Carrie Vaughn - Kitty and the Silver Bullet

I am a hunter. I will stalk them and strike.

I shook my head and refocused, because for a moment my vision had wavered and gone gray. For a moment I'd seen the world in wolf tones. Had to stay human. Wolf couldn't drive the freaking car.

Or hold the gun.

The sky was pale now. Take care of him, Cormac had said. Keep him out of trouble. How would I ever be able to face him again? What would I say? I'd gotten Ben killed. I wiped tears from my face.

How was I going to keep going without Ben?

No time for that. I am a hunter. I can already taste their blood. My mouth waters for it. I let that part of Wolf edge into my mind. Our territory, our mate, they can't do this to us.

We've learned to fight. We'll show them. Or die trying.

They lived at the edge of town, near the foothills, on a chunk of land with a backyard that opened to wilderness. This was the heart of their territory. The pack came here to run on full moon nights. Even if they weren't at their house, they'd be around here. I was betting Dack knew exactly where. Ben and Dack would have gone here to find Carl and Meg, and Carl and Meg would draw Ben here to kill him. I knew this as if I had smelled their trail the whole way.

Carl's truck was in the driveway, but the house was dark, like no one was home. But it was also the crack of dawn, so who knew. An unmarked sedan sat half a block away; someone in the front seat was sipping coffee and looking bored—Hardin's stakeout. I drove another couple of blocks. There, on the street outside a state park trail-head, Ben's car was parked.

My heart lurched and a new wave of nausea struck me. Like morning sickness, like a miscarriage. Impending death, settling in my gut.

I passed Ben's car and drove a few yards farther, peering through the cottonwoods to the open field beyond, hoping to spot something, looking for signs that they were near. Couldn't see anything. I'd have to go looking for them. I stopped, shut off the car, and reached for my bag.

If you need to kill someone, make sure the thing's loaded. That was what he'd said. I remembered all his instructions, like he was standing behind my shoulder, whispering to me. I could feel his arms around me, guiding my own.

I popped the clip. Full up, bullets gleaming silver. Slid it back into place and chambered a round.

Sure didn't take long to get into this gun thing, did it? I wished it were over so I could curl up and be sick. But the Wolf whispered, I am a hunter.

The world wavered to gray again. It was the dawn, it was the Wolf's sight. It drove me on. Steadied me. Could only think of one thing now: them, and death.

"Rick? Rick, what are you doing here?" Dack came through the stand of cottonwoods, walking toward the street. He saw the BMW, recognized it, assumed.

My first catch.

I stepped out of the car. Thank God the BMW was low to the ground—I could actually look over it without appearing ridiculous.

"Rick's not a morning person. You know that," I said.

Dack froze, and his eyes grew round. He hadn't expected to see me. Absolutely hadn't expected to see me.

"Where's Rick?" he said carefully.

"The basement of Obsidian."

"What—"

"Arturo's gone. Rick's ordered Mercedes out of town. And we know all about you." I rested the gun on the roof of the car. "You should have sided with the strongest vampire."

He ran. Didn't even hesitate. Flat out sprinted toward Ben's car. Quickly—belatedly—I raised the gun and fired. Squeezed the trigger, and again, and both times the weapon jumped in my hand. Forgot Ben's whispering voice, everything he taught me. Didn't hit Dack—one of the trees shredded splinters, where I accidentally shot it instead. By then Dack had safely climbed into Ben's car and had lurched it around in a U-turn to drive away.

Son of a bitch had stolen Ben's keys.

Ben.

I let Dack go and ran to the trees. Did some quick math—fired twice, fifteen rounds, thirteen left. Should be enough. If I could keep my aim straight, I only needed two. I followed my nose.

There they stood, in a field on the other side of the cottonwoods, out of view of the street. All three of them. Ben was on his feet—but Carl was holding him there, standing behind him, wrenching both his arms back and pinning him immobile so Meg could torture him. Blood covered her, spattering her face and soaking her clothing. She was letting her wolf slide to the fore, and her hands had turned to claws. She had been slashing at Ben. I was twenty paces away, but I could make out wounds. He had cuts, parallel lines across his cheeks and across his neck as if someone with claws had grabbed him there and squeezed. His shirt was shredded, dripping with blood.

She had been taking him apart, piece by piece, while Carl held him still.

I painted this scene by inference, because they had paused. Meg had taken a few steps away from Ben—probably drawn by the sound of gunfire, trying to decide whether to go see what was wrong.

I wanted to watch Ben, find some sign that he was moving, that he was going to be all right, that they hadn't gone too far and that his injuries wouldn't kill him. We were less than a mile from where T. J. had died, after Carl ripped out his heart. I couldn't watch that again. I couldn't take that happening again. It was all I could do not to scream in agony.

Meg saw me and snarled. Beyond words.

Dack had delivered him, and they were dealing with him. Then, Ben's keys in hand, Dack was probably leaving to go get me, lure me out here on some pretense. Maybe he'd say he'd help me rescue Ben. That had probably been part of their deal with Arturo—Carl and Meg could keep the pack, but they had to get rid of me and Ben. Or maybe it had been Mercedes's idea. Like Rick, we were too independent, too much trouble. She sent her minion to get rid of us.

They'd planned on killing the three of us—me, Ben, and Rick—the same night we planned on killing them. It had all come down to who got there first.

I had a flash: all the things I could say to Meg, all the mercy I could show her—stop, get away from him, don't make me do this. Get out of Denver, you get the same deal Carl gave me, go away and never return.

She moved toward me, her bloodied hands clenched, shoulders tight like hackles, and I sensed the attack she was about to make—the tensing muscles, the quickening stride. I stood my ground. She was so fixated, so high on adrenaline and victory, she didn't see the gun I held at my side, behind my thigh, out of sight.

She thought she had the power here, but she didn't. That knowledge gave me strength.

This time, I was calm, and Ben's instructions whispered at me. Take a breath. Hold the gun in both hands. Aim. Exhale slowly. It only took a second. Her eyes registered a moment of surprise. She hadn't expected to see a weapon.

I aimed for her head. Fired. Fired again.

One bullet hit her shoulder, another her chest, sending out sprays of blood. She spun back and fell. Didn't even cry out.

Carl ducked, flattening himself on the ground. Released, Ben fell beside him—not moving. I choked on a cry.

Meg writhed on the ground. I kept my distance. The gun was warm in my hand. I held it straight before me, sighting down the barrel. The wounds hadn't killed her. I'd have to finish it. I didn't want to have to do this, please, God, don't make me do this…

Then, she wailed. Seized by pain, she arced her back, flung out her arms, clutching at the grass. Her head tipped back, and her mouth opened wide, screaming. I smelled something—ill and rotten, it came from her, growing until it vied with her normal human-wolf scents. The wounds didn't smell just of blood. Sickness oozed there, too, something sour and burning, growing to be overpowering.