The Thing About Weres

to understand the damage I have done. I cannot take back the conjure that tore the sun out of the Pool of Life, any more than I can undo the war that followed. But as long as I live, both in soul and body, my wards will last. It will be a testament to our endurance. We must hold in Threall until the next true Mage of Merenwyn is born … it is he who should benefit from my Book of Spells, not a man with questionable skills and unlimited ambition. Helzekiel’s lust for power is not tempered by compassion. Ruin will follow when there are no more constraints against his greed for magic.”

Mad-one’s eyes filled, but she did not cry.

“You know I speak the truth. You know he already demands to be known as the Black Mage among his circle.” The wizard walked to the door, then paused to say quietly, “Simeon has vowed to take your body to a place of safety and guard it at the price of his own.”

It was the arrow of pain she never saw sailing toward her. “You asked my lover to watch over my body as it slowly decays?” she said in quiet horror. “To pass milk-sopped bread between my slack lips?”

The Old Mage’s expression softened into true regret. “We have all suffered and will continue to suffer. Would it help to remember that your sacrifice will protect the world in which your lover lives?”

Not a whole lot, judging from the pain on Mad-one’s face.

He heaved a sigh and ran his hands through his thinning white hair. “Now, I must leave you to face my jury.”

“It is not a jury, Old Mage,” Mad-one hissed. “You will walk through those doors and never return.”

He turned to give her a hard look. “And you have five minutes with your lover before you must return to Threall.”

Wake up now.

Wake up before Simeon enters the room.

Chapter Five

“What?” called Cordelia.

“I didn’t say anything,” I mumbled. The rest of my sleep had been uninterrupted by dreams but filled with anxiety. I’d woken up every couple of hours, heart pounding, a growing conviction in my Fae bones that I was on the brink of something. I’d felt anxious and off balance all day—my fretfulness made worse by the fact that the pack always needed a day to recover from their moon run. That included Cordelia. Being quiet as a mouse in a house just so she could get her beauty rest had left me feeling a tad peeved.

Now it was late afternoon. I needed something more substantial to eat than a few Kit Kats.

“It’s those bloody motorcycles, they’re playing bloody havoc with my hearing,” she complained. “I can’t wait for fall to be over. All those stupid tourists with their loud bikes. Idiots. Reliving their childhoods.”

I couldn’t hear a thing.

“The shower’s yours now if you want it,” she said. A drawer opened and closed in her bedroom. “I called Harry. He and Biggs should be here soon for our usual premoon-run strategizing. Sign those papers for Harry, will you? And eat something. Something that will carry you longer than two hours. Oh, and the pack leader from Kenora is insisting on a private audience with you. Which means—”

“Dodge him.” I flipped the document over to the SIGN HERE flag and did just that.

Our fridge had milk, eggs, the remains of Cordelia’s hunk of roast beef in a plastic container—so raw it said “moo”—a thick block of cheddar cheese, and a leg of lamb waiting to be undercooked. I went down on one knee and looked at the bottom shelf. Cold cuts in yet another plastic container. Butter. A loaf of bread. Inside the vegetable crisper were some root vegetables. There was nothing decent to eat.

Blood had pooled at the bottom of the plate of meat. For a second I just stood there, letting the fridge air chill my bare feet, thinking, Predators, each and every one of them. In the door were a liter of Diet Coke, Cordelia’s supply of hormones, and an unopened silver tin of Ralph’s maple syrup. Numbly, I picked up the can and used my hip to close the door.

It would serve for an early supper.

The movement of the refrigerator door had stirred the air.

My nostrils flared. Stranger danger. I followed the current of Were perfume to the doorway, where a draft of air constantly leaked between the insulation and doorjamb. A deep inhale. Uh-huh. That’s an unfamiliar scent signature.

I twisted to look through the dinette area’s window.

A strange guy was sitting in one of our white plastic garden chairs, his gaze fixed on our twenty-nine-foot trailer. He’d taken sitting into a whole new slumped category, folding his arms over his chest, and balancing his butt on the very edge of his seat. Around thirty. Wiry. A study in black, from his neatly trimmed hair to his dark graphic T-shirt. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt, unzipped, under a battered leather jacket. A leather belt with a silver-toned buckle. Black-rimmed glasses—on a Were?—very ubercool and NYC ugly. And then, there was that thing on top of his head.

A fedora.

In Creemore.

Something about the way he lolled in the chair made me think of a rattler sunning itself, waiting for some bare ankle to pass by. I called to Cordelia, “What was the name of that guy from Kenora?”

The shower curtain made a clatter. “What?”

“The pack leader from Kenora behind on his tithes—the guy you said wanted to speak with me. What’s his name?” I tucked my hair behind my ear as I bent to give the Were in Black another thorough inspection through the dust-specked window. I don’t know what I expected from a Kenora wolf, but I knew it wasn’t urban chic. More like plaids, and white T-shirts, and maybe jeans with rips that had been earned versus designed.

Were in Black crossed his arms and lifted his chin in my direction. Not in a slow “hey” manner, more in a “yeah, I see you looking at me” way.

A drawer opened and closed in the master bedroom. “It was a stupid name. It reminded me of the drink my dear mama used to get blotto on it. Gin and … Collins. Tom Collins.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Well, it’s cocktail hour on the patio. Tom Collins is sitting in one of our chairs, watching our front door.” I brought the blinds down, and then, for good measure, swiveled the wand until the slats were closed.

Try ogling me through that, Fur-boy.

“Damn,” said Cordelia. A drawer opened and shut in the master bedroom as I used a can opener to pierce a hole in the top of the syrup tin. I found a saucer. And a napkin—Cordelia had managed to instill some table manners. I poured a good measure of syrup into the saucer as I sat down at the banquette.

“Use a spoon,” said Cordelia, suddenly appearing over my shoulder. I got a snootful of Chanel as she leaned over to haul the blinds back up. She’d put on one of her neutral outfits. Beige pants, beige top.

Checking out Tom Collins had been enough to lure her out of her room without her usual dash of bright carmine-red lipstick. She needed a shave. I twirled my finger in the saucer of syrup until it was coated, then I stuck it in my mouth. “He’s just waiting for us,” I mumbled, sucking on my digit. The guy from Kenora smiled slightly.

“That’s not Tom Collins,” Cordelia murmured. She made a minute adjustment to her red wig.

“Huh?” And that’s as far as I got, because those motorcycles that had been annoying Cordelia got close enough for even my ears to note them. One—no, two—bike engines throttled down for the turn at the end of our private road. Fae Stars, it was a veritable convoy. The old rusted mailbox listed on its post as the first motorcycle rumbled past it. Harry’s truck followed. Then another vehicle, and beyond that, two more, followed by another motorcycle.

Cordelia’s eyes were the same arctic blue, but they were now bleak. “Your hair’s a mess,” she said. And then she touched me—something hardly anyone did—gently pulling at the sides of my loose ponytail, so that the tips of my pointed Fae ears were hidden. The bikes came into the yard, their engines loud, abrasive. Under the cover of their noise, she said, “If you haven’t as yet killed that poor little bitch inside you, now’s the time to bring her out.”