A chill passed over me. “Yeah, from the start. Where is he? Where did you take him?”
“Our colleague is just having a few words with him. Kind of like we’re doing with you. Nothing to worry about.”
I sank into the chair at my desk. I had tried to imagine this moment. Reading the history, I had to wonder if I would have named names in front of the HUAC during the Red Scare, or if I would have stood firm and suffered blacklisting. Of course I liked to think I would stand firm, but who could say? Who really knew, until the moment was upon you, what you would do? If I had a choice between collaboration or standing for actual principles despite the risk, what would I do?
Some people would blame me for this situation coming about in the first place. Before I started the show, werewolves, vampires, the whole supernatural world remained secret. Anyone trying to expose that world could be written off as a crackpot. Then came my show, the revelation from the NIH that this was all real—and then came the scrutiny. One of the issues the current administration campaigned on was the need for monitoring and controlling—read registering and incarcerating—vampires and werewolves, and regulating witchcraft and psychics, or even making them illegal. So far, none of this had happened, Constitutional protections had been upheld. But for how long?
I have here in my hand a list of known lycanthropes . . .
“I can’t do it,” I said. “There’s been talk—I know you’ve heard the talk, you all are probably at the center of it—of registering vampires and werewolves, other supernatural beings. For safety reasons, you understand. It’s simply tracking potential threats to the public. Nothing to worry about. Except the next step after registration is restriction. Travel bans, housing limitations. And the next step after that is confinement. You see where I’m going with this?”
“It will never—”
I held up a hand. “Say the rest of that line with a straight face. I dare you.”
She couldn’t. Neither of them could.
I sighed and tried to shake some of the stress out of my nerves. “If you’re looking for a specific name for a specific investigation you can get a court order, but you’ll still have to go through my lawyer—”
“We’re not going to do that, Ms. Norville.”
“But—” And it suddenly occurred to me: They didn’t want to go through lawyers. This was a specific investigation, they were looking for a specific name—they just didn’t want anyone to know who it was. “What is this really about?”
They exchanged a glance, and for the first time seemed not entirely sure of themselves. Maybe even just a little bit nervous.
“This is all back channel bullshit,” I said. “On the one hand, I’m kind of relieved this isn’t actually the start of some kind of roundup. But seriously—who is it among all my connections you’re trying to track down?” It could have been anyone, I knew some pretty far-out people. People who knew where the bodies were buried, and where they should have been, but weren’t.
The pair was playing an unspoken game of “No, you say something,” and Martin appeared to lose. She said, “Ms. Norville, I’m really not at liberty to say—”
“Kitty? You there?” A voice echoed from down the hallway. And with that, my anxiety vanished.
Martin and Ivers reached into their jackets and drew out weapons. Not guns—when they took up defensive stances by the door, they each had a stake in one hand and knife in the other. I bet those knives had silver worked into the blades.
“Who’s that?” Ivers demanded.
I smiled a wolfish, relieved smile. “My lawyer.” My husband, Ben, actually. But I thought ‘lawyer’ would scare them more. “I’m here,” I called out. “There’s company, just to let you know.”
A pause. “The good kind of company or the interesting kind?” That wasn’t Ben answering—that was Cormac, his cousin. Hunter of supernatural creatures turned paranormal detective.
“Interesting. They’re armed.”
“And who is that? Another lawyer?” Ivers hissed at me.
“That’s the muscle,” I said, leering.
“What are they going to do?” Martin asked. She seemed the steadier of the two, gazing into the hallway outside with a look of determination.
“If you put your toys away and walk out—nothing.” I called past them, “Hey, Ben, you see Matt on the way up?”
“Yeah, he and your security guy seemed to be having a tense conversation with a government suit.”
“He’s okay?”
“Worried, but yeah. Are you okay?”
I studied Martin and Ivers, waiting for them to answer the question. Was I okay? Martin pocketed her knife and stake first, and Ivers followed. “Come on in. Meet the rest of the government suits.”
I checked the clock. We’d run a couple minutes over the end of the show. I was going to have to do a lot of explaining next week. Out of a sense of closure, though, I needed to unplug the music, get back on the mike, and wrap up. Maybe the affiliates would give me that extra minute.
“All right, sorry about that, folks. This is Kitty Norville and you’re listening to The Midnight Hour. This musical interlude has been brought to you by two agents of the Paranatural Security Administration, which they tell me is a division of the Department of Homeland Security, and if you think that sounds ominous, well, you’re not alone. They tell me this new agency hasn’t been completely finalized yet and definitely hasn’t been announced to the public. So just remember, you heard it here first. Agent Martin, Agent Ivers, either of you have anything to say to the fans out there?” No, they did not. “I for one will be calling my congresspeople in the morning to see if I can learn any more about how our tax dollars are supporting this exciting new enterprise.”
To their credit, both agents looked chagrined.
“See you all next week,” I said. “This is Kitty Norville, and I am still your voice of the night.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Martin said.
“If wishes were horses.”
Ben and Cormac came into the studio then, side by side, scruffy and heroic, like they were starring in their own TV show or something. The two pairs looked each other up and down, scowling, appraising.
Agent Martin looked at me. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Norville.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said.
They gave one last look around the studio, like they were memorizing it, and strolled out, as if this had all gone exactly the way they’d planned. Yes, I expected I would be hearing from them again. I wondered how many watch lists I’d just been put on. I’d always trusted that my fame would protect me, but now I wondered if that would last. And if it would protect my family.
Matt, along with the late-shift DJ, pounded into the studio next, and another flustered round of questions and reassurances followed, until Ben and Cormac finally walked me out. I wanted to go home.
First thing first, though. “Where’s the baby?” I asked Ben.
“Rachel’s looking after him. What’s the point of being part of a wolf pack if you can’t call in babysitting favors?”
Rachel was the oldest member of our werewolf pack and something of an auntie to us all. The baby loved her. I was relieved. “How did you know something was wrong?” I asked.