Kitty Rocks the House (2 page)

“You’re kinda weird, you know that?”

“I’m a
werewolf,
” I said, glaring. “Trust me, Cheryl, you don’t want to know.”

She rolled her eyes at me.

It wasn’t until the reception was almost over, after Mom, Dad, and Cheryl had already left for their hotel room, after I’d said good-bye to all the relatives without knowing when I was going to see any of them again—we made noises about a family reunion, or maybe a big wedding anniversary celebration, or something—and Ben and I were walking out to our car, parked at the curb a block down the street, that I started crying. The tears burst, all at once, without warning, soaking my cheeks. I choked on a blubbering breath I couldn’t quite seem to catch.

Stopping, I squeezed my eyes shut and held my nose in an effort to stop the stinging.

“Kitty?” Ben had gone on a few more steps before looking back.

I took a deep, stuttering breath that staved off the waterworks. “I’m fine. It just got me for a second.”

He took my hand and leaned close, not to kiss me, but to let his breath play over my neck. His touch, the scent of him, calmed me. I was safe, I was protected. We stood like that for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence.

“I’ll drive, okay?” he said finally.

“Okay.”

I slouched in the passenger seat, watching the suburban tract housing pass by as we drove away. I turned over the thought that had pushed me over the edge, had triggered the grief I’d kept at bay for the last few days. Grandma had always called me Katherine, refusing any less dignified nickname. Never mind that I hadn’t displayed a lot of dignity as a kid. To her, I was Katherine.

Then it hit me: now, the only people in the world who’d call me Katherine were vampires with an overdeveloped sense of decorum. It was enough to make anyone cry.

Chapter 2

S
OON AFTER
returning to Denver, I had a meeting in the basement of a downtown art and antiques gallery. The gallery, Obsidian, was a front, disguising the vampire hideout of the Master of Denver. In a room that looked way too much like an average suburban living room to be part of a vampire hideout, I sat on a sofa with Rick, looking over the coffee table at our visitor.

The vampire sitting in the armchair across from us defied classification. Nasser was Master of Tripoli. He appeared to be in his midthirties, and had an imposing presence—long face, serious frown, and dark, simmering eyes. His dark hair and beard were perfectly trimmed, aristocratic. He looked like he should have been riding camels with Peter O’Toole. But instead of flowing white robes, he wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit with a white shirt and conservative burgundy tie. The style of it should have dated him, making him seem more at home in the 1950s than the modern era. Instead, Nasser was timeless. He’d be at home anytime, anyplace, and pinning an age to him became impossible. Rick thought he was at least a thousand years old. That he’d come to Denver himself instead of sending a minion said something about how important this was to him. I was flattered, and wary. He’d brought an entourage of sorts, a trio of male vampire bodyguards who looked the part, with linebacker physiques and dark suits. They waited outside, sizing up Rick’s own entourage, the vampires of his Family.

Rick’s apparent age was thirty or so. He had refined features and an elegant bearing; he made his dark silk shirt and tailored trousers look good. Though he was some five hundred years old, he’d held the position of Master for only a few years, which made him a newcomer compared to someone like Nasser. But the visitor regarded him as an equal, without a bit of condescension in his voice.

He drew a pendant from an inner jacket pocket and set it on the coffee table before Rick and me. “I’m given to understand that you’ve seen one of these before?” His accent was crisp.

The pendant was a bronze coin about the size of a nickel, worn and darkened with age. Whatever image had once appeared on it was mangled beyond recognition, smashed flat and scored in furious crosshatches.

I nodded. “Several, actually.”

His lips pressed thoughtfully, he glanced at Rick for confirmation.

“They’re Dux Bellorum’s marks of … ownership, I suppose you’d say,” Rick said. “His followers wear them. They bind them to him. Where did you find yours?”

“It belonged to one of my predecessors. A group of us mounted a coup against him, oh, quite some time ago now.”

I leaned forward. “How long ago? I mean for you, exactly how long ago is that?”

“She’s very concerned with precision of timekeeping, isn’t she?” Nasser said to Rick.

“It’s an obsession with her,” he said, shrugging with his hands, and I scowled at them both.

I had four of the mangled coins sealed in a jar and locked in the safe at New Moon, the downtown restaurant Ben and I owned. The place was the spiritual, if not actual, center of our territory, and we’d had some evidence that vampires couldn’t cross the threshold without permission. Roman—Dux Bellorum—shouldn’t be able to track them there. Destroying the image was supposed to break the spells attached to them. But you could never be too careful about this sort of thing.

Maybe we should have just thrown the things away, or melted them down. But I was keeping them as if they were some kind of perverse forensic evidence that we didn’t yet have the means to understand. They might be able to tell us more about their creator someday, and I couldn’t throw away a tool like that.

That Nasser had kept his encouraged me that I’d made the right decision.

I said, “I keep thinking there must be a way to use the magic in these against him.”

Nasser shook his head. “I’ve searched for a wizard or magician who could do such a thing, and haven’t found one. I think such a thing is impossible.”

“No, I don’t believe that. I’ve got a couple of leads,” I said.

I had my own networks, my own resources to tap when a supernatural problem presented itself. Tina McCannon, resident psychic for the TV show
Paradox PI,
hadn’t known anything about the coins offhand, but offered to scry for information. She’d handle the coins herself the next time she was in Denver. Odysseus Grant, a magician hiding in plain sight with his own Vegas stage show, knew about the Long Game and what it meant. He offered to research the coins as well, but hadn’t found anything yet. Then there was Cormac, right here in Denver.

Nasser furrowed a skeptical brow, and who could blame him? If a thousand-year-old vampire couldn’t find a powerful wizard, could a loudmouth nearly-thirty werewolf do it?

“Even if we can’t find a way to use them,” Nasser said, “they are proof that Roman can be defeated. His followers can be defeated. There are many more like us, who do not wish to trade our autonomy for power, to sacrifice ourselves to some arcane war. No matter what great reward was promised to us.”

“What great reward is that?” I asked.

“Dominion over humanity,” he said matter-of-factly. “We emerge from the shadows, not to live as equals among the mortals, but to rule over them as a shepherd does his flock.”

I’d heard vague gossip along those lines for years. The rumors were easy to dismiss because they sounded like something out of a bad thriller. But having met Roman, having fought him and his followers, I could well believe that this was their goal.

It would be easy to sit back and scoff that this could never happen, that vampires would never accomplish such an outrageous objective. Mortal humans outnumbered them. But Roman’s vampires had a plan. They were slowly coming into the public eye. Broadway star Mercedes Cook had publicly declared herself a vampire—she was one of Roman’s. A respected historian had published a book of interviews with vampires giving their eyewitness accounts of great events in history—the defeat of the Spanish Armada, the Battle of Agincourt, the army of Genghis Khan. That one infuriated me—I’d have given any of those vampires an interview slot on my show. But I had a feeling they were all followers of Roman, which meant they’d never talk to me. They were building public trust—promoting themselves, promoting vampires in general. Getting on the good side of public opinion, inserting themselves into pop culture—probably exerting influence over the politicians of a dozen countries as well. If … when … if vampires managed to take over, they’d probably convince us it was humanity’s idea to let them do so all along.

If they succeeded, vampires like Roman and his followers would make werewolves their slaves, their enforcers in this new world order. I couldn’t let that happen; I had a pack to protect.

So we gathered allies of our own. As Nasser said, many vampires didn’t want to trade their autonomy for some future, nebulous power. They didn’t want to be in Roman’s debt, or wear his coins.

“Can it really happen?” I asked. “How close is it to happening?”

“I don’t know,” Nasser said, which wasn’t comforting. “He has been traveling across Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and North Africa for two thousand years. The Americas and Australia, he does not have such a firm hold on. He’s sent followers and has come here himself only recently. Only a few cities in South America have Families—I hesitate to guess how many of them owe their allegiance to Dux Bellorum. I’m also not certain of Australia. As far as I know, no vampires live in Antarctica.”

“I’d have thought the long winter nights would be just the thing for you guys,” I said.

“Perhaps. But the food supply is a bit wanting.”

I didn’t want to think about that too hard.

Nasser went on, “For centuries, the few of us who knew of him, who knew of his plans, have worked in secret. We couldn’t investigate him and his followers, or we’d risk retribution. Roman is ruthless, and he strikes from afar, sending his followers. But now—I hardly know what to think. We are moving into the open. We have some initiative. We have you to thank for that.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “I may have just blown our cover. Given them a target.”

His smile was thin. “Oh no. They have chosen to battle in the arena of public discourse, that is where we will face them.”

“Organized resistance exists, then,” Rick said. “What can we do to help?”

“For now, we need aid and support for those of us who travel, who move from city to city in an effort to identify his followers. Often, we can inspire the followers of a city’s Master to rebel, to free their Family from Dux Bellorum’s influence.”

“Anastasia worked on this,” I said.

“Yes. There are a few others, like her. Have you heard from her? I haven’t had word of her in years.”

Now, that was a story. “She’s … not with us anymore.”

“That’s … that’s terrible news. How was she destroyed?”

“She wasn’t. I mean, she’s not dead.
Dead
dead. She … there was this goddess, see, and … and I prefer to think of her as battling evil in another dimension.” I blinked hopefully; he regarded me blankly, nonplussed. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I know that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. She’s fine, really. She’s just not
here.
”

The perplexed lilt to his brow indicated that my explanation hadn’t helped at all.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “She was a good ally.”

“I think she still is.” We just didn’t know where she was, or how to contact her, or what she could do …

Rick said, “How do we proceed, then?”

Nasser said, “If those we must persuade to our cause believe that we’re the stronger side, we have a chance. Kitty, you may be the most important ally of all—you can do this more easily than any of us, through your show and in your writings.”

I was afraid he was going to say that. “I’m getting in a little bit of trouble for that.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to persevere.”

If we didn’t come up with a specific plan of action, we at least had an agenda. A mission, of sorts. If enough of us out there were holding the line, maybe we could stop Roman.

Rick and Nasser started trading gossip about acquaintances, more centuries-old beings and shadow histories. I had the feeling of being a fly on the wall, listening to two immortals speak of years as if they were hours. I couldn’t comprehend. But I tried.

Then Nasser turned to me. “Did Marid really call you a Regina Luporum?”

Rick raised an eyebrow, waiting for my answer, and I blushed. Regina Luporum, queen of the wolves. Marid—a twenty-eight-hundred-year-old vampire who I’d met in London, easily the oldest vampire I’d ever encountered—suggested the idea originated with the wolf who’d fostered Romulus and Remus, and who’d helped found Rome. He said he’d called me that because I stood up for werewolves when few others did. It wasn’t an official title, it didn’t mean I was queen of anything. It was more like … a hope. I was still trying to decide how I felt about the label.

“Maybe,” I said, noncommittal. “Not that it means anything.”

“I think it means I shouldn’t underestimate you.” He smiled like it was a joke, which was a bit how I’d regarded it when Marid called me it the first time. Nasser turned back to Rick. “You meet with who, next? Mistress of Buenos Aires, yes?”

“Her representative, I think,” Rick said. “You’re the only one bold enough to leave your city in the hands of your followers.”

“Ironic, as I’m the one advocating rebellion among others. But I trust my Family. As do you, I’m sure, Ricardo? As Kitty trusts her pack.”

I looked at Rick, interested, because I didn’t know his answer to the question. He’d taken over this Family by force. Did any of the previous Master’s followers resent him?

“I believe my Family is satisfied with the current management,” Rick said.

Nasser laughed. “Spoken like an American! You truly are of this country and not of the old Families.” Rick tipped his head in agreement. “She will be a good ally, I think. Her city has not been home to vampires for long—she has been its only Mistress. She’ll not want to give up her place to Roman. I must confess that I worry about the two of you. You have made targets of yourselves, and you’re both so young. I could send you help—extra foot soldiers, perhaps. Guardians to keep watch over you and yours.”