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

hallelujah.
    “What did you say?” The flip guy in the poet’s shirt asked this softly.
    “You heard me,” I said.
    Again, the long silence and studious gazes dominated. I kept still, chin up, eyes steady. I did not slouch. Neither did Ben. We weren’t the strongest ones here; it was us against all of them, the whole room. But we had startled them. We had an advantage.
    “Well,” Ned said wonderingly to the assemblage. “You wanted to know if she had any real power. Now you do.”
    Every one of those gazes had become appraising. Calculating. Then—they turned those gazes on each other. Because they didn’t know who among them belonged to Dux Bellorum, and who didn’t. Oh, this had gotten very interesting.
    Mercedes pointed at me and smiled. “She has no power. She hides her weakness with words. I want to see her fight. Wolves are nothing without their teeth and claws.”
    “Yes, a fight,” said her goateed colleague—Jan. “That will settle this. Clear out the middle here.” He pointed at several of the retainers, both vampire and lycanthrope, nodding with distaste at the discarded blood donors. The retainers began picking up the unconscious bodies and hauling them away. Some of the victims twitched muscles as if coming to wakefulness, their heads lolling and expressions wincing. No one paid them any mind as they were carried off, through the doors to another room. I hoped one with beds and food and lots of juice and water.
    “I’m not going to fight,” I said.
    “I’ll get in there before you,” Ben said.
    “Neither of us is going to fight.”
    Jan called, “Which one should she fight? One of them, the female—” He pointed at the pair of werewolves wearing the steel collars and chains.
    “No,” their Master said. He had short cropped hair and wore a tuxedo with white leather gloves. He had some kind of accent, Scandinavian maybe. “She’s submissive, it wouldn’t be proper.” He actually stroked the woman’s hair, leaning over her, protective. In turn, the woman pressed into his touch, turning her face to his thigh as if to hide. She was scared. The other prisoner, the man, put his arms around her, a heartbreaking move to shelter her. He stole glances at me, but his gaze was more often on the floor—he was submissive, too, and terrified of me. Of me.
    The vampire put his hands on both of them and looked at me, beseeching. As if I could better protect them from this horror show. I almost could think they were beloved pets and not prisoners. If not for the horrid chains.
    “I’m not going to fight anybody,” I said, and the vampire slumped, relieved.
    “I think you will,” Mercedes said, thinning her smile and waving fingers at the very burly man behind her—a werewolf, one of the bodyguard types in a suit, who started loosening his tie.
    They really expected us to strip down, Change, and go at it right here. Ben had tensed, his fingers curling into a shadow of claws. My own jaw was stiff—I’d been baring my teeth unconsciously.
    Ned waited, as always, watching to see what I would do. Maybe if it really did turn into a fight, he’d step in to stop it. Emma was looking scared. I wasn’t going to leave it to either of them to decide.
    “You people really need to get over yourselves,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I’m not fighting anyone. I’m not your monkey, I’m not putting on a show for you, I don’t really care how old any of you are, and we’re leaving.”
    Turning around, I marched out, past Emma, up that long aisle, past all those empty seats. Ben was right with me—in fact, he reached out to open the door and gestured me through, making the move seem suave and planned. It must have looked great from the outside. I walked through the doorway without breaking stride; he followed, and gave the door a nice little slam behind him.
    I went another twenty feet into the lobby before I collected myself enough to stop, covering my face with my hands and groaning. “God