Kitty Takes a Holiday kn-3 Page 6

  Startled, I reached for it—then thought better of it and stepped out of the way. Good thing, too, because a piece of barbed wire clattered on the floor. It was bent into the shape of a cross, like the other, which was still lying on the floor by the stove. I kicked the new one in that direction.

  Ben moved toward the front door, stepping slowly like he was learning to walk again.

  Cormac could change his mind, I thought absently. He gripped the rifle, all he had to do was raise it and fire, and he could kill Ben. Ben didn't seem to notice this, or didn't think it was a danger. Or just didn't care. All his atten­tion was on the front door, on the outside. Cormac let him pass, and Ben went out to the porch.

  I went after him.

  He stared at the deer. Just stared, clutching the blanket around him and shivering like he was cold, though I didn't think the chill in the air was that sharp.

  "I can smell it," he said. "All the way in the bedroom, I could smell it. It smells good. It shouldn't, but it does."

  Fresh blood spilled on the ground, hot and rich, seeping out of cooling meat and crunchy, marrow-filled bones—I knew exactly what he was talking about. My mouth would be watering, if I wasn't so nervous.

  "It's because you're hungry," I said softly. "I could eat it right now, couldn't I? If I wanted, I could eat it raw, skin and all—"

  "Come inside, Ben. Please. Cormac'll take care of it." Ben stood so tautly, his whole body rigid, I was afraid that if I touched him he'd snap at me, and I didn't know if his snapping would be figurative or literal. Something ani­mal was waking in him; it lurked just under the surface. Very gently, I touched his arm. "Come on." Finally, he looked away from the deer. He turned, and let me guide him inside.

  Hours later, Cormac stacked cuts of wrapped venison in the freezer, while I pulled steaks out of the broiler. Turned out everyone here liked them rare. Go figure.

  Cormac came in from cleaning up outside and went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. "Tomorrow I'll find someone to take care of the hide. The rest of it I buried—"

  "I don't want to know what you did with the rest of it," I said, giving him a "stop" gesture while I took plates out of the cupboard.

  "Come on, it's not like you haven't seen any of it before. In fact, you might have offered some help."

  "I don't know anything about dressing a deer for real. I usually just rip into it with my teeth."

  Ben sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the table­top. Cormac had given him a change of clothes, but he still wrapped himself with the blanket. I tried not to be worried. He needed time to adjust. That was all. Not having him take part in the banter was weird, though.

  The table, an antique made of varnished wood with a couple of matching straight-backed chairs, was small, barely big enough for two people, totally inadequate for three. After I arranged the steaks on plates, Cormac picked up his and stayed put, eating while standing by the counter. I brought the other two plates to the table. I set one, along with a set of utensils, in front of Ben. His gaze shifted, startled out of whatever reverie he'd been in, and tracked the food.

  Determined not to hover, I sat down with my own meal. I couldn't help it, though; I watched him closely.

  Meat looks different to a werewolf. I didn't used to be much of a meat eater at all. I used to be the kind of per­son who went to a steakhouse and ordered a salad. But after I was attacked, and I woke up and had a look at my first steak, so rare that it was bleeding all the way through—I could have swallowed the thing whole. I'd wanted to, and the thought had made me ill. It had been so strange, being hungry and nauseous at the same time. I'd almost burst into tears, because I'd realized that I was different, right through to the bones, and that my life would never be the same.

  What would Ben do?

  After a moment, he picked up the fork and knife and calmly sliced into the meat, and calmly put the bite into his mouth, and calmly chewed and swallowed. Like noth­ing was wrong.

  We might have been having a calm, normal meal. Three normal people eating their normal food—except for the spine-freezing tension that made the silence painful. The scraping of knives on plates made my nerves twinge.

  Ben had eaten half his steak when he stopped, resting the fork and knife at the edge of the plate. He remained staring down when he asked, "How long?"

  "How long until what?" I said, being willfully stupid. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

  He spoke in almost a whisper. "How long until the full moon?"

  "Four days," I said, equally subdued.

  "Not long."

  "No."

  "I can't do it," he said, without any emotion. Just an observation of fact.

  He was making this hard. I didn't know what else I expected. He'd acquired a chronic disease, not won the lottery. Ben wasn't a stranger to the supernatural. He was coming into this with his eyes wide open. He'd seen a werewolf shape-shift—on video, at least. He knew exactly what would happen to him when the full moon rose.

  "Everyone says that," I said, frustration creeping into my voice. "But you can. If I can do it, you can do it."

  "Cormac?" Ben said, looking at his cousin.

  "No," the hunter said. "I didn't do it then and I won't do it now. Norville's right, that isn't the way."

  Ben stared at him a moment, then said, "I swear to God, I never thought I'd hear you say anything like that." Cormac looked away, but Ben continued. "Your father would have done it in a heartbeat. Hell, what if he'd survived? You know he'd have shot himself."

  My mind tripped over that one entirely. My mouth, as usual, picked up where intelligent thought failed. "Whoa, wait a minute. Hold on a minute. Cormac—your father. Your father was killed by a werewolf? Is that what he's saying?"

  We embarked on a three-way staring contest: Cormac glared at Ben, Ben glared back, and I glared back and forth between them. Nobody said anything until Cormac spoke, his voice cool as granite.

  "You know where my guns are. You want it done, do it yourself."

  He walked out of the kitchen, to the front door, then out into the night, slamming the door behind him.

  Ben stared after him. I was about ready to scream, because he still wasn't saying anything.

  "Ben?"

  He started eating again, methodically cutting, chewing, swallowing, watching his plate the whole time.

  I, on the other hand, had lost my appetite. I pushed my plate away and comforted myself with the knowledge that if Ben was eating, he probably wouldn't kill himself. At least not right this minute.

  After supper, Ben went back to bed and passed out again. Still sick, still needing time to mend. Or maybe he was avoiding the situation. I didn't press the issue. In the con­tinued absence of Cormac, I took the sofa. Dealing with Ben had exhausted me. I needed to get some sleep. Or maybe I was just avoiding the situation.

  I fervently hoped Cormac wasn't out shooting another deer. My freezer couldn't handle it.

  I dreamed of blood.

  I stood in a clearing, on a rocky hill in the middle of the forest. I recognized the place; it was near the cabin. When I turned my face up, blood rained from the sky. It poured onto my face, ran across my cheeks, down my neck, matting my fur. I was covered in fur, but I couldn't tell if I was wolf or human. Both, neither. The forest smelled like slaughter. Red crosses marked the trunks of the trees closest to me. Painted in blood. Then the screaming started, like the trees themselves were crying at me: Get out, get out, get out. Leave. Run. But they hemmed me in, the trees moved to stop me, ringing me, blocking my way. I tried to scream back at them, but my voice died, and still the blood rained, and my heart raced.

  It only lasted a second. At least, it only felt like a sec­ond. It felt like I had just closed my eyes when I woke up. But early sunlight filled the room. It was morning, and Cormac was kneeling by the sofa.

  "Norville?"

  Quickly I sat up. I looked around for danger—for blood seeping from the walls. I expected to hear scream­ing. My heart beat
fast. But Cormac seemed calm. I didn't see anything unusual.

  "How long have you been there?" I said, a bit breath­lessly.

  "I just got here. I found something, I think you should come take a look."

  I nodded, pushed back the blankets, and followed him, after pulling on a coat and sneakers.

  The air outside was freezing. I wasn't sure it was just the temperature. After that dream, I expected to find another gutted rabbit on the porch. I expected to see crosses on every tree. I hugged myself and trudged over the forest earth.

  Cormac stopped about fifty paces out from the cabin. He pointed down, and it took me a minute to find what he wanted me to see: another barbed-wire cross, sunk in the dirt as if someone had dropped it there.

  "And over here," Cormac said, and led me ten paces farther, along a track that paralleled the cabin.

  Another cross lay on the ground here. Without prompt­ing from him, I continued on, and after a moment of searching, I found the next one on my own.

  I looked back at Cormac in something of a panic.

  He said, "There's a circle of them all the way around the house."

  The barbed wire had become more than a symbol. The talismans literally fenced me in. They created a barrier of fear.

  "Who would do this?" I said. "Why—why would some­one do this?"

  "I don't know. Do you smell anything?" he asked.

  I shook my head. I didn't smell anything unusual, at least. "That's weird, I ought to be able to smell some trace of whoever left these. But it's like the crosses just appeared out of thin air. Is that possible?"

  "If these things are more than just a scare tactic, then I suppose anything's possible. I kept watch all night I should have seen something."

  "Were these here before last night?"

  "I didn't see any."

  I kicked the dirt, stubbing my toe on the ground. I let out a short growl at the pain. "This is driving me crazy," I muttered.

  "That's probably the idea," Cormac said.

  "Huh. As if I'm not perfectly capable of driving myself crazy."

  "Is that what you've been doing stuck out here in the woods? Driving yourself crazy?"

  It kind of looked that way. I didn't have to admit that, though. I started picking up the crosses, searching for the next one around the circle, intending to find every single one.

  "Kitty—" His tone made him sound reprimanding, like he was about to burst forth with some great wisdom. We both knew it: picking up all the crosses was probably futile. Until we learned who was leaving these things, there'd always be more.

  "You should look in on Ben," I said. "After his talk last night, he shouldn't be left alone. Or you could get some sleep. Or something."

  He actually took the hint. After a moment's pause, he ambled back to the cabin.

  When I finished, I had sixteen barbed-wire crosses pock­eted in the corner of my coat. Eighteen when I added them to the two Cormac had brought into the house. I found a plastic grocery bag, put them all in, tied the bag closed, and left it out on the porch. I didn't want those things inside. Cormac's idea of melting them to slag sounded wise.

  Inside, Cormac and Ben were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, dead quiet. Cormac looked at Ben, and Ben didn't look at anything in particular. I started fixing breakfast, pretending like nothing was wrong, try­ing not to throw glances at them over my shoulder. It felt like I had interrupted an argument.

  "Eggs, anyone? Cereal? I think I've got some sausage that isn't too out-of-date. Frozen venison?" Silence. My own appetite wasn't what it should have been. I settled for a glass of orange juice. Finally, leaning back against the counter, I asked, "Who died?"

  Then I wished I hadn't. Ben looked sharply at me, and Cormac crossed his arms with a frustrated sigh. I couldn't read the series of body language. Maybe if I could get them talking, then close my eyes and pretend I was doing the show, I could figure out what was wrong.

  "No, really," I said, my voice flat. "Who died?"

  Ben stood up. "I'm taking a shower." He stalked back to the bedroom.

  That left me with Cormac, who wouldn't look at me. I said, "You going to tell me what I missed, or are we all going to go around not talking to each other for the rest of the day?"

  "I'm inclined to say that it's none of your business."

  "Yeah, that's why you brought Ben here in the first place, because it's none of my business. Real cute. What's wrong?"

  "Ben and I worked it out."

  "Worked what out?"

  "A compromise."

  I wanted to growl. "Will you just tell me why he won't talk to me and you won't look at me?"

  Taking that as a challenge, he looked right at me. If I hadn't been against the counter I would have backed up a step, so much anger and frustration burned out of his gaze.

  He said, "After the full moon, if he still wants me to do it, I'll do it."

  I had to take a moment to parse that, to understand what it meant. And I did. I still had to spell it out. "You'll shoot him. Just like that. The only person in the world you trust, and you'll kill him."

  "If he wants me to."

  "That isn't fair. That isn't enough time for him to adjust to what's happened to him. He won't be any happier after the full moon than he is now."

  "And how long did it take you to become the stable, well-adjusted werewolf you are today?" His tone dripped with sarcasm.

  I crossed my arms and pouted. "Very funny."

  "It's what we decided."

  "Well, you're both a couple of macho dickheads!"

  He stood. "Is it still okay if I sleep on the sofa?"

  "I ought to make you sleep on the porch!"

  He ignored me, just like I expected, and went to the sofa, wrenched off his boots, lay down, and pulled the blanket over his head.

  So much for that.

  I went to the desk and fired up the laptop. I started a new page and wrote a title at the top: "Ten Ways to Defeat Macho Dickheadism." Then I realized that most of the world's problems stemmed from macho dickheadism, and if I could defeat that I could save the world. It made for a pretty good rant, since Cormac and Ben were both refusing to get yelled at in person.

  Ben came out of the bathroom an hour later, slightly damp and wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that he must have borrowed from Cormac. It gave him this James Dean look. Or that might have been the only partially suppressed snarl he wore. I expected him to say something about me actually sitting at my desk and working. The old Ben would have said something snide and encouraging at the same time.

  This new Ben just looked at me, then sank heavily into the kitchen chair.

  I watched him. "Did you have breakfast while you and Cormac planned your suicide, or should I fix something?"

  His voice was low. "I expected you of all people to have some sympathy."

  "No way. I'm a sentimentalist, remember? You're the bitter, cynical one. I just can't believe you'd go down without a fight."

  "I've already lost."

  I moved to the kitchen table and sat across from him, where Cormac had been. I stared him down. He fidgeted, nervous, and looked away. Ah-ha, wolfish instincts were kicking in. He didn't try to challenge me back. Good.

  "This is what I see: I have three days, plus a full moon night, to convince you that life as a werewolf is better than no life at all."

  "Kitty, this isn't about you. It isn't any of your business."

  "Tell that to Cormac. He's the one who dumped you in my lap."

  "I told him off about that already."

  "You really think he made a mistake, bringing you here?"

  He pursed his lips. "I do. He should have taken care of this back at Shiprock."

  Ben had always been there for me. Now, when it was time for him to accept help, he was throwing it back in my face. Well, screw that.

  "You know what, Ben? You're wrong. This is my busi­ness. You know why?" He gave the ceiling a long-suffering stare. That was okay, the question was rhetoric
al anyway. "Because I'm adopting you. You're part of my pack, now. That means you're under my protection and I refuse to let you go off and kill yourself."

  He blinked at me. "What are you talking about?"

  "Wolves run in packs. You're in my pack. And I'm the alpha female. That means you do what I say."

  "Or what?"

  "Or… or I'll get really pissed off at you."

  He seemed to consider for a moment. In a mental panic, I wondered whether I could take him in a fight, if I had to back up my oh-so-brave words. He wasn't yet used to the strength he gained as a werewolf. He was still sick, still finding his feet. I had experience with this sort of thing. The thing was, I didn't want to have to assert my position by fighting him. I wanted to be able to just talk him into it.

  Finally, he said, "Why do I have this urge to take you seriously?"

  "Because the wolf inside you knows what's best. Trust me, Ben. Please."

  "I thought you didn't have a pack."

  I smiled. "I do now."

  Chapter 6

  Come on, get your coat," I said, grabbing my own and my bag.

  "Why?"

  "We're going out. Quietly—don't wake up Cormac."

  He went to the bedroom and came back with a jacket. He looked sullen, but didn't argue. That scared me a little. Was he really buying into the whole alpha female thing? I thought I'd been bluffing.

  "Where are we going?" he finally asked when we were on the road.

  "Into town to buy groceries. You guys are eating all my food." That wasn't all; I'd put the bag of barbed-wire crosses in the car. I planned on getting rid of them.

  "Why do I have to come along?"

  "Because part of being a werewolf is learning how to function in the real world. It's a little freaky at first. McDonald's will never smell the same."

  He wrinkled his nose and made a grunt of disgust.

  "Also, I'm not going to leave you alone and let you kill yourself just to spite me."

  "I made a deal with Cormac. I'll stick it out through the full moon. I won't go back on that."