Kitty's House of Horrors

Chapter 21

I wrapped the blanket around my naked self and stood in the middle of the living room, assessing. I clamped my mouth shut because I was afraid I might throw up. If ever I had a right to spontaneously vomit, this was it.

I didn’t want to have to take care of Provost. I’d rather shoot him.

Conrad was asleep on the sofa. Grant sat on a chair in the middle of the living room, like he could hold us together with his presence. He sat nearest the injured Provost but didn’t seem to be looking at him. Tina sat on the floor, near the window but not looking out. At first I thought she was asleep, the way she held her head propped on her hand. Her other hand rested on a Ouija board sitting next to her. She looked at me. She’d been crying.

I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t open my mouth or I would scream. I wished I had stayed Wolf. The world was simpler when I was Wolf.

“Kitty?” Grant said.

Now I was looking at Provost. He lay on a blanket, covered by another blanket. His shirt had been stripped. He panted, tossed in a delirium, his arms clenched, hands clawing.

I stepped to him, knelt beside him.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Grant said softly.

Besides being infected with lycanthropy? The words stalled in my throat. If I opened my mouth I’d throw up, so I kept my mouth shut.

I put my hand on Provost’s forehead—he was burning with fever. Normal, for a recent victim of a werewolf bite. He’d thrash in a haze for a few days while his wounds healed and while his body transformed itself from the inside out. He smelled ill, injured. Under all that, though, I caught a new scent, musky, animal. Wolfish. Fur, just under the skin. I’d promised myself I would never do this to anyone, I never wanted to, he should be dead—

“Kitty,” Grant said. I shook my head, bringing myself back. Rubbed sleep and tears from my eyes. I needed clothes. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself.

I saw what Grant was talking about, about there being something wrong. He had enough arcane lore, he must have had some idea what a bite from a werewolf did. Provost’s wounds, shredded flesh across his neck and shoulder, were healing: scabs had formed, blood seeped from surface wounds. That was normal. However, where the bullet I fired had hit him, a chunk of flesh taken out of his bicep, wasn’t healing. Here, the wound was black, oozing pus along with blood.

I swallowed and managed to scratch out, “Did the bullet go all the way through?”

“Yes,” Grant said. “It’s a flesh wound.”

Then I laughed. I sounded ridiculous, hysterical. I curled up, hugged my knees, and laughed. This was so fucked up, I ought to be taking notes.

Patiently, Grant waited for me.

I got myself back under control. “Silver allergy. The silver bullet went through him before he was infected. But there must be a trace of it that’s reacting to the lycanthropy. Not enough to kill him. If the bullet had stayed in him, though, he’d have the full-blown allergy. He’d be dead. I wish he were dead.” I laughed again, then covered my face to try to stop the tears. Copious, hysterical tears.

Tina had moved closer to us, studying Provost along with us. She reached out to me, but I leaned away from her. “Don’t touch me,” I whispered. I wanted to Change again. I wanted to get out of here, to bite someone.

“Kitty—” Grant said.

“Any sign of Cabe?”

“No. Maybe he’ll cut his losses and leave us alone.”

“Not likely,” I said. Before he could respond, I stood, tightening the blanket yet again. “I need some clothes.”

I went upstairs.

The face in the bedroom mirror was the face of a monster. I studied it, the crazy blond hair that hadn’t been brushed in two days, the bloodshot eyes, the ragged frown. I wanted to see my friends, my pack, my mate. I wanted to go home.

“Tell me, Cormac. What am I supposed to do now?” I muttered.

You just keep going. He’d say, you just keep on keeping on until you’re dead. But don’t make it easy on the bastards by rolling over for them.

I wasn’t dead yet. We still had a lodge full of people who weren’t dead yet, and the bad guys were down to one man standing.

When I came downstairs, I was dressed in fresh clothes, hair brushed and pinned up, face washed. Still on the edge of hysterical, but at least I was upright. Two legs for the rest of the day, I promised myself.

Tina was sitting at the dining room table now, a blank sheet of paper in front of her, holding a pen over it. This was an old mediumistic talent—automatic writing. Some people believed spirits could communicate by causing the hand of a psychic to write out messages. Most of it was fake, but it really worked for Tina. She expected to receive a message. It wasn’t happening.

I sat next to her. Didn’t have to say a word. Our hearts—our grief—showed all over our faces. She fell into my arms, sobbing. I hugged her as tight as I could. Didn’t say a word, because there was nothing I could say. I held her until she pulled away, scrubbing her eyes, lips tight with a sad smile.

She glanced at the pad of paper. “I don’t know why I think he’ll talk to me. He has no reason to—”

“Maybe he needs time. Maybe you need time.”

She nodded, almost frantically. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”

Grant joined us, standing on the other side of the table, looking down on us. He also had a scruffy beard started. His gaze was as alert and stony as ever.

“Kitty. Provost is waking up,” he said.

I didn’t want that to have anything to do with me, but I went over to where the hunter lay. We had words to exchange, him and me.

Provost was rubbing his face, trying to sit up, and falling back, weakened. He groaned and seemed uncertain, looking around in confusion. When he saw me, he let out a scream and tried to scramble away. A chair and his own weakness stopped him.

“Hi there,” I said, frowning.

His face showed blank terror. He knew what was happening to him. He groaned, and his words came out slurred. “Why—why did you do this to me?”

“Not my fault. You were supposed to die.”

His wounds were looking better, the scabs more established, ringed with healing pink flesh. Even the silver-tainted one looked better. It had stopped oozing. It would heal, but it might leave a scar. Moaning in denial, Provost writhed, like he could burrow through the floor to get away from me. “Damn you, damn you, damn you…”

“Now let me ask you a question,” I said. “Why did you think you could get away with this?”

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Aw, isn’t that sweet? The thing is, Joey, you’re one of us now. You’re one of me. A bloodthirsty monster. And that wasn’t part of the plan at all, was it? Did you really think you were going to get out of this in one piece?” I was feeling vicious. All of my sympathy was for myself, having to deal with this guy.

Provost shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, like he could block out the world. “You were a bunch of dumb celebrities. Suckered in. It’d be like fish in a barrel.”

“Well,” I said flatly. “That’s nice.”

“Monsters like you—you’re not that tough. We’ll get you in the end.”

Us and them. It always came down to us and them. But it wasn’t so black and white. Us and them broke down into interlacing Venn diagrams; sometimes someone in an “us” column became “them,” depending on how you changed the categories and definitions. You could always find something in common. Provost regarded me with so much hate and contempt, I couldn’t fathom it. Nonetheless, I was probably turning at least that much hate and contempt back on him. I liked to think there was a difference between us: he’d earned my contempt through his actions. He’d killed my friends.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “You’re going to be sick for a few more days, but your wounds will heal, and you’ll come out of this good as new. Better than new. The next full moon, you’ll Change. And I’ll tell you right now, it’s fucking hell. You’ll either learn to live with it, or you won’t. Either way, you’re going to learn to live with it or not in a silver-lined prison cell. Got it?”

“Cabe’s still out there. He’ll finish you. He’ll still finish you!”

“Then he’ll finish you,” I said. “Because like I said, you’re one of us now.”

I walked away, and he threw curses at my back, eventually breaking down into sobs, and the sobs faded into a hysterical prayer, “Kill me, please God, kill me, kill me…”

Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, I paced along the wall like a caged animal. Part of me was all ready to oblige him. Bullet in his head, my hands around his throat, that’d be the end of it. Shouldn’t be too hard—I was a monster, after all.

After his frenzied outburst, he passed out in short order.

We had to get out of here. I could do it, I could run—with only one of them out there now, it should be easier. Cabe couldn’t watch both doors. I’d go, I’d get help. All Cabe had to do was burn the house down and he’d win. Couldn’t let that happen. Had to run, soon—

“Kitty.”

I stopped and looked, startled, wanting to growl at the interruption.

His face a mask, Grant regarded me. He and Tina had moved to the living room to watch my exchange with Provost. She sat on the sofa next to Conrad, head bowed, hands over her ears, like she was trying to shut out the world. Conrad switched between staring at Provost, Grant, and me. Like he didn’t know whom to be more frightened of.

“Kitty,” Grant said. “We need you to stay human. Please.”

I couldn’t guess what the others saw in me. A monster, probably, just like Provost saw in me. They were all human. Us and them.

Hands over my face, I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. Keep it together. Just a little while longer, keep it together. We’d get out of this. We could use Provost to get out of this. We could stop Cabe. We were almost there.

I scrubbed my face, which was wet. The tears just started, quietly leaking. I tried to smile. Tried to make it an apology. But Provost’s smell, the evidence of what I’d done, filled the room, oppressive.

“I always said I’d never do this. I’d never infect someone else with this. I never wanted to be responsible for someone like that.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve, turned away.

Grant said, “It’ll be dark soon. We’ll wait for Anastasia.”

That was as good a plan as any for the moment.

Tina and Conrad slept fitfully. Grant and I kept watch, sneaking looks out the front window, checking the fronts and the backs of the house, looking for any changes. Waiting for tear gas canisters to come flying through the windows. The situation remained quiet. Provost remained unconscious. Twilight fell, and we lit the candles and found the flashlights.

I listened for footsteps on the basement stairs, for the sound of the door opening. Didn’t hear them. She moved quietly and didn’t allow any sound to escape, so that she seemed to just appear at the edge of the living room, dressed elegantly as always, flowing black slacks and a silk top, her hair knotted and pinned at the back of her head. It was as if nothing had happened, she stood so calmly.

What she saw in the living room must have seemed like a war zone. Jeffrey’s body under a blanket. Provost feverish and sweating, drifting in and out. The rest of us huddled in on ourselves, wearing the haunted gazes of refugees.

After a long moment she said, “You’ve been busy.”

I stifled a laugh.

“What’s the situation?” she said.

Grant answered: “Cabe is still out there, watching the house. He’s probably trapped one of the doors and is keeping an eye on the other.”

“Have you thought about using this one as a bargaining chip?” She nodded at Provost.

“We were waiting for you,” Grant said.

“Ah. I can tell you what I’d prefer to do with him. I need to keep up my strength, after all.”

“What happened to using him as a bargaining chip?” Tina said.

“We’ll still have him for that,” she said, her voice too sweet. Sugarcoated poison.

None of us stopped her from kneeling beside Provost, raising his wrist to her mouth, and drinking. The injured man groaned, started to thrash, but she rested a hand on his forehead. He continued to moan in delirium, but his body calmed. After a few moments, she let him go.

“I’ve drunk from two of them,” she said, licking her lips dramatically. “I’d love to taste the third.”

Tina made a sound and looked away, while Conrad huddled even farther back on the sofa.

Anastasia stood and smoothed her clothing. “I’m sorry I missed the events that led to this. Kitty, you must have been spectacular. I confess, I wouldn’t have expected it from you. Did you intend to turn him?”

“I intended to kill him,” I said.

“Ah.” A frown turned her mouth. “He won’t make it. His kind rarely do. Give him access to a gun and he’ll kill himself.”

“Save me from having to do it,” I muttered, and everyone looked at me. I glared back, daring them to argue with me. I wasn’t much interested in being nice and moral anymore. We all had our breaking points.

Anastasia went to the window and studied the falling night outside. “This is a war of attrition. Messy. But if the numbers hold, we’re winning.”

“Small comfort,” I said.

“Kitty, please stop feeling sorry for yourself. I haven’t survived for eight hundred years to give up now.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m just tired. And that’s an understatement.” I was even too tired to pounce on that scrap of information. Eight hundred years. I didn’t care. Scratching my hair, I got up and tried to get my brain working. “I could try running for help again. Cabe can’t watch all of us. If we can set up some kind of distraction—”

The explosion of a shot fired, and the picture window in the living room shattered. Candles flickered, Tina screamed, all of us ducked—except for Anastasia, who leaned over to peer through the now-empty space.

“Well,” she said. “The move’s been made. The endgame begins.”