"My studies don't involve the scope of your question, Senator."

"Why not?"

"Those points are irrelevant."

"With all due respect I disagree with you. Strongly."

"Senator, I'm not qualified to comment on the moral characteristics of my patients."

"Your test subjects, your patients—how do you feed them, Doctor? Whose blood do they suck out? How many of them turn into vampires?"

"Despite all the stories to the contrary, the condition is not transmitted by direct fluid contact—"

"And the blood?"

"Blood bank, Senator. We use pints of the most common types that the existing blood supply can spare."

"Thank you, Doctor." He said it like he'd gained some kind of victory.

"Doctor, I have some questions over the budgeting of your research—" One of the other senators on the committee, a woman named Mary Dreschler, quickly steered the discussion back to more mundane matters. A Democrat from a Midwestern state, Dreschler had run for the seat held by her late husband, who'd died suddenly in the middle of a reelection campaign. She was on her third term.

After two hours of this, the day's session was over. It was just as well it wasn't an all-day thing. If people in Congress did this sort of thing a lot, I was going to have to respect them a little more. Here I was, thinking the job was all glamour and state dinners. When Duke called the session into recess for the day, a sense of relief passed through the room, and the group sigh of exhaustion changed the air pressure.

Ben, leaning back in his chair, smirked in amusement. "If this is the tone the whole hearings are going to take, we're in for a roller coaster. I can't wait to see what Duke does with you."

"I thought you were supposed to be on my side."

"I am. It's still going to be fun to watch." I could hear it now: Eaten any babies lately, Ms. Norville?

Eggs for breakfast. Does that count?

Looking purposeful, Ben gathered up his briefcase and jacket.

"Where are you off to?" I asked.

"I have some research I want to do. You don't need me for anything, do you?"

"Nope." I had some research of my own I wanted to take care of.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." Outside the hearing room, he took off down the hallway, away from the front doors of the building.

As I turned to leave, a man with a mini digital camcorder tucked in his hand stepped into my path. I balked, startled.

"You're Kitty Norville," he said. "Aren't you?"

I wondered how he knew. I didn't include my picture with any of the publicity for the show for exactly this reason. But he might have overheard Ben talking to me. He might have pulled my file off DMV records. It could have been anything.

He wasn't tall for a guy, only a couple inches taller than my five feet six. His build was average and he dressed preppy, a brown leather coat over a sweater and khakis. But his eyes shone with a barely suppressed zeal that was unnerving, because it was focused on me.

"Who are you?"

"Roger Stockton, I'm a reporter for Uncharted World. Do you have a couple minutes to answer some questions?" Without waiting for an answer he hefted the camera and turned an eye to the little screen, which was no doubt showing me glaring at him.

I had to be calm. CNN was watching from down the hall. I didn't want to do something that would get me a starring role on the six o'clock news.

"Wow. I didn't think Uncharted World had reporters. Aren't you guys more the urban legend and unverified amateur video footage kind of show?"

He didn't react to that, but he was probably used to getting that kind of crap from people. "What was your reaction to being subpoenaed by the oversight committee?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't have time for this." I dodged him and continued down the hallway. The guy was persistent, though. He ran after me and planted himself in front of me again, cutting me off when I tried to go around him. The hall wasn't wide enough to avoid him.

He spoke quickly. "What are your thoughts regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology and Flemming's work there?"

The shining little eye of the camera lens stayed trained on me. I had to get away from that thing. "No comment."

"Come on, you've got more of a right to an opinion on this stuff than anyone else in that room, and you can't take a minute to share your thoughts with the public? Are you going to leave it to other people to decide what tone this debate takes?"

I turned on him, my shoulders bunched, my jaw tight, my gaze burning. I only half raised my hands and took a step toward him, but his reaction was immediate and unambiguous. He stumbled back against the wall, pressing himself to it as if he could fall through it, and clutched the camera to his chest. His eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face.

He knew I was a werewolf. More importantly, he believed it, and everything it entailed. He thought I might actually maul him, right here and now. Idiot.

"I don't want my picture on TV, especially not on Uncharted World. Get rid of the camera and I'll think about talking to you. But right now I'm not inclined to be nice."

I stalked away from him. And half a second later, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me.

He could not take a hint.

"Look, we're both in the broadcast business. Why not do a colleague a favor? Just give me a couple of quotes and I'll give your show a plug. We both win."

It didn't even help that his voice had a nervous waver to it now. I tried to ignore him, but he was right alongside me again, holding up that damned camera.

He was looking back and forth between me and the camera, so he didn't see Bradley standing in front of us, blocking the corridor. But I did.

I stopped. Stockton didn't, until Bradley grabbed his wrist and took the camera out of his hand.

"Hey!" Stockton struggled, until he looked at Bradley. First his chest, then up to his face. They couldn't have played it better if they'd been making a movie. All I had to do was sit back and watch.

"This guy bothering you?" Bradley said.

Oh, how a girl loved to hear those words from someone with Bradley's build. "I think he was just leaving. After he erases the last five minutes of footage off his camera."

Bradley let go of him, then studied the camera's controls. He started pushing buttons, and I had no doubt that in moments my face would be wiped clean from the camera's memory.

Stockton pointed a finger at him. "This is harassment."

"No, that's harassment," I said, nodding at the camera.

He frowned. "I don't understand why you're turning down free publicity."

"I'd like to hold on to the last bit of anonymity I have," I said. I was going to lose it soon enough when I showed up on C-SPAN.

Bradley handed back the camera. His expression was smug, so I was confident the purge had been a success.

Stockton backed away. "We'll talk again. Tomorrow."

The bodyguard and I made it out of the building without any other interruptions.

I gave a tired sigh. "I think I owe you one."

"Not to worry," he said. "It was my pleasure."

Only after a couple minutes did I realize that he'd been on his way to meet me after the hearings finished, to escort me to the car, as if I couldn't be trusted to make it to the curb without getting into trouble. Maybe I couldn't. It still annoyed me.

"Shotgun," I called as we neared the sedan in the parking garage.

He glared. He'd been heading for the rear door, preparing to be all chauffeur-y.

"I can see better out the front," I explained. He sighed in what I thought was an overly dramatic manner, but he opened the front passenger door for me.

As he pulled out of the garage and into the bright sunshine of the daytime street, I asked, "Can we make a detour? Just a tiny little stop. You can even leave the motor running."