Standing at the podium now, Riddy beamed while she talked about me in hyperbolic terms, describing me as a “pioneer for paranatural rights and recognition,” and “a thoughtful commentator on the shape of new identities.” I wanted to push her aside and yell, you know I’ve been faking it, don’t you?
“Now, may I present this afternoon’s keynote speaker, Kitty Norville!” She gestured toward me, smiling.
A waterfall roar of applause followed, and I felt detached from it. That couldn’t be for me—the noise was a polite reflexive response, a bit of punctuation between one sentence and the next. I ought to be enjoying this—I was rarely on stage to enjoy my notoriety firsthand. Instead, I felt like I was floating toward the podium, drifting on air made of molasses.
At the podium, I gripped its edges before gazing out over the auditorium. A thousand people turned toward me, and many of those stares were challenging. Wolf rose up, trying to match all those challenges in return. We were cornered, we could fight, we could run—but Wolf wasn’t in charge here. We would stay.
The podium had a microphone. A slender flimsy thing, it didn’t look like my microphone, my familiar antiquated lump at KNOB. But it was a microphone, and I knew what to do with it. This was just like the show, and I could handle it. I set my pages on the podium’s slanted surface and let myself smile.
“Thank you,” I said, and the applause faded. “I very much appreciate the honor of being asked to speak to you all. I hope I can live up to your expectations.” That got a few chuckles.
I could still change my mind. I could keep it light, tell my story, be rousing and inspirational. That was what they’d come to hear, after all. I took a breath to settle myself, and imagined I was in the KNOB studio.
“I think I’ve been lucky, which may come as a surprise to a lot of you. After all, I’m living with a chronic, life-altering disease, which I contracted in a violent attack. But I’ve had the most interesting conversations since then, and I can’t help but wonder if that isn’t what it’s all about.
“I’ve met so many people, so many different kinds of people. Even just this week I’ve met so many people, as if this conference is a microcosm of my life. Or this conference has brought these disparate parts of my life together. I’ve made friends, learned a little history. I’ve discovered family I didn’t know I had. I’ve learned a lot.
“Over the last few years, I’ve met people infected with vampirism who’ve been alive for hundreds of years, who can tell me stories about Shakespeare and Coronado. I’ve met people who were only infected with vampirism in the last year, and learned about how they’re dealing with it. I’ve met all flavor of lycanthropes, and learned about how they’re different from me, and how we’re the same. I’ve learned that some of those fairy stories I grew up with really did happen. I’ve met djinn and wizards, medicine women and skinwalkers, scientists and philosophers. I’ve met the ghost of a woman who was wrongfully executed for murder a hundred years ago, and I’ve met her descendents. A lot of these people I’m honored to call my friends. Because of that, I don’t just believe we can all coexist, I know we can. Which is why seeing the protests outside the hotel this week has been so difficult. Because it makes me worry.
“I try to resolve conflicts by talking. I’ve built my career on it. Actually, I try to avoid conflicts entirely by talking. Usually it even works. But I don’t know if it’s going to be enough.
“History is filled with groups of people slaughtering each other over their perceived differences. For me to make a list of such atrocities would belabor the point, and be woefully incomplete. I’d end up leaving out someone who doesn’t deserve to be ignored.
“It usually seems like the first step on that path happens when one group defines another as not like them—not human. That opens a floodgate. I worry that we’re seeing a new floodgate, and that we’re watching it open, just a crack. Just a little trickle of excess water is coming through—nothing to get too worried about, right? But I worry. When someone out there says that I’m not really human—what are they giving themselves permission to do to me?”
How much could I get away with saying? What did I have to say so that people would take me seriously, and not write me off as crazy? I didn’t know. But I had to say something; I would never get another chance to declare.
“So yes, I have a lot of stories, I’ve met a lot of people. Some of them are my friends, some aren’t. Some think I’m human, some think I’m not. As long as I can keep talking about it, I feel like I have a little control over my destiny. There are, of course, people who want to take that control away. From all of us.
“Of all the stories I could tell, the one I really want to talk about features a man named Roman. I met Roman about three years ago, back home in Colorado. He’s a vampire, about two thousand years old, which is astonishing, I know. One of the things I’ve learned is that the old ones get that way by keeping quiet, staying hidden. Working from the shadows. Roman was originally called Gaius Albinus and was a centurion in the Roman military. These days, he calls himself Dux Bellorum. It means leader of wars. Just to make clear, Gaius Albinus is not my friend. He’s one of the people who would create divisions, who would separate us into factions and then pit us against each other. Who has decided that since we are different, we don’t deserve the same access to freedom, to respect. Dr. Paul Flemming, and those who adhere to his philosophies, is another one of these people.” I felt weird, speaking ill of the dead, but if I was going to name names, I couldn’t stop now. People had to know.
“I think we’re going to see more of this rather than less. I think we have more violence ahead of us. Maybe even a war. But I think we can do something about it. Moving forward, each of us—all of us—may have to choose sides in a conflict we don’t even know is happening, and we may have to fight for that choice against forces we can’t even see.
“As always, I turn to conversation as a solution. I ask you to stay in touch with each other. Talk to each other, tell each other your problems, get help. Isolation is dangerous, because when we’re isolated our enemies take advantage of us, make us afraid, and use that fear. They will divide us and label us. Together, though—together, we’re a fortress. Communication—the basic act of talking—has always been my most powerful weapon, and I believe it can save us. Thank you.” I turned a weak and weary smile to the audience.
The applause was polite at best. The faces looking back at me showed confusion in pursed lips and furrowed brows, and even smirks. Derisive frowns. Some heads shook in what seemed to be disgust. Half the crowd was already out of their seats and filing out of the auditorium, and the conversation grew loud.
That was all okay. I wasn’t here to make friends or win any popularity contests. I delivered my warning. I’d accomplished my goal. And now I wanted to go home. I strode back to the edge of the auditorium, and to Ben, who was right where he said he’d be.
Riddy was waiting there as well. She was one of the confused ones; her smile had turned stiff. Still, she offered her hand to shake, which I did, and thanked me. “I must admit, Ms. Norville, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling,” I said, apologetic.
“But it’s an excellent message. That was meant to be the whole purpose of the conference—fostering communication. I do hop
e that’s what people take away from all this.”
I had to smile at her optimism. “I’m very glad I could be a part of it all.”
She thanked me again and excused herself, leaving Ben and me together, watching the auditorium empty out. Part of my hesitation came from not knowing how he would react to my rant. I hadn’t consulted him, and maybe I should have. He might have talked me out of it—and that was probably why I hadn’t talked to him first. But after all this, if he was angry at me, too, I wasn’t sure I could bear it.
His smile was crooked, but it was there. His gaze was steady, and his hands were in his pockets, casual. He seemed amused. I just stood there.
“I love you,” he said.
It all came down to that, and I was happy.
“Really?” I said. He opened his arms and gathered me close. We stood like that, holding each other, for what seemed a long time.