Kitty Rocks the House

Chapter 14

I CALLED ANGELO to tell him Rick wasn’t going to be available for the meeting with the Buenos Aires vampires.

“You talked to him?” he said, astonished.

“Briefly. He wasn’t really interested in talking.”

“What did he say?”

“I think he’s gone sort of Buddhist monk. Can vampires be Buddhist monks?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Kitty—the envoy will be here tonight. He wants to talk to Rick. Not you.”

“Well,” I said, feeling hollow. “He’s got me. Why don’t you send him to New Moon after the show?”

His voice turned arch with disgust. “I can’t send him there.”

“Yes, you can. And make sure he eats something first—somewhere else,” I said and hung up the phone. Either the guy would be there after the show, or he wouldn’t.

Friday night again, already. Couldn’t be possible, but it was. Ozzie called me around lunchtime, because I hadn’t been into work since Thursday morning, and he wanted to know when I was coming in to prep for the show. If there was ever a time I wanted to call in sick, this was it.

Ben insisted on driving me to the station—and coming inside with me, and staying through the show.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said for the ninth time, as we entered the lobby. The receptionist waved hello, and I made a halfhearted motion in response on our way to the elevator.

“Yes, I do,” Ben said. “After your breakdown yesterday? I’m not letting you out of my sight. You might need someone to peel you off the ceiling.”

He was worried about me. It was kind of sweet, and I teared up a little even as I argued. “I wouldn’t call it a breakdown.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Shape-shifting in the middle of the suburbs because of stress? Um, right. I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Thanks for looking out for me.” He smiled back.

We stopped off at my office to pick up materials for the show and were still hand in hand when we walked into the studio. Matt, in position in the booth by the soundboard, waved at me. And Ozzie was sitting in his seat in the corner. Of all the weeks he could pick to play supervisor. I managed not to groan.

Ben leaned in and murmured, “Someone else been keeping an eye on you, I take it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Have a seat and be good, okay?”

He kissed my forehead and did as I asked. I turned a bright, fake smile on my boss. “Hi, Ozzie.”

“Kitty. You haven’t been around much this week. I’ve been worried.” He was a good guy, but his worry usually translated as smothering. Made me bristle.

“Yeah, I know. Family stuff came up.” In a manner of speaking …

“You got something good for tonight?”

“Do I ever. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. You’ll love it.” In fact, I was starting to get an idea …

Some weeks, I was on top of things: planning, organizing, recording interviews ahead of time, writing up my rants and speeches to make sure they sounded intelligent and insightful. Other weeks, not so much. I’d tell myself I’d do it tomorrow, for sure. Then I’d wake up, and it’d be Friday, and I’d have a show to do that day. This week in particular, Friday seemed to have sneaked up on me. Good thing I always had something to talk about. I kept a folder full of articles, links to online rants requiring responses, and notes of random thoughts. The world never failed to provide shocking, interesting, head-scratching topics for me to discuss.

This week, I literally pulled my topic off the shelf and hit the ground running.

I watched Matt through the booth window, waited for him to cue up my intro with the theme song I’d used since the start: CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising.” As relevant now as it ever was. The music made the rest of the world disappear, so that nothing existed but me, my microphone, and the show. It felt like flying.

“Good evening, and here we are again. This is Kitty Norville and you’re listening to The Midnight Hour, where we spend a couple of hours talking about all the things that no one else will. And probably shouldn’t. It’s a good life, isn’t it? I have something very special on deck tonight. Christmas or winter solstice–associated holiday of your choice came to the studio early this year, and I got a present. I don’t know who exactly to thank for this, but let me take a moment to express my appreciation to my mysterious benefactor. Thank you, sir or madam. I love it. Now, what is it? Dear listeners, I’ve been sent a vampire crystal skull.”

A month or so ago, I’d received a package in the mail. I got a lot of mail, most of it junk, but this one had intrigued me. The brown paper wrapped box didn’t have a return address; the postmark said Texas. Since the package didn’t smell like a bomb or vat full of anthrax, I went ahead and opened it, and there it lay, nestled in a cloud of Styrofoam peanuts. A crystal skull, milky white, a little larger than a grapefruit, rounded and stylized, with deep-set eye sockets and distinctive, sharpened fangs where its eyeteeth should have been. It had been living on a shelf in my office ever since, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Like this one.

I set the skull on the table in the studio right next to my monitor and studied it as I talked. It stared back at me with hollow eyes that reflected and scattered the dim lights in the studio. Was it winking at me? “Is it a gift? A curse? Am I supposed to investigate it? Debunk it? Is it a kitsch object from a Mexican flea market? Or are the stories true, and crystal skulls aren’t just the plot device in a couple of unfortunate movies? Are these artifacts the source of some great ancient power possessed by the Mayans, the awesome gift of travelers from the stars, the key to the lost city of Atlantis? Or someone’s idea of a joke? Before I tell you what I think, I’m going to open the line up for calls. You’ve been sent not just any crystal skull, but one with sharpened canines. What do you do?” The lines lit up. Likely, people had called in before I’d even started talking in an effort to get into the queue and didn’t have a thing to say about crystal skulls, vampire or otherwise. But someone with an opinion would get through. I checked the monitor, found a likely victim, and pounced. “Hello, you’re on the air.”

A confused-sounding woman said, “So wait, does that mean that vampires have crystal skeletons?”

I winced. “That’s a good one, I hadn’t actually thought of that. But no, I don’t think so. I think vampires have bones like the rest of us. Just really old bones. Next call, please.” I hit the line.

“It’s got to be a fake,” the male caller said.

Well, yeah, I figured that pretty much went without saying. In the course of my research I’d found crystal skulls for sale in a rock art catalog. But that wasn’t the way to keep a show going.

“Why do you say that?” I said, trying to sound genuinely curious.

“Because vampires weren’t even in North America until a couple of hundred years ago, so a real Mayan crystal skull couldn’t possibly have anything to do with vampires, since the Mayan empire was in decline before then.”

“Five hundred, but yes,” I said.

“What?”

“European vampires arrived in North America about five hundred years ago, but I see your point.”

“How do you even know that?”

“How do you?” My tone was cheerful, which probably confused him.

Flustered now, he said, “I just know it, okay? So it has to be a fake.”

“Let me see if I’m understanding you correctly. When you say it’s a fake, you’re not saying that it’s fake because crystal skulls aren’t really mystical artifacts, you’re saying it’s fake because it’s the skull of a vampire. And if it wasn’t, it would be real?”

“Exactly,” he said, pleased with himself.

Well, this ought to be interesting. “Now when you say ‘a real crystal skull,’ what exactly do you mean?”

He sounded put out. “You don’t believe this is real, do you? Why did you even bring it up?”

“Look, someone sent it to me, I’m not the one who brought it up. Well, I am. But I wouldn’t have brought it up if someone hadn’t sent it to me.”

“You’re dealing with powers you don’t understand!” he said.

“I get that a lot,” I said and clicked him off the air. “I did a little research of my own, and here’s what I found. Historical records—Mayan, Aztec, or otherwise—show no trace of crystal skulls as part of their worship, and the famous ones that form the center of current mystical belief all seemed to have appeared on the scene in the mid to late nineteenth century. Despite claims to the contrary, they appear to have been manufactured. By plain, nonmystical human beings. Now, I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my time and I’m willing to entertain the notion that some crystal skull somewhere might have some of the powers its adherents credit to it. But personally, I have to file this one under crop circles. They’re just too easy to replicate using nonmystical means. I’ve got another caller ready to argue with me. Clare, hello.”

“Hi, Kitty, thanks for taking my call. I just want to say, there’s an alternative that I think your previous caller hasn’t considered.” She had a light, matter-of-fact voice that made me brace for even more bullshit than usual.

“And what’s that alternative?”

“That there are vampires among the aliens.”

I had to think about that a moment. “You’re right. I hadn’t considered that. I mean, generic sci-fi horror movies notwithstanding.”

“It makes perfect sense—immortal vampires are the best choice to travel the long distances between the stars. They’re the ones who would come to visit us here on Earth.”

Was it wrong that the concept sort of did make sense? “You seem to have a lot of good ideas on the topic,” I said, rather nonplussed. “So I’ve got this vampire crystal skull. You think it came from outer space?”

“I do,” she said.

“I gotta tell you, I’m skeptical. I hold it and it just feels like a big rock. I mean, it’s not even a realistic skull. It’s kinda small and lumpy. But plenty of people will tell me it’s magic. What’s it supposed to do? Am I holding it wrong?”

“The skull should give you access to a higher plane of knowledge,” she explained. “Place your nose against its nose and stare into its eyes. You should feel your mind expand.”

I studied the skull where it sat on my desk. Green status lights from my monitor flickered strangely through its depths. Did it seem to be smiling at me? If I tilted my head, looked at it from a certain angle—yeah, it kind of did.

“I’m thinking I should stay right where I am and keep an eye on the microphone. But a little harmless experimentation can’t hurt.” I looked at Ozzie. “We have a special guest in the studio tonight, my producer, Ozzie,” I said, for the benefit of my listeners. “Feel like helping me out tonight?”

He frowned with suspicion, which was probably wise of him. But if he was going to sit in on my show, he could help out. Maybe this was a bad idea, but I’d worry about that later.

“Why?” he said carefully.

“I just want to try something. Please?”

I’d keep nagging until he relented, or tell embarrassing stories about him until he agreed, just to shut me up. He gave a sigh heavy enough to carry over the mike, which made things more dramatic. I loved it.

“Come on over, Ozzie,” I said, grinning, and he did. When he reached the table, I handed him the skull. “Okay, hold this. In both hands. Bring it up to your face so your nose touches it.”

He held it in one hand, away from himself. “Kitty, I’m not really sure about this.”

“It’ll be fine, trust me.” I’d be a terrible used-car salesman. I glanced at Ben, who had a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing. Matt, sitting behind the booth’s glass, didn’t bother, and was practically vibrating in his seat. Now, if only I was getting the same effect over the air.

Ozzie gripped the skull in both hands and slowly raised it until it was level with his face. “Should I be sitting down?” he said.

Good question. “You’re fine,” I said, full of confidence, trying to be reassuring. Because nothing was going to happen, right?

He brought the skull close, until his nose touched it. He stared deep into its eyes.

“All right, faithful listeners,” I said into the microphone, my voice hushed. “My test subject is now face-to-face with the crystal skull. Everything seems normal. You okay there, Ozzie?”

“I think my eyes are crossed.”

“Are you expanding yet?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of giving me a headache.”

Just as I wished for some kind of funky New Age flute music to cover up the pauses while we waited for something to happen, Matt pushed a couple of buttons and there it was: “El Condor Pasa” on pan pipes playing faintly in the background. Just perfect. My listeners were at the edges of their seats, I hoped.

“Anything?” I prompted.

Ozzie murmured, “I don’t think anything’s happening. Can I stop now?”

“Give it an extra few seconds.”

“Okay…”

Wait for it … I had my cell phone in hand, flipped through the setting controls until I found the most annoying ring tone I had, then set it off at high volume. An alarm bell’s blaring filled the studio. The sound of cosmic disaster called down by ancient Mayan vampires. Or just the worst that modern technology had to offer. Even I jumped a little and I was expecting it. Ben clapped his hands over his ears and winced.

Ozzie let out a scream, stumbled backward, and dropped the skull. For a heart-stopping moment I watched it fall and almost reached out to catch it lest it shatter. But it bounced on the carpeted floor and rolled to a stop. Upright, facing me. Staring at me. I stared back.

“Kitty, Jesus Christ, what the … hell was that?” Ozzie was a radio guy to the core and stopped himself from needing to get bleeped. Good thing, too, because Matt had fallen out of his chair, laughing, and wasn’t going to be bleeping anything for a while.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sniggering around the words. “I had to do something to get past all that dead air. The skull wasn’t doing anything.”

“You set me up.”

“Kinda, yeah. But it would have been pretty cool if something had happened.”

He reached to the floor to retrieve the skull and set it on the desk with a thunk that would definitely be audible over the microphone. “Always happy to help,” he said flatly. I expected him to walk out of the studio—maybe for good—but he returned to his chair and settled back to keep watching.

“Thanks, Ozzie. You’re a trooper,” I said, trying not to giggle. “Well, I don’t know if we expanded any minds tonight, but we upped some heart rates.” The board was still lit up with calls, which comforted me. As long as I had calls, I could pull something together for the show.

Meanwhile, the thing was still staring at me. I squinted, and its eyes seemed to flash. Fine, enough of that. I turned it around so it was facing the wall.

“Right, moving on. After the break I’ll take some more calls. Anyone out there want to talk some more about vampire aliens or crop circles? Call me.”

The ON AIR sign dimmed, and Matt cued up station ID and PSAs. I turned to Ozzie to face the music. He seemed to be stewing, and I wondered if I was still going to have a job at the end of the evening.

Finally, Ben was the one who asked, “You’re not going to fire her, are you?”

The producer’s stern glare broke into a broad grin. “Are you kidding? Of course not! That was fantastic! That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about! Sensationalism! Bread and butter! Good work, Kitty. I’ll leave you to it.” He came over to me and patted me on the shoulder before walking out of the studio. Leaving me to it.

I looked at Matt through the window, and he blinked, appearing as confused as I was. Ben, likewise.

“Don’t question it,” he said. “Not if Ozzie leaves you alone from now on.”

“You have a minute, Kitty,” Matt announced, counting down to the end of the break. The phone lines were lit up. All I had to do was take calls to the end of the show.

I patted the top of the skull. Its work here was done.

WE RUSHED to New Moon after the show.

I’d tried to make myself as presentable as possible, dressing as nicely as I ever did on a Friday night, in slacks and a blouse, and unscuffed pumps even. But after two hours of The Midnight Hour, I couldn’t hide the fatigue pinching my features or the sweaty perfume I’d acquired. Getting there as quickly as I could was more important than looking nice. Presentable was good enough.

The envoy from Buenos Aires was already at the restaurant when I got there. I’d left tonight’s manager—Shaun had the night off—instructions to invite him in and show him to my table in back. The vampire was sitting there now, alert and interested without being tense, elbows propped up and hands steepled before him, gazing over the place with a frown. He wore jeans and a dark blazer over a white T-shirt. His dark hair was cut short, and he had strong, square-jawed Latino features. He gave off an action-hero vibe at odds with the vampire stereotype.

By the warm cast to his olive skin, I guessed that Angelo had offered him some kind of hospitality. I knew the Denver Family didn’t kill to eat, but apart from that, I didn’t ask for details. Most Families had human servants who willingly donated, or they had hunting grounds that they protected and used sparingly, to avoid drawing attention. All that mattered was the Denver Family didn’t draw attention. Angelo himself was nowhere to be found, naturally. Leaving the dirty work to me.

I asked Ben to wait near the front of the restaurant, at the bar, to keep watch. Concern pinched his face, but he didn’t argue. If I was going to prove I was strong enough to lead, strong enough to fight, I had to do this on my own.

“Titus,” I said when I arrived at the table and sat across from him. “Welcome. Thanks for coming to see me.”

His lip curled in what I hoped was amusement. “Indeed.”

Oh, this was going to go well … “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

“This setting is a bit … common.” He glanced around the bar, which was experiencing a late after-theater rush. Raised voices created a flood of noise against the backdrop of the rock music on the stereo system. A few of my pack were here, including Darren, who once again was with Becky. They were sitting at the bar, knee to knee. Not causing trouble, thank goodness. I found myself wishing Shaun was here for backup.

“I kind of like it,” I said, smiling fondly.

“Keeps you rooted in the world, does it?”

“Yeah. Rick would say that.” I wanted to like this guy. His manner seemed straightforward. I tried to take the measure of him, without meeting his hypnotic gaze, staring instead at the collar of his shirt.

“Are you certain Ricardo isn’t available?”

“He’s following up another lead.” My chin was up, my back was straight, my stance confident. Alpha-like, even. Not inviting argument.

“What am I supposed to tell my Mistress, then?” he said. He had a Spanish-flavored accent, his tone only mildly annoyed, as if he hadn’t expected anything different out of this meeting.

“Everything Rick knows, I know.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

I gritted my teeth. “All right, just about everything Rick knows, at least about the Long Game, I know.” Still, with that skeptical lilt to his brow. Flustered now, I said, “I’ve faced Dux Bellorum twice and survived.”

“Really?” He sounded disbelieving rather than impressed. I wasn’t going to be able to convince him I had any credibility at all. Was it anti-werewolf prejudice, or was I selling myself badly?

“Yeah. Have you ever met the guy?”

“My Mistress has. Many years ago. He offered her power. She walked away. Fled, rather, to the colonies. She opposes him by staying out of his reach.”

“How much longer do you think she’ll be able to keep that up?”

A trace of anxiety furrowed his brow. “That is why I am here. I had hoped to speak to Ricardo of this.”

“I’m telling you what he’d tell you. You have allies. We’ve already exposed Roman and a number of his followers. The more of us watching for him, the better chance we have of stopping him. He can be beaten.” I hoped he could …

Another long moment of sizing each other up passed. I had the impression that he could see through me, read my mind even. My skin itched, but through an act of will I didn’t fidget.

“I am supposed to tell Mistress Bianca that the Master of Denver has more important business than speaking with her chosen representative?”

Etiquette wasn’t my strong suit, and I couldn’t help but fail miserably at it where vampires were concerned. I sighed. “I keep forgetting you people have so much time on your hands you have nothing better to do than take offense at everything.” He flattened his hands on the table and opened his mouth to speak, but I gestured to stop him. “I know, I know. Sending a werewolf to talk to you is an insult. You’ll just have to believe me that Rick is dealing with a serious matter than no one else can handle, and that I really do know what he does about Dux Bellorum.”

Titus seemed mollified. “I believe you know enough. This is all so very … chaotic.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. We just have to keep paddling along, yeah?” He rewarded me with a thin, amused smile. “Can we contact you if we need to? Will you contact us, if you learn anything?”

He hesitated, and every moment he did my hopes sank a notch. He drew breath and said, “I’m skeptical, I confess. The situation in Denver seems less stable than I was led to believe. Are you and Ricardo truly strong enough to mount an opposition against Roman?”

“We’ve stood up to him before. Yes,” I said, because I had to.

“Then I’ll return home and report to my Mistress. She’ll send word of her response.”

He started to push back from the table, but I rushed out a question while I had the chance. “Before you go, can I ask you something? Do you know anything about vampires working for the Vatican?” Argentina was a Catholic country, right? What could it hurt to ask?

“You’re joking, yes?”

“Never mind,” I said, sighing.

He stood and walked out without further acknowledgment, without giving me another chance to talk at him. To convince him. Bianca, Mistress of Buenos Aires, was the only vampire Master in South America we were absolutely sure didn’t belong to Roman. Not that South America was swarming with vampires, but I didn’t much like the feeling of facing an entire continent outside our influence.

I slumped forward and put my head on my arms, just to rest for a moment.

Footsteps approached, and I caught the scent of werewolf before me. Darren. Chin up, shoulders broad, he smiled at me and sat in the chair across from me, the one where Titus had been a moment before. Ben moved toward us in a hurry.

The restaurant had emptied while Titus and I talked. The manager and a couple of staff remained, working to close up. Becky was still here, by the front door, hackles up. The moment seemed frozen—something was happening. I caught Ben’s gaze and shook my head, asking him to wait. I wanted to see how this played out. Ben stopped, but almost bounced in place, hands clenched, looking back and forth between Darren and Becky.

Darren ignored him and said, “It’s tough, isn’t it? Being in charge. Staying in control.”

I tried to puzzle out his intention. The obvious condescension in his tone wasn’t mean, but wasn’t very sympathetic, either. He mostly sounded like he was making a casual observation. Never mind that the words slipped a knife between my ribs.

“I didn’t realize I was being graded.”

He went on, “You’ve had to work very hard, haven’t you? Leading this pack, putting yourself out there.”

Ben leaned in. “You’re out of line—”

I held up a hand to stop him. Maybe we could good cop/bad cop this. “I do okay.”

Darren’s smile cut. “I mean you’ve had to work hard to be an alpha. Because you’re not, really. You certainly weren’t born an alpha. You were happier when you had somebody taking care of you, weren’t you?”

I flashed back on those years, bottom of the pack, everyone’s baby, everyone’s punching bag. Maybe that had been less work, but “happy” certainly wasn’t the word I’d use to describe that time. It was never as much work to roll over and show your belly as it was to stand up straight. But standing straight felt so much better.

I grinned, teeth showing. “That’s a little Calvinistic, don’t you think? Predeterministic? You don’t believe in upward mobility?”

“You can’t change your basic nature.”

A few feet away, Ben was just about trembling with anger. I tried to radiate calm. I didn’t want to get blood all over my nice restaurant. “That’s the big debate for the ages, isn’t it? Nature versus nurture. So you’re a nature guy, I take it?”

“All your talk just covers up your fears—you’re afraid I’m right.”

Talking had worked so far. I leaned back, not breaking eye contact—not giving an inch, not letting him think his challenge was working. I declaimed, “Some are born alpha, some achieve alpha-ness, and some have alpha-ness thrust upon them. You know, that actually has a nice ring to it.”

If I was getting to him—discouraging him, making him angry, maybe even amusing him—he didn’t reveal it. He would wear me down with impenetrable, paternalistic kindness. He was only trying to help, really. The more I argued, the more I’d prove his point.

Well, it was the only thing I knew how to do, really. “So, what are you doing? You think you can do a better job? You calling me out?”

“You’re the one who brought it up, not me.”

Ben started to lunge, but I stood and braced against him, stopping him. An aggressive response might have been instinctive, but it showed weakness, showed Darren that he could get to us. Never mind if any of what he said was true. This was all about appearances. This didn’t look too good.

I had an urge to attack him myself, really. I imagined the taste of his blood on my tongue, his flesh parting at the touch of my teeth. My heart burned with the thought, but the sound of voices calmed me. The manager in back, talking to the cook who was scraping the grill. This was the human den, the human place, where people sat in chairs, ate with forks, glared at each other across the table and didn’t throw punches, no matter how much they wanted to. This wasn’t the place for a fight. Not Wolf’s kind of fight. Surely I had that much control. I would not start a fight here.

“You can’t have Denver,” I said, startled at how petulant my voice sounded. I didn’t sound strong, but like a whining child, and this all felt like it was happening to someone else. I watched myself glare at him. I radiated challenge. But that was Wolf, not me.

Ben broke away from me, but didn’t get any farther than leaning across the table, teeth bared. Darren stood, knocking the chair back to the floor, mirroring the glare and snarl.

“You going to start something?” Darren said, eager.

“There will be no fighting in my restaurant,” I said. Not that I could stop them if either one of them decided to cross the table.

“Yeah,” Darren said, chuckling. “That’s what I thought. You don’t have it in you.” He walked away, flicking his hand in a way that made me think I was the one being dismissed.

Ben rushed him, and I grabbed his arm, held him back. Somehow, I stopped him. Maybe because I was trembling and close to losing it. My husband curled back to hold me, turning his startled gaze on me, searching for what was wrong. That was what stopped him: I was about to melt, and he paused to take care of me rather than fight the challenger. I leaned into him.

At the front door, Darren paused, waiting for Becky to scramble to his side. She hesitated, looked over her shoulder at me staring back at her—and she didn’t turn away. Her gaze, her stance, held determination. Challenge. Then they were gone.

Wolf trembled in my gut. Standing in disbelief, I didn’t know which of them I was more angry at. I wanted to murder them both. I almost ran after them, as if murder were not only a viable option, but something I could accomplish. And wouldn’t get prosecuted for when I was discovered on the streets of downtown after midnight next to two eviscerated bodies.

Ben lowered me into the chair. I was shaking, trying to hold Wolf in, trying not to howl in fury. If Shaun had been managing tonight, if any of the other werewolves had been here, I might have. They would have understood.

“Kitty,” Ben said, kneeling in front of me, holding my face, making me look at him. Bringing me back to myself. I pulled him into an embrace and felt better. He spoke in my ear, “Why didn’t you let me murder the bastard?”

“Because we can’t fight.”

“Of course we can, we’re werewolves. We’ve both fought, we can take him. We can take both of them right now. We have to—”

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Ben.”

His frown made him look suddenly old, furrowed and worried. “What do you mean?”

It was a crossroads. I could walk away from everything. Flee Denver, like I had before. “You’re always saying that if I really want kids, if we want to adopt a kid, then I can’t keep on with all this, can I? Secret meetings with vampires, battling an international conspiracy, leading a werewolf pack. If I gave it all up, we could have a house, kids, a normal life—”

“You don’t mean that.”

Oh, but for a moment I did mean it. I could shed it all like a skin. All those people looking to me for answers, me standing tall and declaring that I actually had them. I was tired of it, and the thought of being just Kitty, lowly werewolf making do, made me feel light-headed. Giddy. And the kids thing—I still had hope, though I tried not to think about it. Werewolf physiology—shape-shifting—meant I couldn’t have a baby, but I had other options for having children. What would it be like, to explore some of those options, without feeling like I was dragging some poor kid into a war?

Could I really walk away from the life I’d built?

Ben was still talking. “It means leaving Denver. Your family, my family, the restaurant, everything. Is that what you want? If it is, I’ll back you.”

And if I stayed and fought, he’d back me then as well.

I drew myself close and kissed him. Nice, long, rich, wonderful. He tasted of beer. His muscles relaxed under my hands, and his responding touch gave me strength. I could straighten my back again, and square my shoulders.

Reluctantly, I pulled away, but stayed close enough that my breath brushed him when I spoke. “Darren’s making a bid for the pack, and he’s got Becky on his side.”

“And who knows who else? He’s had to have been planning this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I don’t think he realizes the job he’s taken on. He can’t have gotten to everyone. He’s assuming he only has to take out us two, then he and Becky step in as alpha pair.”

“That’s a really big assumption. He takes out us two, he has to deal with Cormac.”

I smiled. That was only one of our aces in the hole. “He doesn’t know that. He’s only thinking about you and me. The thing is, he just might be able to take us out in a fair fight.”

He huffed, indignant. “I wouldn’t make that assumption.”

“It’s okay. Moot point. Because we’re not leaving—and we’re not going to fight.”