4 Ways to Fix Sleepy Hollow Before It’s Too Late

sleepy hollowSleepy Hollow, Season 2, is driving me insane. If the damned show had been horrible from the beginning, I would have watched once and walked away. But Season 1 was flawed but fabulous; even the stuff that was stupid about it was so much fun, I couldn’t skip a single episode. So watching the people who own it systematically dismantle and discard every single good thing about it this year to add in a bunch of crap that just doesn’t work is just about more than I can stand. Since the mid-season premiere, it’s been breaking my heart so much, I find myself spending valuable time and brain energy I ought to be using on my own writing trying to figure out how to fix it. I don’t pretend for one minute that anybody cares what I think or that a post on my little backwater blog will help the actual show in the slightest. But in the grand tradition of magnolias everywhere, I’m hoping having my say will be enough.

1. How do you solve a problem like Katrina?

Love her or hate her, the character of Ichabod’s wife is the single biggest issue unraveling the fabric of the show right now. It’s time for the writers and producers to make two important decisions about Katrina: Is she good or evil? and Will she live or will she die? And they need to share those decisions with the audience sooner rather than later.

Any of these options could work. No, seriously–here, watch:

A good Katrina lives: This seems to be what they want, and they can have it; they just need to do it better. Katrina needs to stop swanning around like an undead supermodel–Morticia Addams is a great character, but she’s been done, and she doesn’t fit in Sleepy Hollow. So we soften her up, get back to more of the sweetly sexy Quaker chick she started out to be in Season One with a generous smattering of the witty girl who was digging reality TV when she first came out of Purgatory. She needs to reconnect with her coven (remember, they’re still around) and start doing more fun witchy stuff and less life or death dark magic that invariably falls short because that shit is just annoying. (For fans of Practical Magic, more Sandra Bullock, less Nicole Kidman.) Most importantly, she needs to get the fuck into the background of the story. The leads are Ichabod and Abbie; the quest (or quests-of-the-week under the new game plan) are ultimately theirs. If Ichabod is happily married, that could be totally awesome. Katrina could provide valuable information and the occasional assist, and their domestic life could add a lot to the whole “man out of time” side of Ichabod’s character–they could be cute as hell discovering the 21st century together if they weren’t constantly wading through sticky bogs of angst. If this is what we’re aiming at, we need to resolve the whole redemption of Abraham and Henry and Hitler and anybody else Katrina wants to save RIGHT THE FUCK NOW, let the Cranes be in love with one another, and move on.

Good Katrina dies: This is a quicker fix that would silence the cries of a lot of haters (and raise the wails of the small but vocal Katrina Fan Club). Let Katrina and Ichabod’s relationship stay ambivalent and angsty, have her working on some big project to prove herself to him or, better yet, save him–maybe she knows something about the spell that resurrected him that she hasn’t told us yet. In the eleventh hour, she enlists Abbie’s help, and Abbie does everything she can to help her. And the project succeeds, but Katrina dies. Maybe she always knew she would; maybe her magic can only resurrect one 18th century hottie at a time. The Abraham Conundrum could be solved as part of this same storyline–he can be redeemed and waiting for her on the other side. This would leave Ichabod and Abbie with a lot of survivor guilt to deal with and doesn’t really seem to fit in with the lighter mood the show’s producers say they want. But it could work.

But let’s say Katrina is a baddie . . . .

Bad Katrina dies: The same scenario as above, except her big project is destructive rather than redemptive. I would introduce this with a flashback from Henry’s point of view to the night Moloch was killed. At some point in the action, while everyone is focused on Irving or Moloch or whatever, Henry sees his mother do something horrible, casting some spell that takes Moloch’s force into herself or something–Henry sees Katrina become the Big Bad. And either he really has had an epiphany where he wants to save his dad and be good as it seems (and has disappeared all this time to whip up a way to beat Mama) or he’s still bad but literally mad as hell to see Mama stealing his thunder. In any case, it all builds to a huge confrontation that shatters Ichabod and kills Katrina. Less survivor guilt, but way more melodrama.

Bad Katrina lives: This is the one that is almost but not quite impossible. Katrina is a bad witch, but not so bad that she has to be destroyed. She shows her hand, and Ichabod denounces her, but either he can’t bring himself to kill her or Abbie convinces him that he’d never forgive himself if he did. And either Katrina would go away and never come back, taking Abraham with her, or she could be a secondary villain next season, Ichabod’s evil ex living in the woods, selling magical beauty products and occasionally causing trouble. I would call this the least satisfying possibility just because it plays into the Katrina-hatred and makes it worse going into a new season – assuming there’d be a new season at all.

My point if I have one is, they can do whatever they want with Katrina and make it work; they’ve just gotta go ahead and do something.

2. So what about Hawley?

Hawley’s gotta die. There’s no hope for it; this Matthew McConaughey as the lost Winchester brother by way of Uncharted has got to go. The actor playing him is just cute as the dickens–and that’s the problem. If they wanted him to be a viable member of the team (and a viable rival for Ichabod in the affections of Abbie and the audience), they needed an Alexander Skarsgard, not a Ryan Kwanten. Edgy as a grilled cheese sandwich, mysterious as corn flakes, the best function he can serve right now is as a blood sacrifice to the plot. The Mills sisters shouldn’t be fighting over this slab of plain cream cheese.

3. Henry? Irving? Jenny? Sheriff Reyes?

All of these background characters have been nicely established, and there should be plenty for all of them to do in a story that still keeps Ichabod and Abbie at its center. Whatever the deal is with Irving, it needs to be dealt with as quickly as possible or conflated sufficiently to make him (or whatever oppresses him) a viable Big Bad for a brand new storyline. Ditto with Henry. I love Jenny; I think she could easily take on the functions of both Katrina (witchy-poo stuff and arcane magical knowledge) and Hawley (kick-ass magical weapons and a little black book full of convenient dark side contacts) while still having an emotional stake in what happens with her sister that can’t be shaken. And Sheriff Reyes has evolved from being another needless cipher to the obligatory exasperated authority figure this kind of story needs.

4. Okay, smartypants, you’re fooling no one,  you ‘shipper, you. What about Ichabbie?

I admit it; I would love to see Ichabod and Abbie become a couple eventually. They have great chemistry; they have great banter; and they look absolutely beautiful together. But with all the Katrina stuff they’ve had so far, even if they pluck Ichabod’s wife out of the equation for good before the end of this season, I think it would take at least another season to work back to that being a viable, non-skeevy plot option.  And if the show lasts and at some point there is an Ichabod and Abbie love connection, I would really, REALLY hope they would get together, stay together, and MOVE THE FUCK ON. These two could be a great couple – but that should never be what this show is about. Whether they’re lovers or friends or just fellow travelers, they’re on this journey together; they’ve got stuff to do, a world to protect, evil to vanquish. Would I like to see them having a little pillow talk between battles? Of course; I’m a freakin romance novelist. Do I think the show needs that to succeed? Absolutely not. And if that ever became the primary focus of the plot, it would kill it faster than Katrina in a little black dress. And the way to make it a non-issue is NOT to create more angst with an on-again/off-again; will they/won’t they conflict but to let them be happy in their relationship and get back to fighting monsters.

I still don’t think any of this is what’s actually going to happen on the show, but I feel better. No one can say I didn’t try. Anybody else got any ideas they need to get off their chest? My comments section is your comments section.

For the Love of Writing

librarianAs a writer, I’ve only made one New Year’s resolution for 2015: To enjoy the process more and worry about the product as a product less.

Publishing right now is batshit crazy, and it’s changing so quickly, I seriously doubt anybody can really keep up. When I started writing seriously with the intention of profit, the process was cruel but simple. You wrote the best book you possibly could. Then you sent it out into the world to be brutalized by strangers until you wanted to kill yourself. If you were blessed in talent, timing, and/or acquaintance, you eventually found an agent to champion your poor battered baby and hopefully get you published. By and large, you took the agent you could get who found you the publisher they could get, and you considered yourself lucky and kept your whining to yourself. The actual marketplace was considered to be a mystery beyond your ken in which you were invited to participate in only the most peripheral way. (Though if your book didn’t succeed there, it was always your fault.) I published 6.5 books in this system, and it still exists. Too many people depend on it to let it die any time soon. Even Amazon, the big giant head that’s been threatening to vanquish it for years, doesn’t really want to kill it. They don’t want to slay the dragon; they want to keep it as a pet.

When e-books became a thing for the masses instead of a novelty for geeks, a whole new world opened up for writers. Sort of. Now you could publish your own stuff without that clunky apparatus that took so long and treated you so mean. For a while, it looked like writers would take over the publishing world. If we were willing to do all the work of packaging and promotion (a viable option when it all happened in The Cloud), we didn’t have to answer to anybody but our readers. Best of all, we got to keep all the profits. This system still exists, too, of course; the mainstream media is still touting it as the brave new world. The problem is, without those profit-skimming, soul-sucking gatekeepers of mainstream publishing standing in the way, the marketplace got flooded with anything anybody could type and slap up. And prowess in packaging and marketing doesn’t necessarily equal writing talent. A whole lot of “writers” are skipping that step where you write the best book you can. Either that, or the best book they can write is a big, old, stinky turd. And in this brave new world of indie publishing, that turd carries just as much cachet and earning potential as a good writer’s polished diamond–more if the turd maker is better at marketing. And turds, by and large, sell cheap. And readers just loooove cheap. And they love to bitch about turds in reviews, too. They bitch, but they buy–if they don’t have to pay more than a dollar.

So right now, everybody–writers, agents, publishers, bloggers, marketing gurus, and Jeff Bezos–are scrambling to stabilize the process, to find a compromise that provides readers with books they actually want to read at a price they want to pay, keeps the great machine of traditional publishing adequately fed, sends Amazon’s profits up, up, up, and oh yeah, makes writing books a viable occupation for grown-ups who aren’t necessarily on anti-psychotic medication. And believe me when I tell you, that last item is last on way more lists than mine. Believe me also when I say this is the stuff that keeps me up nights wondering if it’s too late to go to law school.

Luckily while I do write to be read and I do want to make money at it, I also write because I have to. My mental health demands it. My soul is nourished by it. The construction of story is my favorite pastime and has been since I was a child. I can’t control the marketplace. I can’t predict it. Most days I barely understand it.

But I can write great books. I can pour my heart out in a story and touch a reader’s heart in turn. So while I know I have to keep trying to market and make good choices and be smarter about my work as a widget to be sold, I’ve come to realize that I don’t have to lose my mind over it. I can revel in the joy of making stuff up. I can write the book I really want to write because why not? Writing to the market, for me at least, for now at least, makes no sense. In 2015, I just want to write a great book.

 

Scarlett at the Golden Globes – an excerpt from Alpha Romeo

alpharomeo_originalSo tonight I’m live tweeting the Golden Globes with my sister, Alexandra Christian, and our friend, writer Amy Ravenel, starting around 7ish EST with the red carpet stuff. (Come prattle with us; the snark will fly thickly; it’ll be festive! I’m@lucybluecastle on Twitter.) And I remembered, hey, a whole chapter of my book, Alpha Romeo, takes place at the Golden Globes. The heroine, Scarlett, is an actress and the daughter of a major movie star, Calvin Cross. She’s nominated as Best Supporting Actress in a drama for her first part, playing his daughter in a movie directed by a well-respected European auteur, Aksel Jorgen:

* * * * * *

Once we were inside the theatre, the illusion of a dream was even stronger. Reality couldn’t possibly contain so many pretty people in such a tiny, overcrowded space. I clung to my brother’s hand and let him lead me, smiling and waving or kissing everyone who called my name and recognizing no one. I felt like I was drowning, but no one else could tell.

Our table was only two rows back from the stage and nearly dead center. Even I knew what that meant. Somebody thought somebody with us was going to win. Sebastian was sitting beside Jorgen, hanging on his every word. Cal was on Jorgen’s other side with Bette beside him, her arm twined around his as she leaned in to listen, too. Watching them, all I could see was Berlin, the sight of them dancing in front of the window, the lights of the city and the snowflakes falling in the colored light. All these perfect little movie scenes inside my head, so pretty and horrible, perfectly lit, and none of them meant anything at all. I sank into the chair beside Sebastian and folded my hands on the table, eyes closed, fighting another sudden wave of nausea, as if the little problem making me sick could read my thoughts.

“Sissy,” he whispered urgently, putting a hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”

I suddenly remembered something Stella used to say, quoting her father, who had fought in World War II. “Oh yeah.” There was a glass of ice water in front of me, and I took a sip. “Situation normal . . . all fucked up.”

The next two hours were a blur. Jorgen won, as everybody had known he would–best director of a movie drama. I stood up and applauded as he walked away from the table, but I barely heard his speech. At one point Sebastian reached over and squeezed my hand, and everyone at the table was smiling at me. “He thanked you for being his muse,” Sebastian whispered in my ear.

“Oh,” I said, not quite a whisper back. “That’s nice.” I smiled back at the others, but I truly could not have cared less.

Sebastian kept a hold on my hand through the next award, best supporting actor in a drama, the category he was nominated in. His hand was ice cold and shaking, I suddenly realized. I turned toward him, putting my other hand over his and leaning close, and he leaned in, too, and kissed my cheek as the nominees were read. His lips were icy, too.

Then they read out the name of the winner–somebody else. “Oh thank God,” he mumbled against my ear, squeezing my hands in his. “Thank you, Jesus.” He let me go to applaud, and I clapped with him.

Then suddenly it was my turn.

“This is you,” Sebastian said, taking my hand again. I stared at him blankly. “Your category,” he pressed on. “You need to pay attention; you might win.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.” No one in the world expected that. The nominees were me, Bette, a producer’s new wife, a three-time winner, and a former siren of the ’60s who was up for playing the evil dowager duchess in an arthouse flick based on an 18th century Russian novel. More importantly as far as I was concerned, Sebastian hadn’t won. I didn’t stand a chance. I smiled across the table at Bette, who winked back. We didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Vegas.

Then the actor at the podium called my name.

At first, I didn’t react, thinking he was just reading out the nominees. Then I realized people were looking at me and applauding. I turned toward my smiling brother and fell into his arms. He kissed my cheek and started pushing me away. “Go,” he said when I tried to hold on to him. “You have to go.”

I stood up as Calvin came around the table, and I grabbed him next, dissolving into tears. At that moment, I was too terrified to care that we were fighting; right then, I just wanted my daddy. Don’t make me go, I wanted to beg him; go for me; this is a mistake. But he was kissing me and pointing me toward the stage. I started walking,  one foot moving mechanically in front of the other until I reached the stage, stumbling a little on the steps. I turned into the blinding lights, wide-eyed, crying, completely at a loss. The extremely tall, skinny English actor who had called my name was smiling down at me, polite and barely interested as he put the trophy in my hands. I let out a little hiccup as I gripped it, and he raised an eyebrow before  leaning into hug me.

“Breathe,” he ordered in a whisper. “Thank the Foreign Press.”

“Yes,” I was whispering back, my knees weak with gratitude.

“Your father, your brother, the people who worked on the film.” He drew back, the polite smile still on his face but his eyes now sparkling with mischief, and I smiled back.

“Thank you,” I said to him out loud, and the mike picked it up–the opening of my speech. I turned toward the audience, startled, and everyone laughed, and I felt myself smile. “I’m . . . I want to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press.” My voice sounded like a stranger on a TV in another room, and I could only see the faces of the people at the very front. The ’60s siren I had beaten was smiling up at me with brittle cheer. “And my father . . .” I couldn’t see Calvin, but I could imagine him, smiling, so beautiful, so proud. “I love you so much, Daddy.” I was crying again, but now I had control of it. “And Sebastian . . . thank you. And everyone who worked on the film . . . Aksel.” I had never once called Jorgen by his first name, on the set or off it, but I was doing it now. “You’re amazing,” I said. “You’re an amazing, great director.” I looked toward the wings, and he was standing there beaming at me. I smiled and waved, and the audience chuckled.

“And Bette,” I said, turning back to the mike. “Who is brilliant, and all of the other nominees.” I could see the conductor raising his baton, ready for me to be done, and I started to step back and walk away. Then I thought of one last thing, the most important thing, the thing that had held me so spellbound all night I barely knew where I was. “And Stella,”I said suddenly, leaning close to the mike so it was loud. “My beautiful mama.” My throat was closing up, and I was trembling, but I was determined I would get it out. “I miss you so much . . . and I love you.” I was crying harder now. “And I wish so much that you were here.” I held up the trophy, and I saw the ’60s siren weeping. “This is for you.”

The band started playing as soon as I started turning away. The scarecrow-looking English actor whose name I wished I had paid attention to took hold of my elbow. I smiled at him again and let him lead me off the stage.

* * * * * *

Wanna read the whole book? I’d be thrilled – find the best links to buy it here:  https://lucybluecastle.wordpress.com/alpha-romeo-scarlett-cross-book-1/

Have yourself a fang-y little Christmas . . . a free read giftie just for you

emma stone cabaretHeya Kittens! I hope you’re all having a magnificent holiday season and that it only gets better. And while I haven’t been around the blogness much lately, I have been thinking of you, and I wanted to write you something festive and sexy to read if you find a free moment. A vampire glamour puss plays fairy godmother to the geek girl videogame designer she saved as a baby and finds her own Christmas miracle, and a geek girl discovers vamps are real – and that she has a thing for pirates. Trust me; it all makes sense in the end.

Note #1: If you’re a long-time reader of the blogness (or one of the half a dozen or so darlings who purchased Tender Bites, my short story collection), you’ll recognize elements of this story.

Note #2: The illustration is a publicity still of the gorgeous Emma Stone as Sally Bowles in Cabaret, which is exactly what I’d be going to see if I were on Broadway right now.

Note #3: This story is sexually explicit and violent, but also very heartwarming and sweet. Mind your cockles.

* * * * * *

Christmas Vamps – A Tale of Two Kitties (sorry, I couldn’t resist)

New York City

Christmas Eve, 1989

Cat didn’t care much for Yuri or his game. She preferred living blood, too; any healthy vampire girl would. And she had no problem feeding from a willing thrall. But hanging out on Christmas Eve in a derelict hotel trading heroin for blood with mortals too addicted to refuse was not her idea of a good time. “You take me to the nicest places, darling,” she said as she picked her way over the rubble and broken floor tiles of what had once been an art deco lobby.

Yuri just laughed. “Trust me, baby,” he said. “You’ll love it.” He threw a meaty arm around her shoulders and led her up the stairs.

The party as he called it was in what was left of a huge suite on the penthouse floor. Loud music thundered and groaned from speakers as tall as she was, the hollow moaning of the grungy dead. Bare, dim light bulbs hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the frigid wind blowing in from both sides through the open windows and providing just enough light to confuse her vampire vision. As soon as they walked in, Yuri was surrounded on every side by desperate mortals, wide-eyed, pale-skinned, shockingly beautiful, horribly thin. Cat recognized one blonde and her torn Versace dress from a billboard in Times Square. “Do you have it?” she demanded, reaching for Yuri and touching Cat’s bare arm with hands so hot they burned. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course I have it,” he sneered, shoving the girl away. “But I can do better than you.”

“Please,” a boy said, falling to his knees in front of Cat. “I taste amazing . . . I’ve been eating chocolate and drinking Courvoisier all day.”

“Tourist,” Yuri said, drawing Cat aside to kick the boy and send him sprawling.  “Come on, baby. Let me show you the good stuff.”

The good stuff was apparently kept behind the closed double doors of the bedroom. The velvet drapes still hung in tatters, and there were candles lit in heavy silver candlesticks set on the floor and in sconces mounted on the walls. On mattresses and couches strewn around the room, a dozen or more vampires fed from less than half that many mortals, most of whom entertained at least three. “The smack makes them strong,” Yuri said. “They can go all night.”

“How convenient,” Cat said, feeling sick. How she had ever let Indo talk her into this madness, she would never know. His squad of Enforcers had been looking for this den for months, he had said. Her being their only hope of saving innocents had been mentioned. The bastard—she should kick him in the nuts. “Everybody looks really busy, darling,” she said to her present charming escort. “Maybe we should just go.”

“No, no, my favorite will still be free,” he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her behind him as he wended his way through the darkness. “She knows to wait for me.”

In an alcove around the corner, they found what was left of a massive brass bed set against the wall like an altar, the mattress stripped bare and tall candelabras set on either side of the headboard. Propped against the pillows was a beautiful girl with curly red hair and a face painted like a gothic doll’s, eyes rimmed in black, lips smeared with red. She was wearing the tatters of a lacy white slip, and her hands rested slack in her lap. The tourniquet was still tied around her arm.

She was dead.

“No,” Yuri roared, letting go of Cat’s hand to go to the corpse. “No, no, no, no, no.” He snatched the dead girl up by the shoulders, and her head lolled back. “Little bitch!” He slapped the poor thing’s face.

“Yuri, darling,” Cat said as he continued to swear at the corpse, knowing he wouldn’t hear. “I’m not sure we’re accomplishing all we might have hoped.”  Under the roar of the Russian, she heard a soft sound like the coo of a dove. For half a moment, she thought maybe she’d been wrong about the girl, that maybe she was alive after all. Then she saw a tiny fist emerge and wave from a pile of blankets in the corner. “Oh for pity’s sake.”

The infant looked remarkably healthy, plump and pink. She looked up at the vampire with clear blue eyes, and her tiny head was covered in golden down. Cat crouched closer, and the little mortal thing reached out for her and smiled. “Oh no, you don’t,” the vampire said.

“Oh baby,” Yuri said, looming over her from behind. “Score.” The hunger in his eyes made even her vampire blood run cold. “Give it to me.”

“Oh sweetie, come on,” Cat said, making herself laugh. “You can’t be serious.” She picked up the baby and tried not to clutch it too obviously. “We couldn’t. This is an innocent. The Enforcers would stake us dead.”

“And how would they know?” he asked, his grin turning ugly. How had she ever thought this ape was handsome?

The baby cooed, batting at a lock of Cat’s long red hair. I must remind her of her mother, she thought, a horrifying notion. “You make a good point.” Stall, Catriona. Stall. “So let’s make this interesting.” She turned her most seductive smile on the brute, still holding the baby in her arms. “I’ll dice you for it.”

The only thing the Russian loved more than blood was gambling. “Sure, baby,” he said, smiling back. “Whatever you want.” He took the dice out of his pocket. “One roll each for all?”

She thought she heard familiar footsteps on the stairs, but she couldn’t be sure. “High roll takes the prize.” She sank to her knees on the dirty floor, still holding the baby, licking her lips as she looked up at him. “You wanna go first?”

He laughed. “Hell yeah.” He threw a ten and laughed again. “Beat that.”

“Right.”  She shifted the baby to her hip, trying not to picture how she must look. “No problem.” She rolled the dice. “Shit.” She had crapped out, snake eyes, double ones.

“Awww,” Yuri said as the baby started to cry. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll share.”

She was climbing back to her feet, wondering just how fast she could run with a screaming, squirming mortal infant in her arms, when the doors were kicked open and the room was flooded with Enforcers. To her great relief, her lover, Indo, drove a stake through Yuri’s heart just as the Russian was reaching for her, dropping him in a puddle of dust and goo at her feet. She didn’t even mind the mess he made all over her expensive shoes.

She was less relieved to see the rest of Indo’s squad systematically staking every other vampire in the room. “What are you doing?” she demanded over the squalls of the mortal infant. “Stop it!”

“Cat, stay out of the way,” Indo said, taking her gently by the arm and pulling her back. A fledgling who couldn’t have been a year old yet reached out for them and screamed out once in terror as the stake pierced her from behind. “They were feeding on the innocent.”

“The innocent? You don’t know that!” She bounced the baby in her arms, feeling utterly ridiculous. “These mortals gave their blood willingly. You should have seen them when we came in. They were begging for us to feed from them.”

“They were begging for drugs because they can’t help themselves,” Indo said, his face becoming the self-righteous mask she always longed to claw right off his skull. “They’re addicted—“

“Like we’re addicted to blood,” she finished for him. Some of the vampires in the outer room were trying to run away, and the Enforcers were shooting them, dropping them to the floor in agony with holy water bullets to stop them so they could be staked, too. “I can’t watch this.”

“Cat!” He followed her out of the suite and down the hall. “Catriona, stop, please.” He caught up and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He drew her into his arms, and the baby stopped crying as if by magic, obviously unaware she was cradled between two creatures of the night. “I’m sorry you had to see this. I’m sorry I put you in this position. When I asked you to shadow Yuri, I had no idea it would be this bad.”

“You were late,” she pointed out.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, too. You were great.” He kissed her forehead. “You were perfect.”

“I almost had to watch Yuri make an appetizer out of this piglet.” She looked down at the baby. “You look too delicious,” she informed the child, who giggled.

“Don’t even joke,” Indo said.

“Yes, I know. Vampires don’t eat pork any more.” He opened his mouth to argue then saw her smirk. “Lighten up, Indo,” she told him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was scared for you.”

“For me?” she said.

“You couldn’t have let him hurt the baby.” He had the sappy look on his face that always made her want to run. “You would have let him rip you apart before you let him have her.”

Whether this was true or not was hardly the point; the fact that he thought so was appalling. She was his dark beloved, his trickster, his mistress of the night. Not Mary Poppins. “Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“You would.” He smiled. “Admit it. You would.”

She had no intention of admitting any such thing. “Just don’t be late next time,” she said, holding out the baby to him.

“Wait.” He drew a dagger from his belt.

“What are you doing?” Was he going to kill the baby as a possible witness? Did her mother’s sin as a blood whore transfer to the child in the Enforcer’s reckoning now? She instinctively drew the little thing close to her again.

“I want you to have this.” He wrapped the blade in a rag and handed the dagger to her hilt first. “Be careful; the blade is blessed by a priest, and it’s very, very sharp.”

She took the dagger slowly, shocked. She wasn’t an Enforcer. She spent most of her time on their list of usual suspects. For him to give her one of their blessed blades was a serious violation of his oath. “Indo, are you sure about this?”

“Positive. That will take down an ox like Yuri with one stab to the heart.” He put his hand on her cheek. “I need you to be safe.”

She took a step back from him. “Thanks.” She slipped the dagger into her boot, the blade still carefully wrapped. She’d have to find a better way to stow it later when she was alone, away from this horrible place, away from him. “Now here, take this.” She pushed the baby into his arms. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen to Lacey?” he said.

“Lacey?” she echoed.

He grinned. “Her name is on her pajamas.” The baby was smiling up at him like he might have been Santa Claus. “I’ll take her to a priest I know. He’ll find good parents for her, a good home.”

“Awesome,” Cat said. She kissed his cheek and started for the stairs. But at the top, she stopped and looked back at him. “What priest?”

He was still grinning. “I’ll give you the name and address.”

 

 

Indo watched his undead life’s eternal torment walk away from him again, graceful in her sky high heels. The baby in his arms gurgled, and he bounced her the way Cat had done. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he said, smiling down at the little mortal thing. Down the block, Cat was climbing into a cab, not looking back just as he’d known she wouldn’t. “Don’t worry,” he told the baby. “She’ll be back.”

 

††††††

 

Budapest

Halloween, 2014

Cat climbed out of her lead-lined coffin, stumbled, and nearly fell flat on her face.  It was barely sunset; she was still mostly asleep.  The pounding on the door started again, louder this time.  “Who is it?” she demanded, her eyes darting around the barely-familiar hotel room.  Where the hell had she put her dagger?  She grabbed the gun with holy water bullets from the nightstand instead—less reliable, particularly against atheist vampires, but hopefully in Budapest, that wouldn’t be an issue.

“Richard,” the door replied.  “Catriona, let me in.”

“Oh for pity’s sake . . .”  She fumbled the deadbolt open and reached for the handle.  “What are you doing here?”

“You’re not an easy girl to find,” he muttered, pushing past her.

“That was rather the idea,” she retorted.

Richard was Indo’s oldest friend.  In fact, rumor had it Richard was the oldest friend any vampire had, that he was the oldest vampire left roaming the earth.  She had never thought he looked the part.  Tall, thin, and blond with a patrician nose and the squint of a perpetual scholar, he always looked like an unmade bed.  Tonight he was even more rumpled than usual, his wrinkled coat far too thin for the chill winds of Eastern Europe.  Her nostrils flared, picking up the smell of blood, faded faint but still distinct, the smell of a powerful death – vampire blood, not human.  His black coat was covered with it.  This was not normal.  She had known Richard for three hundred years, and she had never once seen him take a living victim.  He had been the first vampire of her acquaintance to attempt to live on cow’s blood, and he was rumored to be one of the so-called “Blessed Nine” scientists and alchemists who had been working for decades on creating a synthetic.  If he were stained with vampire blood, something bad had happened.  “Richard, where is Indo?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”  Indo had left her six months before, swearing once again she was too wicked, too savage for bearing.  She had accidentally taken too much from a perfectly willing thrall and put the stupid girl in the hospital where she had recovered completely in the space of a day.  But Indo, Enforcer that he was, had completely overreacted, as he always did, and had taken off in a huff.  He always went to Richard when they had these fights.  Richard was his sanctuary, his monastery, his ashram, his calm.  But now Richard was covered in vampire blood, and he looked anything but calm.   He was prowling the room like a cat, peering into the bathroom, the closet.  “I suppose he could have gone back home to Tokyo.”  He yanked back the drapes, exposing her impressive view of the city.  “I honestly don’t know.”

“But he is alive.”  She put her hand on his shoulder.  “Richard?”

“Of course Indo is alive,” he said bitterly, his eyes searching the dark as if for predators or prey.  “If anyone ever truly threatened to kill Indo, I have no doubt some sort of samurai angel with a golden katana and a thousand tongues of fire would rush immediately to his defense.”

Cat suppressed an unbecoming snort.  “Did the two of you have a tiff?”

He gave her a lookcould have wilted a cactus.  “You could say that.”

“Oh dear . . . . So what do you want me to do about it?”  She started to move away, but he caught hold of her robe, silk clenched in a dirty fist.  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, worried all over again.

“I’m very tired, Catriona.”  He was looking at her in a way he’d never looked at her before.  Other men had, of course – humans who thought they were predators before they realized they were prey; vampires who mistook her delicacy for weakness.  It was a hungry look, a conqueror’s look.  It looked strange on Richard . . . strange because in the dim light of the hotel room, it fit his face so well.

She reached down and disengaged his hand from her robe.  “Maybe you should tell me all about it.”

He clamped his hand around her wrist like he was grabbing a sword hilt, hard and sure and painfully tight–none of the adjectives she would ever have associated with being held by Richard.  She had never realized how big he was before, how powerful.  He had always seemed hunched, a spider, a scholar.  Now he was standing up quite straight, and she realized how broad he was at the shoulders, how big his hands were.  “No.”  For once he wasn’t squinting in the slightest.  She had never noticed how blue his eyes were, how intense his gaze could be.  “I don’t want to tell you anything about it.”  He dragged her closer, his free hand going to the draped closure of her robe.  “I don’t want to talk.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, slightly breathless, as he untied the knot in her sash.  He parted the silk and slid his palm around her waist, leaving a smear of grime on her stomach.  Blood, she realized, touching the back of his wrist.  Dried blood . . . .

“This.”  His hand brushed upward as he stood, cradling her breast.  “I’m doing this.”

“Are you nuts?”  He let go of her wrist to take hold of her collar in both hands, sliding the robe off her shoulders, and she slapped him hard.  “Stop it–”

“Hush, Catriona,” he said mildly, letting the robe fall to the floor.

She brought up her knee, aiming squarely for his crotch, but he was faster, grabbing her leg and using her own momentum to push her over backwards to the floor.  Pinning her leg to the carpet with his own knee, he grabbed for her wrists scant moments before her fist crashed into his jaw.  “Listen to me,” he said, barely panting with the effort of holding her fast.  “Tomorrow I swear, I will kiss your feet, lick your toes, run your bath, and kill your enemies if you’ll only shut up right now.”  She stopped struggling and just glared, incredulous.  “I’m completely serious,” he promised.

“No!” she retorted, furious and calculating at once.  Whatever was wrong with him, he was stronger than she was, and he was expecting her to fight back.  In fact, unless she missed her guess, he wanted her to fight back, just not hard enough to get away.  She had enough experience in combat, she could have made him climb off her and be dreadfully sorry he’d ever climbed on, but she wasn’t completely certain she could win the final skirmish.  And even with him acting completely insane, she couldn’t imagine him really forcing himself on her if she really wanted him to stop. Better to see more of what he had in mind . . . .

He made no sign he had heard her, just leaned down to kiss her cheek, his tongue barely flickering over her skin.  His grip on her wrists softened somewhat as his mouth moved over hers, and she made no move to pull free, her tongue slack and passive beneath his invasion.  She closed her eyes as he lifted his head, and he dipped down to kiss the point of each breast, each nipple going hard at the first touch of saliva.  She wriggled her wrists free as his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, and she thought she meant to push him away.  But her hands slid into his hair instead and drew him down closer, cradling him to her.

Peering down from beneath her lashes, she could see his eyes were closed.  Who was he really tasting?  She had known him for centuries, and he had never shown the slightest interest in fucking her.  It was the main reason she had never really warmed to him.  She’d never known quite how to manage him; she couldn’t quite trust him.  A man who didn’t want her was a man from another planet.  But now . . . She wrapped her free leg around his ass, cuddling him for a moment, then drew the knee up between them as his face came back up to hers, pushing at him as he kissed her mouth, not enough to push him away but enough to remind him this had not been her idea.  Kissing Richard?  The whole idea was absurd . . . absurd and strangely lovely.  He framed her face with his hands and kissed her deeper, his slender torso arched over her objecting knee, and she felt the muscles in her lower back relax as she reached for him.  Kissing Richard . . . . not half bad.  Usually she preferred to take a more active role in such matters, particularly early on, but a girl could stand to be pillaged once in a while.  Though he could at least take off his raincoat . . .

He braceleted her ankle with one hand, pressing her leg more firmly bent against her chest as he reached down to unfasten his fly.  She moaned into his mouth, her back arching again, a sound and movement that could have been a purr or a protest.  He pushed her knee to the side, pressing it flat to the floor, and she sank her teeth into his lip, though her hands still caressed his neck.  She tasted his blood, the blood of the ancients, as he slid his cock inside her.

Her eyes flew open wide as he sank deeper–where had he been hiding that?  “You’re taller than you look on television,” she mumbled, wrapping her leg around him again as he kissed a trail of blood smears down her jaw.  He reached up and took her hands from his neck, lacing his fingers with hers and pinning her to the floor, all animal concentration.  She tried to arch up to him, to match her rhythm to his, just to fucking well catch up, but he wouldn’t let her, wasn’t interested in her movement, much less her wants.  He was just pounding, hurting her, and she bit him again, the stitching on his t-shirt scratching her cheek as she nuzzled to the tender meat where his neck became his shoulder.  His blood was intoxicating, burning, making her drunk, and she bit harder, sucking greedily, hurting him, she knew.  But he never slowed down, and suddenly, she didn’t want him to, the first sliver of real pleasure slicing up from her cunt to her breasts.  She went limp in his grasp, her head falling back, mouth agape and panting as the desperate rhythm went on and on, her coming rising in waves that never broke and never lulled, and she couldn’t make him be still or go faster, couldn’t make her own friction until he came, a rush with no warning, and he drove in deep and held there, and she lurched up and finally she could come, the spasms of his cock finally tossing her over the edge.  “Bastard,” she mumbled, tied down and smothered in his clothes.  “You fucking well better make good.”

“I will.” He rolled off of her on to his back. “I promise.”

He watched her get up and slide out of what was left of her silk nightgown. She walked naked to the credenza and took a cigarette from a silver box. “Feel better?” she asked, lighting it with a wooden match she lit with one delicate thumb.

“Since when do you smoke?”  The wound she’d made in his shoulder was healing. She had a vicious little bite, just as he’d known she would.

“Since around 1550, give or take a few decades.  One of my many secret vices.”   She turned back to him with a kittenish smile, but he wasn’t fooled.  She was furious, and she was clever.  She’d make him pay for what he’d done.

“Secret from Indo, you mean.”  He sat up and gave his own tee-shirt a sniff.  Filthy . . . the smell of ancient blood made him suddenly feel sick.  He stood up and stripped it off.

“Oh, let’s don’t talk about him.”  He had always privately considered her the most beautiful female vampire in existence.  To his eyes, the change from life to undeath gave most women an unattractive hardness, a doll-like veneer of perfection that made him think of the carved figures of goddesses in the tombs of his youth.  But Indo’s Cat, with her auburn hair and sprinkling of freckles, was still soft, still feminine – a perilous illusion.  Right now, for example, she looked as sweet as a freshly-plucked virgin and just as harmless.  “Although if you’re interested, I do have a couple of Indo’s shirts in the bottom of my suitcase–something to snuggle with on the nights when no gentleman caller turns up to be so charming.”

He wisely let that remark die unanswered.  He went over to the suitcase and pulled out a flowing monstrosity of indigo silk.  “No straight man should wear this,” he muttered, tossing it back in.

“Not everyone dresses like a scarecrow, Richard.” She was still completely naked, completely without modesty or shame.  She picked up his discarded raincoat and took it over to one of the white leather couches as if to drape it over the back. “I bet you haven’t felt natural since you had to take that big bone out of your nose.”

“Actually, I prefer togas for comfort.”  He held up a plain white cotton tee-shirt and eyed it for size.

“Really?  I thought monk’s robes were more your style.  Maybe a hair shirt for color.” Too late, he remembered what was in the pocket of the raincoat. He turned just as she was pulling out the amulet. “What is this?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Catriona, give me that.”

“Ooo, nothing, is it?” She was putting on the raincoat. “Did you kill someone for this, Richard?”

If he grabbed her while she held the amulet, she could accidentally blow him to pieces. “Darling, please,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“I am not your darling,” she said, her eyes flashing with fury. Then she smiled. “Well . . . I suppose I could be.” She was backing toward the door, still wearing nothing but his raincoat.

“We could spend the holidays together,” he said.

“I have plans for the holidays,” she said. “A long overdue appointment.”

“I could come with you.” He took a step toward her, and she took a step back, still smiling. She was infuriating, captivating, so much more than he had imagined. And she had the amulet. “I promised to be your slave remember?”

“You did,” she agreed. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to catch me first.” In an instant, she was on the run.

“No!” He chased her out the door, but she was insanely fast, much faster than he was. By the time he made it to the stairs, she was gone.

 ††††††

 

San Francisco

Christmas Eve, 2014

Lacey had spent a fortune on her costume for her company’s annual Christmas masquerade, and she hated it.  The anime-style black kitten suit had looked so cute on the skinny little Japanese model online, fun and quirky and even a little bit sexy in a twisted kind of geek-chic way.  Sitting in her cubicle staring at it on her computer screen, it had looked like just the sort of thing to catch a hunky gaming industry millionaire’s eye across a crowded dance floor.  But standing in her apartment looking at herself in a full-length mirror, she had been forced to face the truth – she looked like a fat mascot at Pocky-land.

This year’s party was being held at the yacht club, and it was obvious even from the parking lot that it was a total blowout – the music was great, the lights were great, the costumes of the other guests as they breezed past her hatchback in happy, laughing groups were great.  Her boss and secret beloved, Rex, had outdone himself as usual.  Magazines, websites and cable channels alike would be posting pictures and video tomorrow of how totally kick-ass it had been.  And there she would be in the background, as always, looking like she’d lost her way to the onion dip.  At least in the stupid kitten head, nobody would recognize her.

She had gotten out of the car and was leaning in from the passenger side to collect her big fat kitty head when someone tapped her on the shoulder.  Stifling a scream, she straightened up, banged her head on the door frame, said the dirtiest word she knew, said, “Oh shit, sorry,” and turned around.

“Don’t be sorry; I startled you.”  The most gorgeous woman she had ever seen was standing behind her, dressed in a black velvet slip dress, thigh high boots, a cat’s ears headband and a gorgeously decorated domino mask .  “I’m the one who’s sorry.”  Her voice was lovely, too, with a slight Irish lilt.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”  She sidestepped clear of the car door with her bulbous costume head tucked under her arm.  “Yes, I’m fine.”  Actually, her ears were still ringing, but she couldn’t bring herself to say so.  “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to ask, whose party is that?”  The woman had a mane of auburn hair straight out of a shampoo commercial, and her skin was so pale and perfect, it glowed even in the ugly yellow light of the parking lot.

“It’s the Christmas party for my company, Rexaco Games – my boss’ company, actually.  I just work there.  I’m a programmer.”  She shifted the costume head and offered her hand.  “I’m Lacey.”

“Hi Lacey.”  The woman’s hand felt ice cold even through the thick, fuzzy mittens of Lacey’s costume, but her smile was warm.  “I’m Catriona – Cat for short.”  She looked Lacey up and down.  “Dear heart, what are you wearing?”

“My costume.”  She put on the head.  “I’m a black cat.”  Her voice sounded muffled and weird even from inside.  “Like you.”

“Indeed.”  A cold breeze from the water swept over them, molding Cat’s dress to her obviously perfect body, but she barely flinched.  She seemed to be studying Lacey.  “Let me see your hands.”

“Why?”  But she was already pulling back the mittens.

Cat took her hands—skin to skin, she felt even colder.  “Just as I thought.”  She circled Lacey’s wrist with her thumb and forefinger as if she were measuring her for a bracelet.  “You’re perfect.”  She grabbed her hand and started leading her off toward the other side of the levee, away from the party.  “Come on.”

“Wait, where are we going?”  Lacey stumbled along behind her, half blind inside the cat’s head.

“Just trust me.  This will be fun.”

She led her across the parking lot, down the dock, and up the ladder to the biggest, shiniest yacht in the harbor.  “Watch your step,” she said, moving easily in her mile-high heels.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”  She followed her on to the deck.  “I’m not sure I should just—“

“I am not going to hurt you, Lacey.”  She turned and looked her in the eye, and even with the mask, she had the nicest, most sincere, most beautiful face Lacey had ever seen . . . or so it seemed when she was talking, anyway.  “I absolutely promise.”

“Okay.”  She followed her below decks—the yacht was apparently deserted.  “But seriously, what are we doing?”

“In here.”  She led her into a stateroom.  “All right.  Take off your clothes.”

“What?”  Suddenly it all made sense, in a completely unreal, Penthouse Forum kind of way.  “Oh no.  I’m sorry, but . . . look, I’m not a lesbian.  I mean, if I were ever going to switch teams—“

“Don’t be ridiculous.”  Cat slipped off her mask.  Without it, she looked even more beautiful, with huge blue eyes and lashes that went on for centuries.  She looked really young, too, barely older than a teen-ager.  “We’re going to switch costumes.”

“You have got to be kidding.”  The other woman was already unzipping her boots.  “Even if that wasn’t completely insane, there is no way I could possibly fit into that dress.”

“Would you care to make a bet?”  She kicked off the boots and slid out of the dress to reveal black lace underpants, a strapless corset, and a garter belt complete with little red silk bows.  “I will bet you one thousand cash dollars we are exactly the same size.  I have the cash in my purse right now.”  She opened her purse and took it out to prove it.  “If you do not fit perfectly into every garment I’m wearing, I will give this money to you and never bother you again.”

The memory of all of Lacey’s credit card bills screamed as one inside her head, begging her to take the bet.  “Why would you want to do this?”

“I’m playing a sort of game.”  She put the money on a low table between them.  “Hide and seek with a friend of mine.”  She smiled.  “He’ll never find me in that.”

Finally, something that made sense.  “I could just sell you my costume.”  She’d even have a perfect excuse for skipping the party—nobody she knew at work except Rex himself could afford to turn down a thousand bucks.  “Wait here; I’ve got some gym stuff in the car—“

“No, no, no, I want you to wear mine.”  She looked into her eyes again, the way she had in the parking lot, and suddenly everything seemed perfectly clear and perfectly okay.  “Please, Lacey.  Let me do this.”

“Okay.”  She took off the cat’s head.  “But I still think you’re out of your mind.”

Except she wasn’t.  By some miracle, everything fit – the dress, the boots, the corset, everything.  Standing in front of the stateroom mirror, she had to admit that she even looked pretty okay – not stunning like Catriona, but not bad.  “I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” Cat said.  She was wearing the boy’s boxer briefs and sports bra Lacey had been wearing under her costume, and she was still breathtakingly gorgeous.  “I haven’t gone without heels in a century.  I feel like a hobbit.”  She stepped into the plush kitten costume.  “Zip me up.”  She smiled at Lacey in the mirror as she obeyed.  “You look lovely.”

“Yeah, right.”  She pulled her blonde hair out of its bun and tried to fluff some life into it.  “I feel ridiculous.”

“Oh for pity’s sake.”  She grabbed Lacey by the shoulders and turned her around to face her.  “Look at me.  Look straight into my eyes.”

For the first time since they’d met in the parking lot, Lacey felt afraid.  “I don’t think I want to.”

“You don’t have any choice.”  Her grip didn’t tighten, but suddenly Lacey couldn’t have turned away or pulled free if her life had depended on it—which, in the next moment, she thought maybe it did.  “Lacey, I’m a vampire.”  To illustrate her point, a pair of lethal-looking little fangs popped out over her rose petal lips.  “And I’m going to do this for you if it kills you.”  She framed Lacey’s face in her hands.  “Listen to me.”  The same feeling as before, that Cat was the most beautiful, most friendly, most kind creature on the planet came over Lacey again, but this time it was more intense, not just an instinct but an absolute conviction.  “You are absolutely gorgeous.”  The very idea that this wasn’t the truth, that Cat could say anything that wasn’t absolute fact was ridiculous.  “You are far and away the sexiest woman at that party, and every man there would give the entire contents of his bank account and at least one limb to have you, not just as his sexual partner for the night but as his lover for all time.  You can say anything, do anything, and it will be all right because your life is charmed.  Tonight, you can do no wrong.”  She smiled, and Lacey smiled with her.  “Do you believe me?”  She gently nodded Lacey’s head.

“Yes.”  She had never felt so vibrant, so pretty, so alive.  “I believe you.”

“Wonderful.”  Cat’s fangs disappeared as quickly as they’d come.  “Now come on.”  She handed Lacey a tube of scarlet lipstick and her mask.  “We’re late.”

 

††††††

Richard stood on the rocky beach and breathed in the brisk night air. He had chased Catriona all the way around the planet twice already, following her scent, following the lethal pull of the amulet. He was frustrated, exhausted, and, as much as he hated to admit it, more alive than he’d felt in centuries. She didn’t seem to have the slightest clue about the artifact’s power; he had found no evidence whatsoever that she had used it. She couldn’t even have examined it very closely or she would surely have discovered at least some of the evil it could do. She was playing with him. Maybe she meant to punish him for taking her by force and making her like it. Maybe she was simply amusing herself. She had led Indo a merry dance since the reign of Elizabeth I; perhaps now it was his turn. The very idea should have made him furious, but strangely, it didn’t. She left him the most amusing clues – a pair of lacy underpants tucked inside a Shakespeare folio in Cambridge; his own ragged raincoat run up a flagpole at the Kremlin. If this was punishment, at least it was fun. And revenge would be delicious.

The biting wind brought a familiar scent, and he smiled. Turning, he saw bright lights in the distance and heard the muffled thump of appalling modern music. Catriona was there. Tonight was the night she’d be caught.

††††††

For Lacey, walking into the party was like walking into a dream.  The security guys at the entrance all smiled at her and looked her in the eye, but they barely glanced at her invitation before waving her in.  “Have a great night, beautiful!” one of them called as she walked away.

She didn’t flinch or hunch her shoulders or wonder what he’d meant.  “Thanks!” she called back with a wave.  “I will!”

Carma, the bitchy hot receptionist from work who always made her feel like the fat girl with braces, stopped and stared at her, mouth agape.  “Oh my god, Lacey!  What happened to you?”

“I know, right?” she found herself saying without a moment’s thought.  “I love these boots.  I spent way too much money, I know, but what’s the point of having a programmer’s salary if you can’t treat yourself once in a while?”  She heard Cat snicker beside her from inside the kitten costume head and realized, holy crap, for once she was the one with the girl posse.  “I love your costume, by the way.”  Carma looked like she’d eaten a bad clam.  “Little devil horns and a bikini are never going to go out of style.”

“Thanks,” Carma said.  She opened her mouth like she had her next remark queued up, but Cat hooked her arm through Lacey’s and led her away.

“Shock and awe, dear heart.”  Somehow she made herself heard through the mask in spite of the pounding music.  “With cows like that, hit hard and walk away.”

Lacey giggled.  “I think I heard some guys at the office say the same thing, actually.”

“Bad girl.”  The vampire gave her arm a squeeze and let her go.  “I’m so proud.”

The music suddenly changed from throbbing techno to a thumping hiphop classic.  Rex’s voice roared out over the PA.  “Dance, bee-yotches!  This is my jam!”

He was standing on the stage beside the DJ booth, looking as utterly, heartstoppingly gorgeous as ever.  He was wearing red fake fur Santa pants and big black boots and a Santa hat, but no shirt, and his pecs and abs were gleaming with perfectly positioned sweat.  Two obviously professional dancers in tiny elf outfits were dropping it like it was hot on either side of him, and he danced up on one of them, taking a manly swig from his beer.

“Who is that?” Cat asked.

“That’s my boss, Rex.”  She had loved him since art school.  She had taken digital design and computer graphics just to be close to him – it was really thanks to him that she was a game designer now.  She had labored day and night to help him get the perfect art for his first game as project director at their old job, helping him realize his vision.  When he had decided to form his own company and asked her to come with him, she had been so honored, she had cried.  “It’s not a marriage proposal, Lacey,” he had said, hugging her.  “God, I love your commitment.”

That had been the happiest, sweetest, most romantic moment of her life.

“Rex?” Cat echoed now.  “With a company called Rexaco Games?”

Lacey laughed.  “Exactly.”  He was high-fiving the guys from his lead design team, the inner circle.  “Everybody just loves him.  He’s just so . . .”

“Douchey?” Cat suggested.

“No!”  She couldn’t see the vampire girl’s face, but surely she was kidding.  “Of course not.”

“So you like him.”  She bumped her shoulder.  “Go talk to him.”

“He’s dancing.”

“So go dance with him.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Lacey!”  Even under the mask, the vampire could project her will.  Lacey felt it like a sister’s hug.  “Do you like Rex?  Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”

She couldn’t lie to her.  “God, yes.”

“Then go get him.  Right now.”

She felt the warm sense of confidence and well-being rising up in her again.  “Okay.”  Having a vampire as wing woman was better than dope.  “I guess I will.”

By the time she reached the stage, the song was over, and Rex was coming down.  “Hi Rex.”

He did a double take that was only slightly more subtle than Carma’s had been.  “Hi to you.”

“I love your costume.”  She breathed in the scent of his cologne, a happy little thrill racing through her like it always did.

“I am loving yours.”  He took her hand and looked her up and down.  “Yowza, Miss Kitty.”

She giggled.  “Thanks.  I was hoping you’d like it.”

“Not like, honey.  Love.”  He circled around her.  “You said you were hoping . . .”  He was breathing on the back of her neck, almost nuzzling under her hair.  “Do we know one another?”

At first she thought he was joking.  “You mean you don’t recognize me?”

He laughed.  “We met in Vegas, didn’t we?  Or Aspen?”  They had known one another for ten years.  For the last five, they had seen one another nearly every day.  “I’m an asshole for not remembering, aren’t I?”

“Kind of.”  What was the word Cat had used?  Douchey?  But he was drunk, and they were at a party.  And she was wearing a mask.  “But I guess I’m prepared to forgive you.”

“Excellent.”  He kissed her lightly on the cheek, which was lovely, and put his free hand on her ass, which really wasn’t.  “Listen, Kitty, I’ve got to kinda mingle with the troops a bit, press the flesh, pat some backs.”  He kissed behind her ear, and she couldn’t help but notice how his beer breath was kind of gross.  “Gotta make all the geeks feel loved, you know what I mean?”

“Oh yeah.”  Any other night, she would probably have felt like crying.  Tonight, she was feeling something very different, something that felt suspiciously like pissed off.  “I think I might know exactly.”

“Why don’t you get us a couple of bottles of champagne from the bar and meet me in an hour?”  He had moved in closer behind her.  She could feel his erection brushing the small of her back.  “You like boats, don’t you?”

“Of course.”  This was a Rex she had never met, she realized.  Was this the way he was with all the girls she had envied, the girls he had dated?

“Awesome.”  He turned her toward the docks, lacing his fingers with hers as he put his arm around her, pressing her back against him.  “You see the really big one with the pirate flag?”

“Uh huh.”  That was the one Cat had taken her aboard to switch costumes.  “Is it yours?”

“It is tonight.”  He snickered.  “You bet your truly amazing little ass.”

“Okay.”  His lead design team were watching in a bro-pack just a few feet away.  One of them muttered something to the others, and they all broke out in giggles.  She turned to face Rex.  “I’ll meet you there.”

“Excellent.”  He kissed her hand, and she saw the twinkle in his eye that always made her melt.  Her Rex was still in there somewhere.  She refused to believe he wasn’t.  “Don’t forget the champagne, okay?”

“I won’t.”

He kissed her, and it was just . . . wrong.  Nothing like she had imagined.  His mouth tasted like stale beer, and he was slipping her tongue within two seconds, and all these guys from work were watching—she bet at least some of them recognized her.  But this was Party Rex.  Once she got him alone, she would tell him off, tell him what a total douche he was, tell him she expected better.  And he would realize she was right.  He would realize she was the only woman in the world who really knew him.  And he would realize he loved her.

She broke the kiss, planting her hands against his bare chest, an intimacy she’d been dreaming about for a decade.  “I’ll meet you on the yacht.”

He grinned and walked over to his bros, and she turned away before she could see the high-fives.  She wandered back into the crowd and wondered what she was supposed to do for the next hour.  On an ordinary night, she would have already planted herself like a potted palm somewhere at the edge of the party, waiting for Rex to get around to—what was the phrase he had used?  Press her flesh to make her feel loved.  But tonight he was interested in doing way more to her flesh than pressing it, and wasn’t that what she had always wanted?  Maybe by the morning she’d feel loved for real.

She looked around for Cat, half-expecting that she would have disappeared like a fairy godmother or a drug-induced hallucination.  But no, there she was on the dance floor.  That was the way Lacey had pictured herself when she’d ordered that costume, a cartoon kitten with the moves of a sex goddess, mysterious as moonlight and cute as baby gophers.  She was dancing all by herself, but every man within sight of her was staring, smiling, looking like he’d just been hit by a plank and liked it.  Lacey couldn’t help herself.  She scanned the watchers for Rex, almost certain she would find him, mesmerized by the vampire, his appointment with Lacey forgotten.  But she didn’t see him.

What she did see was a man she didn’t recognize.  He was tall and thin with longish blond hair and no mask over his exquisite aquiline face.  He was wearing a monk’s robe that looked more like the real thing than a costume.  He was watching Cat the same as the others, but he didn’t seem stunned.  He was just smiling.

 ††††††

Cat knew Richard was watching her. She had felt his presence as soon as he had come into the party, and inside the marvelously convenient costume head, she had been able to watch his approach. He thought he had her, that she was finally caught, and in truth, she was impressed. No one had ever tracked her on her annual holiday trip to San Francisco to check in on little Lacey, not even Indo who ought to have guessed where she went. But she wasn’t quite ready to surrender just yet. Checking the room and seeing that Lacey was safely talking to a bartender who looked infinitely nicer and more interesting than the appalling Rex, she formulated a plan.

When the song was over, she left the dance floor, slipping through the crowd, knowing he would follow. She had been watching couples disappear through an innocent-looking steel door all night, all those appalling boys from Rex’s posse with their plastic dollies. The door was guarded by a bouncer, and she couldn’t use her eyes through the mask. But she reached out and gave the brute’s big hand a squeeze, and he let her pass with a dazzled smile. Richard would have to use his powers on him. That would slow him down just long enough.

The door led to a short corridor which in turn led to a VIP room hung with just enough twinkle lights to stumble by and filled with more teeth-rattling music. The effect was very strip club; she suspected it was all Rex’s own design. Another door across the hall opened on a private room with a round, red velvet covered bed. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, laughing. The couple on the bed were just getting started; the guy was still dressed, and the girl was in her bra and the skirt of her elf costume. “Sorry, you two.” She took off the kitten head so they could see her eyes. “Bugger off.” She smiled and showed them a bit of fang just to seal the deal. They snatched up their discarded clothes and fled before she’d finished wriggling out of her costume. She had drawn her dagger and was standing behind the door when Richard came in.

“Hello, Richard,” she said, putting the blade to his throat.

“Hello, Catriona.” She led him into the room, and he closed the door behind him. “Where is the amulet?”

“That’s all you have to say?” The dagger Indo had given her the night she found Lacey was still blessed and still sharp enough to slice through falling snowflakes.  It was made specifically for the efficient destruction of vampires, maybe even one as powerful as Richard. “Where is the amulet?”

“I should spank you, you know,” he said. “You have no idea what you’ve stolen.” He was stalling, turning as she circled him.

“I couldn’t care less about your amulet, Richard.” She advanced on him, naked and deadly, the dagger pointed straight at his heart. “And I don’t believe I’m going to let you spank me just yet.” She lunged, making him stumble back.

“You intend to fight naked?” he asked, trying for a rakish laugh.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, but no,” she answered, still advancing until the point of her dagger hovered just beneath his chin.  “I don’t have to fight.  You don’t have a weapon.”  They both knew he didn’t need one.  She traced the blade delicately along his jawline, barely drawing blood, enjoying the sight of his eyes going wide.  She noticed, however, that the blade’s blessings had very little effect on him, no more than a slight hiss of smoke.  Apparently Richard wasn’t much of a believer.  “I don’t appreciate being treated like a toy, Richard.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” His blue eyes were twinkling, but his expression was grave.

“In Budapest,” she said. “I’ve had several weeks to think over your behavior, and I rather think I ought to be insulted.”

“Insulted?” he said. “Because I was out of my mind with desire for you?”

“For me?” she said. “Or for Indo’s kitty?”

“Catriona, don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “My desire for you had nothing to do with Indo.”

“Oh, how I’d love to believe you, darling.” She flicked the blade, cutting a tiny nick in the delicate skin of his throat, as lethal and deep as the piercing of a fang.  “Convince me.”

He reached for the sword, and she gave her wrist a flick, instantly on guard as she sliced a neat morsel of flesh from his earlobe.  “Damn it, woman!”

“Yes?” she asked pleasantly.

“What is it exactly that you want?” he asked testily.  His tone and body language said he was tiring of the game, but she could still see the twinkle in his eyes.  The terrible sadness she had seen in Budapest was starting to fade away.

“Come now, ancient one, canst not thou guess?” she teased.  “I am a gentle, virtuous lady who died the little death while taken against her will.  What do you think I want?”   He still looked mystified.  “Make me believe it was me you wanted, not just some convenient hole.”

“Convenient?  You?” he scoffed.  “Good lord . . . . I had to track you down to Budapest, for pity’s sake–there are holes far more handy than Budapest.”

“Not that ordinarily belong to Indo.”

“Well, actually . . . . ”

She pressed the sword point to the hollow at the base of his throat.  “You’re not helping your cause.”

He raised his hands in surrender.  “All right!”  He took a breath, gazing into her eyes.  “Of course I wanted you, Catriona.  Look at you . . . . you’re perfect.”

“Um-hmm,” she yawned.  “The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, right?  You forget, dear, I’ve been around a while myself.  Trust me, I’ve heard this one before from men far more poetic than you.”

He smiled.  “Yes, but did they have my context?”

“That’s true,” she admitted with a tiny smile back.  “Go on, please.”

“What else is there to say?  You’re lovely.”  He believed it, she realized, watching his eyes.  He really did admire her, really did think she was beautiful.  She was surprised and very flattered.  But she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook just yet.  She had the feeling he wasn’t quite ready, either.  He needed this game, the same as he had needed to pillage her on the hotel room carpet in Budapest.

“And lovely was just what you needed,” she said, leading him on.

“Not just.”   She raised an eyebrow, tilting the blade as if preparing to slice his healing ear again.  “All right, Catriona, you win,” he said quickly.  “Yes, you’re right–I’d be lying if I said Indo’s feelings for you had no role to play in my decision to go to you.”

“You’re sweeping me off my feet,” she said dryly.

“But mostly I wanted to be with someone who might conceivably be as bad as I am.”  His mouth twisted in a tiny smile as she laughed, shocked but not offended.  “Someone completely self-involved who seems soft and lovely, but who wouldn’t . . . . ”  He broke off, waiting for reaction.

“Who wouldn’t die if you hurt her,” she finished for him.  “Fair enough . . . . and you must be right.”  She let the blade fall slowly down his chest, cutting open the monkish robe he wore as smoothly as if it had a zipper.  “I must be exactly as bad as you are, because I can certainly understand the concept.”  She smiled at him sweetly as the point of the dagger reached his waist.  “Would you mind terribly taking off the robe? I don’t want to get it all bloody.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, going as pale as a freshly-fed vampire could go.

“Behead you?” she joked.  “Why not?  It’ll grow back, I promise.”

“The voice of experience?” He actually sounded a little nervous, much to her delight.

“Maybe.”  She cut down a little further.  “You know, these are the only clothes you seem to have . . . .”

He pulled the robe over his head.  “Catriona, you must know I won’t let you castrate me.”

She did love the way he said her name.  “Richard, you must know I haven’t the slightest interest in doing so.”  She took a step back as he tossed it away, but she didn’t drop the dagger.  “It’s been my experience that as tenuous as their relationship appears, a penis doesn’t function particularly well once separated from its brain.”  He shucked out of the boxer briefs he was wearing underneath, and she motioned him toward the ridiculous bed.  “Let’s just say this time I’m making sure I get to be on top.”

He smiled as he sat back on the pillows.  “Darling, all you had to do was ask.”

“But I don’t want to ask.”  She climbed onto the bed on her knees, straddling his thighs with the dagger held upright in front of her.  “I don’t want to talk about it . . . remember?”  She focused her gaze on his penis as it rose as if willing it erect.

“So why don’t you shut up?” he asked, going breathless.

She laughed, “Okay.”  Bending down to kiss his mouth, she laid the dagger across his chest, the hilt still in her right hand, the blade barely touching his throat.  He arched up, gasping, as the blessed metal was laid flat against his skin.  If he leaned up to her at all, the skin would be pierced.  “Comfy?” she whispered in his ear as she sat up.

He didn’t answer, just watched as she raised herself on her knees, then brought her sleek, warm cunt down over his cock.  “Don’t move,” she ordered, husky, looking down at him from under her lashes.  “And don’t come.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his gaze locked to hers.

She set the rhythm this time, using her own delicate motions to maneuver him into position.  Using her left hand as a brace, she leaned forward until the base of his cock rested flush against the opening folds above her clitoris and the tip barely teased another tingling button of nerves deep inside her.  “What say we just stay here forever?” she murmured, her muscles aching with the tension of keeping still.

“Let’s don’t,” he muttered.  He slid his hands up the curve of her hips and tried to rock her forward, but she pressed the dagger tighter to his throat, making him cry out.  “Catriona, please . . . .”

“Oooo, I like that,” she cooed.  “Very, very much.”  She lowered her head and concentrated hard on her cunt, feeling the friction in every fold and hollow as a separate, sweet sensation as she slowly began to move.  His eyes were closed, pretty smudge of lashes on either sharply-sculpted cheek, but as she raised her hips, his mouth fell open in a gasping sigh as if she’d drawn out breath and sound as she drew herself away.  “Miss me?”

“Yes,” barely audible through teeth clenched tight.

“Good.”  She slid back down again as slowly as she could manage, but she could feel it coming, the moment when she’d lose this delicious control and let him have her.  Not yet, she thought, desperate, her fist flexing on her dagger hilt as she began to pick up the pace.  She could feel the tension in his body, the need to take control, but like her, he was holding back.  His hands clutched the soft flesh of her ass, his fingertips bruising her, marking her as his, but she knew he could have easily broken her arm and flung her underneath him.  But that would be nothing new, a moment, the same thing over again.  And that wasn’t what either of them wanted.  A thin sheen of blood sweat had bloomed through his skin, and she leaned down to lick it from his cheek, salty and delicious. “Darling,” he murmured as she leaned down to kiss his mouth.

Then suddenly she broke the kiss, her head flung back as she ground him deeper, her clit so battered and ripe with blood she could feel its shape, a berry bursting with juice.  She thought of him grabbing her, throwing her to the floor, and snarled, letting go of the dagger to grapple his shoulders and pull him upright, pull him up to her.  Slice of pain as he flung the dagger away, his hands coming to her face, and she screamed as he kissed her deeper, her orgasm torn from a center she could sometimes forget she had.  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, crushing him as he bathed her face in sweet saliva kisses as she trembled and shattered around him.  “Come now,” she growled, her fingers sliding up through his hair.  “I want to feel you shooting in me.”  He obeyed without a moment’s pause, a feat she would have doubted possible if asked before tonight, and she screamed again, softer, fading to a sigh as every muscle fell slack.

“You are,” he mumbled, cradling her as she fell.  “Most beautiful of all.”

††††††

 Lacey watched the strange man follow Cat through the door to the VIP rooms, and she was considering going after him to try to warn her friend or intervene somehow when someone touched her arm. “Lacey?”

She turned and for a second, she didn’t recognize the handsome masked man standing behind her.  He was dressed as a pirate—specifically, the pirate hero of Lex’s latest pet project, an open-world RPG he absolutely insisted on calling, “Ahoy!” But unlike the avatar from the game, who looked blown up with steroids and had a fat, square head, this guy was gorgeous.  He carried just enough muscle on his torso and thighs to make the flowing shirt and skin-tight pants look dashing, not ridiculous.  “Merry Christmas,” he said, his green eyes twinkling through his mask, and suddenly she knew exactly who he was.

“Noel, hi!”  She hugged him and was pleasantly shocked—who knew code monkeys could carry such guns?  “Merry Christmas to you.”

“Thanks.”  Noel was an artist and code writer who had been slaving in the dungeons of the company for a little less than a year.  But he was really sweet and really talented; she expected him to do great work someday.

“That’s some costume,” she said, looking him up and down with a grin.

“Yeah, I know.”  She saw his cheeks and neck flush red under the mask.  “I lost the office lottery.  Rex said somebody had to wear it.”

“You look great.”  She gave his arm a comforting rub and felt those amazing muscles again.  Do you work out? she almost asked before she stopped herself, not wanting to sound like Carma.

“You’re sweet.”  Rex told her this all the time, and it always made her feel like a kid sister.  It sounded different coming from Noel.  “You looking stunning, by the way.  I’d heard you were coming as a black cat.”  He blushed again, and she thought he sounded a little short of breath.  “I’ve been watching for you all night.”

“Really?”  He didn’t sound like he was joking, but she couldn’t quite believe him, either.  “Why?”

“Oh . . . well.”  The sight of this man—who was really tall, she realized for the first time; even in Cat’s heels, she had to look up to see his face—all dressed up like a romance novel hero but fidgeting like a kid was shockingly adorable.  “I just wanted . .. you really helped us out this week with those notes on the Tortuga fight scene.  You were right; the motion capture was good; it was almost there, but the movement of the hair on the big guy . . .”  He broke off with a shy grin.  “Sorry.  I know we’re not supposed to talk about work tonight.”

“It’s okay.”  For what felt like the first time in her life, she was getting a clue.  He liked her.  He had come to the party that night already liking her before he ever saw her in Cat’s costume.  If she hadn’t been under a vampire’s spell, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it or wouldn’t have believed it or would have talked herself out of it.  But tonight she knew it was real.  This gorgeous guy liked her and wanted to talk to her.  It felt amazing, better than chocolate and whiskey and the last big drop on the best rollercoaster in the world, all wrapped up in one.

“I probably shouldn’t say this,” he said.  “I mean, Rex is brilliant, obviously.”

“Yes, he is.”  What could he be thinking? Had he seen her before with Rex? For a split second, she panicked, thinking he thought she and Rex were a couple—but why should she panic at that?  Wasn’t that all she’d ever wanted?

“But you’re brilliant, too,” he was going on. “I don’t think he realizes how much he owes you.” The tempo of the music on the dance floor was changing, and the lights were starting to dim.  “I just wanted to tell you, if you ever wanted to do something of your own, I’m here for you.  I mean, I would love to be a part of it.” She saw him every day, but she had never seen his eyes look so blue. “I would be honored.”

Again, any other time she would have thought this meant she had totally misinterpreted his interest, that he didn’t like her as a woman at all, that he only admired her work. She would have been kicking herself, brutally embarrassed, rushing to cover up or explain away any sign she might have made that she liked him as a man.

But tonight was different.  Tonight she knew that his blush and stammer came from something more primal than professional respect.  Liking her art wouldn’t make the hairs on his forearm stand on end when she let her hand brush the back of his wrist the way she was doing now.

“Thanks, Noel.”  She took his hand.  “I really appreciate that.” The dance floor was filling up with couples. “Would you like to dance?”

“I would, but . . .” She could see him wincing even from behind the mask. “I can’t dance. I mean, I really, really can’t—I’m pathetic.”

It took her a minute to place where she’d heard this before, these same words spoken in exactly this same way. Then she realized this was almost exactly what she always said whenever anyone asked her to dance. As gorgeous and brilliant as he was, Noel was obviously just as shy as she was. “Okay,” she said, smiling at him, squeezing his hand she still held.

“There’s a lounge set up on one of the docks,” he said. “I could get us some drinks, and we could just talk.  Unless you don’t want to—I mean, I don’t want to keep you from the party, or—“

“Talking is great.” For a second, she thought about Rex, but only for a second. “I like talking a lot.”

 

††††††

Richard kissed lovely Cat softly on the mouth. “Where is the amulet?”

“Look in my costume,” she said. “It’s in my purse.”

He got up from the bed and found the purse tucked inside the cat suit. The amulet was tucked inside, wrapped in its own chain. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She sat up on the bed. “So are you ready to tell me what that thing is now?”

“Does it matter?”  He pulled the amulet over his head, and the darkness it carried settled over him.

“You chased me all the way around the world to get it back,” she said. “Obviously it matters.”

He sat down on the bed and picked up her bare foot to trace the delicate blue vein that curved down from her ankle.  “Didn’t I promise to lick your toes?”

“Later,” she ordered, but she didn’t pull her leg away. He pressed a kiss to her instep and felt her shiver, but her voice was steady. “Why was there vampire blood on your raincoat?”

“Not easily distracted, are you?”  He ran a fingertip up the curve of her calf.  “The blood came from a very old vampire named Seth.”

“Seth?” she echoed.  “Not the Seth.”  He hadn’t known if she would have even heard of his ancient brother.  The Destroyer had been in the ground for so long, and Catriona was so young.  But it was obvious from the look on her face that she knew exactly who he meant.  “I thought he was a myth, the big bad wolf vampire that gave the Enforcers an excuse to be such dicks.”  She sat up, sliding her leg free of his touch.  “You’re telling me he’s real?”

“He is—was—very real, yes.”  Here with her, the weight on his heart was almost bearable.  “More to the point, he was my friend,” he finished.

“Unbelievable . . . ”  She looked at him, up and down, eyes wide and serious.  “So how did you end up covered in his blood?”

“It’s very simple, darling.”  He patted her knee.  “I killed him.”  He took the lighter she had used to light her cigarette and sparked it, then stared into the flame.  “I killed him because he woke up.  He was wreaking havoc, slaughtering humans in the hundreds.”

“Where?”  She took his other hand.  “I haven’t heard—“

“Africa,” he interrupted.  “A warlord—the mortals called him a warlord.”  He smiled.  “I’m sure he must have loved that.”  He let the flame go out.  “But it was only a matter of time before they realized he wasn’t human.”

“And the amulet was his,” she said.

“Yes.” She reached out and touched it, and he resisted the urge to snatch it out of her reach. “It holds unspeakable power. He took it from our—from his maker.”

She sat back, curling her legs under her.  “What about the Enforcers?”  She brushed a lock of hair back from his cheek, a tender, womanly gesture he would never have expected.  “What about Indo?”

“Seth would have snapped Indo like kindling.”  He got up from the bed.  “That’s the whole point.  They were going after him, and they didn’t have the slightest idea what he was, what they’d be facing.”

“So you went instead.”  Her voice was like a tonic, flowing sweetly into his consciousness, steeping out the poison of his anger and regret.  “You killed him yourself to save Indo and the other Enforcers.”

“To save everything.”  How could this child of only three centuries ever understand?  “To save the world we’ve made, the creatures we have become.  If Seth had been allowed to live, he would have remade the world into what it was when we were young.  Nothing could have stopped him.”  She was so soft, he thought, so lovely.  She lived in a world of luxurious hotels and lead-lined coffins upholstered with silk and human thralls desperate to give her their blood for nothing more than a smile.  She had never dug her own grave with her hands as the sun crept over the horizon.  She had never been burned at a stake by mortals who didn’t know they couldn’t kill her with fire.  She had never chased her prey across an open delta in the darkness or murdered a dozen virgins at a banquet with hundreds of her own kind looking on.  “Nothing except me.”  He turned away.  “I am of his world, Catriona, not yours.  I was once as bad as he was – probably worse because I was fully aware of my evil.  He was an animal.  I was a demon.”

Cat watched his face as he spoke.  He was a completely different man from the one she’d thought she’d known, a completely different creature.  “Was Indo properly grateful?”  He reminded her of a caged tiger, ready to pounce, suffocating in captivity.  “Are the Enforcers going to give you a medal?”

He laughed.  “Not exactly.”  He took her hand and kissed it.  “Indo was furious.  He said I had no right, that I had taken the law into my own hands.”

“Oh dear.”  She could just see her lover in her mind, bristling with righteous indignation, strong and just and oh so very stupid.  “Poor Indo.  Did he try to arrest you?”

“He threatened.”  He turned back to her with a wry smile that reminded her of the old Richard.  “But when I called his bluff, he backed down.”

“Ooo, he must have hated that.”  She should have been angry on Indo’s behalf, she supposed, but she just couldn’t seem to feel it.  She loved Indo more than any other creature, more even than she loved herself.  But he was simple in his code, simple in his judgments, simple in his feelings.  She knew how infuriating that could be, how hurtful.

“He said he washed his hands of me.”  She didn’t need to imagine Indo saying that; she had heard it so many times herself.  “He said we were through.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.  “Whatever will you do about the prom?”  He laughed with her.   “You’re not worried about it, are you?  You know Indo; he’ll get over it.”

“Yes.” He looked into her eyes. “But I think he and I may have something new to fight about now.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, looking away. “We don’t have to think about that.” She got up. “Come on. We should let those poor mortal darlings have their playpen back.”

 ††††††

 Lacey watched as Noel got a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the bar, then the two of them walked hand in hand out to the dock. The lounge was just as impressive as the dance floor, a long rectangle of overstuffed couches and low tables with greenery and fairy lights strung on poles overhead. They took a love seat near the very end over the water and just talked, and it was easy, as easy as anything she had ever done. He told her about growing up in the Pacific Northwest and spending summers with his grandparents in Cornwall, U.K., learning to surf, falling in love with computers and art.  She was fascinated.  She found herself talking about her life before she’d met Rex, her own ambitions, her own dreams—all the stuff she never thought much about any more, the stuff she’d tucked away. And he seemed fascinated, too.

After what seemed like almost no time at all, they were two of only four people left on the dock. The other two were an obviously very happy couple who were making out with wild abandon on a couch across the way.  “Wow,” she said, giggling. “Who knew Barry in Marketing was so passionate?”

Noel snickered, too. “Colin in Accounts Receivable, apparently.”

“I think it’s sweet.” She and Noel had been moving steadily closer to one another as they talked, she suddenly realized.  Now she was turned sideways facing him with her legs curled under her, her pet position when she got comfortable to read or play games or watch TV.  One knee was overlapping his thigh, and one of his hands was resting casually on her booted calf. To anyone watching, they must have looked as much like a couple as Barry and Colin.

“I do, too,” he said. “And besides, they can’t help it. They’re under the mistletoe.” He looked up. “Actually, so are we.”

She looked up at the garland overhead. “Well, would you look at that?”

“I have to kiss you.” He had taken off his own mask ages ago.  Now he gently lifted hers off, too. “It’s the sacred law of Christmas.”

“It is.” She felt breathless, heart racing—all the things she’d always known she was supposed to feel.  His lips were soft and strong and tasted like the wine, and when she slid her arms around his neck, he moaned, pulling her closer, and her whole body seemed to melt. She thought she could have happily slid his shirt off, slipped out of her dress, made love with him right there in front of Barry and Colin and anyone else who cared to look, even Rex . . .

“Oh damn it,” she said, breaking the kiss. “What time is it?”

“What?” Noel looked stunned, dreamy-eyed, confused . . . completely beautiful. “I don’t know. After midnight, at least.”

When she’d left Rex, promising to meet him in an hour, it had been barely nine o’clock. She could see the big yacht in the distance, lights still blazing from its cabin. Had he gone to meet her, the mysterious hottie he hadn’t known from Adam’s housecat, as her mother would have said? Had he waited, nervous and impatient, wondering if she would ever really show?  Was he still waiting?

The thought of it made her smile.

“Lacey?” Noel touched her cheek, his other arm still holding her. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She turned her head and kissed his wrist. “Nothing at all.” She brushed his hair back from his brow. “Did you drive here?”

“I came on my bike.” She laughed, and he grinned. “In this outfit, yeah.” He kissed her, softer this time, less urgent but just as sweet.

“I have my car.” He smelled amazing, she thought, like salt air and pine woods. She wanted to bury her face in the soft, smooth skin of his neck and breathe him in forever.

“I could drive you home.” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. “Then I could get a cab home from your place.”

“Or you could stay.” Her eyes met his. “And I could make you breakfast.”

As they were leaving, she saw Cat again.  Her new and most beloved vampire BFF was back on the dance floor, still wearing Lacey’s costume, though she had taken off the head. But now she was slowdancing with the tall blond man in the monk’s robe, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed. She looked utterly content.

The man saw Lacey watching, and for a moment, their eyes locked. His gaze was like Cat’s, only more so, beautiful, compelling, terrifying, impossible to resist.  Lacey felt herself leaning toward him even as Noel, oblivious, was leading her away.

Then the man who was a vampire smiled, and the spell was broken.  Lacey smiled. “I guess he found her after all.”

“Who?” Noel said. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” She waved at the vampire, and he waved back. “Come on, let’s go.”

††††††

 Richard pressed Catriona closer as the little human made her escape. “You never fail to surprise me, beloved,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But this costume has got to go.”

“You don’t like it?” She looked over his shoulder just in time to see Lacey leaving with a perfectly luscious-looking lad in a pirate costume. “Oh good,” she said. “She managed to scrape off Rex.”

“Who?” Richard said, obviously amused.

“Never mind.” She stepped back, still holding his hand. “I know she’s safe now. Let’s go.”

They went back to her hotel and changed into more normal clothes. Richard took the amulet from around his neck and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans as Cat brushed her hair and pulled it into a messy bun, watching herself in the mirror. “Fancy a walk?” he said. “Do you know I’ve never been to San Francisco?”

She smiled at him in her reflection. “Then by all means let’s have a look around.”

They walked hand in hand down the street through a delicate veil of f0g with the dreamy air of tourists in love. “I’m worried about you, you know,” she said, squeezing his hand.

He couldn’t help but smile.  “Worried? You?” he teased.  “About me?”

“Better take advantage of it now,” she warned.  “Believe me, it will pass.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said.  “But honestly, love, I’m fine–I actually feel better.”  He kissed her cheek.  “How are you?”

“I’m always fine, Richard, you know that,” she smiled.  She turned and started down the street again, tucking her arm into his.  “So where are you headed now?  Back to the cloisters?”

“Eventually.”  He had forgotten how nice it was, just walking with a woman.  “But first I have to see Indo.”

“Oh honey, why would you want to do that?” she asked, laughing.  “Trust me, if he’s in a snit, you’d do better to just leave him alone for a century or two.”

“The voice of experience?”

“You know it.”  They had reached a lookout over the bay, and she let him go to lean on the railing, looking out over the water.  “Unless you mean to fight him.”

“No.”  He brushed her hair back from her cheek.  “If I did, would you try to stop me?”

She smiled, still gazing down into the darkness.  “Of course I would.  He’s my Indo.”  The streetlight glowed on her auburn hair.  “Seriously, Richard, just leave him alone.  That’s the trick.”  He thought she had never looked more beautiful.  “Letting him stew just long enough to miss you but not so long he forgets . . . . ”  Her voice trailed off into a smile.  “But the two of you have a somewhat different relationship.”

“Catriona, may I ask you a question? I’ve been wondering for weeks.”  He touched her cheek, turning her face to his.  “Why are you in San Francisco for the holidays?  You said you had an appointment. With whom?”

She smiled, turning away. “You saw her at the party,” she said. “The mortal girl wearing my cat costume.”

He had known Cat to take all manner of prey and seduce all manner of lovers, but never an innocent mortal girl. “And what is she to you?” She arched an eyebrow at him. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Nothing, really.” She laughed. “Believe it or not, when she was a tiny baby, I saved her.” The wind caressed her hair, blowing it around her face. “I saved her from a vampire named Yuri because her mother was dead.”

“Of course.” He was a fool, he thought. An old fool falling hopelessly in love with a creature who loved someone else. “Indo told me about that—the night he gave you the dagger.”

“Exactly. It’s silly, I know, but I check on her every year at Christmas, just to make sure she’s all right.’

“So she knows you saved her?”

“Oh no, not at all. She never actually met me before tonight—well, not to know she was meeting me. I’ve always kept my distance before.”

“So what’s different about this year?” he asked. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing,” she said, but he wasn’t quite sure he believed her. “I guess it’s just that she’s grown up now, and there really isn’t much left that I can do for her.”  She laughed. “You’re shocked, aren’t you?”

“Why should I be?” he said, smiling. “I’ve always known you were much kinder than you let on.”

“God, Richard, don’t say that, please.”  She grimaced, shuddered, as if cut by the wind.  “What are the odds of survival for a vampire who’s kind?”

“You don’t have to be afraid.” He smiled, making light, when all he wanted was to take her in his arms. “I promised to kill for you, remember?”

“Oh that’s right . . . . . can I save that one for later?”

“Absolutely.”  He leaned over the railing as well, giving her a nudge.  “So this holiday trip of yours .  . . Indo isn’t invited?”

“He’s busy, and besides, we just . . . No, not we, I, I just needed a break.  And you said he was on a mission with the Enforcers?”  She sighed.  “I dare say he needed one, too.”  She turned around, taking a deep breath of icy air.  “I love him, but sometimes, being with him, I feel like I can’t breathe, you know?”

“I can certainly believe that,” he agreed.  “So you just disappear.”

“He knows I’ll be back.”  She looked over at him, making a purposely winsome face.  “I always go back.”

“Lucky Indo,” he answered, kissing her frozen nose.

“Hey, don’t go all squishy on me, please,” she protested with a grin.

“Too late.”  He hugged her, and she wrapped herself around him, a friend’s embrace.  “So you think I should stay away from Indo?” he asked

“Just for a while.”  She looked up at him and smiled.  “Besides, you’re going to be busy.” She slipped out of his arms and held up the amulet she had stolen from his pocket.

“Catriona, no.” She was backing away, and he lunged for her. She dodged him easily, laughing, and ran down the street. “Catriona!”

“See you later, Richard!” A cab appeared as if by magic in this city known for having almost no cabs. “I need a date for New Year’s Eve!”  He started running after her, knowing he’d be too late. She jumped into the cab and sped away, leaving him standing, laughing, in the middle of the street.

 

††††††

 Lacey stood at the window in her apartment, drinking coffee and watching the sun come up. The costume she had borrowed from Cat was scattered all over the bedroom floor; now she was wearing her own comfy flannel pajamas.

Noel came up behind her and put his arms around her. “You okay?” he asked, kissing behind her ear. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just stuff.” She was an orphan with no family, a code monkey with no life. But last night she had met vampires. And she was in love, real love, for the first time in her life. “I’m having a very merry Christmas.”

 

THE END

Merry Christmas, Kittens!

 

Cooking a Thanksgiving Turkey – Fear Not the What-What

With the number of hotlines, websites, recipes, chat boards, and support groups available, you’d think cooking a Thanksgiving turkey was a task roughly akin to landing an airplane while juggling knives as monkeys throw cigarette butts at your face. It’s not.  I swear before the throne of glory, it is one of the easiest things to cook in the world. I once wrote very similar instructions on the back of an envelope for my brother-in-law, and he produced a bird that would have looked at home in Martha Stewart’s house. Trust me; you can do this.

If you go to Food Network’s website or one of the bazillion other more informative, cuisine-specific blogs on the internet, you’ll read all about stuff like brining and barbecuing and how if you’re going to fry your bird, you’ll need 300 gallons of peanut oil and a fireman with a sense of humor. I have nothing but love and respect for those writers, and I’m sure all their information is spot-on correct. But they’re making things hard on themselves and you; they’re cooking exotic gourmet turkey for the kind of discerning palettes that think of nothing of putting truffle oil on popcorn (or people who believe it ain’t food unless you deep fry it). And if you’re that person or want to cook Thanksgiving dinner like that person, by all means, go ahead. Me, I’ve got better things to do.

So here’s how to make a totally basic, totally old-fashioned, roasted Thanksgiving turkey. It is quite juicy (not dry as the briners insist it will be) and flavorful (not bland as the deep fryers would expect). We serve ours with dressing (not stuffing), rice and gravy, cranberry sauce, macaroni pie, green bean casserole, rolls, and way too much dessert. And I defy you to find a better holiday feast.

So  here’s what you’ll need:

One turkey, whatever size you need to feed your crowd. I usually get the biggest one I can find. And if it’s frozen, put it in the fridge RIGHT THIS SECOND to thaw – seriously, if you want to eat it for lunch on Thursday, you need to have it thawing in the fridge by mid-afternoon on Sunday at the latest.

2 large onions

2 or 3 stalks of celery

1/2 cup of butter (1 stick)

1 tablespoon of flour

2 tablespoons of poultry seasoning (or 1 & 1/2 tablespoons of dried sage plus a generous sprinkle of parsley, rosemary, and thyme – they were obviously cooking turkeys at Scarborough Faire)

generous sprinkle of salt & pepper

1/2 to 1 cup of water, depending on the size of the turkey. If it’s a small one, 1/2 cup. If it’s the biggest one in the store, 1 cup.

1 browning bag – look on the foil and plastic wrap aisle

1 big roasting pan – if you don’t have one, the disposable foil kind works; just be sure to put it on a cookie sheet so you can pick it up

Here’s how to cook it:

A few days before Thanksgiving: Thaw the turkey in the refrigerator. If you missed this step, you can thaw it in the sink in COLD water in a few hours, but be very careful to wash your hands before and after you handle it. NEVER use warm water. Nothing ruins Black Friday shopping like a family-wide case of the runs.

The day before Thanksgiving: Check and see how much your turkey weighs and read the instructions with your browning bag to see how long it will need to roast. You’re going to want to have it out of the oven  at least 45 minutes before you eat, so plan accordingly.

Thanksgiving Day, starting 30 minutes before you need to get the bird in the oven:

Move the oven rack to the lowest position and turn on the oven to 350 degrees to preheat. Put the tablespoon of flour in the browning bag, hold the end closed, shake vigorously to coat the inside of the bag with flour. Put the bag in the roasting pan with the open end facing out.

Put the bird in the sink. Take the wrapper off. Reach inside the body cavity and remove the bag of giblets and the neck. This is the part the lady in that turkey hotline commercial calls putting her hand in the what and pulling out the what-what. (And yes, I laugh every time–she’s awesome.) But it’s not that big a deal. If you can’t bear the notion of putting your hand inside a hollow dead bird, wear rubber gloves. If you can’t stand it even then, eat at Denny’s. Rinse the bird thoroughly with cold water, pat dry with paper towels.

Peel and thickly slice the biggest onion. Arrange the slices on the “floor” of the roaster inside the bag. Wash the celery and lay it on either side of the onions. This makes a kind of baking rack inside the bag.

Smear about 2 tablespoons of the butter on the outside of the bird. Put it in the bag with the legs pointing toward you (so you still have access to the what). Sprinkle your herbs, salt and pepper all over the bird. Peel the other onion and put it and the rest of the butter inside the bird. Pour in the water.

Close up the browning bag with the little twist tie thingie enclosed with it. Tuck the corners into the pan so nothing’s hanging out to possibly catch on the oven rack or the heating element. Cut six slits in the plastic with a sharp knife. (This is the step I always forget until thirty minutes later, aka seconds before the bag explodes all over the oven. Spare yourself the heart attack.)

Put the bird in the oven and wait. Time it by the instructions in your browning bag. Professional chef type people will tell you that you simply must insert a meat thermometer through your bag into the fleshiest part of your bird (between the leg and the thigh or in the thickest part of the breast) without touching bone and cook it to an internal temperature of 165 degrees. I’m sure this is excellent advice. I don’t own a meat thermometer and never have. I time the sucker, and I also have a child’s foolish faith in the little plastic pop-up thermometer with which many birds are already skewered when you buy them. I have never had a turkey be underdone or overdone. Do with that information what you will.

Let it rest for at least half an hour after you take it out of the oven before you move it to a serving platter and slice it. Strain the copious juice left in the roasting pan and use it to make dressing and gravy.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

 

Sleepy Hollow – a missing scene

fall_tv_preview_sleepyhollow1I started my career as a romance novelist writing fan fiction, and that’s what this is, plain and simple.  It’s not even a full story, just a scene I really wanted and didn’t get from “Heartless,” the most recent episode of Sleepy Hollow.  I’m not saying they should do this or that this is what’s best for the characters or even that this is the most likely scenario for the future based on what we’ve seen so far.  The real writers almost certainly have something better planned that will knock my socks off. This is purely my personal wish fulfillment at this exact moment in the story. And based on what I read on Twitter Monday night, there are some other people who might enjoy it, too.

* * * * * *

As the sun came up, Abbie gave up, got up, showered, and dressed.  She dialed Crane’s number on her way to the car.

“Yes?” He sounded awake, just befuddled. “Yes, I’m here; hello.”

“Good morning.” Even in her present state, she couldn’t help but smile. “I think we need to talk. I’m coming over.”

“All right.” He might have sounded a little surprised, but she couldn’t tell. He hid so much from her these days.

“Great. I’ll bring coffee.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’ll see you shortly.”

“Yes.” Just as she was about to end the call, she heard him crying out in desperation. “Lieutenant!”

“Yes?”

“Doughnut holes. Please.”

She smiled again. “Of course.”

 

 

Once she was sitting across from him at the table in the cabin, she wasn’t sure how to start. “Crane, I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Nor I.” His hands were clasped around his coffee cup like it was a lifeline. “I was glad when you called. I need to speak to you as well.”

“That’s great–I mean, I’m sorry you didn’t sleep, but . . .” She broke off and started again. “I think I’m going to need to go first this time,” she said. “And I think I’m going to need you to shut up.”

He looked taken aback, but he nodded.  “All right.”  He gestured for her to proceed.

“You’ve been taking charge of the situation a lot lately, and that’s fine. But I’m not your assistant, Crane, or your sidekick. We’re partners–”

“Of course–” She raised her eyebrows, and he stopped.  “Apologies. Please go on.”

“Then last night, after Katrina left, you gave me that speech about how we have to stick together, stick to the mission and not get distracted.” He started to speak again, then stopped, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. “And that craziness where you were, I don’t know, giving me permission to date Hawley? I don’t even–what was that even about?”

“You want me to speak now?”

“No, I don’t.” Just saying it all out loud, she was getting mad all over again. “You don’t tell me who I can date, Crane. That is none of your business.”

“You are right,” he said, nodding, his arms still folded. “It is not.” He wasn’t even looking at her.

“I don’t need you to find me a boyfriend.”

“Of course you do not.”

“And when you do things like that, it makes me think that you think I’m jealous of Katrina.” She hadn’t been sure she could say it, but she had. “Crane, I am not jealous of Katrina.”

He looked stunned. “No, of course not.” He set his coffee cup aside, and she saw his hands were shaking. “You’re quite right, Lieutenant. I apologize.”

“Crane, I don’t need an apology.” She took his hand. “I need to understand.”

“I should have realized . . .” His hand closed over hers, but he still wasn’t looking at her. “You are much too honorable a woman to have even entertained the thought . . .”

“The thought of what?” He looked up, and she saw exactly what in his eyes. “Oh . . .” She let go of his hand. “Crane–”

“No, please.” He looked away with a wry smile. “I believe it’s my turn to speak.” He got up from his chair. “It is not you who is jealous, Lieutenant. I am the one for whom our relationship has become more than a friendship between comrades at arms.”

Only Crane could describe a crush and make it sound like the Magna Carta. “Hey, that’s perfectly natural,” she said. “You came back from the dead, and I was here, the only one who believed you, the only one who could help you.” She sounded so calm and mature and matter-of-fact, she almost believed her own bullshit. “You’re a man; I’m a woman.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You are most assuredly that.” He put a hand on the back of his chair. “And I am a married man.”

“Yes, you are.” She got up, too. “And you love Katrina. You have always loved her.”

“Yes, I have. I know I have, and I do, but . . .” He looked at her, and she saw fear in his eyes as well as anguish. “I can’t remember why.”

The full importance of this hit the detective like a bullet, with fast, deadly force. “What are you saying, Crane?”

“Ever since she escaped Abraham and we brought her here, ever since the hospital, I have been trying to remember the particulars of our courtship,” he said.  “Abbie, I can’t.” When he said her name, she shivered. “She was Abraham’s beloved, and he was my friend. Of course I found her beautiful.”

Abbie smiled. “Of course.”

“But my attraction to her was merely aesthetic,” he insisted. “My affection for her was entirely inspired by my feelings of friendship for Abraham. He loved her; therefore, I was her advocate. I reached out to her not to form an attachment between us for my own sake but entirely for his.”

“Crane, I believe you,” Abbie said. “All jokes aside, you are not the kind of man to mack on your best friend’s girl.” He smiled. “But you know, these things happen.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember it happening,” he said. “I remember feeling friendship for Katrina, then feeling alarm and dismay on behalf of my friend when he began to suspect her of sympathizing with the colonists. Then suddenly we were in love.”

“And you were sympathizing with the colonists, too.” She was a good cop; she didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. But this sounded bad. “But hey, it was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was,” he said. “And I have never regretted my decision to join the colonial cause.  I cannot but believe I would have done so even if I had never met Katrina. But I quite clearly remember the moment I first agreed to act as a spy for General Washington. I remember the first moment Abraham looked at me in hatred. I remember the first time I saw Franklin naked, for God’s sake.”

“That would kind of stick with a person.”

“So why can I not recall the moment when I first fell in love with a woman so dear to me, I would breach the literal gates of hell to save her?”

She wanted to go to him so badly, the palms of her hands tingled in anticipation. But that would only make everything worse, this confusion, this nightmare feeling that everything in her world was spinning out of control. They had to stay focused; there was too much at stake. “I don’t know,” she said, clasping her hands together. “But until a few months ago, you were buried in a hole in the woods, and the time since then hasn’t exactly been low stress.”

“No,” he said with a wry smile. “Though I do not regret a single moment.”

“It makes sense that things in your head could be a little mixed up.” She couldn’t look into his eyes. “For all we know, Moloch or Henry have put some kind of spell on you to make you forget the best parts of your marriage.”

“I suppose that could be possible.” He didn’t sound any more convinced than she felt. “Nor can I discount the influence of other factors.” She didn’t even have to look at him to know he was blushing. “I have changed a great deal since we met, Lieutenant, in my opinions, in my feelings.”

“No kidding,” she said, trying to make light of what he was saying so she didn’t have to really hear him. “You didn’t used to even like doughnut holes.”

“This goes beyond doughnut holes, I’m afraid. Abigail, let me speak plainly.” He moved in front of her, making her look at him. “If I were not married–”

“But you are,” she cut him off. “You are married.” She made herself look into his eyes and saw perfect understanding. No man had ever understood her so easily or so well. “And until we know how this is all going to work out, until we have hard evidence, until Katrina is away from Abraham and the two of you have a chance to work things out, there’s no point talking about anything else.” She did touch him then. She took his hand. “You said it yourself. We’re the witnesses. We’re the only ones who can stop Moloch. Nothing can get in the way of that.”

He nodded, looking down at their clasped hands. “You’re right, Lieutenant. Please forgive me.”

“Crane?” She waited until he looked back up “Just for the record? Me too.”

end of scene

Vote Again, Kittens, Vote Again!

I posted this the first time two years ago on Election Day 2012, and I still feel exactly the same way. And this year, Word Press has made it easy to find out where and how – check out the Voter Information Tool at the bottom of this post.  If you’re an American registered voter of any or no political affiliation, trust me, I’m talking to you.

If you’re a registered voter in the U.S., Tuesday, November 4 is the day.  Get up, put your shoes on, and go vote.  Stop off on your lunch hour and go vote.  Take an umbrella, take your Kindle (I know a great book you can read in line) , take your iPad and play Angry Birds, but get out there and vote.  I know the lines are long; I know it’s a pain in the ass.  I know it feels like it really doesn’t matter.  But you know why it feels that way?  Because for decades, we’ve been letting less than 10% of the people who could be voting make decisions for all of us.  If somebody told you that 10% of the PTA or 10% of the church congregation or 10% of the people who watch The Voice were making all the decisions for those things, you’d be pissed off, right?  You’d show up; you’d picket; you’d keep dialing all night if you had to.  The things that matter to us are worth the time and effort.  And right now, more than ever, who runs our government matters to all of us, whether we like it or not.

I don’t care who you vote for or why – I really, really don’t.  What’s important is that when the votes are counted, everybody who could have had a say has had it, that we’ve all at least tried to make our voices heard.  That’s the only way to know if the candidates we’ve picked are really our candidates.  That’s the only way to keep having a government by the people for the people.  Because I don’t know about y’all, but I’m sick to death of having a government by the government for the government.  Let’s all remind them that they work for us.