Kitty Goes to War

Chapter 23

THE SNOW melted faster than you’d expect, as it always does in Colorado. Temperatures the following week reached sixty. Rivers of melting snow flooded the streets. I went out without my coat, and the blazing sun felt like a treasure.

A couple of days after the blizzard, we went back to Fort Carson to return the Humvee and retrieve Ben’s car, and for Colonel Stafford’s debriefing. I was worried about the damage, but the soldier at the motor pool seemed bemused by the condition of the vehicle rather than upset. “What the hell could do this to a Humvee?” he said.

“Evil corporate Hummer,” I answered.

“Huh,” he replied, and that was that.

Originally, Stafford wanted to hold the meeting at the hospital. I had visions of him trying to get Tyler back into the cell. That probably would have broken Tyler. Broken him more, at least, past all repair. I suggested to Stafford that he find a more unassuming office or conference room in a different building. One with windows. I’ll never know why he didn’t argue. He could have, but maybe he suspected what I did about Tyler.

The three of us entered the conference room, me in the middle, the men flanking. I could feel the tension that bound us, that made us a pack at least for now. We didn’t know what we were about to face, but we’d be ready, standing up for each other, protecting each other. Ready to fight if we needed to, or run if that was what the situation called for.

Stafford, official in his army uniform, was standing across the table. Dr. Shumacher was there as well, clipboard in front of her, gaze downcast. Her back was stiff; she smelled sweaty.

Tyler took a step forward and saluted the colonel, who returned the gesture. They both looked tired. At Stafford’s invitation, we sat at the table, lined up across from him and the doctor. It looked like some kind of tribunal.

The final toll: Vanderman and Walters were dead. Two other military personnel were dead. Walters killed one, both Walters and Vanderman the other. The post had remained under lockdown for the rest of the day while Stafford’s people cleaned up the mess. Tyler was not only cleared of any wrongdoing in Vanderman’s death, but Stafford was recommending him for a citation.

Stafford seemed to be trying to record the incident as clinically and objectively as he could, avoiding pointing any fingers—lest any be turned back at him, presumably. Ben and I were asked to give our own version of events. Ben was the lawyer—his retelling was also awfully clinical. When my turn came, Ben gave me warning looks whenever my adverbs got too sensationalist. But somebody had to get some appropriate emotion into the situation.

I thought it was over. Stafford had closed the manila folder that contained his notes and printouts and pushed it aside. Shumacher had set down her clipboard.

Then Stafford looked at me and said, “Ms. Norville, in your expert opinion, what is your assessment of the potential for the use of lycanthropes as soldiers in the military?”

I tried to argue. “I’m not an expert—”

“You’ve testified before the Senate on the subject. You’re all I have.”

That was a scary thought.

I had actually thought about this. The record spoke for itself. “I think people who are already werewolves—experienced, well-adjusted werewolves—could make excellent soldiers, with the right training and a good support structure. Captain Gordon proved that. But I don’t think that means the military ought to recruit lycanthropes, and they especially shouldn’t go around creating them. You had six men, highly trained and experienced, who are all gone now because of a situation that never should have happened. You didn’t understand all the implications of what it means to be a werewolf, to be part of a pack. Gordon didn’t understand and he should have. Almost by definition, we’re monstrous, out of control. We’re where the berserker stories came from. You can’t just put that in a box and think you have control.” I spoke quietly, steadily. The alternative would have been screaming. Losing control and giving them a demonstration.

Under the table, out of sight, Ben rested his hand on my thigh, a touch of comfort. I straightened and regained my breath.

“Thank you, Ms. Norville,” Stafford said. “Sergeant Tyler? Where do we go from here?”

“I’d like to request a discharge, sir,” he said, meeting the colonel’s gaze. “On medical grounds.”

“You’re not hurt. You look just fine to me.”

Look harder, I almost growled.

Ben rested his arms on the table, leaning forward. “I’m not qualified to comment on military law, but I did some reading. Sergeant Tyler should qualify for a medical discharge under any circumstance. The U.S. government, through the National Institutes of Health, has identified lycanthropy as a chronic disease. The sergeant acquired this disease in the course of duty. I think you could make a good argument. I can give you the NIH references if you want them. Or Dr. Shumacher could.”

I glanced at Tyler, who was holding himself still, quiet and expressionless. But I thought I saw a gleam of hope in his eyes.

“We could really use a soldier like you over there, son,” Stafford said.

“I don’t think I’d be any good to you without the others, sir,” Tyler said, a heartfelt plea.

Stafford bowed his head and nodded. “I’ll submit the case to the Medical Evaluation Board. It’ll be up to them.”

WHERE ELSE could we end up but at New Moon, toward midnight, having drinks—beer this time—and food in a muted celebration? The place was almost empty—everyone was still digging out, or enjoying the night by staying wrapped up nice and cozy at home. But Ben and I were there, along with Cormac, Tyler, and Rick.

The vampire arrived last, coming through the door and stomping snow off his shoes. Cormac watched him, his expression blank. Who knew what he was thinking? Either one of them. I kept seeing the old black-and-white photo of Amelia Parker floating behind his shoulder. By all appearances, he was just Cormac. It was going to take time to wrap my brain around it.

Tyler gripped the table and parted his lips in a snarl. “What’s wrong with that guy?” he said.

Rick smelled dead—not rotten, just cold. Frozen. He had no heartbeat.

“He’s a vampire,” I said. “Don’t worry, he’s nice.”

I made introductions—Rick hadn’t met Tyler or Cormac, at least not in person.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Cormac said when he shook the vampire’s hand. Rather ominous.

“Likewise,” Rick said.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

Rick smiled. “I try not to make more problems for myself than absolutely necessary.”

Cormac still seemed to be sizing Rick up, as if judging how best to take him out. I had an urge to sit between them.

“Sergeant Tyler,” Rick said.

Tyler shook Rick’s hand, but didn’t say anything. The soldier was wary—staring, his shoulders tensed. I might have done the same the first time I’d met Rick. Rick didn’t seem bothered; he just took a chair and joined us.

“I got your messages,” Rick said. “I’m sorry there was nothing I could do to help, but you seem to have done well. The city is safe again.”

“Yeah. Didn’t need you to ride to my rescue this time,” I said, grinning.

Cormac slid the picture of Franklin and his blurred compatriot across the table. “Kitty said you’d want to take a look at this.”

“Is it Roman?” I said.

Rick studied it, shaking his head. “It’s a vampire. I can’t say exactly who it is. But Roman’s the only one who has a reason for dropping this kind of destruction on Denver—it would punish both of us for standing up to him.”

“Is it time to call Anastasia?” I said. I told Anastasia I’d call her if I heard from Roman.

Rick rubbed his chin for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the image. “Call her, tell her what happened. But don’t raise any alarms. If this is Roman, this wasn’t part of his plan. This was just a . . . a test.”

Ben said, “Well, did we pass?”

The vampire smiled. “I think Roman underestimated your resources yet again.” He glanced at Cormac and Tyler, without whose help Denver would currently be under a dozen feet of snow.

“Go team,” I said, raising my glass for a toast. We clinked glasses, except for Rick, who sat back, his expression amused.

Tyler kept himself apart, leaving space enough for extra chairs on either side of him—the places where Vanderman and Walters should have been sitting. Maybe he saw his whole squad sitting around the table. I worried, but all I could do was look after him.

“You okay?” I asked, failing my attempt at subtle inquiry.

He shrugged. “I’m alive.”

“That’s good, right?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Eventually.”

“Amen,” Cormac muttered. I considered that the two of them might be able to talk to each other about adjusting to life on the outside.

Rick asked, “What’s next for you, Sergeant Tyler?”

He took a long drink. His smile was wry. “We just have to wait and see.”