Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Goes to War

Since I couldn’t come up with a slick and plausible story fast enough, I had only one alternative. “My name is Kitty Norville, and I host a talk radio show. Charles called in to the show last week with a pretty wild story and I wanted to follow up.”

“Ms. Norville, I’m a medical examiner here. Charles Beauregard was killed at his home over the weekend.”

Coincidence, right? Because if you ruled out coincidence, the world became a tangled web of conspiracy. I spoke carefully. “I’m really sorry to hear that. May I ask how he died?”

“He was struck by lightning.”

That seemed pretty clear cut. Weird, but clear cut. Except for the panic tapping in the back of my brain.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the medical examiner asked.

“No. I guess not. Thanks for your help.”

So much for Charles from Shreveport. I wondered if I should add a mark to my map—this would have fit right in with the story he’d told me.

Next I called Cormac. It might have been to simply revel in the fact that I could call him, to get his advice when something weird happened. For the last couple of years, if I wanted to get his advice I had to drive a hundred-plus miles to Cañon City, sit in a sparse, stinking concrete visiting room, and talk to him through glass.

His phone rang and rang, which was normal. Or at least, had been normal. At last, he answered.

“Hey,” he said, sounding rushed, like he’d just come in from outside or had been boiling water on the stove.

“Hey,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got some new info on the Speedy Mart case—Harold Franklin’s in town.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Coming to see me and offer a deal to drop the lawsuit.”

He made a noise of surprise. “Can he do that? What kind of deal?”

“He wants me to apologize on the air,” I said. “I didn’t go for it; lawsuit’s still on. He may have been trying to bait me.”

“Look you in the eye, laugh in your face, that kind of thing?” he said.

“Almost his exact words.”

“Classy,” he said with a grunt. “We gotta be able to find something on this guy. There’s more to this than a libel suit.”

“That’s what I keep thinking. There’s something else—I tried to call the guy who called in to the show. The one who blamed Katrina on Franklin? To find out where he got his info.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing—he was struck by lightning and killed over the weekend.”

“That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Either that or Franklin can summon lightning strikes to kill people.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. “I’ve got a lot more stones to turn before we start admitting that this guy can control the weather.”

“So Charles from Shreveport was right ?” I said, a little too shrilly.

“I didn’t say that,” Cormac said.

“And what does he want with me ? I’d probably never have mentioned him on the show again if he hadn’t sued me.”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Cormac said. He sounded so calm, like this was the plot of a movie we were discussing, rather than my very-real legal troubles. If he’d been standing in front of me, I’d want to shake him. And he’d stand there and take it, calmly.

He continued, “Any idea where Franklin is staying?”

“No. He came to the KNOB offices.”

“Okay. I’ll track him down.”

“Thanks. And don’t get in any trouble, okay?”

He’d already hung up. But Cormac didn’t need me to tell him not to get in trouble, right?

AT LEAST this time I was in the same room with the rogue wolves. It felt like progress, except that only Tyler and Walters faced me. Vanderman was still in custody at Fort Carson and was pretty much skunked. Now we just had to move past that.

The room had been transformed into what I was coming to think of as the NIH special: a cell with silver-flecked paint and probably lots of special features I didn’t know about—like that siren. A cell for werewolves, cut off from the rest of the hospital. They didn’t even have a window. Instead of watching them through Plexiglas, Shumacher monitored them on a closed-circuit TV system. These guys probably wondered if they were ever going to get to live in a house again. At least they had furniture now: a pair of cots, one plain plastic table and a set of plain plastic chairs, and even a TV mounted on the wall.

I wanted to sit. I wanted us all to sit around the table, but that wasn’t going to happen. Tyler was pacing along the back wall; Walters was crouched on the cot, gaze darting between us. Trying to decide which of us was the alpha. I stood so I could stay at their level; sitting would have put myself lower than Tyler at least, and would have called my dominance into question. Werewolf pack bullshit. But it mattered and I couldn’t ignore it. Hands on the back of a chair, staying as relaxed as I could manage, I watched them.

They smelled wild and terrible; the room stank with the scent. All werewolves, even in human form, smelled a little wild, a hint of fur and musk touching their otherwise human bodies. These two smelled more wolf than human. More than that, though, they smelled frightened, thick with adrenaline and uncertainty.

What did I tell them? That they should at least try to overcome the instincts to fight and run? That life—a human life—was worth living? They needed therapy, and I was vastly unqualified to be a therapist. Especially when Ben was right and I ought to be getting a little therapy myself. But who else was going to help them? Who else could begin to understand?

“Tyler, sit down,” I said. “Please. You’re driving me crazy.”

He looked at me, shot me a skin-searing glare—then ducked his gaze and slouched into one of the chairs across the table. I was amazed; I tried not to show it. Happy with that little victory, I let Walters continue hunkering. I didn’t want to press the cornered wolf, as it were.

“Well,” I said. “What’s next?” Thinking out loud more than anything. I didn’t have to do anything but listen to them talk. That’s what therapists did, right? If only.

“Van should be here,” Tyler said.

“He’s not. I’m sorry,” I said curtly.

“We’re a pack. We should be together,” Tyler said.

“That’s your wolf talking. You have to take care of yourselves right now. Vanderman hasn’t done a very good job looking after you, has he? He hasn’t been a very good alpha. That’s what got you all into this mess in the first place.”

“What do you expect us to do?”

“Talking’s a good start.”

Tyler’s body language was nearly human. He was slouching unhappily, but his attention was on me. He was leaning on the table, his fingers laced together. Not clenched like claws. Walters, on the other hand, was almost cowering. I could see the ghosts of ears pinned back and a tail clamped close to his body. There was the kind of deference a canine showed because he was offering respect to a leader. Then there was the kind of deference he showed because he thought he was going to get smacked down. Because he didn’t know what was going on, and he was afraid. Walters hadn’t said a word, yet. He just kept staring at me. If I could break that stare, I might be able to shake him.

“I respect your loyalty to Sergeant Vanderman. But if you want to go home, if you don’t want to end up locked in a cell for the rest of your lives, you’re going to have to let him go and move on.”

“It’s not right,” Tyler said. “It feels like abandoning him.”

“Is this some army ‘leave no man behind’ thing?” I said, trying to keep my temper—and sarcasm—in check. The last thing the room needed was more aggression.