Kitty Goes to War

by Carrie Vaughn

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I argued, trying to sound nice about it. “I think you make them nervous. They might be a little more comfortable in a more relaxed situation.”

  She hesitated, no doubt forming her argument. I could almost hear the unspoken “but” floating on the signal. “They’re my responsibility,” she said finally. “Colonel Stafford expects them to be supervised by someone with authority.”

  The safe haven of the government bureaucracy. How could I argue against that?

  “If something goes wrong you can court-martial me,” I said, realizing that I probably shouldn’t. I imagined myself fighting two court cases simultaneously. Ben would have conniptions.

  “You’re a civilian, you can’t be court-martialed,” Shumacher said.

  “Well, thank goodness for that. Doctor, these are people, not a science experiment. Can’t we try and let them be people? Just for a couple of hours?”

  “How about a compromise: I’ll go with them, but I’ll wait outside. You get a more normal situation, and I’ll be there if anything goes wrong.”

  She was so convinced that something was going to go wrong. “Deal,” I said.

  “And I want to record the session,” she said quickly.

  “Doctor—”

  “Videotaping therapy sessions is a widely accepted practice,” she argued. And what did I know? I let her come to the restaurant early and set up a pair of remote cameras over the bar.

  Ben and I went together to spring the guys from the VA hospital.

  Chapter 11

  THE GUYS didn’t much like being in the enclosed space of the car. We opened all the windows to let in air. I half expected one of them to stick his head out, nose into the wind, blissful expression on his face. I’d have understood the impulse. Even if they were tense and watchful, being out of the stuffy hospital had to feel good. But they just slumped in their seats and looked surly.

  “This is Denver?” Tyler asked at one point. We followed I-25 to downtown, which presented a vista of skyscrapers, the sports arenas, Elitch’s amusement park, and the Broncos stadium.

  “Yup,” I said. “Ever been here?”

  “No,” he said. “Never have.”

  “What about you, Walters?” He shook his head.

  Just a mile or so later, we pulled off the freeway at Colfax and entered the grid of side streets. A few minutes after that, we were at New Moon. Tyler saw the funky neon sign and smirked.

  “That some kind of joke?” he said.

  “Not really,” I said. “It’s kind of a philosophy.”

  Ben pulled around back and parked.

  Inside, late afternoon, the place was pretty empty, which was also part of the plan. The soldiers looked around carefully—at the tables, brick walls, into the ductwork along the high ceiling, across the bar, studying every inch. I wondered how long it had been since they’d been in a restaurant.

  Behind the counter, Shaun noticed us, straightened, and frowned. He was strong, but more than that he was decisive—he could take a stand. I counted on him to back up me and Ben in the pack. If he ever decided he wanted to take over, we’d be in trouble. So we got him firmly on our side by hiring him to manage New Moon. We were a team.

  Others of the pack were here as well. Two of them, Dan and Jared, tough but sensible, sat at a table in the corner munching on what looked like buffalo wings. Becky was sitting at the bar, talking to Shaun. They all glanced at Ben and me. I nodded at them, and they quickly looked away—showing deference, acknowledging that I was the boss. But they stared hard at Tyler and Walters, who in their camouflage pants and gray T-shirts stood out. Tyler, closest to me, stiffened. Walters had parted his lips, showing teeth.

  The whole scene was like something out of a spaghetti Western. Everyone was still, silent, sizing each other up. Waiting for someone else to flinch first. I could almost hear the Morricone soundtrack.

  I touched Tyler’s arm, half expecting him to jump away and snarl, the first step to starting a fight. He just looked at me, at my hand on his arm, as if he was trying to figure out a code.

  “It’s okay. They’re my pack. They’re friends,” I said.

  He relaxed a notch, and so did Walters. I kept contact with Tyler for a moment—contact meant comfort within the pack. I didn’t know if he was quite pack yet. I didn’t know if that was what we were doing here—bringing them into the pack. Maybe we were. Tyler and Walters still watched the other wolves warily, and wouldn’t look at anything else.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said, and steered them toward a table in back.

  At the table, a weird kind of dance ensued. I just grabbed the first chair I came to. Ben stood back a little, as if he knew what was going to happen. Tyler and Walters slinked around me, looking over their shoulders, sidling along until they reached the chairs closest to the wall, which they pulled back and arranged so they were looking out. They weren’t quite sitting at the table, but they could keep everyone in the place, as well as all the exits, in view. It wasn’t quite natural, even for werewolves. I blinked at them, confused.

  Ben leaned over and whispered, “Backs to the wall. It’s a soldier thing. Haven’t you seen Cormac do that?”

  I’d only recently seen Cormac in a setting like this to be able to judge. Before then, it was all shadowy nighttime battles, and then the prison visiting room. But Ben was right. I suddenly felt like I was baby-sitting dynamite.

  Tyler and Walters perched on their seats and glared out at the world. I settled in across from them, attempting to send out all the soothing vibes I could. Be calm, we’re all friends here.

  Then Shaun came over.

  This was a perfectly normal human situation: we were customers in his restaurant, he needed to take our orders. But he looked like a wolf on the prowl.

  He reached the table, and Tyler and Walters stood, leaning forward, bracing. Ben and I stood along with them, out of pure instinct. We had to be tallest. And even if I wasn’t I had to act like it. But we all stood as part of a dominance display and our heart rates rose right along with us.

  I took a calming breath. “Everyone settle down. Nobody’s getting into any kind of a fight.”

  I sat first, glaring, making it clear I was lowering myself to show a good example, and they shouldn’t read anything into it. Tyler kept watching me closely, as if he was waiting for me to slip. The two soldiers slowly returned to their seats; only then did Ben sit.

  “I’m Shaun,” he said, offering his hand for shaking. Tyler took a moment to figure out what to do with it. Shaun waited patiently until Tyler finally shook it, and Walters followed his lead. “What can I get for you?”

  “What are you doing working here?” Tyler asked, accusing, maybe even confused.

  Shaun chuckled nervously, equally confused. “Kitty hired me to manage the place. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “But you’re a werewolf,” Tyler said.

  “And what am I supposed to do, live in the woods and eat rabbits for the rest of my life? I still have to pay the rent.”

  Tyler looked sullen. “This just doesn’t seem like the best job for a werewolf.”

  Shaun glanced at me for a cue, or maybe even to take over the conversation. For my part, my heart kind of broke a little, at the thought that Tyler believed that as a werewolf he could only be a warrior.

  “That’s kind of the point of coming here. There’s such a thing as a nonmilitarized werewolf,” I said. “I run a talk radio show. Ben’s a lawyer.”

  Tyler and Walters seemed to ponder, but they also seemed to not quite believe us. They just stared as though they expected the whole setting to turn into a joke.

  “Do you all want anything to drink?” Shaun tried again.

  “My treat,” I said. “Go crazy.”

  Walters looked at Tyler, almost asking permission. “I could really use a beer,” he said.

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” Tyler actually chuckled.

  “When was the last time you
guys had a beer?” I said.

  “When we deployed. No alcohol in the field, and since then . . .” He trailed off, shrugging.

  “Maybe you’d better hold off,” I said. “Not until we know you’re not going to sprout claws and go bonkers.”

  “Cokes all around then?” Shaun said. He probably liked the idea of not having a couple of military werewolves going bonkers in the restaurant.

  Tyler and Walters acquiesced. Tyler wore a smile, a bit thin, a bit wry, as though he’d thought of a joke. Even with half the smile his face lit. “Is this all some big ploy to show us that werewolves are real people, too?”

  “You haven’t actually listened to Kitty’s show ever, have you?” Ben said.

  Neither one showed any sign that he had.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t think I’m broadcast in Afghanistan.”

  “Kitty’s the supernatural self-help guru,” Ben said. Tyler raised a disbelieving brow. I couldn’t blame him; it did sound a bit ridiculous.

  “Why do you think Shumacher called me? I’ve faked knowing what I’m talking about for so long I’ve become an expert.”

  “Sounds like the army to me,” Tyler said.

  Shaun arrived with a tray of sodas, and the others managed not to flinch at his approach. I nodded, and Shaun left us alone; but he lingered behind the bar, glancing back at us, keeping an eye on us.

  Walters didn’t pay much attention to the drink in front of him; he seemed distracted. I looked to where he was staring: to Becky. She was staring right back at him, and frowning.

  “Walters,” I said. I had to say it again before he looked at me. “Stop staring.”

  “I know her,” Walters said, nodding at Becky, quickly glancing away. “She was in the woods the other day. With you. The other wolf.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You kind of beat her up.”

  He flinched, cringing. But his gaze inevitably crept back to her. “What’s she doing here?”

  “I think she was hoping for an apology.”

  Walters blushed and looked into his glass. But he glanced at her a couple of times in the space of a few seconds, with a longing, hungry gaze, looking for all the world like an awkward teenager. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and I was afraid to ask. Ben wore a smirk, leading me to think that he understood what was going on in the guy’s brain. Now, was that because he was a guy and this was a guy thing, or because Ben was a criminal law attorney and he understood the dynamic? I’d have to ask him about that later. I wondered if I should move to block Walters’s view of Becky.

  So. Here we were. Having drinks. Like normal grown-up people. What came next, again? Conversation? Oy.

  We managed a half hour of small talk—a very human activity. I was pleased. By the end the two soldiers had even stopped looking around like they expected an attack.

  Then Walters said, “I wish Van was here. If we could get him here, you could help him. Show him that we can be normal—”

  “Ethan, you have to let Vanderman go,” I said.

  He appeared so forlorn, looking at me with a lost gaze. He had both hands wrapped around his glass, clinging to it.

  By then, we’d nearly finished our sodas, which meant it was probably time to quit while we were ahead, or cut our losses, whichever metaphor seemed more appropriate. I waved at Shaun, put the drinks on my tab, and herded the pack toward the door.

  On our way, Walters stopped by the bar near Becky, who stood, uncertain, one hand clenching the edge of her seat. She didn’t back up, but I could sense her quivering, as if she wanted to. Shaun looked like he might leap over the bar at him. We all watched, astonished.

  Walters kept a space between them, wide enough that he couldn’t reach out to touch her. Ducking his gaze, deferential, he took a moment to gather himself, his lips moving, working to say something. Probably struggling at the wolf roiling inside him. The smells, the wolfishness and hormones they’d sensed in the forest, were still apparent. However faint, our wolves could sense them.

  Finally, Walters said, “I’m sorry.”

  He slouched, rounding his back, shoving his hands in his pockets, and stomped away.

  Becky and I looked at each other. She was wide-eyed, a little baffled. I shook my head, unable to explain, beyond the fact that Walters was socially awkward but trying. I waved a farewell to her and Shaun, and followed the others outside.

  I was surprised to find the world overcast but brightly lit—still afternoon. I felt like we should have been at about two in the morning. I’d exhausted myself, just from sitting there. We all looked that way. Ben was glancing up and down the street, as if expecting trouble. Tyler and Walters remained sullen, turned in on themselves.

  Shumacher waited near her car. “Well? What happened?”

  I stepped with her away from the others to discuss. “I think it went fine. You can tell me after you take a look at the footage.” She was no doubt on her way to retrieve her cameras.

  “No problems? Everything was normal?”

  “I wouldn’t call it normal,” I said. “Not with this crowd. But we’re all alive, aren’t we? Hey—can we talk about this later? They’re tired and probably ought to get home.”

  She looked like she had more questions, but relented. I urged my pack into the car, and we rolled away. I had to admit, I let out a sigh of relief when they were once again safely behind their locked door at the VA hospital.

  The field trip had been a success, and there was hope for Tyler and Walters.

  Chapter 12

  A COUPLE OF days had passed since we’d followed Franklin and he put the whammy on us. I hadn’t heard from him since.

  I’d distracted myself by worrying about the werewolf soldiers. And I had a show to get ready for. I wanted to bring on Tyler and Walters for an interview—real-live werewolves in the army, what did that mean, and so on. It was topical, newsworthy, interesting, and I didn’t believe for a minute that Colonel Stafford or Dr. Shumacher would agree to let it happen. I was working on compromise ideas, like maybe conducting a prerecorded interview that the powers that be could approve. I fantasized about possible interview questions, and how I could be sympathetic, yet incisive and hard-hitting at the same.

  Ben and I talked about Cormac not answering his phone. He insisted he wasn’t worried, that Cormac was fine, that he often went for weeks without communicating with anyone. He didn’t want to annoy Cormac by babying him. But he spoke as if he was trying to convince himself.

  I didn’t have that problem, so I stopped by his place on my way home from work. Just to check, for my own peace of mind. And to make sure Franklin hadn’t gone after him.

  Cormac had an apartment at the north end of town, in a run-down building in a run-down neighborhood off I-25 and the Boulder Turnpike. One in thousands. He could melt into the city, not stand out, not get in trouble. That was the idea.

  I parked next to his familiar Jeep in the parking lot. So, his Jeep was here. He hadn’t fled anywhere, and nothing about it looked like he had gotten in trouble. Maybe he’d been home the whole time and just ignoring us. Maybe he forgot to charge his phone. I was just being paranoid. Maybe that was it.

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on his door. There wasn’t a window in front for me to peer through. I drew a couple of slow, careful breaths through my nose, taking in smells. I caught his scent, the soap, leather, and ruggedness of him. He’d been here recently. I didn’t sense anything that set my hair on end—like, say, blood. But I did smell a tang of burning sage, like incense. It tickled my nose and touched a memory—a ritual, a magic spell.

  Confused, uneasy, I knocked again.

  The door opened and Cormac stood there, staring a moment, blinking in surprise. He gripped the doorknob. His light brown hair was tousled and his eyes were shadowed, sleepless. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Socks, no shoes.

  “Hi,” I said, raising my hand in a stupid little wave. “We haven’t heard from you in a few days and I wanted to .
. . I guess see if you’d found anything out. And . . . are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Can I come in?” The smell of smoke and burned sage grew stronger when he opened the door. My first thought had been that someone—Franklin—had cast a spell on his place. But the burning had happened inside. Cormac had never struck me as the incense-burning type.

  Frowning, he stood aside to let me enter.

  I hadn’t been here since we helped him move in—a process that took about an hour and involved two pieces of furniture and a cardboard box—and he’d scowled at my suggestion of a housewarming party. The apartment wasn’t much. It aspired to be a studio, in fact. They called these efficiencies. A square room, part of a block of square rooms, it had a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, a window in back, a kitchenette of sorts with a small, dorm-sized fridge, a sink, and a hot plate. It all seemed terribly grim. But then, I had no idea how Cormac had lived before he went to prison. His home then might have been just like this.

  Ben and I had offered to give him—or loan him, if he preferred to call it a loan—a down payment on a nicer place. His aunt—Ben’s mother—offered to let him stay with her in Longmont, a town about thirty miles north of Denver. But he’d refused. He said wanted to be independent. He said he wanted his own space, after spending two years locked in a building with hundreds of other guys, under constant supervision. So, here he was, living on savings and working part time, scraping by.

  He’d done some decorating since we moved him in here. He had a futon with a plain gray comforter against one wall. Near it was a nightstand with a fifteen-inch TV on it. Near the kitchenette, in pretty much the only other open space available, stood a kitchen table—small, round, retro, with a pair of worn chairs.

  The table was covered with books. More were scattered across the bed and stacked on the floor by the bed. Many of them were open, or had sticky notes bristling out of them.

  Cormac had also never struck me as the academic type. I’d sent him books in prison—one of the few things you could send to someone in prison—as something of a joke. But near as I could tell he’d read everything I’d given him. And he was still going.