Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Goes to War

“You don’t understand.”

“What Vanderman did to Yarrow, Crane, Estevan—how does that fall into the philosophy? Isn’t that leaving someone behind?”

Walters got up and started pacing, just a few feet along the back wall. I ignored him. Let him work off the nervous energy; I could only keep these guys calm by staying calm myself.

I continued. “Captain Gordon seems like he was a good guy. It sounds like he really took care of you. Vanderman shows all the signs of only caring about the power, without any of the responsibility. Now, I don’t know how much you really know about werewolves, how much Gordon really taught you. But it’s not just supposed to be about the power and playing follow-the-leader. You still have to at least try to be human, if you want to keep living with people.”

“We’re not people,” Tyler said in a rough voice.

That made my stomach sink. I held on to my sanity by clinging to the belief that I was human—maybe a different kind of human with some wacky supernatural problems going on, but human all the same, with a husband, a job, a mortgage, a family, and all the other good stuff.

If Tyler didn’t believe he was human and a part of human society, what chance did he have?

“Did Gordon warn you?” I said. “Did he tell you what it was like before he did this to you?”

Tyler winced, as if he was trying to remember something he’d forgotten—or that the remembering was difficult. “It seems like such a long time ago now. But he didn’t talk about this. He said he would always be there, he said he’d look after us. We’d always be a pack.”

Nobody should ever make that kind of promise.

“What did he say to you guys to recruit you into this? How did he convince you that this was a good idea?”

“We had a job to do in Afghanistan. An impossible job. We didn’t have the tools, the resources. But Gordon—he had a way. Of course it wasn’t easy, but if you have the chance to get the job done—if you have the ability—you take it. He promised to make us strong—unbeatable. And he did.” Tyler raised his gaze and set his jaw, determined.

I wondered if part of the problem with Vanderman was that the pack never accepted him as a replacement for Gordon. They—or at least Tyler—still saw Gordon as their alpha. Their captain. Vanderman couldn’t take over, but he was too strong for the others to dominate.

Walters slouched now, arms crossed, still hunched in on himself. But I got the feeling he was listening to me.

I leaned on the back of the chair. “I had to ask, because I didn’t want to become a werewolf. I didn’t get a choice. I have a hard time understanding why anyone would ask for this.” The only situations I’d seen where I could even begin to understand involved life-threatening illnesses—if the alternative was dying, why not become a werewolf?

After a moment, Tyler said, “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks. But you know, moving on.”

“You think it’s that easy? Just move on?” Tyler said, with a harsh chuckle.

I shrugged. “I didn’t say it was easy. Look, you have a lot to think about. I’d like to come back and talk some more. Maybe bring a friend. Figure out what we have to do to spring you guys. Is that okay?”

“Why are you even asking?” Tyler said. “You can do whatever you want. You’re the alpha here, right?”

I smiled. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure you’d admit it.”

“You—you’re more like Captain Gordon than Van,” Walters said. His voice seemed like an intrusion—startling, unexpected. He was still slouching.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. “I’ll see you guys in a day or two.”

“It’s not Van’s fault,” Walters said. I stopped, my hand almost to the door to knock for Shumacher. “It’s mental illness, isn’t it? We’re all crazy. It’s not Van’s fault.”

Frowning, I nodded. Maybe they’d decide for sure at his court-martial.

Shumacher, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm, let me out of the cell. I felt Tyler and Walters watching me until the door closed behind us. We walked to the office she’d taken over.

“It’s hard judging any progress with just talking,” Shumacher said, sighing as she set down her clipboard and leaned on the desk.

I shrugged. I tended to get a lot out of talking. “I’m going on instinct here. I’m just trying to get a feel for them. Whether there’s . . . I don’t know.”

“Whether there’s any hope for them?” she said.

“Yeah. That.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I want to get a second opinion. Tyler—I think he’s actually doing well. But Walters isn’t engaged. They’re a long way from being well. But I’d like to talk to them again.”

Shumacher looked for a moment as if she was going to say something, but then pursed her lips, holding back words. When she smiled, it was a mask. “Let’s make our next appointment, then. I look forward to it.”

She didn’t think they could be rehabilitated. She’d given up on them. That gave me a burning desire to prove her wrong.

I MADE a different sort of appointment for that night, at Psalm 23.

The nightclub always made me anxious. I preferred meeting Rick, the Master vampire of Denver, at my place, New Moon. But he’d said this was more convenient tonight. I wondered what problems he was dealing with. At least he was almost always willing to talk to me when I asked. I could brave the club every now and then.

I went straight to the bouncer at the front door, bypassing the line—a line, even on a weeknight. I wasn’t dressed nearly well enough to gain admittance—at least I wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with my jeans—which meant I was going to have to pull rank. The bouncer tonight was one of the vampires, an unassuming Secret Service–looking guy. Stronger than someone with linebacker muscles, but he didn’t look it. And he wore dark sunglasses at night, natch.

He watched my approach all the way up the block. I watched the rim of his sunglasses and put my hands on my hips.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I’m here to see Rick.”

“What right do you have to demand this?”

I glared. Alpha werewolf, Master vampire, need to talk, blah blah. I went through this bullshit every time I dealt with the vampire minions.

“He’s expecting me.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“That’s because I’m pretty sure he considers me to be on a ‘come on in’ basis. He shouldn’t have to tell you. But, you know, if you want me to check on that for you . . .” I pulled out my cell phone. I had Rick on speed dial.

His lips twitched—a frustrated frown. “He’s too indulgent with you wolves.”

“Yeah, yeah, heathen animals, whatever.”

He stepped aside just as I was about to push past him, or rather, try to push past him. We both got to look surly.

Psalm 23 was the kind of place that provided the seed of truth to countless vampire stereotypes. The place was beyond posh, all chrome, blue plush carpets, and black leather booths, where the beautiful people standing at the bar and draping themselves over railings by the dance floor seemed like accessories, part of the decor rather than patrons. The club attracted a young, eager, suggestible clientele. A lot of Rick’s vampires came here for drinks just as eagerly. An experienced eye could spot them—the pale, appraising gazes, surveying the interior like they were picking out their lobster from the tank at a high-end seafood restaurant.

I found Rick inside, sitting at one of the bars near the wall, surveying his domain, the crowd on the dance floor, couples at tables sipping glowing neon drinks in martini glasses, impervious to the thumping beat of techno music.