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"There's always night school," I said.
"But what would be the point?"
"You tell me."
Her gaze was becoming more focused. I felt like she actually saw me now. Alette was right—she was going to be okay. She didn't really want to open the curtains.
"I'm still me," she said. I nodded. She held the blanket in a death grip—probably for more comfort than from the cold.
I stood, getting ready to leave her alone. She was curled up, staring at the arm of the chair, looking like she needed to be left alone.
"Kitty?" she said, glancing up suddenly. "Can I call you? Your show, I mean. If I need to talk."
I smiled. "I'll give you the private number."
Alette brought me to the kitchen for tea. She already had a pot made up. The kitchen seemed too bright, after the shadows of the parlor. It seemed too real, too normal.
She talked as she poured. Only one cup—she didn't drink tea. I wondered if she missed it.
"She didn't say it, but she's also upset about Bradley. We all are. I'm so glad Tom had that night off. I don't know what I'd have done if I'd lost them both. All three of them, in some ways. Emma will never be the same. She was so full of life, and to see her like this—"
"But you still have her, and Leo doesn't, for which I'm very grateful." I couldn't imagine what he'd have done with her, what she'd have done with him lording himself over her. Actually, I could imagine it, that was the problem.
"Yes," Alette said wryly.
"Something's been nagging me," I said, after taking a sip of tea. "Leo was a lackey. He couldn't move against you without help. He said something about this plot going beyond Flemming. That Flemming only thought he was in control. I've been wondering—who was Leo really taking orders from? The DOD?"
Alette frowned, her lips tightening. "Flemming was the military's contact, not Leo. Leo needed Flemming to get his military support. If Leo had ulterior motives, they served another purpose entirely. I wish I knew for certain. I wish I could give you a name. But the answers lie in shadow. There are stories that vampires tell each other, late at night, just before dawn, to frighten each other. To frighten ourselves. If vampires are truly immortal, there could be some very, very old beings in this world. They may be so old, their motives are alien to us. Some say that even the Master vampires have their Masters, and you would not want to meet them, even in bright daylight. I have kept quiet, kept myself and mine away from those who would seek such power."
People scared themselves with vampire stories. So what scared the vampires? A thing I hoped I never met. A thing that this brief mention of would haunt my mind. My hand held the teacup frozen, midway to my mouth.
"Are these beings like Elijah Smith?" I said.
Like I was afraid she would, she shook her head. "Creatures like Smith, the sidhe, come from another world entirely that rarely crosses paths with ours. They are isolated dangers. This has always lurked in the shadows of our world."
"What? What's always lurked?"
"Evil."
That sounded too damn simple. And yet, it opened a range of sinister possibilities in my imagination. I wasn't sure I'd ever met evil: madness, illness, ambition, confusion, arrogance, rage, yes. But evil?
"Just when I thought I was starting to figure things out," I muttered.
Alette straightened and brightened her tone. "I am confident that with Leo's failure, and Flemming's failure, we will not need to concern ourselves with such possibilities. Agreed?"
"Agreed," I whispered. That left one more question. I continued awkwardly. "I know this is a personal question, and if you don't want to say anything that's okay. But how did this happen? You becoming a vampire—is it something you wanted?"
She smiled and lowered her gaze, giving a hint of amusement. "I'll tell you the short version. I was desperate. I was poor, I had two children, and lived in a world where no one blinked at poverty. An opportunity presented itself, and I took it. I vowed that I would never leave my children, like their father did. Not even death would take me from them."
After a pause I said, "I suppose it worked."
"I have never regretted it."
Alette had very much proven herself adaptable to circumstance. The centuries would stretch on and she would still be here with her parlor, her pictures, and her children.
I fidgeted with the cup and saucer. "I should get going. I sort of have a date."
"With that jaguar fellow, I presume?"
"Um, yeah."
"Wait just a moment." She left me to fidget with my tea. When she returned, she held a small jewelry box. She offered it to me. "I'd like you to have this."
I opened it and found the diamond teardrop pendant on its gold chain. "Oh, Alette, you shouldn't—"
"It's something to remember me by. Do come and visit sometime."
She clasped my hand, kissed my cheek, and we said goodbye.
Earlier that afternoon, I'd had one last room-service lunch with Ben. Cormac had already left town, without even saying goodbye. I was simultaneously offended and relieved.
As usual, Ben ate while he worked, shuffling through papers, turning away just long enough to open the door. He'd ordered a steak for me. Rare.
I sat at the table and nodded at the current folder. "What's this?"
"The FCC wants to investigate you for indecency."
"What?"
"Apparently, somewhere between fully clothed human and fur-covered wolf, you flashed breast on national broadcast television. They've gotten about a dozen complaints."
"You have got to be kidding me." Flashing the TV audience had been the last thing on my mind.
"Nope. I rewatched the video, and sure enough, it's there. You have to be pretty fast with the pause button to catch it."
I loved the idea of all the prudish reactionaries who must have taped the show, then sat there with their thumbs poised over the scan and pause buttons, searching for something to complain to the FCC about. And they're charging me with indecency?
"I'll tell you what—forward the complaint to Stockton. No, better—forward it to Duke."
"Already done. I think it'll be pretty easy to argue the complaint and prove you had no responsibility for the broadcast."
Damn straight. "I got a message from Stockton." He'd left it on my cell phone during the hearings, like he'd called specifically at a time he knew I'd have my phone turned off so he could leave a message without having to talk to me. He'd sounded downright obsequious: "Kitty. It's Roger. Look, I'm probably the last guy you want to hear from. You'll probably never speak to me again. But I really wish you'd call me back. I've been asked about a follow-up show. I see us laying down a commentary track on the coverage from last night, you know? It could be a big move for both of us, career-wise. I really think you have a future in television. I want to do right by you. Thanks."
That maniac. If I ever decided to make a go at television, it would be without his help. "You think you can sue him a lot?"
"Oh, yeah, about our good Mr. Stockton. Cormac did some digging on our behalf. Have a look at this." Ben handed me a manila folder out of his stack.
I opened it and started reading. There were a half-dozen pages of official-looking forms, spaces with names and dates filled in, and a few mug shots of the same person, a ski
It was Roger Stockton. A younger, crazier Roger Stockton.
"These are arrest reports," I said, awestruck.
"Mr. Stockton put himself through college by dealing hallucinogenic drugs. Not the usual weed, but exotic stuff: opium, peyote, frog-licking, that sort of thing. It seems he was into experimentation, looking for a higher power, saying it was all part of some religious ceremony that he and his friends were conducting. You know how it goes. The charges never stuck. He never served time. But it still makes for fascinating reading, don't you think?"