Kitty Takes a Holiday kn-3

by Carrie Vaughn

  At first light, I called the police.

  Two hours later, I sat cross-legged on the porch—on the far side, as far away from the rabbit as I could get—and watched the county sheriff and one of his deputies exam­ine the door, the porch, the dead rabbit, and the clearing. Sheriff Avery Marks was a tired-looking middle-aged man, with thinning brown hair and a fresh uniform with a big parka over it. His examination consisted of standing on the porch, looking at the door for about five minutes, then crouching by the rabbit and looking at it for about five minutes, then standing on the ground, hands on hips, looking at the whole ensemble for about ten minutes. His deputy, a bearded guy in his thirties, wandered all around the cabin and the clearing in front of it, staring at the ground, snapping pictures, and writing in a notepad.

  "You didn't hear anything?" Marks asked for the third time.

  "I thought I heard the rabbit scream," I said. "But I was still asleep. Or half asleep. I don't really remember."

  "You're saying you don't remember if you heard any­thing?" He sounded frustrated at my answers, and I couldn't blame him.

  "I thought I heard something."

  "About what time was that?"

  "I don't know. I didn't look at the clock."

  He nodded sagely. I had no idea what that information could have told him.

  "I'm thinking this looks like some kind of practical joke," he said.

  A joke? It wasn't funny. Not at all. "Would anyone around here think something like this was funny?"

  "Ms. Norville, I hate to say it, but you're well known enough that you may be a target for this sort of thing."

  You think? "So what are you going to do about it?"

  "Keep an eye out. You see anything suspicious, you see anyone walking around here, let me know."

  "Are you going to do anything?"

  He eyed me and gave the condescending frown that experts reserved for the unenlightened. "I'll ask around, do some checking. This is a small community. Something'll turn up." He turned to the earnest deputy. "Hey, Ted, make sure you get pictures of those tire tracks." He was point­ing at the ones leading away from my car.

  This man had not inspired my faith.

  "How—how am I supposed to clean all this up?" I asked. I was grateful for winter. The smell hadn't become too over­powering, and there were no flies.

  He shrugged. "Hose it down? Bury the thing?"

  This was like talking to a brick wall.

  My cell phone rang inside the house; I could hear it from the porch. "I'm sorry, I should pick that up."

  "You do that. I'll let you know when I find something." Marks and his deputy moved toward their car, leaving me alone with the slaughter. I felt oddly relieved by their imminent departure.

  I dodged the rabbit, made it through the door without touching blood, and grabbed the phone. Caller ID said Mom. Her weekly call. She could have picked a better time. Strangely, though, I realized I needed to hear her voice.

  "Hi," I said, answering the phone. I sounded plaintive. Mom would know something was wrong.

  "Hi, Kitty. It's your mother. How are you?"

  If I told her exactly what had happened, she'd be appalled. Then she'd demand that I come stay with her and Dad, where it was safe, even though I couldn't. I'd had to explain it a million times when I told her last month that I wasn't coming home for Christmas. I didn't have a choice: the Denver pack had exiled me. If I came back and they found out about it, they might not let me leave again. Not without a fight. A big fight. Mom still gave me endless grief. "We're in Aurora," she'd said. "Aurora isn't Denver, surely they'd understand." Technically she was right, Aurora was a suburb, but as far as the pack was concerned, Denver was everything within a hundred-mile radius.

  I'd have to try to keep this short. Without lying out­right. Damn.

  "Oh, I've been better."

  "What's wrong?"

  "The book's not going as well as I'd like. I'm beginning to think coming here to get away from it all may have been a mistake."

  "If you need a place, you can always stay here for as long as you need to."

  Here we go again… "No, I'm okay. Maybe I'm just having a bad day." Bad week? Month?

  "How are other things going? Have you been skiing?"

  I had absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing that I could talk about without getting hysterical, at least. "No, I haven't really thought about skiing. Everything's fine, it's fine. How are you doing? How is everyone?"

  Mom launched in on the gossip. Everyone included Mom, Dad, my older sister Cheryl, her husband and two kids—a regular suburban poster family. Topics included office politics, tennis scores, first steps, first words, who went out to dinner where, which cousins were getting into what kind of trouble, and which of the great-aunts and uncles were in the hospital. I could never keep any of it straight. But it sounded normal, Mom sounded happy, and my anxiety faded. She kept me in touch, kept me grounded. I may have exiled myself to the woods, but I still had a family, and Mom would call every Sunday like clockwork.

  She brought the call to a close, making me promise to be careful, promise to call if I needed anything. I prom­ised, like I did every week, no matter what kind of trouble I was in or what had been gutted on my front porch.

  I left the conversation feeling a little better able to deal with the situation.

  Hose it down, Sheriff Marks said. I went to get a bucket of water and a scrub brush. And a garbage sack.

  The next few nights, I didn't sleep at all. I kept listen­ing for footsteps, for the sound of another animal getting butchered on my front porch. The anxiety was killing me.

  Human civilization was becoming less attractive every day. During daylight hours, I didn't even try to pound out a few pages of the memoir. I didn't even turn on the com­puter. I sat on the sofa and stared out the window. I could go out there and never come back. It would be so easy.

  In the middle of another wakeful night, I heard some­thing. I sat up, heart racing, wondering what was hap­pening and what I was going to do about it. But it wasn't footsteps on the porch. Nothing screamed. I heard gravel crunching, the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive to my cabin. My throat closed—I wanted to growl. Some­one was invading my territory.

  I got up and looked out the window.

  A Jeep zoomed into the clearing, way too fast, swerv­ing a little when the brakes slammed on.

  Arms stiff, claws—fingers—curling, I went to the front door, opened it just enough to let me stand in the threshold, and glared out. If the invader challenged, I could face it.

  But I knew that Jeep, and I knew the man climbing out of the driver's seat. Thirty-something, with light brown hair and a mustache, he wore a leather jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans, and carried a revolver in a holster on his belt. Cormac, the werewolf hunter. I'd never seen him panicked like this. Even from here I could tell he was breathing too fast, and he smelled like too much sweat.

  Leaning on the hood, he came around to the front of the Jeep and shouted, "Norville!" He took a few steps away from the vehicle, glaring at me—challenging me, the Wolf couldn't help but think. His voice was rough. "Norville, get over here. I need your help." He pointed at the Jeep, as if that explained everything.

  I didn't speak. I was too astonished. Too wary. He looked like someone getting ready to rush me, to attack, screaming. I knew he could kill me if he wanted to. I didn't move.

  "Norville—Kitty, Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

  I shook my head. I was caught up in some Wolf-fueled spell. I couldn't get over how weird this was. Suspicious, I said, "What's wrong with you?"

  Anguish twisted his features. "It's Ben. He's been bitten."

  "Bitten?" The word hit my gut and sent a tremor up my spine.

  "Werewolf," he said, spitting the word. "He's been infected."

  Chapter 4

  I ran to the Jeep. Cormac steered me to the passenger door, which he opened.

  Ben sat there, relaxed, head slumped to the side—unco
nscious. Blood streaked the right half of his shirt. The fabric was torn at the shoulder, and the skin underneath was mauled. Individual tooth marks showed where the wolf had clamped its jaw over Ben's shoulder, and next to it a second wound—a messier, jagged chunk taken out of the flesh near his bicep—where the creature had found its grip and ripped. Ben's forearm also showed bite marks. He must have thrown his arm up to try to protect himself. All the wounds had stopped bleeding, were clotted, and beginning to form thick, black scabs. Cormac hadn't ban­daged them, yet they were already healing.

  They wouldn't have been, if it hadn't really been a werewolf that did this. If Ben hadn't really been infected with lycanthropy.

  I covered my mouth with my hand and just stared, unwilling to believe the scene before me.

  "I didn't know what else to do," Cormac said. "You have to help him."

  Feeling—tingling, surreal, blood-pounding feeling—started to displace the numbness. "Let's get him inside."

  I touched his neck—his pulse raced, like he'd been running and not slumped in the front seat for a five-hour car ride. Next, I brushed his cheek. The skin was burning, feverish. I expected that, because that was what had hap­pened to me. He smelled sharp, salty, like illness and fear.

  His head moved, his eyes crinkled. He made a sound, a half-awake grunt, turned toward my hand, and took a deep breath. His body went stiff, straightening suddenly, and as he pressed his head straight back his eyes opened.

  "No," he gasped and started fighting, shoving me away, thrashing in a panic. He was starting to develop a fine sense of smell. I smelled different and his instincts told him danger.

  I grabbed one arm, Cormac grabbed the other, and we pulled him out of the Jeep. Getting under his shoulder, I tried to support him, but he dropped his weight, yanking back to escape. I braced, holding him upright and manag­ing to keep a grip on him. Cormac held on to him firmly, grimly dragging him toward the cabin.

  Ben's eyes were open, and he stared in a wide-eyed panic at shadows, at the memory still fueling his nerves.

  Then he looked right at Cormac. "Kill me," he said through gritted teeth. "You're supposed to kill me."

  Cormac had Ben's arm over his shoulder and practi­cally hauled him off his feet as we climbed the steps to the porch.

  "Cormac!" Ben hissed, his voice a rough growl. "Kill me."

  He just kept saying that.

  I shoved through the open front door. "To the bedroom, in back."

  Ben was struggling less, either growing tired or losing consciousness again. We went to the bedroom and hauled him onto the bed.

  Ben writhed, then let out a noise that started as a whim­per and rose to a full-blown scream. His body arced and thrashed, wracked with some kind of seizure. I held down his shoulders, leaning on him with all my weight, while Cormac pinned his legs.

  I shifted my hands to hold on to his face, keeping his head still and making him look at me. His face was burn­ing up, covered with sweat.

  "Ben! Sh, quiet, quiet," I murmured, trying to be calm, trying to be soothing, but my own heart was in my throat.

  Finally, I caught his gaze. He opened his eyes and looked at me, didn't look away. He quieted. "You're going to be okay, Ben. You're going to be fine, just fine."

  I said the words by rote, without belief; I didn't know why I expected them to calm him down.

  "Kitty." He grimaced, wincing, looking like he was going to scream again.

  "Please, Ben, please calm down."

  He closed his eyes, turned his face away—and then he relaxed, like a wave passing through his body. He stopped struggling.

  "What happened?" Cormac said.

  Ben was breathing, soft, quick breaths, and his heart still raced. I smoothed away the damp hair sticking to his forehead, turned his face toward me again. He didn't react to my touch.

  "He passed out," I said, sighing.

  Slowly, Cormac let up his grip on Ben's legs and sat back on the edge of the bed. Ben didn't move, didn't flinch. He looked sick, wrung out, too pale against the gray comforter, his hair damp and his shirt bloody. I was used to seeing him focused, driven, self-possessed. Not like this at all. I was always the one calling him for help.

  How the hell had this happened?

  I didn't ask Cormac that, not yet. The bounty hunter looked shell-shocked, his face slack, staring at Ben's prone form. He pressed his hands flat on his thighs. My God, were they shaking?

  I unbuttoned Ben's shirt and wrangled it off him, care­fully peeling the fabric away where the blood had dried, pasting it to his skin. The adrenaline was fading, leaving my limbs weak as tissue paper. My voice cracked when I said, "What was he saying? About you killing him? Cormac?"

  Cormac spoke softly, in a strange, emotionless mono­tone. "We made a deal. When we were kids. It was stupid, the only reason we did it is because it was the kind of thing that would never happen. If either of us got bitten, got infected, the other was supposed to kill him. The thing is—" Cormac laughed, a harsh chuckle. "I knew if it hap­pened to me Ben would never be able to go through with it. I wasn't worried, because I knew I could shoot myself just fine. But Ben—it was for him. Because he wouldn't have the guts to shoot himself, either. If it happened to him, I was supposed to take care of it. I'm the tough one. I'm the shooter. But I couldn't do it. I had my rifle right up against his skull and I couldn't do it. By that time he was screaming his head off and I had to knock him out to get him to stay in the Jeep."

  I could picture it, too, Cormac's finger on the trigger, tensing, tensing again, then him turning away, a snarl on his lips. He was grimacing now.

  Even at a whisper, my voice was shaking. "I'm glad you didn't shoot him."

  "He's not."

  "He will be."

  "I brought him to you because I thought, you're a werewolf and you get along all right, and if he could be like you—he'd be okay. Maybe he'd be okay."

  "He'll be okay, Cormac."

  With his shirt off, Ben looked even more pale, more vulnerable. Half his arm was chewed up and scabbed over. His chest moved too rapidly, with short, gasping breaths.

  "We should clean this up," I said. "He'll be out of it for a while. Maybe a couple of days."

  "How do you know?" Cormac said.

  "Because that's how it was with me. I was sick for days. Cormac…" I stood and moved next to him, reach­ing out, tentative because he looked like he might break, explode, or tear the room apart. He was the same kind of tense as a cat about to spring on a mouse. He still had the handgun in his belt holster. I had to make him look away from Ben. I touched his shoulder. When he didn't jump, flinch, or punch me, I lay my hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

  He put his hand over mine, squeezed back, then stood and left the room, disappearing into the front of the house. I didn't hear the front door open, so he didn't leave. I didn't have time to worry about him right now.

  Armed with a soaked washcloth and dry towel, I cleaned up the blood. The wounds, the bite marks and tears in his skin, had all closed over. They looked like week-old scabs, dried and ringed with pink. His skin was slick with sweat; I dried him off as well as I could. Within half an hour, Ben's breathing slowed, and he seemed to slip into a normal sleep. If he'd been in shock, the shock had faded. Nothing looked infected. The lycanthropy wouldn't let him sicken. It wouldn't let him die, at least not from a few bites.

  I took off his shoes and covered him with a spare blan­ket. Smoothed his hair back one more time. For now, he was settled.

  I found Cormac in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and staring out the window over the sink. The sun had risen since we'd brought Ben inside. The outline of the trees showed clear against a pale sky. I didn't think Cormac was really looking at any of that.

  I started setting up the coffeemaker, being louder than I needed to be.

  The strangeness was too much. Cormac gave me this image of him and Ben as kids, talking about werewolves—that wasn't exactly a kid thing to do. At least, not for real. Not meanin
g it. I'd always suspected Cormac was edging psychotic, but Ben was the levelheaded one, the lawyer. I'd always wondered how he took this world—lycanthropes, vampires, this B-grade horror film life I lived—in such stride, not even blinking. I'd been grateful for it, but I won­dered. How long had he been living in it? Him and Cormac both?

  I didn't know a damn thing about either of them.

  I pushed the button, the light lit up, and the coffee-maker started burbling happily. I leaned back on the coun­ter, watching Cormac, who hadn't moved. A minute later, the smell of fresh coffee hit with a jolt.

  "Are you hungry?" I said finally. "I have some cereal, I think. A couple of eggs, bacon."

  "No."

  "Have you gotten any sleep?"

  He shook his head.

  "You think maybe you should?"

  Again, he shook his head. Too bad. My day would be a lot easier if he'd just collapse on the sofa and sleep for the next twelve hours.

  The coffee finished brewing. I poured two mugs and set one on the counter next to him. I held mine in both hands, feeling the warmth from it, not drinking. My stom­ach hurt too much to drink anything.

  I had to say something. "How did it happen? How did you let him get—how did he get in a position to be bitten by a werewolf?"

  He turned away from the window, crossed his arms, stared across the kitchen. I got my first good look at him since he arrived. He looked gaunt, caved in and exhausted, with shadows under his eyes. He hadn't shaved in days and was developing a beard to go along with his mustache. Dried blood flaked off his hands and spotted his shirt. He smelled of dirt, sweat, and blood. He needed a shower, though somehow I doubted that I could talk him into it.

  "There were two of them," he said. "I knew there were two of them. That's why I called Ben, so he could watch my back. But the whole thing was messed up, right from the start. They were killing flocks of sheep, but nobody ever heard anything. I saw a whole field covered with dead sheep, all of them torn to pieces, and the herders sitting in their trailer a hundred feet away didn't hear a thing. Their dogs didn't hear a thing."