She smelled like wolf. I stared after her, until Luis tugged at my arm.
After the concert we went up to the roof terrace. Looking southeast, I could see the Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln Memorials lined up, lit and glowing like beacons in the night. Great men and their monuments. They weren't perfect. They made mistakes. But they changed the world. They were idealists.
Luis stood behind me, arms around me, and kissed the top of my head.
"Thank you for this," I said, my voice hushed. "For showing me this."
"You ever need to get away, take a vacation, call me. I'll show you Rio de Janeiro."
"It's a deal." Like, how about now?
"What will you do next?"
"Take time off. I don't know. Maybe I should write a book." I pictured myself going back to the show, back to the radio station. I sat in front of the microphone, opened my mouth—and nothing came out.
I had a place in mind, a small town where I'd spent a couple of weeks one summer in college. I could go rent a cabin, be philosophical, run wild in the woods.
And try to remember how to be an idealist.
Carrie Vaughn survived the nomadic childhood of the typical Air Force brat, with stops in California, Florida, North Dakota, Maryland, and Colorado. She holds a master's in English literature and collects hobbies—fencing and sewing are currently high on the list. She lives in Boulder, Colorado, and can be found on the Web at www.carrievaughn.com.
Turn the page to enjoy a free short story featuring our favorite werewolf, Kitty Norville!
Then, keep reading for a special sneak preview of the next Kitty novel.
Welcome back, listeners. For those of you just joining us, I'm Kitty Norville and this is The Midnight Hour . I just got a call from my scheduled guests this evening, the band Plague of Locusts, and I'm afraid they're caught in traffic and are going to be a little late, another ten minutes or so. So I'm going to take a few more calls while we're waiting for them to arrive. Our topic this evening: music and the supernatural.
"In the nineteenth century, rumor had it that the great violinist Paganini sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his amazing virtuoso abilities. Many artists are said to be inspired by the Muses. And music soothes the savage beast. What exactly is the mystical nature of music? Are all these tales mere metaphor, or is something supernatural controlling our musical impulses? I want to hear from you. Eddy from Baltimore, you're on the air."
"Hi, Kitty! Whoa, thanks for taking my call."
"No problem, Eddy. What do you have for me?"
"I want to sell my soul to the devil. If I had the chance, I'd do it in a heartbeat. To play guitar like Hendrix—oh man, I'd do just about anything !"
"How about practice?"
"It's not enough. I've been practicing for years . All that time and I can do 'Stairway to Heaven,' and that's it. What Hendrix had? That's not natural."
"Do you think Hendrix sold his soul to the devil?"
"Wouldn't surprise me. So, Kitty—have any idea how I'd go about doing that?"
"What, selling your soul to the devil? Are you sure that's such a good idea?"
"Why not? It's not like I'm using my soul for anything else."
Oh man, talk about missing the point. "I get enough accusations from the religious Right that I'm damning people's souls, I'm not sure I want to put any more fuel on that fire. But the answer is no, I have no idea how you'd go about selling your soul to the devil. Sorry. Next call, please. Rebecca, hello."
"Kitty, hi." The woman's voice was low, vaguely desperate.
"Hello. You have a question or a story?"
"A question, I think. Like, you know when you get a song stuck in your head, and it drives you crazy, and no matter how much you try to think of something else you can't stop it from playing in your head? Right now I have 'Muskrat Love' stuck. It's been stuck there for days. It's… it's driving me crazy." Her voice turned ominous. If she told me she was holding a butcher knife just then, I wouldn't have been surprised.
I tried to sound as sympathetic as possible. "The Captain and Tennille version of the song, I assume?"
She hesitated for a long moment. "You mean there's more than one?"
"Never mind. It's called an earworm," I said. "Scientists have been studying this phenomenon, believe it or not. When they aren't busy with a cure for cancer. Statistically, it seems to affect women more than men, and especially affects people who are slightly neurotic anyway." I had my suspicions about Rebecca.
"So it's not, like… demonic possession?"
"In the case of 'Muskrat Love,' I'm not entirely sure it isn't."
"How do I make it stop?"
"Have you tried listening to the song? Sometimes if you hear it all the way through, it goes away."
"I tried that. Five times in a row."
Well, if you asked me that was her problem right there. "How about a different song, completely different, like something by Ministry?"
"Will that pacify the demon horde?"
So we're possessed by a demon horde , now? "I'm not sure I'd guarantee that. Seriously, most people recommend listening to a different song, trying to get a different song stuck in your head. It's not a perfect solution, but with some songs, any alternative is better."
"What do you recommend?"
" 'I Think I Love You,' by the Partridge Family."
She hesitated a moment, then stammered, "Oh. Oh… God, no!"
Ah, success. "Did it work?" I asked brightly.
"Yes, but… are you sure this isn't worse than 'Musk-rat Love'?"
"You tell me."
"I—I just don't know!"
"Right, while you think about it I'm going to move onto the next call. Hello, Ellen. What do you want to talk about?"
"Hi, Kitty. You know the Orpheus myth?"
I said, "Orpheus. The bard of Greek mythology who went into Hades, and his music was so powerful that he convinced the god of the underworld to release the soul of his dead wife. He was told that he could lead her to the surface, but if he looked back to make sure that she followed, he'd lose her forever. Of course, he looked back. It's a story about the power of music, but it's also a story about trust."