Tim kept up with the song, fingers dancing on the frets, bass chords rumbling. The man himself, though, remained still, intensely focused, the eye of this particular hurricane.
I couldn’t say I understood any of the lyrics, and there wasn’t a melody of any kind to speak of. The rhythm resembled that of a massive downpour on a tin roof. That only made Plague of Locusts the latest in a long line of anti-establishment, anti-musicality musicians. Call it what you will, the fans loved it. My phone lines lit up, listeners calling in to beg for more.
The band played two more songs, we took a few more phone calls from eager fans, and then came the end of the show. I was almost sorry we were out of time. This had been a hoot.
Rudy and the others apparently had a great time, too. After the closing credits, Bucky and Len shook my hand enthusiastically. Rudy hugged me like we were long lost siblings. He promised we’d do this again sometime. I basked in a general feeling of success and well-being. It hardly mattered that Morgantix the demon hadn’t agreed to speak to me through host body Tim. Though, I’d rather been looking forward to conducting the first live demon interview in radio.
Tim hung back as they left the studio, waiting until Rudy and the others were in the hallway, leaving the two of us alone. He had an air of calculating calm about him. I couldn’t help it; he made me nervous. My heartbeat speeded up, and I eyed the exit.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked me in a regular tenor—an unassuming, undemonic voice. Morgantix has left the building . . .
“Okay.”
He glanced at the floor a moment, suddenly looking sly, like he was about to tell a joke. “See, you’re pretty cool, and I just have to tell somebody. Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.” Always say yes to that question. I learned the best stuff this way.
He said, “Okay, here it goes. I’m not really possessed by a demon named Morgantix.”
Somehow, I was simultaneously surprised and not. “Are you possessed by any demon at all?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and smiling wryly.
It was almost disappointing.
“You could tell me anything and I’d have to believe you. I have absolutely no way of telling if you’re possessed by a demon or not,” I said.
“Fortunately, neither does anyone else.”
“So why go around telling everyone you are? Is it some kind of publicity stunt?”
“Oh, it’s not for the public. It’s for them.” He nodded out the hallway to his departing bandmates. “They’re the most directionless, indecisive bunch of people I’ve ever met. I realized the only way the band was going to get anywhere was with some kind of leadership. But they don’t listen to me—I’m the quiet one. On the other hand, a being from an alternate plane of existence? They’ll listen to that. It’s the only way I could get them to agree on anything.”
Enthralled, I considered him. It was the kind of story that if I hadn’t seen it in action, I’d never have believed it. You can’t make this stuff up.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll blow your secret?”
He smirked. “What’s easier to believe: that I’m actually possessed by Morgantix the demon, or that I’ve spent the last three years fooling a trio of grown men into believing that I’m possessed by Morgantix the demon?”
“You know that’s a toss up, don’t you?”
He smiled a clean-cut, boyish smile and left the studio to follow the rest of the band.
Well, how about that? I chased down a story about the supernatural and found a completely mundane explanation. There’s a switch from my usual prime-time drama sort of life. And it only reinforced what I’d known for some time now:
I love my job.
MORE KITTY!
Here is a special sneak preview of Carrie Vaughn’s next novel featuring Kitty Norville!
Coming Spring 2007
She runs for the joy of it, because she can, her strides stretching to cover a dozen feet every time she leaps. Her mouth is open to taste the air, which is damp with spring, yet warm with coming summer. The year turns, and the swelling moon paints the night sky silver. Not yet a full moon, a rare moment to be set free before her time, but the other half of her being has no reason to lock her away. She is alone, but she is free, and so she runs.
Catching a scent, she swerves from her path, slows to a trot, puts her nose to the ground. Prey, fresh and warm. Lots of it here in the wild wood. She stalks, drawing breath with flaring nostrils, staring ahead for the least flicker of movement. Her empty stomach turns, driving her on. The smell makes her mouth water.
She has grown used to hunting alone. Must be careful, must not take chances. Her padded feet touch the ground lightly, ready to spring forward, to dart in one direction or another, making no sound on the forest floor. The scent— musky, hot fur and scat—grows strong, rocketing through her brain. All her nerves flare. Close now, closer, creeping on hunter’s feet—
The rabbit springs from its cover, a fallen rotted log grown over with budding shrubs. She’s ready for it, without seeing it or hearing it she knows it is there, her hunter’s sense filled by its presence. The moment it runs, she leaps, pins it to the ground with her claws and body, digs her teeth into its neck, clamping her jaw shut and ripping. It doesn’t have time to scream. She drinks the blood pumping out of its torn and broken throat, devours its meat before the blood cools. The warmth and life of it fills her belly, lights her soul, and she pauses the slaughter to howl in victory—
My whole body flinched, like I’d been dreaming of falling and had suddenly woken up. I gasped a breath—part of me was still in the dream, still falling, and I had to tell myself that I was safe, that I wasn’t about to hit the ground. My hands clutched reflexively, but didn’t grab sheets or pillow. A handful of last fall’s dead leaves crumbled in my grip.
Slowly, I sat up, scratched my scalp and smoothed back my tangled blonde hair. I felt the rough earth underneath me. I wasn’t in bed, I wasn’t in my house. I lay in a hollow scooped into the earth, covered in forest detritus, sheltered by overhanging pine trees. Thin fog was breaking up in a pale morning light. Birdsong rattled the treetops above me.
I was naked, and I could taste blood in the film covering my teeth.
Damn. I’d done it again.
Kitty Goes to Washington Page 29
