"Listen. You have so many problems with this boyfriend of yours, here's my advice. Break up with him. You'd be doing him a favor."
"But I like dating a werewolf. It's cool."
"You can't have it both ways." I clicked off the line, because really, that conversation couldn't go anywhere else. "You like fur so much, buy a poodle. Except I wouldn't wish you on a poodle even. Damn, I'm cranky tonight. Let's see, where do we go from here. Stan, you're on the air."
"Hi, Kitty. Thanks for taking my call. Can you answer a question for me?"
"I'll give it a shot." I tried to learn everything about him from the sound of his voice: male, indeterminate age. He wasn't overly emotionaclass="underline" frustrated, depressed, sad, or angry. He was neutral, interested. His question could be about anything.
"A lot of people call in to your show wanting to know about vampires and werewolves like they admire them. Like they want to be them. But these are monsters we're talking about—they're not saints. They're not something to aspire to. Even if it is a disease, like you say, why would anyone want a disease like that? I don't understand. Can you explain what people see in the whole thing?" His question sounded genuine. It didn't sound like a put-on.
I was sort of in his camp at the moment.
"I don't know, Stan. Different people see different things in it, I think. Some see glamour. Or power. They feel helpless, and these identities are a way not to feel helpless. The thing is, people who aren't vampires and werewolves aren't looking at the reality of it. Often they only see the stories, the lore, the mystique. They're basing their feelings on what they think those lives must be like. They don't see the dark side. Or if they do, they paint it in glamorous colors as well. It's exciting, it's dangerous. It's an adventure. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe?" He sounded skeptical.
"You have to remember, I never wanted to be a werewolf. I never thought twice about it until I landed in the middle of it. Frankly, I still fail to see the appeal. But I will admit there are people who do. Maybe it's a simple case of the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence."
"You mean if they have crummy lives, they think it might actually be better if they were a vampire?"
"People are funny that way, aren't they? I'll tell you what: I'll throw this one out to the listeners. Give me a call. Tell me why you want to be a vampire or a werewolf. Educate me."
I went straight down the line, taking one call after another. Men, women, young, old, vampires, werewolves, and everything in between. Some of them hated life, some of them loved it.
"It's the power. I want to have that kind of power." I heard that over and over again.
"I just don't feel like I fit in my skin. I—I don't think I was meant to be human. But I see wolves…and it feels like coming home. Does that sound strange? It sounds strange to me. I've never talked about it with anyone before."
"I want to live forever."
"I want to be immortal."
"I'm afraid of dying."
"It hurts. If I was something else, maybe it wouldn't hurt. At least not as much."
"I want to live."
"I want to kill."
And finally, from a man who said he was a werewolf, "Here's the thing, Kitty. I didn't like being human. What is there to being human? You wake up every day, work your ass off just so you can barely put a roof over your head and food in your stomach. If you're lucky you get a minivan and a trip to Disneyland for the kids. This life, our life—all that becomes secondary." He gave a laugh. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's a simpler life. There's a whole other set of priorities guiding you."
"Blood," I said. "Control."
"Magic," he said.
"The ultimate in escapism."
"That's right," he said, like it was a good thing.
"Okay, thanks for sharing."
On the other side of the booth window, Matt pointed to his wrist and mouthed the word "thirty." Thirty seconds to wrap up the show. I rubbed my face; I was ready for the escape. "I don't know if any of this answers Stan's question. My feeling is there is no one right answer. The people who choose this life, and the people who would like to, all have their own reasons. I'll insert my standard disclaimer here: forget any romantic notions you have about vampires and werewolves. They're diseases. They're not easy to live with. They change your life. And you can't go back afterward if you change your mind. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night."
Run credits.
"You okay in there?" Matt asked.
"Do I look that bad?"
"You've looked better."
"I've been better," I said, and managed a smile. This was one of those times, one of those moments where everything seemed to pile up, and I didn't have a choice but to keep clawing my way up and over the obstacles. Just get through it. I liked being human. I was willing to put up with those particular struggles in exchange for the benefits of being human. Like chocolate and cable TV. Like having my own radio show.
We wrapped up. More than ready to get home, I grabbed my things and headed for the station lobby, then outside. Since the other night when I met Charlie and Violet, I always paused in the doorway to take in the scent of the parking lot and street. If something was waiting to pounce on me, I'd spot it. Then I could go back inside and call for help. Rick had done what he'd intended—scared me. Put me on my guard. But I wondered how long I'd have to go tiptoeing around my own life.
The thing was, tonight, I hesitated in the doorway, and knew something waited out there. I caught a scent of lycanthrope, a musky smell where there should have only been people, cars, and concrete.
I should have panicked, but I didn't. While I might have expected the scent to belong to Carl or Meg, it didn't. I sensed a hint of Carl—someone from his pack, then, but someone I didn't know. So maybe Carl sent one of his thugs after me. But I didn't smell aggression. I didn't feel like I was being hunted. Stepping softly, I moved along the wall to the edge of the building, following my nose. Someone was definitely here, watching me. Spying, maybe.
I had almost reached the corner when I said, "Who's there?"
I heard rustling, like someone scooted away from the corner. I slipped around and discovered a young woman pressed against the wall. She was thin, very young, with short blond hair. She wore a black baby doll T-shirt and faded jeans. She couldn't have been more than about nineteen or twenty and looked especially pale in the shadowed, nighttime lighting outside the building.
"Hi," she said and ducked her gaze away from me, a sign that she didn't want trouble. Her shoulders slumped, and I could imagine a tail between her legs.
I stood quietly and smelled her: sweating, frightened, and wolfish. And one of Carl's. If he knew she was here…I couldn't imagine that he knew she was here. If he'd wanted to pass along a message, he wouldn't have sent her—small and cowering.
I avoided staring at her, but it was hard not to. I wasn't sure I knew what to do with this.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"Becky said I should come talk to you."
"Becky." I drew a blank for a moment, then remembered a Becky among Carl's wolves. Standoffish, another one that I'd avoided because she'd been tougher than me.
Then I remembered another Becky, the werewolf who'd called into the show a couple of weeks ago about a submissive in her pack who needed help. It hadn't occurred to me she'd been talking about Carl's pack.
I gave her half a smile. "You couldn't just call in like everyone else?" I thought I was being funny, but she looked down, frowning. She inched away; any minute, she'd bolt.