Kate has always been very vocal in her objections to either Clay or me traveling. I could point out that ninety percent of our lives are spent at Stonehaven, where the kids have only to shout to find us. Jeremy says that's the problem--they're so accustomed to having us close that they get out of sorts when we aren't. As they've gotten older, though, Kate's complaints have softened. She understands why we leave, and she still doesn't like it, but she's more likely to tease and cajole than actually complain. Until now. My not-quite-nine-year-old daughter had apparently hit adolescent mood swings early.
"When are you coming home?" she demanded.
"Watch your tone. If this meeting wasn't urgent--"
"It's one week a year. One damned week--"
"Kate!"
She barreled on. "--and you can't even be bothered showing up."
"I will be home tomorrow," I said, through gritted teeth. "Your father has my flight information. And you and I are going to have a talk--"
"Hard to do when you're not here. You won't be on that plane. You never--"
"I have never, ever missed a family vacation or any other important event--"
Kate let out a howl that made me jump. The line crackled. Another voice sounded in the background. Logan, who seem to have wrested the phone from his sister. Then Clay's pounding footsteps and, "What the hell--?"
"She called Mom to whine," Logan said.
A commotion in the background as Clay apparently trotted Kate off. Another crackle on the line, then, "Hey, Mom."
I rubbed my face hard and forced a smile. "Hey, baby."
"Sorry about that. She's being a brat, which is nothing new these days. Hormones."
"She's too young for that."
"Then she has no excuse, does she?"
I laughed and leaned against the wall. My kids. Neither is your typical prepubescent, but they've never been your typical anything. Having werewolves for parents pretty much guarantees that, but it's their upbringing, too. In a Pack--wolf or werewolf--children are cherished and adored, but never treated like babies. It doesn't help that despite all my efforts to socialize them they've never shown much interest in kids their own age. They have school chums, but mostly to humor me. They're content with their Pack and with each other.
Kate has always been my wild child. Fiercely intelligent and prone to hobbies that involve noise and activity, like music and sports. People joke she's her father's daughter, but I see as much of him in Logan, my quiet, brilliant boy.
"She sh
ouldn't have called," he said. "Dad's giving her proper hell now."
"I can hear that."
For most of their lives, my children had never heard their father raise his voice. To others, yes, but with them, he was a damned-near perfect parent. Better than me at keeping his temper. Yet in the last few months, as Kate's behavior escalated and our bafflement grew, she'd begun getting the sharp side of his tongue, and though it hadn't escalated to shouting matches, it occasionally got close.
"She'll survive," Logan said, as if reading my mind. "She deserves it, because she's being a total brat. Even I can't get through to her. Whatever she said to you, she doesn't mean it. You know that."
"I do. I'm trying to get there as fast as I--"
"You don't need to convince me, Mom. I know you are. She knows you are. Here's Dad. I'll go speak to her and give her crap."
I chuckled as he handed the phone over. Logan and Clay exchanged a few murmured words. Then the sound of a door shutting and Clay came on.
"I'm sorry, darling. Guess I have to keep my phone in my pocket."
"I keep telling myself it's a phase, but she's getting worse, and if this is a sign of what we're going to endure for the next five years--"
"Don't even say that. Please."
"I shouldn't let her goad me."