Kitty Goes to War

by Carrie Vaughn

  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.

  “Your minions are very aggravating in their self-importance,” I said to him.

  Rick was handsome, unassuming, with fine old-world features, dark hair swept back, and an often-amused smile. He wore a blue silk shirt, dark trousers—simple and elegant. He was urbane without being pompous, confident without being arrogant.

  He said, “You know how prejudices become entrenched in older generations, how it usually takes younger generations to grow up with new outlooks to establish new attitudes? Imagine how entrenched some prejudices can get after hundreds of years.”

  Damn kids, get off my lawn, covered a very large lawn then, didn’t it?

  “You’re pretty laid back for being five hundred years old. What’s your excuse?”

  “I’ve always had something of an antiauthoritarian streak. Pretty good trick for someone born under a monarchy, isn’t it?”

  More stories, more stories . . . I almost forgot my own issues, hoping he would say more about his history in Spanish colonial America. He’d claimed once that he’d known Coronado. I still hadn’t gotten that whole history.

  And I wouldn’t get it this time.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  I requested something sweet and glowing in a martini glass. With a raised hand, Rick summoned the bartender and made the request, and in a moment I had a pink and fruity drink to cling to.

  “Now, what do you need?” Rick said.

  I always needed something from him, it seemed, even if it was just advice. It was silly not to take advantage of the advice of someone with five hundred years of experience.

  “I’ve got a situation,” I said, and tried to explain. “It turns out the army’s had a unit of werewolves operating in Afghanistan. It’s kind of a long story. They worked as a pack, but then their captain—their alpha—was killed. The unit fell apart, the soldiers lost control. The survivors were brought back home. One of them is being court-martialed on murder charges—he killed three other men in the unit. I’ve been asked to help rehabilitate the other two. I’ve met them. They’re . . . I have no idea what to do with them. I’ve never seen anything like it. Every little thing triggers a reaction from them. They’re always right on the edge of shifting. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some post-traumatic stress going on, and couple that with the lycanthropy—they’re a mess.”

  Rick rubbed his chin as he listened, looking into a middle distance before bringing his gaze to me. “This isn’t the first time werewolves have been used as soldiers,” Rick said. “There’s a long history of it, in fact. Werewolves tend to be fierce, indestructible.”

  “So how do I help them? How do I get them to be people again, and not berserker monsters?”

  “The problem is not too many people worry about making werewolf soldiers human again. They’re disposable troops.”

  “Excuse me? Disposable?”

  “To be unleashed when needed—if you’ll forgive the pun—and shunted aside when not. It explains a lot about certain attitudes toward them, though, doesn’t it? As well as how the culture of bounty hunters got started.”

  I could only stare, appalled. At the same time, it made sense. Cultivate that instinct to kill, then set it loose. Everything else was extraneous.

  “But . . . but I know a werewolf in D.C., Ahmed, who takes in and helps out-of-control wolves. And there are other safe havens, wolf packs that help—”

  “New werewolves, Kitty. Young wolves, cubs who don’t know what they’re doing but can be taught. These are hardened warriors.”

  “Then you’re saying there’s nothing I can do.”

  “If anyone could find a way, it’ll be you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You are a very hopeful person. Those werewolves are in good hands. Or paws.”

  I was glad someone thought so. I stared into my glowy martini. It’s never been done before was not the kind of advice I’d been hoping for.

  Rick broke my depressed musings. “So. Have you heard from Anastasia lately?”

  Anastasia. One of the baddest-assed vampires I’d ever met, the kind you didn’t want to meet in a brightly lit room, never mind a dark alley. She was a schemer, too. And not one of the bad guys. But I didn’t know I’d go so far as to say she was one of the good guys, either. She’d recently recruited me to be on the lookout for the actual bad guys, who were trying to take over the world, or something so equally awful that it didn’t make a difference. I kept saying I wanted to be left alone. Then I contradicted myself by taking on projects. Like Tyler and Walters.

  “Not since Montana,” I said.

  “Probably for the best.”

  “Yes, probably. I expect when I do hear from her it’ll be because the world is ending.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about that,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling.

  I leaned forward. “Why not? You know something I don’t?”

  “The end of the world is all some vampires have to look forward to.”

  I hated that. Every vampire I’d ever met loved blithely throwing out these portentous proclamations of superiority and doom and they expected to have me shaking in my booties. I rolled my eyes.

  “Are you one of those?”

  “No. It’s not all that healthy to believe the world was put here for my entertainment.”

  “Well. Kudos to you.” I raised my martini glass to him.

  “Back to your soldiers. Are you planning on setting them loose anytime soon?”

  It was a leading question—the full moon was coming up in a week. Were Tyler and Walters going to spend it indoors or out? I shrugged. “Depends. Do you want me to let you know if I do? Warn you?”

  “That’s all right. I trust you to make the right decision.”

  “Well. Miracles never cease.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Which, upon reflection, was a very strange thing to hear a vampire say.

  Chapter 9

  I BROUGHT FOOD to my next meeting with the soldiers. A bundle of take-out lamb kabobs from a Greek place, juicy meat and not much else. I hoped they’d go over well. Food always made things better, right? Tyler and Walters perked up when I set the Styrofoam boxes on the table, their noses working as the room filled with the smell of warm cooked meat. I wondered when was the last time they’d had a real meal.

  Their expressions and stances changed when Ben followed me into the cell. Tyler at the table, Walters from his usual place hunched up on the cot, glowered at him, lips parted, like they were thinking of growling. Their noses wrinkled, as if they smelled something bad. Tyler flexed his hands, and his shoulders bunched up. When I introduced him, they looked up him and down, judging. While they recognized him from the scuffle in the woods, they hadn’t gotten a good look at him then. Now they were deciding whether they could take him down. Who was bigger, tougher, and all that. I wanted to cling to Ben, to say, You can’t have him, he’s mine, I’m his, hands off. Like Ben couldn’t stand up for himself.

  This was where Ben’s human background served him well. As a werewolf, he didn’t look that tough: lean, wiry, unassuming. Not as built and hardcore as someone like Tyler. But as a criminal defense lawyer, he had that stare. That smirk. He’d spent a lot of time in jails and courtrooms dealing with not-very-nice people, and not a lot phased him. He projected that image now, and it made the tough guys look at him twice.

  They didn’t shake hands or go through any of the Hey, what’s up, how’s it going greeting rituals that normally accompanied a meeting of total strangers. Instead, they exchanged a subtle acknowledgment of politeness: no one was going to get offended, no one was going to start a fight, no one was going to try to assert dominance over anyone else. Tyler nodded and glanced away, acknowledging Ben’s presence, not offering a c
hallenge. Walters studied us while not engaging. He’d throw occasional glances—trying not to stare, which would have looked like a challenge. I couldn’t figure him out. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or just stubborn and refusing to play nice.

  Ben and I sat at the table, opened packages of food, and started eating. This was one of the things that made my human side twitch—the human side wanted to offer food to Tyler and Walters first, out of politeness. But to the Wolf, that would have meant handing over authority—alpha wolf ate first. So Ben and I started eating, and the others watched, which meant they were still willing to give me the authority.

  “You two should come eat something,” I said after the first minute. I pushed one of the boxes to Tyler, who ducked his gaze and took up a skewer of meat. Walters gathered himself, hesitating and drawn to the meal at the same time. I left one of the skewers in front of the empty chair and didn’t look at him again.

  Soon, all four of us were sitting around the table, having what from the outside looked like a normal meal. Success. Then, we talked. Just talked. I asked about favorite foods, bad restaurant experiences, hometowns, and families. Got them to open up a little—got them to ask questions. I wanted to show them that werewolves could have lives. I passed around cans of soda. Maybe next time we’d bring beer. I didn’t really trust them with beer just yet.

  Eventually, the conversation came around to the elephant in the room: the supernatural, being a werewolf, and what else was out there.

  “Vampires? There really are vampires?” Tyler said.

  I forgot how little experience they had.

  “Yup, there really are,” I said.

  “I guess I figured they were real,” he said. “You turn into a werewolf and figure a lot of things must be real, right? But it’s weird. I never thought I’d actually meet one.”

  “I can arrange that, if you want,” I said.

  “I don’t know that I do,” Tyler said.

  “They smell funny,” Ben said. “Kind of dead but not really.”

  “You’d like Rick. He’s very easygoing, for a vampire,” I said.

  “I still wouldn’t want to piss him off,” Ben said.

  “No,” I agreed wryly.

  “Do you run into a lot of this kind of thing? Vampires, rogue werewolves, whatever?” Tyler asked.

  “Yeah, I kind of do,” I said.

  “How?” he said. “I know you said you were attacked, but how? You don’t exactly look like the creepy supernatural type. Either one of you. You look like a typical yuppie couple. No offense.”

  None taken. In fact, I was sort of flattered. Ben and I looked at each other, exchanging one of those familiar glances, all our history passing between us. Neither one of us had chosen this life. But we’d done pretty well with it, together.

  “My cousin’s a hunter,” Ben said. “I was helping him out when I was attacked.”

  “I had a really bad date back in college.” I shrugged. That statement covered so much that a detailed explanation just couldn’t.

  Tyler looked as if he wanted to ask questions, to get elaboration, but he only shook his head. “I volunteered for this. But Captain Gordon—he didn’t tell us everything. Like how to deal with people. What to do when you don’t have anyplace to run.”

  “I think he expected us all to come home together,” Walters said into his food. He’d raised his head to look at us, his expression mournful. Wounded, I decided. He was wounded. “He expected us to still be a pack. That he would still be taking care of us.”

  I wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay, as if he were a little kid. So strange to see someone that tough and capable look that lost.

  “Bad planning on Gordon’s part,” I said. “He should have spent a little more time teaching you to take care of yourselves. The whole pack thing . . . it can be a lifesaver. It can be supportive and amazing. But it can also be codependent as hell.”

  “We were a family,” Tyler said. “That’s part of why the captain picked us. None of us have wives or kids. It was just us.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” I muttered, not quite under my breath. These guys having kids would have added a whole other level of tragedy to the situation.

  “It didn’t matter how much the captain explained, we still wouldn’t have known what to expect. Like this,” Tyler said. He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and pushed up his left sleeve. “What do you see?”

  A really buff arm, with a rounded shoulder and well-defined biceps. The dark skin was smooth, unblemished even by goose bumps. I shrugged and said, “Your arm?”

  “I had a tattoo here. Really nice, tribal—covered half my arm. We all had tattoos—names, unit badges, good-luck charms, usual army shit. Then Gordon turned me. When I woke up, there was a big ink stain on the sheet and no tattoo. That happened to all of us.”

  “It healed,” I said. “Werewolf superimmunity—your body rejected the ink as a foreign object.” Good thing I hadn’t been thinking of getting one of my own.

  “It was like being erased,” Tyler said. “Starting over with a clean slate. But it also felt like losing something. I lost something I thought was going to be part of me forever.”

  I knew how he felt. Saying so would sound trite and probably not help much.

  “Have you heard anything about Van?” Walters asked suddenly. “The doctor won’t tell us anything.”

  I didn’t imagine Shumacher talked to them much, if ever.

  “Vanderman you mean?” I said. “No. Not apart from his being charged with murder.”

  Walters slumped. “It wasn’t him. I mean, not just him. He wasn’t in his right mind.”

  “He still has to stay in custody.”

  “He’s taking the fall for us,” Tyler said.

  “I don’t think you should feel guilty,” I said.

  “You’re so keen on helping us, you ought to be helping all of us,” Tyler said.

  “We’re a pack,” Walters said, as if it was a mantra.

  I started thinking this would have been easier with Vanderman included. If I could rehabilitate him, the others would follow. Then I remembered the look in his eyes, that killer instinct. If Tyler and Walters were going to function on their own, they had to do it without the alpha.

  They were making progress here. They were talking. They weren’t panicking or raging or about to shape-shift. They were acting almost normally. I had to give them goals, keep them motivated. Distracted. We had to make progress.

  “Do you guys want to get out, maybe see a little of Denver?” I said. Ben glanced at me, questioning.

  Tyler and Walters looked at each other, and Tyler said, “Could we really do that?”

  “Why not? You can sit here and have a conversation. The next step is to sit out there and have a conversation.” I nodded in the direction of the door. “Discipline. It’s all discipline and self-control.”

  “The army way,” Tyler said, quirking a smile.

  My phone rang with “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.” The soldiers jumped, and I glanced around the table apologetically.

  “Cormac,” I told Ben as I clicked the phone on. I’d finally given him his own ringtone so I’d have some warning.

  “That’s your custom ringtone for Cormac?” he said.

  I smirked back at him as I went to the corner for some privacy. Into the phone I said, “Yeah?”

  “Your guy, Franklin? I found something,” Cormac said.

  Life could never be simple, could it? I couldn’t deal with just one problem at a time, could I?

  “What is it?” I pressed a hand to my other ear and listened.

  “Your friend was right,” Cormac said. I almost corrected him, that Charles wasn’t my friend—but when he needed to talk, he’d called me. What did that make me? Cormac continued, “Harold Franklin was traveling in all those locations on those dates. I’m not sure it means anything—the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy—”

  “Whoa—what was that you just said?”r />
  He paused before saying, “Never mind.”

  “But—”

  “Maybe Franklin had something to do with those storms, maybe he didn’t. But it’s interesting that he’s never been present for major earthquakes, mudslides, wildfires—just storms.”

  So Franklin coincidentally shows up for major, historically significant storms, but not other natural disasters. It wasn’t much to base a defense on. “Like you said, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And I don’t think it’s admissible in court.”

  “Probably not. But it’s a start. I’ve got some more checking to do.”

  “Great. Cool. Whatever you can find. Do you need help?”

  “You know—I might,” he said. “Let me talk to Ben a minute.”

  Sure, he could connive with Ben but not with me . . . I held the phone out to Ben and raised my eyebrows at his curious expression. “I may not be guilty of libel after all.”

  “Not about Speedy Mart, anyway,” he said.

  “Hey!” I pouted.

  Grinning, he took the phone and replaced me in the corner. I tried to listen in, but Ben’s side of the conversation mostly involved him saying, “Yeah . . . okay . . . okay . . .” Cormac was speaking low enough that I couldn’t hear his side.

  “What’s that all about?” Tyler asked.

  I sighed. How did I explain this in as few words as possible? “I spent part of my show last week talking about whether or not something supernatural is going on with Speedy Mart—the 24-hour convenience store chain, right?”

  “Something supernatural—like vampires and werewolves?” he said.

  “Kind of. Anything, really. Magical, supernatural—weird. Anyway, the president of Speedy Mart is suing me for libel. So now we want to prove that there really is something going on with him because then it isn’t libel.”

  Tyler leaned forward a little. “If someone’s giving you trouble, Walters and I could maybe take care of it—”