Kitty Takes a Holiday

'Like the thing Cormac saw,' he said.

Yeah. Just like it.

That was it. This was war. I didn't need Cormac's help stopping this. I was a clever girl. I'd figure it out.

I hunted for it that day. Searched for tracks, smelled for a scent. I followed the tracks I'd made, the path I'd cut through the woods, ranging out from it on both sides. It had to be there, it had to have left some sign.

None of my enemies here had ever left a trail before. Why should they start now?

I walked for miles and lost track of time. Once again, Ben came for me, calling my name, following my scent, probably, whether he knew he was doing it or not.

When he finally caught up, he said, 'Any luck?'

I had to say no, and it didn't make any sense. 1 should have found something.

He said, '1 take it we're not leaving tomorrow.'

'No. No, I have to figure this out. I can figure this out. It's not going to beat me.' I was still searching the woods, my vision blurring I was staring so hard into the trees. Every one of them might have hidden something.

'It's after noon,' Ben said. 'At least come back and eat something. I fixed some lunch.'

'Let me guess—venison.'

He donned his familiar, half-smirking grin. How long had it been since I'd seen it?

'No. Sandwiches. Would you believe Cormac took most of the meat with him?'

Yes. Yes I would. 'He uses it for bait, doesn't he?'

'You really want me to answer that?'

'No, I don't.'

I worked while we ate, going online to search whatever relevant came to mind: barbed-wire cross, blood curses, animal sacrifice. Red eyes. Red-eyed monsters, to try to filter out all the medical pages and photography advice I got with that search. I found a lot of sites that skirted around the topics. A lot of people out there made jewelry that was supposed to look like barbed wire but wasn't nearly vicious enough to be the real thing. A lot of sites bragged, but few had any kind of authority.

As usual, the people who really knew about this stuff didn't talk about it, and certainly didn't blog about it.

I found one thing, though. A long shot, but an interesting one. The Walsenburg Public Library's electronic card catalog was online. Their three tides on the occult were checked out.

I called them up. A woman answered.

'Hi,' I said cheerfully. 'I'm interested in a couple of books you have, but the catalog says they're checked out.'

'If they've been checked out for more than two weeks I can put a recall on them—'

'No, that's okay. I was actually wondering if you could tell me who checked them out.'

Her demeanor instantly chilled. 'I'm sorry, I really can't give you that information.'

I clearly should have known better than to ask. In retro­spect, her answer didn't surprise me. I tried again anyway. 'Not even a hint?'

'I'm sorry. Do you want me to try that recall?'

'No, thanks. That's okay.' I hung up. I wasn't inter­ested in the books. I wanted to know who in the county was studying the occult. What amateur had maybe gotten a little too good at this sort of thing.

Again, we slept curled up together, looking for basic comfort. Rather, I tried to sleep, but spent more time star­ing at the ceiling, waiting for that moment of pressure, of fear, the sure knowledge that something unknown and ter­rifying was out there stalking me. The feeling had changed from when it was dead rabbits on my porch. This new force didn't just want me to leave—it wanted me dead. It made me think there was nothing I could do but freeze and wait for it to strike me.

Nothing had been slaughtered on my porch in days. The barbed-wire crosses had disappeared. Did that mean the curse was gone, or had it turned into something else?

I waited, but nothing happened that night. A breeze whispered through winter pines, and that was all. I thought I was going to break from listening, and waiting.

The next morning, Ben chopped wood for the stove. He was getting his strength back, looking for things to do. Nor­mal, closer to normal. 1 watched him out the window, from my desk. He knew how to use an ax, swinging smoothly and easily, quickly splitting logs and building up the pile next to the porch. For some reason this surprised me, like 1 assumed that a lawyer couldn't also know anything about manual labor. It occurred to me mat I knew as little about Ben's background as 1 knew about Cormac's. Ben had defi­nitely spent some time in his past splitting logs.

He paused often to look around, turn his nose to the air, presumably smelling the whole range of scents he'd never known before. It took time sorting them out.

At one point he stopped and tensed. I could actually see his shoulders bunch up. He stared toward the road. Then he set the ax by the woodpile and backed toward the front door.

I went to meet him, my own nerves quivering. That thing that was hunting us…

'Someone's coming,' he said, just as the sheriff's car came over the dirt road and into the clearing. Side by side, we watched the car creep to a stop.

Ben's whole body seemed to tremble with anxiety. He stared at Sheriff Marks getting out of the car.

I touched his arm. 'Calm down.'

Ben winced, tilting his head with a confused expres­sion. 'Why do I feel like growling at him?'

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'He's invad­ing our territory. And he doesn't smell like a real nice per­son, either. Just try to act normal.'

He shook his head. 'This is crazy.'

'How you doing, Sheriff Marks?' I called out nicely.

'Not so good, Ms. Norville. I've got a problem.'

My stomach turned over. Why was the first thought that popped into my head, What has Cormac done?

'Sorry to hear that. Can I help?'

'I hope so.' He stopped at the base of the porch and took a good, slow look at Ben. I could almost see his little mind ticking off the points on a formal police descrip­tion: hair, height, build, race, and general suspiciousness. Ben crossed his arms and stared back. Finally Marks said, 'Who's this?'

'This is Ben. He's a friend.'

Marks smirked. 'Another one? How many friends you shacking up with out here?'

Right, now I wanted to growl at him. 'You said there was something 1 could help you with?'

Marks jerked his thumb over his shoulder to point at the car. 'You mind taking a little ride with me?'

I did mind. I minded a lot. 'Why? I'm not being arrested—'

'Oh, no,' Marks said. 'Not yet.'

'How about I follow you in my car?' I said, admiring how steady my voice sounded. Something was very wrong. It was Cormac. It had to be Cormac. I wasn't going to say the name until Marks did, though.

But Marks was staring hard at me. Like it was me he was after. He had no idea what his glare was doing to Wolf. I had to look away. That fight or flight thing was kicking at me.

'I don't know. I'd hate for you to run off,' Marks said.

What in God's name had happened? 'I'm not going to run off. All my stuff is here. And why are you worried about me running off?'

'You'll see. Let's get going. Take your car, but I'm keeping an eye on you.'

'Of course.' I went to find my keys and backpack.

'Can I come with you?' Ben said.

I relaxed a little. It would be good to have a friend at my back. 'Sure. You're my lawyer. I have this creepy feel­ing I might need my lawyer.'

I drove behind Marks's car as close as I could without actually tailgating, so that 1 wouldn't give him the slight­est idea that I was 'running off.' I watched him through his rear window as he checked his rearview mirror every five seconds.

Ben frowned. 'It's a werewolf thing. Something hap­pened, and he thinks a werewolf did it.'

'Yeah. Maybe he's just trying to get back at me for all those times I called him about the dead rabbits. Maybe this is some practical joke. I'll end up on the first werewolf reality TV show. Wouldn't that be a hoot?' I muttered.

After a few miles we turned off the highway onto a wide dirt road, then after several more miles made another turn onto a narrow dirt road, then onto a driveway. A carved wood sign posted in front of a barbed-wire fence announced the Baker Ranch. A quarter of a mile along, Marks pulled off onto the verge behind a pickup truck, and 1 pulled in behind him. Dry, yellowed grass cracked under the tires.

An older man wearing a denim jacket, jeans, and cow­boy boots leaned against a weathered fence post. Marks went to him, and they shook hands. The man looked over at us, still in the car. I expected to see the determined suspicion in him that 1 saw on Marks's face. But he looked at us with curiosity.

I got out of the car and went to join them. Ben followed.

Marks made introductions. 'Ms. Norville, this is Chad Baker. Chad, Kitty Norville.'

'Miss Norville.' Baker offered his hand, and we shook.

'Call me Kitty. This is Ben O'Farrell.' More hand­shaking all around. I looked at Marks and waited for him to tell me why we were all here.

'Why don't we all go take a look at the problem, shall we?' Marks said, smiling, and gestured across the field on the other side of the fence.

Baker slipped a loop of wire off the top of the near­est fence post, pulling back the top strand of barbed wire. The tension made it coil back on itself. We could all climb over the bottom part of the fence without too much effort.

We walked across the field, up a rise that overlooked a depression that was hidden from the road. Marks and Baker stood aside and let us look.

Six dead cows lay sprawled before me. They weren't just dead. They'd been gutted, torn to pieces, throats ripped out, guts spilled, tongues lolling. The grass and dirt around them had turned to sticky mud, so much blood had poured out of them. They hadn't even had time to ran, it looked like. They'd all dropped where they stood. The air smelled of rot­ten meat, of blood and waste.

One werewolf couldn't have done this. It would have taken a whole pack.

Or something lurking in the dark, gazing out with red eyes.

'You want to tell me what happened here?' Marks said in a tone that suggested he already knew exactly what had happened.

I swallowed. What could I say? What did he want me to say? 'Ah… it looks like some cows were killed.'

'Massacred, more like,' Marks said. Chad Baker's expression didn't change. I assumed they were his cows. He was taking this very calmly.

'What do you want me to tell you, Sheriff? What do you think 1 know?' 1 spoke softly, unable to muster any more righteous sarcasm.

'I think you know exactly what I think.'

'What, you think I can read minds?' I was just being cagey. He was right, I knew: I was Kitty, the famous were­wolf, who moved into his jurisdiction and then this hap­pened. 1 told him, 'You