Kitty and the Midnight Hour

I couldn't do it. From the night I was attacked until now, someone—T.J., Carl, or somebody—had been there to tell me I was going to be okay, that I had friends. They helped me keep control. They gave me a place to go when I felt like losing it. I didn't have to worry about hurting them. If I didn't have that, what would I do? I'd be alone. How many people were there—people like James, who didn't have packs or Families or anything—how many of them were listening to my show and thinking I had all the answers? That wasn't what I'd planned when I started this.

Had there been a plan when I started this?

Who was I to think I could actually help some of these people? I couldn't get along without my pack. Maybe James was different.

'I don't know, James. I don't know anything about your life. If you want me to sit here and validate you, tell you that yeah, you're right, you don't need a pack and everything's going to be okay, I can't do that. I don't have the answers. I can only go by what I hear and think. Look at your life and decide if you're happy with it. If you can live with it and the people around you can live with it, fine, great, you don't need a pack. If you're not happy, decide why that is and do something about it. Maybe a pack would help, maybe not. This is a strange, strange world we're talking about. It'd be stupid to think that one rule applies to everyone.' I waited a couple of heartbeats. I could hear his breathing over the line. 'James, you okay?'

Another heartbeat of a pause. 'Yeah.'

'I'm going to the next call now. Keep your chin up and take it one day at a time.'

'Okay, Kitty. Thanks.'

Please, please, please let the next call be an easy one. I hit the phone line.

'You're on the air.'

'Hi, Kitty. So, I've been a lycanthrope for about six years now, and I think I've adjusted pretty well. I get along with my pack and all.'

'Good, good.'

'But I don't know if I can talk to them about this. See, I've got this rash—'

I had an office. Not a big office. More like a closet with a desk. But I had my own telephone. I had business cards. Kitty Norville, The Midnight Hour, KNOB. There was a time just a few months ago when I'd assumed I would never have a real job. Now I did. Business cards. Who'd have guessed?

The show aired once a week, but I worked almost every day. Afternoons and evenings, mostly, in keeping with the nocturnal schedule I'd adopted. I spent an unbelievable amount of time dealing with organizational crap: setting up guest interviews, running damage control, doing research. I didn't mind. It made me feel like a real journalist, like my NPR heroes. I even got calls from the media. The show was fringe, it was wacky, and it was starting to attract attention from people who monitored pop-culture weirdness. A lot of people thought it was a gimmick appealing to the goth crowd. I had developed a set of canned answers for just about every question.

I got asked a lot if I was a vampire/lycanthrope/witch/whatever; from the skeptics the question was if I thought I was a vampire/lycanthrope/witch/whatever. I always said I was human. Not a lie, exactly. What else could I say?

I liked the research. I had a clipping service that delivered articles from all walks of media about anything pertaining to vampires, lycanthropes, magic, witchcraft, ghosts, psychic research, crop circles, telepathy, divining, lost cities—anything. Lots of grist for the mill.

A producer from Uncharted World called to see if I wanted to be on the show. I said no. I wasn't ready for television. I was never going to be ready for television. No need to expose myself any more than necessary.

I got fan mail. Well, some of it was fan mail. Some of it was more along the lines of 'Die, you satanic bitch from hell.' I had a folder that I kept those in and gave to the police every week. If I ever got assassinated, they'd have a nice, juicy suspect list. Right.

Werewolves really are immune to regular bullets. I've seen it.

Six months. I'd done the show once a week for six months. Twenty-four episodes. I was broadcast on sixty- two stations, nationwide. Small potatoes in the world of syndicated talk radio. But I thought it was huge. I thought I would have gotten tired of it by now. But I always seemed to have more to talk about.

One evening, seven or eight o'clock, I was in my office—my office!—reading the local newspaper. The downtown mauling death of a prostitute made it to page three. I hadn't gotten past the first paragraph when my phone—my phone!—rang.

'Hello, this is Kitty.'

'You're Kitty Norville?'

'Yes.'

'I'd like to talk to you.'

'Who is this?'

He hesitated a beat before continuing. 'These people who call you—the ones who say they're psychic, or vampires and werewolves—do you believe them? Do you believe it's real?'

I suddenly felt like I was doing the show, on the phone, confronting the bizarreness that was my life head- on. But it was just me and the guy on the phone. He sounded… ordinary.

When I did the show, I had to draw people out. I had to answer them in a way that made them comfortable enough to keep talking. I wanted to draw this guy out.

'Yes, I do.'

'Do they scare you?'

My brow puckered. I couldn't guess where this was going. 'No. They're people. Vampirism, the rest of it— they're diseases, not a mark of evil. It's unfortunate that some people use them as a license to be evil. But you can't condemn all of them because of that.'

'That's an unusually rational attitude, Ms. Norville.' The voice took on an edge. Authoritative. Decisive, like he knew where he stood now.

'Who are you?'

'I'm attached to a government agency—'

'Which one?'

'Never mind that I shouldn't even be talking to you like this—'

'Oh, give me a break!'

'I've wondered for some time now what your motivations are in doing your show.'

'Let me at least take a guess. Are you with the NIH?'

'I'm not sure the idea would have occurred to someone who didn't have a… personal… interest.'

A chill made my hair stand on end. This was getting too close.

I said, 'So, are you with the CDC?'

A pause, then, 'Don't misunderstand me, I admire the work you're doing. But you've piqued my curiosity. Ms. Norville—what are you?'

Okay, this was just weird. I had to talk fast to fend off panic. 'What do you mean, 'what am I?''

'I think we can help each other. An exchange of information, perhaps.'

Feeling a bit like the miller's daughter in Rumpelstiltskin, I took a wild stab. 'Are you with the CIA?'

He said, 'See what you can find on the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology.' Then he hung up.

Great, I had my own personal Deep Throat.

Hard to focus on work after that. I kept turning the conversation over in my mind, wondering what I'd missed and what someone like that could accomplish by calling me.

I couldn't have been brooding for more than five minutes when the phone rang again. I flinched, startled, and tried to get my heart to stop racing before I answered. I was sure the caller would be able to hear it over the phone.

I answered warily. 'Hello?'

'Kitty? It's your mother.' Mom, sounding as cheerful and normal as ever. I closed my eyes and sighed.

'Hi, Mom. What's up?'

'You never told me if you were going to be able to make it to your cousin Amanda's wedding. I need to let them know.'