Kitty Takes a Holiday

Nobody seemed to want to talk about them in detail. Knowing too much about them drew suspicion onto one­self. In some places, a person could be excused for killing someone who was suspected of being a skinwalker. Like lycanthropes, again.

Again 1 avoided knee-jerk skepticism. In my experi­ence, accusations of evilness often stemmed from the fears of the accuser rather than the real nature of the accused.

What attacked Ben in New Mexico was a werewolf, plain and simple. We had the proof of that in Ben himself. But there'd been two of them.

I grilled Ben about what he knew.

'Not much,' he said. 'Cormac picked up this contract for the werewolf, but he got down there and found signs that there were two of them. So he called me. 1 saw some of the sheep they'd killed. Completely ripped open, like the cattle today.' He paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. The memory had triggered a reaction, caused his wolf to prick his ears. Ben collected himself and con­tinued. 'I only caught a glimpse of it, right before 1 was attacked. It was a wolf, it looked like a wolf. Something was wrong, Cormac was letting it walk right up to him. He could have shot the thing from ten paces off. I started to shout, then…' He shook his head. Then he was attacked, and that was that. He'd been watching Cormac, and not what came after him.

'Cormac said you saved him. You got a shot off and that broke some kind of spell.'

'I don't know. I don't remember it too clearly. Any­thing could have happened, I suppose. I do know there was something messed up going on.'

'And now it's moved here. I really hate my life right now.'

'Join the club,' he said. Then, more thoughtfully, 'I grew up on a cattle ranch. Dead cattle—it's serious. Every one of them is a piece of the rancher's income. It's a big business. Marks will go after it until he figures it out.'

'Well, as long as he's after me, he isn't going to figure it out.' Marks didn't know about Ben; I figured we'd keep it that way. Nobody had to know about Ben.

'You suppose there's a connection with what's been going on here, with your dead rabbits and dogs?'

I shook my head. 'Those were organized. Ritual kill­ings. That today—was just slaughter.' Like we needed another curse around here.

I almost wished they were connected, so we'd only have one problem to solve.

That night, we lay sprawled in bed, like a couple of dogs in front of the fireplace. He pillowed his head on my stom­ach, nestling in the space formed by my bent legs. I held one of his hands, while resting the other on his increas­ingly shaggy head of hair. We didn't look at each other, but stared into space, not ready for sleep.

He was still shaken by the day's adventure. Not quite comfortable in his skin. 1 knew the feeling. I let him talk as much as he wanted.

He said, 'It feels like a parasite. Like there's this thing inside me and all it wants to do is suck the life out of me then crawl out of my empty skin.'

Now there was a lovely image. 'I never looked at it that way. To me it's always kind of felt like this voice, it's looking at everything over my shoulder and it always has an opinion. It's like an evil Jimmy Cricket.'

He chuckled. 'Jiminy Cricket with claws. I like it.'

'It digs into your skin like a kitten with those needley little things.' 1 giggled. Silly was better than scary.

Ben winced. 'Ugh, those things are evil. You ever want to see something fun, throw a kitten down somebody's shirt. Watch them squirm trying to avoid getting clawed while not hurting the kitten.'

Now 1 winced. I could almost feel those little claws scratching on my stomach. 'You sound like you've done it before.'

'Or had it done.'

I couldn't help it. 1 giggled again, because I could see it: him and Cormac as kids, cousins fooling around at the family reunion, and 1 just knew who would have thrown a kitten down whose shirt. Oh, the humanity.

Wearing a wry smile, he looked at me. His voice turned thoughtful. 'I don't think I'd have made it this far without you. Cormac did the right thing, bringing me here.'

'That's nice of you to finally admit it.'

'When this happened to you, did you get through it alone or did someone help you?'

'Hmm, I had a whole pack. A dozen or so other werewolves, and half of them wanted to help and half of them were worried I'd be competition. But there was someone in the middle of all that. T.J. looked out for me. The first time I Changed, he held me. I tried to be there for you the same way. But T.J.—he was special. He was very Zen about the whole thing most of the time. He used to tell me not to look at the Wolf as the enemy, but to learn to use it as a strength. You take those strengths into your­self and become more than the sum of the parts.' Always, this was easier said than done. But I could still hear T.J.'s voice telling me these things. Reminding me.

'Where is he now?'

To think, I had just been about to congratulate myself that I'd spent a whole minute talking about T.J. without cry­ing. I spoke softly, to keep my voice from cracking, because I was supposed to be the strong one. 'Dead. I called out the alpha male of our pack, and T.J. swooped in to back me up. We lost. He died protecting me. That's why I had to leave Denver.'

'I hear that happens a lot, in werewolf packs.'

'Maybe. 1 don't really know. There's a lot of different kinds of packs out there.'

'I'd just as soon keep this one to you and me.'

'Afraid of a little healthy competition?' I said wryly.

'Of course. I'd hate to have to share you with anyone.'

'Or is it that you'd hate to have to fight to keep me to yourself?'

He shifted so he was looking at me. 1 looked back, down the length of my body. 'You know, 1 think I would. If I had to.' The playful tone went out of his voice.

My whole body flushed. Suddenly we weren't two friends snuggled together for comfort. He was male, I was female, and there were sparks. The weight of him leaning against me sent warm ripples through my gut.

'Is that you talking—you the human, I mean. Or is it the wolf?' I said.

He hesitated, then said, 'It's all the same thing, Isn't it?'

Helplessly, I nodded.

He moved again, propping himself on an elbow so he leaned over me. Tentatively, he touched the waistband of my sweatpants. I didn't say anything. In fact, I pulled my arms away, tucking my hands under my head, so I wouldn't be tempted to stop him.

He pushed up the hem of my tank top, tugged down on my sweatpants, exposing a stretch of naked skin across my belly. He kissed this, working his way across, gently and carefully, like he wanted to be sure to touch every spot. Warmth flushed along my skin everywhere he touched. He eased the edge of my pants down farther, until he was kiss­ing the curve of my hip, using his tongue, tasting me. My heart was beating hard, my breaths coming deep. I closed my eyes and squirmed with pleasure.

It was all I could do to keep from grabbing him, rip­ping off his clothes, and pulling him into me. He started this, so I let him work, reveling in the focused intensity of his attention. He kept at it until I gasped, a sudden jolt of sensation startling even me.

Then I grabbed him and ripped all his clothes off.

After that, we acted like we were on some kind of honey­moon. We'd start out washing dishes and end up making out over the sink, pawing each other with soapy hands. The bed got a workout. The sofa got a workout. The floor got a workout. The kitchen table—after one attempt we decided it wasn't stable enough to withstand a workout.

I got a heck of a workout. I was sore .

It distracted us from our problems, from the curse, from the slaughter, from the threats that had taken up residence in my dreams. The reason Ben gave me for not sleeping was a much better one than lying awake waiting for doom to strike.

Then there was the nagging little voice that kept tell­ing me it wasn't Ben, it was the wolf inside of him that had inspired this heroic passion. He wouldn't be here if he weren't a werewolf. Circumstance had brought us together, but I was enough of a romantic to want to be in love.

Neither one of us brought up the subject.

Over the next several days, two more herds of cattle were attacked. A dozen cows in all were slaughtered, torn to pieces. Each time, Marks called me up, wanting to know where I'd been the night before, what I'd been doing, and did I have witnesses who could verify that. Not really, seeing as how Ben and I were each other's alibi. Each time, Ben and I went out and searched the area, looking for something out of place, unnatural. Something that turned the world dark, and glared out with red eyes. But it must have been avoiding us.

I tried calling Cormac again, more than once. Voice mail picked up every time without ringing, so he was out of range or his phone was off. He didn't have a message, just let the automated voice carry on. I tried not to worry. Cormac was fine, he could take care of himself.

The second time Marks called I accused him of racial profiling—the only reason he suspected me was the fact that I was the only known lycanthrope in the region. He replied that he had applied for that warrant to collect a DNA sample from me.

I finished that phone conversation to see Ben sitting on the sofa holding his forehead like it ached and shaking his head slowly.

Ben and I were on the sofa, undressed, snuggled together under a blanket, basking in the warmth of the stove and drinking morning coffee. Didn't do much talking in favor of reveling in the simple animal comforts.

A tickling in the back of my mind disturbed the com­fort. I lifted my head, felt myself tilting it—like a dog perking its ears up. And yes, I did hear something, very faint. Leaves rustling. Footsteps.

Ben tensed up against me. 'What's wrong?'

'Somebody's outside. Wait here.'

I slipped off the sofa and into the bedroom to find some jeans and a sweater to throw on.

It couldn't have been my mad dog-flaying curse meis-ter, or the red-eyed thing. I'd never heard anybody actu­ally moving around the house like this. Maybe it was some hiker who'd gotten lost. I could point them back to the road and be done with it.

Unfortunately, my life was never that simple, and dread gnawed at my chest.

I wished Cormac were here with a couple of his guns.

I went down the porch steps and looked around. Lift­ing my chin, I breathed deep. Didn't smell anything odd, but that didn't mean anything. Whoever it was could just be in the wrong place.

Something called through the trees, a low, echoing hoot. An owl, incongruous in the morning light. 1 couldn't see it, but it made me feel like something watched me.

Listening hard, looking into the trees, I started to walk around the house. Then I heard a crunching of dried leaves. Up the hill toward the road.

Knowing where to look now, I saw him. A short man, maybe forty, probably latino, his round face tanned to rust, wrinkles fanning from the corners of his eyes. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail. He wore a thick army-style canvas jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots. He wandered among the trees, hands on his hips like this was property he was planning on buying.

This was my territory. 1 walked toward him, stomping to make noise of my own, until he looked at me. He didn't seem surprised to see me standing in front of him.

I glared. 'Can I help you with something?'

He glanced at me, not seeming at all startled or concerned.