Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

“I’ll see you next week,” Ben said.

Cormac said, to me specifically, “Thanks for coming. Everyone in here’s ugly as shit. It’s nice to see a pretty face once in a while.”

Which broke my heart again. There had to be more I could do than sit here and be a pretty face, however pretty I could possibly be with my pale skin, blond hair tied in a short, scruffy ponytail, and eyes on the verge of crying. I wanted to touch the glass, but that would have been such a cliché and hopeless gesture.

He put the phone back, stood, and was gone. He always walked away without turning to look, and we always stayed to watch him go until he was out of sight.

Ben put his hand on my shoulder, urging me away. Hand in hand, in silence, we left the prison gates and emerged into too-bright summer sun and a baking parking lot. Quietly we slipped into the car, Ben in the driver’s seat. Then the blowup happened.

He closed the door, settled for a moment, then hit the steering wheel with a closed fist. Then again, and again, throwing his whole body into it. The car rocked. I just watched.

After a moment, he slouched back. He gripped the steering wheel, bracing himself. “I hate this. I hate that he’s in there, and there’s nothing I can do.”

He blamed himself as much as I blamed myself. If I hadn’t needed saving, if Ben had found the right legal out—and there was Cormac, accepting it all without complaint. He and Cormac were cousins. They’d grown up together, looked out for each other, and now they were helpless.

I touched his forearm and squeezed, like I could push out the tension. He sighed.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

Friday night, time to party.

“Good evening, and welcome to The Midnight Hour. I’m Kitty Norville, your ever-cheerful hostess. Tonight it’s all vampires, and all calls. I want to hear from you about those mysterious bloodsuckers of the night. Questions, problems, nothing’s off-limits. Tell me a story I’ve never heard before. It’s getting pretty tough to scare me these days, but I’d like you to try. Or even better—let’s see if someone out there can give me a little hope. I’ve had one of those days.”

I was such a lucky girl. After doing this show for two years, my monitor still lit up with calls. My listeners had been waiting with their fingers on the speed-dial button. One of these days, I’d ask for calls and the phones would come up silent. Then I’d have to retire for sure. But this wasn’t that night.

“Our first call this evening comes from . . . Maledar . . . Maledar? Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.” The light male voice managed to drip with pretension.

“Your parents actually named you Maledar.”

“No.” He sounded pouty. “That’s the name I chose for myself. I’m preparing for my new identity. My new life.”

Inwardly, I groaned. A wannabe. Even more pretentious than the real thing. “Am I to understand it, then, that you want to become a vampire?”

“Of course. Someday. When I’m older.”

It clicked then—the voice, the name, the utter cheese of it all. “Wait a minute—how old are you? You’re supposed to be eighteen to call in.” The kid had lied to my screener. Fifteen, I bet. And to his credit smart enough to know how much it would suck to get frozen at age fifteen for all eternity.

“I’m ageless,” he said breathily. “Ageless as the grave.”

“Okay, this is not the kinderbat poetry hour. You’ll want—oh, I don’t know—public access television for that.”

The pause was ominous. Then, “Whoa, what a wicked cool idea.”

Dear God, what have I done? Hurry, move on quick before I get into more trouble. “I don’t know what your question was, but you’re leaving now. Bye. Please, somebody with sense call me so we can discuss Byron or something. Next caller, hello.”

“I knew him, you know.” This was a suave male voice, coolly assured. The real thing. An older vampire showing off his hard-earned ennui.

“Knew who?”

“Lord Byron, of course.”

“Really,” I drawled. “You know, there are about as many vampires who say they knew Byron as there are reincarnation

freaks who say they were Cleopatra in a past life. Which would mean Byron had, like, hundreds of obnoxious simpering twits trailing after him. When he really only had Keats and Shelley.”

The guy huffed. “How very droll.”