Kitty Raises Hell kn-6

by Carrie Vaughn

  “Rick claimed that he once played poker with Doc Holliday.” After all that had happened, that made the biggest impact.

  “Huh. So, what does Rick knowing Doc Holliday have to do with whatever tried to burn down the restaurant?” Ben said.

  “Nothing. It’s just that he drives me crazy with all this stuff he isn’t telling me.”

  “You expect him to tell you his life story? All five hundred years of it?”

  Maybe he had a point. “Speaking of the Old West, a stranger rode into town this evening. A vampire claiming to be a demon hunter, says he knows all about the Band of Tiamat and how to stop the attacks.”

  “Really?” He glanced at me, brow creased like he didn’t believe it. “What’s the catch?”

  “That’s what I asked. He wants to settle in Denver, it sounds like. Rick doesn’t want him here.”

  “Is it a real offer? Do you think he can really help?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Vampire. Rick says he’s older, but he’s different than the old ones I’ve met. I was under the impression they tend to stay put, become Master of a city. Get pompous as hell. This guy seemed... I don’t know. Driven. Like he was on a mission. I don’t think I’ve ever met a vampire on a mission. Not like this. Maybe he’s just a really dedicated demon hunter, like he says.”

  “But then he wouldn’t be asking for something in return,” Ben pointed out.

  “This is why I’m glad I have a lawyer around,” I said. “You don’t trust anybody.”

  He shrugged. “I trust you.”

  He said it with such earnestness, I almost got teary-eyed. “Thanks.”

  We leaned into each other for a long, warm kiss that made the day’s tension melt away. Eventually—about when the shirts came off and the groping started in earnest—we made our way to the bedroom.

  “Can you do something for me?” he murmured between kisses and catches in his breath. My imagination rolled on for a moment, anticipating what he’d ask, wondering if it would be something I hadn’t already thought of involving him, his body, my body, and the bed. I made an affirmative noise while nuzzling his neck.

  “The next time you’re gone all day, or you run into that vampire, or anything like that happens, will you call me?”

  Well, that wasn’t very sexy. I pulled back enough to see his face, which was tired and anxious-looking. “You sound worried.”

  “I guess I am. It was getting late, and I just kept thinking about what would happen if this thing attacked you and I wasn’t there.”

  We hadn’t spent much time apart since we hooked up, almost a year ago now. When we had been apart, either one or both of us had been in trouble. We were a pack, and we wanted to be together. Being alone wasn’t safe.

  “You want to watch my back for me?” I said.

  “Don’t you think it needs watching?” Watching, or feeling up, one or the other. His hands pressed into my skin, kneading my muscles, locking me close to him.

  I pressed up to him and curled my legs around him. “You tell me.”

  With that, we returned energetically to the business at hand. I for one felt much better come morning.

  Chapter 11

  Researching demons went about the same as researching every other supernatural topic I’d ever delved into. Much of it was vague, paranoid, filled with warnings and hysteria. There seemed to be a higher degree of religious nuttery than usual. The most generally accepted way to repel demons was to find a priest to conduct an exorcism. In fact, the Catholic Church had an accepted, approved set of procedures for exorcising demons. It was usually for exorcising them from people. All too often, examples presented as demonic possession were in reality more mundane cases of severe mental illness. Those people needed medical help, not holy water and Latin chants.

  Nearly any word for monster or supernatural creature in any language could be translated as “demon” in English, which still left a world of possibilities. I hadn’t learned very much more than when I started.

  This thing’s attacks were getting worse, striking new targets, so I made a new, bigger batch of the protection potion. Then I went to my parents’ house.

  They weren’t home, which was good. I was still hoping not to draw them directly into this, but I wanted the house—and them inside it—to be safe, so I made a circle around it with the potion. I hid it in the grass and shrubs, ran it through the gate in the fence around the backyard, then back up the other side. In front of the house, a concrete walk led to the front door. Wasn’t any way I could hide the potion on the concrete, so I painted a sticky black line across it to finish the circle. Maybe they would think it was dirt, or the trail of a weird insect or something. Maybe they wouldn’t notice it at all. I finished and left as quickly as I could, and no one called the police on me, which was even better.

  At my sister Cheryl’s, however, I got caught.

  The problem was the golden retriever running loose in the fenced backyard. It was named Bucky or something. I didn’t really remember, because I avoided the beast like the plague. He could sense what I was, had decided that I was a threat, and let his displeasure be known every time I appeared. When I came over to visit, Bucky was exiled to the backyard. Maybe he was just resentful.

  I had spread the potion in the front of the house, then got to the gate in the fence. I opened it an inch and was met by the growling, slavering jaws of Bucky. Weren’t golden retrievers supposed to be stupid and friendly? This thing was acting like a Doberman.

  I slammed the gate shut and held it closed while Bucky threw himself against it. Oh, if I could just let Wolf loose to have a go at him, we’d shut him up real quick—

  “Bucky, what the hell’s the matter with you?” That was my sister, approaching from the backyard side of the fence. I heard a commotion, presumably her grabbing the dog by the collar, and the dog whining in frustration, trying to tell her what was wrong. What is it, Lassie? There’s a werewolf trying to break in? She murmured admonitions at him, but he kept making noises like he was struggling to break free and have at me again.

  So much for stealth.

  “Hey, Cheryl?” I called. “It’s me.”

  After a moment she said, “Kitty? What are you doing here?”

  I winced. “Long story. Can you put the mutt inside? Then I’ll tell you all about it.” Well, I’d tell her some of it.

  “Mutt?” she said, indignant. “He has papers!”

  Whatever. But the commotion was moving away as she presumably hauled Bucky into the house.

  Cheryl was my older sister. I’d idolized her when we were kids, even though we’d fought like heathens. Now she had settled into suburban bliss, with the nice house in a new subdivision, the swell husband, the two kids, and the dog, all with names out of a 1950s sitcom. But she still wore jeans and band T-shirts and listened to punk when the kids were napping. I loved my sister. We still occasionally fought like heathens.

  When the backyard was quiet, I opened the gate and continued spreading the blood potion. Cheryl met me halfway across the backyard. Bucky was at the sliding glass door, barking at us, spitting dog slobber on the glass.

  She wrinkled her nose when she saw what I was doing. “What is that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Is that going to kill my lawn?”

  That was something I hadn’t considered. But blood was high in nutrients, right? A fertilizer? “No,” I said, and hoped I was right.

  “Okay,” she drawled, hands on hips, glaring at me. “I may regret asking this, but why are you doing this?”

  I tried to be as brief and clear as possible. “There’s this demon attacking me—it’s responsible for the fire at New Moon. This is a protection potion. It’s supposed to keep you all safe.”

  She let me work in silence for a few more moments. Then, “Why is this demon attacking you?”

  “I pissed some people off in Vegas. Long story.”

  Another long pause
before she said, “Kitty, you’re my sister and I love you, but have you ever considered another line of work?”

  I had absolutely no response to that. I giggled. “I’m sorry. I try to be careful, honest. These things just happen.”

  “Are we really in danger? Is this like last time?”

  “No, this is nothing like last time, and you’re not in danger. This is just a precaution.” This was like dealing with the pack—I had to sound confident.

  Cheryl looked skeptical.

  “So,” I said. “How are Mark and the kids?”

  “They’re fine. You’re changing the subject.”

  I stopped and faced her. “This’ll work. And you have to promise not to tell Mom. I did their house already. They don’t need to know.”

  I expected her to argue, but she didn’t. Because she understood. We both wanted to protect our mother from anything that might upset her. This would probably upset her.

  She walked with me as I finished the circle of protection. Mission accomplished.

  “I guess I’d better get going,” I said.

  “How much trouble are you in, really?” she said, arms crossed.

  “A lot, I think. But I’m working on it.”

  “Be careful.” She sounded very serious.

  “Yeah. Let me know if anything weird happens, okay?”

  “Weirder than usual?”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “That.”

  We hugged. I left another jar of the stuff with her, just in case. She waited to watch me drive away before going back inside.

  My cell phone rang Tuesday morning when Ben and I were still in bed. I didn’t want to answer it, but I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t my phone, because it played “I Wanna Be Sedated.” It went almost all the way through the chorus before Ben grunted and poked me, forcing me to action.

  Caller ID read Hardin. I groaned.

  The very last thing I needed in the midst of all this was a call from Detective Jessi Hardin. She was the Denver PD’s resident expert on what they called paranatural situations. If a body turned up in a back alley that looked like it had been mauled by a wolf or drained of blood, she headed the investigation. This was mostly through happenstance and Hardin’s bullheaded determination to educate herself now that these things—these monsters—were in the open and publicly acknowledged. She was a believer, and the supernatural didn’t scare her. No, it only pissed her off.

  For some reason, she always called me when she stumbled across something new and freaky. Like I knew any more than she did.

  I didn’t want to answer, but if I didn’t, she’d show up in person. She usually brought along crime-scene photos of dead bodies. I wanted to avoid that if I could.

  Just before the call would be shunted to voice mail, I answered. “You have a body, don’t you?”

  “I have a body,” she answered, but without the peppy sarcasm I had come to expect from her. One of the things that made her good at her work was a sense of humor.

  “I guarantee you it wasn’t werewolves this time, I promise.” If one of my pack attacked a person, I’d deal with the murderer myself.

  “I know. This is something completely different. Kitty—”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better. Why are you calling me? Are you going to show me gruesome crime-scene photos?”

  “Kitty, be quiet for a minute, please.”

  I shut up, because she sounded serious, stone serious, like she wanted to be doing anything other than having this conversation.

  She said, “Do you know a man named Mick Cabrerra?”

  The name took a minute to click, because I’d heard his last name maybe twice in my life. But I knew only one Mick, and my mind turned worried circles wondering what my disgruntled werewolf minion could have gotten into. “Yes.”

  Hardin’s voice was strained. “We found his body last night. I’m sorry.”

  “What?” I’m afraid I squeaked. “What? But how? I saw him just a couple days ago, he was fine. What could kill him—he’s a werewolf. Did you know he’s a werewolf? He can’t be dead.”

  “Yes. The blood test is standard autopsy procedure now. We haven’t been able to reach any next of kin, and he had your name and number in his wallet as an emergency contact. Was he part of your pack?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “But how did he die?”

  She sighed, which meant it was something odd, unusual, something she didn’t want to talk about. “It’s complicated. But there was a fire.”

  Somehow, strangely, that didn’t surprise me. Fire had been hunting us, and now it had gotten one of us. I didn’t want to picture Mick burned up like that, dying like that. I closed my eyes as the breath went out of me.

  “Do you want to come down to the morgue? To see him? We can talk about it in person, if you’d like.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him; I’d already seen enough bodies. But I thought that later on I might want the closure.

  “Okay, yeah,” I said. “I should do that.”

  “We’re going to spend a little while longer looking for his family.”

  “I’m not sure he has any family, Detective.”

  “Then you may be it. But we can talk about that later. Do you need directions to get here?”

  Ben was awake, sitting up, and looking at me as I listened to the directions and tried to memorize them. I’d probably have to look it up anyway. Or maybe Ben would know. I’m not sure what kind of desperate, forlorn expression I showed him. He touched my leg.

  “Okay,” I said when she’d finished. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I shut off the phone.

  Ben waited for the explanation as I wiped tears away. This was stress, thinking of everything I needed to do, going to see his body, telling everyone else what had happened. I’d taken over this pack. I was the alpha. I was supposed to protect them.

  I climbed out of bed and started dressing. “That was Detective Hardin. She says that Mick is dead.”

  For a moment, we paused and looked at each other. His expression was stark, disbelieving. “Oh. God,” he said. “How?”

  “Fire.”

  Then Ben was standing next to me and holding me, a tight, comforting embrace without words. Because what could we say, really? But I needed the hug.

  Chapter 12

  What the police procedural TV shows can’t get across is the smell.

  The morgue smelled overwhelmingly of alcohol and death. More so even than a hospital, which at least had a variety of odors of life and living overlaying the antiseptic reek. This place was a war between sterility and decay. A normal human would smell and maybe even be bothered by a sickly tang lodging in the back of the throat. But for me and Ben, for any lycanthrope, the smell filled our lungs and seeped in through our pores. My arms broke out in gooseflesh. I should have been getting used to this, the way these grotesque smells assaulted my sensitive werewolf nose.

  I took shallow breaths and thought about escape.

  Detective Hardin met us in the lobby. She was a brisk woman, always moving like she was in a hurry and losing her patience. Of average height, with dark hair tied in a tail, she wore a functional pantsuit that might have been on her for a couple of days now. The shadows under her eyes suggested she’d worked through the night. Her smile was grim, and she didn’t have a quip, which added another layer of depression and unreality to the situation. I wanted Hardin back to her snide, not in the middle of a disaster self.

  “Kitty. Mr. O’Farrell. Thanks for coming. It’s this way.” We walked with her through a set of double doors marked private, then down a chilly corridor of off-white walls and an institutional linoleum floor.

  “Can you tell me what exactly killed him? You said it was a fire, but complicated. Did his building burn? Was it someplace else?”

  Apparently, she couldn’t tell me. “How long have you known Mr. Cabrerra?” she asked instead.

  “A few years,” I said. “I didn’t know him well. We weren’t best friends or anythi
ng.”

  “But you were both werewolves? Part of the same pack?”

  “That doesn’t mean we all walk around arm in arm singing ‘We Are Family.’ The pack here is pretty standoffish, to tell you the truth. I only ever see most of the others on full-moon nights.”

  She turned a quizzical expression to me. “Where exactly do you all go on full-moon nights?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that, Detective.”

  Unsurprised, she shrugged and continued on. The question had been offhand and unimportant, but I wondered if maybe we needed to start driving out to Kansas or Wyoming, to make sure no one bothered us.

  “Did Mr. Cabrerra smoke?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I’d never seen him light up, and he didn’t smell like someone who smoked. Now there was an interesting set of smells a werewolf could spot from a mile away. Detective Hardin smelled like that: sooty, musty, sharp.

  “Did he work with fire at all? Was he a welder, a mechanic, anything that would have had him in contact with open flames, or with anything volatile?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’m just trying to rule out all the logical explanation, because the illogical one has everyone twitching.”

  Detective Hardin, as head of the Denver PD’s newly established Paranatural Unit, got all the cases that made people twitch. She’d landed in the position by accident, but she seemed to be thriving in it. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view.

  We paused outside a room. So this was it. I braced. Ben curled his hand around mine.

  She took a deep breath and said, “What do you know about spontaneous human combustion?”

  I hadn’t braced well enough, because I blinked at her, dumbstruck. “What?”

  “I thought you knew about all this supernatural crap,” she said. “Spontaneous human combustion, the idea that a human body can, for unknown reasons, suddenly generate enough heat to ignite.”

  “I know the definition,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve ever encountered it. Ever.” I’d never even had a crazy person call in to the show wanting to talk about it, and that was saying something.