He laughed. "An arrogant prick? Really? I suppose that's how it must appear to the rest of you. But to us, you're little more than a bit of hair floating on the breeze. We don't care what you think."
"Not all vampires are like that. I've met some who are reasonable human beings." One or two. Maybe. "That's all Flemming's doing? Collecting stories? Gathering true-life accounts?"
"I'm sure that's not all he's doing. He's a medical doctor, isn't he? He's probably doing some blood tests on the side. I know I would." He licked his lips.
"What if I told you Flemming has a lab with holding cells? One of them has garlic in the paint, like it was meant to subdue a vampire. What if it looked like he was holding test subjects against their wills?"
His gaze had been wandering, studying the room as if he were a fan of interior design, unconcerned. Now, he focused on me, suddenly interested. I almost took a step back. Though if I'd taken one step, I might have gone ahead and run all the way out of the room. Leo's interest was not something I wanted.
"That would be extremely dangerous and foolish of him if he had done so," he said. "Even if he could trap a vampire, he could never again release it—and survive." His lips parted and he showed his teeth, the sharp points of his fangs.
"Unless he's really good with a stake," I said.
"In-deed?" That British accent could make one word take on a world of meaning.
"Ah, Kitty, you've returned." Alette, queen of her domain, strode into the foyer, smartly dressed and elegant as always, looking like she was on her way from one task to another. She acknowledged Leo with a nod and stopped before me to regard me with that prim nod that made me feel like I'd somehow fallen short of her standards, and that I would always fall short. "I expected you back some time ago. I hope your tardiness means you've had a productive afternoon?"
This was where I ponied up that information I promised her. The only question was, how much did I tell her? "I've learned that Flemming has holding cells for vampires and werewolves in his lab. I think he's been keeping test subjects against their wills."
"By test subjects you mean vampires and lycanthropes? Do you know how he could possibly hold such beings against their wills?" Her disbelief was plain in her tone.
"I don't know, but he's done it," I said, frustrated. "Here, look at this. He's been talking to people." I showed her the list, being sure to point out Leo's name on the first page.
Alette looked at him. "You've been speaking with Flemming?"
I wanted Leo to squirm like a kid who'd been caught lying. I wanted him to blush, look abashed, duck his gaze, something. He stood quietly and completely unruffled.
"Yes," he said. "I have. The good doctor's been going around collecting folktales. I talked to him on the assumption that such conversations work both ways. I've been a bit of a double agent, if you like." He flashed his devil-may-care smile.
"You didn't see fit to tell me of this?" Alette said.
"Because I didn't learn anything. Which leads me to think he isn't hiding anything." He said this pointedly to me. "He really is just an earnest scientist in danger of losing his funding."
Why didn't I buy that?
Alette did. She gave a satisfied nod and handed the pages back to me. "Have those cells been recently occupied?"
"I couldn't tell," I said. I hadn't smelled anything. "I don't think so."
"We'll continue to watch Flemming. Your vigilance should be commended, Kitty. But don't let it become paranoia."
Leo said to Alette, "My dear, you seem to be in the middle of some chore. Might I be of service to you?"
"Always, Leo." He offered her his arm, and she took the crook of his elbow. She gave me one last glance over her shoulder as they left the foyer.
I had no way of knowing who to believe. I wanted to think well of Alette, and if she trusted Leo I shouldn't question it. She'd known him longer than I had. Maybe Flemming really was harmless, and all the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans with Cormac had been a waste of time. I felt like I was working my way through a maze. I hated mazes.
This town was getting to me.
Chapter 7
Thursday was exploitative celebrity day at the hearings.
There was me, of course. I'd been told I might testify today, if the committee had time. Ben told me not to hold my breath. I was thinking of starting a pool among the press corps to guess when I'd actually be called up.
The good senators had called in others who'd made themselves famous based on the stuff of magic and the supernatural, and the others arrived today.
Waiting in the hallway outside the hearing room, a swarm of people collected around a lone figure, a slick-looking man in his thirties who smiled amiably. At first I thought the people surrounding him were reporters, but then the man took one of the notepads, signed his name on it, and handed it back. I recognized him, then: that easygoing smile, the fashionably trimmed sandy hair, the clean features that made him instantly likable and trustworthy. Jeffrey Miles, professional psychic and channeler.
He was best known on the daytime talk show circuit, where he impressed the hosts and awed the audiences with his intimate knowledge of their friends and relatives who had "passed on." He claimed to be able to communicate with the "other side," to deliver messages and reassurances from the dead, and to reveal information that only the deceased or the audience member could have known. Classic cold readings. He appealed to the angels and Precious Moments crowd.
I leaned on the wall and smirked at the proceedings. Someone in my position—werewolf, witness to the supernatural—might have been inclined to believe in his awesome powers. Except I didn't. It was manipulative bunk, and it was people like him who made it difficult for the rest of the world to believe in people like me.
The session was set to begin, and it took security guards to clear out Miles's admirers. His geniality didn't disappear with the fans; it wasn't some mask he put on for them. He shook his head, amused, straightening his blazer as he headed toward the door.
He walked right by me without a second glance, and was through the doorway before he stopped, backed up, and turned to look at me.
"You must be Kitty Norville," he said.
"And you're Jeffrey Miles." I crossed my arms.
"You know—" He scratched his head and seemed suddenly uncomfortable. "I have a confession. I hate to admit it, but I was one of those people who thought it was all a gimmick. Your show, the werewolf thing. But you really are a werewolf, and I have this urge to apologize for doubting."
I stared, dumbfounded and speechless for maybe the third time in my entire life. The polite, socialized part of my brain scrambled to graciously accept his apology. The sarcastic part clamped down on that right away.
He was human, straight up as far as I could see, with nothing in the way of heightened senses that a lycanthrope had. I really had to know, "How can you tell?"
"Your aura is very wild. Very animal. I only see that with lycanthropes."
The sarcastic part of my brain started beating itself against a figurative brick wall to stifle the laughter.
"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "I'm sorry I can't return it."
"Too many documented frauds?"
"Something like that."
He closed his eyes for a moment and visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging a bit, his face going slack, like he had fallen asleep right there on his feet. I watched, intrigued. Looked like I was going to get a free show.
Then he said, "Theodore Joseph holds a strong place in your thoughts."
I grit my teeth to make sure my mouth stayed closed. He might as well have punched me in the gut. I looked away before my eyes had a chance to tear up, the way they always did when I was reminded of T.J. at an unexpected moment.
My mind raced. He could have done research. He'd have known in advance that I was going to be here, he could have looked at the police record, the one where I named T.J., there were records that Miles could have easily found—
; He continued. "He says—there's nothing to forgive. Stop asking for forgiveness."
That wasn't recorded anywhere. The police didn't know T.J. was dead. I hadn't told them that part.
I hadn't ever asked T.J. for forgiveness. Not out loud—I mean, how could I? He was dead. And it was my fault he was dead. I was so, so sorry, and maybe all these weeks I'd just wanted to say that. I wished I'd had a chance to tell him that. I wished that he were here for me to tell him.
And there was Jeffrey Miles, watching me with a quiet, sympathetic look in his eyes, wearing a grim smile.
I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, but it didn't work. Tears fell.
"I'm sorry," he said, handing me a tissue. He had it ready, like people burst into tears in front of him all the time. "This isn't the time or place for this."
"No, it's okay. I asked for it, didn't I?" I chuckled halfheartedly. "I can almost hear him sometimes. You're saying it's real?" Jeffrey Miles was for real. I felt like a jackass.
"I think he's been watching out for you. Not a ghost, nothing so strong as that. But he's interested."
"Where—where is he?"
"Even I don't know that. They come to me. I can't find them. Who was he?"
"Don't you know? I thought you were psychic."
"He's not a forthcoming presence."
"Got that right. T.J. My best friend. I got him killed."
"I don't think he sees it that way."
And I knew he was right. Somehow, that nagging little voice that I had mistaken for my conscience told me that it wasn't my fault. It had been there the whole time, telling me I was okay, to stop being silly. I hadn't believed it. T.J. had wanted that last fight with Carl, not just to defend me, but because the fight between them had been brewing for months. He'd wanted to win, but that hadn't happened. Stop asking for forgiveness.
After that, I wasn't sure I was ready to sit in that room for two hours, but the security guards were about to close the doors, and Jeffrey urged me inside.
Ben was already in place in the back row, his laptop open on his lap, typing away at something that may or may not have had anything to do with the hearings. I sat with him, and Jeffrey joined us.
"You okay?" Ben whispered. I nodded, waving him off.
Everyone looked back at a commotion brewing by the doors. The security guy seemed to be talking to someone who wanted in. After a moment, he opened the door and let in something of an entourage: a middle-aged man with short-cropped, steely hair, wearing a dark turtleneck and slacks, flanked by a couple of hefty bodyguard types.
All my hair stood on end and a shiver passed along my spine. Those two were werewolves, big and scary, and there was something about the way they followed the first one that was unnatural. Or un-supernatural. It was like they walked too close to him, or watched him too closely. Like Labrador retrievers with separation anxiety. Not wolf-like at all.
"Who's he?" I murmured.
Jeffrey leaned over. "That's Elijah Smith. He's a self-styled faith healer to the supernatural."
My blood chilled and the gooseftesh thickened. My shoulders stiffened, and I swallowed back a wolf-inspired growl. "I know him. I know of him. We had an encounter, sort of."
"You didn't try to join his church, did you?"
"No. This was indirectly. I met someone who tried to leave his church. It didn't turn out well." In the end, she'd killed herself. The vampire had staked herself to get away from him.
As exploitative celebrities went, Smith was in a class by himself. Jeffrey and I were little more than entertainers, to some extent. Our hearts may have been in the right places, wanting to help people, but we were also sort of freak shows. Smith, on the other hand, professed to save people.
He called his organization the Church of the Pure Faith. Preaching the motto "Pure faith will set you free," he claimed to be able to cure vampires and lycanthropes of their conditions through his style of old-fashioned, laying-on of hands faith healing.
The so-called church had more in common with a cult. Once healed, his followers never left. They traveled with him in a caravan that crisscrossed the country, collecting true believers who were utterly loyal, like the two werewolves seemed to be. My informant had said he really could cure them: vampires could walk in sunlight, werewolves never suffered the Change. But only if they stayed with him forever. For some, the loss of freedom might not have been too high a price to pay. The trouble was, Smith didn't tell them what the price was before they signed up.
What could he tell the committee? What was the point of having him here?
"How the hell did they manage to get him to testify?" As far as I knew, the few police who'd tried to investigate the church hadn't been able to touch him. Nothing persuaded Smith to leave his compound, and his followers defended him like an army. Jeffrey shook his head.
Ben piped in. "Rumor has it Duke offered his church official recognition and tax-exempt status. Then he can start collecting monetary donations."
"Can Duke do that?"
Ben said, "It really only takes an application with the IRS, but Smith may not know that. Maybe Duke can expedite the application."
Didn't that just beat all?
Jeffrey watched Smith distantly, lips pursed. After a moment he said, "I don't like him. He's dark. I don't think he's human."
I looked sharply at him. "Vampire?"
"No, I don't think so. This is different. Thicker. Would it be too melodramatic to say he looks evil?"
I was right there with him. My favorite theory about Smith at the moment was that he was some kind of spiritual vampire. Rather than feeding on blood, he consumed people's devotion, awe, and worship. He didn't cure his followers; rather, he had the power to suppress their weaknesses, the vulnerability to sunlight, the need to shape-shift. My acquaintance, a vampire named Estelle, thought she was cured, but when she left Smith's caravan, the condition returned. She burned in sunlight again. He was powerful enough to control vampires and lycanthropes, and sinister enough to use them.
I didn't know enough to guess what he was, especially if Jeffrey was right and he wasn't human.
Jeffrey testified first. He flashed me a smile and a thumbs-up before he went to the table. If he had a lawyer with him, he kept the attorney hidden. He had a prepared statement, speaking carefully and nonthreateningly about being open to strangeness in the world, to mysteries we didn't understand and might possibly fear. He stated a belief that the universe was basically good, and if we approached each new encounter with the unknown with that attitude, we would be rewarded with knowledge and understanding. It sounded a little metaphysical and New-Agey for my tastes. He'd obviously never encountered a hungry werewolf in the middle of the night. Wasn't much knowledge and understanding at the end of that meeting.
Either the television celebrity garnered more respect from the panel of senators, or Jeffrey did a better job of winning them over with his charisma and amiability. He treated them like a talk show audience, engaging them, telling jokes.
He did what Duke probably brought him here to do, which was to testify to the existence of the supernatural, at least his own little branch of it. To think, a couple months ago anyone with a rational thought in his head would have written Jeffrey off as a New Age kook at best, or a manipulative charlatan at worst. But in this context, this new frame of reference, where vampires were real, the U.S. Congress had to take him seriously. I wondered if he felt at all smug or vindicated by the turn of events, the change in attitude. He just looked calm.
I leaned forward when Elijah Smith took the stand.
Smith never left his caravan. People who wanted to join him were screened before they were let inside to meet him. He'd never spoken publicly, until now. Finally, I got to see him in the flesh.
Whatever Jeffrey saw in him that indicated he wasn't human, I didn't see it. He moved with confidence, holding himself with a somber poise. His werewolf bodyguards stayed behind, seated in the first row among the audience.
They k
ept their gazes focused on him, refusing to let him out of their sights.
"Heaven's Gate," Ben whispered to me. I looked at him, raising my eyebrow to invite him to explain. He said, "The suicide cult. He's got that suicidal calm thing going. Jim Jones, David Koresh, you know?"
That didn't reassure me.
He didn't have a statement, so the committee launched right in to basic questions: where did he reside, what was his profession. Smith claimed to be based in California. I'd never been able to trace him to any permanent place of residence. His caravan was nomadic. Maybe he kept a post office box somewhere.
As to profession, he answered, "Spiritual adviser."
Which was about as surreal as when Jeffrey had said "communications facilitator." For some reason no one felt they could come before the Senate and say he was a professional medium or a faith healer.
Duke said, "I understand that you serve as a spiritual adviser to a specific group of people. Could you describe them?"
"They're vampires and lycanthropes, Senator." He spoke coolly, with maybe a hint of amusement.
I'd heard him before, from a distance over a tenuous phone connection. Even then his voice had had a haunted quality, hypnotic. He drew listeners to him, like any good preacher could. There was something else, though, in the way his voice hinted at mysteries to be revealed, at the dark secrets he would tell.
In person, that sense was doubled, or more. I leaned forward, head cocked, determined to hear every word. I wished the room's ambient noises—papers rustling, people coughing—would stop.
"And how do you advise them, Reverend Smith?" Duke said. This was the most respectful Duke had been of any of the witnesses. Did he actually think Smith was a good Christian preacher?
"I help them find their way to the cure."
Henderson spoke next. "Earlier this week, Dr. Flemming testified that he'd had some difficulty discovering a cure. Are you saying you've had better luck than medical science?"
"Senator, these states of being cannot be fully explained by medical science. They have a spiritual dimension to them, and the cures lie in the spiritual realm."
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