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KITTY

K itty’s high heels clicked as she walked through the administrative office at McNally Airbase. As she swayed down the aisle, she heard typewriters cease their clicking, conversations fall silent, and young officers’ chairs creaking as they leaned over, nudging their buddies to watch her pass.

So, the new form-fitting business dress she wore was a winner. That was good to know, she thought with a smile.

I’m heading in to meet with the general of the entire nation’s Airforce, one of the most powerful men in the world. And he’s going to be eating out of my hand like a puppy.

She could never have imagined this life when she was just a party girl living it up in the dance halls of West Ironberg. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Kitty had always known she was meant for greatness, whether what meant starring in moving pictures or dancing onstage or something even greater. She’d had a belief in herself that rivalled the faith of the most fervent saints. The only question had been, how would her greatness be achieved? Getting her job at the paper had been a start. But she had a feeling the next big chapter was about to begin.

The General’s aid, First Lieutenant Michaels, saw her coming and sprang up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box, folding the newspaper he’d been reading in half and snubbing out his cigarette. He almost saluted her before he caught himself and gave her a small, awkward nod, instead.

“Miss Rowley,” he said. “Right this way. The General is expecting you.”

She fell into step beside him. He cleared his throat and brandished his folded-up paper.

“I was just reading your latest article about ammunition production in Danlee. Fascinating.”

Kitty gave an airy laugh. “Yeah, the president of that company pestered me for months to write that article. He finally sent his private car to take me to his private train to get me down there.”

“Sounds glamorous,” Michaels gushed.

Kitty wheeled on him. “Glamorous?” she twiddled her fingers in front of his face. “Look at these ink-stained fingers. I tell ya, it doesn’t wash off. The article came out alright, though.”

“Yes,” Michaels pushed his glasses up his nose. “It got me to take my old cans down to the recycling depot, I’ll tell you that. The idea of running out of raw materials for ammo is pretty concerning.”

Kitty favored him with a smile. “We all have to do our part,” she said.

They had reached a frosted glass door with the name General Peckham stenciled on it. The lieutenant gave a brisk knock then swung the door open.

“Kitty Rowley, sir,” he announced.

The general rose from the chair behind his desk. “Yes, yes. Send her in. You stay too, Lieutenant.”

General Peckham was a broad man with a silver crewcut and a nose like an eagle’s beak. He cut an impressive figure with his perfect posture and the breast full of medals, but Kitty noticed as she got closer that he wasn’t as tall as he first appeared.

There were three other men in the room. One was a Lieutenant Colonel—Kitty didn’t remember his name. The second was an elegant looking man in a black suit who she knew very well indeed. Edward Langford, of the Secret Intelligence Bureau. The third fellow was a pilot. He was tall, with the long legs of a stork and a movie star’s face, complete with sleepy blue eyes and a thin moustache. They were all smoking, and the room was filled with a faint bluish fog.

“Gentlemen,” she said with a curt nod.

The ace nearly squirmed with longing at the sight of her. God, how she loved having that effect on a man. He left the desk he was leaning on, approaching her.

“Kitty, right?” he took her hand and kissed it.

“That’s Miss Rowley to you,” she shot back, smiling.

“Ms. Rowley,” Peckham gestured to the man. “Meet our new Silver Wraith, Major Carter Blaize.”

She looked at the general sharply. “So, we’re sure Charlie is gone?”

“Unless he’s one hell of a good swimmer,” Peckham sighed. “And if he is, I expect he’d have swum back here by now. But we can’t let it slip that he’s dead, you understand. The Wraith is a hero to people. If they thought he was gone, it would be a blow to morale.”

“So… you’re going to let them think he’s still alive…” Kitty bit her lower lip, thinking. The brass had never let the papers publish Charlie’s real name and had only allowed him to be photographed with his goggles and flight helmet on. This, they had claimed, was for his safety, to prevent an enemy spy from trying to assassinate him when he was off duty. It also allowed Charlie to move about in public with anonymity, rather than getting mobbed by fans and photographers everywhere he went. Kitty had always taken these explanations at face value. But perhaps this had been the plan all along. If Charlie died, they could replace him. He was expendable. And if Carter Blaize crashed, they’d just replace him, too. It was rather heartless. But then, that was war.

She glanced at Edward. His cold blue eyes stared back at her, unblinking, and he gave a barely perceptible nod. That was all it took. She had her orders.

“Of course, we could use your help to pull off this little ruse,” the general said.

Kitty had been photographed with Charlie when he was in uniform, and it had been publicized that she was the Wraith’s fiancée. People liked knowing their hero was a regular fella with a gal waiting for him back home. And of course, the notoriety, along with her weekly column, had made Kitty the star she was.

It was a shame, though. Charlie had been a decent guy. She might even miss him.

She eyed Major Blaize. She remembered the name, now. Charlie had hated him. He was a good pilot, second only to the Silver Wraith himself. But Charlie had thought he was a brash prick and had said so on more than on occasion. Seeing her on Major Blaize’s arm would have made Charlie sick.

But Charlie was dead, wasn’t he? A girl had to move on.

She already had, in fact, she thought—feeling Langford’s eyes lingering on her.

She smiled at the general. “Of course. Anything for the war effort.”

Carter chuckled lecherously, grinning at her like a fool.

“Excellent,” the general said. “Michaels, get the photographer down at the hanger and have him snap a few photos of Miss Rowley with Captain Blaize—I mean the Silver Wraith—in front of his plane. Welcoming him back from the mission, kissing, that sort of thing. The sooner we dispel the idea that the Wraith is dead, the better.”

“Yes, sir,” Michaels said, scribbling in a notebook. He opened the door and everyone filed toward it. Michaels exited first, followed by Blaize and the general. Before Kitty could go, Langford caught her arm, turning her around in the empty office.

“A word, Miss Rowley?”

He pushed the door shut behind her. Then, his lips were on hers. Snarling. Licking. Biting. He was a biter.

His hand went to her breast, squeezing, sending a shock of pain through her, but also longing.

When he pulled back, he was holding a metal vial up in front of her. She knew what it contained without looking. A rolled-up message. And within that, a smaller glass vial—of blood.

“You’ll pass this to the contact in Torrey Square at nine-fifteen tonight,” he said. “And I’ll come to you at midnight. Wash yourself first and be wearing nothing.”

She gazed into those hypnotic eyes of his. He wasn’t handsome, not the way Charlie was. But there was something intoxicating about him. Something inevitable, like the feeling of an oncoming storm. For half a second, as he stared at her, the entire world seemed to crumble to single point of infinitely dense blackness. There was only her and Langford. No airbase. No war. No Charlie. Nothing.

“Yes, master,” she whispered.

Then Langford was opening the door and ushering her out of the office, back into the world of light.