“Kitty. Do you have time this evening to stop by Obsidian? I’d like to show you something.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No. At least not more so than usual.” The distinction didn’t seem to bother him; he sounded as easygoing as he always did.
“Yeah. I can be there in an hour or so.”
When I arrived at Obsidian, the art gallery he owned, I went to the basement stairs. Rick was waiting at the door for me, so I didn’t even have to argue with any flunkies about letting me in. He and his Family kept a lair here, an office and apartments, though I’d never seen any part of it other than the main hallway and the office and living room in back. Just like Rick had never seen where the pack spent full moon nights. We had our separate realms. It was a wonder any of us ever worked together.
Rick politely ushered me into the wide living room, which had sofas and a coffee table on one end and a desk and shelves on the other. The place was simple, functional, livable.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating the comfortable chair on the other side of the desk.
“What’s this about?”
I resisted looking over my shoulder for the practical joke. He opened a drawer and produced a padded shipping envelope, already opened. I didn’t see the return address or stamps, but it looked battered, as if it had traveled some great distance. Turning it upside down, he shook, and a packet fell onto his desk. Thick, heavy, made of some expensive, cream-colored paper, it looked like a wedding invitation, or a medieval deed.
His smile was cryptic. Mischievous, even. He turned it right side up, showing me the wax seal, the thick red blob imprinted with an ornate crest. Medieval deed it was, then.
The seal had already been cracked. I unfolded the thick paper to reveal writing, ornate and curling, in dark ink that seemed to glow against the rich paper. I could make out letters, put some of them together into words, but the language was Latin, which I recognized but couldn’t read.
“What’s it say?” I asked Rick.
“It’s from Nasser, who is the Master of Tripoli. He’s requesting a meeting to discuss ways in which we might oppose Dux Bellorum and…” He picked up the page again and read a phrase. “… terminamus ludum longum.”
“Which means…”
“‘We end the Long Game.’ Once and for all. End it without finishing it. He saw a video of your speech in London and wants to meet you. He didn’t know there was anyone else in the world opposing Roman, and now he does. Should I invite him to visit?”
Stunned, I turned the words over in my mind, trying to parse what they meant. Someone had heard me. A knot of hope settled in my chest. Terminamus … had a nice ring to it.
“Then it worked,” I said softly. “The speech—it wasn’t for nothing.”
“Oh, no,” Rick said, and the smile turned wide and pleased. “I think it worked very well. I think it did exactly what it was supposed to. Assuming you meant it as a call to arms.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and covered my face with my hands. It was like I’d been holding my breath since London, and the releasing sigh reached every nerve. I couldn’t even move.
“Kitty?” Rick prompted.
“I just keep telling myself it’s going to be all right.”
He cocked his head, a bemused furrow marking his brow. “I think it will. Eventually.”
“You’ve been saying that for five hundred years, haven’t you?”
He just smiled.
* * *
“GOOD EVENING, and once again you’re listening to The Midnight Hour, talk radio with teeth. We’ve been talking about conspiracy theories. Especially supernatural conspiracy theories. There are an awful lot of them out there, and I’ve got some of my own as most of you well know.”
In the end, my solution was to not really do anything at all. Run the show like I always did, speaking with the same easy tone I always used. Keep it chatty, keep it light. I didn’t have to defend myself. I didn’t need to convince anyone or change any minds. I just needed to be myself, and keep being myself, like I always had. Anyone who got belligerent or confronted me—well, I’d do the same thing I always did. I’d just talk and see what happened.
My next caller was male with a drawling, pompous voice. Determined to put li’l ol’ me in my place. “The problem with these so-called theories—every last one of them—is that they attribute vast unlikely powers of organization and influence to groups that in the real world can’t balance their own budgets.” The pointed obviously was unspoken.
He couldn’t have fed me a better line if I’d scripted it. “How about this: that apparent inability to balance a budget? It’s a front to make you believe there couldn’t really be a conspiracy.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“That’s what you’re supposed to think!” I fired back, getting into the spirit of the viewpoint I was channeling. “Therefore you’ll never even consider the Byzantine network of control and oppression hidden behind the façade of incompetence!” I made my voice calm again. “You see how this works, now?”
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
I sighed. “That might mean something if you weren’t the”—I checked the sheet of scratch paper because yes, I’d been keeping track with hatch marks—“twelfth person to say that tonight.”
I hung up on him before he could hang up on me. “There’s a paradox inherent in the very idea of a conspiracy theory. For example, if an alien civilization has the technology to travel the vast distances to bring actual craft here to Earth, don’t you think they’d also have the technology to keep out of sight if they didn’t want to be seen? And the technology to examine a person’s insides without probing? I mean, we have that technology right now! The second paradox: if it’s a truly competent, effective conspiracy, none of us will ever know about it. I humbly submit that a vampire who’s been around for two thousand years will be very good at covering his tracks. And yes, I’m fully aware that I can’t prove any of this.
“So what’s the solution? What do you do when your life seems to be under the power of some sinister unnamed force? I’ve got Parnell from San Diego on the line. Hello.”
“Hi, um, yeah. Thanks for taking my call. I wanted to ask you about this documentary I saw awhile back, about how the British royal family are all werewolves?”
I regarded the microphone. “Yeah. I saw that one. You know it wasn’t a documentary, right? It was a horror movie. Fiction. Not real.”
“Oh. Are you sure? It looked just like one of those dramatic reenactment things, you know like they do?” The guy sounded genuinely confused, which kind of confused me. I didn’t think it was this hard.
“I’m pretty sure it was a movie.” If only I could be this sure about everything.
“You don’t think it’s based a little bit on a true story? You were just in London and all, I thought maybe you’d be able to tell.”
“If the British royal family are werewolves? I never got anywhere near them. The queen doesn’t live at the airport shaking the hands of everyone who flies into the country.”
“Oh. Well, okay. I guess.”
“Right,” I said, sighing. “Next call, please. You’re on the air.”
“Hi, Kitty, I’m such a big fan, it’s so good to talk to you.” She was a woman, her voice clear and straightforward. She sounded sensible, at least. One could hope.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I know you’ve been getting a lot of crap lately about some of the things you’ve been saying, that people say you’re stirring up trouble and all. And, well … I live in Denver and I’ve been listening to you from the beginning. Whatever happens, I hope you don’t stop doing what you’ve always done.”
I leaned on the desk, feeling suddenly tired. “I’ve been a little distracted,” I said. “Just what is it I’ve always done? What do you think I’ve always done?”
“You help people. That’s why you started, right? To help people. Please don’t forget about that.”
I felt like I’d been punched. I wanted to cry—and I wanted to give her a hug. I didn’t know what was going to happen. Not with Roman, the show, a new house, a new book, any of it. But the only way to find out was to keep moving forward.
“I’ll do my best,” I said finally.
“Thank you,” she said, sincerely, emotionally.
“No,” I said softly. “Thank you.”
TOR BOOKS BY CARRIE VAUGHN
Kitty Goes to War
Kitty’s Big Trouble
Kitty’s Greatest Hits
Kitty Steals the Show
Kitty Rocks the House (forthcoming)
Discord’s Apple
After the Golden Age
About the Author
Carrie Vaughn had the nomadic childhood of the typical Air Force brat, with stops across the country from California to Florida. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the Kitty Norville books, and she lives in Boulder, Colorado. Her website is at www.carrievaughn.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
KITTY STEALS THE SHOW
Copyright © 2012 by Carrie Vaughn, LLC
Cover art by Craig White
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
e-ISBN 9781429947572
First Edition: August 2012
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Tor Books by Carrie Vaughn
About the Author
Copyright
Kitty Steals the Show (Kitty Norville) Page 26
