Kitty Rocks the House (13 page)

“That you shouldn’t poke hornet’s nests?” I said.

“This guy’s worried about something specific. He’s not worried about guys with stakes, or Girl Scouts selling cookies. He’s worried about a certain kind of magical attack, something that can be stopped with fire, and that’s what he’s defending against. I’m guessing he’s got a stalker out there who’s tangled with him before.”

“And that stalker is probably going to follow him to Denver,” I said, heart sinking.

“If he hasn’t already,” Cormac said.

“I need to tell Rick about this.”

Ben said, “I think we can assume that Rick knows, if he’s been talking to this priest guy.”

Maybe I just wanted to talk to Rick, to find out more about Columban. To find out what Columban knew about his stalker.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Cormac said. “It’s between the priest and whoever he pissed off. Shouldn’t bother the rest of us.”

“Back to your arm,” Ben said. “I’m assuming that when the magic went
zap
, that’s when you fell.”

Cormac gave his head a frustrated shake. “Stuck my arm out and
bam.
Hardin saw the whole thing. She’s asking way too many questions—she’s after the vampire, and she was following me to get to him. She could have just asked.” His words were starting to slur, the medication taking effect. He sank back against the mound of pillows under his back.

“Would you really have agreed to work with her if she did?” I said.

“Hell, no.”

“And what does Amelia think?”

“The word ‘idiot’ might have come up. Idiot, clumsy, oaf…”

“Easy for her to say, she doesn’t have a body,” Ben said.

“That’s what I told her.”

I said, “I meant about the magic, the boundary, the stalker?”

“Amelia’s the one doing most of the work. We don’t know anything about the stalker—just that the vampire’s worried about
something,
something he can beat with fire.”

And he was wanted for arson in Hungary, which meant he’d faced down this thing before. When he came to Denver, had he brought his enemy with him? It would be wishful thinking to say no.

“Do we need to worry?”

“Always need to worry,” he said, voice fading to a mushy whisper.

Ben patted his cousin’s good shoulder. “Get some rest, we’ll talk more later.”

Cormac was already asleep, slouched against the pillow on the sofa.

“It’s weird, seeing him knocked out,” Ben said.

“Yeah. But at least he’s okay. He’ll be okay.” No matter how bad things got, it always seemed like they could be so much worse. Had to keep that in mind.

“What are the odds he’ll let it go after this?”

I huffed a laugh—quietly, to not disturb our invalid. “The best we can hope is that the arm will slow him down.”

“I can’t believe he broke his arm. All the crap we got into as kids, everything he’s done since, he’s never even smashed a toe. And then he
fell
?”

I frowned. “I need to talk to Rick.”

“He taking calls now?”

“He’d better be.”

*   *   *

R
ICK WAS
not, in fact, any more diligent in answering his phone or returning calls than he’d been the week before. Whatever was keeping him busy, Father Columban or otherwise, must have been fascinating.

I decided to track him down at Obsidian, assuming I didn’t get distracted like I had last time. And who in their right mind walked into vampire lairs and knocked on the door? Me, that’s who.

One of the younger vampires—young being under a hundred—answered. She had pale tan skin, which meant she’d probably started life brown, probably Latina. I’d met her once or twice—Christina.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “Rick here?”

“No,” she said and moved to close the door.

I stuck my foot in the way. She kept pushing, and I leaned forward to keep it open, just enough to talk. If we got into a battle of brute force, I’d lose, so I talked fast.

“Where is he, then? I really need to talk to him. We’ve got a meeting with that Argentine vampire set up for Friday, and we need to strategize. Not to mention some weird stuff going on out at the Auraria campus, and he’s not answering his phone—”

“He’s
not here.
” Her expression was so neutral, so still, she might have been painted on wood.

“Is everything okay?” I said.

She gave an extra hard shove to the door, and I fell back as it slammed shut.

Okay, fine. I had another spot to check.

Some stereotypes were stereotypes because of the seed of truth at the heart of them. Psalm 23 was a vampire nightclub to its core. Filled with beautiful people in startlingly hip clothing drinking from sleek martini glasses. Tailored jackets, skintight sequined cocktail dresses, very high heels. Not a beer bottle or pitcher of margaritas in sight. I was always a tiny bit shocked to realize that former cow town Denver had—had always had, really—this kind of club scene. I didn’t go to places like this before I became a werewolf and started hanging out with people like Rick.

There was a method to the madness of a vampire club. Make it hip and beautiful, and people would swarm, flies to sugar. Why go hunting, when you can set a trap that your prey gladly walks into? The vampires made themselves attractive, and the club gained a reputation as a glorious place to seduce and be seduced. By the time morning rolled around you’d never remember what exactly happened the night before, only that you’d had a great time, even if you did feel a little light-headed, and you wanted to go back.

Psalm 23: the one about walking in the valley of shadows and not fearing evil, that was read at my grandmother’s funeral. The previous master of Denver’s idea of a joke no doubt. The reminder of the funeral made me sad.

A bouncer stopped me at the front door. Normally, someone wearing jeans and a wrinkled blouse wouldn’t be let past the rope, but the bouncers—all of them either vampire minions or human servants of Rick’s—knew me. We’d had the argument before.

“I’m here to see Rick,” I told the guy, big and burly, wearing sunglasses.

He smiled, showing a bit of fang. “He’s not here.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that. Mind if I head in and look around for myself?”

“I’m telling you, he’s not here.”

“Is Angelo? Stella? Someone else who can tell me he isn’t here, too?”

Scowling, he unhooked the rope and let me in.

Even compared to the nighttime outside, the interior was dark, with mood lighting of various dim colors tucked in aesthetic locations. Couples and small groups sitting at chrome tables around the edges of the dance floor seemed like shadows come to life, flashes of movement between sparks of light. The music was techno, something upbeat and remixed to within an inch of its life. No one was dancing yet.

I let my vision adjust, scanned the room, and found my target sitting in the far corner, on the other side of the bar. Rick’s usual spot. Seeing Rick’s lieutenant there instead of Rick made my heart trip for a moment. If anything ever happened to Rick, this was what I’d see all the time.

Angelo was young, full of himself, but many vampires were. Nice clothes, perfect hair, and so on. He often served as Rick’s doorkeeper—chief minion. Nice enough guy I supposed, for a vampire. But he wasn’t Rick, and he didn’t look at all pleased to see me when I approached. He sat straight in his chair, studied me up and down, sneered. He fit the atmosphere here better than Rick ever did. The Master of Denver had inherited the place from his predecessor, a very different kind of vampire. One more like Angelo, who played the part and cared about appearances. Who bought into the mystique and made sure to behave as aloof and alluring as all the stories said he should. Unlike Rick, who was just Rick. A few hundred years ago, Rick would have been the kind of nobleman who kept a music room because he liked music, not because it was the stylish thing to do.

Angelo, like most vampires, didn’t much like werewolves, and wouldn’t deign to speak to me if he didn’t have to. Not even to tell me to leave.

“I’m looking for Rick,” I said, standing directly in his line of vision so he couldn’t ignore me. “I hoped he’d be here.”

“He isn’t,” Angelo said, a dismissive curl to his lips.

“If he’s not here, then where is he?”

“That’s not any of your concern.”

Rick would have offered me a drink by this time. “You think you could pass a message on or something? I really need to talk to him. About this meeting coming up, with the Mistress of Buenos Aires?”

He gave a wave of his hand that might have meant,
consider it done,
or
why must I converse with peons?
It was all posing, and I told myself to be patient.

“If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I’d say that he was avoiding me and you all are covering for him.”

“It does sound like a reasonable explanation, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I said, “it doesn’t. Not with Rick.”

“All you need to know is that he isn’t here, and if he wished to speak with you, he’d contact you. It’s undignified, you chasing after him like this.”

“I was never much for dignity.” I pointed a thumb over my shoulder. “You mind if I look around a little?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. You’re not particularly welcome here.”

I grinned. “You just bitter because I can come in here without an invitation but you can’t come into my place?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” He turned away, which left him staring at the next wall over, but never mind.

Glancing around, I let my nose take in the air, catching scents of people, their perfume and deodorant, the thick rush of alcohol, and underlying tint of commercial floor cleaner. And vampires, of course. I wouldn’t be able to pick Rick out of the crowd, even if he was here, which he probably wasn’t.

“Right. Well. I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Yes, you have,” he said curtly.

“Angelo—is something wrong? Seriously. You’re all acting uptight, even for you guys.”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said. “Again, lovely to see you, but you really ought to be going.”

Dismissed. Got it.

Getting back on the street, in the fresh air and away from the people, felt good. I tipped my nose up and took deep breaths of the city air, studying it as if it could give me answers. I kept coming up with the same one—Rick’s Family wasn’t having any more luck getting in touch with him than I was.

*   *   *

I
STOPPED
off at New Moon, thinking I’d check in with Shaun and whoever else was around that night, drink a soda, and comfort myself with the smells of pack and safety. But I hadn’t gotten two steps inside when I spotted Darren and Trey sitting at a back table, deep in conversation over a couple of beers.
My
back table, the one I normally held court at when I came here after shows or met with Rick. Darren was speaking earnestly, Trey was nodding, his expression bright with hope. Darren sat with his back straight, his chin up; Trey was hunched, back curved, gaze downcast—his body language showing submission to the other wolf.

Something inside me—coiled fur and muscle, sharp teeth—wanted to kill Darren right then. But whatever he was telling Trey, he really did look like he was helping the other man.

Deciding I just couldn’t face either one of them right now, I turned right back around, left my restaurant, and went home to sleep.

Chapter 11

I
HAD
TO
figure out what to do about Darren. He was causing trouble in the pack. No, if I had to be honest, I was the one having the trouble. He kept rubbing me the wrong way, and I didn’t want him here anymore. But was that fair to him? Ben offered to run the guy out of town with the help of his silver bullet–loaded Glock. As much fun as that sounded, I didn’t want to admit failure on bringing him into the pack just yet. He wasn’t a bad guy, I was sure. He kept challenging our authority without apparently meaning to, and I didn’t know how to convince Darren that what he was doing was bad form. If he’d been belligerent, I could have challenged him and run him out like Ben said. But he wasn’t being mean; he was just being
rude.

When Darren called me the next morning to see if I wanted to go out for coffee with him, I was surprised. I’d been thinking of suggesting exactly the same thing. He’d picked up on my favorite method of diplomacy; maybe there was hope for him yet.

We met at a little coffee shop a couple of blocks from the radio station. He bought me a cup and brought it to me at one of the café tables out on the sidewalk.

“The cub learns,” I said as he sat across from me.

He actually looked chagrined. “I know I screwed up, and I can tell you don’t like me—”

“It’s not that,” I said, while thinking that yeah, no, I didn’t much. I let the white lie stand. “You’re very charming. But I’m not sure I understand you. There are times I wonder if you’re really a werewolf, or if you’re just not used to dealing with authority.”

He bit his lip, lowered his gaze. “I was like this even before becoming a werewolf. Arrogant, I think some people call it. Have to be the center of attention. Add that to the werewolf posturing—I either get along with everybody, or nobody. I’m trying, Kitty, I really am. But it’s hard for me not to treat it like a game sometimes.”

“It’s not a game, but you know that,” I said. “I’ve watched people die, trying to get into or out of a pack. Why do you want a pack, really? You must have done just fine as a lone wolf.”

“Lone wolf gets lonely. I want friends at my back. I’ve always imagined meeting someone like Becky—” He blushed at that, and his voice caught. Wetting his lips, he tried again. “I figured if I could fit in with a pack anywhere, it’d be yours.” And then with the puppy-dog eyes.

“You’re working really hard to sell yourself to me,” I said.

“What is it you’re always saying? Civilization is worth fighting for. I like civilization, and around here that means a pack.”

Smiling in spite of myself, I said, “You listen to the show. Brownie points for you.”

“What a relief.” I glared, and he had the good sense to drop his gaze, avoiding the barest hint of a challenge. “I really want to make this work, Kitty. Please give me another chance.”