Kitty's Greatest Hits

Off we go, then. I reached into my pocket and turned on my mini–tape recorder. Just in case.

I slipped through the crowd, ducking low and shoving until I reached the rail around the dance floor. On the other side of the rail another layer of people blocked my way. I stood on the rail and screamed.

“Eliot!” I jumped, and everyone got out of my way as I hit the floor running. What was the good of being a werewolf with superhuman strength and agility if you couldn’t show off every now and then?

I skidded to a stop next to the singer. Eliot was starting to recover, pulling himself upright by gripping the rail. He held a hand on his forehead and winced.

“You okay?” I said.

“I think so.”

“What are you?” the stranger said, sounding like twilight: clear voice, hinting at darkness. He was looking at me, his arms crossed.

“Radio talk show host. Can I get an interview?”

“What are you really?”

The air around him shimmered a little, like he was shivering with repressed emotion, a taste of coming action. I was afraid. I wanted to growl, to make him back off. But I didn’t think a warning like that would have any effect on him. My skin flushed, my heart raced. Keep it together.

His lips thinned into a smile. He knew very well what I was.

Something touched my shoulder and I flinched. Eliot drew back his hand, startled.

“Are you okay?”

I was crouched on the floor, balancing on one hand, ready to spring. All I had to do was sprout fur and I was gone. I lowered my head and took a breath.

I looked at Kent, standing at the edge of the stage like he might jump off and try to run for it.

“What was the deal, Kent? What exactly did you agree to?” I asked.

Kent stammered. He couldn’t look at the gleaming man before him. “F-fame,” he said. “I wanted fame.”

Eliot laughed, a thin, almost hysterical noise. “Shit, Kent—you made the wrong bargain! You were supposed to sell your soul to become a great musician. But you sold it for fame? You, of all people. You were supposed to be for real.”

“I was tired,” Kent said. “I worked, I practiced—and I still wasn’t good enough. What happens then? What was I supposed to do?”

“Take the easy route, of course,” the stranger said.

“You have a contract signed in blood?” I said. I tried to remember every story I knew about Devil’s bargains, Faustian deals, the whole nine yards. There was always a loophole, right? Always a way to get out of it.

I always liked the version of Faust where he gets dragged screaming into hell.

“Of course,” the stranger said, drawing a tied roll of paper from inside his waistcoat.

“I didn’t sign that contract,” Eliot said.

“Me neither,” Danny said, raising a hand.

“Kent—did you sign in blood?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You see? He, at least, belongs to me now.” The smarmy bastard grinned.

For all my experience, for all that I liked to think I knew, I didn’t know what to do with a soul-stealing demon. If that was really what this guy was.

“We’ll keep playing!” Kent went to a second guitar case sitting at the back of the stage. In moments he was plugging the instrument into the amp. “We don’t need Eliot. Come on, Danny. We can keep going!”

Danny dropped his bass, which moaned.

I moved closer to the stage, so I was standing between Kent and the stranger. “Let me see if I understand this: You promised him fame, in exchange for his soul”—I pointed to the stranger, then to the guitarist—“They’d have fame, just as long as the band kept performing, no matter what.” The body still lay in front of us. I got a better look at him: the kid, male, with a short mohawk and a nose ring, must have been about eighteen. “But if the band stops, you”—I pointed back at the stranger—“get their souls.” No arguments so far. “So what you really want isn’t their souls. You wanted the violence. The bloodshed. You get that, they get fame.”

He inclined his head, smiling a crooked, amused smile.

“The music is a catalyst. The music covers up the real source. The violence comes from you. What are you?”

“An agent of chaos.” He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

In the far corner of the dance floor, the restless energy that had been pressing against the crowd burst. Someone fell, or tripped, or shoved himself against a wall of bristling moshers. They reacted instantly by beating on the assailant. His friends came to the rescue, and a full-blown fight erupted. Half a dozen bouncers waded in and were overwhelmed. The shouts of the crowd were deafening.

“Stop it!” Behind me, Eliot screamed with berserker fury. “Make it stop!”

Fists curled into hammers, he rushed the guy.

In a real fight with a normal human, Eliot would have pounded into the guy, pummeling his head, overpowering him with sheer brutal fervor. But the stranger wasn’t human. He merely held out his hand and swept Eliot aside. Eliot went tumbling back the way he’d come. He lay still.

The stranger looked at me, and I held my place. The fights were still going on around us, the crowd moshing without music, keeping its own violent rhythm, slaves to this being’s power. I was hemmed in.

“I can make you fight,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “I can make you Change, turn on the crowd, and rip out the throats of everyone here.”

I believed him and knew I’d do better to let him smack me unconscious. So I did.

At least, I tried. I rushed him, much like Eliot had. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. Jax said to distract him, so I did. I thought if he knocked me out at least he couldn’t make good his threat. Maybe he was bluffing, but I couldn’t take a chance on him making me hurt people.

I forgot one thing: I was a lot tougher than Eliot. As a lycanthrope, I could take more abuse, I healed faster. The blow that had knocked him unconscious knocked me to the floor and pissed me off. Rather, it pissed off my Wolf. She’d been itching for a chance to run loose all night. So now, in the name of self-defense, she took it.

The claws sprouted, and I lost it.

* * *

… the fur is free, the claws are free. Blood on the air smells sharp. But sharper is the figure of a creature. He glows, shining and dangerous. Hackles rise and finally she can growl, loud and fierce. She braces, backed against the wall. Time to fight. Find his throat. Muscles tense, and like a spring she’s away, launched from a standstill, flying at him. Teeth bared, claws ready to rip.

And he flings her away. His fist catches her under her ribs and she yelps. She sprawls on the floor, splay-legged and ungraceful. He’s so much stronger, no way can she win.

But she scrambles to her feet and tries again.

Someone shouts. Familiar voice. Her ears prick and she turns, just as the enemy kicks her hard with a boot like steel. Hits the wall, vision flashing. Shakes her head and looks for the next blow.

Another figure is there. Shimmering and strong. Raises a hand—he’s holding something. And the thing flashes with power, over and over. And the enemy falls, screaming.

She huddles, hackles as stiff as they can go, not sure which of them to hate.

The newcomer looks at her. She growls. If she could run away she would but she can’t, so she’ll fight.

—Kitty, it’s me. It’s Jax.

The familiar voice. In another life she knows that voice. But he smells like the enemy.

—Kitty, come back now. Change back.

In spite of herself, she listens. She blacks out.

* * *

I woke up not knowing how much time had passed. Time moved strangely for the Wolf. What was it they said, seven canine years for every human one? I was comfortable, and that was good. Warm, head resting on a friendly lap.