Kitty's House of Horrors (Kitty Norville 7)

“Evasion,” she said, straightening slowly, catlike. “That tells me something, as well.”

“Are you trying to figure out whose side I’m on? If Roman succeeded in buying me off?”

“Did he?”

What the hell, just lay it out there. “No.”

Her gaze still studied me, assessed me. I got the feeling she didn’t believe me, but talking about Roman made all my muscles go tense. Surely she could see that.

“So what’s your interest in him?” I said. “Are you one of his?”

She was too good, too experienced to let her expression slip. Too magnificent a poker player. But I thought I knew: if she was one of his, she wouldn’t have to ask me about him. The thought actually made me like her better. But I didn’t like being in a verbal fencing match with an obviously experienced vampire. I was so outclassed.

“Is he a rival, then?” I asked, when she didn’t answer. “How old does that make you?”

Her smile widened and for a moment seemed genuine. Like in another moment she’d laugh and we’d be like old friends. But I also felt like she’d be laughing at me.

She said, “For all our vaunted immortality, old vampires are actually quite rare. They consider each other to be rivals, and they eliminate each other. It’s best to keep a low profile.”

That so didn’t answer my question. “This isn’t a low profile.”

“Sometimes you have to step into the light to learn what you need to know.”

That was a page out of my book. She was still being evasive. “Are you working against Roman? Or are you just another player working for the same goal?”

She tilted her head. “You seem to know more about this than I’d expect from someone of your… type.”

“You going to give me the old ‘werewolves are uncivilized heathens’ line now?”

“No, of course not, I wouldn’t insult you. I’m far too aware of how some werewolves promote that reputation so people like me will underestimate them.”

Over the last couple of years, I’d learned about the so-called Long Game in bits and pieces, like drops of water falling into a bucket. I had gathered enough of those drops to make a mess. And none of those drops suggested that werewolves ever played a part in the Long Game except as tools. As minions. Most of the werewolves I knew just wanted to be left alone, and that didn’t give us a whole lot of power in the game Anastasia was playing.

Before I could call her on it, she straightened and smoothed out her trousers, an obvious shift in tone and in topic. “And what do you know of Odysseus Grant?”

Well, shoot. Were these two plotting some sort of underworld scheme against each other? Did the show serve as a backdrop by accident, or had they ended up here by design? Anastasia might have rigged all this as a publicity stunt. Grant? Never. He didn’t do stunts. He was always in earnest.

What could I possibly tell the vampire that wouldn’t get him in trouble? I wasn’t a good liar. I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t care about him.

“He saved my life once,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s one of the good guys.”

“Good guys. I wonder what that means to you.”

“I just want to be left alone,” I said, my voice soft. I didn’t know yet if Anastasia was a good guy. I didn’t know what that meant to her.

Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t believe you. The evidence suggests otherwise.”

I looked up, because these were the big issues, and when you started trying to untangle the big issues—of philosophy, of ideology—there often were no right answers. I tended to take things day by day, by gut instinct, and hope for the best.

“Then maybe I want justice,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, with something like mocking awe. “You’re an idealist.”

“Yeah. So I’m told.”

“Well. Good luck. You’ll need it.” She gazed outside, like she had just commented on the weather, or the lovely shadows on the grass.

Hand on hip, I turned to her. “Okay, now you’re just baiting me.”