Free Kitty Steals the Show (Kitty Norville) by Carrie Vaughn

it used to be,” Emma said softly. “Imagine what this must have been like in a culture where bearbaiting was like prime-time TV.”
    “I’d rather not, thanks. You can’t defend this, Emma.”
    “I’m not … it’s just—it’s the way things are.”
    This was her world now, I reminded myself.
    “I thought this was a meeting, not a horror show,” I snapped at Ned.
    One of the vampires on stage, at the middle table, the place of power, stood and leaned forward. She had brick-red hair, curled and flowing down her back and over her shoulders. Her skin was fine china, her smile practiced, her gaze fierce. She wore a gown of midnight blue silk that molded to her figure, and my hackles rose at the sight of her: Mercedes Cook.
    “I think we’ve damaged the girl’s modern sensibilities,” she said to her colleagues in her honeyed, purring voice. She actually winked at me, and I buried a growl.
    Some of them chuckled in appreciation; others stayed quiet. All those gazes looked down on me, trapping me. I might have been the one on stage.
    A few seats down, another of the vampires played with his knife, running the handle between his hands, spinning it. Wearing a suit with a brocade waistcoat and jacket with tails, he was polished and gorgeous, sharp features framed by slick black hair and a trimmed goatee, like a nineteenth-century villain, but he made the look work. He probably invented it. “Modern sensibilities? We are ancient creatures. What do human mores have to do with us?” His accent wasn’t British but rounder, lilting.
    “It’s not like we kill anyone—civilized vampires don’t,” said a third, a man with long brown hair, Mediterranean features, a floofy poet’s shirt, loose tan pants, and knee-high boots. “Why kill mortals for their blood when they so obligingly make more?”
    “Humans—a renewable resource.”
    “We recycle! We’re green!”
    Much laughter. Ha.
    One of them didn’t laugh. He sat at the far end of the table from Mercedes and her cohort. He wore a simple suit jacket with a band collar shirt. On the stout side, he seemed careworn, his gaze tired, as if he’d seen it all.
    “A werewolf with morals,” he said. “I never thought to see such a thing.” His voice was kind, his accent flat American. Him—I wanted to talk to him. I wondered if that was a trick he’d developed.
    “Maybe it’s because I come from a country that fought a war to put an end to this sort of thing.” I pointed at the werewolves in chains and fumed. “God, what is this, the Dark Ages?”
    Some of them laughed. Some of them looked at me as if I had asked a very silly question. The well, duh look. The last vampire who’d spoken, the careworn one, didn’t react at all.
    “Mistress Norville, please settle. You’re under my protection here,” Ned Alleyn said.
    “I didn’t ask for your protection,” I said.
    How the hell were Ben and I going to hold our own against this? This whole setup—them on the stage, looking down on us, with no way for us to move to a dominant position—was contrived.
    “We can always leave,” Ben said calmly. He stood straight and tall, chin up, not cringing a millimeter. It made me stretch a little taller, and I imagined my tail and ears standing up, superior.
    We could leave. But as Ned said, this was supposed to be neutral ground, an opportunity to meet with each other without fear. When was I going to get another chance to size up the gathered vampire might of Europe?
    “No,” I said, taking a breath, forcing myself to at least pretend that they hadn’t gotten my hackles up. “I haven’t asked any of them how old they are.”
    He chuckled. “They never answer that.”
    “Ned did. Can’t stop trying now.”
    “Good luck with that.”
    “Thanks. So, how about it? Any of you up to telling me how old you are? How about if I promise not to tell anyone else?” I raised my voice and scanned the table, looking at every one of them—not meeting their gazes, but