Kitty and the Midnight Hour

by Carrie Vaughn

  Grabbing my shoulders, Cormac pushed me away and held me at arm’s length.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You smell fresh.” I strained toward him, my eyes half-closed, wanting to plunge back into the scent of him.

  He stood, putting space between us. “You’re not human.” He marched away.

  I knelt on the kitchen floor, my knees digging into the tile, my heart pounding, reaching for the body that wasn’t there.

  After a moment, I wandered to the other half of the apartment. He leaned against the opposite wall, his arms crossed, defensive, staring at the door like he couldn’t understand why he didn’t just leave.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. For being what I was, maybe. I couldn’t help that, though, so I didn’t want to apologize for it. So I was apologizing for this. For calling him. For kissing him. For not guessing how he would react.

  He started to say one thing, then shook his head. He looked at the floor, then looked at me.

  “How did you get like this? You’re not the kind that goes asking for it.”

  I sat at the edge of the bed and hugged my knees. My arm was getting better by the minute. The punctures were closed, covered with red scabs, fading to pink. The pain was turning to an itch.

  What had that government spook asked me? Who did I go to when I needed advice, when I needed to talk? What would I say if someone called the show and told me my story? Tough break, kid. Deal with it. But that didn’t assuage the anger I still felt. The anger I still hadn’t dealt with. I’d never told anyone the whole story, not even T.J. or anyone else in the pack.

  I wasn’t sure Cormac was the right person to tell, but I didn’t know when I’d get another chance to talk.

  “Wrong place at the wrong time,” I said, and told him the story.

  Bill was cute. I’d give him that much. Sandy brown hair, square jaw, winning smile. But he was only interested in one thing from me. He was a frat boy type, and I was . . . well, I was confused. He impressed me because he was cute and arrogant.

  We were at a Fourth of July party in Estes Park, in the mountains, where they launched fireworks into the valley and the noise echoed back and forth between the hills. He’d spent the whole time talking smack with his friends, while gripping me around the waist like I was some kind of accessory. That was what I got for being blond and looking good in a miniskirt. My face hurt from forcing it to smile at everyone. I didn’t have a good time, and I was ready for the night to be over.

  He spent the car ride back to town crawling his hand up my leg, trying to get under my skirt.

  “I just want to go home,” I said for the fifth time, pushing his hand away.

  “But it’s still early.”

  “Please.”

  “Whatever.”

  So he drove, and I stared out the window. When he turned onto a side road, it was in the middle of nowhere and there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  “Where are we going?” Scrub oak and pine trees lined the narrow road. It led to a trailhead near a river. “Turn around.”

  The place was popular with hikers and mountain bikers during the day. But this was midnight. Bill shut off the headlights and pulled to a corner of the parking lot shaded by overhanging branches.

  I grabbed the door handle, but he pushed the automatic lock as he stopped the engine.

  He moved so fast, I bet he’d done this before.

  He held my arms, pinning them, and clambered to my side of the car, pressing me to the bucket seat. Two hundred pounds of Bill weighed on me, and no matter how much I squirmed, I couldn’t get away. I started hyperventilating.

  “Relax, baby. Just relax.”

  I kept saying, No, stop, no, please, the whole time. I’d never been so scared and angry. When he brought his face close, I bit him. He slapped me and pounded into me that much harder.

  I tasted blood. I’d bitten my cheek, and my nose was bleeding.

  With a sigh, he rolled away finally. It still hurt.

  I scrabbled at the lock until it clicked, then I opened the door and tumbled out.

  Bill shouted after me. “Don’t you want a ride back? Christ!” He started up his car and pulled away.

  I ran. Legs weak, breath heaving, I ran away. I only wanted to get away.

  A full moon shone that night. Weird shadows lit the grass and scrub. This was stupid; I had no idea where I was, no idea how I was going to get home. I slid into the grass and sobbed. Stupid, Kitty. This whole night was stupid and look where it got me.

  A picnic area lay a little ways from the parking lot. Shelters covered some of the tables. I sat down at one, pulling my knees to my chin and hugging myself. My panties were still in Bill’s car. I figured I’d sit here until some jogger found me in the morning and called the cops. I could do that. Hug myself to stop shivering, maybe go to sleep.

  In the distance, a wolf howled. Far away. Nothing to do with me.

  Maybe I dozed. Maybe I thought it was a nightmare at first when the shrubs nearby rustled. A shadow moved. Its fur was like shadow, silvery and brindled. It turned bronze eyes on me. Canine nostrils quivered.

  It stepped closer, head low, sniffing, never turning from me. The wolf was as big as a Great Dane, with bulky shoulders and a thick ruff of fur. Even with me sitting on the table, it could reach me without trying.

  Later, I learned that the wolf could smell the blood from my injuries, and instinct had told it a wounded animal was near. Easy prey.

  I trembled like a rabbit, and like a rabbit, the minute I thought of running, it pounced.

  I screamed as its claws raked my leg and I lurched away, falling off the table. I kept screaming when its jaw clamped on my hip. Using that as purchase, it climbed up my body, scratching the whole way. My flesh gave way like butter, pieces of it flaying with every touch.

  Panic, panic, panic. I kicked its face. Startled, it backed off for a moment. In an adrenaline haze, I jumped and grabbed hold of the edge of the shelter’s roof. Gasping, clutching, gritting my teeth, I swung one leg up. The wolf jumped, scraped claws down the other leg. I screamed, falling—but no, I clutched the edge, the wolf lost its grip, and I caught one leg over the edge, then the other. Lying there, spent, I dared to look down.

  The wolf looked back at me, but it couldn’t reach me. It turned and ran.

  I didn’t have the energy to move another muscle, so I fell unconscious, one arm hanging over the edge of the shelter.

  Something squeezed my hand. The sky was light, pale with dawn.

  With a shriek, I pulled my hands close and started shaking. Blood caked my legs, my skirt, my shirt. Blood had pooled on the roof of the shelter, but it was dried. I wasn’t bleeding anymore.

  Carefully, I inched closer to the edge.

  Hands gripped there, and a woman hoisted herself up. I scrambled crablike away from her, all the way to the other edge. I looked down to where a couple of men stood, watching me with cold eyes.

  The woman knelt at the edge of the roof. She had long black hair, brown eyes, and moved with a dancer’s grace, settling to a seated position without taking her gaze off me.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  I looked around. A half-dozen of them surrounded the shelter, men in various states of scruffiness, unshaven and uncombed, wearing leather or denim jackets, T-shirts, and jeans. All of them were barefoot. The woman also wore jeans and a T-shirt without much thought to style. Still, they all managed to intimidate, radiating strength just in the way they stood.

  I didn’t answer.

  “The bites, the scratches—do they hurt?”

  I had to think about it, which meant they didn’t hurt. I touched my hip. It was tender, but not painful.

  “Look at the wounds,” she said. “What do you see?”

  I pulled up my shirt, exposing where the wolf had taken a bite. A scar, red and healing, maybe a week old, puckered the skin. The gouges on my legs were pink lines, closed and healing.
/>   I started hyperventilating again. I managed to gasp, “How do you know what happened?”

  She said, “One of our people attacked you. We’re here to take responsibility for his actions.”

  “But you’re—”

  She crept toward me, her eyes focused on me, her nostrils quivering. I flinched, but if I backed away any farther, I’d fall off.

  “I won’t hurt you. None of us will hurt you. Please, tell me your name.”

  All I wanted to do in that moment was fall into her arms, because I believed that she wouldn’t hurt me. “Kitty,” I said in a small voice.

  For a moment, she looked disbelieving. Then, she smiled. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re way too nice for this life, kid.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. You’ll have to. I’ll help. T.J.?”

  Hands appeared on the edge of the roof behind me. One of the men pulled himself up easily, like he was hopping onto a tabletop and not climbing up a seven-foot-high shelter. He crouched at the edge, one hand resting on the roof to steady himself. He was—God, he was gorgeous. Tanned, well-built, biceps straining at the sleeves of his white T-shirt, dark hair flopped around an intense face.

  He radiated energy and scared the daylights out of me. I backed away, scraping my knees on the roof’s asphalt shingles. But then she was there, just as intense, trapping me. I curled in on myself, on the edge of screaming. Something inside me started to rip.

  “Who are you people?”

  The man, T.J., said, “We’re the pack.”

  A convulsion wrenched me, and I blacked out.

  I fell in and out of consciousness for the next three days. I remembered a little—the smell of the park that morning, pine trees and dew. Someone carried me. Someone else—her, the woman—kept a hand on my shoulder. Voices, which I couldn’t keep straight.

  “She smells like sex.”

  “Sex and fear.”

  “There’s blood. Not from the bites and cuts. Meg, look.”

  I shook my head and tried to struggle, but I was like a baby, arms flailing without gaining purchase, too weak to pull away. “No, stop, don’t touch, don’t touch . . .” I gasped.

  “She was raped,” the woman said.

  “You don’t suppose Zan—”

  “It doesn’t smell like Zan.”

  “Someone else, then. Might explain how she ended up out here.”

  “Wish she’d talk.”

  “She will later. She’s got a couple of days of this yet.” I groaned. I had homework, I couldn’t—

  I opened my eyes.

  I lay on a bed. A sheet was tangled around me, like I’d been thrashing in my sleep. I wore a T-shirt—nothing else—and I was clean. I was cold, and sweat matted my hair. I took a deep breath—I didn’t know how long I’d been sleeping, but I felt exhausted, like I’d been running. I didn’t want to move.

  The bronzed idol from the park was sitting in a chair by the bed, watching me. The woman moved from another chair to sit at the foot of the bed. I looked back at them, waiting to feel panic. I’d been kidnapped. Some cult thing. Did Bill put them up to this? None of that seemed right, and I didn’t feel afraid at all. Somehow, I felt safe. Like I knew they were here to watch over me, to take care of me. I was sick. Very sick.

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Not good. Tired. Wrung out.”

  He nodded like he understood. “Your metabolism’s all fucked up. It’ll work itself out in a few days. Are you hungry?”

  I hadn’t thought so, but as soon as he said it, my belly felt hollow and I was starving.

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” I sat up.

  He left through a door in what appeared to be a well-lit bedroom. Meg studied me. I looked away, feeling suddenly shy. T.J. returned carrying a platter with a steak, like he’d had it waiting. I looked skeptically at it. I wasn’t much of a steak eater.

  He set it on the bedstand and handed me a knife. Reluctant, I sliced into it. It bled. Profusely.

  I dropped the knife. “I don’t like them rare.”

  “You do now.”

  I thought I was going to cry. Glaring at him, my voice barely a whisper, I said, “What’s happening to me? Why aren’t I afraid of you?”

  He knelt beside the bed. I looked down on him now, which was comforting. Meg came around to the other side and sat next to me, so close I could feel her body heat. I was trapped, and my heart started racing.

  She took my hand, then raised both our hands to my face. “What do you smell?”

  Was she nuts? But with our hands right in front of my nose, I couldn’t help but smell as I breathed. I expected to smell skin. Maybe soap. Normal people smells. But—there was more. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Something rich and vibrant, like earth and mountain air. It wasn’t soap or new-age deodorant or anything like that. It was her. I calmed down.

  Before I knew it, T.J. was sitting beside me, an arm around my shoulder, pressing his body close to me and breathing into my hair. It wasn’t sexual; there wasn’t anything sexual about it—that was so hard to explain to people who didn’t know.

  “This is our pack,” Meg said, holding me from the other side. “You’re safe here.”

  I believed her.

  By now, Cormac was sitting on the floor. He seemed more relaxed. He didn’t have that look on his face that he’d had when he left me, like he’d eaten something sour.

  “That’s shitty luck,” he said finally.

  I shook my head, smiling wryly. I’d made my peace with it. Telling the story, I realized who I’d been most angry at all this time.

  I said, “Now ask me which one I think is the real monster. Zan—he was following instinct. He couldn’t control it. But Bill—he knew exactly what he was doing. And he wasn’t sorry.” After a pause I added, “That’s Zan, out in the street.”

  When I leaned back, I could see out the window. From the second floor, I could see the street, but not the spot where Zan was. I said, “You think anyone’s called the cops yet?”

  “Depends,” he said. “How much noise did you all make?”

  I couldn’t remember. To the casual listener, it might have sounded like stray dogs fighting. I’d have to call Carl, to find out what I should do about Zan. I couldn’t just leave him out there.

  “You should get some rest. You may heal quick, but you still lost a lot of blood. You going to be okay on your own?”

  I thought about it a minute, and thought I would be okay. Maybe I’d go to T.J.’s and see if he’d made it home yet.

  “Yeah, I think so.” I smiled crookedly. “I’m glad you’re not the type to shoot all werewolves on principle.”

  He may have actually smiled at that, but it was thin-lipped and fleeting. “Just give me an excuse, Norville.” He made a haphazard salute and left the apartment.

  Man, that guy scared me. He also made my knees weak, and I wasn’t sure if the two were related.

  He was right, I was tired, but before I could sleep I had to call Carl. I was reaching for the phone when the door opened and Cormac returned.

  Following him were Detective Hardin and three uniformed cops.

  Chapter 10

  Cormac, arms crossed and expression a mask, took his spot holding up the wall. One of the cops stayed with him. The officer didn’t have his gun out, but he kept his hand at his belt. The other two began a search of the apartment, looking in closets, drawers, and behind doors.

  Hardin came straight to me.

  I’d expected lights, sirens, mayhem. Plenty of warning to maybe duck out the back. But Hardin probably wasn’t going to advertise her presence when she was looking for a killer.

  I should have had Carl come pick up the body before the cops showed up. Then again, that would have been just what we needed, someone watching us loading a body into his truck, writing down the license plate number, then calling the police. Werewolf battles usually happened in the wilderness, where bodies could just disappear.

  This way, a
t least only I got bagged.

  God, what was I thinking. This whole thing was a mess. Zan was dead.

  She said, “You want to tell me about the ripped-up body we found downstairs?”

  I glanced at Cormac, who didn’t move a muscle, damn him.

  “No,” I said, which was probably stupider than not saying anything at all.

  “Did you do it?”

  I’d already been through this once tonight. “No.”

  “Ms. Norville, I think I’d like to take you down to the station and ask you a few questions.”

  Hardly surprising, but my stomach still did a flip-flop. I may have been a werewolf, but I’d never even gotten a parking ticket, much less been arrested for anything. Then again, I’d never owned a car.

  But I wasn’t being arrested. This was just questioning.

  “Let me get a jacket,” I said, my voice a whisper. When I stood, my injured side turned toward her. Hardin tilted her head, glancing at the red slashes and puckered skin on my arm.

  “When did that happen?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Impossible. Those have been healing for weeks.”

  “You need to do more reading. Did you get those articles I sent you?”

  “Yeah.” She stared, like she was trying to read my mind. “Who did this to you?” She said it like she actually cared about me or something.

  I glared. “The ripped-up body downstairs.”

  She waited a beat, then, “Are you telling me that guy was a werewolf?”

  I finished shrugging on the jacket and grabbed the key to the apartment. “Should I call a lawyer or something?”

  Outside, there must have been a half-dozen cop cars, along with the coroner’s van. They had the whole street blocked off. Yellow tape fluttered everywhere. A swarm of people wearing plastic gloves huddled around Zan, swabbing things and sticking them into baggies. Evidence. All the evidence they needed.