this was like the techno-thriller of its day. They end up solving everything because Mina is really great at data entry and collating. What do you think?”
“Um . . . I think that may be a stretch.”
“Have you read the book?”
“Um, no. But I’ve seen every movie version of it!” she ended brightly, as if that would save her.
I suppressed a growl. No need to chew her out, when she was being so enthusiastic. Patiently I said, “All right. Which is your favorite?”
“The one with Keanu Reeves!”
“Why am I not surprised?” I clicked her off. “Moving on. Next caller, you’re on the air.”
“Kitty, hey! Longtime listener, first-time caller. I’m so glad you put me on.”
“No problem. What’s your story?”
“Well, I have sort of a question. Do you have any idea what kind of overlap there is between lycanthropes and the furry community?”
The monitor said this guy had a question about lycanthropes and alternative lifestyles. The producer screening calls was doing a good job of being vague. Though if I really thought about it, I knew this topic would come up eventually. It seemed I’d avoided it for as long as I possibly could.
Oh well. The folks in radioland expected honesty.
“You know, I’ve hosted this show for almost a year without anyone bringing up furries. Thank you for destroying that last little shred of dignity I possessed.”
“You don’t have to be so—”
“Look, seriously. I have absolutely no idea. They’re two different things—lycanthropy is a disease. Furryness is a . . . a predilection. Which I suppose means it’s possible to be both. And when you say furry, are you talking about the people who like cartoons with bipedal foxes, or are you talking about the people who dress up in animal suits to get it on? Maybe some of the people who call in wanting to know how to become werewolves happen to be furries and think that’s the next logical step. How many of the lycanthropes that I know are furries? It’s not something I generally ask people. Do you see how complicated this is?”
“Well, yeah. But I have to wonder, if someone really believes that they were meant to be, you know, a different species entirely—like the way some men really believe they were meant to be women and then go through a sex change operation—don’t you think it’s reasonable that—”
“No. No, it isn’t reasonable. Tell me, do you think that you were meant to be a different species entirely?”
He gave a deep sigh, the kind that usually preceded a dark confession, the kind of thing that was a big draw for most of my audience.
“I have this recurring dream where I’m an alpaca.”
“Excuse me?”
“An alpaca. I keep having these dreams where I’m an alpaca. I’m in the Andes, high in the mountains. In the next valley over are the ruins of a great Incan city. Everything is so green.” He might have been describing the photos in an issue of National Geographic. “And the grass tastes so lovely.”
Okay, that probably wasn’t in National Geographic.
“Um . . . that’s interesting.”
“I’d love to travel there someday. Have—have you by any chance ever met any were-alpacas?”
If it weren’t so sad, I’d have to laugh. “No, I haven’t. All the were-animals I’ve ever heard of are predators, so I really don’t think it’s likely.”
“Oh,” he said with a sigh. “Do you think maybe I was an alpaca in a past life?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be more of a help. I genuinely hope you find some answers to your questions someday. I think traveling there is a great idea.” Seeing the world never hurt, in my opinion. “Thanks for calling.”
The producer gave me a warning signal, waving from the other side of the booth window, pointing to his watch, and making a slicing motion across his throat. Um, maybe he was trying to tell me something.
I sighed, then leaned up to the mike. “I’m sorry, folks, but that looks like all the time we have this week. I want to thank you for spending the last couple of hours with me and invite you to come back next week, when I talk with the lead singer of the punk metal band Devil’s Kitchen, who says their bass player is possessed by a demon, and that’s the secret of their success. This is The Midnight Hour, and I’m Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”
The On Air sign dimmed, and the show’s closing credits, which included a recording of a wolf howl as a backdrop, played. I pulled the headset off and ran my fingers through my blond hair, hoping it didn’t look too squished.