Kitty Goes to War

“And if we weren’t lycanthropes we wouldn’t notice it.” Ben turned thoughtful. “There is something else. He gets distracted. Staring off into space, like he sees something or is listening to something. When I shake him out of it he pretends that it didn’t happen. I haven’t really asked him about it. I figure he’s just adjusting to being on the outside again.”

“When have you ever known Cormac to get distracted? When has he ever not been completely focused on the world around him?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I do know the more we pester him the more a

Cormac was a grown-up. He didn’t need us to worry about him.

“We’re acting like a couple of alpha wolves carrying on about a wayward pup,” I said, smiling.

“When you say you want kids I didn’t think you meant one like Cormac.”

Was that what it was? Displaced maternal instinct? I wrinkled my nose and thought about it. Ben stood, joined me at the wall, and leaned in to kiss me on the forehead.

“What was that for?” I said.

“You’re cute.”

Well, that was something, anyway.

I leaned into him for a hug. He wrapped his arms around me. A few inches taller than me, he put his nose to my hair and inhaled, taking in my scent, sending a pleasant flush along my scalp. I sighed, and he shifted, breathing in along my ear, my neck, and bending to breathe along my shoulder. Something wolfish showed through in his movements, which in turn brought out more of my own animal instincts, and lowered my inhibitions. I ran my fingers through his hair and brought my face close to his so I could return the gesture, breathing in the scent of him. His arms squeezed me, and he moved to smell my other shoulder.

Then I realized he really was smelling me, taking in my scent. Checking me over.

I pulled away and cupped my hands around his face to make him look at me. I didn’t even have to explain my confusion; he looked sheepish. Guilty.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I said.

I expected him to pull away and get surly, to deny that he was looking for anything—suspicious of anything. Instead, he reached around my arm and brushed hair out of my eyes.

“I was just thinking about you and Cormac alone together.”

“So you had to check?” To see if I smelled like Cormac. To see if Cormac and I had gotten together. “And?”

“You smell like his apartment,” he said and shook his head. “But you don’t smell like him.”

“Of course not, I didn’t even touch him,” I said, exasperated. “Did you really think I’d cheat on you? With your cousin?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think I expected to smell anything.”

“But you had to check anyway.”

“You two did have a thing.”

Yeah. A still undefined “thing.” Whatever it was. “That was awhile ago. A lot of water under the bridge.”

He sighed with what sounded like relief. Maybe he had to hear me say it. Maybe it was his human side that needed reassuring, not the wolf side. We were still touching, my hands resting on his chest, his hands on my shoulders.

I pulled myself closer to him, and he leaned in to kiss me, his mouth against mine, working and eager. My mind fuzzed over as the taste of him became my whole focus. I didn’t think I could get any closer to him, but he ran a hand down my backside and pulled me more firmly against him. Claiming his territory, which was just fine with me.

Chapter 13

I ASKED FOR that live interview with Tyler and Walters for the show, but Shumacher and Stafford refused outright. I wasn’t surprised, and I had a compromise lined up: a taped interview, and they could approve the questions. Reluctantly, they agreed—as long as they could screen and vet the resulting recording. Otherwise, no deal. I had misgivings about letting them have that much control—but it was that or nothing. So I brought the recording equipment to the hospital and conducted the interview, which ended up being mostly with Tyler, since Walters didn’t do very much talking. Once Tyler settled down and got used to the microphone, he seemed to get into it, like he was eager to tell his story. Then I had to hand the recording over.

What Shumacher gave back to me was milquetoast. The military had excised anything that mentioned that Tyler and Walters were, in fact, werewolves. Which was most of the interview, of course. They prohibited me from saying anything that indicated that the army had fielded lycanthropes in Afghanistan or Iraq. They didn’t want people to know it had ever happened. When I argued, I read between the lines and figured out it wasn’t even that it was a military secret they were trying to protect—they were worried about the political fallout. A chunk of the public—and Congress—didn’t trust the supernatural. They thought we were trying to take over, and every now and then some wing nut came up with a theory about how the White House was controlled by vampires. Something like this would only add fuel to the fire.

They had a point.

I considered laying it all out anyway. But I imagined Stafford could do worse than serve me with a libel suit. And I worried that he would take it out on Tyler and Walters. So I played nice. I really wanted to run the interview because it had some good stuff in it. Not only about lycanthropy and coping with being a werewolf under awful circumstances, but about the experience of being a soldier and trying to come home.

Tyler explained, “Everybody tells you coming home is tough—you don’t expect it to be easy. But you’re still not ready for it. You think you can handle it. But it’s like your mind is still back there. Your body is here, but you can’t stop thinking about what happened there, the things you saw, what you did. And nobody here really gets it. You try to fit in, but you get this feeling you’re never going to fit in again. So why bother trying? You put being a werewolf on top of that—it’s like I’m living in a different world. How am I supposed to deal with that? You keep asking me what I want to do—but I can’t imagine what I’m going to do next week much less any kind of future.”

Even though I couldn’t run the edited interview, Tyler and Walters gave me the idea to anchor the rest of the show. The opening and theme song—CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising”—ran, and I dove right in.

“Tonight, it’s the werewolf help line: if you’re a werewolf, or know a werewolf, what’s your story? Any problems you want to talk about, advice you want to share, tonight’s your night. You see, I met a couple of folks this week, werewolves who need help and who are trying to find their feet, and I want them to hear how we do it in these parts, and that it is possible to survive. They may not be listening, but just in case they are, this show’s for them.” I hoped they were listening. I asked Shumacher to give them a radio, Internet access for the streaming version, anything.

“First caller, you’re on the air.”

“Hi, Kitty, thanks so much for taking my call, I’ve been listening to you since forever.”

“Thank you. What’s your question?” The monitor said this was Mark from Los Angeles. Nothing in his voice sounded funky.

“Okay, so, I’m a werewolf. And I’m not really part of a pack, but I know some other werewolves in the area and we try to look out for each other, you know?”

“That’s great,” I said. “The world would be a better place if we looked out for each other a little more. Go on.”

“I wanted to ask you about a problem—well, it’s not really a problem yet, but I always worry about it. It makes me crazy sometimes, worrying about it. Like, what if it’s a full moon night and I can’t get out of the city to shape-shift and hunt? So far I’ve managed it, but what if I can’t someday? I have nightmares about getting stuck in a traffic jam, and shifting in my car. Or just losing it before I can get to open space. Am I worrying for nothing? Is there something I can do to keep this from happening? What if it does happen?”