Kitty Goes to War

Franklin started back to his car, but paused, and looked at us. We’d been quiet, sneaky, but maybe the pressure of three gazes made him look over and see the car. We weren’t even parked all that conspicuously—several other cars were parked on both sides of the street around us. But he looked, saw us staring back at him, and he certainly recognized me.

The man raised his hand, like he was saying hello. I started to slide down the seat, though it was too late to hide. Then I passed out.

The world seemed to vanish for a moment—pure blackout. Missing time. I was staring wide-eyed at Franklin, then I was slumped to the side, my face pressed against the window, my mind awash in vertigo, wondering where my memory went. Inside me, Wolf howled.

“Whoa, shit, what was that?” Ben had one hand on the dash, pushing himself away from the steering wheel, where he’d apparently slumped over. He blinked and shook his head. “What happened?”

I had a headache pounding in the middle of my skull. I couldn’t seem to focus. By instinct, I reached and put my hand on Ben’s arm, hoping to steady myself and my speeding heart. His hand went to mine, squeezing. His skin was clammy.

“You blacked out, too?” I said, my voice sounding ti

Franklin and the black Hummer were gone. Figured.

I opened the door to get some fresh air and clear my head.

Cormac was already outside, standing by the open passenger door of the car, his right hand raised as if preparing to throw something at the spot where Franklin had been standing. I just stared at him dumbly.

Ben got out and called across the roof of the car. “Cormac?”

He didn’t respond.

The object he held in his hand was small, metallic—wire twisted into a knot-work pattern. An amulet, maybe. The expression on his face was set, determined, as if he was sure of himself, the situation, and what to do about it. A soldier preparing for battle. But he had a gleam in his eyes as well, an eagerness that I’d never seen before. I’d always thought of him as a cold killer, who would shoot his target—kill another human being—without emotion, without reflection, treating it like a job, like taking out the trash. It was what made him scary. But now he seemed excited about a coming battle. He even smelled different—adrenaline and endorphins. The scent of a chase. For half a heartbeat, I almost didn’t recognize him.

Then it was gone. I might have imagined it all.

“Cormac!” Ben shouted it this time.

Cormac blinked and took a deep, recovering breath. The set expression faded into a frown, and his gaze turned studious, distant. He lowered his arm. The metallic charm went into his jeans pocket.

The bounty hunter looked at Ben and me and seemed to need a moment to collect himself to speak. When he did, his voice was way too calm. “You two okay?”

“What was that?” Ben demanded.

“Bastard’s a wizard,” he said.

That wasn’t even the wackiest thing I’d ever heard. I’d met a wizard before. And he was one of the strangest, scariest guys I knew—so what did that make Franklin?

“Okay, but what’s he up to?” I asked.

“You took that a lot better than I would have expected.”

“You tell me he’s a wizard, okay, I believe you. Me bitching isn’t going to change that.”

Cormac started walking toward the lockbox on the wall.

Ben called after him, “As the lawyer present I’d like to point out that actually interfering puts us on shaky legal ground.”

“We can’t even look?” I said.

“Legally, we just need proof that he’s up to something; we don’t have to know what,” Ben said.

“You aren’t curious?” I said.

“That’s got nothing to do with it. Cormac? Anything even remotely resembling trespassing or breaking and entering is going to look bad to a parole officer.”

Cormac stopped, then turned and sauntered back to the car. “I hate that.”

I thought a minute—I wasn’t on parole. I started for the box.

“Kitty,” Ben said, admonishing. I waved a hand.

“Don’t touch anything you find,” Cormac said as we passed each other.

The box seemed to be bolted to the brick wall, and it didn’t seem to be locked, which was odd. I looked all around it, searching for wires, arcane symbols, anything. Holding my breath, bracing for the inevitable lightning strike, I opened the door.

At the floor of the box lay an amulet, a couple of inches long, made of pewter or tarnished silver and shaped like a fat, stylized “T.” The top part of it was curved inward—like the whole thing was a miniature, double-headed ax.

I didn’t touch it, but closed the door and backed away slowly. Back at the car, Ben and Cormac were standing, leaning on their respective doors, watching. They must have seen the quizzical look on my face.

“Well?” Ben said.

“There’s some kind of amulet or charm. Looks like a silver double-headed ax.”

“Can you draw it?” Cormac asked.

“Yeah,” I said, looking around for some paper. The nearest thing at hand was the dust on the outside of Ben’s car, so I used that. Cormac studied it, rubbing his chin, then looked up. I followed his gaze to the big Speedy Mart sign on its post out front: the words of the store spelled out in a leaning, speedy font, on a red backdrop shaped like an oval with bites taken out of the top and bottom—like a double-headed ax.

“Huh,” Ben said.

“So what’s it mean?” I asked.

Cormac was shaking his head. “That’s what I want to figure out.”

AFTER OUR little episode playing Mission Impossible, I was sure I’d get another visit from Franklin. At the very least he’d serve me with a restraining order. I wouldn’t even be able to blame him for it. But nothing happened that day, or the next. Nobody got struck by lightning. The lawsuit was proceeding apace; KNOB’s lawyer was working on an argument to get the case thrown out on the basis that no one actually took my show seriously. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.

Cormac said he was going to work on figuring out what Franklin was doing with the amulets and symbols. I called the next day for an update, and his phone rolled to voice mail. He hadn’t bothered putting on a personal message; it was just an automated voice reading back his number. I had to wait for more information, but it was hard not to sit by the phone hoping for someone—Cormac, lawyers, Franklin, anyone—to call and tell me my fate.

Fortunately, I had distractions. I was determined to get Tyler and Walters to New Moon.

First, I called the members of the pack who frequented the bar, both to warn them and to recruit help. Shaun would be at New Moon. A few others who I considered heavy hitters in the pack would be there. I’d asked Becky to be there, which might have been flirting with disaster. But I wanted to see what would happen, if Walters would remember her and what he’d done to her. I promised her she could walk out the door the second she wanted to. She said she definitely would—after she looked Walters in the eye as a human being and saw how he reacted.

If worst came to worst and Walters flipped out, we’d lock the doors and keep the army guys there until Shumacher and her tranquilizer guns came to the rescue.

Shumacher really wanted to come along. She wanted to be right there with her clipboard, taking notes, observing. We talked about it on the phone.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I argued, trying to sound nice about it. “I think you make them nervous. They might be a little more comfortable in a more relaxed situation.”

She hesitated, no doubt forming her argument. I could almost hear the unspoken “but” floating on the signal. “They’re my responsibility,” she said finally. “Colonel Stafford expects them to be supervised by someone with authority.”

The safe haven of the government bureaucracy. How could I argue against that?