Kitty Rocks the House (9 page)

“Thank you,” she said, brusque and businesslike.

“I know you have your own thoughts about
In the Blood
and its author.”

“Yes, I do. Professor Eret has been fooled by a very convincing piece of fiction,” she said. “All those facts, those details he praises—they can be researched and constructed. All the cross-referencing with secondary sources in the world will just tell you what the author used for source material. Even if the man himself came forward and allowed himself to be interviewed, and even if he does turn out to be a vampire, what proof do we have that he’s really Edward Alleyn the actor? Birth certificate? Driver’s license? I don’t think so.”

“What proof would convince you that this book really was written by the Elizabethan Edward Alleyn, Professor McAdams?”

“That’s just it, I don’t believe this book could possibly have been written by someone from the Elizabethan era. There’s no hint of historical idioms in the writing, of Elizabethan uses of language. The facts and mind-set within the writing may be historically accurate, as Dr. Eret says. But that’s just a matter of research and careful characterization. The syntax of the writing itself is that of a
modern
author.”

“That shouldn’t be at all surprising,” Eret interjected. “This isn’t time travel, the book didn’t land on us straight from 1620. It was written by someone living in the modern world for a modern audience. Well, perhaps ‘living’ isn’t the right word.”

I remembered something Ned said about accents. That a vampire who lived for a long time had to change his accent if he wanted to continue to blend in with the world around him. Language didn’t stagnate. Rick was born in sixteenth-century Spain, but he sounded like a modern American. Ned himself cultivated a modern, dramatic voice that was probably quite different than the one he’d used on stage during his prime.

Smiling at the microphone I said, “Am I right in thinking that both of you are writing scholarly essays either refuting or defending the book?”

“My refutation has already been published online,” Professor McAdams said. “I’ll be happy to write a rebuttal of any published statement Professor Eret cares to make on the subject.”

“
My
essay is appearing in
The New Yorker
next month,” Professor Eret said.

I could imagine the glares they’d be exchanging if I’d had them both in the studio. I almost wished I’d been able to arrange it. I moved the conversation on. “What if I said I’d met the author and I’m absolutely certain his claims are true? He really is Edward Alleyn, the actor, and now vampire. I mean, he’s got a near-mint First Folio sitting in his living room.”

Professor McAdams said, “All you need to get a First Folio is a lot of money. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“He quoted Marlowe from memory.”

“Any decent actor from the Royal Shakespeare Company can do that,” she added.

Eret said, “This man you met, who claims to be Edward Alleyn—is he involved in the theater at all? I notice that this memoir deals very little with his life currently.”

“He’s protective of his privacy,” I said. “But I believe he owns at least a couple of West End theaters.”

“You see, that rings true to me. The original Edward Alleyn made his fortune in the theater and in spectacle. I have to believe that some of that impulse would still exist. But more than anything I offer this: of all the historical figures a vampire could claim to be, why on earth would anyone pick an Elizabethan actor who, apart from appearing as a secondary character in a popular film a dozen years ago, is virtually unknown to anyone outside the field? If this is a wild bid for attention, why not impersonate Walter Raleigh or Francis Drake, or even Shakespeare himself? If you’re trying to be famous, impersonating a celebrity hardly anyone remembers is not the way to go about it.”

When she didn’t respond right away, I prompted McAdams. “Professor? What do you think about that?”

“I have to admit, you have a point there.” She sounded thoughtful rather than disappointed.

Eret said, “Then you concede—I’m right, and the memoir is real.”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far,” she said. “There’s still a reputation to be made in establishing myself as the professional skeptic on the topic.”

I said, “All right, level with me—that’s why the Shakespeare debate’s still out there, isn’t it?”

“Because there are people who are professional skeptics on the topic? Of course.”

“Well, I have to respect your honesty, at least.”

Eret said, “Professor McAdams, would you be interested in staging a series of public debates on the subject?”

“That’s a wonderful idea. Maybe we could even co-present at the next MLA conference?”

“Splendid! Each of us ought to be able to get a book or two out of this. Are you tenured yet?”

“No—I could really use a high-profile book. Maybe even for a popular audience…”

“Then a formal rivalry could help both our careers,” Eret said cheerfully.

Are you
kidding
me? I wondered if they even remembered that I was here. “You guys do realize you’re still on the air, right?” They both made polite affirmative noise. “Do I dare ask about any conclusions on the subject of
In the Blood
and its author?”

“We’ll obviously never be able to come to some kind of consensus,” McAdams pronounced decisively. Nay, happily even.

“Right then. Thank you both for speaking with me this evening. I’m going to wrest control of my own show back and open the line for a couple of questions. Hello, Arthur from Spokane.”

“Hi, yes, I just wanted to say that you really can’t be so cavalier in dismissing the argument that the front man purportedly known as William Shakespeare did
not
write those plays. The actor Edward Alleyn may not have even been aware of the cover-up, as many contemporaries were not—that’s why it’s called a cover-up—”

God, I really needed to check the monitor more closely. “I’m sorry, that’s a little off topic tonight. Can you tell me if you think Edward Alleyn is really a vampire?”

“Well, of course he is, if he says he is.”

And yet Shakespeare couldn’t have written Shakespeare. I stared at the microphone. “Seriously? You’re going to stick with that?”

He sounded offended. “Well, yes, and if I could get back to the question of Shakespeare—”

“No, you can’t. Next caller, please, and let’s stay on topic. Hello?”

“Oh, Kitty, hi! I just have a quick question—do you think maybe that
Shakespeare
is a vampire?”

I had to think about that a minute. No, I needed to think about that for several minutes. But I didn’t have a few minutes. I had the threat of dead air and a sudden wish that I had done this week’s show on the possibility of psychic houseplants. “No, I don’t. And I think it’s about time to break for station ID and go have a drink. Or three…”

Chapter 8

I
’D DONE
worse shows. I’d done better.

Shaun had a beer waiting for me at New Moon as soon as I walked in, and that was only one of the many reasons we kept him around. This late, right before closing, only a few stragglers remained. Lingering parties, successful dates. Darren was sitting at a table for two—with Becky. At the moment her smile sparkled brighter than I’d ever seen it. Oh dear …

“How long have they been at it?” I said to Shaun, nodding at them.

“Couple of hours. She’d been here for half an hour or so, stopping by after work, and he showed up. They’ve been together ever since.”

“So—what do you think?”

“He hurts her I’ll rip his face off,” he said. I was thinking the same thing. But for the moment she seemed so gosh darned happy, I could hardly judge. But it seemed … odd. Darren was certainly making himself at home.

I sidled over to their table. Just checking, I told myself. Politely interested, not intruding. “Hi, guys. Sorry to bother you, but could I have a word with Darren, just for a sec?” My smile was so big it hurt.

Becky actually glowered at me, offended. I didn’t glare back and made what I hoped was a comforting shrug. For his part, Darren only seemed confused as he followed me back to the bar.

“What do you need?” he said as he hopped up on the stool next to me and leaned in close—closer than I was comfortable with. But I couldn’t flinch back, not a millimeter. I couldn’t figure this guy out. Maybe he was a were–golden retriever? We’d find out soon enough.

“Full moon’s tomorrow night, I just wanted to go over a few things. We have territory in the mountains—”

He waved a hand as if to say,
no problem.
“Becky told me all about it.”

“We usually carpool. You can ride up with Ben and me if you want—”

“You don’t have to go through the trouble, I’ll be okay.”

But he didn’t even know where we were going. The dirt roads we followed were Forest Service roads, not marked on the usual maps. How was he going to get there without a guide? Oh—he was riding with Becky.

I soldiered on. “We hunt together, as a pack. We keep an eye on each other. Livestock and roads are off-limits.” I assumed I didn’t have to tell him that people were off-limits as well. Maybe I shouldn’t make that assumption …

He just kept smiling. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

I sighed and shook my head, as if I could shake away my misgivings. “I just want everything to go smoothly. Full moon nights are always touchy.”

“Everything’ll be fine.”

“Get there at twilight. We run as a pack.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I scowled. Now he was just being patronizing. “Oh, and if you hurt Becky we’ll all rip your face off.”

He blanched, just a bit, but covered it up with his winning smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not crazy.”

Becky watched him as he returned to their table; they hunched in close, to confer. I felt suddenly tired, but didn’t dare slouch.

Shaun had politely removed himself to the other end of the room, but drifted back over after Darren left.

“It’s all cool?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I finally took a drink of the beer that had been waiting faithfully for me on the bar. It had gone a bit warm. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Ben wasn’t meeting me tonight, which meant I’d have the one drink and head home. By then, most of the buzz from the show would wear off and I’d be ready to sleep. Or if the buzz hadn’t worn off, maybe I wouldn’t be ready to sleep, and maybe Ben wouldn’t be, either …

My face was buried in the mug when Shaun said, “Hey, look,” and nodded at the front door.

Rick was standing there and tapped the glass when I spotted him. Rick, finally.

I opened the door and let him inside. “You’ve been invited. You can come in.”

“Yes, but I thought I’d be polite,” he said. “Since I’m here to talk and not drink.” He eyed the few people at the bar and scattered at tables appreciatively. I was pretty sure he did it to be funny.

“And for that, I thank you,” I said.

I guided him to a table in back. He sat across from me and, folding his hands before him, regarded me with a serious expression, lips pulled down. I focused on his chin instead of his eyes. He’d never used his vampiric influence on me before—that I knew of—but he looked like he might be willing to start.

“What is it?” I said.

“You and your hunter friend have been digging,” he said.

Oops. My cheeks flushed to burning. “Well, I mean … It was broad daylight, how did you even know?”

He raised a brow at me, indicating that I should know better than to ask such a question. However he’d found out, he wasn’t going to tell me. They were vampires, and that should be enough to explain anything to a mere mortal such as myself.

“You all are very invested in your reputations for omnipotence, you know that?” I said.

“As you say,” he answered.

Omnipotence and inscrutability. How did I ever expect anything different? I said, “I’m just worried. About you. About that
guy.
I’ve been trying to call you—we need to talk. Detective Hardin’s looking for him. He’s wanted for arson and murder in Europe.”

“That’s really not your concern,” he said, and I started getting angry.

“Yeah, until Hardin comes to me asking questions and I have to cover your ass.”

He turned a hand in apology. “I appreciate that. But this is my business, mine alone. Hardin won’t find him, even if you do help her. In the meantime, it would be better for you and Cormac if you stay out of this.”

“I’d solve a lot of my problems by just staying out of things,” I said. “But if Hardin is right and Columban caused that trouble in Europe, what’s to say he won’t cause the same trouble here?”

“He won’t. Nobody’s in any danger—”

“He makes me nervous,” I said.

“Are you worried because he’s a vampire, or because he’s a Catholic priest?”

“Um, yes?”

He took a deep breath, measuring his words. “You’ve trusted me for years now, Kitty. Have I ever given you a reason not to?”

He never, ever had. In fact, he’d been one of the true friends, an anchor I could count on. He’d helped me more times than I could count. He was my first and strongest proof positive that being a vampire did not make someone a villain.

“No, of course not. You’re right, I shouldn’t be going behind your back and I shouldn’t be worried about you.”

“I don’t know about the second of those,” he said with a wry smile. “Trust me, if I need help, I’ll call.”

“You really should check your messages occasionally, you know. The Mistress of Buenos Aires is going to be showing up in a week. We need to plan.”

“Yes, I know.” He sat back and gazed around the dining room. I watched him take stock of each face, each mundane story unfolding before him. As he usually did in public crowds, he seemed amused, satisfied. He’d said it before: he liked people and being around them. It kept him human. Made it hard to see the five-hundred-year-old vampire in him.

He glanced toward the table where Darren and Becky were sitting. Darren laughed at something, she curled a short lock of hair around her finger. They may have been werewolves but those mating signals were all human. “Who’s the new kid?” Rick asked.