Kitty's Greatest Hits

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

He drifted off to the cooler anyway, and Frank turned back to the bowl of hummus, away from me.

Sheep. They were all a bunch of sheep.

I didn’t usually feel this way. Usually, I could get through an entire day of work without making little baaing noises in my head in reference to my colleagues. I didn’t always walk into a room and automatically winnow the herd in my mind.

Human: The other white meat.

The later the party went, the more everyone smelled like beer, the more people laughed, and the more I paced like a caged predator. I made myself sit in a chair and watch. Perry had left. So, I’d go after Ann next, because Ann needed getting. She was telling Beth from programming a complicated story about her partner’s, i.e., longtime live-in boyfriend’s, reprehensible behavior at her cousin’s wedding, which was really a disguised rant about his not proposing to her years ago and thus depriving her of her own wedding. Being a freethinking liberal feminist, Ann was not supposed to complain about such things.

“He’s an animal!” Beth said commiseratively.

These people had no idea. Try dating people who sprouted three-inch claws on a regular basis.

It was all pretense, one way or another. The reason I wasn’t kissing Ozzie’s ass or worrying about my job was because if I lost this job, I’d have an excuse to run away and never come back. So maybe that was why I kept up the pretense. For the challenge. Because I wanted to believe that civilization was worth the effort.

“Kitty! What was that shit you were playing the other night?”

I blinked, startled, and searched the room for the heckler. Ozzie, aging hippie ponytail and all, was standing on the other side of the sofa, hands on hips, glaring at me. The cluster of people seated on the sofa and nearby chairs fell silent, watching with big eyes like they’d just seen a car wreck.

What shit? was not the ideal response to that question. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“A couple nights ago. That spoken word stuff. That totally suicidal spoken word stuff.”

I composed myself and said, “That was poetry. I found a recording of Sylvia Plath reading her poems. You know—literature.”

With a scowl, he pulled a crumpled wad of cash from his pocket, smoothed out a couple of ones, and handed them to Bill, who grinned.

They’d had a bet going on one of my sets? Crazy.

Ozzie pointed at me. All ready to take his loss out on somebody. “Well, we can’t have that.”

Have what—literature? I raised my brows, inquiring.

He continued. “Suicidal shit on the radio. We might be held liable for—for something.” He made a vague gesture.

My God, if the Plath estate were held liable for every suicidal teenager who got ahold of The Bell Jar …

I rolled my eyes. “It was two in the morning. Can you prove to me anyone was even listening?”

“Kitty, we can’t have that kind of attitude here.”

The air quivered. I wasn’t being nice. I wasn’t playing the game. I might as well have acquired a bull’s-eye on my chest. My colleagues stared at me, nearly salivating. Like a pack of wolves moving in for the kill.

I supposed I should have been flattered that someone had listened to my shift.

“Can we talk about it at the next programming meeting?” I said. Nicely.

“Yeah, sure.”

Ozzie didn’t deserve to be alpha of this pack.

I stared at him. Hard. Almost, a growl started in my throat. I pursed my lips, to stop them from curling and baring my teeth. My shoulders tensed, like hackles rising. Frank’s German shepherd would have recognized the challenge. Ozzie almost did. His eyes went a little wide, but then he took a long draw from his beer and skulked off to the break room. He may not have understood that he was avoiding a challenge, but that was what he was doing.

I turned my lips into a wry smile as people nervously restarted conversations and stole twitchy glances at me.

“Baa-a-a-a-a-a-a!” I yelled in a staccato voice, hands cupped around my mouth. And they all just looked at me, before turning back to their beers and conversation.

I could eat them all. But I had a bad taste in my mouth. Time to blow this Popsicle stand. I grabbed another handful of crackers, waved a half-assed good-bye, and stalked out the door. It was early enough I could still find someplace to serve me a nice, rare steak.

KITTY AND THE MOSH PIT OF THE DAMNED

It felt good to get away from the radio station.

At least that was what I kept telling myself as I tried to make my way to the back of Glamour, a nightclub that attracted a young and dissolute crowd. I was here for a concert. I squeezed along the wall, pausing every couple of steps as people surged back, threatening to crush me. I dodged full cups of beer and lit cigarettes. The dance floor was shuffle-room only. The crowd was way past fire-code capacity.

A few hundred hot-blooded beating hearts surrounded me. It was all I could do to keep from drooling. A deeply buried part of me sensed the sweat, the heat, and thought, Easy prey. I could smell ten different brands of perfume and aftershave. Someone nearby was high on pot; I could smell it on his breath. Another had done X in the last hour; I could smell it in her blood.

This part of me had to sprout fur and claws every full moon. Between moons, I was careful to keep my claws to myself.

I finally reached the secondary bar with the majority of my self-control intact. Red track lighting backlit a couple rows of liquor bottles, casting shadows over the usual detritus of napkins, lime slices, dirty glasses, and taps. I checked for spills on the black Formica, and finding a dry spot, hopped up to take a seat.

The bartender started to glare, but when he saw me, he leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Kitty, hiya.” Jax was about six feet tall and a hundred thirty pounds on a heavy day. He was shaved bald, and, living the nocturnal lifestyle he did, his skin was pale.

“Hey. When’s Devil’s Kitchen up?”

“Five minutes. Your timing is great.”

“What are the chances they’ll stick around after the show to talk to me?”

“When I tell them Kitty Norville wants to talk to them? They’ll stick around like duct tape.”

I was still getting used to the fame thing. My call-in radio talk show for the supernaturally challenged went national less than a year ago, but a lot had happened in that time. I’d revealed my werewolf identity on the air, for one. The episode put my ratings through the roof and made me one of the first lycanthrope celebrities in the country.

Fame opened doors and I had to take advantage of it when I could. I wanted to get Devil’s Kitchen on my show for an interview.

The concert started late. The crowd, sensing the minutes ticking on some internal group chronometer, pressed closer to the stage. The angry edge tingeing the air intensified. Lots of black, lots of chains, and shouting.

The room went dark, all the lights cutting off at once, and the taped music went dead. Crammed bodies that had been governed by the beat of the music milled, uncertain. Then, the stage lit up. White spots glared straight down on amps and mike stands. A drum machine started up, followed by an electrified bass line, manic and terrible, like coming war.

Spirits from shadow, the band appeared. A bald guy with a ripped T-shirt and denim overalls played bass— Danny Spense. He came on stage and played like he was digging his own grave, with a kind of intense desperation, focusing only on his hands clutching the instrument, wincing in anguish.