I took a deep breath through my nose.
I didn’t identify the smell so much as I flashed on the scene. The blood. The victim’s body, splayed across the alley. People say scent is tied to memory. What does that mean for a werewolf, whose sense of smell is so acute? The memory sparked vividly, all the sights and sounds and other smells that I’d imprinted along with the scent of the werewolf, the murderer. My stomach turned with the same nausea.
Straight ahead, a hall led to the rest of the house, probably kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. A sudden gush of water ran through the house’s pipes. A toilet flushing. A door opened and closed. A man emerged into the hallway and walked toward me.
He wore a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. He was tall, built like a construction worker, thick arms, broad chest. He had a crew cut that was growing out, a beard that was a couple of days unshaven. He was barefoot. He smelled the same as the room, close and ripe.
He stopped when he saw me. His nostrils flared, taking in scent like a werewolf would. His hands clenched. Glaring, he moved toward me, stalking like a predator.
I stood straight, careful not to flinch, not to show any weakness that his wolf would take as an invitation to attack.
I said, “Are you James?”
Again he stopped, as if he’d hit a wall. His brow furrowed, his face showing confusion. “What did you say?”
It was him. That voice, low and strained, close to breaking. “James. Are you James?”
He squinted harder, like he was trying to bring me into focus. Then his eyes grew wide.
“You’re her. Kitty.” He closed the distance between us, and I thought he was going to pounce on me with a bear hug, but he halted a step away—I didn’t quite flinch. He was gesturing with his hands like he was pleading. “I’m such a big fan!”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. I should have yelled. Just yelled and ducked as Cormac came storming through the door, guns blazing. But James had stunned me.
James didn’t ask the questions I would have asked a celebrity who happened to show up at my house, like how did you find me, why are you here. He acted like he didn’t find this strange at all, like this sort of occurrence was a natural part of the life he’d made for himself. The kind of life where he constantly made calls to late-night talk radio shows.
He slouched, ducking in front of me like he was bowing. He had to stoop to make himself shorter than I. That was what he was doing, showing submission, one wolf to another. He kept turning his gaze away. His instincts were taking over.
I stared. Not a dominant, I’m-a-bigger-wolf-than-you stare. More like a bewildered, disturbed stare. What was I supposed to do with him? I didn’t want him touching me, but he was inching closer, like he was going to start pawing me, rubbing me, the way a subordinate wolf would to the one he’d identified as the alpha. I stepped back.
He cringed, pulling his arms close to his body, his eyes sad and hurt. “You don’t understand,” he said. “This . . . this is great. It’s what I’ve always wanted. You can help me. You’re the only other one—one of us, one like us, I mean—I’ve ever met besides—” He stopped, swallowing. His breathing came fast.
“Besides who, James?” My voice caught.
“Besides the one who made me. She’s been helping me. She said I could have a pack, if I killed this other werewolf and took his. She said she would show me. I—I can do that. I know I can do that. I’ve been practicing. But she won’t tell me where to go. She—she hasn’t been to see me in a while. But you’ll help me, won’t you? You help so many people.”
I felt sick. James needed help, but I couldn’t give it to him. Who could? What hospital could hold him? What could anyone do? That was the human talking, of course. I remembered Cormac’s words: You understand that we have to kill this guy. As a wolf, he’d overstepped his bounds. Like Zan. But what did that mean if there’d been no one to teach him the rules?
James looked up, over my shoulder. Cormac stood in the doorway.
“Norville, is he the one?”
All I could do was nod.
Cormac raised his arm, fired his handgun.
I ducked out of the way. James was already running. I thought he would turn around, try to make for the back of the house. That was what I would have done. But he dived forward, under the range of the gun, past Cormac, shouldering him aside, and out the door.
Cormac struck the door frame, but recovered in a heartbeat, turned outside, and fired twice more. His arm remained steady, his sight aimed at his target, tracking smoothly like he was mounted on a tripod.
“Shit!” He pointed the gun up when James disappeared around the corner of the house.
I ran after him, aware that he might have been waiting on the other side of the house to ambush whoever followed him. I didn’t want to lose sight of him. Cormac was right behind me.
In the strip of yard between the two houses a trail of clothing led away: jeans, briefs, and a white T-shirt, torn to shreds. There was a dark, wild odor—the musk, fur, and sweat of a recently shifted lycanthrope.
I unzipped my jeans and shoved them to the ground.
“What are you doing?” said Cormac, stopping in his tracks.
I paused. I didn’t know if I could do this. I didn’t have a choice.
“I can move faster if I Change. It’s the only way I’ll keep up.” It can be a strength, T.J. had said. We’d see.
He opened his mouth, starting to argue. But he didn’t say anything. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away. I took off my shirt, my bra. The air was cold, sending pimples crawling across my shoulders. Inside, I felt warm. My muscles tensed, already preparing to run, because I knew what this meant; Wolf knew what this meant. I wanted to hunt, and I needed her. I was ready. She crouched inside, filling me with anticipation.
Cormac started to walk away.
“Wait,” I said. “I want you to watch.”
“Why?” he said, his voice rough.
“I want you to see what I look like, so you don’t shoot me by accident.”
“If I ever shoot you, it won’t be by accident.”
I walked up to him, naked, unself-conscious. I was on the edge of my other world, human mores falling away. I didn’t know how else to be, like this, with Wolf looking out of my eyes.
I stood a step away, holding his gaze.
“Here’s your chance. If that’s what you’re planning, get it over with now so I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.”
I didn’t know how long I planned on waiting for him to raise that gun and shoot me in the head. I stood, arms spread, offering myself to him. My glare didn’t match my vulnerability. But once and for all, I had to know what he wanted to do.
Finally he said, “Be careful.”
“Yeah. You, too.” I turned away, walking to the back of the alley.
“Don’t try to fight him, Kitty. He’s bigger than you. Just find him, and I’ll take care of it.”
I nodded.
Holding her back felt a little like holding my breath. As soon as I thought of shifting to Wolf, the Change started, sensations coursing with my blood, waking those nerves and instincts that lay buried most of the time. Any time except full moon nights, I could hold it back. But if I wanted to shift, I just had to let that breath out, think of exhaling, and the next breath would belong to her.
My back bent, the first convulsion racking me. Think of water, let it slide, and fur sprouted in waves down my back and arms, needles piercing skin. I grunted, blocking the pain. Then claws, then teeth and bones and muscle—
She shakes, ruffling her fur and slipping into her muscles.
Her ears prick, and she raises her head to see the figure nearby. He stands on two legs and smells of danger, of mechanical pain. Her other self recognizes the weapons that can kill her.
Her other self also recognizes him, and keeps her hackles flat and buries the growls.
“Norville?”
Tension, anxiety, fear. She can take him, kill him if she has
to. He’s weak. But those weapons are stronger. They smell of fire.
“You in there? You know who I am?”
The tone is questioning, seeking reassurance. His anxiety isn’t because of her, because there’s another danger. The other one, the rogue, the outcast. She remembers.
Identifying him as friend, she wags her tail.
“Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
He says this to her back, because she’s already running.
She seeks the one who has invaded her territory, caused havoc, broken the code. He’s run far ahead, but the night is still, the ground is clear, and she can smell him, chase him, like she would a rabbit. With her nose close to the ground, her legs racing, her muscles flowing, close to flying, she will find him. Her mouth hangs open a little; her tongue tastes the air.
Closer, she gets closer. He’s turned up ahead. She feels a thrill because he’s trying to confuse her, to make her lose him, but she isn’t fooled. Stretching full-out, running hard, she turns the corner.
He is waiting for her.
He strikes, tumbling into her from the side. She doesn’t have time to stop or swerve. He lays his paws on her, clamps his teeth around her throat, and they roll in a tangle of legs. Snarls, driven from the belly and guttural, echo.
Her speed carries her away from him, sends her rolling out of his grasp and away from his teeth, but she is dazed. She shakes her head. He doesn’t hesitate, springing to his feet and leaping at her again. She braces, her lips pulled tight from bared teeth. When he is about to reach her, she rears to meet him, their front legs locking around each other’s shoulders, teeth snapping at whatever purchase they can find.
He is so much larger than she, though. He pushes her over without effort; she falls on her back, with him on top of her, her throat and belly exposed. She writhes, kicking, desperate to protect herself. He bites hard, catching her upper foreleg, and she yelps. The noise of pain spurs her to frenzy.
She arches forward, closes her teeth under his jaw, bites hard. Taste of blood. He cringes back, and she twists to her feet, is up and running.
Instinct, fear drive her away. She runs, wanting to escape, but he is faster. He jumps, catches her hind end, sends her sprawling. His claws dig into her fur, searching for flesh, scrabbling over her, pinning her to the ground. A memory of hate and wrongness surfaces. He has no right to do this. He is outcast. But he is stronger. If she showed submission, if she whined and turned her belly to him, would he listen? Would he stop?
She doesn’t think so. He would kill her.
She can’t let him. She also thinks, He may be stronger. But I am better.
That other voice, the day self, the human, says: his eyes. Tear his face.
He climbs her, gnawing her fur and the tough skin of her shoulder, looking for the soft parts, for the chance to rip into her. His weight presses down on her, pinning her no matter how she struggles. She waits until he comes close, until his face is at her neck. Then she attacks.
Jaws open, she lunges. His muzzle is turned down, buried in her hackles. She slams into the top of his face, as hard as she can. Surprised, he pulls back. Released from his weight, her sinewy body twists back on itself. She smashes her mouth into him, searching for purchase, chewing, doubling her effort when her teeth find soft targets, when she can feel his flesh popping, shredding.
He squeals, scrambling backward. She will not let go; he’s dragging her with him by the grip she has on his face, her canines hooked into his eye sockets. Her snarls sound like a roar.
He bows, head low to the ground, and swats at her with his forelegs, like he is trying to scrape mud off his face. His claws slash her face; the pain barely registers. He has made himself lower than she, has exposed himself. Has shown fear.
Opening her mouth, she dives at his throat so fast he doesn’t even flinch.
She gnaws, breaking skin. Blood erupts into her mouth, washes warm over her muzzle. When she finds a firm grasp, she shakes, worries, mauls, back and forth as much as she can. He’s too large for her to toss around properly. But she has this piece of him, and it is hers, and the blood flows hot and fast. The thick taste of it makes her dizzy, ecstatic.
His struggles fade to a reflexive kicking, then nothing.
Blood covers his neck and chest, and her own face, neck, and chest. She licks her muzzle, then she licks him, burying her nose in the wound she made. She keeps growling as she digs into him. Bites, rips, gnaws, swallows.
The body under her is shifting as she feeds. The fur shrinks to naked skin, the muscles melt, the bones reform, until she is digging into the neck of a human body.
“Norville!”
Crack, a sound like thunder bursts, with a smell like fire. She recoils, springing to stand a foot away from where she was, to assess the danger. Her nostrils quiver.
The man, the dangerous one, the friend, stands there, arm pointing up, hand holding the source of the burning smell. The weapon.
“Kitty!” he shouts and stomps toward her, radiating a fierce challenge. She trots a couple of steps away and circles back, staring. Does he mean it?
Pounding human footsteps travel toward them. More of them arrive, smelling of weapons, anxiety, danger. They are pointing at her.
The man yells, “Hardin, hold your fire! It’s Kitty!”
There are too many of them.
She runs.
She runs for a long distance, until the world is quiet and the smells are peaceful. She searches for trees, shelter, comfortable scents, finds none of these. She’s far from home, doesn’t know this place.
A patch of dry ground in the corner between two walls makes an uncomfortable but acceptable den. She is hurt—aches in her face, leg, and shoulders, a sharp pain in her back. She needs rest. She misses the others. There should be others. There should be pack, for her to feel safe.
All she can do is curl tight around herself, snugged in the corner of the den.
Chapter 11
Sirens woke me.
I tried to stretch and moved about an inch before pain froze me. I groaned. I felt totally hung over. It was still pitch dark out, middle of the night, which meant I hadn’t slept very long. I needed more time to sleep and recover from shifting back from the Wolf before I’d feel decent.
I bent my elbow enough to pillow my head. I was curled up in the corner formed by a brick wall and a wooden fence. I had no idea where I was. But I heard sirens. Police, ambulance.
I remembered enough of the last hour or so to not be entirely confused. I licked my teeth and tasted the blood. Blood still coated my mouth. I curled up tighter, squeezing shut my eyes.
Footsteps crunched up the gravel alleyway.
“Norville. You awake?”
For all my earlier lack of modesty, I now felt thoroughly naked. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged myself, covering myself as much as I could.
The footsteps stopped. I looked. A few steps away, Cormac knelt. He offered a blanket. When I tried to reach for it, I felt a cut open across my back. Wincing, I hissed.
He put the blanket over my shoulders, and with his hands under my arms, helped me sit up. I wrapped the blanket tight around me.
“You found me,” I said.
“You were trailing blood.”
I nodded. I could feel it caked on my face and neck. I hadn’t even looked at my injuries yet. The wounds I got as a wolf transferred. They hadn’t had enough time to heal. They itched.
I tasted blood. Blood in my mouth, in the back of my throat. I could taste it on my breath, all the way down to my stomach.
I choked, unable to hold back a sob, and my stomach quailed. I pulled away from Cormac and vomited. It was purplish. It had chunks. After a couple of waves, and a couple more dry heaves, I could take a breath and start to think of what had happened. I rested my head against the brick, which was cool and rough.
“Heap big werewolf, eh?” Cormac said with a half-grin.
“That’s me,” I said weakly.
&
nbsp; “I told you not to fight him.”
“It was self-defense, Officer.”
“Can you stand?”
I thought about it, taking a couple more deep breaths while I assessed myself. I thought I could stand. I tried. I got my legs under me, but when I put weight on them, they shook. When I tipped, starting to fall, Cormac caught me.
I cried. I pulled close into myself and cried, gritting my teeth to stop the sound, embarrassed that I couldn’t stop the sobs shuddering through me. I hugged my arms around my head, all the hiding I was able to do.
Cormac held me. He didn’t pet me or make silly comforting noises. He just held me, halfway on his lap, bracing me.
Eventually, the crying stopped. The trembling stilled. My eyes squinted, swollen. I hiccuped, trying to fill my exhausted lungs. I didn’t feel any better after crying my heart out. But I did feel ready to fall asleep without having nightmares.
Sometimes I had dreams where I was covered with blood, running through the forest, killing things, happy to be doing it. Sometimes I couldn’t remember if they were dreams or not.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice small. I rubbed my face, which was gritty with dirt and grime.
“Come on. I’ll drive you home.” He started to stand, and this time when I put weight on my legs, they held me. Cormac kept his hand under my arm, just in case.
The blanket went down to my knees. I walked gingerly; my feet were bare and the alley was covered with broken glass and metal bits. I watched my feet and wasn’t paying attention to much else. When Cormac stopped, I looked up.
Detective Hardin stood there. She turned and said something to the half-dozen uniformed cops trailing behind her. Reluctantly, they backed away. All of them had their guns out.
Hardin tucked her gun into a belt holster. She crossed her arms, regarding us like she was a high school teacher who’d caught a couple of kids necking behind the bleachers. Or maybe it was just that I felt like one of the kids.
She said, “I’ve got a body back there with its face ripped off. Why do I get the feeling if I check the guy’s DNA, I’ll get a match with the suspect’s evidence from my mauling victims?”
Kitty and the Midnight Hour Page 19
