Kitty's House of Horrors (kn-7) Carrie Vaughn (philippa perry book TXT) 📖

here, looking anywhere but her eyes was difficult. I worked to keep from fidgeting.

“This two-thousand-year-old vampire you said you met,” she said. “Who was it?”

I didn’t want to talk about this. “He was a little intimidating.”

“Let me tell you about him. He’s not so tall; average height and build, but he looks like stone. Close-cropped hair. An intense man. He was probably intense even before he turned to vampirism. And he’s concerned with power. Political, territorial. He chooses minions, binds them to him. He’s preparing allies for a coming conflict.”

Weakly, I nodded. “That’s right. That’s him.”

Anastasia leaned forward a little, her full lips in a pouting smile, her gaze searching. “What did he tell you, Kitty? What did he offer you? What did he demand?”

My thin pretense of a smile fell. “What do you know about him? Why are you asking me these things?”

“Evasion,” she said, straightening slowly, catlike. “That tells me something, as well.”

“Are you trying to figure out whose side I’m on? If Roman succeeded in buying me off?”

“Did he?”

What the hell, just lay it out there. “No.”

Her gaze still studied me, assessed me. I got the feeling she didn’t believe me, but talking about Roman made all my muscles go tense. Surely she could see that.

“So what’s your interest in him?” I said. “Are you one of his?”

She was too good, too experienced to let her expression slip. Too magnificent a poker player. But I thought I knew: if she was one of his, she wouldn’t have to ask me about him. The thought actually made me like her better. But I didn’t like being in a verbal fencing match with an obviously experienced vampire. I was so outclassed.

“Is he a rival, then?” I asked, when she didn’t answer. “How old does that make you?”

Her smile widened and for a moment seemed genuine. Like in another moment she’d laugh and we’d be like old friends. But I also felt like she’d be laughing at me.

She said, “For all our vaunted immortality, old vampires are actually quite rare. They consider each other to be rivals, and they eliminate each other. It’s best to keep a low profile.”

That so didn’t answer my question. “This isn’t a low profile.”

“Sometimes you have to step into the light to learn what you need to know.”

That was a page out of my book. She was still being evasive. “Are you working against Roman? Or are you just another player working for the same goal?”

She tilted her head. “You seem to know more about this than I’d expect from someone of your… type.”

“You going to give me the old ‘werewolves are uncivilized heathens’ line now?”

“No, of course not, I wouldn’t insult you. I’m far too aware of how some werewolves promote that reputation so people like me will underestimate them.”

Over the last couple of years, I’d learned about the so-called Long Game in bits and pieces, like drops of water falling into a bucket. I had gathered enough of those drops to make a mess. And none of those drops suggested that werewolves ever played a part in the Long Game except as tools. As minions. Most of the werewolves I knew just wanted to be left alone, and that didn’t give us a whole lot of power in the game Anastasia was playing.

Before I could call her on it, she straightened and smoothed out her trousers, an obvious shift in tone and in topic. “And what do you know of Odysseus Grant?”

Well, shoot. Were these two plotting some sort of underworld scheme against each other? Did the show serve as a backdrop by accident, or had they ended up here by design? Anastasia might have rigged all this as a publicity stunt. Grant? Never. He didn’t do stunts. He was always in earnest.

What could I possibly tell the vampire that wouldn’t get him in trouble? I wasn’t a good liar. I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t care about him.

“He saved my life once,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s one of the good guys.”

“Good guys. I wonder what that means to you.”

“I just want to be left alone,” I said, my voice soft. I didn’t know yet if Anastasia was a good guy. I didn’t know what that meant to her.

Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t believe you. The evidence suggests otherwise.”

I looked up, because these were the big issues, and when you started trying to untangle the big issues—of philosophy, of ideology—there often were no right answers. I tended to take things day by day, by gut instinct, and hope for the best.

“Then maybe I want justice,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, with something like mocking awe. “You’re an idealist.”

“Yeah. So I’m told.”

“Well. Good luck. You’ll need it.” She gazed outside, like she had just commented on the weather, or the lovely shadows on the grass.

Hand on hip, I turned to her. “Okay, now you’re just baiting me.”

“We don’t move through time,” she said. “We exist outside of it. We build our own worlds and carry them with us, cultures within cultures, orbits within orbits. And we look on you as we would on rats in a cage. Studying you.”

“If you feel that way, why are you even here? Why bother interacting with us? Is someone like Dorian just your milk cow?”

“Some of us feel differently,” she said quickly, almost an apology. “Some of us resist the urge to see the rest of you as livestock. I know you understand—you resist the same urges.”

“But I’m mortal. Changes the outlook a bit.”

She said, “I’m trying to explain what you’re facing. The players in the Game—why consolidate power except to use it? What does anyone use power for but to impose their worldview over everyone?”

“That’s a little epic for me to wrap my head around.”

“Live long enough and you see where the patterns lead.”

“How long?” I took the flyer.

She smiled, thin and wary. “I should retire now. Thank you for speaking with me.”

When she offered her hand, I took it—it was smooth, cool, firm.