Kitty and the Midnight Hour

  “For the time being. I do reserve the right to change my mind should your behavior warrant it. Good evening, Katherine.”

  He started to turn. I took a hesitating step after him. He paused and regarded me with a questioning tilt to his head.

  It couldn’t hurt to ask. Especially when he was being so nice—for him. I plunged ahead. “Did Meg back you in hiring Cormac to come after me?”

  He narrowed his gaze, studying me. I glanced away, not wanting to get caught in his stare.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  I hadn’t expected a straight answer. My stomach knotted. Somehow, I still wanted to think there’d just been a misunderstanding. That I’d wake up tomorrow and we’d all be friends again. “Could—could you tell Carl that?”

  He chuckled without sound, showing the tips of fangs. “My dear, he already knows. If he hasn’t acted on that knowledge, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  He strolled out the front doors, trailing vampires behind him. Rick was the last to leave. Before passing through the doors, he looked over his shoulder at me and pressed his lips together in a sympathetic smile. Weakly, I waved a farewell.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I muttered. I was just filling space, breaking the intense silence, by saying it. By leaving his lair and going through the trouble of coming to see me, risking a potential breach of territory, Arturo had paid me one hell of a compliment. It was unexpected, to say the least.

  I was still staring at the door when a voice said, “Kitty, you okay?”

  Pete was standing behind his desk, looking like he was getting ready to come over to me and take my temperature. He seemed fine, mildly concerned—and seemed to have no memory of the six vampires who had just occupied his lobby.

  “I’m okay,” I said, taking a breath to bring me back to earth. “How do you feel, Pete?”

  He shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Good,” I said, forcing a smile. “That’s good. See you later.”

  I left the building. My arms were covered with goose bumps.

  I’d walked home at midnight, and later, plenty of times. I’d never thought twice about it. Most mundane threats I was likely to meet couldn’t hurt me. So I wasn’t paying as much attention as I probably should have. The breeze was blowing toward my apartment building. I was walking downwind. I would have smelled the wolf, otherwise.

  He ran around the corner of the building full-tilt, his legs pumping, his body streamlined. A flash of fur and bronze eyes streaked at me, and a second later he knocked me over. I sprawled flat on my back, my arms guarding my face.

  I thought I’d found the rogue. Vaguely, I reminded myself to call Hardin about it as soon as I could. I would have thought a rogue wolf would recognize what I was and know better than to attack me. But as soon as he breathed on me, I knew him. He smelled like pack. Not the rogue.

  I shouted, “Zan, get the fuck off me, you asshole!”

  Zan straddled me, his jaw clamped on my forearm. He shook his head, ripping into flesh. When I shouted, he hesitated, but didn’t let go of my arm. If I tried to pull away, he’d tear it off.

  At least he couldn’t infect me with lycanthropy again.

  With my free hand, I grabbed his muzzle and squeezed, trying to pry his head away from me. I wasn’t strong enough to do that. But I squeezed hard. Cartilage popped under my hand. I twisted my grip, pulling his lips away from his teeth. He coughed, choking, unable to breathe through his nose. He let go.

  I shoved away. When I turned, I landed on the injured arm, which gave out. Somehow, I got to my feet. Zan was right there, though, claws out and jaw open. This time when he tackled me, I rolled with him.

  I pushed him to the ground and landed on top of him. He was a squirming bundle of muscle. His gray and black fur was slippery. I kicked him under the ribs. He yelped and burst away, all that strength flinging me like I was a feather.

  From within me, from a space inside my ribs and heart, my Wolf responded, her own strength surging to break free. She was in danger, and she was going to do something about it.

  I clenched my teeth and fought it. I hated losing control. But my bones were melting, my skin was sliding. Right now, it would be a better use of my energy to run like hell than to shape-shift. But she wasn’t having it.

  I screamed, hunching over myself with the pain of it, angry at Zan for making me do this. The puncture wounds on my arm stretched and seared. While I was huddled and immobile with the Change, Zan attacked me again.

  His paws landed on my shoulders; his jaw closed around my neck. I elbowed him, wriggling out of his grasp. His claws dug into me, but his teeth didn’t catch. By this time, I had claws as well. I sat on my knees, raised my forelimbs, now stout and ending in thick, razor-tipped fingers, and raked them down his exposed belly.

  They snagged and caught with a satisfying rip. I grunted as I put more effort behind it. Six lines of blood welled and matted with his fur. Elation, glee, and joy surged through me—through her. This was her. This power, this joy, this blood. My mouth watered. Her mouth. I had thick canines. Fangs. She wanted a piece of him.

  She could have him. He backed off, meeting my gaze. My vision had gone soft and glaring. The lights were too bright and the shadows too clear, but I saw him. We growled, lips curled back from angry teeth. An official challenge between us. I was halfway there, to her, my Wolf. Just let it go—

  Like a cannonball, another wolf crashed into Zan. They tumbled, a mess of fur, claws, and furious snarls. I backed away, gagging, hugging myself, trying to hold on to myself.

  Cold water. Ice. Clothing. Broccoli. Pull it in. I’d never been so far gone and pulled her back before. I had the list of words, things I thought of that made her go away, at least a little. Sprouts. Green. Daylight. Calm. Music. Bach, “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Ha.

  And she went away, but it hurt, like my guts were being dragged over razors, like teeth were chewing me from the inside. Bile rose in my throat, sank back, and my stomach churned.

  The fight between Zan and the other wolf was over.

  Where I had struggled for my life, fought for every inch of ground and barely held my own, the newcomer swatted him once and that was that. Zan whined, tail between his legs, crawling on his belly, smearing blood on the sidewalk as he went. His attacker snarled and bit his face. Zan rolled onto his back and stayed there. The dominant wolf stood over him, growling low.

  The attacker was T.J.

  As a wolf, he was slate gray, with silver hair like frosting on his muzzle, chest, and belly. His eyes were soft amber. He was big and scary as hell.

  He was always saving my ass.

  When one wolf showed submission to another, that usually meant they were done. The dominant wolf accepted the other’s deference, order in the pack was restored, and they both went their separate ways.

  T.J. didn’t stop growling.

  Jaws open, he dived at Zan. I flinched at the ferocity of the action. The dominant wolf tore into Zan’s throat, gnawing without mercy. Zan twisted and yelped, screaming almost, as if his human side was trying to get out. His hind legs pumped the air, looking for purchase to claw into T.J. and failing. T.J. was too fast and ruthless. Arterial blood flowed and pooled on the ground.

  With the other’s neck fully in the grasp of his teeth, T.J. shook his head until Zan flopped in his grip like a rag. A dozen times he jerked his victim back and forth. Finally, he dropped Zan and backed away.

  I fell on my backside, jarring my spine.

  My shirt was so ripped up it was falling off. My left side, where Zan had clawed my shoulder, bitten my neck, and torn into my arm, was covered in blood. I cradled my arm to my chest. I couldn’t feel it.

  T.J.’s face and chest were bloody. Zan’s body started shifting to human, slipping back to its original state in death. He lay sprawled, covered in his own blood. The claw wounds that I had given him showed as stripes all the way down his naked torso. His head was almost separated from his body.

  H
e looked a little like Hardin’s mauling victim.

  T.J. gazed at me like nothing was wrong.

  I tried to think of what he was thinking. Besides thinking of the taste of blood filling his mouth. He was tired of Zan, who had caused trouble too many times. He wanted to be finished with Zan once and for all. At least that was what I was thinking. Zan had been stupid coming after me like this. I embarrassed him in front of the pack, and he wanted revenge. So why didn’t he challenge me in front of the pack?

  I stared at the wolf sitting a few feet away from me. Smug. He looked smug.

  “You jerk, I could have taken him! I was doing okay! You still don’t think I can take care of myself!”

  He probably understood me. He probably didn’t care.

  “How do you think this is going to look when the cops find a chewed-up body outside my apartment? Huh? Did you think of that? How am I going to explain this? ‘Sorry, Officer, he just needed killing.’ How is that going to sound?”

  He looked at me, not twitching, not growling. Just watching me with utter calm and patience. Like, Are you finished? Ready to come home like a good cub?

  “Yeah, well fuck you, too!”

  This was pretty funny, me yelling obscenities at an oversized wolf.

  I gasped a sob and pushed myself to my feet. I swayed, caught in a dizzy spell. How much blood had I lost? A lot. My arm was slick with it. I stumbled toward the door of my apartment building. I wanted a shower.

  “Stop staring at me. I don’t want to talk to you.” I turned away from him.

  He ran off. Gliding like a missile over the concrete, he disappeared into the dark.

  Too late, I realized I’d told off my best friend. I needed him. How was I going to get through the night by myself? I hadn’t been this hurt since the first night Zan attacked me and brought me into the pack.

  Zan wasn’t any older than I was. His hair splayed around his head like a crown, soaked with the blood that was pooling on the street. His mouth was open. His eyes were closed. He still smelled like the pack, a familiar, warm scent that jarred with the overwhelming wash of blood. Wrong, wrong. I gagged, but didn’t vomit.

  I managed to stumble to my apartment. I sat in a kitchen chair and tried to think. I was cold, shivering. Werewolves had rapid healing. I just had to wait for the healing to start. And go into shock in the meantime.

  I was more hurt than I wanted to admit. I needed help.

  I considered who I could call. No one from my pack. One of my pack had done this to me, and I’d just driven T.J. away. Not too many others would know what to do with me. I thought of Rick, then thought of what he might do when he saw this much blood drenched over everything. He might not have my well-being immediately in mind.

  I called Cormac. Again, I called Cormac when any normal, sane person would have called the police. And for the same reason: How would I explain this to the police? To a hospital staff, as the nurses watched my wounds heal themselves? I wouldn’t have to explain any of this to Cormac.

  I dialed the number, and as usual he didn’t answer until after half a dozen or so rings.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Kitty. I need help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.” I dropped the phone into its cradle.

  I made my way to the kitchen sink and ran water over my arm. I watched the patterns, water turning the blood pink, the holes in my skin that were revealed when the blood washed away. If I stood quietly, I could watch them heal, like time-lapse photography; watch the scabs form and the edges of the holes come together, like dirt filling in a grave. Fascinating.

  The next thing I knew, he was standing there. Cormac. I squinted at him. He might have been standing there for hours, watching me.

  “How’d you get in?” I said.

  “You left your front door open.”

  “Shit.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Sibling rivalry. Never mind.”

  He was as cool as ice. Never once broke his tough-guy tone. He searched the kitchen cupboards until he found a glass. He leaned over the sink, turned the faucet away from my arm, filled the glass with water, and handed it to me. I drank and felt better. A drink of water. I should have thought of that.

  “You look like hell,” he said.

  “I feel worse.”

  “You’re not hurt that bad. Looks like you’re healing pretty quick.”

  “It’s not that.” Wolf was still gnawing at my insides for putting her on the leash.

  “Have anything to do with the mangled body in the driveway?”

  Shit. Had he called the police? “Yeah.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No,” I said harshly.

  “Anyone you know do it? Was it the rogue?”

  “He—the guy outside—was a werewolf, too. Pack squabble.” He watched me, frowning, his eyes unreadable. Like a cop at an interrogation, waiting for the suspect to crack. My throat felt dry. “Do you believe me?”

  He said, “Why’d you call me for help?”

  “I can’t trust anyone, and you said you owed me. Didn’t you?”

  “Don’t move.” He went to the dresser on the other side of the room and opened drawers, looking for something. I stayed where I was, leaning on the counter until he came back. He had a towel over his shoulder and held a shirt out to me.

  He turned away, staring at the opposite wall as I removed the shredded T-shirt and pulled on the tank top.

  “I’m done,” I said when I was finished changing.

  He returned to the sink, wet the towel, and turned off the water. The place seemed quiet without the running faucet. He handed me the towel.

  I sat in a chair and started cleaning the blood off while Cormac watched.

  “Is Cormac your real name?”

  “It seems to work all right.”

  The blood wouldn’t come off. I just kept smearing it around.

  Sighing, he took the towel from me. “Here. Let me.” He held my wrist, straightened my arm, and started wiping off blood with much more focus and vigor than I’d given the task.

  My arm had been numb. Now, it started to sting. Weakly, I tried to pull away. “Aren’t you afraid of catching it? All the blood—”

  “Lycanthropy isn’t that contagious. Mostly through open wounds, and even then mostly when you’re a wolf. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone catching it from a werewolf in human form.”

  “How did you learn so much about werewolves? How did you get into this line of work?”

  He shrugged. “Runs in the family.” Efficiently, as if he’d had lots of practice cleaning up blood, he washed my arm, shoulder, and neck. He even cleaned the blood out from under my fingernails. On both hands. Zan’s blood, that time. “Don’t you have a pack? Shouldn’t one of your buddies be doing this?”

  “I’m kind of on the outs with them right now.” Feeling was coming back to the arm, which was bad, because it hurt, throbbing from neck to fingers. I started shaking.

  “Jesus, I didn’t think werewolves went into shock.” He threw the towel into the sink, stomped to the bed and grabbed the blanket off it. He draped it over my shoulders, moving to my front to bring the edges close together, tugging me into a warm cocoon. I snuggled into the shelter of the blanket, sighing deeply, finally letting go of the tension.

  Just how long had it been since I’d felt warm and safe? And how ironic, that I should feel like that now, with him. The werewolf hunter. He was right; I must have been in shock.

  Before he could draw his hand away from the blanket, I reached for it. I was fast and gentle; he didn’t even flinch when I pressed his hand against my shoulder. The pressure was there before he realized that I’d moved.

  Members of a pack feel safer in groups. Touch holds them together. Two members of a pack can rarely be in the same room without touching every now and then, sometimes nothing more than the backs of their hands brushing together, or the furred shoulders of wolves bumping. Touch meant ev
erything was going to be okay. For that moment, for a split second, I wanted Cormac to be pack.

  Then the human voice came to the fore and noticed how freaking odd this must have looked to him. I pulled my hand away and looked down, shaking my head. “Sorry. I—”

  He took my hand back. My eyes widened. He curled my fingers into his grip and squeezed. His skin was warm, still a little damp from the wet towel. The touch rooted me, brought me away from the pain. Everything was going to be okay.

  He was still kneeling by my chair, which meant his head was a little lower than mine. I looked down on him, slightly. He was in the perfect place for me to kiss him.

  I touched his cheek with my free hand and brushed my lips against his, lightly, just to see what he would do. He hesitated, but he didn’t pull away.

  Then he kissed back, and he was hungry. His mouth was warm, his lips active, grasping. I tried to match his energy, move my lips with his, letting the heat of attraction burn through my body, through my muscles. I wrapped my uninjured arm around his neck and slid off the chair, pressing myself to him. He held me there, his hands against my back. He moved his kisses from my lips to my chin, up my jaw, to my ear. Clinging to him, I stifled a gasp.

  I hadn’t been with a normal, nonlycanthropic human since I’d become a werewolf. I’d been afraid to be with a normal human. Afraid of what I might do if I lost it. But Cormac could take care of himself. Being with him was different from being with a lycanthrope. I hadn’t realized it would be different. I was stronger than he was. I could feel the strength in my muscles pressing against him. I could hold him away or squeeze him until he cried out. It made me feel powerful, more in control than I ever had been in my life. I wanted to take him in, all of him. I could hear the blood rushing through his body, sense the strain of desire in his tendons. He smelled different from lycanthropes. More . . . civilized, like soap and cars and houses. He didn’t smell like pack, and that made him new. Exciting. I decided I liked the way he smelled.

  I buried my face in his hair and took a deep breath. I squirmed out of his grip so that I could work my way down his whole body, tracing the whole scent of him, down his neck, along the collar of his shirt, down his torso and the hint of chest hair through the fabric, across his chest to his armpit, which burst with his smell. I lingered there, then nuzzled my way down to the waistband of his jeans, and oh, I couldn’t wait to find out how he smelled down there . . .