Kitty and the Silver Bullet

Chapter 6

I felt betrayed, and I couldn't even say by whom. Not by Rick—he'd seemed as much a victim of the evening as anyone. Then again, some of it was him; he must have talked about me to Mercedes. Gave away pieces of my history that put me in danger. I wanted to be angry at Arturo, but he'd probably saved my hide back there. Carl and Meg—of course, I'd felt betrayed by them a long time ago.

Mercedes Cook. Now, there was a character. She was up to something. She'd set that little game in motion. Put the pieces into play to see what would happen.

Really, I had no one to blame but myself for walking into the trap.

"Kitty, can you come here a minute?" Ben called to me from the kitchen, leaning over the counter that overlooked the living room. I left the desk and computer to sit on the bar stool, where he indicated.

We stayed like that for a long minute, looking across the counter at one another. Now what? What had I done wrong?

I was about to say something when he put a gun on the counter between us. It made a clunking noise, a sound of finality. It was chillingly black.

I stared at it. Guns were Cormac's thing. Having the gun here, without Cormac, was just…wrong.

"What's this?" My voice seemed small.

"Nine-millimeter Glock semiautomatic, weapon of choice of law enforcement officers everywhere. Compact, light, has some kick because of that, but it's worth the trade. It can still do a fair bit of damage."

Dread fell like a weight over me.

He continued. "We're not strong enough to take on Carl and Meg hand-to-hand. We need other advantages."

Like hell. "Ben, no, I've never touched a gun in my life—"

"That's why I'm taking you to a range where you can practice."

"No. No no no. It's cheating. We're supposed to use claws and teeth. Survival of the fittest—"

"Law of the jungle crap?" he said. "You don't think they'd cheat given half a chance?"

As a matter of fact, they had cheated. T. J. had agreed to walk away when Carl killed him. I just didn't want to have to use a gun.

"Do it for me," he said. "It'll make me feel better. If you run into that guy alone, I want to know that you can drop him where he stands."

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it had come to this.

When I got my voice back I said, "Is this one of Cormac's?" For a minute it felt like the bounty hunter was with us in spirit.

Ben shook his head. "Did you think he was the only one with a concealed weapons permit?" His smile turned sly.

Well. You learn something new every day. Even about the guy you're sleeping with.

The shooting range was in a low concrete building north of town, in the suburbs. It might have been any business, and I'd have probably overlooked the unobtrusive sign, black print on white, announcing guns, ammo, range. SEVEN DAYS A WEEK.

Inside, the place smelled like Cormac. Rather, Cormac smelled like a gun shop, if I had ever known what a gun shop smelled like. Gun oil, metal, burned powder. That said something about Cormac.

Ben picked up a couple boxes of bullets, headsets for ear protection, and safety glasses from the guy at the counter. Boy, there were a lot of guns locked up behind the glass case under that counter. They all looked dark and angry.

At the back of the shop, past the double metal doors, came the sound of gunfire. Two guns, I thought, firing slightly out of synch. One was faster than the other.

His hand on my back, Ben steered me toward that door.

The back room was straight out of a police drama—various booths opened into a long hallway. Targets hung on lines in the back. The people in the two occupied booths ignored us.

Ben was all business and got straight to work.

"First off, here's the reason so many accidental shootings happen with semiautomatics." He clicked a latch, and the clip dropped out of the gun's grip. Then he slid back a release, revealing the bullet still in the chamber. "Losing the clip doesn't mean the thing's empty."

He tipped the gun, knocking the bullet into his hand. Closed the release. "Now it's safe." He pointed to the target, pulled the trigger a couple of times, and nothing happened.

"Rule number one, never point a gun—empty, loaded, whatever—unless you plan on firing it. If you point it at a person, it means you want to kill them." He slipped the spare bullet back in the clip, put the clip back in the gun, pulled back the slide, chambered the round. Live and loaded. Rock and roll. Shit.

"Rule number two, if you need to kill someone, make sure the thing's loaded." He grinned.

"You've been hanging out with Cormac too long," I said.

"Yeah, well," he said, and left it at that.

"Who taught you all this? Rule number one, rule number two." He handled the weapon like he'd been doing this his whole life. Maybe he had. He'd grown up on a ranch on the northern Front Range.

"My father."

"Your freaky militia father who's in jail?" Yes, my boyfriend had quite the history. Two of his three closest relatives were doing time.

"Yep." He smiled. He handed me safety equipment. "Put these on."

How the hell did I ever get mixed up with him? I was a nice girl from the suburbs. I put on the glasses and earphones, which mostly muffled my hearing, but I could still hear him as he instructed.

Hold it like this, sight along these two points on the barrel, don't jerk at the trigger—squeeze slowly as you exhale. He fired, then fired again. The gun exploded with noise.

I flinched. Nothing good ever happened when I heard that sound. I was glad of the ear protection in this enclosed concrete space. We looked across to the target—he'd made two little holes off center, within the black circle.

"Now, you try." He handed the thing to me.

I took it like it was alive and had teeth. Sighing, Ben stood behind me, cupped his hands around mine, and guided them into place, showing me how to hold the thing: right hand on the grip, left hand underneath, steadying it. Our bodies pressed close together.

Okay, this part was kind of sexy.

"Don't brace your arms," he said by my ear. "Relax. Now, breathe out, tighten the trigger—"

Supersensitive, it felt like it only moved a millimeter before it clicked and the gun jumped in my hand. Boom, loud as an explosion, I felt it in my bones. My whole arm tingled. My heart was beating fast for no good reason.

"Hey, I think you actually hit the target." He pointed to a white tear on the edge of the paper, far outside the circle of black.

"I don't think I was even aiming." I furrowed my brow at the weapon.

"I couldn't tell," he said sarcastically. "Try again."

He reminded me to aim along the sights, but he didn't guide me this time. I was on my own. I fired. It still made my arms tingle, but I was ready for it this time. Again, I hit the target, but not the black circle.

"Again." So I did, again and again and again. Went through four clips, fifteen rounds each, so that I was standing in a mess of brass casings. I got used to the noise, got used to the way the shots rattled my arms. And that was the point.

By the last clip I hit the black circle every single shot. I regarded my handiwork with grudging admiration. I didn't want to feel proud about this.

Ben crossed his arms and nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Now pop the clip. Check the chamber, make sure it's empty."

I did, dutifully, like I was some kind of army trainee.

"Now, don't you feel better?" he said.

"No. Can we go now?"

Back in the car, I asked, "You're not going to make me carry a gun around with me all the time, are you?"

"Not yet. Have to get you a permit first."

I just couldn't win.

I spent that week at work handling the fallout from Friday's show and introducing America's first celebrity vampire. Bitterly, now that I was dealing with a manipulative player rather than a genial actress. Although a couple of calls from the agents of people who wanted to be the second celebrity vampire were awfully intriguing…I sensed a reality TV show in the making.

I didn't have the license or the gun when I got shanghaied in the parking lot outside work.

If you want to make yourself hard to find, you're supposed to vary your route between work and home. Leave at unpredictable times. Make your schedule unpredictable. Get a P.O. box, hide your home address. Get an unlisted phone number.

But everyone could find me at KNOB. They were waiting for me after dark.

"Hi, honey. Love your show."

I heard her and smelled her at the same time, my nostrils widening as soon as I stepped outside and took in the night air. She was cold, she had no heartbeat—undead. Vampire. She leaned on the wall right outside the door, arms crossed. Her thick brown hair was tied in a wild ponytail, her skin was porcelain pale and smooth. She wore a black lace camisole, leather pants, and high-heeled black boots. And sunglasses. Her red lips smiled.

She wasn't one of the locals. The vampires in Arturo's clan had more style and less punk-ass stereotype.

"Who the hell are you?" I said, quiet and wary.

"She's with me." The guy just appeared, behind me, leaning on the other side of the door. He had the same pale skin, spiky black hair, and sunglasses. Leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans. That same wicked, predatorial smile.

Fuck.

I walked forward, like I could pretend they weren't there. A second later, they stood beside me again, and each one had a grip on my arms.

I sighed. "What do you want?"

They both grinned, having too much fun with their game.

"We want to talk," the guy said.

"I'm listening."

"Not here," he said.

Of course not. Side by side, holding me tight, they steered me to a black SUV parked around the corner. Strangely, rather than panic I felt an odd sort of fatalism settle over me, like I finally had too much to deal with. I didn't have any anxiety left to muster. Maybe they weren't planning on killing me. Maybe they'd started a fan club and just wanted me to give a little talk to the gang. Maybe they were going to lock me in a shipping crate and sell me into slavery.

See, whatever it was, I just couldn't think of how bad it could possibly get. My imagination failed me.

I made a token effort to escape. I braced my arms and dropped my weight back—and was shocked when I actually broke out of their grips. Blinking, I looked at them looking back at me. Then the Wolf took over and ran. I turned and launched myself in the same step, dashing down the sidewalk.

Seemingly without moving, without effort, they grabbed hold of me again. I didn't even sense them moving. In one breath I was running, and in the next I jerked back, flailing like a fish on a line. They hauled me back toward the SUV. I managed to get my feet under me, so I wasn't completely dragged.

"Cute," the woman said. "Real cute. Though I can't blame you for trying."

"Thanks," I muttered.

She went around to the passenger side, the guy shoved me in through the driver's side, and they pinned me between them as they climbed in.

"Don't worry," she said. "This'll be fun."

Yeah, right. They both looked to be in their twenties. They seemed young, as vampires went. They were having too much fun with it.

They didn't blindfold me. They didn't care if I knew where we were going, which boded both well and ill. Maybe they really did just want to talk. But if they were planning on killing me, it wouldn't matter if I knew where we were going.

I put on an air of bravado. "You guys are from the Eighties, aren't you?"

She giggled and put her arm across my shoulders, pressing far too close to me for comfort. Goose bumps broke out over my arms. She said, "That's exactly what he said you'd say."

"Who? Who said I'd say that?"

Nothing. The guy grinned, and she kept stifling giggles.

I slumped back against the seat and eyed him in the rearview mirror. Except he wasn't there. Leaning forward suddenly, I checked the side mirror—I should have seen him there, but I only saw the back of the seat, bathed in shadow. But the mirror thing was bunk. I'd seen it.

"What are you doing?" the woman asked, watching me crane my neck, trying to look at a different angle.

Sounding more panicked than I wanted, I said, "Do you guys cast reflections in mirrors or not?"

She grabbed the rearview mirror and tilted it toward herself—and I caught a glimpse of her, right there in the mirror, in all her poofy-haired glory.

Then he took hold of it and turned it toward him. And I didn't see anything. Maybe an extra shadow. He did it quickly, then moved the mirror back to its original position, like he'd only been adjusting it.

"You mean it turns on and off?" My voice was a tad shrill.

"It's all tricks of the light," he said. The woman only smiled.

Oh, great. What couldn't vampires do? I sat back and stayed very still and quiet for the rest of the trip.

After a half hour of driving, we ended up south of the freeway, near Broadway, behind a one-story, windowless, warehouse-type building. The area was all steel and concrete, desolate at this time of night. I could scream, and it wouldn't do any good.

She dragged me out of her side of the car. Her grip was firm—no breaking out of it this time, especially when he joined her.

Inside the warehouse, the space was lit by emergency lighting, dim circles around the perimeter, leaving much of the place in shadows. On top of that, crates and boxes formed walls and canyons, dozens of pallets wrapped in plastic and waiting shipment. This was a working warehouse, besides whatever hideout these guys were using it for.

I smelled people. Beings, rather. Both vampires and lycanthropes were here, and the scent crowded together so I couldn't tell how many there were. The shadows hid them well, but I sensed them there, watching. I kept close to the door. Maybe I could run, if they gave me a chance.

A low growl echoed, and something animal and musky approached. It was canine, but not wolf, and it had a distinctive…something else. A touch of human. I backed toward the door, my shoulders bunched up.

The thing moved into the light, and I'd never seen anything like it. As large as a Great Dane—bigger, even—it stepped lightly on slender legs. Its body was sleek, its coloring mottled—red, white, yellow, and black splotches decorating it, like it had had a run-in with a paint set. It had a boxy, doglike face and huge, desert-dwelling ears that focused on me like satellite dishes.

I couldn't help but stare at it, which it took as a challenge, lowering its head, straightening its tail like a rudder, and growling.

"Hush, Dack. Be still." A voice spoke from the darkness, and the creature looked toward it, flattening its ears and dropping its tail.

The leader was here, and I knew his voice. Rick gave the animal a quick scratch behind the ears as he approached us, emerging from shadows.

"Rick, you bastard! What the hell's this about?"

The animal started growling again, and I backed up. Again, Rick shushed it, murmuring gently. His power was subtle, but indisputable.

When he entered into view, so did his army. They came into the light, just enough so I could see them—so they could see me, size me up. Seven lycanthropes and two more vampires, besides the ones who'd ambushed me. One of the vampires was a woman. So was one of the lycanthropes—and she wasn't a wolf. I couldn't tell what variety she was. A diverse and terrifying group, they all looked tough, and they all frowned. Some of them carried weapons—guns, knives. I wouldn't want to meet any of them in a dark alley.

I swallowed back my fear. "So. Am I here to be threatened or recruited?"

Rick said, "I wanted to show you how vulnerable you are. You need me as much as I need you."

"And how exactly is facing off with Carl and Meg supposed to make me less vulnerable?"

He had the decency not to answer that.

"Rick, I want to go home, and I want you to take me. Not Sid and Nancy over here."

"Charlie and Violet," he said. "Their names are Charlie and Violet." The pair of vampires leaned against a nearby wall. I swore the woman, Violet, was smacking a piece of chewing gum. Charlie smiled enough to show fang and gave a wiggle of his fingers.

I nodded toward the strange, leggy creature. "And what is that thing?"

"African wild dog, lycanthropic variety. Dack and I are old friends."

The animal—person, I forced myself to acknowledge, since I'd sensed it from the first—didn't appear any more friendly after the introduction. I kept my distance. Rick whispered to him, and the dog turned and trotted away, close to the wall of the building. Walking the perimeter, keeping guard.

Motley didn't begin to describe this group.

Then he introduced me to all of them, the nine others, as if I would remember their names. As if knowing their names would give me some stake in the outcome of this confrontation. One of them, the woman lycanthrope of unknown variety, flashed a smile and said, "I love your show."

What else could I do but mutter, "Thanks." Then I stepped close to Rick and said softly, "It's going to take more than this to get rid of Arturo."

"Yes. It's going to take the city's werewolves supporting me," Rick said.

"No. Even if I thought I could take on Carl and Meg, even if I took over the pack, I wouldn't do it and then turn my wolves into cannon fodder for your little war."

"And that is exactly why you should lead the city's wolves, and not Carl. Carl wouldn't hesitate to use them as cannon fodder."

"You're trying to turn this back on me, to appeal to my sense of duty. It's not going to work. Just this once I'm going to be selfish and stay the hell out of it."

"You'll have to do what you think is right, of course."

"Oh, no you don't! You're not going to guilt me into this."

"Wow," said Violet. "You were right, Rick. She is kinda jumpy."

"Kitty, let's take a walk," Rick said, nodding toward the door.

Charlie stepped forward, frowning. "You sure it's safe?"

"It'll be fine," he said. He opened the door and gestured me outside. Dutifully, I exited.

I was happy enough to be outside the close, stuffy air of the warehouse, and the smells and stares of beings who didn't much care for me. Were-African wild dog? If I hadn't actually seen him…I wondered what he was like as a human.

Rick guided our walk along the wall, staying in the shadows and out of the streetlights. He kept his gaze forward, like he wasn't at all concerned. We reached the corner of the building, and he still didn't say anything. I couldn't say that I knew him all that well, but he seemed unusually pensive. Lost in thought.

“They don't trust you," he said finally. "They think I'm making a mistake, trying to recruit you. I thought if they met you, they'd change their minds."

"Rick, I've got my own worries right now. I've got too much to lose to…to fight someone else's war."

"I thought maybe you'd be interested in revenge."

I shook my head. "I put too much distance between me and them to want revenge anymore."

"T. J. would have sided with me without any doubts."

"Don't you dare use him as a pawn in this," I said, my voice rough. "He doesn't deserve that." Even though Rick was right.

"I'm sorry." His voice was muted. We walked a few more paces, until the silence was too much.

"Charlie and Violet," I said. "Where'd you pick up those two?"

He actually smiled, an offhand amused smile. "Charlie was turned about forty-five years ago by a West Coast vampire of my acquaintance—a bit power hungry, a bit mad. I helped Charlie escape from his Family. About thirty years ago, he met Violet and turned her himself. They decided they were made for each other, and I can't say I disagree. They've operated independently since then. They seem to have a lot of fun being petty outlaws—it tends to make the Families twitch."

"So they're not from the eighties."

"They got a bit stalled there, didn't they? Charlie owes me a favor, so he came."

The others probably all had stories like that. Rick had helped them, now they answered his call. But would they be enough to confront Arturo?

"Is that everyone you have? Are others coming?"

"I could use more," he said. "I ought to have more to face Arturo."

"You're talking like this is going to be a war. Like you and Arturo have armies. Is that what this is going to be? Vampires and werewolves battling in the streets of Denver? That can't happen. I'll tell the police—I have a contact with them."

"This has been going on for hundreds of years under the noses of mundane authorities. No one will notice."

He was right. People like us were killed all the time and no one much noticed. Through most of history there'd been a curtain drawn over our world.

"That's changing. The Denver PD has a Paranatural Unit, did you know that? If bodies start turning up, they'll notice. Look at how the newspaper played those nightclub attacks. You can't operate under the old assumptions."

He studied me sidelong. "What's your story? You're on edge, even more paranoid than usual. It's more than your mother's illness, isn't it?"

I almost told him. It was on the edge of my tongue. I hadn't told anyone but Ben, and for a moment I thought that if I told Rick about the miscarriage, it would explain everything. He'd leave me alone.

I ought to be milking it for all the pity I could.

"Rick, it's all I can do to take care of myself right now. I can't help you." I didn't want to get involved. I couldn't get involved.

He nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I'm going to move soon. I have to do this before Mercedes leaves town. She has to spread the word that a new, stronger Master is in control here, and that Denver is off-limits."

"What's the deal with her? How is it she has both you and Arturo cowering?"

He smiled, a wry and bitter expression. "A Master vampire is a Master only as long as other vampires recognize him as such. Arturo will be desperate to prove that he's still in charge. And she has the power to decide that he isn't. When she moves along on her concert tour, the news of that will spread."

"So she's the vampire gossip mill and everyone tries to get on her good side? It can't be that simple. What happens if she decides to nudge things along in one direction or another?"

"Maybe we'll find out. Kitty, I know you have pressing concerns, but if Carl and Arturo win, you won't be able to stay to help your mother. You'll be in danger, and you see how easy it is to get to you."

"You're trying to scare me. I've already been scared. It's a lot harder to terrify me these days."

"I imagine so. Just remember, fear is good. Fear is a survival mechanism."

"And a tool used to manipulate others. Rick, I need to get back."

"All right." We turned the corner to where his slick BMW was parked.

We drove the whole way back to KNOB without saying a word. He stopped in the parking lot next to my hatchback and let me out without argument. He didn't have to do that. Carl or Arturo would have kept me locked up, just to show who had the power.

It occurred to me that Rick was one of the good guys.

"Thanks," I said, climbing out of the car.

"Just a minute. Take this." He reached over and offered me a slip of paper. It had a phone number written on it.

"This yours?" I said, and he nodded. "In case I change my mind?"

"Or if you need my help."

I couldn't decide if the gesture was out of optimism or pity. I stuck the number in my pocket. "Rick. How old are you?"

He shook his head, quirking a smile. I’m not going to answer that."

"If I keep asking, you might one of these days."

"I admire your persistence, Kitty."

I almost laughed. "At least somebody does. Good luck, Rick."

"I'm thinking I'll need it."

I closed the passenger door and he drove away, and I wondered if I'd ever see him again.

When my cell phone rang the next day, I checked the caller ID and my heart caught in my throat. It was Dad.

"Hi, Dad? What is it?"

Like I was afraid he would, he said, "The test results came in." His voice was serious, tired. Bad news, I was ready for bad news. "It's positive. Malignant. She's going in this afternoon to talk to the doctor."

"Do I need to come over? Do you want me to come over? What can I do?"

Nothing. Nothing but sit here and worry.

"I'm going with her to the doctor, but if you could come over for dinner, I think it'd be good. I think it would help."

"Really?"

He sighed. "I don't know. This happens to people every day—but it feels like we're the first people in the universe to have to deal with it. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, it does. You want me to pick something up? Chinese? Pizza? Just so no one has to cook."

"Sure, that sounds great. How about six?"

"I'll be there. Thanks for calling, Dad."

"See you soon." I clicked off the phone and started crying.

Ben had a new case to work on and begged off for the evening. Cheryl had also bowed out of dinner. One of the kids had caught a cold, Mark was working late, they didn't want to be a bother. A dozen excuses. But I wondered: Now who was shirking her filial duties?

I arrived at my folks' place with a bag full of take-out Chinese and a cheerful disposition.

Mom took the bag from me as I asked, "What did the doctor say? What's happening?" I didn't even say hello first. She was back to her put-together self, her fashionable blouse and slacks, with the right amount of jewelry and makeup. But she seemed harried.

"Let's eat first," she said. She wasn't smiling.

Dad came in from the kitchen and hugged me—something he never did, not right away like this. His face was pale, and he wasn't smiling either. Silently, the three of us put out plates, spooned out rice and stir fry, and settled in to it.

This was the most stressful meal I'd ever eaten. Not that I could honestly say I ate anything.

"How's work?" Dad asked finally, falling back on the standard question.

I blathered on, determined to keep the grim silence from falling again. It had definitely been an exciting weekend, even after leaving out all the stuff about Carl and Meg, vampire politics, learning how to shoot, and instead sticking to the upcoming book release and how great it was that I could break a story like Mercedes Cook being a vampire. Running my mouth also meant I mostly moved my food around on the plate without really eating. Mom and Dad did the same. At this rate, the leftovers would last a week.

Mom pushed her plate away first, and Dad and I gratefully followed suit.

"Jim, would you clean up, please? Kitty and I can go have our talk."

In reply, he kissed her cheek—a communications shorthand after thirty-five years of comfortable marriage—and collected plates. Mom took my hand and led me to the living room. We sat side by side on the sofa.

"Okay," I said, trying to be brave. "How bad is it?"

"It's a little worse than we thought. They didn't remove all the cancer, it turns out. It's invasive."

"What does that mean?" And how could she be this calm?

She shrugged stoically. "It means things are a little more serious is all. I'll need more surgery. They want to remove lymph nodes for testing. If it spread, I may need chemotherapy as well as radiation. I'll be a little sicker for a little longer. The prognosis is good, it's still good." Her smile went tight and strained. The power of positive thinking and all that. You had to be positive. "They're recommending aggressive treatment, and they want to start right away. That would mean more surgery in a week or so."

I choked on the words. "That soon? Isn't there something else, another way—"

"We'll see. I'm going to get a second opinion. But really, the lump was there, the spot on the mammogram is there, only an idiot would claim that nothing was wrong."

She turned her gaze to the ceiling; her eyes were shining. "You know what's strange? I'm not even thinking about myself right now. I'm thinking about you girls, my darling girls. My Aunt Patty died of this, and now I have it, so it obviously runs in the family and if you and Cheryl ever get this I'll be so…so…upset." Like she couldn't think of anything stronger to feel than that.

"Mom." I held her hand in both of mine, squeezed until she looked at me. "Don't worry about me. I won't get it. I can't get it. I'm a werewolf, werewolves don't get sick. They don't get cancer."

I froze, because a terrible, insidious worm of a thought started in the back of my brain. A vicious, hopeful thought.

My mind was in a panic, I couldn't speak. Mom didn't seem to notice. She touched my cheek and rested her hand on my shoulder.

"You know, I look at you and I can't even tell? I still don't believe it most of the time. You're not a monster, I don't care what Time magazine says." The glint in her eye laughed silently at the joke.

I smiled back. I forced my limbs to relax. I acted normal. As normal as I ever could.

I didn't say, I could bite you, Mom. I could cure you.