Kitty Takes a Holiday (Kitty Norville 3)

“Right up until you blew my cover, you mean?”

He shrugged noncommittally, as if to say, Who me?

“She’s a hack,” I muttered.“Then what the hell does that make you?”“A has-been, evidently.” I brushed back my hair and sighed. He stood and grabbed his coat and gun off the kitchen counter. “You want a pity party, you can have it by yourself.” “I’m not… this isn’t… I’m not looking for your pity.” “Good. ’Cause you’re not getting any. If you’re a has-been it’s your own damn fault.” “Where are you going?” “Guard duty. If I see any gutted rabbits I’ll let you know.” Bang, he slammed the front door behind him and that was that. I let out a frustrated growl, grabbed the blanket, and cocooned myself on the sofa. I wasn’t a has-been. I wasn’t. Yet.

chapter 7

I woke, startled, and sat up on the sofa. I hadn’t heard anything, nothing specific had jolted me awake, but I felt like someone had slammed a door or fired a gun.

Cormac.

He was asleep in a chair, which he’d pulled over to the living-room window. He’d been keeping watch, just like he’d said. But I never thought he’d fall asleep on guard duty. It just wasn’t like him.

Whatever had shocked me awake hadn’t affected him. He even snored a little, his chin tipped forward so it almost touched his chest.

Outside, the sky was gray. Light, so it was past dawn, but still overcast, like it was about to snow. I had a queasy, stuffy-headed feeling that told me I hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“Cormac?” I said.

Immediately he sat up and put his hand on the revolver he’d left sitting on my desk. Only after looking around, tensed at the edge of the chair as if waiting for an attack, did he say, “What happened?” He didn’t look at me; his attention focused on the window and the door.

“Something woke me up,” I said.

“I hadn’t meant to fall asleep,” he said. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.” His hand clenched on his weapon like it was a security blanket. He didn’t pick it up, but I had no doubt he could aim and shoot it in a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeats, his had sped up. I could hear it, and smell his anxiety. He wasn’t used to getting caught off guard. His fear fed mine.

“Something’s out there,” I whispered.

“You hear something?”

“I don’t know.” I concentrated, trying yet again to remember what my senses had told me, what exactly had fired my nerves awake.

I smelled blood. It wasn’t new blood, fresh blood. It was old, rotten, stinking. And not just a little, but a slaughterhouse’s worth. A massive amount, and it was everywhere, as if someone had painted the walls with it. No—no—

Get a grip. Keep it together.

“Do you smell something?” I said, my voice cracking. Of course he didn’t. Not like this. How could he?

“I assume you mean something out of the ordinary.”

“Blood.”

“Are you okay?”

I went to the door. Get out.

My hand on the knob, I squeezed my eyes shut. There wasn’t a voice. I hadn’t heard anything. I cracked open the door.

The smell washed over me. I’d never sensed anything like it. The odor was hateful, oppressive, like it was attacking me. Could a smell be evil?

“There’s something out there,” I said. And it hated me. It had left all those signs that it hated me.

“Move over.” Cormac, gun raised, displaced me from in front of the door. “Stay back.”

I did, holding my clenched hands to my chest. He opened the door a little wider. His gun arm led the way as he stepped out, the weapon ready to face the lurking danger.

Sheltered behind the door, I watched his face. His expression never changed. It stayed cold, stony—his professional look. Then he froze.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice filled with something like awe. He didn’t lower his weapon.