Kitty's House of Horrors

Wolf was close to the surface. I felt myself walking around with a hooded gaze, my head low, watchful, my body stiff, my fingers curled. Not just Wolf, but Wolf on the hunt. A Wolf who wanted blood.

I tried to relax and take a deep breath, because I didn’t want to shift right now. Because I had a feeling that was what the hunter expected me to do. Grant watched me; he’d seen this before, and he knew the signs.

I shook my head. “I’m okay.” I wasn’t, not really, but I wasn’t going to shift. Not right now.

The others watched us: Gemma with her hand over her face, like she couldn’t believe it; Tina looking away, holding Jeffrey’s arm. Jeffrey facing us, but with his eyes closed. Lee, staring out the window, hands clenched by his sides.

“Get away from the window,” Anastasia said, moving up to him, displacing him from the spot that gave whoever shot Ariel a perfect view. Lee curled his lips, a silent snarl. I wondered if he felt the same way I did. Or worse—his escape routes required open ocean. He had to be going crazy.

“Kitty, Lee,” Anastasia said, urgent, with a commander’s voice and not the urbane vampire voice I’d always heard from her. “I need your help. Leave out the back. I’ll draw him out. Be ready.”

“What?” Lee said. “What do you—”

But I knew. This plan was familiar, and I knew it without even hearing it. Lee didn’t recognize it because he didn’t hunt with a pack.

“Be ready,” she said.

I took Lee’s shoulder and guided him to the kitchen as Anastasia left through the front door. I pulled Lee out the back door in the kitchen.

“What does she expect us to do?” he said harshly, the anger of helplessness showing through.

“We have the best noses,” I whispered. I waited for the sound of a gunshot, for the sign that the sniper was still there and waiting for the next target—the bullet wouldn’t have done anything to Anastasia. She’d walk right through it, but maybe the shooter didn’t know that.

Who was I kidding? The arrow that killed Jerome was silver-tipped. The shooter knew what he was doing and wouldn’t waste a bullet on the vampire. No, his bullets were most likely silver, and he’d save them for me and Lee. I wondered if Lee had figured that out.

I wasn’t a vampire. My senses were not so fine that I could follow the path of a bullet, but I could tell when something didn’t fit, when something was wrong. I could smell the gunpowder and sense that we’d been invaded. Anastasia was moving toward that wrongness; she needed our help.

“You flank left,” I said. “I’ll move ahead and flank right.”

He must have figured it all out, because he nodded. We ran, jogging behind the lodge and toward the trees, arcing in opposite directions, keeping low and quiet. At every moment, I expected to hear a bullet whine toward me. Or a mine to explode under my feet. As a werewolf, I was tough and healed fast, but I didn’t know what an explosion would do to me. It didn’t matter, I understood what Anastasia was asking: she would flush the quarry, and then we would strike.

This was when Wolf could be an asset. I used her senses to range much farther ahead and around me than I could see. I moved quietly and knew where all the shadows were to hide in. Quickly, I reached the trees, entering the woods, gaining as much ground as I could to be in position. A prickling in my neck made me pause and look back toward the lodge. I spotted the vampire. To Wolf’s eyes, night wasn’t dark. It was filled with nuance, shadow, moments of light, spots of movement. Anastasia wasn’t moving, but she was incongruous, a poised figure in her tailored black clothes. Her face was pale, brilliant, like ivory. Her gaze focused on a spot. Something had been hidden before, but now she studied it, her chin tilted up slightly. Her figure was entrancing, beautiful; I could have just watched her. Instead, I looked to where she did, tried to find what had caught her attention. My nose flared, trying to detect it by scent. Finally, I saw it, well masked in the shadows: a man perched fifteen feet off the ground, on a branch of a pine with a view of the front porch a hundred yards away, where the picture window shone with light from the candles inside. Ariel had been backlit, a perfect shadow, a perfect target.

I couldn’t scent him because he smelled richly of pine, maybe sap from rubbing against the branches as he’d been sitting there. The extra-straight branch near him was his rifle, which smelled of burned gunpowder.

He saw Anastasia. He was quickly loading something into the rifle—and what kind of special bullet would you use on a vampire? Could you make a bullet with holy water or garlic in it? No doubt someone had tried somewhere along the way. What was Anastasia doing? Just waiting there for him to load and fire?

But she was gone, suddenly as mist, moving almost too quickly to see. Then she was climbing the tree—even though the lowest branches were a dozen feet up. Somehow, she must have found fingerholds in the bark. Or her hands were made of glue. Didn’t matter. She would need help; this was the time. I loped around, putting myself on the far side of the tree. I caught a whiff of sea and salt—Lee. He crouched between the tree and the path. All escape routes covered.

The guy was moving but not panicking at Anastasia’s rapid approach. He finished loading the gun, then stood, bracing himself against the trunk so he could look down on her, sighting along the barrel. Anastasia shifted, rotating along the trunk—I had no idea how. The sniper followed but had trouble; the branch he stood on got in the way.

I had to distract him. Anastasia had flushed him—time to overwhelm. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed a pinecone and threw. I didn’t have great aim, but this just had to make noise. Get him to look somewhere else. But I did better than I thought—the pinecone struck the tree above his head, rained a few needles on him, made him look up, then out to where the projectile had come from. At me, in other words.

And Anastasia was standing on the branch in front of him, perfectly balanced on her high heels, hands on her hips, staring him down. She might have said, “Boo.”

He fell—and his safety harness and line secured to the branch caught him. He’d probably used it to haul himself into the tree in the first place. Recovering quickly, he righted himself, planted his feet on the trunk, and used the rappeling gear to lower himself the rest of the way down. Man, this guy was good.

He unclipped from the line, started running—and this was my game, now. He was human, and whatever else I smelled, whatever confusion my senses were going through, I didn’t doubt that he was a regular human with no other superpowers than what his fancy equipment gave him. Flat out, I could run faster than him.

I didn’t run straight at him but parallel to him, flanking him. He spotted me—that was the idea. As I’d hoped, he veered away from me—toward Lee. He still held the rifle, which was worrying. But he didn’t aim and fire, which made me think that whatever ammunition he’d switched into it wouldn’t kill werewolves. A small bit of luck.

Then he switched the rifle to his left hand and drew a handgun from a belt holster. Shit.

Two instinctive reactions vied against each other: I could dodge, drop, hide out, and let him get away—some prey wasn’t worth the effort; or I could charge him and maybe surprise him out of any meaningful action. In either case, I had to hope he didn’t get a good shot off. The decision happened in half a second. This was the guy who killed Ariel, Jerome, and Dorian. I couldn’t let him get away.

I charged.

Ignoring the repetitive chorus of Holy crap, I’m gonna die playing in my head, I ducked and wove, hoping to mess up his aim. I wasn’t much watching, thinking only of tackling him before he could fire the gun. Like maybe he’d be so surprised he’d just stand there. He didn’t. He kept running, too, gun in hand, raising his arm to shoot. But I ran faster.

Lee tackled him from behind.

Lee wasn’t a runner, not like me. I had wolf in my blood, and he had seal. But seals are master ambushers. He’d been waiting for the chance, and I slowed down the sniper enough to give him his opening. He knocked the sniper to the ground and held him there. They writhed, the gunman struggling to escape and Lee struggling to stay on top of him, digging his elbow into the man’s back, pinning him with his legs. Lee’s teeth were bared, and they may have been a little more pointy than normal.

I grabbed the rifle, threw it, and kicked the handgun away. The guy wasn’t even screaming. Up close, I saw details: he wore black commando gear, close-fitting fatigues, utility belt, leather gloves, combat boots, even a full- face stocking cap, and black paint shaded the skin around his eyes. Hard-core.

“Let him up,” Anastasia commanded. She stood before us, at the sniper’s head, in perfect position to stomp one of her heels through his skull. Not a hair or fold of clothing ruffled, she didn’t look like she’d been climbing trees.

Lee growled, a gruff noise between a bark and a sigh, and the vampire said, “Let go. I’ll handle this.”