the guy for dinner. When I got to the restaurant, he was waiting for me in the bar, sipping a Scotch on the rocks. I don’t think it was his first one, either—he weaved a little as we followed the maitre d’ to our table. The way he stared made me feel like some kind of zoo animal. Before our appetizers arrived, he got down to business: “So you’re a shapeshifter, huh?” I nodded, and with shining eyes he took a rolled-up magazine from his jacket pocket. “Can you change into this?” The centerfold dropped open, and there was Miss July in all her silicone glory.
My last image of that date was Scotch dripping off his nose and chin.
Through the bathroom window, I could see Gwen’s kids running around in the backyard. They were playing tag, from the look of things. Maria ran very, very slowly, arms and legs pumping exaggeratedly, so little Justin could catch up and tag her. Gwen didn’t have a thing to worry about with that girl.
Muffled voices penetrated the door. Even by pressing my ear against the wood, though, I couldn’t make out what they were saying or who was speaking. I gazed longingly toward the window. Maybe I could climb out and join the kids in their game of tag. I’d even volunteer to be It.
I actually had my hand on the window latch before I could admit how silly I was being. I regularly confronted the nastiest demons in Boston, but I was afraid to be introduced to a norm in my sister’s living room? Okay, okay. I could do this. I unlocked the door, sighing. At least I got to be fully armed when I went to meet the demons. I didn’t have so much as a slingshot to keep Andy at bay.
As I opened the door, Gwen was talking, for some reason, about the heights and weights of her kids at their births. Andy must have been riveted. I almost felt a stab of pity for him. I walked down the short hallway and peered around the corner into the living room. Gwen sat on the sofa, her back to me. Facing her in one of the wing chairs was an elegant, for tyish woman in a taupe business suit. She wore her blonde hair up in a twist. Half- glasses perched on her nose as she wrote in a notebook, nodding.
No Andy. I was safe. I strode into the living room. When the woman saw me, her face lit up like a kid who’d just watched Santa Claus emerge from the fireplace. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Vicky, Gwen’s sister.”
The woman stood and extended her hand. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” Her hand was cold and a little damp. She shook hands vigorously and seemed reluctant to let go. I tugged my hand away, and we both sat down.
“Vicky, this is Sheila Gravett. She’s a doctor. She’s offering free health screenings to selected children from Maria’s school.”
Gravett—I knew that name. The woman watched me with intense interest, and a chill swept over me as I realized who she was. Gravett Biotech. The werewolf cloner. And she was here to ask Gwen about her
“Why don’t you tell my sister the truth, Dr. Gravett?”
Gwen gaped at me. Gravett smoothed a hand over her already smooth hair and smiled, like she was glad I’d seen through her lie. She started to say something, but I cut her off. “The good doctor isn’t a pediatrician. She’s a research scientist—and president of Gravett Biotech. She’s trying to decode the Cerddorion genome so that her company can make a fortune off it. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“What I’m doing is in the interest of science. As I explained to you on the phone—”
Gwen blinked rapidly, like she was trying to process what was going on. “You lied to me? You wanted to”— she searched for the right word—“to
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Santini. In fact, I’m relieved your sister has revealed the truth. I don’t like to fabricate lies.” She shot me a cool glance. “But Vicky has been uncooperative, and I wanted a chance to meet you in person, to explain that this research can unlock the hidden mysteries of shapeshifting, for the good of your children, your family—for the good of this great nation.”
Oh, please. All we needed was a waving flag and the “Star-Spangled Banner” swelling in the background. “Okay, Dr. Gravett,” I said, “you’ve made your case. As you can see, Gwen isn’t interested. The front door’s that way.”
Gravett didn’t move. She leaned forward in her chair, watching Gwen, who twisted her hands in her lap.
I stood up and stepped toward the researcher. “Out,” I said. “I’ll pick you up and throw you out myself if you don’t get moving. I’m not kidding.”
Gravett looked at me, a challenge in her eyes. Her expression suggested she’d like nothing better than a chance to witness my paranormal strength. After another glance at Gwen, she sighed and got to her feet.
That’s when Gwen looked up. “Wait. If you decode this genome, does that mean—” Her eyes shone. “Does that mean you could find a cure?”
“A cure?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. “For God’s sake, Gwen, it’s not a disease. It’s what we are.”
My sister turned to me, her face cold. “It’s what
Gravett pushed past me to sit down next to Gwen. “Once we understand how the shapeshifter gene works, we may be able to deactivate it, yes.”
The wheels were spinning behind Gwen’s eyes. You could almost see her calculating how much time the research might take versus how much time Maria had left until puberty. I wanted to shake her, to tell her to let her daughter be what she was—Cerddorion or human.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed five. Gwen blinked, looking like she’d just come out of a dream. She stood. “I have to start supper,” she said. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Gravett. I have your card. I’ll call you.”
Gravett stood too, smiling that damned smug smile, and Gwen walked her to the front door.
“Gwen—” I began when she came back.
“Don’t start, Vicky. Just don’t. I’m not going to discuss it with you now.” She pushed past me and went into the kitchen. This time, no banging sounds emerged. The silence was scarier.
I didn’t stay for dinner. Besides the fact that I still didn’t want to be introduced to Andy, the bad feelings between Gwen and me meant that this was not a good night to be sharing lasagna around the Santini family table. So I took a taxi to Needham Heights Station and caught an early train back to Boston. After the conductor punched my ticket, I sat and stared out the window. The light faded as we sped past graffiti-covered walls, gradually showing nothing but my own scowling face reflected in the glass. I was glad the light was gone, plunging Boston into the world of vampires, zombies, and other night creatures. The meeting with Gravett the mad scientist had put me in a bad mood. I was ready to kill some demons.
10
BOSTON’S NORTH END IS A WARREN OF NARROW, TWISTING streets lined with brownstones, mom-and- pop grocery stores, wholesalers, and some of the best Italian restaurants you’ll find outside of Tuscany. I drove down North Street and turned right on Lewis—the Jag whined in protest as I turned the wheel, then coughed a couple of times. Damn, I really needed to get that checked. I made a left on Commercial, which brought me to Atlantic and the waterfront. There it was, Commodore Wharf. I had to hand it to Lucado—he’d put up a good- looking building. Tasteful, even. Mostly brick, it rose ten stories and sported balconies, arched windows, and lots of glass. Modern, luxurious, but not out of place in Boston’s oldest neighborhood.
I parked in a visitor’s space and breezed past the doorman, who waved me through when I told him who I was there to see. The lobby was as classy as the building’s exterior: marble floors, dark wood paneling, leather chairs clustered here and there in conversation groups. Nice.
When I rang Lucado’s doorbell, it was a few minutes before ten. The door was opened by a massive chest with pumped-up pecs. At least, that’s what it looked like until I craned my head back to see the guy’s face. He was well over six feet tall, and he had the face of a prizefighter who’d won himself more poundings than prizes: beady eyes and a zigzagging nose that’d been broken in at least three places. Besides a too-tight T-shirt, he wore jeans and black boots. Strange uniform for a butler, so I was guessing this must be Lucado’s bodyguard.
“You the demon killer?” His basso profundo voice sounded skeptical.
“That’s me.”
“Lemme see some ID.”
I handed him my state-issued PA identification card. Its photo was better than the mug shot on my driver’s license, not that I cared what Lucado’s pet ape thought. He squinted at it for a long time. I was about to offer help sounding out the words, when he handed it back to me. Then he stood there, filling up the doorway, the Man-
