Kitty Saves the World (Kitty Norville 14)

His expression was slack. “But you’re coming back.”

“That’s the plan. But, you know, just in case.” I’d fed Shaun and the others the interview story, not the real story. Not because I didn’t trust them, but because I didn’t want them following me, trying to help. I wanted to protect them.

“What’s really going on?” he asked. He could smell the anxiety on me. We’d known each other for years, human and wolf. We’d seen each other naked. I couldn’t hide.

“I can’t say,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Kitty—” He glared, and it was a challenge. I just stood, looking back calmly, waiting for him to settle. After a moment, he dropped his gaze.

“See you in a couple of days,” I said, and brushed his hand before turning to follow Ben out.

Chapter 4

WE MET at Cormac’s place at dawn.

He had a second-story studio apartment off the Boulder turnpike and I-25. I sometimes worried about him being stuck by himself in a run-down place in that part of town, but he didn’t seem to mind. I wasn’t sure he even noticed. It was out of the way, nobody bothered him. I was the one who wanted the nice house in the country. He probably didn’t understand that any more than I understood him.

Tina hugged her jacket around her against the morning chill as we went to his door. The sky was gray, misty, but it looked like we’d have a dry drive south. It would take about seven hours—we’d get there before nightfall, in time to scout the area before Roman made an appearance after dark. We assumed he’d have nonvampire minions keep watch for him. Our plan was to avoid them as much as possible, and distract them from Tina otherwise.

“Come in,” Cormac called after Ben knocked.

“Should you be leaving your door unlocked?” I said as we pushed in. I’d never get used to this, the tiny kitchen in one corner; the slept-in futon with makeshift bed stand; secondhand bookshelves filled with books, boxes, jars, and artifacts; an open closet leaking clothes, and a table stacked with just about everything. It all seemed so temporary. The place smelled old.

“I knew you were coming,” he answered. He was busy. Two crossbows sat on the rickety kitchen table. Several spears—five-foot lengths of wood sharpened to nasty-looking points—leaned against the wall nearby. He was packing a bundle of a dozen or so steel-pointed, wooden crossbow bolts into a leather quiver. “I could use some help loading this.”

Each of us took an armload and managed to get it down the stairs to the parking lot without dropping anything. It was a bit disconcerting seeing Ben handle the spears easily, clasped in an arm, leaning against his shoulder, perfectly balanced. He kept a gun at home, and in the glove box of the car. He’d taught me to shoot, but I didn’t enjoy it. I forgot sometimes that he’d grown up with them. Heavy weaponry would never be second nature to me the way it was for these two. I wondered what exactly the rules said about ex-cons and weapons possession, if it was just guns Cormac wasn’t allowed to own anymore or if it was anything. He didn’t seem too concerned.

“Um, I should probably mention Detective Hardin wants to come with us.”

A crossbow in each hand, Cormac looked at me sidelong. “Why’d you tell her what we’re doing?”

“She asked?” I said. “I thought she could help. Run interference if the cops get involved.”

He grumbled, but didn’t argue. Ben and I exchanged a glance; me encouraging him to back me up, him being noncommittal. That was the thing with Ben: he was never going to take sides between us.

Ben went to the trunk of the sedan, but Cormac called out, “I’m taking the Jeep.”

“There’s not enough room for all of us in the Jeep—”

“I’ll follow you down, in the Jeep.”

The Jeep had Cormac’s stash of surprises; of course he wouldn’t leave it behind. He arranged things the way he liked while we watched. “I just need a couple more things.”

We went with him back up to his apartment. Turned out, Cormac had collected his weapons. Now Amelia had to collect hers.

Cormac stood back from the table, his arms crossed, frowning under his mustache. The items seemed arcane to me—of course they did. Leather bags filled with who knew what, a couple of books, several amulets on chains laid out. A metal box with the lid open. I stepped forward to see what he’d taken from it, items that had obviously caught his attention.

One was a bronze coin strung on a leather cord, damaged by slashes and hatch marks beaten into it with a hammer. One of the coins of Dux Bellorum, talismans that Roman gave to his followers to identify them, to mark them. I was pretty sure this one had belonged to Kumarbis, the three-thousand-year-old vampire who’d created Roman.

The second item was a pair of goggles, dark glass set in leather on a well-worn strap.

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

“Yep.”

I’d ripped those goggles off the head of a demon. A real, honest-to-badness demon summoned from some other realm to wreak havoc, an imposing warrior woman with more weapons slung about her person than even Cormac could manage. I was sure she was working for Roman—or for whomever Roman was working for.

Dux Bellorum—the leader of war, the general. But as Cormac once said, who was the Caesar?