Kitty's House of Horrors (27 page)

She runs for the door she burst from only a moment ago. Leaps past chaos, a male and female dragging two others. An explosion,
a hot streak ripping through air. Part of her expects to feel an impact, expects that this is her death. She doesn’t stop
running, even after she passes through the door.

She’s felt nothing, no pain. The weapon of smoke and fire missed.

Another explosion sounds, very close—the female stands at the door, holding another weapon straight. It fires, bursts of heat
and thunder, again and again, until the man slams shut the door and they both collapse, along with two bodies that smell richly
of blood.

She licks her snout, which is covered with blood. She is standing by the far wall, tail rigid, hackles raised, a low warning
growl breathing out each time she exhales. Waiting for the next attack.

“Oh God, oh God. Odysseus, Tina—what do we do about her?” Another man is sitting up, staring. He smells like old blood. Injured.
Easy prey. He’s staring right at her, and this makes her angry. She directs her growls at him, and he cringes.

“Conrad, don’t look at her. Look away. Conrad! Look at me!”

The injured one looks away. She was almost ready to pounce to show him which of them was stronger.

“Tina, can you see outside? What’s he doing?”

“He’s staying there—he hasn’t left the trees. Jeffrey, how’s Jeffrey, oh, my God—”

The room has filled with blood. Makes her hungry. The two-legged ones are trembling like a frightened herd.

“Kitty—she wouldn’t really,” the female says. “She’s in there somewhere, right? She wouldn’t really attack us.”

“Tina, stop looking at her.” This is the strong male, the one who called her inside. “Walk very calmly along the wall to the
kitchen. Find the pantry—there should be some canned food left. Open a can of chicken or tuna.”

Movement. The female is edging along the wall. She’s strong—the only person here who doesn’t smell injured. Let her go.

The male is speaking, his voice like soft fur. He’s looking at the floor near her. “Shh, Kitty. It’s all right. Danger’s over
for now. It’s all right.”

The calming voice helps. The fury ebbs. But she’s still standing with her back to a wall and the smell of an enemy in the
room. Where is her pack? Her mate? The growl turns into a whine.

The female puts something on the floor and quickly edges away—a new scent. Meat, but not fresh. Not fresh, but available,
a few paces away. Hunger has become more important than the rest. She pads to the scent, finds several mouthfuls. She eats
warily, keeping a watch on the group of two-legged people. Finishes the carrion quickly, but it settles her.

She does not mean to sleep, but weariness pulls her under.

I
had blood and skin under my fingernails. I picked at it.

Either I didn’t remember what had happened, or I didn’t want to. I could guess. The last thing I remembered was Provost’s
face, white with fear. Yeah, I could guess what had happened. I hadn’t even felt the Change come. I’d just snapped. That had
never happened before.

If I stayed numb, I wouldn’t have to think about the implications.

Someone had put a blanket over me. I lay against the far wall, nearest the kitchen. My muscles were stiff, as if I’d slept
curled in a tight ball. Looking across the room, I was having trouble recognizing what I was seeing. My mind was still filled
with wolfish vision and the taste of blood. I could smell death.

A body lay against the wall, covered with a sheet, dead. I made a wish, took a breath, and let out a moan, because I smelled
Jeffrey. Provost had been so close, Jeffrey couldn’t have survived the shot. Still, I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. I just
wouldn’t deal with that right now.

There was another person lying on the floor, breathing fast, painfully, in the way of the seriously injured. I recognized
his scent, too.

Joey Provost was alive.

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.

W
hen 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.