Kitty Goes to War (12 page)

I went straight to the bouncer at the front door, bypassing the line—a line, even on a weeknight. I wasn’t dressed nearly well enough to gain admittance—at least I wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with my jeans—which meant I was going to have to pull rank. The bouncer tonight was one of the vampires, an unassuming Secret Service–looking guy. Stronger than someone with linebacker muscles, but he didn’t look it. And he wore dark sunglasses at night, natch.

He watched my approach all the way up the block. I watched the rim of his sunglasses and put my hands on my hips.

“What do
you
want?” he said.

“I’m here to see Rick.”

“What right do you have to demand this?”

I glared. Alpha werewolf, Master vampire, need to talk, blah blah. I went through this bullshit every time I dealt with the vampire minions.

“He’s expecting me.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“That’s because I’m pretty sure he considers me to be on a ‘come on in’ basis. He shouldn’t
have
to tell you. But, you know, if you want me to check on that for you . . .” I pulled out my cell phone. I had Rick on speed dial.

His lips twitched—a frustrated frown. “He’s too indulgent with you wolves.”

“Yeah, yeah, heathen animals, whatever.”

He stepped aside just as I was about to push past him, or rather, try to push past him. We both got to look surly.

Psalm 23 was the kind of place that provided the seed of truth to countless vampire stereotypes. The place was beyond posh, all chrome, blue plush carpets, and black leather booths, where the beautiful people standing at the bar and draping themselves over railings by the dance floor seemed like accessories, part of the decor rather than patrons. The club attracted a young, eager, suggestible clientele. A lot of Rick’s vampires came here for drinks just as eagerly. An experienced eye could spot them—the
pale, appraising gazes, surveying the interior like they were picking out their lobster from the tank at a high-end seafood restaurant.

I found Rick inside, sitting at one of the bars near the wall, surveying his domain, the crowd on the dance floor, couples at tables sipping glowing neon drinks in martini glasses, impervious to the thumping beat of techno music.

“Your minions are very aggravating in their self-importance,” I said to him.

Rick was handsome, unassuming, with fine old-world features, dark hair swept back, and an often-amused smile. He wore a blue silk shirt, dark trousers—simple and elegant. He was urbane without being pompous, confident without being arrogant.

He said, “You know how prejudices become entrenched in older generations, how it usually takes younger generations to grow up with new outlooks to establish new attitudes? Imagine how entrenched some prejudices can get after hundreds of years.”

Damn kids, get off my lawn,
covered a very large lawn then, didn’t it?

“You’re pretty laid back for being five hundred years old. What’s your excuse?”

“I’ve always had something of an antiauthoritarian streak. Pretty good trick for someone born under a monarchy, isn’t it?”

More stories, more stories . . . I almost forgot my own issues, hoping he would say more about his history
in Spanish colonial America. He’d claimed once that he’d known Coronado. I still hadn’t gotten that whole history.

And I wouldn’t get it this time.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

I requested something sweet and glowing in a martini glass. With a raised hand, Rick summoned the bartender and made the request, and in a moment I had a pink and fruity drink to cling to.

“Now, what do you need?” Rick said.

I always needed something from him, it seemed, even if it was just advice. It was silly not to take advantage of the advice of someone with five hundred years of experience.

“I’ve got a situation,” I said, and tried to explain. “It turns out the army’s had a unit of werewolves operating in Afghanistan. It’s kind of a long story. They worked as a pack, but then their captain—their alpha—was killed. The unit fell apart, the soldiers lost control. The survivors were brought back home. One of them is being court-martialed on murder charges—he killed three other men in the unit. I’ve been asked to help rehabilitate the other two. I’ve met them. They’re . . . I have no idea what to do with them. I’ve never seen anything like it. Every little thing triggers a reaction from them. They’re always right on the edge of shifting. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some post-traumatic
stress going on, and couple that with the lycanthropy—they’re a mess.”

Rick rubbed his chin as he listened, looking into a middle distance before bringing his gaze to me. “This isn’t the first time werewolves have been used as soldiers,” Rick said. “There’s a long history of it, in fact. Werewolves tend to be fierce, indestructible.”

“So how do I help them? How do I get them to be people again, and not berserker monsters?”

“The problem is not too many people worry about making werewolf soldiers human again. They’re disposable troops.”

“Excuse me? Disposable?”

“To be unleashed when needed—if you’ll forgive the pun—and shunted aside when not. It explains a lot about certain attitudes toward them, though, doesn’t it? As well as how the culture of bounty hunters got started.”

I could only stare, appalled. At the same time, it made sense. Cultivate that instinct to kill, then set it loose. Everything else was extraneous.

“But . . . but I know a werewolf in D.C., Ahmed, who takes in and helps out-of-control wolves. And there are other safe havens, wolf packs that help—”

“New werewolves, Kitty. Young wolves, cubs who don’t know what they’re doing but can be taught. These are hardened warriors.”

“Then you’re saying there’s nothing I can do.”

“If anyone could find a way, it’ll be you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are a very hopeful person. Those werewolves are in good hands. Or paws.”

I was glad someone thought so. I stared into my glowy martini.
It’s never been done before
was not the kind of advice I’d been hoping for.

Rick broke my depressed musings. “So. Have you heard from Anastasia lately?”

Anastasia. One of the baddest-assed vampires I’d ever met, the kind you didn’t want to meet in a brightly lit room, never mind a dark alley. She was a schemer, too. And not one of the bad guys. But I didn’t know I’d go so far as to say she was one of the good guys, either. She’d recently recruited me to be on the lookout for the actual bad guys, who were trying to take over the world, or something so equally awful that it didn’t make a difference. I kept saying I wanted to be left alone. Then I contradicted myself by taking on
projects
. Like Tyler and Walters.

“Not since Montana,” I said.

“Probably for the best.”

“Yes, probably. I expect when I do hear from her it’ll be because the world is ending.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling.

I leaned forward. “Why not? You know something I don’t?”

“The end of the world is all some vampires have to look forward to.”

I hated that. Every vampire I’d ever met loved blithely throwing out these portentous proclamations of superiority and doom and they expected to have me shaking in my booties. I rolled my eyes.

“Are you one of those?”

“No. It’s not all that healthy to believe the world was put here for my entertainment.”

“Well. Kudos to you.” I raised my martini glass to him.

“Back to your soldiers. Are you planning on setting them loose anytime soon?”

It was a leading question—the full moon was coming up in a week. Were Tyler and Walters going to spend it indoors or out? I shrugged. “Depends. Do you want me to let you know if I do? Warn you?”

“That’s all right. I trust you to make the right decision.”

“Well. Miracles never cease.”

“Amen to that.”

Which, upon reflection, was a very strange thing to hear a vampire say.

I
BROUGHT FOOD
to my next meeting with the soldiers. A bundle of take-out lamb kabobs from a Greek place, juicy meat and not much else. I hoped they’d go over well. Food always made things better, right? Tyler and Walters perked up when I set the Styrofoam boxes on the table, their noses working as the room filled with the smell of warm cooked meat. I wondered when was the last time they’d had a real meal.

Their expressions and stances changed when Ben followed me into the cell. Tyler at the table, Walters from his usual place hunched up on the cot, glowered at him, lips parted, like they were thinking of growling. Their noses wrinkled, as if they smelled something bad. Tyler flexed his hands, and his shoulders bunched up. When I introduced him, they looked up him and down, judging. While they recognized him from the scuffle in the woods, they hadn’t gotten a good look at him then. Now they were
deciding whether they could take him down. Who was bigger, tougher, and all that. I wanted to cling to Ben, to say,
You can’t have him, he’s mine, I’m his, hands off.
Like Ben couldn’t stand up for himself.

This was where Ben’s human background served him well. As a werewolf, he didn’t look that tough: lean, wiry, unassuming. Not as built and hardcore as someone like Tyler. But as a criminal defense lawyer, he had that stare. That smirk. He’d spent a lot of time in jails and courtrooms dealing with not-very-nice people, and not a lot phased him. He projected that image now, and it made the tough guys look at him twice.

They didn’t shake hands or go through any of the
Hey, what’s up, how’s it going
greeting rituals that normally accompanied a meeting of total strangers. Instead, they exchanged a subtle acknowledgment of politeness: no one was going to get offended, no one was going to start a fight, no one was going to try to assert dominance over anyone else. Tyler nodded and glanced away, acknowledging Ben’s presence, not offering a challenge. Walters studied us while not engaging. He’d throw occasional glances—trying not to stare, which would have looked like a challenge. I couldn’t figure him out. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or just stubborn and refusing to play nice.

Ben and I sat at the table, opened packages of food, and started eating. This was one of the things that made my human side twitch—the human side wanted
to offer food to Tyler and Walters first, out of politeness. But to the Wolf, that would have meant handing over authority—alpha wolf ate first. So Ben and I started eating, and the others watched, which meant they were still willing to give me the authority.

“You two should come eat something,” I said after the first minute. I pushed one of the boxes to Tyler, who ducked his gaze and took up a skewer of meat. Walters gathered himself, hesitating and drawn to the meal at the same time. I left one of the skewers in front of the empty chair and didn’t look at him again.

Soon, all four of us were sitting around the table, having what from the outside looked like a normal meal. Success. Then, we talked. Just talked. I asked about favorite foods, bad restaurant experiences, hometowns, and families. Got them to open up a little—got them to ask questions. I wanted to show them that werewolves could have lives. I passed around cans of soda. Maybe next time we’d bring beer. I didn’t really trust them with beer just yet.

Eventually, the conversation came around to the elephant in the room: the supernatural, being a werewolf, and what else was out there.

“Vampires? There really are vampires?” Tyler said.

I forgot how little experience they had.

“Yup, there really are,” I said.

“I guess I figured they were real,” he said. “You
turn into a werewolf and figure a lot of things must be real, right? But it’s weird. I never thought I’d actually meet one.”

“I can arrange that, if you want,” I said.

“I don’t know that I do,” Tyler said.

“They smell funny,” Ben said. “Kind of dead but not really.”

“You’d like Rick. He’s very easygoing, for a vampire,” I said.

“I still wouldn’t want to piss him off,” Ben said.

“No,” I agreed wryly.

“Do you run into a lot of this kind of thing? Vampires, rogue werewolves, whatever?” Tyler asked.

“Yeah, I kind of do,” I said.

“How?” he said. “I know you said you were attacked, but how? You don’t exactly look like the creepy supernatural type. Either one of you. You look like a typical yuppie couple. No offense.”

None taken. In fact, I was sort of flattered. Ben and I looked at each other, exchanging one of those familiar glances, all our history passing between us. Neither one of us had chosen this life. But we’d done pretty well with it, together.

“My cousin’s a hunter,” Ben said. “I was helping him out when I was attacked.”

“I had a really bad date back in college.” I shrugged. That statement covered so much that a detailed explanation just couldn’t.

Tyler looked as if he wanted to ask questions, to
get elaboration, but he only shook his head. “I volunteered for this. But Captain Gordon—he didn’t tell us everything. Like how to deal with people. What to do when you don’t have anyplace to run.”