“I guess I’m looking for a connection,” I said. “I’ve been floundering, wondering where I fit in the world. Would having a role model be too much to ask for?”
“I thought being a role model was your job,” she said, with that haughty amusement that only vampires could manage.
“Oh, heaven help us all,” I replied. “But I have to say that yes, it is important. Being a werewolf is an important enough part of my identity that I’ve been basing a show on it and writing about it for the last five years. If I’m going to be an authority on the subject I really want to be an authority. And that means speculating like this.”
“As long as you’re aware that you may never find the answers you’re looking for,” the vampire said.
“Yeah, I’m used to that. Maybe the important thing is to keep asking the questions anyway.”
And get other people asking them, too. Keep knocking on the door until someone answered. Or until they hauled me away and locked me up.
* * *
AFTER THE show I invited Rick, Master of the local vampire Family, to meet me at New Moon, the bar and grill that Ben and I owned. I was careful not to say anything like, “Let’s go for a drink,” or “How about we grab a bite.” Not that Rick would have taken me literally, but I didn’t want to open myself up for the kind of teasing I’d get. Rick was a vampire, feeding on the blood of the living, although I was pretty sure he only drank from volunteers and just enough to stay functional. Still, you had to be careful about what kind of invitations you offered to vampires.
Rick was a friend, and I trusted him. That didn’t mean he told me everything.
He was handsome, with a hint of old-world aristocracy to his fine features and straight bearing. From what I could gather, he came by it honestly—he’d been the younger son of a Spanish noble family who traveled to the New World seeking his fortune in the first wave of immigration in the sixteenth century. I didn’t know if he ever considered his fortune found. He wore an expensive trenchcoat even in summer, a button-up silk shirt, and well-tailored trousers. Perfect, elegant. You couldn’t help but respect him.
“Hi,” I said, letting him through the glass front door. “I’m not even going to ask if I can get you anything to drink.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, glancing around. “Business seems to be doing well.”
The place wasn’t crowded—not surprising at this late hour—but enough people sat here and there to create a friendly buzz.
“Lack of pretension,” I said, guiding him to a table in the back, where my beer was waiting for me. We took seats across from each other. “I think that may be the secret.”
“I think you may be right,” he said. “Now, what’s the problem?”
“Everyone always assumes there’s a problem.”
“This is you we’re talking about,” he said, perfectly good-natured.
“I just wanted to have a nice, friendly chat,” I said. “How’s life—er, unlife—been treating you? What’s new in your neck of the woods?”
“Is that a pun?”
I had to think about it a minute, my brow furrowed. “Ah. Not intentionally.”
If Rick wasn’t laughing at me, he was at least chuckling, and I scowled.
“Nothing to report,” he said. Gaze narrowed, I studied him. “Kitty, I don’t ask about every detail of the workings of your werewolf pack, I’m not going to tell you every detail about my Family.”
“You can’t blame me—I’ve built a career out of gossip.”
“All the more reason for me to keep my mouth shut.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I blundered on. “I’d like to ask you about a story I’m tracking down. Did you know Sherman?”
“As in General William T.?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m afraid not, though I’m sure he was fascinating.”
I must have looked deflated.
“It’s not like I knew every public figure who lived for the last five hundred years,” he said.
“But you knew Coronado. And Doc Holliday. That’s a pretty amazing roster right there. Five hundred years is a lot longer than most of us get. Do you know anyone who might have known Sherman?”
“Any vampires, you mean?”
“Anyone who might be able to tell me if Sherman was a werewolf.”
He pursed his lips, considering, making him the first person who hadn’t looked at the claim with outright skepticism. “What’s your information?”
I told him about the interview with the Confederate soldier, and my own hunch, which couldn’t exactly be called information. You couldn’t tell a werewolf in human form just by looking. Unless maybe you were psychic, which was something to consider. Maybe I could call my friend Tina, a psychic with the TV show Paradox PI, and see if she could channel Sherman.
“That would be amazing if you could prove it,” he said. “We’d have a whole new perspective on his career.”
“But the only way I can really prove it is to test a tissue sample, assuming a testable sample still exists, or talk to someone trustworthy who might have known him.”
“And no one’s very excited about exhuming the general’s body, I’m guessing.”
“Exactly.”
“Alette’s the only one I can think of who would know. She has her fingers in everything, even going back to that period. If Sherman spent any time in D.C., she would know.”
“Sherman spent a ton of time in D.C. She’d have to know,” I said, excited. Alette was the Master vampire of Washington, D.C., and had been in the 1860s. She was already on my list of people to call after talking to Rick. If she didn’t know, I’d probably never find out.
“Something to consider,” Rick continued. “Even if she does know, she might not tell you. You’re not the only one who’s been asking these sorts of questions since lycanthropy and vampirism went
