Low Midnight (Kitty Norville Book 13)
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Authors: Carrie Vaughn
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For all the readers who’ve been waiting for this one.
Contents
C
ORMAC SAT
quietly while the man across the desk from him talked.
“… model parolee, Mr. Bennett. I’m almost sorry to see you go.” Porter gave a pleasant, practiced smile. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was nondescript, a middle-aged bureaucrat with a plain suit and a tie someone else probably picked out for him. The office was equally nondescript, fifteen-year-old interior design washed out by fluorescent lights shining through frosted plastic. Cluttered desk, cluttered bookshelves, no view visible through a narrow window. Porter’s padded executive chair didn’t look much more comfortable than Cormac’s hard plastic one. How’d the guy come here to work every day without going crazy? Cormac was itching to leave and never look back.
He tried a tight-lipped smile in return, because it was expected. It was polite, pretending like he thought the joke was funny. He kept his hands in his lap and twirled a braided band of leather wrapped around his right wrist. One turn, two, three …
Porter relaxed further, the vague look in his eyes suggesting he might actually have been enjoying himself. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Bennett? Anything at all?” He needed to be helpful, did Mr. Porter.
So many favors Cormac might ask for. Special grants for ex-cons, maybe some cash rewards, payouts. Request a full pardon from the governor, get his conviction overturned entirely, wipe the record clean and reinstate his concealed carry permit—
A bird in the hand,
murmured a voice in the back of his mind. A woman’s voice, speaking in an aristocratic English accent.
Let’s not get carried away. It’s enough to be done with this place.
Cormac agreed. Stick to the plan, and the plan was to end his parole as quickly and painlessly as possible. Then stay the hell out of trouble so he’d never have to go through anything like prison again.
“No, sir,” Cormac said. “I can’t think of anything. Just your signature and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“That’ll be my true pleasure, Mr. Bennett.” Pen scratched on paper, the official document that meant Cormac was well and truly—finally—done with the Colorado Department of Corrections. He kept turning the braided cord, counting. Anyone watching would think he was fidgeting out of nervousness.
At last, Porter turned the pages around, showed Cormac the places he needed to sign, separated duplicate copies, folded one set, stuck them in an envelope, and handed the whole batch over.
“There you go. You are now what we call ‘off paper’ and officially out of the system. Congratulations.”
The envelope should not have felt like a piece of solid gold in Cormac’s hand, but it did. He should run. Flee, before Porter changed his mind.
Give the cord another turn or two,
his ghost Amelia said.
Just in case.
He did, fidgeting. Porter’s expression was expansive, pleased. The man was so happy to help, wasn’t he? He reached out to shake Cormac’s hand. “Good luck, son.”
Maybe they didn’t need the spell to ensure Porter’s cooperation. Maybe the wheels of justice didn’t need any greasing at all on this end. On the other hand, a little nudging couldn’t hurt.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Cormac said as calmly as he knew how. He picked up his black leather jacket from over the back of the chair, walked out of the boxy little office, down the hall, and out of the building into the bright morning sunshine. He squinted into the blue sky.
He was free.
* * *
B
ACK AT
his Jeep, he tossed the precious envelope on the passenger seat. After consideration, he picked it back up and tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Like he expected it to disappear if he didn’t have it with him.
“Shouldn’t feel any different,” he said out loud. “Not like anything’s really changed.”
Symbols are powerful,
Amelia said.
You know that.
This one meant he’d done it, crossed another bridge, taken another step toward normal. For certain values of normal. And now he had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
He made a call before even leaving the parking lot.
“It’s done,” he said when his cousin answered. “I’m off paper.”
“Hallelujah,” Ben O’Farrell sighed. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations to you for keeping me straight.” Ben was also his lawyer.
“Group effort,” Ben said. “Speaking of which, you have to come to New Moon tonight.”
“Why?” he asked, wary.
“Kitty’s planning a surprise party for you, to celebrate. I couldn’t talk her out of it. Sorry.”
Kitty, Ben’s wife. Cormac had introduced them, years ago now. He still didn’t know quite what to think about that. Smiled a little, though he wouldn’t have if anyone had been watching. “She would want to do something like that, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, she would,” Ben said, laughter and affection plain in his voice. “I thought you’d want some warning.”
“Yeah, thanks. And Ben—thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You should call my mother next. She’ll want to know.”
“I will,” he said, and hung up. His Aunt Ellen had been the one to take care of the Jeep while he was gone. Along with Ben and Kitty, she was his only family.
Cormac’s manslaughter conviction had gotten him a slap on the wrist. There were so many other things he’d done that would have gotten him a longer sentence, a worse time of it if he’d been caught. If he’d gone down another road. The older he got—the longer he actually survived—the more grateful he was that Ben and his family had steered him away from that.
I’m grateful as well,
Amelia said.
I’m not sure I would have liked you, if we’d met in your younger days.
“I’m still surprised you like me now,” he said. “You saying I’m not just a relationship of convenience?”
Hm, you’re that, too. But still, I’m glad I met you when I did.
She knew without him having to say it, that in his young wild days she might have tried to talk to him, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to listen. He would have been one of the ones she’d driven mad.
Amelia was one of those forks in the road that no one could have predicted.
* * *
S
CREAMS, TERROR,
the smell of death, a prison drenched in blood, fear sliding into a riot, unnatural and haunted. A monster, a shadowed thing with legs and arms but no visible face, with long claws and a wicked laugh. It had haunted those prison walls and would have killed him. It had already sliced open three men’s throats, leaving their cell mates screaming in insanity and setting the whole prison at the edge of disaster.
Cormac had faced the demon down with nothing but his orange jumpsuit and bare hands. Then
she’d
been there, in his mind, guiding his hand. The spirit of a long-dead magician, a Victorian adventurer hanged for murder, who’d found a way to keep her soul alive—she said she could destroy the demon, but she needed his body, his living flesh and muscles, in order to do so. Finally, Cormac believed her. And not just because he didn’t have a choice.
She had knowledge, but she needed him to fuel her spells. Her fire burned through him, tore the demon to pieces—
He woke up sometimes still expecting to see the washed-out ceiling of his prison cell, to feel the pressure of the bars on his back. He still shivered when he remembered that feeling, that something was lying in wait for him, waiting to rip open his throat, and he had no place to go.
Then he remembered her touch, the fire she brought with her.
He’d resisted her. He’d hated giving over part of himself, no matter what the reason. She hadn’t been very happy about it either—she’d begun by trying to dominate him. Grab control and exert her will without having to argue with him. Slip on his body like a new suit. Of course, that wasn’t an option.
They needed time to figure it out, but in the end they learned that they were stronger working together than they were apart. They could do more. They had a better chance for survival. And that was all either of them ever wanted.
* * *
H
E BOTH
did and didn’t want to go to New Moon that night. He usually felt like that about the downtown restaurant that Ben and Kitty owned. The sense of obligation was … discomfiting. He didn’t like feeling that he owed them, or anyone, something. Loyalty was difficult. It was an anchor holding him in place. At the same time, knowing he belonged here, with people who wanted to see him—that was a prize. A trophy for surviving, not just prison but his whole life so far. The number of times he probably shouldn’t have made it, the number of guns he’d faced, the number of monsters—both human and supernatural—he’d sought out and mingled with hadn’t given him great odds.
Yet here he was. The feeling of belonging was growing on him, like a pair of leather boots finally breaking in to mold to his feet.
The place was a few blocks south of Colfax, part of a collection of funky shops and restaurants that had sprung up around Broadway and the art museum in the last decade, an old brick block of a building that might have been a small-scale factory or warehouse sixty years ago, gone through refurbishment a couple of times over, and now had what reviewers called character.
He hesitated outside the restaurant’s front door and took a deep breath.
He told himself not to flinch when the calls rang out. What did you shout at an ex-con newly off parole anyway? Happy freedom day? Happy not-on-parole-anymore? He was determined not to smirk at whatever banner she’d hung up. He wouldn’t frown too hard at the proceedings. Depending on how earnest Kitty was about the whole thing, he might even smile.
You are making far too much of this.
Oh yeah? he thought. Just wait.
When he opened the door and entered the restaurant, nothing happened. In fact, everything looked normal. Everything sounded normal. Something jazzy played on the speakers, barely audible over the ambient noise of the crowd. The bar ran along one side of the interior, straight from the front door. Tables, about three-quarters occupied, filled the rest of the space. A pair of waitresses maneuvered among them on the hardwood floor, carrying trays, pitchers of beer. The ceiling was fashionably unfinished, painted ductwork and rafters giving the place an airy feel. The crowd was young to middle age, professional. The guy working the bar, Shaun, was the regular manager. He was always polite to Cormac, but usually glared at him with some suspicion. He knew Cormac’s history. Cormac ignored him.
