Carrie Vaughn: Kitty's Greatest Hits

He met her gaze. “She didn’t kill that girl. She was trying to find who did. What did.”

She blinked back at him. “What do you mean ‘what’?” Ben’s lips were pursed, his gaze studious. So much for not making the two of them worry about him.

“Never mind,” he said, leaning back and looking away. “I’ll tell you when I know more.”

“Why is she important?” Kitty said. “She’s been dead for over a hundred years.”

His smile quirked. “And you really think that’s the end of it? You’ve been telling ghost stories for years. Are you going to sit here now and tell me it isn’t possible?”

Ben leaned forward. “She just doesn’t like the idea that someone else is having adventures without her.”

Kitty pouted. “I’ll have you know I’m looking forward to a good long adventure-free streak from here out.”

As long as he’d known Kitty, she’d been getting in trouble. She couldn’t keep her mouth shut, or she had to swoop to the rescue like some kind of superhero. She was a lightning rod for trouble. She’d been the werewolf caught shape-shifting on live TV. Cormac and Ben had been there to clean up after that mess.

“A month,” Cormac said finally. “I bet you don’t go a month without getting into trouble.”

“How are we defining ‘trouble’?” she said. “Are we talking life-or-death trouble or pissing-off-the-boss trouble? Hey, stop laughing at me!”

Ben said, “I’m not taking that bet.”

Kitty straightened the papers and closed the folder. “I could try to mail this to you, but I’m not sure it would get past the censors.”

“Just hang on to it for me,” he said. Like the rest of his life. Just hold on.

They said their farewells, and they both wore that pained and pitying look on their faces, the one he’d put there because they could walk out and he couldn’t. At the door they hesitated—they usually did—glancing back one more time. He almost stopped them, standing and reaching, calling back. He’d have to shout through the glass because they’d put the phone down. He could feel the guard at his back, but he had the urge to do it anyway. Press his hands to the glass and tell Kitty everything: I have to tell you what’s going on, the murders, the ghost, my meadow and what it means and why I can’t go back, I want to tell you everything—

But he didn’t say anything. Just like he always didn’t say anything. Without a word, without a flicker in his expression, he stood when the guard told him to and allowed himself to be marched back to his cell.

It sounded like claws scraping on concrete, an insect mash of legs running straight up the wall without rhythm. Like a million other nightmare noises that anyone’s imagination might trigger, that would freeze the gut.

But Cormac hadn’t been asleep. He was on his back, staring at the gray ceiling, refusing to sleep, refusing to let her in when the noise rattled by outside the cell. He remained still, wondering what would make a noise like that. The sound of a thousand souls that didn’t know where to go.

Cormac rolled to his stomach, propping himself up just enough to look out, letting his eyes take in the patterns of light and shadow that made up the prison’s weird internal twilight. Resting on his pillow, his hands itched for the feel of a weapon. This was like hunting; he could lie still for hours waiting for the prey to come to him. But here, when he was weaponless, behind bars, which one of them was prey? Did he think he could just stare it down?

He kept his gaze soft, not letting himself stare at any one thing, which would reduce his peripheral vision. So he saw it, when a clawed black hand reached across the ceiling, brushed his throat …

He half jumped, half fell from the top bunk, stumbling to the floor in a crouch. Pressing himself to the bars, he looked in the direction the thing must have gone

“Hey! Dude!” Frank hollered. “What did I tell you about your fucking nightmares?”

“Quiet!” hissed the guy in the next cell over. Not Moe’s old cell but the one on the other side.

Cormac had his face up to the bars, but he couldn’t see anything to the sides. He couldn’t see a damn thing from here, though he could still hear claws on concrete, maybe even a voice, growling. He didn’t know where it was coming from. If he could just get out of here—

A light shone, the deep orange glow of coals in a forge, across the prison block, inside one of the cells. It flared, turned black—like an eclipse of the sun, a moment of dark terror—then collapsed. All of it without a sound.

He could see it, a demon’s claw scraping across a man’s throat, and in his mind he heard a voiceless, inhuman laugh of triumph. Another inmate dead.

“No!” he screamed at the block, the sound echoing.

Hands grabbed the back of his T-shirt, twisted, and yanked him back. Cormac led with his elbow, striking hard, hitting flesh and bone—a man’s chest. Frank wheezed, falling back, and Cormac followed through, swinging his body into a punch. Frank’s head whipped back, but he stayed on his feet and came right back. Deceptively powerful, his blows pounded in like rocks, hitting Cormac’s cheek and chest. He was dazed, but he shook it off. He should have explained, but it was too late, and this was more his speed anyway.

Ducking another blow, Cormac delivered his own, tackling Frank in the middle, shoving him against the bunk frame.

Lights came on in the cell block, an alarm siren started, and the door to the cell rolled open. Guards came in, swinging batons. Cormac didn’t have a chance against them. They dragged him away, though he kept lunging forward, into the fight. Blows landed on his shoulders, kidneys, gut. He fell, then was hauled up again by his arms.

Waking from his fog, he saw the guards surrounding him. He was totally screwed.

Frank was yelling. “I don’t know, man, he’s gone crazy! It’s not my fault, he jumped out of bed screamin’ and he just went crazy!”

Frank’s protests didn’t matter; the guards dragged both of them out, hauling them in different directions. Cormac tried to get his feet under him—they were keeping him off balance on purpose. Again, his instinct was to lash out. He locked it down, tried to keep still, tried to speak.

“There’s another body. Another guy’s been killed, I saw it, I saw what did it. I need to talk to Olson. To Detective Hardin. Somebody. Let me talk to somebody!”

It wasn’t their job to listen to him; they were dumb brute enforcers. But the walls were closing in around him. All he really wanted to do was scream.

Another inmate was already screaming. The newest body had been discovered.

The cell in administrative confinement—solitary—had a solid door with a wire mesh—reinforced glass window at face height, a single bed, a toilet and sink, and no room to pace. This was what he’d been so desperate to avoid. They’d put him in smaller and smaller boxes until he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Only thing left to do now was lie on the bunk and sleep. Escape to that meadow, breathe deep and imagine he smelled pines and snowmelt.

No. This had all started with her, that thing, lost spirit or demon, whatever she was. Everything had been fine until she appeared and started scraping the inside of his skull. His head ached. The walls were collapsing.

He leaned on the wall opposite the bunk, refusing to even lie down. His jaw ached in a couple of places. Bruises bloomed. In a strange way the fight had felt good, and the bruises felt real. It had felt good to finally hit something. To strike back. He hadn’t had a chance to strike at anything in so long. He could take his gun to the range, unload a couple boxes of ammo. Feel a hot gun in his hand. That cleansing noise.