“People need to know,” I said. “That’s all. Roman can’t work in secret if everyone knows.”

“But have you warned everyone about the coming war—or dragged them into it when they might have been safe?”

“They wouldn’t have been safe,” I said. “Not in the long run.”

“How like a vampire, to speak of the long run.”

“I can’t tell—are you happy about what I said, or not? Is Ned?”

“Oh, Ned and Antony both approve. They like you very much. They like the idea of a Regina Luporum. They cheered when they watched the video of your speech.”

“Regina Luporum—I still don’t even know what that means,” I said.

He chuckled. “It’s not anything official, it doesn’t come with a crown or any real power or territory. It’s more … an idea. Rex Luporum, Regina Luporum. That there exist wolves who will stand up to vampires, that will choose solidarity over warfare. Do you know the story of Romulus and Remus?”

“The founders of Rome who were raised by … a wolf…” I stared.

“Many of the old stories are simply metaphors.”

“You’re saying that a werewolf helped found Rome? And that she had children?” That spark of hope hadn’t quite died out, apparently.

“Werewolves can’t have children, Kitty,” he said. “It’s a metaphor.”

“So Regina Luporum is a label you made up. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means whatever you want it to.”

He didn’t show any sign of retreating back inside, so I stayed with him. “Did you know her? The wolf of the Rome story?”

“Yes,” he said.

I waited for another long pause. “And…?”

“She’d have liked you, I think.”

“And…?” He didn’t offer anything else. I sighed. “So what about you—did you like the speech?”

“Honestly, Kitty, one way or another it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, happens. I know how to go to cover if I need to.”

You didn’t get to be twenty-eight hundred years old by joining crusades, I supposed. “Then we won’t be able to depend on you when the time comes?”

“Perhaps when the time comes, I’ll call on you,” he said, smiling a sphinx’s smile. “Shall we go in?”

Ned and Emma had arranged a pleasant gathering in the parlor, and I again flashed on those BBC costume dramas. Emma and I ought to be wearing empire-waist gowns, the men should have had cravats. Ned was the only one wearing a cravat tonight. The three of us who lived and breathed had tea and a decadent selection of pastries. The vampires watched us indulgently.

Ned delivered a report, condensed from information gathered by the police, the American authorities, and British intelligence. This had gone quite high up, apparently. They theorized that Flemming learned about Sergeant Tyler’s unit of werewolves in Afghanistan. The unit had originally been led by one of Flemming’s own interview subjects, the werewolf Special Forces captain who had turned the others. When the opportunity came to get his hands on the sole surviving member of that unit, he couldn’t resist. He’d never really been one for conventional methods—or civil liberties, for that matter.

He’d hired himself out as a paranormal security consultant, and a third party—an as-yet unidentified third party—had agreed to fund the “acquisition” of a real-live Special Forces werewolf. The project had two purposes: recruit Tyler himself, and use him to train up a new unit of paranormal soldiers. They had felt confident Tyler could be recruited, or suborned, which just went to show how bad their information was.

The fact that Flemming had been killed in the course of Tyler’s escape was known, but suppressed. As was the fact that Tyler had help. Ned’s people, Caleb’s, and mine were all left out of it. Apparently, we had Ned’s influence to thank for this.

Ned had fed them all the information he could about Roman, but the mastermind remained invisible.

“Is Tyler going to have to watch his back for the rest of his life?” I asked.

“Probably,” Ned said. “But he’ll have help, now that his own government is aware of the issue. Your Dr. Shumacher is on the need-to-know list for the report. Don’t look so distraught. It’s like you said this afternoon: knowledge is power. Our enemies have blown their cover. They won’t find it so easy to hide anymore.”

Conversation turned casual after that. As casual as it could with Cormac sitting near the doorway, his hand occasionally touching the stake he kept in an inside jacket pocket. He never took off the leather jacket. The vampires didn’t seem offended. Antony asked how I got into the talk-radio business, then how I met Cormac, and so on. I poked them with a few questions of my own—where they’d come from, who they’d known, interesting and harmless historical anecdotes. Fascinating, to hear them talk about London’s Great Fire like it happened a year ago.

We relaxed. This almost felt normal. Except that out of the seven of us only three had heartbeats.

Antony and Marid excused themselves to retreat to their lairs, Antony to Barcelona and Marid to … wherever. Antony at least offered us an invitation to come visit.

I should have been comatose with exhaustion, but I kept wanting to draw out the evening. I only had another hour or two to spend with Emma and Ned until dawn took them away. Time enough to sleep later.

“I have a question for you,” I asked, and Ned cocked his head, inquiring. “Why? You’d lived a long and successful life before you became a vampire. What happened? Did you choose it?”

His smile was wistful; his gaze looked back through time. “No, I did not. Do you know the story, that during a performance of Faust I managed to conjure a real demon? And because of that I quit acting, left the stage forever?”

“I think I read about that one,” I said.

“It was true, in a manner of speaking. Though it wasn’t a demon I conjured but a vampire. He became a bit of a fan, you could say. I was on my deathbed. You’re right, I had lived a long and fruitful life. I felt I’d atoned for my sins with monumental acts of charity—a school, a hospital. I was ready to slip from this world. But he thought the world should not have to lose me.

“It was a strange thing. I suppose I could have ended my existence anytime I chose after that. Emma’s told me about her first days after being turned, and I felt much the same way. But even in such a state, suicide is not instinctive. Then there was the school, the chance to see it continue. It’s still here. Isn’t that amazing? Did you know there are streets named after me? They’re still putting up signs and statues to me in Dulwich? How many people get to see their legacy bear such fruit? I’ve been privileged to witness it. So you see, I found reasons to go on, as most of us do. I had a chance to look after my city. I took it. And here I am.”