--Denver Post on Kitty and the Midnight Hour
ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES KITTY A DULL GIRL
After getting caught turning wolf on national television, Kitty retreats to a mountain cabin to recover and write her memoirs. But this is Kitty, so trouble is never far behind, and instead of Walden Pond, she gets Evil Dead. First someone leaves grotesque animal sacrifices on her front porch to curse her, then werewolf hunter Cormac shows up with an injured Ben O'Farrell, Kitty's lawyer, slung over his shoulder. Two hotties and one Kitty in a single-room cabin-can the situation get more tense? When a wolf-like creature with glowing red eyes starts sniffing around the cabin, Kitty wonders if any of them will get out of these woods alive...
Having established a successful radio show, revealed herself to the nation as a werewolf and testified in Senate hearings on the supernatural, Vaughn's plucky series heroine, Kitty Norville, is ready to lay low in a remote Colorado cabin and work on her memoirs. Her plans get derailed when werewolf hunter Cormac Bennett shows up at Kitty's hideaway with her lawyer, Ben O'Farrell, who has been bitten--and infected--by a werewolf. Soon after Kitty takes them in, hoping to help Ben adjust to his new predicament, she discovers gruesome animal sacrifices at her door. It becomes apparent that a malevolent force is staking out the cabin, targeting one of them, and Cormac's hunt for it takes them all in some unexpected directions. Kitty's matter-of-fact voice continues to mine the horror and romantic material for laughs--especially in her prank calls to a rival DJ--and Vaughn's universe is convincing and imaginative, providing enough series mythology to satisfy without slowing down the narrative. (Apr.)
Copyright (c) Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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Grand Central Publishing
March 31, 2007
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Excerpt from Kitty Takes a Holiday by Carrie Vaughn
She runs for the joy of it, because she can, her strides stretching to cover a dozen feet every time she leaps. Her mouth is open to taste the air, which is sharp with cold. The month turns, and the swelling moon paints the night sky silver, lighting up patches of snow scattered through-out the woods. Not yet full moon, a rare moment to be set free before her time, but the other half of her being has no reason to lock her away. She is alone, but she is free, and so she runs.
Catching a scent, she swerves from her path, slows to a trot, puts her nose to the ground. Prey, fresh and warm. Lots of it here in the wild. The smell burns in the win-ter air. She stalks, drawing breath with fl aring nostrils, searching for the least flicker of movement. Her empty stomach clenches, driving her on. The smell makes her mouth water.
She has grown used to hunting alone. Must be careful, must not take chances. Her padded feet touch the ground lightly, ready to spring forward, to dart in one direc-tion or another, making no sound on the forest fl oor. The scent--musky, hot fur and scat--grows strong, rocketing through her brain. All her nerves flare. Close now, closer, creeping on hunter's feet--
The rabbit springs from its cover, a rotted log grown over with shrubs. She's ready for it, without seeing it or hearing it she knows it is there, her hunter's sense filled by its presence. The moment it runs, she leaps, pins it to the ground with her claws and body, digs her teeth into its neck, clamping her jaw shut and ripping. It doesn't have time to scream. She drinks the blood pumping out of its torn and broken throat, devours its meat before the blood cools. The warmth and life of it fills her belly, lights her soul, and she pauses the slaughter to howl in victory--
My whole body flinched, like I'd been dreaming of falling and suddenly woken up. I gasped a breath--part of me was still in the dream, still falling, and I had to tell myself that I was safe, that I wasn't about to hit the ground. My hands clutched reflexively, but didn't grab sheets or pillow. A handful of last fall's dead leaves crumbled in my grip.
Slowly, I sat up, scratched my scalp, and smoothed back my tangled blonde hair. I felt the rough earth underneath me. I wasn't in bed, I wasn't in the house I'd been living in for the last two months. I lay in a hollow scooped into the earth, covered in forest detritus, sheltered by overhanging pine trees. Beyond the den, crusted snow lay in shadowed areas. The air was cold and biting. My breath fogged.
I was naked, and I could taste blood in the film covering my teeth.
Damn. I'd done it again.
Lots of people dream of having their picture on the cover of a national magazine. It's one of the emblems of fame, fortune, or at the very least fifteen minutes of notoriety. A lot of people actually do get their pictures on the covers of national magazines. The question is: Are you on the cover of a glamorous high-end fashion glossy, wearing a designer gown and looking fabulous? Or are you on the cover of Time, bedraggled and shell-shocked, with a caption reading, "Is This the Face of a Monster?" and "Are YOU in Danger?"
Guess which one I got.
The house I was renting--more like a cabin, a two-room vacation cottage connected to civilization by a dirt road and satellite TV--was far enough out from the town and road that I didn't bother getting dressed for the trek back. Not that I could have; I had forgotten to stash any clothes. Why would I, when I hadn't intended to Change and go running in the first place? Nothing to be done but walk back naked.
I felt better, walking with my skin exposed, the chill air raising goose bumps all over my flesh. I felt cleaner, somehow. Freer. I didn't worry--I followed no path, no hiking trails cut through these woods. No one would see me in this remote section of San Isabel National Forest land in southern Colorado, tucked into the mountains.
That was exactly how I wanted it.
I'd wanted to get away from it all. The drawback was, by getting away from it all I had less holding me to the world. I didn't have as many reasons to stay in my human body. If I'd been worried about someone seeing me naked, I probably wouldn't have shifted in the first place. Nights of the full moon weren't the only time lycanthropes could shape-shift; we could Change anytime we chose. I'd heard of werewolves who turned wolf, ran into the woods, and never came back. I didn't want that to happen to me. At least, I used to think I didn't want that to happen to me.