Kitty Goes to War (Kitty Norville 8)

“I’ve got an idea, but I’m still working on that part,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you and Ben are home and ready to get socked in.”

“Um . . .” I said, trying to figure out how to explain this. “I’m afraid we’ve had something come up.” Could I sound any more vague? Like this wouldn’t make him suspicious.

I could almost hear the deep sigh over the line. “What happened?”

“So you know last night was the full moon? Well, the guys from the army came with us, and one of them kind of went rogue—”

“And you’re chasing after him? Good luck with that.” How did he manage to sound so sarcastic without changing his tone of voice?

I grumbled, “Yeah, thanks.”

“You need help?”

“Not yet,” I said. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “I’d rather have you figuring out how to stop Franklin. Don’t worry about us, we won’t freeze.”

“You spend enough time worrying about me, I’m going to return the favor. I’ll call you when I have something,” he said, and hung up before I could argue.

I stared at my phone a moment.

“Was that Cormac? Was that about Franklin?” Ben said.

“Yes. He’s says this is because of him.” I gestured to the massive snow.

“Great. Now what do we do?”

“I’m thinking of calling Odysseus Grant.” Grant was the other wizard I knew. He always seemed to have an answer for a magical crisis.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Ben said. “Don’t pull any more people into this if we don’t have to. If you really think Franklin fried your caller in Louisiana with a lightning strike, you could be painting targets on anyone else you call about this.”

He was right. I huffed a sigh and stared out the window. “Cormac says he’ll call back when he’s figured out how to stop him.”

“Then we’ll wait,

” Ben said.

I tried not to worry—Cormac could take care of himself.

I-25 was even worse than I-70.

We were well into morning, well after sunrise, not that we could tell with the overcast sky. Everything had a light gray tinge to it rather than a dark gray one. The snow wasn’t letting up. Plows were hard at work—ahead, a couple of safety lights flashed and reflected against the fog. They’d already piled a ridge of snow onto the shoulder of the road.

We moved at a crawl, and I wondered how bad it would have to get before the freeway closed. At this rate, even on foot Walters would get to Fort Carson before us.

“I can’t sit here,” Tyler said. “I have to get out of here. We’re wasting time.” He was gripping the armrest on the door, his hand trembling.

“Keep it together,” I said. “If you head out and turn wolf they’ll just scoop you up along with Walters.”

He breathed low in his throat, making a sound like a growl. I reached back and touched his arm; whatever calm I could find in myself, I sent to him. As pack alpha, that ought to be part of my job, right? I was playing it all by ear, though; I hadn’t had too many role models to draw on. But Tyler’s hand relaxed, and he settled back against the seat, staring out the window.

I turned on the radio and found a news report, which was all about the weather and traffic. Which was good, since I was afraid I was going to start hearing about rogue werewolf attacks. According to the news, the storm wasn’t behaving according to any predictions. While it was snowing across the Front Range, the storm seemed to be centered on Denver—the system had rolled in from the mountains, but didn’t get bad until it had hit the plains. The city was getting more snow than the mountains had. The freeways were being closed in some places—but we seemed to have gotten past those spots just in time. If we got stuck, I wouldn’t be able to argue with Tyler about setting out on foot.

My phone rang and I answered. It was my mother, with her usual great timing.

“Hi, Kitty. I’m just checking to see if you’re okay. I know you went out with your friends last night, and I wanted to make sure you got home all right through all this snow.”

My mother knew I was a werewolf. I wasn’t sure she entirely understood what that meant. She knew I went with the pack to shape-shift on full-moon nights. Trying her best to be supportive, she called it “going out with my friends.” I couldn’t complain, but it led to some awkward conversations.

“Um . . . I’m not really at home right now, Mom. Something came up.” I winced. It was the conversation with Cormac all over again. And who ever thought my mother and Cormac would have something in common?