Deadtown

enemies—were frequent targets of Harpy attacks. Some tough-guy wannabe trying to horn in on their action would pay a sorcerer big bucks to conjure up a few Harpies for nightly visits. I checked my watch. I had forty-five minutes before the one thirty appointment. Just enough time to return the other call.

The other caller’s name—Sheila Gravett—also sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I had a feeling I’d seen the name Gravett in the paper recently, but for what I didn’t know.

Down the hall, Juliet swore and slammed a door, so I figured the phone was free. I dialed Gravett’s number.

She answered on the third ring. “Dr. Gravett.” Doctor, huh? Good—she could afford me. I never did pro bono work. A girl had to make a living, after all.

“Hello, Doctor. This is Victory Vaughn returning your call.”

A gasp came over the line. “Oh, hello. Oh, I’m so glad you called.” Her voice rose in pitch, breathless, like she was the winning caller on a radio show.

“Why don’t you start off by telling me a little about your problem? Once I know what kind of infestation you’re dealing with, we can work out a strategy for getting rid of them.”

“Getting rid of what?”

“Your demons.” Silence. “You called about demon extermination, right?”

“Demon—? Oh, no.” She laughed, a trill that started high and tripped down the scale. “No, Ms. Vaughn, that’s not why I called. Although I do want to hire you.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain. I’m a research scientist.” She stopped there, as though that actually explained something.

“That’s great, but I still don’t see—”

“I’m the principal researcher at Gravett Biotech. We specialize in paranormal biology. And we’re very interested in mapping the shapeshifter genome. In fact, you may have heard of our work with werewolf DNA.”

“I’m not a werewolf, Dr. Gravett. I’m Cerddorion. It’s not the same at all.” I sighed. I got so tired of giving this lecture. “Werewolves become wolves—they can’t change into any other animal—and when the moon is full, they have no choice. They have to change. Cerddorion can shift up to three times per lunar cycle, whatever the moon phase, and we can shift into any kind of sentient being. We can choose to shift, or sometimes very strong emotion can force a shift. So, if you’re studying werewolves, you don’t want me.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” Her voice sharpened, its tone suggesting that Dr. Gravett was notone to suffer fools gladly. “Werewolf biology is becoming better understood each year. But shapeshifter biology—that field’s wide open. You’re the only active shapeshifter in the state. If Gravett Biotech can unlock the secrets of your DNA . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though the possibility were too wonderful to describe.

I finished her sentence for her. “You’d get damn rich. Off me.”

Now I remembered where I’d heard of Gravett Biotech. They’d tried to clone a werewolf. The story had been reported very differently, depending on whether you followed the human press or the PA press. Norms tended to view the research as key to understanding—read controlling—the monsters. PAs saw the experiments (which had been conducted in New Hampshire, a state where PAs had no legal rights) as abuse, plain and simple. Whichever way you spun the story, though, it was clear that Gravett Biotech had created an abomination—a weak, incompletely shifted, hairless thing that was about the size of a Chihuahua and stayed stuck between canine and human forms. The poor creature had survived less than a week. No way I’d let that lab get hold of one speck of my genetic material.

She was still talking, going on about science and the pursuit of knowledge and the greater good and all kinds of other crap. Her voice rose with enthusiasm. “This is such a wonderful opportunity for me—well, I mean for science, you know. If we can understand what you are—”

“I understand what I am just fine. I don’t need a bunch of sadists in white coats to tell me that.”

She drew in a sharp breath and, for the first time in our conversation, didn’t seem to know what to say. I smiled into the phone.

“Was that all, Dr. Gravett? Because I’m not interested.”

“Wait!” Her voice sounded panicked. “You haven’t heard me out yet. We’re prepared to offer comfortable lodgings and substantial compensation if you’ll agree to change shape under controlled circumstances in our lab.”

“Where’s the lab?”

“Not far. About an hour north of Boston.”

“Oh, you mean in New Hampshire? No, thanks.”

“All right, yes, it is in New Hampshire, but we’ll guarantee—”

“I told you, no, thanks.”

“Sixty thousand dollars, Ms. Vaughn. For one month of observation. And one half of one percent of any profits on patents that stem directly from this research. You can’t earn that kind of money as a freelance demon exterminator.”

That was true. Sixty thousand dollars in one month worked out to a nice two thousand bucks a day. But I earned my money on my terms. The thought of a bunch of scientists poking and prodding me, coming at me with all kinds of electrodes and needles—I shuddered. I hate needles. I wouldn’t do it.

“Sorry, Dr. Gravett. I’m not playing lab rat for you or for anyone else.”

“But—” I didn’t hear the rest of her argument, because I’d already hung up the phone.

8

A NAP WOULD’VE FELT LIKE HEAVEN SINCE, THANKS TO THE Goons, I was running on less than three hours’ sleep. But there was no time. I was meeting Frank Lucado at a construction site on Milk Street in twenty minutes. It wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk. So no nap, but I could just about beat the world record for fastest shower. I hopped in, hopped out, and toweled my hair dry. Then I pulled on a fresh pair of black leather jeans and a red turtleneck. Add a new pair of pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled black patent leather boots, and I was the poster girl for kick-ass demon killers. Lucado would hire me in a second.

Or so I hoped, anyway. I grabbed my black leather jacket and raced out the door.

A few minutes later, I was there—and right on time. I stood in front of a half-built office building, a couple of blocks past the point where the New Combat Zone gives way to human-controlled Boston. A plywood wall surrounded the site, repeating the name LUCADO CONSTRUCTION, INC. every ten feet or so, interspersed among warnings that you were about to enter a hard-hat site and counts of how many days the site had been accident-free. Ninety-four so far. Not bad. I stepped inside the gate and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, but saws buzzed and hammers banged somewhere inside.

“Hey!” said a voice right behind me, so close it made me jump. “This is a construction site. Filene’s is that way.”

I turned to see a big-bellied guy in a dirty T-shirt and a yellow hard hat, pointing west. I didn’t bother to let him know that Filene’s had been bought by Macy’s a few years back. Or that the old Filene’s building was now in the middle of Deadtown.

The guy dropped his arm and looked me up and down with the kind of leer only a construction worker can give. If they have a leering class in construction-worker school, this guy had aced it, for sure. He licked his lips and said, “Hey, if you wanna come back later, I get off at five.”

“As tempting as that offer is”—I smiled sweetly—“I’d rather eat nails.” That got a surprised laugh out of him. I went on before he could tell me I was “feisty.” “I have an appointment with Mr. Lucado.”

“You’re here to see Frank? Jeez, why didn’t you say so? Hang on a minute and I’ll take you to him.”

He turned and walked into the trailer that served as the site office, treating me to a view of the gap between his T-shirt and his too-low jeans, which were dragged down by his tool belt. The gap stopped short of his butt crack. Thank heaven for small mercies.

When he returned, he was carrying a hard hat. A fluorescent orange one. “Here.” He held it out to me. “Can’t let you on the site without one.”

“Thanks, um . . .”