and muffled, like a mermaid singing beneath the waves. I watched Kane for any sign of pain or discomfort, but his eyelids drifted shut as she did her work. By the time she finished, he lay on his side, tongue lolling. I could see him breathing, and I kept my eyes glued to the up-and-down movement, as if watching alone could keep it going.
Roxana stood. She went to the east side of the circle and made cutting motions with her hand, first on her right side, and then on her left. She stepped outside of the circle. As soon as she’d crossed the barrier, she turned around and closed the door she’d made.
Roxana regarded Mab, then me. “Now we wait.”
AND SO WE WAITED, WATCHING KANE, TALKING LITTLE, dozing in our chairs. Roxana had set up the circle to last as long as the tea lights burned—about two hours. While the candles burned, her circle formed a bubble of protection around Kane. When they went out, the circle would unmake itself.
I scrutinized Kane for any sign of change: a shortening of his fur, a change in the shape of his limbs or head. But no matter how much I hoped for change—any tiny alteration to show the ointment was working—I couldn’t see it.
Eventually, the candles began to sputter. They extinguished in the opposite order from Roxana’s lighting of them: west, south, east, and finally north. When the final candle stopped burning, sending up a thin stream of smoke, a shudder ran through Kane. He twitched, and we all leaned forward. His eyes opened. He stood, stretched, and yawned. Then he stepped outside the circle—every bit as much a wolf as when Roxana had cast it around him.
18
“I’M SO SORRY,” ROXANA SAID, PULLING ON HER COAT. “I really thought the ointment would work.”
“You made it as strong as we dared,” said Mab. “More wolfsbane would have been too risky.”
Kane was fine, no worse for wear than if he’d taken a twohour nap. I’d checked his paws: no burns or ulcerations. His heart beat normally, and he was alert, although he seemed despondent that Roxana’s spell had failed. We all were. More than that, though, I was relieved he was okay—in any form.
“Well,” Roxana said, “at least this might be helpful.” From her coat pocket she pulled something that looked like a small crocheted snowflake. It dangled from the end of a string loop.
“What is it?” I asked, taking it. A buzz passed from the object into my hand.
“It’s a diminution charm,” Roxana said. “It makes something big and powerful look smaller, less threatening. I thought it might be helpful if Kane wants to go out.” She looked around. “You have a great apartment, but who wants to spend three weeks cooped up in one place?”
“Thanks, Roxana. It’s a great idea. I’m so glad you thought of it.”
She glanced at Mab and smiled. “Your aunt suggested we have a contingency plan.”
“Quite so,” agreed Mab.
I slipped the loop over Kane’s neck. The air around him shimmered. His appearance blurred and then altered. He looked like a German shepherd: still ferocious, but less so than a two-hundred-pound werewolf. A perfect disguise. I removed the charm and placed it on the coffee table. In a moment, Kane was back in all his wolfish glory. Roxana wouldn’t take any payment for the charm. After she left, I went into my room, lay down on top of the comforter, and napped for a few hours. My sleep schedule is always erratic, living between the norm and paranormal worlds as I do, so I’m used to snatching a few z’s when I have the chance.
When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was hungry. I ran my fingers through my hair, stuck my feet into slippers, and went into the living room. Mab sat in a chair, reading. Kane was stretched out on the sofa, watching PNN. The story told of a planned protest march through the streets of Deadtown, tonight. Zombies were gathering to protest the code-red restrictions. I felt for the zombies—they must be suffering cabin fever big-time by now—but nobody would give a damn about their march. Not if it was in Deadtown. In the eyes of Police Commissioner Hampson and other norms, they could do whatever the hell they wanted—as long as they stayed inside the boundaries of Designated Area 1.
“Who’s hungry?” I asked.
Kane woofed, and Mab admitted she was feeling “a bit peckish,” so we all trooped into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and peered inside. “Let’s see. We’ve got lasagna, Salisbury steaks”—Kane howled at this point—“pizza, sesame chicken, fettuccine . . .”
“Heavens, child, is that how you get your food?” Mab looked every bit as horrified as if my freezer shelves held human heads instead of frozen dinners.
“If I had Rose to do my cooking, I’d eat as well as you. But I don’t cook.” My kitchen skills were limited to knowing which buttons to press on the microwave.
Mab made a sour face, but she chose fettuccine Alfredo with chicken.
For the next fifteen minutes, I gave the microwave a good workout. Everyone ate their food as soon as it was ready. Mab even admitted that her meal tasted better than she’d expected. I noticed she scraped up all of her Alfredo sauce.
After dinner, it was time to pick up the IDs from Carlos. “I’ll get those, then check on Juliet. I want to see how she’s doing, but I also want to ask her some more questions about the Old Ones.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mab said.
“You won’t—” What would be the best way to phrase this? “It won’t bother you that she’s a vampire?”
“I solemnly swear I’ll be on my best behavior,” Mab said. “If your Juliet really managed to escape the Old Ones’ thrall, she’s someone I want to meet.”
THE STREET WAS PACKED WITH ZOMBIES, ALL HEADED IN THE same direction we were. The protest march would start at the Old South Meeting House, proceed down Washington Street and along Winter Street, and finish at the Tremont Street checkpoints. Our goal, 24-Hour Copy, wasn’t far from the meetinghouse. The march was due to start at eleven—still more than an hour from now—but the zombies were already on their way. Some carried signs with slogans like ZOMBIES AREN’T MONSTERS and PERMIT THIS, HAMPSON! Others walked along doing what zombies do best—stuffing their faces with junk food. Laughter rang through the night. The scene felt festive, like the march was a parade, not a protest.
One person bucked the crowd, plowing through with her head down, like a rowboat with an underpowered outboard putt-putting against a strong current. I recognized the blond hair first, pulled into a high ponytail that swung as she walked. She wore a curve-hugging white T-shirt with a green plaid miniskirt, torn fishnet stockings, and black combat boots. The gigantic tote bag she lugged—pink accented with zebra stripes—looked like it could hold half my worldly possessions, including my car. As she got closer, I read the bold pink letters on her T-shirt: LOVE IS THE ANSWER. She barreled right past us; on the back of her shirt, black letters asked, WHAT THE HELL WAS THE QUESTION?
“Tina!”
She stopped in her tracks and turned around, searching for the person who’d called her. When she saw me, she scowled in greeting.
“Aren’t you joining the march?” I asked. It seemed like the kind of diversion that Tina would be first in line for. The closer to the front, the better the chances of getting on TV.
“Yeah, but I was going to your place first. Now at least I don’t have to trek all the way over there.” She knelt on the sidewalk and dug into her bag. She pulled out three celebrity gossip magazines, four tubes of lip gloss, a hairbrush, cell phone, assorted ponytail holders, and two pairs of sunglasses before she found what she was looking for:
I reached for the book, but Mab stepped between us. “Ah, so this must be the young lady you told me about a while back. The one who was your apprentice.” Funny that I’d never mentioned Juliet to Mab, but I’d told her all about Tina on my last visit to Wales.
“Young lady?” Tina wrinkled her nose. “That’s what my mom used to call me when she was mad.” She
