Kitty Goes to War (Kitty Norville 8)

“Why don’t we ask him?” Ben said, nodded through the window.

A scruffy-looking guy in his early twenties was pulling himself to his feet. He looked like he’d been lying down behind the counter.

Ben and I piled out. Tyler waited, keeping the motor running.

The door was unlocked, and a tinny bell rang as we pushed in. The guy behind the counter, fully upright now, stared at us. Ben and I must have been a sight: still in jeans and T-shirts, we’d been soaked wet and dried off a couple of times over. My hair felt like a nest and my eyes had shadows under them. I might have had a fading bruise or two left over from the fight with Vanderman.

“Hi,” I said. “I wondered if you had a marker that we could borrow, or for sale, or something.” I smiled in a way that I hoped was cheerful rather than crazed.

He pointed down one of the aisles. “We have a few office supplies there.”

“Thanks.” I ran. Sure enough, I found a package of Sharpies. The nice, thick, stinky kind. I picked up three and brought them to the counter. Ben got out his wallet to pay.

“That’s it?” he said. He sounded numb.

“No, wait.” I made a quick tour of the store, grabbing sodas, a package of beef jerky, a box of cookies. This ought to get us through. “Anything else?” I asked Ben.

“Permission?” he said.

“Ah. Not just yet.”

The clerk dutifully scanned our items. “Would you like a bag?”

This was getting kind of surreal. A gust of wind rattled the door and snow pelted the glass. “Yes, please.”

The transaction completed, the clerk, still blinking dazedly, said, “Thank you for choosing Speedy Mart.”

I grinned, teeth showing. “I didn’t choose Speedy Mart. Speedy Mart chose me. Oh, and I’m really sorry about this.”

I ripped one of the markers out of the packaging before handing the bag back to Ben. We both looked at the door, and the clear space of wall—a clean white canvas—above it. There didn’t seem to be any convenient footstools or chairs around.

“Can you lift me up?” I said.

“I think so,” Ben answered.

First, though, I flipped open the phone so I could look at the picture. I’d never taken an art class in my life. I hoped the thunder gods were forgiving of my lack of talent.

Kneeling, Ben held my legs while I sat on his shoulder, and he stood. Werewolf strength meant he didn’t even wobble, but I had to grab his other shoulder to keep my balance.

“You okay?” he said.

“Yup.” I started drawing.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the kid said, rushing around the counter. He didn’t get closer than about ten feet. He just stopped, hand outstretched, watching with an expression that resembled hopelessness.

“Breaking a spell. I hope,” I said.

“Huh? But—you can’t—I mean—”

“The blizzard? Not normal. We’re here to save the city.”

The guy started laughing, hysterical. “This sucks! I mean, who are you? What the hell—” He sat down and put his head in his hands.

I was almost finished drawing the thunder mark, just adding the circles.

“Hey, are you okay?” Ben asked him.

“No. I was supposed to be off my shift six hours ago, but I can’t get home, and no one else can get here. The manager said I should just stay open as long as I was here. I’ve been here for fourteen hours!”