“Mom, don’t talk like that,” I said halfheartedly.
She gestured for me to dig into the bucket. Rocky Road. The whole kitchen smelled like rich chocolate. “I’m entitled to a little grim humor.”
“It sounds like you’re giving up.”
“Oh, no,” she said around a mouthful of ice cream. She shook her head. “Not at all. Trust me, I won’t give up. I’ve got too many reasons to stick around.” She sounded tough, like an Amazon or a Valkyrie, with a tone of fight in her voice that she usually only revealed when she talked about her tennis matches. I was proud of her. She’d survive this. She’d survive anything. She took another bite and continued. “Nicky and Jeffy—those are two big reasons right there. I can’t wait to see what they’re going to turn into. Can you? And you—don’t think that just because Cheryl has kids you’re off the hook. I’m going to stick around and see what your kids are going to turn into.”
I started crying. Couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to cry; I wanted to be strong. But I did, my face turned away.
Mom set down her spoon and stared at me, looking shocked. “Kitty? Oh, don’t do that. It’s too soon for that.” She went and retrieved a box of tissues from the kitchen counter.
I should have told her straight off when it happened. Too late now. I tried to speak, but my throat had closed up. The words wouldn’t come. I grabbed a whole handful of tissues and tried to pull myself together. Patiently, she waited, sitting across from me on the edge of her seat, like she was restraining herself from coming over and gathering me in her arms. But I wasn’t four and this wasn’t a skinned knee, so she waited. Finally, I got it out.
“It’s not that.” Not yet, anyway. “I had a miscarriage.” Had to get it out all at once, somehow, around the blubbering. I wished I could say it without crying. “A couple of weeks ago. I didn’t even know I was pregnant.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because we were all worried about you. You were more important.”
“You should have said something.”
“I know. But—there’s more. It’s the lycanthropy, the shape-shifting—it’ll cause a miscarriage every time. I can’t have kids at all. And I didn’t think I’d care, I didn’t think it would matter, but I do, it does—”
Then, she came over and put her arms around me. We stayed like that a long time, hugging. She kept saying, “It’s okay, it’ll be okay.” And I marveled that she could even say that, with everything that had happened to us.
As much as I might want to turn four years old again and have my mother take care of me, I couldn’t. And I couldn’t keep this up all night. My eyes hurt. My whole face hurt. I pulled away to grab a new handful of tissues.
“I just wanted a normal life,” I said, my voice thick. “I always thought I was going to have a normal life.”
Smiling a wise, knowing smile, Mom brushed a wet strand of hair out of my face. “Nobody gets a normal life. You think it’s normal, then something like this happens. You find a lump. You get bitten by something out in the woods. And you think, ‘Why me?’ But the universe says, ‘Why not you?’ And I think about how very lucky we’ve all been. I’ve been married to my best friend for thirty-five years. My beautiful girls are making their way in the world. Most people don’t have it this good.”
“So something was bound to come along and wreck it, is that what you’re saying?”
She shook her head. “It’s not wrecked. I’m very lucky to have this life. I think that luck’ll hold for a little while longer. I can handle a lump or two. And you—you’ve held on this long, Kitty. You’ve been through so much. I can’t imagine anything keeping you down for long. We’ll be fine, we’re all going to be fine.”
It was a mantra of pure faith.
She kept on with the ice cream, and I switched to hot cocoa. My insides needed warming, and my throat needed melting.
I couldn’t not say it any longer. If I was going to make one revelation tonight, I might as well make them all. I’d stopped crying and felt a little less wrung-out. I gripped my mug and made a start of it.
“Mom, I have to ask you something. You may not like it, but I have to say it and I want you to think about it, seriously, before you blow me off. Lycanthropy—it does something. Like what I told you—I’ll never get cancer, I’ll never get sick. If you were infected, if you were bitten right now—it would cure you. It’s a trade-off, I know. The lycanthropy, it’s hard to deal with. But . . . it would cure you. You wouldn’t have to go through this surgery.” She could keep her body intact.
She let her gaze fall to the table, to where her hands lay folded over one another. “What exactly are you saying?”
As if I hadn’t already spelled it out. “I can cure you. I think I can cure you.” It was insane, but it was also a shred of hope. That hope burned in me.
“By turning me into a werewolf,” she said, her voice gone flat.
“Yes. I haven’t really thought out the mechanics of it, but I’m sure—”
She held her hand in a calming gesture, and I stopped. “Do you know that this is a cure? Have you tried it? Do you know anyone who’s tried it?”
No, but I didn’t want to say that. “I’ll have Dr. Shumacher talk to you. The data’s still a little fuzzy because it was secret for so long, but she has the case files—”
Again, Mom stopped me.
“The surgery’s scheduled for Friday. It’s all settled.”
“You can change your mind. You have a few days to think about it.”
For a moment, she looked like she was going to argue. She wore a familiar, pensive expression. Like I was about to do something stupid and she was going to let me, so I’d learn a lesson. I was trying to save her, and I was the one who felt like an idiot.
“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.
I wanted Mom intact, healthy, strong. I knew this would work. I knew it.
“I’ll come see you Friday. Okay? Call me if you need anything.” If you want me to do it. If you change your mind.
“I’d like that.”
“I love you.” It came out desperate, like I wasn’t going to have another chance to tell her.
“I love you too.”
We hugged. She felt small in my embrace. For the first time in my life, she felt frail.
Dad walked me to my car. We went slowly, enjoying the warm evening.
“How do you think she’s holding up?” he said.
I shrugged. “I was about to ask you. I have no idea if she’s really being that positive or just putting on a brave face.”
He chuckled. “You’d think I’d be able to tell the difference, wouldn’t you?”
“Dad, I may have said something that upset her. I think that lycanthropy might cure it. The cancer, I mean.”
He leaned against my car and gazed up the street, not really looking at anything. “I can’t claim to know too much about it, but that sounds like a cure that’s not a whole lot better than the disease.”
I gazed heavenward. I was only trying to help. “I know, I know. But—if things get bad, if the doctors can’t do anything . . . ”
He shook his head. “We haven’t gotten there yet. It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”
My eyes were stinging then. “Okay. I’ll see you later, ’kay?”
We hugged, and he watched me drive away.
On the way home, my cell phone rang.
“Kitty, it’s Tom.” Tom was one of vampire Mistress Alette’s people. Chauffeur, valet, human servant—and a grandson many generations down the line. Part of her family in every sense of the word.
“Hey, what’s up? Did Jenny get in okay?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Her flight came in, but she wasn’t on it.”
The question had been rote; I’d asked it fully expecting a positive response. No alternative was possible. My stomach froze.
“What do you mean she wasn’t on it?”
&nbs
p; “The airline says she didn’t check in at the gate. She never got onto the plane. We can’t find her.”
“I walked her to security myself. She couldn’t have not gotten on that plane. Maybe the airline made a mistake.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Does she have a phone?”
“No, she doesn’t. There has to be an explanation. Maybe I gave you the wrong flight number.”
“I’ll make another pass through the airport. Maybe give Ahmed a call.” Ahmed was the closest thing the D.C. lycanthropes had to a leader. She might have found her way to him. I had to hope something like that had happened, that she’d made it to D.C. and just missed Tom somehow.
“I’ll try to find something out on this end.” And what happened if she hadn’t gotten on the plane? Why wouldn’t she have gotten on the plane? “Let me know as soon as you find out anything.”
“Will do.” He clicked off.
There had to be a good explanation. I went home and made some phone calls.
The airline showed that Jenny had been issued a boarding pass, but she hadn’t checked in at boarding. Her seat was empty when the plane took off. Had she maybe changed flights? Changed time or destination? The reservation person said there’d been no change to her ticket after the boarding pass had been issued. It was like she’d disappeared. I talked to airport security. They said they’d check surveillance camera footage, to find out what had happened. If someone had come after her. That was my biggest fear. Somehow, some way, Carl had found out and gotten to her. It wasn’t just possible, it would be easy. But I’d have hoped that Jenny would have enough confidence, enough strength, to scream if he tried to take her.
I called Hardin and tried to report Jenny as missing. But she hadn’t been gone long enough. Unless I had any ideas about where to look for her, or who might have information, the police couldn’t help. “Carl,” I said. “He’ll know something.” I told her how to find him.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, but her tone wasn’t encouraging.
I’d been at it for hours, sitting at the kitchen table with a phone book, trying to think of more people to call. Ben came in, dressed for bed.
“Kitty. Stop. There’s nothing else you can do.”
“There has to be.”
“You can get some sleep.”
“No, she’s out there, she’s in trouble.”
“Maybe—maybe she changed her mind.” I stared at him, bleary-eyed. He sighed. “Maybe she decided not to go to D.C. Maybe she found another way out and thought it was better if no one knew where she was going.”
Maybe. It was possible. “Do you really believe that?”
He gave a fatalistic shrug. “I don’t know. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You’re not even trying.” I rubbed my forehead. He was right, I should get some sleep. Go to bed at least. Didn’t think I’d be able to sleep.
He touched my shoulder. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but I was so tense, I flinched. He took a step back, hand raised defensively.
“You okay?” he said.
“I just want to keep trying. There has to be something else I can do.”
Ben started to say something, but turned and went back to the room instead.
I joined him an hour or so later, finally putting the phone away, shutting out the lights. Giving up. “Ben?”
He didn’t react. Already asleep, his breathing was deep and steady. I climbed into bed next to him, secretly hoping he would wake up and hold me. But he didn’t.
When I arrived at KNOB the next day, I had a visitor waiting in the lobby for me.
I walked through the door, and she stood up from a lobby chair, crossed her arms, and regarded me with an irritated frown. She wore rumpled slacks and a jacket, with a blouse open at the collar. Well-worn business wear. A real working woman. Her dark hair was pulled into a short ponytail.
“Detective Hardin,” I said, unable to sound happy about seeing her. “Hi.”
“Nice to see you, too,” she said wryly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back in town?”
“I’ve been trying to keep my head down.”
“Not doing a very good job.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered under my breath. “Had any luck with your robbers?”
“Not yet. I’ve had to put that aside for now. Another case has come up. I’d like you to look at something.” She pulled an attaché case off the chair.
“It’s not autopsy photos, is it? Because I’m not really in the mood for autopsy photos.”
I’d meant it as a joke. In our last set of encounters, Hardin kept asking me to look at bodies and tell her if a werewolf had ripped open their torsos and torn them to pieces.
But her expression didn’t change. She frowned, expectant and impatient. “Crime scene photos. Homicide.”
Damn.
“Is there someplace we can talk in private?” she finished.
“Do I have to?” I almost whined.
At least her smile was sympathetic. “I’ll owe you a favor. Never underestimate the power of a cop owing you favors.”
Fine. Whatever. “Upstairs conference room.”
I led the way, surreptitiously glancing over my shoulder at her. I could feel her studying me, as a prickling up and down my spine. I made the trip as short as I could, and she got right to work, pulling a handful of five-by-seven photos from her case and spreading them on the table. Ten of them lined up.
Each one showed a face, some of them merely spattered with blood, some of them drenched, so that their hair was red and plastered to their skin. Some of them showed slashes across cheeks and throats—claw marks. A couple had jagged wounds, pieces of flesh torn and hanging. Teeth marks. All of them had their eyes closed. My gut twisted.
“We got a 911 call at around 3:00 A.M. from a warehouse south of downtown,” Detective Hardin explained. “This is what we found when we got there. We traced the 911 call to a mobile phone dropped just inside the building. It might have belonged to one of the victims. We couldn’t get prints off it. All the victims were inside. All of them showed signs of struggle, like there’d been a fight. A really nasty fight—no weapons, all hand-to-hand. Or claw and fang to hand. All ten victims tested positive for lycanthropy. Do you know any of these people? Can you identify them?”
These were Rick’s lycanthropes. Despite the blood, I recognized them. No sign of the confident pack he’d gathered looked out at me now. I touched the pictures, lining them up.
“We also found three sets of what might also be remains, but there’s not much there. Some ashes. I think they might have been vampires. There’s no way to ID them.”
Only seven of these were Rick’s. Two others were wolves from Carl’s pack. Tough guys who didn’t mind fights. Both had been wolves for over a decade. One of them worked as a bouncer in Denver. Now they were dead.
The tenth photo was Jenny. Her throat had been torn out. I couldn’t see her neck, only a pulped mess. She was wearing the shirt she’d had on yesterday. Blond hair made a tangled, bloody frame around her. Her face was only speckled with blood and seemed incongruously relaxed, almost peaceful. She’d found another way to escape.
“You do know them,” Hardin said.
I’d lifted Jenny’s photo and couldn’t turn away from it. I couldn’t feel what my face was doing, what expression Hardin saw on me. I only knew that I couldn’t talk. My throat had shut tight, my voice had died.
“Kitty?” the detective prompted.
“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” I said, forcing it out. The effort made my voice taut to the breaking point. “She was supposed to be on an airplane. She’s the one I told you about last night.” She was supposed to be free now.
Gently, Hardin drew the photo from my hand and put it back with the others. “That one’s odd. Her time of death came about seven hours earlier than the others. Her body was left there. She didn’t die with them.”
No, Carl had killed her before and then
dumped her with the rest. I had to assume it was Carl. He might have had help with the rest, but he’d killed Jenny all by himself. But how had he found her? How had she let him find her? How had he stolen her past airport security?
The implication of the rest of the photos only settled on me slowly, the shock wave after the initial blast of seeing Jenny dead: Rick’s coup had failed. One of those piles of ash might be him. I had no way of knowing if he’d died. I might never know. Seven lycanthropes, three vampires—that was almost everyone.
“Are they all wolves?” I’d never seen Rick’s henchman Dack as a human. I couldn’t know if one of these was him. “Was there any other kind of lycanthrope?”
“The tests aren’t that good. I can tell you lycanthrope or not. Not which flavor. Yet.”
“What happened?” I said softly, though I could already guess. I already knew.
“These seven died from wounds inflicted by other lycanthropes. They practically had their hearts ripped out.” She grouped five of the photos together, the ones with the worst of the blood and mess. A lycanthrope could survive a lot of damage, but not that. “These three, the bites are smaller, human-sized, and the victims died of blood loss. Vampire, I assume. I have to make some calls to verify that. What I don’t know: Were they part of the same pack, or were they from two different packs having a conflict? Do vampires ever get involved in this sort of thing? What can you tell me about this?”
This wasn’t just about the vampire and werewolf territories anymore; a third one had gotten involved: the law enforcement jurisdiction. How would she treat this sort of thing going on in her territory? I didn’t want her involved. She and her people couldn’t handle it. Unless she could, of course. She was open-minded about this. She had educated herself. She had silver bullets.
Maybe I didn’t want to see what would happen if she took on this mess and was able to handle it.
“Detective, if I tell you, you have to promise to stay out of it. To keep your people out of it.”
“I can’t promise that,” she said, shaking her head, clearly offended. “I’ve got murder victims, I’ve got higher-ups breathing down my neck. What am I supposed to tell them? The werewolves are just getting a little feisty?”