Carrie Vaughn: Kitty and the Silver Bullet

Here is her mate — still on two legs. She gives a little whine, a short bark, calling to him.

"God, look at you. You're amazing."

She trots forward, nudges him. He reaches for her, rubbing the not-paws along her coat. The stroking is both odd and pleasurable. She squirms away, whines again — now, it's time, come now —

And so he does, doubling over, groaning, and the sound changes, becomes less wrong and more right, until it is ahowl, and she joins in, filling the woods with their song. He gasps a little, still not used to his legs and fur and voice. Still a pup, but stronger every time. All her hopes and desire and power go out to him — they rule these woods together. She greets him, licks him, nips him, lets him do the same to her, they writhe around each other, a tangle of fur and muscled bodies.

Then he launches into the forest. It's a surprise — he leads the chase this time. She has to scramble to keep up. They hunt, nose to the ground, following the zigzag patterns of their prey.

He's the one who finds the deer, a small one but large enough to feast on, upwind so it hasn't sensed them. Together they pause. Can they do it? They've never hunted anything so large together. He is eager, he's tasted blood, has hunted it, and the lust of it fills him because before anything else they are hunters. He makes a frustrated whine, because she hesitates. He wants to leap at it, tear into its haunches, bring it down. Together they can, one at its haunches, one at its throat. She knows this, can see the image in her mind. His limbs are trembling, he wants so badly to chase it down.

But she holds back.

Then it's gone. Raising its head, twitching its ears, it senses something that makes it run, leaping around trees and bushes. Too much work to chase it down now.

He shakes himself, scratches the dirt in frustration, pins his ears at her. She snaps at him and trots away, in search of some easier creature that she can catch with little effort.

In a moment he follows, because they're pack, and they hunt together. Rabbit instead of deer, but blood is blood in the end.

I didn't feel good.

I never felt great after a full moon night, but that not feeling good was like a hangover after a party. You suffered and didn't complain, because you'd had your fun and this was the price. Rather, the Wolf had her fun and left me to deal with the consequences.

But right now, I really didn't feel good. I felt sick, which was weird, because I hadn't been sick since becoming a werewolf. The same thing that made me a werewolf made me immune. Indestructible, almost. I curled up on my side, holding my stomach, which churned with cramps. No, it wasn't my stomach, it was lower than that. Deeper. Like menstrual cramps, but I'd never had them this bad. My insides felt like they were grinding themselves up.

"What's wrong?" Ben shifted behind me, where he'd been nestled asleep. He propped himself on an elbow and kissed my shoulder.

I must have let out a groan or something. "I don't feel good."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. Cramps or something."

“They always this bad?"

"Ben, we've been living together for five months, you should know the answer to that." He glared, unamused. I shook my head. "No, never."

"What else could it be?" He was sitting up now, his hand on my arm, frowning worriedly at me.

"I don't know." That came out with a definite whine.

"Should you go to a hospital or something?"

"I never have to go to the hospital."

"Kitty, what if this is serious? You've been tired and sick for weeks."

"It's just cramps. What else could it be?"

"I have no idea what it could be—cancer? You accidentally swallowed a butcher knife last night? I don't know."

"Werewolves don't get cancer."

"Kitty." He bowed his head. "Never mind, do what you think is best."

"You think I should go to a doctor."

"Can you even sit up right now?"

I didn't want to think about sitting up, I hurt that much. Which meant maybe he was right.

"I don't have health insurance. Werewolves don't need health insurance." I reached for his hand; he took it, held it. He gave me that exasperated look he always did when I was being stubborn.

"One checkup won't break the bank."

"But what if something's really wrong?"

"You said it yourself—werewolves don't get sick."

“Then I don't have to go to the doctor."

We glared. He looked away first—deferring to the more experienced. A submissive wolf. He dug my clothes out of the hole we'd stashed them in and threw them at me.

"Let's get moving, then see how you feel."

"Ben?"

"Hm?"

I held his arm, pulled on it, drew him close. Kissed him, and was happy when he smiled. "Let's go."

Back at home, I returned my mother's weekly Sunday phone call. Every Sunday she called, like clockwork. She'd known I was out for the full moon, but she'd left a message anyway. "Call back when you can, let me know everything's okay." She tried to be supportive in her own way. She'd convinced herself that my being a werewolf was like joining a club that did some vaguely dangerous and thrilling activity, like rock climbing.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Kitty. How was your weekend?"

Oh, I turned into a wolf, killed something, woke up naked in the middle of the woods, went home, and brushed my teeth a half-dozen times to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. "It was okay. I haven't been feeling too great, I think something's stressing me out."

"Any idea what?"

"Maybe it's the book coming out. I'm worried how it's going to do."

"It'll be fine—I've read it, it's a really good book. People will love it."

"You're my mother, you're supposed to say that."

"Of course I am," she said happily.

And who could argue with that? "Ben thinks I should go to the doctor."

"It certainly couldn't hurt. It might make you feel better if they can tell you that nothing's wrong."

And if something was wrong? What was the local general practitioner going to know about lycanthropy anyway?

"Nothing's wrong," I insisted.

"Of course not," she said. "Nothing's ever wrong until it is." Her tone had become serious.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She paused, like she was trying to decide what to say. Then she sighed. "It means it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Mom, is something wrong?" The conversation had gone a bit weird.

"Oh, no, not really. I just think Ben's right is all."

I couldn't win. I was besieged. "Okay. I'll think about it."

She changed the subject. "When are we going to meet this Ben character of yours?"

She knew I was living with Ben; I couldn't keep him a secret. She'd expressed a great deal of worry that, out of the blue, I'd apparently shacked up with my lawyer. I didn't tell her he'd become a werewolf in the meantime.

"I don't know, Mom. Maybe Christmas?"

"Kitty. That's months off. That's most of the year off."

"You aren't even ecstatic that I'm bringing up the possibility of coming home for Christmas this year?"

"I'll admit, that would be nice."

"I'll talk it over with Ben. Maybe we can work something out for this summer."

She seemed to be happy with the compromise, because she changed the subject, moving on to the topic of family, Dad and my sister and her brood, like our typical calls. The whole thing was comforting. No matter what I did or what happened to me, Mom was always there with her phone calls.

After I'd hung up Ben said, "I'm still not ready to meet your family."

"You'll notice I didn't commit us to anything."

"I'm just saying."

I almost argued. I could have said all sorts of things, needled him, picked at that sore spot until it festered: why not, what's wrong with my family, you just don't want to admit that we're in a relationship, and so on. I started to say these things, just to see what his reaction would be.