Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

I set my glass of wine on the table and braced.

The handle turned. The door opened inward, as if in slow motion. I could smell them before I saw them, I could hear them breathe, and I recognized the beats of their hearts. All my senses were pushed to their limits, waiting. I knew it all, I knew everything, I knew before the door opened all the way and they walked into the room.

Carl and Meg. Arm-in-arm, looking sullen.

I stood and stumbled back, knocking over my chair. My body felt like fog, drifting, melting away. I wasn’t here, I couldn’t be here, I couldn’t move. Every pore burned. I wanted to vomit, but was too shocked.

Carl saw me and turned animal. He didn’t shift, but his wolf came to the fore. It was amazing to watch. Our gazes met, and he lunged. His back bowed, his arms bent, his fingers locked into claw shapes, all in preparation of charging me. His lips rippled back in a snarl as he bared his teeth. A growl burred deep in his throat. The sound pinged a memory in my hind brain, turning my limbs to ash.

Arturo, who’d entered behind the couple, caught Carl as he took his first step toward me. The alpha werewolf lunged, and Arturo—svelte, blasé Arturo, Denver’s Master vampire—dropped him where he stood by grabbing his arm, putting a hand on his neck, and squeezing. Carl arced his neck, gasped a breath, and stepped back, arresting his lunge. Arturo didn’t even appear strained.

“Margaret, you too! Stop!” Arturo’s voice lashed, and Meg, Carl’s mate, cowered, lurking on Carl’s other side, kneading his arm like she might pull it off.

Arturo glared at us. Only ten feet separated us. I didn’t remember moving, but Rick stood on one side of me, Ben on the other, and both had death grips on my arms, holding me back while I struggled against them. My throat was sore—from growling. Without being conscious of it, I’d matched Carl’s lunge. I’d been ready to meet him head-on and fight, right here in the elegant suite.

Rick slipped in front of me, blocking my view. “Calm, Kitty. Stay calm,” he whispered.

Fight him, fight him, get out of here, fight, run, escape—

Wolf swam at the front of my mind, pure instinct driving me.

I shut my eyes tight and gasped a breath that sounded like a sob. Took another, steadier breath, and stamped on the Wolf, tamped her down tight. Deep breath, keep it together. Focused on Ben’s touch on my arm, his warm, safe scent in my nose.

Carl struggled briefly against Arturo’s grip, and I wanted to scream.

“Ah,” Mercedes said in her sugary, stage-diva voice. “That’s why you left Denver.”

Bitch. “You knew. You set this up.” My voice still growled.

She shrugged, just a bit. “I wanted to see for myself.”

“Let me go. Please let Ben and me go,” I said softly, well aware that Carl and Meg stood between us and the door, that we’d have to get past them to escape.

Mercedes didn’t speak, and the tableau didn’t change. We stood like statues, waiting for someone to cough. For someone to break.

“You’re playing games,” I said, my panic rising.

“Oh, no, this isn’t a game, this is politics. Rough politics,” she said.

Arturo, bless his undead heart, sounded as irate as I felt. “Mercedes, she’s right. You’re playing games, and keeping leashes on a pack of werewolves is not how I’d planned on spending my evening. Meg!”

The alpha female—nemesis, rival, chief bitch of my nightmares—had crept around her mate. Carefully, she stood in front of Carl and held herself straight. She didn’t attack, didn’t make the least sign of aggression. She just studied me. Me and Ben both. Ben’s shoulders tensed, like hackles rising.

Meg had long, straight black hair, deeply tanned skin, unidentifiably ethnic features. She had a wild and exotic look about her, and a slim and powerful build. She was dressed for an evening downtown—a rust-colored blouse, dark slacks, high-heeled sandals, jewelry. I’d been used to seeing her in the outdoors, in a T-shirt and jeans. Carl, wearing shirt and slacks, hadn’t changed much—he was tall, six-five or so, and broad to match, all muscles and quivering temper. You didn’t challenge Carl. You just didn’t.

Unless you were my best friend T. J. T. J. had challenged, and Carl had killed him for it.

For the moment Meg had taken up her old role of instigator. She’d poke and prod until I lashed out, then let Carl take me down. Now Ben, the newcomer, the unknown in the room from her perspective, occupied her attention. She took a long moment to stare at him. I willed Ben to stay calm, to stay quiet. I didn’t want him reacting—either aggressively or submissively. I didn’t want him to give her any points by admitting, however inadvertently, that she was stronger.

When Meg spoke to me, it was like glass shattering. “You really did it. You went and made yourself a mate so you could come back here and take over.”

Gah, same old Meg. Some things never changed, and my next few breaths were calmer. “No, Meg. That’s what you would have done.”

Carl said, “I told

you not to come back. I told you I’d kill you.”

I argued. Maybe they’d see reason. Maybe they’d be reasonable. “I’m not here to make trouble, I promise I don’t want any trouble. My mom’s sick, Carl. I had to come back, just until she’s better.” I’d slipped into the old pattern, groveling before him, begging, head bowed, slouching. I’d fought hard so I wouldn’t have to do that anymore. T. J. died so I wouldn’t have to do that. I consciously straightened my back, straining against tense muscles. Made myself as tall as I could. Didn’t tremble. I met Carl’s gaze. Didn’t quite offer a challenge, but I had to face him as an equal. No—I had to believe I was better.