Kitty Goes to War (Kitty Norville 8)

“Settle down,” he said. He looked calm, but his back was stiff, his shoulders raised. A litt

le of his wolf showed in his eyes, as I was sure my Wolf showed in mine. It was almost time to run; we could both feel it. I stopped pacing and hugged myself. Ben touched my arm and leaned in to kiss my ear, breathing out as he did so. Wolf language: be calm.

Shumacher returned with Tyler and Walters. They were obviously edgy. They kept looking around—along the side of the building, out to the edges of the parking lot, even up to the roof. I wondered how much of their apprehension came from being werewolves on the night of the full moon, or from being soldiers recently come home from a war zone. It was as if they expected grenades to drop.

I stood between them and gave each of their arms a squeeze to anchor them. Everything was going to be all right. I felt something, Wolf awakening in my eyes, catching each of their gazes in turn and staring at them, not in challenge but with assurance: we’ll be fine, we’re a pack, I’ll look after you. It seemed a ridiculous claim to make; I was half Tyler’s size. But they both settled, their shoulders easing, the wolves in their gazes acknowledging me.

“We’ll be fine, Doctor,” I said to Shumacher with all the confidence I’d just shown to the soldiers. “Come on, guys.” Hands on their arms, I steered them toward Ben and the car.

Shumacher looked at me, lips pursed, holding back arguments. I just didn’t care anymore and walked away.

We piled into Ben’s car, the soldiers in the backseat, me in front, Ben driving.

“You guys okay?” I said, looking over my shoulder.

“What happened back there?” Tyler said. “Shumacher looked ready to spit, but she was scared.”

We’d all smelled her fear. “She wanted to know where we were going, to keep tabs on us. Bring Stafford and his guys along, ‘just in case.’ I wouldn’t let her. She threatened not to let you out for the night.” They reacted, jaws clenched, noses flaring—nerves, anger. “Don’t worry, I talked her out of it.”

“I bet they’ll try to follow us,” Ben said. “Track us, if they can.”

“Can we dodge them? Lose them?” I looked around, out windows, for the imaginary Humvee following us. If Shumacher and Stafford really were following us and they knew what they were doing, I wouldn’t see them.

“I can try.”

Tyler leaned forward. Neither of them were belted in, but that didn’t seem important enough to worry about. It’s not as though a car wreck would be likely to kill any of us.

“Don’t take the direct route,” he said. “Are there any one-way streets around here? Big parking lots or garages with multiple exits? You can double back and get away before they’ve figured out what you’re doing.”

“We’d have to go downtown for that,” I said.

“I think I have an idea,” Ben said. He drove a few blocks then swung east on Colfax. Ten minutes later, he turned again, and a couple more blocks brought us to a familiar wide, grassy lawn. We followed the long, looping drive around Cheesman Park. It wasn’t the mazelike parking lot Tyler had asked for, but the road here was twisting and confusing, which amounted to the same thing.

Ben said, “Even if they follow us here, we might fool them into thinking this is where we’re stopping.

“They don’t really think we’d shape-shift in downtown Denver, do they?” I said.

“I’m guessing they don’t know much of anything or they wouldn’t have called you,” Ben said, giving me a look.

“Gee, thanks,” I said.

We’d made half a circuit of the park when Ben turned onto a different street than the one we left. He made a couple more turns, then we were heading north toward I-70.

“You see anything, Walt?” Tyler said.

“No, I do not. Think we’re clear.”

Maybe Shumacher and Stafford hadn’t sent anyone after us. Maybe they had and we really had lost them. I’d never know for sure, but the soldiers were calm, and that counted for something.

Behind heavy clouds, the sun set, and as the light faded, we drove in silence.

Chapter 17

WE HEADED east, into the Great Plains. Usually we spent full moons in the mountains, with sheltered forests and valleys. Close enough to town to be convenient, but far enough away to be isolated. And plenty of hunting: deer, rabbits, and so on.

In the nineteenth century the Great Plains were called the Great American Desert because the region was so desolate. You could travel for hundreds of miles without seeing a tree, or a single living creature apart from the sea of grass rippling in a constant wind. Of course, the impression wasn’t the true picture. The place was rich with life. Even in the cold of winter, I could sense a tapestry of smells: dried grass, foraging rodents, the owls and hawks that hunted them, coyotes on the prowl. The rustling of brush and grasses made a constant rhythm. I soaked it all in—my world, my territory. Inside me, Wolf kicked, ready to run. Soon . . .

On the prairie, we’d be isolated, and we’d find plenty to eat—pronghorn, rabbits, prairie dogs—but we wouldn’t have much shelter. At the same time, Tyler and Walters wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. On the flat, wide plains, I could keep an eye on them. We could keep watch over each other. And we’d avoid the snow scheduled to hit the mountains overnight.