Kitty Takes a Holiday Read online

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2007 by Carrie Vaughn

  Excerpt from Kitty and the Silver Bullet copyright © 2007 by Carrie Vaughn. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Don Puckey

  Warner Books and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Warner Inc. or an affiliated company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group, which is not affiliated with Time Warner Inc.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: January 2008

  ISBN-13: 978-0-446-51115-5

  Contents

  I SMELLED BLOOD. A SLAUGHTERHOUSE’S WORTH.

  Praise for CARRIE VAUGHN’S NOVELS

  BOOKS BY CARRIE VAUGHN

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The Playlist

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  MORE KITTY

  I SMELLED BLOOD. A SLAUGHTERHOUSE’S WORTH.

  It was old, rotten, stinking. And it was everywhere, as if someone had painted the walls with it. My hand on the knob, I squeezed my eyes shut. I cracked open the door. The smell washed over me. I’d never sensed anything like it. The odor was hateful, oppressive, like it was attacking me.

  “There’s something out there,” I said. And it hated me. It had left all those signs that it hated me.

  Cormac, gun raised, displaced me in front of the door. “Stay back.” His gun arm led the way as he stepped out, the weapon ready to face the lurking danger. His expression never changed. It stayed cold, stony—his professional look. Then he froze.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said…

  Praise for CARRIE VAUGHN’S NOVELS

  KITTY GOES TO WASHINGTON

  “[A] fun beach read.”

  —Kansas City Star

  “This second novel is darker and more complex than Kitty and The Midnight Hour, and that complexity makes this one the better of the two. That’s hardly a criticism, though, since the first installment was a standout, as well.”

  —CAReviews.com

  “Fans of Kitty and The Midnight Hour will be pleased with this fast-paced follow-up.”

  —MonstersAndCritics.com

  “A fabulous satirical tale that humorously spoofs the supernatural element in literature and the U.S. Senate.”

  —HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com

  “Sure to satisfy Vaughn’s many fans and earn her some new ones.”

  —CurledUp.com

  “A satisfying chick-lit read.”

  —Wantzuponatime.com

  “A wonderful cast of secondaries adds to the story’s marvelous appeal.”

  —BookLoons.com

  “Funny, heart-wrenching, and thought-provoking.”

  —VampireGenre.com

  “The cunning sneakiness and courage that Kitty shows is something that most females strive for. This book is definitely a page-turner and well worth picking up.”

  —HorrorChannel.com

  “Carrie Vaughn is a real gem, and she’s definitely on my playlist.”

  —BookFetish.org

  KITTY AND THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

  “Fresh, hip, fantastic… Don’t miss this one. You’re in for a real treat!”

  —L. A. Banks, author of The Vampire Huntress Legends series

  “You’ll love this! At last, a most entertaining werewolf novel. This is vintage Anita Blake meets The Howling. Worth reading twice!”

  —Barb and J. C. Hendee, coauthors of Dhampir

  “A fun, fast-paced adventure.”

  —Locus

  “Entertaining… a surprisingly human tale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kitty is a lively, engaging heroine with a strong independent streak.”

  —Library Journal

  “A thriller and a page-turner. An exciting read… you’ll love this!”

  —Alice Borchardt, author of Raven Warrior

  “Do you like werewolves? Talk radio? Vampires? Reading? Sex? If the answer to any of those is ‘yes,’ you’re in for a wonderful ride.”

  —Gene Wolfe, author of The Wizard

  “Intriguing… a coming-of-age story with a twist, developing a unique take on the werewolf mythos to tell a tale of female empowerment and self-discovery… Vaughn expertly makes use of lupine senses and instincts as metaphors for the wildness striving to break free in all of us.”

  —Susan Krinard, author of To Tame a Wolf

  “A well-paced and exciting story… Not many books these days are able to grip me enough that I stay up reading them when I should go to bed. This one did.”

  —Mythprint

  “Vaughn’s clever new take on the supernatural is edgy and irreverent… will have readers clamoring for the next installment.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “A light touch, conversational tone, and entertaining premise… very appealing.”

  —VOYA

  “Just when you thought nobody could put a new spin on werewolves and vampires, along comes Carrie Vaughn to prove otherwise.”

  —BookLoons.com

  “A howling good urban-fantasy novel.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  “Sure to be a hit… Don’t wait for the full moon to pick up your copy!”

  —RomRevToday.com

  “The prose flows so smoothly… skillfully handled.”

  —Trashotron.com

  BOOKS BY CARRIE VAUGHN

  Kitty and The Midnight Hour

  Kitty Goes to Washington

  Kitty Takes a Holiday

  AVAILABLE FROM WARNER BOOKS

  For Andrea, Denise, April, Melissa, Kevin, and Tim, who were there at the start.

  Acknowledgments

  My first readers this time around were Paula Balafas and Jo Anne “Mom” Vaughn. Also, thank you to Paula for the ride-alongs, and to Mom for the road trip.

  More thank yous: To Larry “Dad” Vaughn for looking after the dog, and to the rest of the family. To Andro Berkovic for bringing my computing power into the twenty-first century. To the Barony of Caer Galen for the overwhelming support. To Ashley Grayson and Co. for picking up the reins. And as always, to Jaime Levine and the crew at Warner, for believing in Kitty so very, very much.

  The Playlist

  Blondie, “Hanging on the Telephone”

  Go Go’s, “Head Over Heels”

  The Killers, “Mr. Brightside”

  Suicidal Tendencies, “Possessed”

  Madness, “Animal Farm”

  Pretenders, “I Go to Sleep”

  VNV Nation, “Kingdom”

  Noel Gallagher, “Teotihuacan”

  The Dead Milkmen, “Surfin’ Cow”

  Andy Kirk & His Twelve Clouds of Joy, “Until the Real Thing Comes Along”

  Too Much Joy, “Crush Story”

  Bach Collegium Stuttgart,
“Sheep May Safely Graze”

  Supertramp, “It’s Raining Again”

  Eurythmics, “When Tomorrow Comes”

  chapter 1

  She runs for the joy of it, because she can, her strides stretching to cover a dozen feet every time she leaps. Her mouth is open to taste the air, which is sharp with cold. The month turns, and the swelling moon paints the night sky silver, lighting up patches of snow scattered throughout the woods. Not yet full moon, a rare moment to be set free before her time, but the other half of her being has no reason to lock her away. She is alone, but she is free, and so she runs.

  Catching a scent, she swerves from her path, slows to a trot, puts her nose to the ground. Prey, fresh and warm. Lots of it here in the wild. The smell burns in the winter air. She stalks, drawing breath with flaring nostrils, searching for the least flicker of movement. Her empty stomach clenches, driving her on. The smell makes her mouth water.

  She has grown used to hunting alone. Must be careful, must not take chances. Her padded feet touch the ground lightly, ready to spring forward, to dart in one direction or another, making no sound on the forest floor. The scent—musky, hot fur and scat—grows strong, rocketing through her brain. All her nerves flare. Close now, closer, creeping on hunter’s feet—

  The rabbit springs from its cover, a rotted log grown over with shrubs. She’s ready for it, without seeing it or hearing it she knows it is there, her hunter’s sense filled by its presence. The moment it runs, she leaps, pins it to the ground with her claws and body, digs her teeth into its neck, clamping her jaw shut and ripping. It doesn’t have time to scream. She drinks the blood pumping out of its torn and broken throat, devours its meat before the blood cools. The warmth and life of it fills her belly, lights her soul, and she pauses the slaughter to howl in victory—

  My whole body flinched, like I’d been dreaming of falling and suddenly woken up. I gasped a breath—part of me was still in the dream, still falling, and I had to tell myself that I was safe, that I wasn’t about to hit the ground. My hands clutched reflexively, but didn’t grab sheets or pillow. A handful of last fall’s dead leaves crumbled in my grip.

  Slowly, I sat up, scratched my scalp, and smoothed back my tangled blonde hair. I felt the rough earth underneath me. I wasn’t in bed, I wasn’t in the house I’d been living in for the last two months. I lay in a hollow scooped into the earth, covered in forest detritus, sheltered by overhanging pine trees. Beyond the den, crusted snow lay in shadowed areas. The air was cold and biting. My breath fogged.

  I was naked, and I could taste blood in the film covering my teeth.

  Damn. I’d done it again.

  Lots of people dream of having their picture on the cover of a national magazine. It’s one of the emblems of fame, fortune, or at the very least fifteen minutes of notoriety. A lot of people actually do get their pictures on the covers of national magazines. The question is: Are you on the cover of a glamorous high-end fashion glossy, wearing a designer gown and looking fabulous? Or are you on the cover of Time, bedraggled and shell-shocked, with a caption reading, “Is This the Face of a Monster?” and “Are YOU in Danger?”

  Guess which one I got.

  The house I was renting—more like a cabin, a two-room vacation cottage connected to civilization by a dirt road and satellite TV—was far enough out from the town and road that I didn’t bother getting dressed for the trek back. Not that I could have; I had forgotten to stash any clothes. Why would I, when I hadn’t intended to Change and go running in the first place? Nothing to be done but walk back naked.

  I felt better, walking with my skin exposed, the chill air raising goose bumps all over my flesh. I felt cleaner, somehow. Freer. I didn’t worry—I followed no path, no hiking trails cut through these woods. No one would see me in this remote section of San Isabel National Forest land in southern Colorado, tucked into the mountains.

  That was exactly how I wanted it.

  I’d wanted to get away from it all. The drawback was, by getting away from it all I had less holding me to the world. I didn’t have as many reasons to stay in my human body. If I’d been worried about someone seeing me naked, I probably wouldn’t have shifted in the first place. Nights of the full moon weren’t the only time lycanthropes could shape-shift; we could Change anytime we chose. I’d heard of werewolves who turned wolf, ran into the woods, and never came back. I didn’t want that to happen to me. At least, I used to think I didn’t want that to happen to me.

  But it was getting awfully easy to turn Wolf and run in the woods, full moon or no.

  I was supposed to be writing a book. With everything that had happened to me in the last couple of years— starting my radio show, declaring my werewolf identity on the air and having people actually believe me, testifying before a Senate committee hearing, getting far more attention than I ever wanted, no matter how much I should have seen it all coming—I had enough material for a book, or so I thought. A memoir or something. At least, a big publishing company thought I had enough material and offered me enough money that I could take time off from my show to write it. I was the celebrity du jour, and we all wanted to cash in on my fame while it lasted. Selling out had sounded so dreamy.

  I put together about a dozen “Best of The Midnight Hour” episodes that could be broadcast without me, so the show would keep going even while I took a break. It’d keep people interested, keep my name out there, and maybe even draw in some new fans. I planned to do the Walden thing, retreat from society in order to better reflect. Escape the pressures of life, freeing myself to contemplate the deeper philosophical questions I would no doubt ponder while composing my great masterpiece.

  Trouble was, you could get away from society and learn to be self-reliant, like Thoreau advocated. Turn your nose up at the rat race. But you couldn’t escape yourself, your own doubts, your own conscience.

  I didn’t even know how to begin writing a book. I had pages of scribbled notes and not a single finished page. It all looked so unreal on paper. Really, where did I start? “I was born…” then go into twenty years of a completely unremarkable life? Or start with the attack that made me a werewolf? That whole night was so complicated and seemed an abrupt way to start what I ultimately wanted to be an upbeat story. Did I start with the Senate hearings? Then how did I explain the whole mess that got me there in the first place?

  So I stripped naked, turned Wolf, and ran in the woods to avoid the question. As hard as I’d struggled to hold on to my humanity, that was easier.

  The closest town of any size to my cabin was Walsenburg, some thirty miles away, and that wasn’t saying a whole lot. The place had pretty much stopped growing in the sixties. Main street was the state highway running through, just before it merged onto the interstate. The buildings along it were old-fashioned brick blocks. A lot of them had the original signs: family-owned businesses, hardware stores, and bars and the like. A lot of them were boarded up. A memorial across from the county courthouse paid tribute to the coal miners who had settled the region. To the southwest, the Spanish Peaks loomed, twin mountains rising some seven thousand feet above the plain. Lots of wild, lonely forest spread out around them. The next afternoon, I drove into town to meet my lawyer,

  Ben O’Farrell, at a diner on the highway. He wouldn’t drive any farther into the southern Colorado wilds than Walsenburg.

  I spotted his car already parked on the street and pulled in behind it. Ben had staked out a booth close to the door. He was already eating, a hamburger and plate of fries. Not much on ceremony was Ben.

  “Hi.” I slipped into the seat across from him.

  He reached for something next to him, then dropped it on the Formica table in front of me: a stack of mail addressed to me, delivered to his care. I tried to route as much of my communication through him as I could. I liked having a filter. Part of the Walden thing. The stack included a few magazines, nondescript envelopes, credit card applications. I started sorting through it.

  “I’m fine, thank
s, how are you?” I said wryly.

  Ben was in his early thirties, rough around the edges. He seemed perpetually a day behind on his shaving, and his light brown hair was rumpled. He wore a gray suit jacket, but his shirt collar was open, the tie nowhere to be seen.

  I could tell he was gritting his teeth behind his smile.

  “Just because I drove all the way out here for you, don’t ask me to be pleasant about it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I ordered a soda and hamburger from the waitress, while Ben set his briefcase on the table and pulled out packets of paper. He needed my signature in approximately a million different places. On the plus side, the documents meant I was the beneficiary of several generous out-of-court settlements relating to the fiasco my trip to Washington, D.C., last fall had turned into. Who knew getting kidnapped and paraded on live TV could be so lucrative? I also got to sign depositions in a couple of criminal cases. That felt good.

  “You’re getting twenty percent,” I said. “You ought to be glowing.”

  “I’m still trying to decide if representing the world’s first werewolf celebrity is worth it. You get the strangest phone calls, you know that?”

  “Why do you think I give people your number and not mine?”

  He collected the packets from me, double-checked them, stacked them together, and put them back in his briefcase. “You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy.”

  “My hero.” I rested my chin on my hands and batted my eyelashes at him. His snort of laughter told me how seriously he took me. That only made me grin wider.

  “One other thing,” he said, still shuffling pages in his briefcase, avoiding looking at me. “Your editor called. Wants to know how the book is going.”

  Technically, I had a contract. Technically, I had a deadline. I shouldn’t have had to worry about that sort of thing when I was trying to prove my self-reliance by living simply and getting back to nature.