Kitty Takes a Holiday (Kitty Norville 3)

He smiled. “Maybe I don’t deserve it for this. But I’m no hero. You know that.”

“I can’t imagine not being able to call you for help.” I wiped tears away with the heels of my hands. “Cormac, if things had been just a little different, if things had somehow worked out between us—”

But it didn’t bear thinking on, so I didn’t finish the thought.

“Will you look after Ben for me?” he said. “Keep him out of trouble.”

I nodded quickly. Of course I would. He slowly pushed his chair back and stood. I stood as well, clumsily untangling my legs. We didn’t have much time. The cops would open the door any second and take him away.

Face-to-face now, we regarded each other. Didn’t say a word. He put his hands on either side of my face and kissed my forehead, lingering a moment. Taking a breath, I realized. The scent of my hair. Something to remember.

I couldn’t stop tears from falling. I wanted to put my arms around him and cling to him. Hold him tight enough to save him.

He lightly brushed my cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away tears, and turned away just as the door opened, and the deputies came at him with handcuffs.

Ben and I waited in the hallway, side by side, watching them lead Cormac away, around the corner, and out of sight. Cormac never looked back. I held Ben’s arm, and he curled his hand over mine.

We’d lost a member of our pack.

Epilogue

I had to admit, being back at a radio station felt like coming home again. Like meeting a long-lost friend. I thought I’d be scared. I thought I’d dread the moment when that on air sign lit. I discovered, though, that I couldn’t wait. I had so much to talk about.

We’d set up the show in Pueblo, as far north as I dared to go. I’d packed up the house in Clay and left for good. It was time to head back to civilization. I had a lot of work to catch up on. Even Thoreau hadn’t stayed at Walden Pond forever.

I held the phone to my ear but had stopped paying attention to the voice on the line. I was too busy enjoying the dimly lit studio, taking it all in, the sights and smells, the hum of jazz playing on the current music program.

“…don’t take too many this time, let yourself get back into practice.” Matt, the show’s original sound guy from back in Denver, was talking at me over the phone. Giving me a pep talk or something.

“Yeah, okay,” I rambled.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes.” I was unconvincing.

Matt sighed dramatically. “I was saying you shouldn’t take too many calls. Don’t overwhelm yourself. You should spend most of the time on your interview.”

For tonight’s show I had scheduled a phone interview with Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher, the new head of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, now organized under the auspices of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. I liked her a lot—she was smart, articulate, and much more forthcoming than the Center’s previous director.

Next week was going to be even better: I’d convinced Tony and Alice to come in to talk about what had happened in Clay. They’d talk about where each of them learned their particular brands of spellcraft, and I’d get to tell my own personal ghost stories.

I hadn’t yet found anyone willing to come on the air to talk about skinwalkers. I planned on running my mouth about it and hoped someone called in with a good story.

Yeah, The Midnight Hour was back, just like the old days.

Matt was still talking. I should have been more responsive.

I interrupted. “How about I take a lot of calls, but let Dr. Shumacher deal with them? I’ll just referee.”

He paused for a beat, then said, “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”

“Stop worrying, Matt. I’ll be fine. You know if it gets really bad I’ll break for station ID anyway.”

“I just keep thinking that one of these days you’ll break for station ID and not come back.”

“Come on, I always come back.”

“Then if you’re all set, I’ll hand it over to the local crew.”