Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

“I don’t have health insurance. Werewolves don’t need health insurance.” I reached for his hand; he took it, held it. He g

ave me that exasperated look he always did when I was being stubborn.

“One checkup won’t break the bank.”

“But what if something’s really wrong?”

“You said it yourself—werewolves don’t get sick.”

“Then I don’t have to go to the doctor.”

We glared. He looked away first—deferring to the more experienced. A submissive wolf. He dug my clothes out of the hole we’d stashed them in and threw them at me.

“Let’s get moving, then see how you feel.”

“Ben?”

“Hm?”

I held his arm, pulled on it, drew him close. Kissed him, and was happy when he smiled. “Let’s go.”

Back at home, I returned my mother’s weekly Sunday phone call. Every Sunday she called, like clockwork. She’d known I was out for the full moon, but she’d left a message anyway. “Call back when you can, let me know everything’s okay.” She tried to be supportive in her own way. She’d convinced herself that my being a werewolf was like joining a club that did some vaguely dangerous and thrilling activity, like rock climbing.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Kitty. How was your weekend?”

Oh, I turned into a wolf, killed something, woke up naked in the middle of the woods, went home, and brushed my teeth a half-dozen times to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. “It was okay. I haven’t been feeling too great, I think something’s stressing me out.”

“Any idea what?”

“Maybe it’s the book coming out. I’m worried how it’s going to do.”

“It’ll be fine—I’ve read it, it’s a really good book. People will love it.”

“You’re my mother, you’re supposed to say that.”

“Of course I am,” she said happily.

And who could argue with that? “Ben thinks I should go to the doctor.”

“It certainly couldn’t hurt. It might make you feel better if they can tell you that nothing’s wrong.”

And if something was wrong? What was the local general practitioner going to know about lycanthropy anyway?

“Nothing’s wrong,” I insisted.

“Of course not,” she said. “Nothing’s ever wrong until it is.” Her tone had become serious.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She paused, like she was trying to decide what to say. Then she sighed. “It means it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Mom, is something wrong?” The conversation had gone a bit weird.

“Oh, no, not really. I just think Ben’s right is all.”

I couldn’t win. I was besieged. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”