Kitty Goes to War (16 page)

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on his door. There wasn’t a window in front for me to peer through. I drew a couple of slow, careful breaths through my nose, taking in smells. I caught his scent, the soap, leather, and ruggedness of him. He’d been here recently. I didn’t sense anything that set my hair on end—like, say, blood. But I did smell a tang of burning sage, like incense. It tickled my nose and touched a memory—a ritual, a magic spell.

Confused, uneasy, I knocked again.

The door opened and Cormac stood there, staring
a moment, blinking in surprise. He gripped the doorknob. His light brown hair was tousled and his eyes were shadowed, sleepless. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Socks, no shoes.

“Hi,” I said, raising my hand in a stupid little wave. “We haven’t heard from you in a few days and I wanted to . . . I guess see if you’d found anything out. And . . . are you okay?”

“I’m
fine
,” he said.

“Can I come in?” The smell of smoke and burned sage grew stronger when he opened the door. My first thought had been that someone—Franklin—had cast a spell on his place. But the burning had happened inside. Cormac had never struck me as the incense-burning type.

Frowning, he stood aside to let me enter.

I hadn’t been here since we helped him move in—a process that took about an hour and involved two pieces of furniture and a cardboard box—and he’d scowled at my suggestion of a housewarming party. The apartment wasn’t much. It aspired to be a studio, in fact. They called these efficiencies. A square room, part of a block of square rooms, it had a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, a window in back, a kitchenette of sorts with a small, dorm-sized fridge, a sink, and a hot plate. It all seemed terribly grim. But then, I had no idea how Cormac had lived before he went to prison. His home then might have been just like this.

Ben and I had offered to give him—or loan him, if he preferred to call it a loan—a down payment on a nicer place. His aunt—Ben’s mother—offered to let him stay with her in Longmont, a town about thirty miles north of Denver. But he’d refused. He said wanted to be independent. He said he wanted his own space, after spending two years locked in a building with hundreds of other guys, under constant supervision. So, here he was, living on savings and working part time, scraping by.

He’d done some decorating since we moved him in here. He had a futon with a plain gray comforter against one wall. Near it was a nightstand with a fifteen-inch TV on it. Near the kitchenette, in pretty much the only other open space available, stood a kitchen table—small, round, retro, with a pair of worn chairs.

The table was covered with books. More were scattered across the bed and stacked on the floor by the bed. Many of them were open, or had sticky notes bristling out of them.

Cormac had also never struck me as the academic type. I’d sent him books in prison—one of the few things you could send to someone in prison—as something of a joke. But near as I could tell he’d read everything I’d given him. And he was still going.

“What did you do, rob a library?” I said. I didn’t mean to, it just came out.

Cormac’s expression didn’t change. “I used a library card, like a normal person.”

I peeked at titles, peering sideways so I could read the spines, hoping to figure out what he was researching. But I only grew more confused. The titles were mostly nonfiction: history books, art books, photography, military history, science, and politics. Most of the titles had some variation of “twentieth century” or “last hundred years” in them. The course of study was simultaneously broad and strangely focused.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Catching up,” he said. He sat in one of the kitchen chairs, leaned back, crossed his arms, and glared.

“On what? You were only in prison for two years.”

“Kitty, what do you want?”

The next step would be to rifle through his fridge and cupboards to make sure he had food and was eating. I refrained from going that far. Ben was right, we were treating Cormac with kid gloves, and that couldn’t have been going over very well with him.

“Have you found out anything else about Franklin?” I stood near the table, trying to look interested, but was actually sneaking looks at more book titles.
The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion
by Mircea Eliade?
The Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology?

“I’ve been trailing him,” he said. “Been keeping my phone off. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. So what’s the story on him?”

“He’s visiting Speedy Marts all over town. He does the same thing at each one—puts a charm in a box and leaves. I haven’t checked all the boxes. I thought I ought to keep my distance after that last encounter.”

“He has to be doing this for a reason.”

“The signs are he’s prepping some kind of spell. I just don’t know what kind—protection spell, get-rich spell, whatever.”

“Or summoning hurricanes?” I said.

He gave me an annoyed look. “Or maybe he visits all his stores to recharge the magic, like a cycle. He has a regular travel schedule to visit various franchises, and it doesn’t usually coincide with hurricanes.”

“That could just as easily be explained as regular business. President of the company inspecting his franchises and all that.”

“Best kind of magic hides in plain sight,” he said. “Like working a ritual symbol into the store’s logo. This could be a little more underhanded. He’s planning something, getting ready for something.”

“Like what?”

“Sabotaging his own buildings for the insurance money? I don’t know. It may just be good-luck charms.”

“He just happened to have his Denver trip scheduled right after he sues me.”

“That’s the kicker,” Cormac said. “He could have harassed you over the phone, but he came to do it in person. No, he’s up to something. We just have to figure out what. And maybe stay away from thunderclouds in the meantime.”

I leaned on a wall and crossed my arms. “Have you always known so much about magic?”

He looked away. “I might have picked up some things here and there.”

“In prison?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“This”—I gestured to the library around me— ”can’t all be about Franklin. What else are you researching?”

“Nothing.” He leaned forward, gathering together the books, shutting them, arranging them in piles, out of my reach and easy view.

“And have you been burning sage?” I said. Books, incense—I could even claim I smelled a faint whiff of magic, though I was sure it was my imagination. I had no idea what magic smelled like. No guns, no weapons, and even the smell of Cormac’s leather jacket was buried. “Seriously—are you okay?”

“I’d forgotten how damn nosy you are.”

I tamped down a flush of anger at that. Instead of rounding on him with the witty comeback no doubt sitting on the tip of my tongue, I started for the door.

“I have to get going. I told Ben I’d be home soon.”

“You two seem happy,” he said to my back. “I’m glad.”

There, just stab me through the heart . . . Which wouldn’t necessarily kill a werewolf. But it still hurt.

My hand on the doorknob, I hesitated, looking back at him and mustering a smile. “Thanks. And what about you? Are you happy or just coping?”

“Ask me again in a year.”

“That’s actually encouraging. You’re still planning on being around in a year.”

He shrugged. “I told you; I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’ll see you later,” I said, and he nodded.

B
EN WAS
at work at his desk in the corner of the living room and turned when I came in, his look inquiring. “Rough day?”

“I stopped by Cormac’s place,” I said, propping myself on a nearby wall.

He leaned back in his chair. “You thought he needed checking up on?”

“I got worried,” I said, shrugging. I suddenly felt like I’d done something wrong.

“So how is he?”

“He’s alive. Making progress on the case. But—have
you noticed anything odd about him? Anything different?”

“Like what? You mean something other than what’s usually wrong with him?”

Like the surliness, the borderline sociopathy . . . “I don’t know. He had piles of books everywhere on some of the weirdest topics, and I think he’s been burning incense. You’ve known him your whole life. Has he always been this . . . I don’t know . . . studious? Obsessive?”

“Kind of, yeah. Obsessive, at least. All about getting the job done, especially with the hunting. Especially since his father was killed.”

“And now it’s like if he can’t do it with weapons he’ll do it some other way? Books and research?”

“Maybe. You didn’t expect him to have some kind of epiphany in prison and turn into Little Mary Sunshine, did you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t expect anything, I guess.” Honestly, I hadn’t known Cormac all that well before he went to prison. He’d been this shadowy vigilante figure who slipped in and out of my life. He wasn’t much different now, I supposed. But all those books were just weird. Maybe I felt like he had changed, but I couldn’t figure out how. “But he
smells
different. Just a little.”

“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 annoyed he’s going to get. We just have to leave him alone.”

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.

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.