photocopied at a supermarket. It read,
Do you need help? Have you been cursed? Vampires, lycanthropes, there is hope for you! There is a cure! The Reverend Elijah Smith and his Church of the Pure Faith want to save you. Pure Faith Will Set You Free.
The bottom of the flyer listed a date a few weeks old.
The site was an old ranch thirty miles north of town, near Brighton.
Reading it over again, my brow wrinkled. It sounded laughable. I conjured an image of a stereotypical southern preacher laying hands on, oh, someone like Carl. Banishing the demons, amen and hallelujah. Carl would bite his head off—for real.
"A cure? Through faith healing? Is this a joke?"
"No, unfortunately. One of Arturo's followers left to join them. We haven't seen her since. Personally, I smell a rat and I'm worried."
"Yeah, no kidding. Arturo must be pissed off."
"Yes. But it's been next to impossible to learn anything about this Smith and his church. Arturo's too proud to ask for help. I'm not. You have contacts. I wondered if you'd heard anything."
"No." I flipped the page over, as if it would reveal more secrets, but the back was blank. "A cure, huh? Does it work?"
Every hint of a cure I'd ever tracked down had turned out to be myth. Smoke and folklore. I could be forgiven for showing skepticism.
"I don't know," he said simply.
"I've never heard of a cure actually working."
"Neither have I."
"Arturo's follower thought it was for real. And she never came back. So—it worked?"
"Some might be attracted by such a possibility. Enticing bait, if someone wanted to lure people like us."
"Lure why?"
He shrugged. "To trap them, kill them. Enslave them. Such things have happened before."
The possibilities he suggested were downright ominous. They incited a nebulous fear of purposes I couldn't imagine. Witch hunts, pogroms. Reality TV.
He was only trying to scare me so I'd get righteously indignant enough to do something about this. It worked.
"I'll see what I can find out." Grist for the mill. I wondered if Smith would come on the show for an interview.
Sometimes I wished I could tell her I was a lesbian or something. "Everything's fine, Mom. I'm just busy. Don't worry."
"Are you sure, because if you ever need to talk—"
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't imagine what sort of nightmare scenarios she'd developed about what I was doing when I said I was busy. But I couldn't tell her the truth. She was nice. Normal . She wore pantsuits and sold real estate. Played tennis with my dad. Try explaining werewolves to that.
"Mom, I really need to get back to work. I know you're worried, I appreciate it, but everything's fine, I promise." Lying through my teeth, actually, but what else could I say?
"All right, then." She didn't sound convinced. "Call me if you change your mind about the wedding."
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
The sound of the phone clicking off was like a weight lifting from my shoulders.
A telephone. Business cards. Next, I needed a secretary to screen my calls.
When a knock on my door frame sounded a few minutes later, I just about hit the ceiling. I dropped the newspaper I'd been reading and looked up to see a man standing in the doorway. My office had a door, but I rarely closed it. He'd arrived without my noticing.
He was of average height and build, with dark hair brushing his shoulders and refined features. Unassuming in most respects, except that he smelled like a corpse. A well-preserved corpse, granted. He didn't smell rotten. But he smelled of cold blood instead of hot blood, and he didn't have a heartbeat.
Vampires had this way of sneaking around without anyone noticing them. He'd probably walked right past the security guy in the lobby of the building.
I recognized this vampire: Rick.
I'd met him a couple of times when Carl and Arturo got together to resolve squabbles. He was a strange one. He was part of Arturo's Family, but he didn't seem much interested in the politics of it; he always lingered at the edges of the Family, never close to Arturo himself. He didn't cultivate the demeanor of ennui that was ubiquitous among vampires. He could actually laugh at someone else's jokes. When I asked nicely he told stories about the Old West. The real Old West—he'd been there.
Sighing, my hair and blood prickling with anxiety, I slumped back in my chair. I tried to act casual, as if his presence didn't bother me.
"Hi, Rick."
His lips turned in a half-smile. When he spoke, he showed fangs, slender, needle-sharp teeth where canines should have been. "Sorry if I startled you."
"No you aren't. You enjoyed it."
"I'd hate to lose my knack for it."
"I thought you couldn't come in here unless I invited you."
"That doesn't apply to commercial property."
"So. What brings you here?" The question came out tense. He could only be here because I hadn't quit doing the show and Arturo wasn't happy about it.
His expression didn't waver. "What do you think I'm here for?"
I glared, in no mood for any more mind games tonight. "Arturo told Carl to make me quit the show. I haven't quit. I assume His Mighty Undeadness is going to start harassing me directly to try and get me off the air. He sent you to deliver some sort of threat."
"That's a little paranoid, isn't it?"
I pointed. "Not if they're really out to get me."
"Arturo didn't send me."
I narrowed my gaze, suspicious. "He didn't?"
"He doesn't know I'm here."
Which changed everything. Assuming Rick was telling the truth, but he had no reason not to. If he was seeing me behind Arturo's back, he must have a good reason.
"Then why are you here?"
"I'm trying to find some information. I wondered if you could help me." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and handed it to me. "What do you make of this?"
It was a flyer printed on goldenrod-colored paper. The production value was low. It might even have been typewritten, then photocopied at a supermarket. It read,
Do you need help? Have you been cursed? Vampires, lycanthropes, there is hope for you! There is a cure! The Reverend Elijah Smith and his Church of the Pure Faith want to save you. Pure Faith Will Set You Free.
The bottom of the flyer listed a date a few weeks old.
The site was an old ranch thirty miles north of town, near Brighton.
Reading it over again, my brow wrinkled. It sounded laughable. I conjured an image of a stereotypical southern preacher laying hands on, oh, someone like Carl. Banishing the demons, amen and hallelujah. Carl would bite his head off—for real.
"A cure? Through faith healing? Is this a joke?"
"No, unfortunately. One of Arturo's followers left to join them. We haven't seen her since. Personally, I smell a rat and I'm worried."
"Yeah, no kidding. Arturo must be pissed off."
"Yes. But it's been next to impossible to learn anything about this Smith and his church. Arturo's too proud to ask for help. I'm not. You have contacts. I wondered if you'd heard anything."
"No." I flipped the page over, as if it would reveal more secrets, but the back was blank. "A cure, huh? Does it work?"
Every hint of a cure I'd ever tracked down had turned out to be myth. Smoke and folklore. I could be forgiven for showing skepticism.
"I don't know," he said simply.
"I've never heard of a cure actually working."
"Neither have I."
"Arturo's follower thought it was for real. And she never came back. So—it worked?"
"Some might be attracted by such a possibility. Enticing bait, if someone wanted to lure people like us."
"Lure why?"
He shrugged. "To trap them, kill them. Enslave them. Such things have happened before."
The possibilities he suggested were downright ominous. They incited a nebulous fear of purposes I couldn't imagine. Witch hunts, pogroms. Reality TV.
He was only trying to scare me so I'd get righteously indignant enough to do something about this. It worked.
"I'll see what I can find out." Grist for the mill. I wondered if Smith would come on the show for an interview.
