Kitty and the Silver Bullet

  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.

  chapter 7

  A clock was ticking just behind my back. The noise of approaching doom was always right behind me, like Captain Hook’s crocodile. I could never turn around fast enough to actually see it. But it was always there, and I knew that soon the alarm would go off. The ringing of it would break me. Mom’s surgery, Rick’s war, my career, my own rebellious body—something was going to start ringing soon. Then it would blow up, like a time bomb.

  I was exhausted, waiting for the explosion.

  “So then I said to him, look, I don’t care if it is a full moon tonight, I want to go to the Coldplay concert and you’re going to take me. You’re just going to have to turn into a wolf some other night. And you know what he says to me? He says—”

  This caller was why I didn’t counsel people in person. If she’d been sitting here I’d have throttled her. “Let me guess. He says, ‘Baby, I don’t have a choice.’ ”

  “Well, yeah, except for the baby part.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Mia. What have you done for him lately?”

  The pause lasted a beat. Then, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean have you ever done anything nice for your boyfriend?”

  Mia gave an unattractive snort. “Why should I? He’s lucky to have me.”

  “Oh, honey, I used to beat up girls like you in grade school. Look, I’m as sympathetic about inattentive boyfriends as the next girl, but when he said he didn’t have a choice about turning into a wolf—he meant it. He’s supposed to be able to look to his girlfriend for support, right? ’Cause you know, this whole relationship thing works both ways, give and take and all that. And what do you do? Ask him to do the one thing he can’t. Could you be any more insensitive? Wait, don’t answer that. Of course you could. But I’m thinking he’s the crazy one for putting up with your crap.”

  “You can’t talk to me like—”

  “Listen. You have so many problems with this boyfriend of yours, here’s my advice. Break up with him. You’d be doing him a favor.”

  “But I like dating a werewolf. It’s cool.”

  “You can’t have it both ways.” I clicked off the line, because really, that conversation couldn’t go anywhere else. “You like fur so much, buy a poodle. Except I wouldn’t wish you on a poodle even. Damn, I’m cranky tonight. Let’s see, where do we go from here. Stan, you’re on the air.”

  “Hi, Kitty. Thanks for taking my call. Can you answer a question for me?”

  “I’ll give it a shot.” I tried to learn everything about him from the sound of his voice: male, indeterminate age. He wasn’t overly emotional: frustrated, depressed, sad, or angry. He was neutral, interested. His question could be about anything.

  “A lot of people call in to your show wanting to know about vampires and werewolves like they admire them. Like they want to be them. But these are monsters we’re talking about—they’re not saints. They’re not something to aspire to. Even if it is a disease, like you say, why would anyone want a disease like that? I don’t understand. Can you explain what people see in the whole thing?” His question sounded genuine. It didn’t sound like a put-o
n.

  I was sort of in his camp at the moment.

  “I don’t know, Stan. Different people see different things in it, I think. Some see glamour. Or power. They feel helpless, and these identities are a way not to feel helpless. The thing is, people who aren’t vampires and werewolves aren’t looking at the reality of it. Often they only see the stories, the lore, the mystique. They’re basing their feelings on what they think those lives must be like. They don’t see the dark side. Or if they do, they paint it in glamorous colors as well. It’s exciting, it’s dangerous. It’s an adventure. Maybe that’s it.”

  “Maybe?” He sounded skeptical.

  “You have to remember, I never wanted to be a werewolf. I never thought twice about it until I landed in the middle of it. Frankly, I still fail to see the appeal. But I will admit there are people who do. Maybe it’s a simple case of the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence.”

  “You mean if they have crummy lives, they think it might actually be better if they were a vampire?”

  “People are funny that way, aren’t they? I’ll tell you what: I’ll throw this one out to the listeners. Give me a call. Tell me why you want to be a vampire or a werewolf. Educate me.”

  I went straight down the line, taking one call after another. Men, women, young, old, vampires, werewolves, and everything in between. Some of them hated life, some of them loved it.

  “It’s the power. I want to have that kind of power.” I heard that over and over again.

  “I just don’t feel like I fit in my skin. I—I don’t think I was meant to be human. But I see wolves . . . and it feels like coming home. Does that sound strange? It sounds strange to me. I’ve never talked about it with anyone before.”

  “I want to live forever.”

  “I want to be immortal.”

  “I’m afraid of dying.”

  “It hurts. If I was something else, maybe it wouldn’t hurt. At least not as much.”

  “I want to live.”

  “I want to kill.”

  And finally, from a man who said he was a werewolf, “Here’s the thing, Kitty. I didn’t like being human. What is there to being human? You wake up every day, work your ass off just so you can barely put a roof over your head and food in your stomach. If you’re lucky you get a minivan and a trip to Disneyland for the kids. This life, our life—all that becomes secondary.” He gave a laugh. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s a simpler life. There’s a whole other set of priorities guiding you.”

  “Blood,” I said. “Control.”

  “Magic,” he said.

  “The ultimate in escapism.”

  “That’s right,” he said, like it was a good thing.

  “Okay, thanks for sharing.”

  On the other side of the booth window, Matt pointed to his wrist and mouthed the word “thirty.” Thirty seconds to wrap up the show. I rubbed my face; I was ready for the escape. “I don’t know if any of this answers Stan’s question. My feeling is there is no one right answer. The people who choose this life, and the people who would like to, all have their own reasons. I’ll insert my standard disclaimer here: forget any romantic notions you have about vampires and werewolves. They’re diseases. They’re not easy to live with. They change your life. And you can’t go back afterward if you change your mind. This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night.”

  Run credits.

  “You okay in there?” Matt asked.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “You’ve looked better.”

  “I’ve been better,” I said, and managed a smile. This was one of those times, one of those moments where everything seemed to pile up, and I didn’t have a choice but to keep clawing my way up and over the obstacles. Just get through it. I liked being human. I was willing to put up with those particular struggles in exchange for the benefits of being human. Like chocolate and cable TV. Like having my own radio show.

  We wrapped up. More than ready to get home, I grabbed my things and headed for the station lobby, then outside. Since the other night when I met Charlie and Violet, I always paused in the doorway to take in the scent of the parking lot and street. If something was waiting to pounce on me, I’d spot it. Then I could go back inside and call for help. Rick had done what he’d intended—scared me. Put me on my guard. But I wondered how long I’d have to go tiptoeing around my own life.

  The thing was, tonight, I hesitated in the doorway, and knew something waited out there. I caught a scent of lycanthrope, a musky smell where there should have only been people, cars, and concrete.

  I should have panicked, but I didn’t. While I might have expected the scent to belong to Carl or Meg, it didn’t. I sensed a hint of Carl—someone from his pack, then, but someone I didn’t know. So maybe Carl sent one of his thugs after me. But I didn’t smell aggression. I didn’t feel like I was being hunted. Stepping softly, I moved along the wall to the edge of the building, following my nose. Someone was definitely here, watching me. Spying, maybe.

  I had almost reached the corner when I said, “Who’s there?”

  I heard rustling, like someone scooted away from the corner. I slipped around and discovered a young woman pressed against the wall. She was thin, very young, with short blond hair. She wore a black baby doll T-shirt and faded jeans. She couldn’t have been more than about nineteen or twenty and looked especially pale in the shadowed, nighttime lighting outside the building.

  “Hi,” she said and ducked her gaze away from me, a sign that she didn’t want trouble. Her shoulders slumped, and I could imagine a tail between her legs.

  I stood quietly and smelled her: sweating, frightened, and wolfish. And one of Carl’s. If he knew she was here . . . I couldn’t imagine that he knew she was here. If he’d wanted to pass along a message, he wouldn’t have sent her—small and cowering.

  I avoided staring at her, but it was hard not to. I wasn’t sure I knew what to do with this.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “Becky said I should come talk to you.”

  “Becky.” I drew a blank for a moment, then remembered a Becky among Carl’s wolves. Standoffish, another one that I’d avoided because she’d been tougher than me.

  Then I remembered another Becky, the werewolf who’d called into the show a couple of weeks ago about a submissive in her pack who needed help. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d been talking about Carl’s pack.

  I gave her half a smile. “You couldn’t just call in like everyone else?” I thought I was being funny, but she looked down, frowning. She inched away; any minute, she’d bolt.

  We were in the open here, which made me uncomfortable. Just because she hadn’t been Carl didn’t mean Carl couldn’t sneak up on us. He might even be looking for her. Made me nervous.

  Backing off, I said, “You want to come inside and talk? We’ll stay in the lobby. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  After a moment, she nodded. She still wouldn’t look at me. I turned and walked away, made sure not to look back, but I could hear her following.

  The security guy at the front desk waved at me as I returned to the lobby, and paid attention when the woman followed me in. She glanced around and wouldn’t leave the vicinity of the front door.

  “Everything’s okay. I’m just going to borrow a couple of chairs,” I told him, grabbing a couple of the plastic chairs from the wall. If she needed help, I didn’t want to scare her off, and that meant leaving her an escape route. I didn’t want to corner an already frightened wolf.

  She was trying not to look scared. She kept pushing her shoulders back, trying to straighten up, and her frown had almost become a snarl.

  I put the chairs by the door. We could talk out of anyone’s earshot. “Sit.”

  And she did, just like that. Completely obedient. I bet Carl loved it.

  I sat more slowly. “What’s your name?”

  “Jenny.”

  “And what’s Becky want you to talk to me about?”


  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come.” She glanced at the door, as if expecting monsters.

  “Can you try for a minute to forget about the whole werewolf thing? We’re just a couple of people having a chat. I can’t talk to you if you’re scared of me.”

  She closed her eyes, took a breath, and that seemed to steady her. Her wolf lingered, though. It probably never really went away for her, and always guided her responses.

  “Becky wants me to get away from Carl. She wants me to leave town. You did it, and if I talk to you, I might be able to, too.”

  “It’s really not as hard as it seems.”

  “But I don’t want to.” She started crying, quiet tears slipping down her face. I found a clean tissue in my bag and handed it to her. “He takes care of me, I owe everything to him, he’s a part of me, I can’t leave that.”

  Then why are you crying? I wanted to ask. I let her talk.

  “He’s not an angel,” she went on. “I know that. But he can’t help it, he—” She stumbled to a stop. Her rhetoric amazed me. Did she even realize what she was saying?

  She was young and pretty. Carl treated the women in his pack like they were part of his own personal harem. I knew firsthand what he did to the young and pretty ones. He wasn’t above smacking them around.

  “The thing about being a werewolf,” I said. “The bruises heal quickly. No one ever sees them. Makes it easier to just roll over and take it, doesn’t it?”

  Finally, she looked at me, really looked at me, with astonished human eyes. I understood, and that surprised her.

  “This is why Becky said I should talk to you,” she said. I nodded.

  “Jenny, do you mind if I ask how you were infected? How you became a werewolf? You haven’t been one long, have you?”

  Slouching miserably in the chair, she looked away. Didn’t say no outright, so I gave her time to collect herself.

  Finally she said, “I met him at a club a few months ago. Carl, I mean. He was nice. I liked him, you know? He paid a lot of attention to me. I took him home and all.”

  I listened, my brow furrowed in thought. This didn’t sound like Carl. Carl, picking up girls in clubs? And what did Meg have to say about this? I could guess that Meg had lost a lot of points with him during that last fight, the one that drove me out of Denver. She’d made a bid for his position as pack alpha, lost, and then groveled at his feet to beg his forgiveness. He’d given it, but he’d probably lord it over her to the end of time. He could step out on her and she wouldn’t be able to say anything. That was all I could figure.