Kitty Goes to War (31 page)

A couple of days after the blizzard, we went back to Fort Carson to return the Humvee and retrieve Ben’s car, and for Colonel Stafford’s debriefing. I was worried about the damage, but the soldier at the motor pool seemed bemused by the condition of the vehicle rather than upset. “What the hell could do this to a Humvee?” he said.

“Evil corporate Hummer,” I answered.

“Huh,” he replied, and that was that.

Originally, Stafford wanted to hold the meeting at the hospital. I had visions of him trying to get Tyler back into the cell. That probably would have broken Tyler. Broken him more, at least, past all repair. I suggested to Stafford that he find a more unassuming
office or conference room in a different building. One with windows. I’ll never know why he didn’t argue. He could have, but maybe he suspected what I did about Tyler.

The three of us entered the conference room, me in the middle, the men flanking. I could feel the tension that bound us, that made us a pack at least for now. We didn’t know what we were about to face, but we’d be ready, standing up for each other, protecting each other. Ready to fight if we needed to, or run if that was what the situation called for.

Stafford, official in his army uniform, was standing across the table. Dr. Shumacher was there as well, clipboard in front of her, gaze downcast. Her back was stiff; she smelled sweaty.

Tyler took a step forward and saluted the colonel, who returned the gesture. They both looked tired. At Stafford’s invitation, we sat at the table, lined up across from him and the doctor. It looked like some kind of tribunal.

The final toll: Vanderman and Walters were dead. Two other military personnel were dead. Walters killed one, both Walters and Vanderman the other. The post had remained under lockdown for the rest of the day while Stafford’s people cleaned up the mess. Tyler was not only cleared of any wrongdoing in Vanderman’s death, but Stafford was recommending him for a citation.

Stafford seemed to be trying to record the incident
as clinically and objectively as he could, avoiding pointing any fingers—lest any be turned back at him, presumably. Ben and I were asked to give our own version of events. Ben was the lawyer—his retelling was also awfully clinical. When my turn came, Ben gave me warning looks whenever my adverbs got too sensationalist. But
somebody
had to get some appropriate emotion into the situation.

I thought it was over. Stafford had closed the manila folder that contained his notes and printouts and pushed it aside. Shumacher had set down her clipboard.

Then Stafford looked at me and said, “Ms. Norville, in your expert opinion, what is your assessment of the potential for the use of lycanthropes as soldiers in the military?”

I tried to argue. “I’m not an expert—”

“You’ve testified before the Senate on the subject. You’re all I have.”

That was a scary thought.

I had actually thought about this. The record spoke for itself. “I think people who are already werewolves—experienced, well-adjusted werewolves—could make excellent soldiers, with the right training and a good support structure. Captain Gordon proved that. But I don’t think that means the military ought to recruit lycanthropes, and they especially shouldn’t go around creating them. You had six men, highly trained and experienced, who are all gone now
because of a situation that never should have happened. You didn’t understand all the implications of what it means to be a werewolf, to be part of a pack. Gordon didn’t understand and he should have. Almost by definition, we’re monstrous, out of control. We’re where the berserker stories came from. You can’t just put that in a box and think you have control.” I spoke quietly, steadily. The alternative would have been screaming. Losing control and giving them a demonstration.

Under the table, out of sight, Ben rested his hand on my thigh, a touch of comfort. I straightened and regained my breath.

“Thank you, Ms. Norville,” Stafford said. “Sergeant Tyler? Where do we go from here?”

“I’d like to request a discharge, sir,” he said, meeting the colonel’s gaze. “On medical grounds.”

“You’re not hurt. You look just fine to me.”

Look harder
, I almost growled.

Ben rested his arms on the table, leaning forward. “I’m not qualified to comment on military law, but I did some reading. Sergeant Tyler should qualify for a medical discharge under any circumstance. The U.S. government, through the National Institutes of Health, has identified lycanthropy as a chronic disease. The sergeant acquired this disease in the course of duty. I think you could make a good argument. I can give you the NIH references if you want them. Or Dr. Shumacher could.”

I glanced at Tyler, who was holding himself still, quiet and expressionless. But I thought I saw a gleam of hope in his eyes.

“We could really use a soldier like you over there, son,” Stafford said.

“I don’t think I’d be any good to you without the others, sir,” Tyler said, a heartfelt plea.

Stafford bowed his head and nodded. “I’ll submit the case to the Medical Evaluation Board. It’ll be up to them.”

W
HERE ELSE
could we end up but at New Moon, toward midnight, having drinks—beer this time—and food in a muted celebration? The place was almost empty—everyone was still digging out, or enjoying the night by staying wrapped up nice and cozy at home. But Ben and I were there, along with Cormac, Tyler, and Rick.

The vampire arrived last, coming through the door and stomping snow off his shoes. Cormac watched him, his expression blank. Who knew what he was thinking? Either one of them. I kept seeing the old black-and-white photo of Amelia Parker floating behind his shoulder. By all appearances, he was just Cormac. It was going to take time to wrap my brain around it.

Tyler gripped the table and parted his lips in a snarl. “What’s wrong with that guy?” he said.

Rick smelled dead—not rotten, just cold. Frozen. He had no heartbeat.

“He’s a vampire,” I said. “Don’t worry, he’s nice.”

I made introductions—Rick hadn’t met Tyler or Cormac, at least not in person.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Cormac said when he shook the vampire’s hand. Rather ominous.

“Likewise,” Rick said.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

Rick smiled. “I try not to make more problems for myself than absolutely necessary.”

Cormac still seemed to be sizing Rick up, as if judging how best to take him out. I had an urge to sit between them.

“Sergeant Tyler,” Rick said.

Tyler shook Rick’s hand, but didn’t say anything. The soldier was wary—staring, his shoulders tensed. I might have done the same the first time I’d met Rick. Rick didn’t seem bothered; he just took a chair and joined us.

“I got your messages,” Rick said. “I’m sorry there was nothing I could do to help, but you seem to have done well. The city is safe again.”

“Yeah. Didn’t need you to ride to my rescue this time,” I said, grinning.

Cormac slid the picture of Franklin and his blurred compatriot across the table. “Kitty said you’d want to take a look at this.”

“Is it Roman?” I said.

Rick studied it, shaking his head. “It’s a vampire. I can’t say exactly who it is. But Roman’s the only one who has a reason for dropping this kind of destruction on Denver—it would punish both of us for standing up to him.”

“Is it time to call Anastasia?” I said. I told Anastasia I’d call her if I heard from Roman.

Rick rubbed his chin for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the image. “Call her, tell her what happened. But don’t raise any alarms. If this is Roman, this wasn’t part of his plan. This was just a . . . a test.”

Ben said, “Well, did we pass?”

The vampire smiled. “I think Roman underestimated your resources yet again.” He glanced at Cormac and Tyler, without whose help Denver would currently be under a dozen feet of snow.

“Go team,” I said, raising my glass for a toast. We clinked glasses, except for Rick, who sat back, his expression amused.

Tyler kept himself apart, leaving space enough for extra chairs on either side of him—the places where Vanderman and Walters should have been sitting. Maybe he saw his whole squad sitting around the table. I worried, but all I could do was look after him.

“You okay?” I asked, failing my attempt at subtle inquiry.

He shrugged. “I’m alive.”

“That’s good, right?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Eventually.”

“Amen,” Cormac muttered. I considered that the two of them might be able to talk to each other about adjusting to life on the outside.

Rick asked, “What’s next for you, Sergeant Tyler?”

He took a long drink. His smile was wry. “We just have to wait and see.”

K
NOB’
S LAWYER
successfully bucked Franklin’s lawsuit. She would have done a fine enough job of it without my help, but I helped anyway. I wrote up a report of everything we’d discovered about Franklin, his thunder-god cult, the spells he used and power he wielded, about the storm that had threatened the Denver area and what we’d done to stop it. Ben still muttered about the possibility of us facing charges for vandalism, but I avoided the word. Ben, Cormac, Shaun, and Tyler all agreed to testify that everything I reported was true, no matter how crazy it sounded. I left out suspicions that Franklin was working with or for someone else. As Ben said, I didn’t want to inadvertently paint targets on my friends. In response, the lawyer wrote me a very nice note, saying something along the lines that while such evidence might not be admissible in court, she certainly appreciated my perspective on the situation, given my profession as an entertainer
specializing in supernatural topics. It didn’t
quite
sound like a brush-off.

It turned out that Franklin had enough wacky stuff going on that my claims about him on the show, while extreme, were not in fact outright lies. There were statements from former employees indicating that Franklin would only conduct meetings under certain circumstances—specific times of day, the chairs arranged around the table in a certain way—that could be perceived as ritualistic. He was an enthusiastic collector of archaeological artifacts and would lose his temper if his collection was shifted out of place in the slightest. He’d once fired a custodian for failing to replace each artifact in the correct spot after dusting. I had to ask—were the artifacts connected to thunder or weather gods from various cultures? Why yes, the lawyer answered.

And the final bit of information: Franklin had been known to place good-luck charms at various Speedy Mart franchises. He personally visited each new building at least once during construction, and the lawyer had a signed statement from the foreman on one project saying he’d seen Franklin placing strange items in the foundation. He didn’t know what. The specifics weren’t important at this point. Franklin really was doing freaky magical stuff at Speedy Marts all over the country. It wasn’t libel. Franklin’s lawyers tried pressing the case. The judge threw it out.

Franklin himself sold his company and retired, citing
health concerns. By all accounts, he returned home from Denver a broken man, physically damaged by hypothermia, mentally wracked by vague nightmares. I never got Cormac to say exactly what he—and Amelia—had done to him. Probably just as well.

A
MONTH
after the storm, Tyler got his medical discharge and even qualified for disability benefits. He’d done enough, sacrificed enough, it was decided. Ben and I took him home to Seattle.

Werewolves are territorial. Tyler couldn’t just fly home and set up shop without ruffling a lot of fur with the local wolves. With his intimidating stature, he would set the locals on edge. They might see him as a threat, someone who was powerful and who might try taking over. We all knew that wasn’t what Tyler wanted, but the Seattle pack would need convincing. He’d have to tread carefully and give plenty of warning.

I knew a little bit about the Seattle pack. It was supposed to be one of the safe havens, one of the packs that was willing to take in runaways and refugees, to take care of wolves who needed a little extra help. I hoped they wouldn’t look at Tyler and decide that he was too much of a threat to help. Instead of making Tyler navigate the situation on his own, I decided to act as an intermediary.

I called my contact, Ahmed, the werewolf in Washington, D.C., who ran the local lycanthrope
scene there. He passed along the contact information for Christopher, the alpha of the Seattle werewolves, and I called him to explain the situation. As I’d feared, he was wary about taking on Tyler, a Special Forces veteran. I couldn’t really blame him; this was uncharted territory for all of us. “Just meet him,” I’d said, trying to sound confident and reassuring rather than pleading. He agreed to a meeting, and I liked to think it was my incredible powers of persuasion that convinced him. The fact that Christopher turned out to be one of the good guys and willing to take the chance probably had more to do with it.

Ben, Tyler, and I drove straight through to Seattle a week after his discharge. Ben and I took turns driving; Tyler spent most of the drive napping or looking out the window, face right up to the glass, taking in the world. He’d spent most of the last month or so locked up in a hospital room, with occasional excursions. Driving the interstate with the scenery sliding past had to feel as much like freedom as anything.