Kitty Raises Hell

“I pissed some people off in Vegas. Long story.”

Another long pause before she said, “Kitty, you’re my sister and I love you, but have you ever considered another line of work?”

I had absolutely no response to that. I giggled. “I’m sorry. I try to be careful, honest. These things just happen.”

“Are we really in danger? Is this like last time?”

“No, this is nothing like last time, and you’re not in danger. This is just a precaution.” This was like dealing with the pack—I had to sound confident.

Cheryl looked skeptical.

“So,” I said. “How are Mark and the kids?”

“They’re fine. You’re changing the subject.”

I stopped and faced her. “This’ll work. And you have to promise not to tell Mom. I did their house already. They don’t need to know.”

I expected her to argue, but she didn’t. Because she understood. We both wanted to protect our mother from anything that might upset her. This would probably upset her.

She walked with me as I finished the circle of protection. Mission accomplished.

“I guess I’d better get going,” I said.

“How much trouble are you in, really?” she said, arms crossed.

“A lot, I think. But I’m working on it.”

“Be careful.” She sounded very serious.

“Yeah. Let me know if anything weird happens, okay?”

“Weirder than usual?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “That.”

We hugged. I left another jar of the stuff with her, just in case. She waited to watch me drive away before going back inside.

My cell phone rang Tuesday morning when Ben and I were still in bed. I didn’t want to answer it, but I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t my phone, because it played “I Wa

Caller ID read Hardin. I groaned.

The very last thing I needed in the midst of all this was a call from Detective Jessi Hardin. She was the Denver PD’s resident expert on what they called paranatural situations. If a body turned up in a back alley that looked like it had been mauled by a wolf or drained of blood, she headed the investigation. This was mostly through happenstance and Hardin’s bullheaded determination to educate herself now that these things—these monsters—were in the open and publicly acknowledged. She was a believer, and the supernatural didn’t scare her. No, it only pissed her off.

For some reason, she always called me when she stumbled across something new and freaky. Like I knew any more than she did.

I didn’t want to answer, but if I didn’t, she’d show up in person. She usually brought along crime-scene photos of dead bodies. I wanted to avoid that if I could.

Just before the call would be shunted to voice mail, I answered. “You have a body, don’t you?”

“I have a body,” she answered, but without the peppy sarcasm I had come to expect from her. One of the things that made her good at her work was a sense of humor.

“I guarantee you it wasn’t werewolves this time, I promise.” If one of my pack attacked a person, I’d deal with the murderer myself.

“I know. This is something completely different. Kitty—”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. Why are you calling me? Are you going to show me gruesome crime-scene photos?”

“Kitty, be quiet for a minute, please.”

I shut up, because she sounded serious, stone serious, like she wanted to be doing anything other than having this conversation.

She said, “Do you know a man named Mick Cabrerra?”

The name took a minute to click, because I’d heard his last name maybe twice in my life. But I knew only one Mick, and my mind turned worried circles wondering what my disgruntled werewolf minion could have gotten into. “Yes.”

Hardin’s voice was strained. “We found his body last night. I’m sorry.”

“What?” I’m afraid I squeaked. “What? But how? I saw him just a couple days ago, he was fine. What could kill him—he’s a werewolf. Did you know he’s a werewolf? He can’t be dead.”

“Yes. The blood test is standard autopsy procedure now. We haven’t been able to reach any next of kin, and he had your name and number in his wallet as an emergency contact. Was he part of your pack?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “But how did he die?”

She sighed, which meant it was something odd, unusual, something she didn’t want to talk about. “It’s complicated. But there was a fire.”

Somehow, strangely, that didn’t surprise me. Fire had been hunting us, and now it had gotten one of us. I didn’t want to picture Mick burned up like that, dying like that. I closed my eyes as the breath went out of me.

“Do you want to come down to the morgue? To see him? We can talk about it in person, if you’d like.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him; I’d already seen enough bodies. But I thought that later on I might want the closure.

“Okay, yeah,” I said. “I should do that.”

“We’re going to spend a little while longer looking for his family.”

“I’m not sure he has any family, Detective.”

“Then you may be it. But we can talk about that later. Do you need directions to get here?”

Ben was awake, sitting up, and looking at me as I listened to the directions and tried to memorize them. I’d probably have to look it up anyway. Or maybe Ben would know. I’m not sure what kind of desperate, forlorn expression I showed him. He touched my leg.

“Okay,” I said when she’d finished. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I shut off the phone.

Ben waited for the explanation as I wiped tears away. This was stress, thinking of everything I needed to do, going to see his body, telling everyone else what had happened. I’d taken over this pack. I was the alpha. I was supposed to protect them.

I climbed out of bed and started dressing. “That was Detective Hardin. She says that Mick is dead.”

For a moment, we paused and looked at each other. His expression was stark, disbelieving. “Oh. God,” he said. “How?”

“Fire.”

Then Ben was standing next to me and holding me, a tight, comforting embrace without words. Because what could we say, really? But I needed the hug.

Chapter 12

What the police procedural TV shows can’t get across is the smell.

The morgue smelled overwhelmingly of alcohol and death. More so even than a hospital, which at least had a variety of odors of life and living overlaying the antiseptic reek. This place was a war between sterility and decay. A normal human would smell and maybe even be bothered by a sickly tang lodging in the back of the throat. But for me and Ben, for any lycanthrope, the smell filled our lungs and seeped in through our pores. My arms broke out in gooseflesh. I should have been getting used to this, the way these grotesque smells assaulted my sensitive werewolf nose.

I took shallow breaths and thought about escape.

Detective Hardin met us in the lobby. She was a brisk woman, always moving like she was in a hurry and losing her patience. Of average height, with dark hair tied in a tail, she wore a functional pantsuit that might have been on her for a couple of days now. The shadows under her eyes suggested she’d worked through the night. Her smile was grim, and she didn’t have a quip, which added another layer of depression and unreality to the situation. I wanted Hardin back to her snide, not in the middle of a disaster self.

“Kitty. Mr. O’Farrell. Thanks for coming. It’s this way.” We walked with her through a set of double doors marked private, then down a chilly corridor of off-white walls and an institutional linoleum floor.

“Can you tell me what exactly killed him? You said it was a fire, but complicated. Did his building burn? Was it someplace else?”

Apparently, she couldn’t tell me. “How long have you known Mr. Cabrerra?” she asked instead.