Kitty Raises Hell (10 page)

Whether or not a person could actually use something like a Ouija board to communicate with the beyond, or whatever, I found
it hard to believe you could do it with a piece of mass-produced cardboard straight out of the packaging.

I said, “The commercial version works? Shouldn’t you be using one made of ancient wood, hand-lettered by gypsies from the
Orient or something?”

She threw me a look. “The trouble with the old ones is you don’t know where they’ve been, what they’ve been used for. We know
this one’s clean. Besides, it’s not the tool, it’s the person who uses it.”

“Jules, if you don’t want to be a part of this, you can watch the monitors in the van,” Gary said.

“Fine,” Jules said, getting up to leave.

“And keep an eye open.”

“Of course,” Jules said brusquely. “I’m a
professional.
”

He marched outside to the van, where the team had set up the monitors and speakers they’d salvaged from the previous van’s
wreckage.

The rest of us took seats around the table, with Tina facing the board. The planchette sat right in the middle, pointing toward
her. I’d never have thought of her as a leader, but she took charge of the group without hesitation.

“Right. Here are the rules. Don’t move, don’t speak. I’ll do the talking. If you hear anything, see anything, stay seated.
Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. As long as we stay in this circle, we’re safe. Got it?”

Scream? Gooseflesh sprung out on my arms, and I’d have sworn a draft passed through the room. The low chuckle of a demonic
voice. Of course, everything Tina had just said was
exactly
what you’d say to people sitting around a Ouija board when you wanted to totally freak them out.

Gary was studying Tina, his brow furrowed. “There’s definitely something you’re not telling us.”

“Are we doing this or not?” Tina said. She was a little flushed. Nerves. Anticipation. Her fingers, resting before her on
the table, almost seemed to be straining toward the board.

I had to admit, I was a bit giddy with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see if this really worked. And if it didn’t, this felt
like those third-grade sleepovers. With less giggling.

“I’m sure you all know the drill,” she said. “Two fingers of each hand on the planchette. Only touch it. Take a deep breath
and relax.”

We leaned forward, stretching toward the board. It was crowded, four grown people squished together to maintain contact with
the plastic doohickey. You could fit a dozen third-grade girls around one of these things.

This was where séances traditionally got a little bombastic, when theatrics played a part in setting the stage and inducing
a state of anticipation in the participants.
Oh, spirits, we ask you to cross the veil of death to speak with us, yadda yadda.
Tina didn’t do that.

“Right. We know something’s out there. We’re pretty sure it has an interest in at least one of us, and that it’s willing to
go to violent lengths to make its presence known. Now, if that presence wants to talk to us, we’re here. Why don’t you come
out and have a chat?”

We sat like that for a long time. The room was almost quiet. I heard faint clickings, hissings—the refrigerator under the
bar, emergency lights, other electrical background noise. A car going by outside. My nerves stretched taut, waiting for some
other sound, for ghostly laughter, for the scrape of plastic over cardboard. Everyone breathed quietly, almost holding their
breaths, only drawing breath when they couldn’t hold it anymore. My arms, raised over the board, grew tired waiting for something
to happen.

“Come out, come out,” Tina said in a taunting voice, like she was mocking any lurking spirits, daring them to show themselves.

The plastic thingy gave a little static shock and slipped out from under my fingers.

It was the strangest feeling, not at all like Susan Tate yanking it away from the rest of us and then insisting she hadn’t
done anything. The plastic gave a quick jerk, just a few centimeters, then stopped. I didn’t think anyone was moving it, unconsciously
or otherwise, because all of us were sitting there, our hands in midair, fingers splayed and not touching the plastic. My
skin tingled with the tiny static charge. I was sure I’d imagined it.

The little arrow pointed to YES.

“Gotcha, sucker,” Tina said, lips curling in a sly smile.

“Who did that?” Ben said. “Someone moved it.”

“Quiet,” Tina said. “Everything’s under control.”

“If this is some—”

“Quiet,” Gary added. Ben clamped his lips shut and glowered.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Tina said.

The familiar and safe surroundings at New Moon suddenly became odd, strange. Unwelcome. I regretted coming here for this experiment.
But maybe Tina would tell us what was causing this, and we could stop it.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch the thing again, but with Tina’s urging, we all did. My nerves were quivering, waiting for
something to happen.

“Right,” Tina murmured. “I want to know who we’re talking to. Who are you?”

The plastic zipped out of our grips again. I had to admit, part of me was ready to leave the room right there. But I definitely
wanted to know what was going on. Had to know.

Our hands hovering, the planchette resting untouched, we looked. The arrow pointed to NO.

“You’re willing to reveal yourself but not willing to talk to us, is that it? Not good enough,” Tina said. “What are you?”

The thing didn’t move again.

Tina shook her head. “
Something’s
here. I’m sure of it.”

“We can’t document gut feeling,” Gary said.

Closing her eyes, Tina touched the planchette, which slid slowly across the board. She wasn’t trying to be subtle—she might
have been moving it herself. But it still seemed strange. The air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

With her eyes closed, unable to see what she was doing, she spelled out a word: F–I–R–E.

Maybe she’d practiced and could do it by feel; maybe this wasn’t for real. I wondered, though: If this really was working,
was it because some spirit was moving the planchette? Or because one of us here believed it was? And was, in effect, subconsciously,
psychically, telekinetically, whatever, moving it around because of it? Was a four-leaf clover lucky because the bearer believed
it was?

Then there was fire.

A cloud of red flames billowed from the kitchen in cinematic glory, like it should have been a special effect in a movie.
It washed through the room, pushing air and heat in front of it before dissipating. The table tipped, flew, and hit a wall.
Ben and I dove for each other, crouching over and protecting each other. The Ouija board flew away, the planchette careening
off another wall. Chairs launched and scattered, and Gary and Tina seemed to fly with them. Feeling cornered, I wanted to
snarl. Wolf wanted to burst out and face the enemy. But there was no enemy, at least not one we could see. Not one we could
face.

I wanted to say it was a gas-line explosion, that somebody had lit a match near a leaking stove. Old building like this, anything
could happen. Funny that it chose that exact moment to ignite.

“Everybody out, get out!” Ben shouted. He grabbed my shirt and shoved me toward the front door.

“Where’s Gary? Gary!” Tina wailed.

“Tina! Come on!” It was Jules, clutching at her like Ben was clutching at me. He’d rushed in from outside.

“Gary’s hurt!” Tina called.

I saw Gary curled up by the wall, unconscious. He might have landed wrong, might have hit his head. Tina went and crouched
by him, trying to pull his arm and drag him toward the door, but she didn’t have the strength. Jules helped her. The two of
them pulled his arms over their shoulders.

Fear rattled me, and Wolf said to run, run. I looked back, saw flames in the kitchen, felt the heat, smelled it growing stronger,
and despaired. Something in me snapped: No, this wasn’t going to happen, not my haven. This was my territory; I had to protect
it. It couldn’t burn, I wouldn’t let it.

I squirmed out of Ben’s grasp and lunged for the fire extinguisher behind the bar.

“Kitty!” Ben shouted.

The walls were exposed brick. They wouldn’t burn, not right away, but the furniture and fixtures were another story. The blast
had been quick, more sound than fury, but flames had taken hold, crawling toward the shelves of alcohol. I did battle, spraying
foam wherever I saw fire. I wasn’t even thinking, so lost in the moment, the smells of fire, chemicals, and panic, to think
about what I was doing. To think about the heat scorching my hair and roasting my skin.

Ben wrapped his arm around me and hauled me back. “We have to get out of here!”

“No!” I screamed. No explanation, no pleas about how I couldn’t lose this place. Just no. I fought him, kicking and elbowing
as the chemical spray from the extinguisher bobbed and faltered. I was at the door of the kitchen now, where a dozen small
fires ate away at whatever combustible material lay exposed: aprons, boxes and bags of ingredients, cooking supplies, blackened
and disintegrating. Fires from hell. I couldn’t identify what fueled the flames; I just wanted to fight them.

Then Ben was standing beside me with a second extinguisher from the door of the kitchen.

I didn’t know how long we fought to save our restaurant and haven. The next thing I knew, a pair of firemen had grabbed hold
of us and hauled us out of there. No arguing with them, but Ben snarled, like his wolf had come to the fore, and I bared my
teeth. We were tired by then, hurt, and I at least used all my remaining strength to keep Wolf under control, no matter how
wild I felt.

Outside, Ben and I huddled together.

“You okay?” he said, his voice shaky, scratching from the smoke.

I needed a moment to answer. “You keeping it together?”

“Yeah, I think. But I want to claw something.”

“Yeah.”

Paramedics started pawing at us, and I tried to push them away. Even if I was hurt, I’d heal soon enough; I’d come to appreciate
that part of being a werewolf. They insisted on putting masks over our faces and feeding us oxygen, and I did feel burned.
I felt hurt. But the pain, the sensations, were detached. I didn’t dare look at myself—seeing the burns would make them start
hurting. So I ignored them.

I looked for the Paradox crew.

They had sprawled on the sidewalk nearby, gathered around Gary, who lay flat on the sidewalk. A bloody spot was visible above
his brow. He must have hit something hard on his way down, but it seemed to be clotted, matted with hair, rather than gushing
blood. I hoped that was a good sign. A couple of paramedics were working on him, without the urgency that would have meant
his situation was critical. And yes, the camera crew was still filming.

Jules wandered over to us.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Alive,” Jules said. “Probably a bad concussion. They’re taking him in for X-rays.”

We all looked parboiled, skin red and sweating, streaked with soot, hair and clothing singed and smoking. We looked shell-shocked.
Disaster survivors.

“Why the hell didn’t you get out of there?” Jules said.

“I couldn’t lose the place,” I said and realized I was crying. The tears carried soot and smoke from my eyes. I could feel
the grit scratching at me.

“Stupid,” Ben grumbled at me. “It was stupid, Kitty. It’s just a place. We can rebuild a place.”

“And a few burns aren’t going to kill me.”

“Being a werewolf is no excuse for staying inside a burning building!” Ben said.

“What happened?” I said. “What the hell happened in there? Did anyone see anything? Did the cameras pick up anything?”

Jules shook his head. “I don’t know. It happened fast. There was a fireball from the kitchen.”

“Gas explosion,” Ben said, echoing my earlier thought.

“Maybe,” Jules said.

“But not really,” I said.

“Of course not,” Jules grumbled. “Coincidence only goes so far.”

Paramedics loaded Gary into an ambulance, while Tina and Jules left for the hospital with him. Yet another guy in a uniform
poked at me, and I had to concentrate not to snarl. I was still sitting on the sidewalk, in the dark, listening to water spray
and firefighters holler at each other. The oxygen mask lay in my lap. I’d dropped it.

Wolf was cowed. Far past wanting to shape-shift and run away to protect myself, I was in shock, numb, hugging myself. It had
been a while since Wolf was so scared and confused that quivering seemed the best option.

“Ma’am, you need to go to the hospital.”

“No, I don’t. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve got second-degree burns on your arms, ma’am.”

“Really?” I looked. My arms were red. Very red. Bad sunburn red. But didn’t second-degree mean blisters?

The paramedic stared at my arms, as well. He blinked a couple of times. Then he shook his head. “I could have sworn that was
a lot worse a minute ago.”

“Maybe you’re just stressed,” I said. He went away, shaking his head.

The fire was almost out, and the building itself remained intact. The investigators had already had their first look and gave
us their impression: There hadn’t been an explosion, so it probably wasn’t a gas leak. Just fire. I hoped all this meant we
could make repairs and reopen quickly. But how was I going to explain this to Shaun?

Ben talked to the police and fire investigators about what we were doing here and proved that we owned the place, so no one
would get hauled off on trespassing or vandalism charges.

“The police want to take a look at all the video footage, to see if they can figure out what happened. I have to say I’m looking
forward to reading that report,” he said.

“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I whined. My fury had drained away along with the rush of adrenaline. “It’s
going to keep coming after us. It’s going to keep . . .
destroying
things, until . . .” Until it destroyed
us.
I didn’t want to say it.

He put his arm around me, tucked my head on his shoulder, kissed my hair. “I wish I had some suggestions. But this is way
out of my league. All I really want to do right now is go
run.
” His body was stiff, hands clenched even as they rested against me from the tension of keeping his wolf under control. He
hadn’t gotten to the numb stage, apparently.