Kitty Raises Hell (34 page)

“Here’s the thing,” Ben said. “Who says we have to shape-shift in order to go out in the woods, get naked, and make out under
the stars?”

Oh my. That flush reached all the way to my toes. My face felt like it had caught fire. Metaphorically speaking. There was
something to be said for having one’s inhibitions lowered. I never would have done anything like this before becoming a werewolf.

I turned my head, leaning my forehead against his. “I think you just got yourself a date,” I whispered back.

Paradox PI
had just gotten to the part where New Moon was on fire. The audience was riveted, staring ahead, completely enthralled. Good
thing Ben and I were sitting in the back. Moving quietly along the wall, we slipped to the door, then crept outside. If anyone
noticed, they didn’t complain.

Ben and I drove away, to wilderness and star-filled skies.

Carrie Vaughn had a happy and relatively uneventful childhood, which means she had to turn to science fiction and fantasy
for material to write about. An Air Force brat, she grew up all over the U.S. and managed to put down roots in Colorado, though
she still has ambitions of being a world traveler. Learn more about Carrie’s novels, her short stories, her dog Lily, and
her fascination with costumes and stick figure cartoons at
www.carrievaughn.com
.

MORE KITTY!

Here is a special sneak preview

of Carrie Vaughn’s

next novel featuring Kitty Norville!

Coming in 2010

I
knew if I stayed in this business long enough, sooner or later I’d get an offer like this. It just didn’t quite take the
form I’d been expecting.

The group of us sat in a conference room at KNOB, the radio station where I base my syndicated talk show. Someone had tried
to spruce up the place, mostly by cleaning old coffee cups and take-out wrappers off the table. Not much could be done, with
the worn gray carpeting, off-white walls filled with bulletin boards, thumbtack holes where people hadn’t bothered with the
bulletin boards, and both of those covered with photocopied concert notices and posters for CD releases. The tables were fake-wood-grain-colored
plastic, refugees from the ’70s. We’d only just replaced the chalkboard with a dry erase board a couple of years ago. That
was KNOB, on the cutting edge.

I loved the room, but it didn’t exactly scream high- powered style. Which made it all the funnier to see a couple of Hollywood
guys sitting at the table in their Armani suits and metrosexual savoir faire. They seemed to be young hotshots on the way
up—interchangeable. I had to remember that Joey Provost was the one with slicked-back light brown hair and the weak chin,
and Ron Valenti was the one with dark brown hair who hadn’t smiled yet. They worked for a production company called SuperByte
Entertainment that specialized in reality television. I’d looked up some of their shows, such sparkling gems as
Jailbird Moms
and
Stripper Idol
.

They were here to invite me onto their next show and eagerly explained the concept to me.

“The public is
fascinated
with the supernatural. The popularity of your show is clearly evidence of that. Over the last couple of years, as more information
has come out, as more people who are part of this world come forward, that fascination is only going to increase. We’re not
just trying to tap into a market here—we hope to provide a platform to
educate
people. To erase some of the myths. Just like you and your show,” Provost said. Provost was the talker. Valenti held the
briefcase and looked serious.

“We’ve already secured the participation of Jerome Macy, the pro wrestler, and we’re in talks with a dozen other celebrities.
Name
celebrities. This is our biggest production yet and we’d love for you to be a part of it.”

I’d met Jerome Macy, interviewed him on my show, even. He was a boxer who’d been kicked out of boxing when his lycanthropy
was exposed, and turned to a career in pro wrestling where being a werewolf was an asset. He was the country’s second celebrity
werewolf.

I was the first.

While working as a late-night DJ here at KNOB, I started my call-in talk radio show dispensing advice about all things supernatural
and came out as a werewolf live on the air about three years ago now. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Sometimes it seems
like a million years ago. A lot had happened in that time.

Arms crossed, I leaned against a wall, away from the table where the two producers sat. I studied them with a narrowed gaze
and a smirk on my lips. In wolf body language, I was an alpha sizing them up. Deciding whether to beat them up because they
were rivals—or eat them because they were prey. They probably had been talking to Jerome Macy, because they seemed to recognize
the signals, even if they didn’t quite know what they meant. They both looked nervous and couldn’t meet my gaze, even though
they tried.

This was all posturing.

“That’s great. Really,” I said. “But what is this show going to be
about
?”

“Well,” Provost said, leaning forward, then leaning back again when he caught sight of my stare. “We have access to a vacation
lodge in Montana. Out in the middle of nowhere, a really beautiful spot, nice view of the mountains. We’ll have about a dozen,
give or take, well-known spokespeople for the supernatural, and this will be a chance for them—you—to talk, interact. We’ll
have interviews, roundtable discussions. It’ll be like a retreat.”

My interpretation: We’re going to put you all in a house and watch you go at it like cats and dogs. Or werewolves and vampires.
Whatever.

“So . . . you’re not using the same model that you’ve used on some of your other shows. Like, oh, say
Cheerleader Sorority House
.”

He had the grace to look a tiny bit chagrined. “Oh, no. This is nothing like that.”

I went on. “No voting people off? No teams and stupid games? And definitely no shape-shifting on camera? Right?”

“Oh no, the idea behind this is education. Enlightenment.”

Ozzie, the station manager and my boss, was at the meeting as well, sitting across from the two producers and acting way too
obsequious. He leaned forward, eager, smiling back and forth between them and me. So, he thought this was a good idea. Matt,
my sound guy, sat in the back corner and pantomimed eating popcorn, wearing a wicked grin.

I had a feeling I was being fed a line, that they were telling me what would most likely get me to agree to their show. And
that they’d had a totally different story for everyone else they’d talked to.

I hadn’t built my reputation on being coy and polite, so I laid it out for Mr. Provost. “Your shows aren’t exactly known for
. . . how should I put this . . . having any redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

He must have dealt with my criticism all the time because he had the response all lined up. “Our shows reveal a side of life
that most people have no access to.”

“Trainwrecks, you mean.”

Valenti, who had watched quietly until now, opened his briefcase and consulted a page he drew out. “We have Tina McCannon
of
Paradox PI
on board. Also . . . Jeffrey Miles, the TV psychic. I think you’re familiar with them?” He met my gaze and matched my stare.
One predator sizing up another. Suddenly, I was the one who wanted to look away.

“You got Tina to agree to this? And Jeffrey?”

Both of them were psychics; Tina worked with a team of paranormal investigators on prime-time TV, and Jeffrey did the channeling-dead-relatives
thing on daytime talk shows. I’d had adventures with them both, and the prospect of spending two weeks in a cabin in the middle
of nowhere taping a TV show was a lot more attractive if I’d be doing it with them.

“What do you think, Kitty? Do we have a deal?”

I needed to make some phone calls. “Can I get back to you on that? I need to check my schedule. Talk it over with my people.”

“Of course. But don’t take too long. We want to move on this quickly. Before someone else steals the idea.” Provost actually
winked at that, and his smile never faltered. Valenti had settled back and regarded me coolly.

“You’re not scheduling this over a full moon, are you?” I said.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Provost said, way too seriously.

“Just one more question,” I said. “Have you signed on Mercedes Cook?”

Provost hesitated, as if unsure which answer would be the right one. I knew which answer was the right one: If the Broadway
star/vampire/double-crossing fink was on the show, I was staying as far away as possible.

“No,” he said finally. “She turned us down flat.”

Wonders never ceased. But they’d asked her. And she’d said no, so I might still do this thing. “Ah. Good,” I said, and Provost
relaxed.

We managed polite farewells and handshakes. Ozzie and I walked the two producers outside to their rented BMW. Provost continued
to be gracious and flattering. Valenti stayed in the background. Sizing me up, I couldn’t help but think.

After they’d driven away, we returned to the building. The late summer sun beat down. It had been a beautiful day, a recent
heat spell had broken, and the air felt clean. Smelled like rain.

I turned to Ozzie. “Well?”

He shrugged. “I think it’s a great opportunity. But it’s up to you. You’re the one who’s going to have to go through with
it.”

“Right. I’m just not sure what exactly I’d be dealing with. What are the consequences going to be if I do this?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said.

I hated that question. Reality always came up with so much worse than I could imagine. “I could make an idiot of myself, ruin
my reputation, lose my audience, my ratings, my show, and never make a living in show business again.”

“No, the worst that could happen is you’d die on film in a freak accident, and how likely is that?” Trust Ozzie to be the
realist. I glared at him.

“Who knows? At best it’ll suck in a whole new audience. To tell you the truth, with people like Tina and Jeffrey involved,
it kind of sounds like fun.”

“You know what I’m going to say,” Ozzie said. “Any publicity is good publicity.”

So far in my career that had been true. I was waiting for the day when it wasn’t.