Kitty Takes a Holiday kn-3 Read online

  Wearing a wry smile, he looked at me. His voice turned thoughtful. "I don't think I'd have made it this far without you. Cormac did the right thing, bringing me here."

  "That's nice of you to finally admit it."

  "When this happened to you, did you get through it alone or did someone help you?"

  "Hmm, I had a whole pack. A dozen or so other werewolves, and half of them wanted to help and half of them were worried I'd be competition. But there was someone in the middle of all that. T.J. looked out for me. The first time I Changed, he held me. I tried to be there for you the same way. But T.J.—he was special. He was very Zen about the whole thing most of the time. He used to tell me not to look at the Wolf as the enemy, but to learn to use it as a strength. You take those strengths into your­self and become more than the sum of the parts." Always, this was easier said than done. But I could still hear T.J.'s voice telling me these things. Reminding me.

  "Where is he now?"

  To think, I had just been about to congratulate myself that I'd spent a whole minute talking about T.J. without cry­ing. I spoke softly, to keep my voice from cracking, because I was supposed to be the strong one. "Dead. I called out the alpha male of our pack, and T.J. swooped in to back me up. We lost. He died protecting me. That's why I had to leave Denver."

  "I hear that happens a lot, in werewolf packs."

  "Maybe. I don't really know. There's a lot of different kinds of packs out there."

  "I'd just as soon keep this one to you and me."

  "Afraid of a little healthy competition?" I said wryly.

  "Of course. I'd hate to have to share you with anyone."

  "Or is it that you'd hate to have to fight to keep me to yourself?"

  He shifted so he was looking at me. I looked back, down the length of my body. "You know, I think I would. If I had to." The playful tone went out of his voice.

  My whole body flushed. Suddenly we weren't two friends snuggled together for comfort. He was male, I was female, and there were sparks. The weight of him leaning against me sent warm ripples through my gut.

  "Is that you talking—you the human, I mean. Or is it the wolf?" I said.

  He hesitated, then said, "It's all the same thing, isn't it?"

  Helplessly, I nodded.

  He moved again, propping himself on an elbow so he leaned over me. Tentatively, he touched the waistband of my sweatpants. I didn't say anything. In fact, I pulled my arms away, tucking my hands under my head, so I wouldn't be tempted to stop him.

  He pushed up the hem of my tank top, tugged down on my sweatpants, exposing a stretch of naked skin across my belly. He kissed this, working his way across, gently and carefully, like he wanted to be sure to touch every spot. Warmth flushed along my skin everywhere he touched. He eased the edge of my pants down farther, until he was kiss­ing the curve of my hip, using his tongue, tasting me. My heart was beating hard, my breaths coming deep. I closed my eyes and squirmed with pleasure.

  It was all I could do to keep from grabbing him, rip­ping off his clothes, and pulling him into me. He started this, so I let him work, reveling in the focused intensity of his attention. He kept at it until I gasped, a sudden jolt of sensation startling even me.

  Then I grabbed him and ripped all his clothes off.

  After that, we acted like we were on some kind of honey­moon. We'd start out washing dishes and end up making out over the sink, pawing each other with soapy hands. The bed got a workout. The sofa got a workout. The floor got a workout. The kitchen table—after one attempt we decided it wasn't stable enough to withstand a workout.

  I got a heck of a workout. I was sore .

  It distracted us from our problems, from the curse, from the slaughter, from the threats that had taken up residence in my dreams. The reason Ben gave me for not sleeping was a much better one than lying awake waiting for doom to strike.

  Then there was the nagging little voice that kept tell­ing me it wasn't Ben, it was the wolf inside of him that had inspired this heroic passion. He wouldn't be here if he weren't a werewolf. Circumstance had brought us together, but I was enough of a romantic to want to be in love.

  Neither one of us brought up the subject.

  Over the next several days, two more herds of cattle were attacked. A dozen cows in all were slaughtered, torn to pieces. Each time, Marks called me up, wanting to know where I'd been the night before, what I'd been doing, and did I have witnesses who could verify that. Not really, seeing as how Ben and I were each other's alibi. Each time, Ben and I went out and searched the area, looking for something out of place, unnatural. Something that turned the world dark, and glared out with red eyes. But it must have been avoiding us.

  I tried calling Cormac again, more than once. Voice mail picked up every time without ringing, so he was out of range or his phone was off. He didn't have a message, just let the automated voice carry on. I tried not to worry. Cormac was fine, he could take care of himself.

  The second time Marks called I accused him of racial profiling—the only reason he suspected me was the fact that I was the only known lycanthrope in the region. He replied that he had applied for that warrant to collect a DNA sample from me.

  I finished that phone conversation to see Ben sitting on the sofa holding his forehead like it ached and shaking his head slowly.

  Ben and I were on the sofa, undressed, snuggled together under a blanket, basking in the warmth of the stove and drinking morning coffee. Didn't do much talking in favor of reveling in the simple animal comforts.

  A tickling in the back of my mind disturbed the com­fort. I lifted my head, felt myself tilting it—like a dog perking its ears up. And yes, I did hear something, very faint. Leaves rustling. Footsteps.

  Ben tensed up against me. "What's wrong?"

  "Somebody's outside. Wait here."

  I slipped off the sofa and into the bedroom to find some jeans and a sweater to throw on.

  It couldn't have been my mad dog-flaying curse meis-ter, or the red-eyed thing. I'd never heard anybody actu­ally moving around the house like this. Maybe it was some hiker who'd gotten lost. I could point them back to the road and be done with it.

  Unfortunately, my life was never that simple, and dread gnawed at my chest.

  I wished Cormac were here with a couple of his guns.

  I went down the porch steps and looked around. Lift­ing my chin, I breathed deep. Didn't smell anything odd, but that didn't mean anything. Whoever it was could just be in the wrong place.

  Something called through the trees, a low, echoing hoot. An owl, incongruous in the morning light. I couldn't see it, but it made me feel like something watched me.

  Listening hard, looking into the trees, I started to walk around the house. Then I heard a crunching of dried leaves. Up the hill toward the road.

  Knowing where to look now, I saw him. A short man, maybe forty, probably latino, his round face tanned to rust, wrinkles fanning from the corners of his eyes. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail. He wore a thick army-style canvas jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots. He wandered among the trees, hands on his hips like this was property he was planning on buying.

  This was my territory. I walked toward him, stomping to make noise of my own, until he looked at me. He didn't seem surprised to see me standing in front of him.

  I glared. "Can I help you with something?"

  He glanced at me, not seeming at all startled or concerned.

  "There was something here—" He pointed to the ground, drawing a line in the air that arced halfway around him. "In a circle all the way around the house. It's all kind of blurry now. But it's like someone was trying to build a fence or something."

  He gestured right to where the ring of barbed-wire crosses had lain on the ground.

  "There's been a lot of blood spilled here, too. All kinds. This place is pretty messed up, spiritually speaking."

  I stared. My jaw might even have dropped open.

  "Who are you?" I managed to demand without shr
ieking.

  "Sorry. Name's Tony. Tony Rivera. Cormac asked me to come out and have a look. I haven't had the time until now."

  Simultaneously, the situation became more clear and more confused. This guy knew Cormac how? "He said he called someone, but didn't say anything about you."

  "That surprise you? Is he here?"

  "No." Though he'd probably expected to still be here when he'd called.

  "You must be Kitty." He approached me slowly, obliquely, swinging a bit to the side—not directly toward me—and keeping his gaze off center, looking out and around, to the ground and the trees, everywhere but directly at me.

  He was speaking wolf. Using wolf body language, at least. Giving me space and letting me take a good look at him. The gesture startled me into thinking well of him. I tilted my chin, breathed deeply—he wasn't a lycanthrope. He smelled absolutely human, normal and a little earthy, like he spent a lot of time outside.

  "Hi," I said, able to smile nicely while he stood in front of me. Before I realized I was speaking, I asked, "How'd you learn to do that?"

  "I pay attention. So, what seems to be the problem out here?"

  "You the witch doctor?"

  "Something like that."

  I gestured over my shoulder. "You want to come in for coffee while we talk?"

  "Sure, thanks."

  Ben, clever boy that he was, was dressed and waiting in the doorway when Tony and I reached the cabin.

  Tony saw him and waved. "Hi, Ben. Cormac said you were here."

  Ben's eyes widened. "Tony?" Tony just smiled, and Ben shook his head. "Should have known."

  I said, "So, ah, I guess you two know each other."

  "He's my lawyer," Tony said.

  Small world and all that. I looked at Ben. He shrugged. "Guess I'm everybody's lawyer. Cormac didn't say it was you he'd called."

  Tony glanced at me with a sparkle in his eyes. "Cormac likes his secrets, doesn't he?"

  "I'm going to get some coffee." I went into the house.

  I turned around with a fresh mug of coffee for Tony to find him and Ben studying each other. Ben wilted under the scrutiny, bowing his head and slouching, and I sup­pressed an urge to jump between them in an effort to pro­tect him.

  Tony said, "When did that happen?"

  That. The lycanthropy. Tony could tell just by looking.

  "Couple weeks ago, I guess. I was out on a job with Cormac."

  "I'm sorry. That's rough." He pointed at me. "So you didn't—you're not the one who turned him, are you?"

  "Do you think Cormac would have let me live if I'd done it?"

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Tony took the mug I offered him, but didn't drink.

  Tony wasn't here about werewolves, or about Ben. Cormac had called him here for the curse.

  "Cormac thought you might know something about what's been going on. He thought it was some kind of curse."

  "Yeah, he told me some of it. You still have any of the stuff? The crosses or the animals?"

  I shook my head and tried not to feel guilty about get­ting rid of the bag of crosses.

  He said, "That's too bad. I might have been able to lead you right to whoever's doing this."

  "Yeah, well you try living with a dozen skinned dogs hanging outside your house."

  "Fair enough. You know anything about who might be doing this?"

  "We decided it has to be someone local, since they seem to want me to get out. Cormac thinks whoever it is doesn't know what they're doing. It's been pretty messy, and it isn't working." In a low, grumbly voice I added, "Much."

  Ben said, "Can you really tell who's doing this just by looking at the mess?"

  Tony shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes there's spiri­tual fingerprints. Even when two different people work the same spell, each of them leaves their own stamp on it. Their own personality. If the person is local, it might be as simple as driving around looking for that same stamp. If someone's trying to put a curse on you, you can bet they've cast spells around their own place for protection."

  "Magic spells," I couldn't help but mutter. "Huh."

  "You don't believe?" Tony said.

  "Look at me, you can tell what I am. I have to believe in pretty much anything these days. It doesn't make believing easy. Magic sounds like so much fun when you're a kid, until you realize how complicated it makes everything. Because you know what? It makes no sense. It makes no sense that throwing a bunch of barbed-wire crosses around my house should scare the pants off me." My voice rose in volume. This whole situation had made me incredibly cranky.

  "Except it does make sense, because finding a bunch of plastic Mickey Mouses around your house probably wouldn't have scared you so much, right?" Tony said, donning a half smile that creased his brown face.

  My own smile answered his. "I don't know. That'd be pretty weird. I always thought Mickey Mouse was kind of creepy."

  "Tony." Ben sat in the kitchen chair, leaning forward on his knees, an idea lighting his eyes. "You can spot the type of magic of something by looking at it. Sense it. Whatever. There's something else that's been happening around here. Probably not connected to what's been hap­pening at the house, but who knows. You mind taking a look while you're out here?"

  "What is it?" Tony asked.

  "Messy," Ben said.

  I tried to catch Ben's gaze, to silently ask him what he was doing. He was talking about the cattle mutilations, about the second werewolf that he and Cormac had tracked in New Mexico. What did he think Tony could tell about it?

  Tony frowned thoughtfully. "What do you think it is?"

  "I'd rather not say. Let you take a look at it without me giving you ideas."

  "Sure. I'm game."

  Ben looked at me. "How about it? Where was the last one, out by county line road?"

  Marks wouldn't tell me exactly where it was. He'd sort of acted like he assumed I already knew. But he'd indi­cated that general direction.

  "What do you think he's going to find?"

  "Just curious," Ben said. "You keep saying this isn't a werewolf. I'd like to hear what Tony has to say about it."

  With a complaining sigh, I went to find my car keys. "Ben, you're going to have to start trusting your nose." I looked at Tony. "It isn't a werewolf."

  "Now I'm curious," he said.

  "Whatever it is, I want to know so it doesn't blindside us like it did the last time," Ben said.

  Which made it sound like there was going to be a next time. Why was I not surprised?

  Chapter 11

  The county line road turned off from the state highway a few miles outside town. It was two narrow lanes, paved, no discernible shoulder. Barbed-wire fences lined yel­lowed pastures on both sides. We all kept our eyes open, peering out the windows for anything unusual, any break in the consistent rangeland.

  Tony spotted it, pointing. "There."

  I slowed down and pulled onto the grass on the side of the road. To the left, on the other side of a slope of grass­land, someone had parked a backhoe. The ordinary piece of equipment seemed ominous somehow, lurking out here by itself. The operator didn't seem to be around. Gone to lunch, maybe.

  The three of us crossed the road and picked our way over the barbed wire. Walking toward the backhoe—and whatever work it was here for—felt like the last time, when Marks had brought us to see the slaughtered herd. This marching inexorably toward some unnamed hor­ror. I didn't want to see what lay over that slope. And yet I kept walking.

  Finally, we crested the slope and looked down to what lay beyond.

  The backhoe's work was done. A mound of newly turned earth lay over a recently covered ditch, a hole some twenty feet to a side. The evidence was buried, cleaned away.

  I could see where the dead cattle had lain, though: the swathes of crushed grass, the dark stains of blood on the earth. Anybody could tell that something had happened here.

  Tony stood with his arms crossed, regarding the scene, his brows furrowed. "Werewolves didn't do this."
/>   "How do you even know what happened?" Ben said.

  "Something died here," Tony said matter-of-factly. "Messy, like you said. But more. Evil. Can't you feel it?"

  "I don't know. What am I supposed to be feeling?"

  I knew what Tony was talking about. Werewolves weren't inherently evil. They came in all varieties. They were indi­viduals, exhibiting a whole range of behaviors and individ­ual intentions. But this—some miasma rose from the earth itself, seeping under my skin, raising the hair on my arms. It felt like something in the trees was watching me, but I looked and smelled the air, and couldn't find anything.

  "Evil," I echoed. "It feels evil. All it wants to do is destroy."

  Ben spoke with a clenched jaw. "I've been feeling that crawling under my skin ever since that son of a bitch bit me. How am I supposed to tell the difference?"

  He could smell the blood, and the scent prodded his wolf, like poking a hornet's nest with a stick. But he didn't recognize it. Couldn't separate his own hunger from the wrongness that permeated the earth here. His shoulders and arms were tense, like he was bracing against something. His face held an expression of horror, but I couldn't tell if the expression was turned out to the scene before us, or inward, to himself.

  I went to him. Didn't look at him, but gripped his hand and leaned my face against his shoulder.

  "Practice, Ben. Patience."

  He turned slightly, rubbing his cheek against my head, and I thought he might say something. I thought he might talk it out until this made some kind of sense. Instead, he abruptly broke away from me and stalked back to the road.

  Tony watched him leave. "How's he doing really?"

  "Oh, just fine," I answered lightly. "That's the scary part."

  I couldn't imagine what Ben would be like if he were handling this really badly.

  Side by side, Tony and I followed Ben back to the road. I tried to pin Tony down, studying him out of the corner of my eye. Despite the weirdness of the area, despite having spent most of the morning with a couple of werewolves, he didn't seem tense at all. He kept his head up, his gaze out, looking around at the trees, the top of the hills, the sky, watching everything just in case something interest­ing chanced by.