Kitty's Mix-Tape

by Carrie Vaughn

  They lay together on the bed, his arm around her, holding her close, while she nestled against him. They talked about the future, which was always an odd topic for him. Helen had decided to look for an old-fashioned kind of job and aim for a normal life this time. “But I don’t know what to do about you,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him.

  He’d been here before, lying with a woman he liked, who with a little thought and nudging he could perhaps be in love with, except that what they had would never be entirely mutual, or equitable. And he still didn’t know what to say. I could take from you for the rest of your life, and you’d end with . . . nothing.

  He said, “If you’d like, I can vanish, and you’ll never see me again. It might be better that way.”

  “I don’t want that. But I wish . . .” Her face puckered, brow furrowed in thought. “But you’re not ever going to take me on a trip, or stay up to watch the sunrise with me, or ask me to marry you, or anything, are you?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve already given you everything I can.”

  Except for one thing. But he hadn’t told her that he could infect her, make her like him, that she too could live forever and never see a sunrise. And he wouldn’t.

  “It’s enough,” she said, hugging him. “At least for now, it’s enough.”

  The Island of Beasts

  SHE WAS A BUNDLE on the bottom of the skiff, tossed in with her skirt and petticoat tangled around her legs, hands bound behind her with a thin chain that also wrapped around her neck.

  She didn’t struggle; the silver in the chain burned her skin. The more she moved, the more she burned, so she lay still because the only way to stop this would be to make them kill her. They wanted to kill her. So why didn’t they? Why go through the trouble of rowing this wave-rocked skiff out to this hideous island just to throw her to her likely death? To save themselves the taint of murder? To keep themselves clean of whatever small sin her death would engender on their souls? Surely her life was not so large that her death would be such a burden.

  “Why? Why not just kill me and be done with it?” she growled.

  Her captors—the two rough men on the oars and the gentleman with the tailored frock coat and fine manners who sat at the prow—were wolves, like her. They smelled of musk and wild and moorland, of the beasts that hid inside their flesh. But they were civilized. They followed orders and bowed to their betters. Not like her. They also smelled of hearth fires and smugness. She smelled of fury.

  The gentleman, Mr. Edgerton, laughed sourly. “You are not worth the cost of the silver ball it would take to kill you.”

  She was not valuable enough to keep and not dangerous enough to kill. There was a pretty fate. Too dangerous to keep and not valuable enough to bother taming. And so here she was, dumped on the edge of the world, off the coast of Scotland. She could laugh and cry both, but her throat was too locked up with stifled screams. Edgerton would like it if she screamed. He’d tell his master, the Lord of Wolves in London, that she screamed. He’d likely tell the Lord that anyway, but it wouldn’t be true, and that would be something. She’d make the fine gentleman a liar.

  Edgerton drew out a spyglass and used it to search the island’s shore.

  “See anything, sir?” one of the oarsmen asked. The men at the oars were servants, lower wolves who bowed and scraped and thus got their meat thrown to them. They wouldn’t save her.

  “Not a thing. They’re hiding from us. Biding their time.”

  “Maybe they’re all dead,” said the other. “Maybe they all killed each other.”

  “Perhaps they did. You’ll have the island to yourself,” Edgerton said to the woman and grinned. The bottom of the skiff hit sand. “That’s enough, no need to go all the way up.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let her walk the rest of the way.” He would never say it, but he was afraid.

  Her hands jerked; the silver chain seared her neck. Her bonds were suddenly loose, but in the next moment she was rolled over the side of the boat and into the freezing North Atlantic water, wool skirt instantly sodden and pulling her down. She flailed, reached out. Put her feet down on the sand, stood. Was only knee deep in the churning surf, watching the skiff row away, the men laughing. Edgerton held up the silver chain in a gloved hand. It was worth more than she ever was.

  “Damn you all! Damn you all for cowards and bastards! You could have just killed me, but you’re cowards, aren’t you just!” She screamed after them, and their laughter carried to her in reply. They, all of them who condemned her to this exile, need never think of her again.

  She stood with the waves pushing back and forth around her legs, shoving ’round her skirt, freezing water pulling at her. The sand reached from the lapping surf to a stretch of sea grass and crumbling gray rock. The sky was gray, the water was gray, dark slate, pushing up the thick stretch of pale sand. Beyond, the land was green and spare, grass kept short by wind and whatever gnawed at it. Sheep had been here days ago, and oddly the scent of their droppings gave her hope. There was food here, if she could get it.

  Past the beach, up a slope, was a craggy outcrop, stones tumbled down from some exposed hillside. Wasn’t as good as a fort or a tower, but maybe she could defend the spot. She needed a place. She needed weapons. She needed time. Soaking wet, she wanted a fire. A fury had built up in her heart to the breaking point. She would snap and strip and the wolf would burst through her skin and run wild, and if that happened she was done for, she’d have nothing.

  No matter. It was finished. She was here, and she knew that she was not alone on this island.

  She got to work.

  By the time the cold rain started, she had something resembling shelter. She’d piled driftwood and rushes over a cleft in the jagged rocks and made a little cave for herself. With the rain, well, she had fresh water. Though she was hungry, food could wait until tomorrow. The gray sky was turning dark, the sun setting, the slate ocean turning black, and the rush and crash of the waves went on and on. Survive the night, that was all she had to do. Then the next night, and the next.

  God damn them who put her here, but she would live. If for no other reason than to spite them.

  Wasn’t time for the full moon—breaking clouds revealed a threequarters waxing moon. Wolves howled anyway. Five, six of them, calling out with high, sharp territory songs. We know you are here, we sense you, we smell you, we are coming for you. Curled up in her cave, huddled in her skirts, hugging her knees, she listened to them.

  Weapons. She would need to find weapons tomorrow. Build a palisade around her cave and hold them off as long as she could. There would be no silver on the island she could use to kill them. Or herself.

  They would be wild. They had been exiled to the island because they could not control themselves, because they were dangerous. Likely, they spent more time in their wolf shapes than as men. Why would they need to walk upright, why would they need hands and voices and manners here? And they would all be men. Wolf women were rare, and she was the only one to ever be exiled to the Island of Beasts. The men, the wolves already here—they would tear her apart.

  She would not let them.

  Morning, she tried to keep sleeping, curled up tight and shivering. If she slept, this might be a dream, she might wake up in her attic servant’s room. She imagined a bushy tail pulled up against her face like a blanket to keep her warm. A whole coat of thick fur, sharp claws and fierce teeth to catch rats and vermin to eat. She was already wild, they said. Was why they exiled her here. She could be wild. And lose her clothing, her shelter, her wits, her dignity. The ability to stand with her chin up. As a wolf, she could murder them all.

  Come full moon she wouldn’t have a choice.

  No, she would have a plan by then. She would make a plan, she would survive as her own self and not the beast inside her. She would keep herself, and what was left of her soul. Everything was damp: the rock, the ground she slept on, her clothes, bodice, and petticoats. Her tangled hair she shook
out and pinned back up. Brushed out her skirt, stamped feeling back into her booted feet, and went out into the bleak morning.

  Along the shore she found a couple of crabs, dug for clams and ate them raw, gnawed on seaweed. She collected more driftwood and thought about how to sharpen pieces without so much as a penknife. Found a stand of heather on the far side of the hill and hauled an armload of it to her little hovel to dry.

  Piling up wood and brush, she built what she could of a wall to protect the sheltered room. Dragged some stones up to anchor it, grateful for her wolf’s strength. It wouldn’t hold against attack, but she had high ground here. She would see whatever approached. She chose a couple of good sturdy lengths of driftwood she could use as clubs, and commenced to shaving another down into a rough spear. Even through the heart, a wooden spear wouldn’t kill the wolves. But she could give them pause.

  Some distance out from her fort, she squatted and pissed in an attempt to mark some territory. She smelled other piss marks, at least two different wolf men farther out on the field. She didn’t piss on them directly—it would be taken as a challenge, and they would come for her even sooner, to meet the challenge. This way she only meant to carve out a little space for herself, to send a message: leave me alone, I am no threat.

  Still, it didn’t take long for the residents of the Island of Beasts to find her.

  She smelled him well in advance of his arrival, had time to climb up one of the craggy rocks to use as a vantage, carrying one of her makeshift, inadequate spears. He was a rangy thing, black fur and golden eyes. He trotted around the hill, down the slope toward the beach and then back again, head low and scenting, tail out like a rudder. Tightened his circle on each lap, coming closer. He was big, more than two hundred pounds. As a man, he would be a solid brute.

  “Get away, you! Go on!” she hollered, as if he were just a dog and she were just a woman, a housekeeper protecting a flock of chickens. She threw a stone at him, missed.

  He danced away but instantly spun back, mouth open and tongue lolling. Laughing at her. She screamed a howl of warning, not that it would do any good. If he charged, she was done for. If he had friends, she was done for. But she would deliver as much damage as she could before then. The wolf circled again, giving her a good look-over, then turned to the field beyond her hill and ran, loping off without a care. She slumped against the rock, leaning on her spear. She had survived her first encounter with one of the exiled wolf men of the Island.

  More wolves came, but these walked on two legs. She awoke next morning with their scent on the air from upwind, like they wanted to be sure she smelled them. Heart racing, she left her little fort to see how they would attack and how she might hold them off.

  But it wasn’t like that at all. Two of them waited halfway up the hill. One was muscular, bearded, a hard-looking man with a glare like stone. He wore boots, breeches, linen shirt, and the red coat of a soldier, all the worse for wear, but he stood straight, a thumb hitched into his waistband. The other was tall, lean, and clean-shaven. Imagine, keeping a smooth face here in this place. His shirt was well tailored, and he wore a waistcoat that must have been silk, the way it shone and fit so smooth. His breeches and boots were also fine, and he had a smirk of confidence. A bit of lordly swagger. He must have been a gentleman, once upon a time.

  They were wolves. Not just wolves—they had a power to them, a certain bearing. The assumption that they would be listened to and obeyed. They led packs. She had been told that the island was chaos. That there were no packs, that the law of beasts ruled, which meant there was no law, only violence and blood, and she would be at their mercy. She had not thought to expect . . . this.

  The gentleman held up a stick with what looked like a worn-out cravat tied to it. Though a little grubby now, it had once been white. A flag of truce, then. Staring, she leaned out from behind her rock, unwilling to reveal herself further.

  “Hallo! You there!” the gentleman called. “Might we have a word?”

  She didn’t have to come out, she could pretend she wasn’t here, but they knew she was. They’d crossed the scent she’d marked.

  “I promise, we mean you no harm. We wish to speak with you.”

  She came out far enough to sit on the rock and laid her spear across her lap. This was as far as she would go, let them do with that what they would.

  The gentleman nodded in understanding, even as he frowned.

  “I am Mr. Brandon and this is Sergeant Cox. First, however trying the circumstances of your arrival to our Island, may I offer welcome and hope that you are settling in as well as can be expected.” His speech was very proper, almost laughably so, given the landscape. He ought to be in a fine drawing room with a matched tea set and ancient portraits on the wall. How had he come to be exiled? Did he know Edgerton?

  The soldier, Cox, glared at him a moment, then rolled his eyes. Brandon huffed a little. “Yes, well. To explain the rest to you, then . . . each of us commands one of the Island’s two packs. We are here to . . . invite you, I think is not too strong a word. That is, we’d each like to make an offer, so that you may choose which of us to ally yourself with.”

  “You’ll be safer with one of us.” Cox’s accent was rougher, his manner straightforward. Not a gentleman. She caught his scent, studied the hint of gold in his eyes—he was the rangy black wolf who’d visited her yesterday. A scouting mission.

  “And so we do you the courtesy of offering a choice, rather than resorting to . . . more direct persuasion.” The gentleman showed his teeth, a flash of a smile, and her stomach clenched. As laughably proper as he was, she should not underestimate him. His fine manner disguised a monstrous bearing. Others had likely underestimated him. He likely counted on it.

  She could not find words. The beast trapped inside her wanted to howl, her hands clenched on her spear, and she could very nearly feel the claws about to rip through her fingertips, bent on slaughter. She would not choose, she would not, and if she tried to speak, the words would come out all at once in a roar.

  They must have taken her for a simpleton. They looked at one another, uncertain.

  Cox licked his lips and said, “Full moon’s in five days. You’ll have to come out then. Then we’ll have you.”

  Her lips curled, a snarl. “You will not. I’ll drown myself first.”

  Brandon smiled. “Ah, she speaks.”

  She stood and shook the hopeless spear at them. “I won’t choose! I won’t! That’s what got me booted to this bloody place. They told me I must choose, I must be some wolf’s mate, but I said no, and I fought, and so they sent me here to be torn apart by brutes. And now you tell me that I must choose? No, a thousand times no!”

  “It isn’t . . . you misunderstand us,” Brandon said patiently. “You needn’t be anyone’s mate. But as the sergeant says, you cannot be alone during the full moon, you must have the protection of one of us. So we—or at least I—propose a more conventional domestic arrangement. More suited to your . . . um.” He gestured at her simple clothing, as if that explained everything. This choice actually boded worse than the other. Brandon continued, matter-of-factly. “You see, you are a woman.”

  She looked skyward and laughed. “And what of that?”

  “We have been without women’s company for some time. And, well—”

  “How dare you, how dare you come here and think you can . . . use me so!”

  Brandon said, “It isn’t that, our motives are entirely upstanding. We’ve no wish to use you in that manner at all.”

  The rough-looking man said, “What he means to say is he wants someone to wash his shirts.”

  “And cook for us. We’ve had no one to do the mending, either, and—”

  She screamed. Clenched fists on either side of her face and gave voice to her fury.

  “I take that as a . . . no.”

  She spoke, snarling. “You’ve all been here for years, and not one of you ever made a stew or darned a sock?”

  “We’ve done what
we can, but a woman’s touch—”

  She left. Slid down the rock and slipped back into her hovel, pulling her knees up and hugging them hard. So. She had come to the Island of Beasts and found . . . civilization. It was civilization that had put her here in the first place. Looking outside to an overcast sky, threatening more rain, she waited. Her nose flared, searching the air for the men’s scent.

  At last, Brandon called up the hill. “We’ll come back after you’ve had a bit of time to think things over.”

  “We’ve got fire,” Cox said. “You want a warm fire and a hot meal, you’ll come with one of us.”

  “Just so,” Brandon said.

  She put her hands to her ears and squeezed shut her eyes, because she didn’t want to listen anymore. They went away.

  She carried the spear with her when she went foraging on the strand again. She did not trust that they would let her alone, let her choose. The wolves had managed to get themselves arranged in packs—they would fight over her, sooner or later. Why should she believe that they would let her alone?

  She’d never been let alone before.

  After gathering more crabs and an armful of seaweed that she thought she might knit into a net to catch fish, she went back to her cave to consider how she might find fire and more weapons. How she might survive the full moon night without being torn apart by the Island’s wolf packs.

  The gentleman, Brandon, was waiting for her. He stayed the same polite distance halfway down her hill. When she appeared he glanced at her—and away, and did not try to meet her gaze again. In the language of beasts he was saying that he meant no harm, no challenge. She was unconvinced and kept her own gaze on her hand, around the spear.

  He had put a tray on the grass in front of him and knelt before it. The tray held a tin kettle with steam coming out of the spout. A pair of little china tea cups, and how on earth had such delicate things reached the island intact? A clay pot of honey, which smelled of the island’s own wildflowers.