Carrie Vaughn: Kitty Raises Hell

“And also could be summoned by a vampire,” he said.

“Or has something to do with Tiamat. Maybe this isn’t a vampire thing.”

“I think this goes beyond the Tiamat cult,” Rick said. “The cult leader might be using this as an opportunity to get a foothold in this territory.”

“Rick, just because the cult is run by a vampire doesn’t mean this has anything to do with vampire politics. Does it?”

He glanced away, seeming to ponder, and didn’t answer. And wasn’t that just what I needed right now, to worry about vampire politics, as well?

Sighing, I said, “We wanted something to happen so we’d have information. So we’d have something to work with. But I feel like we’re worse off than before.”

“We both have contacts,” he said firmly, decisively, in a way that was probably meant to sound reassuring. “We’ll do our research.”

“Like standing on rooftops, looking for patterns?”

He seemed to be scanning the crowd. It made me nervous, because I could never forget what he was, and the look in his eyes was appraising. I didn’t want him treating my restaurant like his restaurant. He absently tapped a finger on the table.

I was about to say something catty to him when he said, “I called Dom. To ask his opinion, for old times’ sake.”

Dom, the Master of Las Vegas, was only a figurehead. I wasn’t entirely clear on the situation, but he was there to divert attention from the real powers there. Like the priestess of the Tiamat cult.

“What did he say?”

“He told me I’d be better off if I stayed out of it and suggested I’d be happier if the local alpha werewolf wasn’t so uppity. You seem to have made an impression on him.”

“Dom doesn’t know anything,” I said.

“I know. He refused to talk about the vampire priestess of the cult. Whatever we’re up against has him cowed.”

Hell, it had me almost cowed. This wasn’t anything I didn’t already know. “How does that fit into your pattern?”

“I know Dom. It would take more than a two-bit cult to cow him.”

I hadn’t been that impressed with the guy, but Rick had known him for at least a hundred fifty years. Maybe there was more to him. What I didn’t want to hear was that we were dealing with something more powerful than a two-bit cult, though it certainly didn’t feel two-bit to me.

I rubbed my hair and sighed. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I know. We’ll do our best.”

Our best didn’t always keep people from getting killed.

When my phone rang at work the next day, I jumped at it, hoping it was Grant with a glorious revelation, or at least a piece of news that would help explain what was after me and the pack. But it wasn’t. I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Is this Kitty Norville?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

Anxious, the man asked, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Ted Gurney.”

“Ted Gurney? I’m not sure—” But then the name clicked, and the world around me lurched. My stomach froze in the same moment the caller said, “Theodore Joseph Gurney.”

T.J.

T.J. had been my best friend. He’d protected me, saved my life, helped me adjust to being a werewolf when I was new to it all. He showed me how I could use the lycanthropy, how it could make me strong, if I could learn to integrate both sides of my being. He’d died in my arms, his heart torn out of his chest by the alpha male of our pack. The pack I had taken over, after watching that same alpha die by the claws of a dozen angry wolves.

Revenge was supposed to make me feel better.

Grief for him had turned into something like a land mine. It would lie quietly for days, weeks even, me not thinking of him, not dwelling. But then something would come along to set it off. Then his death felt like it happened yesterday.

I couldn’t hide my suspicion. Why was this land mine bringing up T.J. now? “Why do you want to know about him? Why are you calling me?”

He sounded like he’d prepared the speech. “I have a copy of a police report of a murder that happened outside your apartment a little over a year ago. You’re listed as a witness, and you named Ted Gurney as the murderer.”

Here was a ghost. Metaphorical, but here he was. I could see T.J.’s face appearing before me.

“Who are you?” I demanded, half rising from my chair, ready to growl.

He hesitated. I could almost hear him swallow. “My name is Peter Gurney. I’m his brother.”

That knocked the wind out of me. I sank back, trying to figure out what to say, what to think. T.J. never told me he had a brother. I didn’t know anything about his life before I met him.

Peter Gurney filled the silence. “I’m looking for my brother. I’ve spent the last year tracking him down. It hasn’t been easy, I know he doesn’t want to be found. But I really need to find him. The trail dried up here, and the last sign I can find of him anywhere is this police report. I need to know: Do you know him? Did he really kill someone? Do you have any idea where he is?”

He didn’t know T.J. was dead. I didn’t know how I was going to talk to this guy.

“Where are you? Are you here in Denver?” I said.

“Yeah.”

That made it harder, and maybe a little easier. I wanted to look him in the eye. For T.J. “Can we meet some-place? I can answer your questions, but I’d rather do this in person.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He sounded nervous. He had to suspect what was coming, didn’t he? “Just tell me where.”

I sent him to New Moon and met him there half an hour later.

Peter was waiting just inside the front door, glancing around like he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here. He was younger than I was expecting. Twenty, maybe. Lanky, boyish, scuffing a nervous foot on the floor. But I spotted him right off. He looked like T.J.: dark hair, sharp face. A young T.J., like he might have been as a teenager. Weirdly, though, his scent was different. T.J. worked on motorcycles and always smelled a little like grease. He also smelled like wolf, of course. He smelled like all the familiar little parts of his life. Peter didn’t have that. He smelled like travel: fast-food restaurants, gas stations, clothes that needed washing. No wolf at all.

I greeted him as I walked in. “Hi, Peter? I’m Kitty.”

“Oh. Hi.” We shook hands.

“Let’s sit in back.” I gestured him to my favorite table in the back of the bar, where we wouldn’t be disturbed. “You want anything to drink? Soda, tea... double whiskey?” My smile, like my humor, was weak.

“Just water,” he said, and I relayed the request, water for Peter, soda for me, to one of the staff while we settled in.

We looked at each other across the table. I had so many questions. I didn’t know anything about T.J.’s past. Nothing of him remained after I’d lost him. Suddenly, here was a connection, answers—evidence that he’d ever lived at all. I wanted to cling to Peter, but he wouldn’t have understood any of that. At least not until I had a chance to explain what had happened to his brother. Which I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to be the one to extinguish his hope.

Peter spoke first. “Kitty, can you tell me where my brother is?”

There was no way to soft-pedal this. Out with it, that was all I could do. Calmly, methodically, I started in on it.

“How much do you know about him and what he was doing here? When was the last time you talked to him?”

He hesitated a moment, editing his response maybe, like he didn’t want to tell me anything. “It’s been a long time. I know he moved out here a while ago. He doesn’t have a regular job—he fixes bikes. I know he’s hiding, but I need to find him. I know he’ll want to see me.” He was tense, leaning on the table, desperate. And he didn’t have a clue.