Kitty Goes to War Page 12

  “What did you do, rob a library?” I said. I didn’t mean to, it just came out.

  Cormac’s expression didn’t change. “I used a library card, like a normal person.”

  I peeked at titles, peering sideways so I could read the spines, hoping to figure out what he was researching. But I only grew more confused. The titles were mostly nonfiction: history books, art books, photography, military history, science, and politics. Most of the titles had some variation of “twentieth century” or “last hundred years” in them. The course of study was simultaneously broad and strangely focused.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Catching up,” he said. He sat in one of the kitchen chairs, leaned back, crossed his arms, and glared.

  “On what? You were only in prison for two years.”

  “Kitty, what do you want?”

  The next step would be to rifle through his fridge and cupboards to make sure he had food and was eating. I refrained from going that far. Ben was right, we were treating Cormac with kid gloves, and that couldn’t have been going over very well with him.

  “Have you found out anything else about Franklin?” I stood near the table, trying to look interested, but was actually sneaking looks at more book titles. The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion by Mircea Eliade? The Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology?

  “I’ve been trailing him,” he said. “Been keeping my phone off. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay. So what’s the story on him?”

  “He’s visiting Speedy Marts all over town. He does the same thing at each one—puts a charm in a box and leaves. I haven’t checked all the boxes. I thought I ought to keep my distance after that last encounter.”

  “He has to be doing this for a reason.”

  “The signs are he’s prepping some kind of spell. I just don’t know what kind—protection spell, get-rich spell, whatever.”

  “Or summoning hurricanes?” I said.

  He gave me an annoyed look. “Or maybe he visits all his stores to recharge the magic, like a cycle. He has a regular travel schedule to visit various franchises, and it doesn’t usually coincide with hurricanes.”

  “That could just as easily be explained as regular business. President of the company inspecting his franchises and all that.”

  “Best kind of magic hides in plain sight,” he said. “Like working a ritual symbol into the store’s logo. This could be a little more underhanded. He’s planning something, getting ready for something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sabotaging his own buildings for the insurance money? I don’t know. It may just be good-luck charms.”

  “He just happened to have his Denver trip scheduled right after he sues me.”

  “That’s the kicker,” Cormac said. “He could have harassed you over the phone, but he came to do it in person. No, he’s up to something. We just have to figure out what. And maybe stay away from thunderclouds in the meantime.”

  I leaned on a wall and crossed my arms. “Have you always known so much about magic?”

  He looked away. “I might have picked up some things here and there.”

  “In prison?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “This”—I gestured to the library around me— ”can’t all be about Franklin. What else are you researching?”

  “Nothing.” He leaned forward, gathering together the books, shutting them, arranging them in piles, out of my reach and easy view.

  “And have you been burning sage?” I said. Books, incense—I could even claim I smelled a faint whiff of magic, though I was sure it was my imagination. I had no idea what magic smelled like. No guns, no weapons, and even the smell of Cormac’s leather jacket was buried. “Seriously—are you okay?”

  “I’d forgotten how damn nosy you are.”

  I tamped down a flush of anger at that. Instead of rounding on him with the witty comeback no doubt sitting on the tip of my tongue, I started for the door.

  “I have to get going. I told Ben I’d be home soon.”

  “You two seem happy,” he said to my back. “I’m glad.”

  There, just stab me through the heart . . . Which wouldn’t necessarily kill a werewolf. But it still hurt.

  My hand on the doorknob, I hesitated, looking back at him and mustering a smile. “Thanks. And what about you? Are you happy or just coping?”

  “Ask me again in a year.”

  “That’s actually encouraging. You’re still planning on being around in a year.”

  He shrugged. “I told you; I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I’ll see you later,” I said, and he nodded.

  BEN WAS at work at his desk in the corner of the living room and turned when I came in, his look inquiring. “Rough day?”

  “I stopped by Cormac’s place,” I said, propping myself on a nearby wall.

  He leaned back in his chair. “You thought he needed checking up on?”

  “I got worried,” I said, shrugging. I suddenly felt like I’d done something wrong.

  “So how is he?”

  “He’s alive. Making progress on the case. But—have you noticed anything odd about him? Anything different?”

  “Like what? You mean something other than what’s usually wrong with him?”

  Like the surliness, the borderline sociopathy . . . “I don’t know. He had piles of books everywhere on some of the weirdest topics, and I think he’s been burning incense. You’ve known him your whole life. Has he always been this . . . I don’t know . . . studious? Obsessive?”

  “Kind of, yeah. Obsessive, at least. All about getting the job done, especially with the hunting. Especially since his father was killed.”

  “And now it’s like if he can’t do it with weapons he’ll do it some other way? Books and research?”

  “Maybe. You didn’t expect him to have some kind of epiphany in prison and turn into Little Mary Sunshine, did you?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t expect anything, I guess.” Honestly, I hadn’t known Cormac all that well before he went to prison. He’d been this shadowy vigilante figure who slipped in and out of my life. He wasn’t much different now, I supposed. But all those books were just weird. Maybe I felt like he had changed, but I couldn’t figure out how. “But he smells different. Just a little.”

  “And if we weren’t lycanthropes we wouldn’t notice it.” Ben turned thoughtful. “There is something else. He gets distracted. Staring off into space, like he sees something or is listening to something. When I shake him out of it he pretends that it didn’t happen. I haven’t really asked him about it. I figure he’s just adjusting to being on the outside again.”

  “When have you ever known Cormac to get distracted? When has he ever not been completely focused on the world around him?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I do know the more we pester him the more annoyed he’s going to get. We just have to leave him alone.”

  Cormac was a grown-up. He didn’t need us to worry about him.

  “We’re acting like a couple of alpha wolves carrying on about a wayward pup,” I said, smiling.

  “When you say you want kids I didn’t think you meant one like Cormac.”

  Was that what it was? Displaced maternal instinct? I wrinkled my nose and thought about it. Ben stood, joined me at the wall, and leaned in to kiss me on the forehead.

  “What was that for?” I said.

  “You’re cute.”

  Well, that was something, anyway.

  I leaned into him for a hug. He wrapped his arms around me. A few inches taller than me, he put his nose to my hair and inhaled, taking in my scent, sending a pleasant flush along my scalp. I sighed, and he shifted, breathing in along my ear, my neck, and bending to breathe along my shoulder. Something wolfish showed through in his movements, which in turn brought out more of my own animal instincts, and lowered my inhibitions. I ran my fingers through his hair and brought my face close
to his so I could return the gesture, breathing in the scent of him. His arms squeezed me, and he moved to smell my other shoulder.

  Then I realized he really was smelling me, taking in my scent. Checking me over.

  I pulled away and cupped my hands around his face to make him look at me. I didn’t even have to explain my confusion; he looked sheepish. Guilty.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” I said.

  I expected him to pull away and get surly, to deny that he was looking for anything—suspicious of anything. Instead, he reached around my arm and brushed hair out of my eyes.

  “I was just thinking about you and Cormac alone together.”

  “So you had to check?” To see if I smelled like Cormac. To see if Cormac and I had gotten together. “And?”

  “You smell like his apartment,” he said and shook his head. “But you don’t smell like him.”

  “Of course not, I didn’t even touch him,” I said, exasperated. “Did you really think I’d cheat on you? With your cousin?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think I expected to smell anything.”

  “But you had to check anyway.”

  “You two did have a thing.”

  Yeah. A still undefined “thing.” Whatever it was. “That was awhile ago. A lot of water under the bridge.”

  He sighed with what sounded like relief. Maybe he had to hear me say it. Maybe it was his human side that needed reassuring, not the wolf side. We were still touching, my hands resting on his chest, his hands on my shoulders.

  I pulled myself closer to him, and he leaned in to kiss me, his mouth against mine, working and eager. My mind fuzzed over as the taste of him became my whole focus. I didn’t think I could get any closer to him, but he ran a hand down my backside and pulled me more firmly against him. Claiming his territory, which was just fine with me.

  Chapter 13

  I ASKED FOR that live interview with Tyler and Walters for the show, but Shumacher and Stafford refused outright. I wasn’t surprised, and I had a compromise lined up: a taped interview, and they could approve the questions. Reluctantly, they agreed—as long as they could screen and vet the resulting recording. Otherwise, no deal. I had misgivings about letting them have that much control—but it was that or nothing. So I brought the recording equipment to the hospital and conducted the interview, which ended up being mostly with Tyler, since Walters didn’t do very much talking. Once Tyler settled down and got used to the microphone, he seemed to get into it, like he was eager to tell his story. Then I had to hand the recording over.

  What Shumacher gave back to me was milquetoast. The military had excised anything that mentioned that Tyler and Walters were, in fact, werewolves. Which was most of the interview, of course. They prohibited me from saying anything that indicated that the army had fielded lycanthropes in Afghanistan or Iraq. They didn’t want people to know it had ever happened. When I argued, I read between the lines and figured out it wasn’t even that it was a military secret they were trying to protect—they were worried about the political fallout. A chunk of the public—and Congress—didn’t trust the supernatural. They thought we were trying to take over, and every now and then some wing nut came up with a theory about how the White House was controlled by vampires. Something like this would only add fuel to the fire.

  They had a point.

  I considered laying it all out anyway. But I imagined Stafford could do worse than serve me with a libel suit. And I worried that he would take it out on Tyler and Walters. So I played nice. I really wanted to run the interview because it had some good stuff in it. Not only about lycanthropy and coping with being a werewolf under awful circumstances, but about the experience of being a soldier and trying to come home.

  Tyler explained, “Everybody tells you coming home is tough—you don’t expect it to be easy. But you’re still not ready for it. You think you can handle it. But it’s like your mind is still back there. Your body is here, but you can’t stop thinking about what happened there, the things you saw, what you did. And nobody here really gets it. You try to fit in, but you get this feeling you’re never going to fit in again. So why bother trying? You put being a werewolf on top of that—it’s like I’m living in a different world. How am I supposed to deal with that? You keep asking me what I want to do—but I can’t imagine what I’m going to do next week much less any kind of future.”

  Even though I couldn’t run the edited interview, Tyler and Walters gave me the idea to anchor the rest of the show. The opening and theme song—CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising”—ran, and I dove right in.

  “Tonight, it’s the werewolf help line: if you’re a werewolf, or know a werewolf, what’s your story? Any problems you want to talk about, advice you want to share, tonight’s your night. You see, I met a couple of folks this week, werewolves who need help and who are trying to find their feet, and I want them to hear how we do it in these parts, and that it is possible to survive. They may not be listening, but just in case they are, this show’s for them.” I hoped they were listening. I asked Shumacher to give them a radio, Internet access for the streaming version, anything.

  “First caller, you’re on the air.”

  “Hi, Kitty, thanks so much for taking my call, I’ve been listening to you since forever.”

  “Thank you. What’s your question?” The monitor said this was Mark from Los Angeles. Nothing in his voice sounded funky.

  “Okay, so, I’m a werewolf. And I’m not really part of a pack, but I know some other werewolves in the area and we try to look out for each other, you know?”

  “That’s great,” I said. “The world would be a better place if we looked out for each other a little more. Go on.”

  “I wanted to ask you about a problem—well, it’s not really a problem yet, but I always worry about it. It makes me crazy sometimes, worrying about it. Like, what if it’s a full moon night and I can’t get out of the city to shape-shift and hunt? So far I’ve managed it, but what if I can’t someday? I have nightmares about getting stuck in a traffic jam, and shifting in my car. Or just losing it before I can get to open space. Am I worrying for nothing? Is there something I can do to keep this from happening? What if it does happen?”

  I could hear his anxiety, and an undertone of embarrassment, as if he thought no one else worried about this kind of thing. I tried to reassure him. “It’s a legitimate concern. Especially living in a big urban area—you never know what’s going to happen. But you can take precautions, like giving yourself plenty of time to get out of town.”

  “But what if you get stuck? People must get stuck sometimes. What do you do? Have you ever gotten stuck?”

  I had, but only because of events totally outside my control. I wasn’t going to bring up those messes. “I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t handle. The problem with getting stuck is, our wolf sides really want to get out and run. So while you could lock yourself in your house, werewolves are pretty good about breaking out, even scratching through doors and breaking windows. You need a really solid room or cage to prevent that from happening. I know that some werewolves have built cages in their houses for just such emergencies, if they’re close to shifting and don’t have time to get into the wild. Another thing that helps is having fresh meat on hand. If the werewolf has a big juicy rump roast to gnaw on, he calms down and stays put. Does any of this advice sound useful, Mark?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah. It makes sense.”

  “Having coping strategies in place can reduce a lot of anxiety.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. I may never use a cage in the basement, but just knowing it’s there would help. Thanks, Kitty.”

  “And thanks for your call. If any of my listeners out there have other good coping strategies, I’d love to hear about it. Next caller, please.” I shifted in my swivel chair and leaned toward the mic.

  “Hello, yes. Oh my gosh, am I really on?”

  “Yes, you’re really on,” I said, amused. “What’s your question?”

&
nbsp; “Um, well. Do you have any advice about telling your family that you’re a werewolf? It’s not something that ever comes up in regular conversation. And, well, I just don’t know how to bring it up with my parents.”

  “I get this question pretty often. There isn’t a good, right answer because everyone’s situation is different. Have you been a werewolf for a while, or is this a recent thing?”

  “Oh, it’s been a couple of years. But that’s just it. I’m finally comfortable with it, I think. And it feels awful keeping this big secret from my family. It’s eating me up. But I’m scared to tell them, I don’t know how they’ll react.”

  “Here’s the advice I usually give: truth isn’t always the best policy in cases like this, if it’s likely to upset your family and they wouldn’t understand. But you might consider that they’ve already guessed that something’s going on, and they might be worried about you. If that’s the situation, it might actually be a relief for them to hear the truth.”

  “That’s it!” she said. “That’s it exactly. My mom’s been asking all these questions, and I have to keep dodging. She must think I’m on drugs or something.”

  “And next to that how bad is being a werewolf? If you do decide to tell your family, you might also give them as much information as you can, like copies of magazine articles, or even my own book, Underneath the Skin.” Shameless plugs never hurt anyone . . .

  “Okay. I’ll have to think about it. But cool. That helps.”

  “Good luck to you. Now, moving on.” I was trying to pick relevant calls, questions that would help Tyler and Walters with situations they might run into, answers that would help them cope. So far so good. I hoped they were listening.

  “Hi, I have a question about getting along with other werewolves and things?”

  “All right, bring it on.”

  “I’ve got this situation, I’ve never heard of anything like it. It must be kind of strange, but it seems to be working out.” He was male, young sounding. Either inexperienced or embarrassed—a true-confessions kind of call.