“It’s easier if you’re nude when you do it,” Cordelia said.
“What is it with you Werewolves?” I flapped away a mosquito. October in Creemore and the bugs were still hungry. “You’re always looking for any excuse to walk around naked.”
It was getting dark, but I could still witness her left eyebrow rise into a truly impressive arch. “Do I walk around nude? Have you
“If anyone had, I’d be three hundred and seventy-five bucks richer,” said Biggs from the other side of the cedars.
“Haven’t you and your ‘bros’”—her throaty voice stretched the word out in one long vowel of dismissal —“anything better to do with your pennies?”
“Hey, Cordelia, inquiring minds want to know.”
I knew where this was going. They couldn’t say “pass the salt” without sarcasm and disdain hitching a ride on the saltshaker.
All our nerves were shot tonight. Yesterday morning a letter had arrived from Reeve Whitlock, head of the Council of the North American Weres. It had looked innocuous enough. Plain envelope, a Canadian stamp affixed crookedly in the corner. Inside was this piece of news: a formal request from the NAW for our accounts books and notification of a meeting, set for the middle of next week. The prospect of an audit should have produced an eye roll from Cordelia and a heavy sigh from Harry.
Right?
But Harry had said, “It’s a smokescreen. They’re laying a paper trail down so that they can sew it up neatly later for the Great Council. Whitlock’s ironed out whatever problem kept him from sticking his nose into our business and now he’s coming for us.”
Cordelia had refolded the letter and slid it back into its plain white envelope. Then she’d turned and stared out the dinette window, her carefully painted mouth a long grim slash. “It couldn’t have gone on much longer,” she said. “We all knew that.”
We did?
Six months ago, my aunt Lou had killed Mannus, the former Alpha of Creemore. As crowns for the furry are a matter of lineage and ability, my mate, Robson Trowbridge, had stepped into the position. Well, technically, he’d been shoved into it as he’d been borderline comatose in those desperate moments following his sudden ascension.
I had a choice: save his life or watch his death.
I’m always going to put my money on life.
Anyhow, for the last six months, I’d assumed the role of Alpha-by-proxy, which meant I was “leading” the Weres of Ontario in his absence. Basically the job boiled down to signing stuff. And smiling a lot. And pretending to look like I understood what was going on, when usually I felt about fifteen minutes behind the conversation.
It was hard to keep focused. My brain kept drifting from topic to topic because I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in … Fae Stars. Eight months? It was bad enough watching Trowbridge die night after night. But now my nightmares pulled me into Threall. And to that room with the old wizard and Mad-one.
Cordelia snapped, “Tell Biggs to keep his eyes straight ahead.”
Tetchy, wouldn’t you say?
Maybe I should have chosen a place up in the hills to do this, instead of the forgotten part of the cemetery. But only the most intrepid Creemore wolf would willingly put a paw in this portion of the graveyard, because wolves are, on the whole, superstitious, and—get this—scared of anything supernatural. Ghost stories? They wouldn’t read them. Hell, R. L. Stine novels are
Yup, the pack wasn’t much keen on the woo-woo. Even though I’ve never met a Were who’s seen a spook, the entire pack had formed the opinion that their final hunting ground was
Yeah, I know. It makes me smile, too.
Truth was, there were only three ghosts as far as I could see. The fussy duet who lived at the newer end of Creemore’s St. Luke cemetery kept to themselves, hovering close to the marker of CAROL’S DEARLY BELOVED HUSBAND DWAYNE (1899–1993), while the single spirit who lived in the oldest part—a female ghost who seemed to have a strange fixation on me—always stayed behind the low crumbling stone wall that surrounded her tiny pocket of the cemetery. I’m thinking stalker-ghost was once an outsider, too, because her final resting spot was on the wrong side of the rotting picket fence that once had delineated what was sacred land from that which was not.
What had she been? A suicide?
Whatever she’d been, they’d hated her enough to put two barriers—a fence and a stone wall—around her earthly remains. Seemed unfair. As spirits go, yes, she was a bit of a stalker—snoopy as hell in a very unnerving, focused sort of way—but on the whole, she was quiet, verging on shy. The one time I’d snuck up to say hey, she’d taken off, her shroud wreathing around her in a very cool way. Mostly, she flitted from one end of her corral to the other. She never left it.
That’s why we were doing this whole cloak-and-dagger business on this side of the old barrier—the safe side—where there were only five little headstones for five dead babies, and three tall pines, and yeah—one blurry-edged ghost. I considered explaining all this to Cordelia but her teeth were set on presnarl and conversations in the face of that scowl inevitably unraveled. Besides, she’d screwed up her courage to do this here, the one place we could count on not being bothered. Kind of took away from her bragging rights if I told her that the only person watching this besides Biggs was a skittish spook.
“How can I guard you guys if my eyes are straight ahead?” Biggs made a hole in the greenery and grinned through it. He could well be cocky; he was on the other side of the hedge that separated the cemetery from the pack’s gathering field. “Someone could sneak up along the cliff path and ambush you.”
Cordelia reached for her hoop earring. She could have been getting undressed for the moon-call, but it was equally possible she was getting ready to inflict a course correction on my pack’s third.
“No one is going to ambush us,” I said, with more optimism than I felt. “Biggs, keep your eyes peeled for any Were who somehow managed to misinterpret my warning not to show up until the moon has completely risen.”
“I am.”
“Not if you keep spying on what’s happening on this side of the hedge.”
“A good Were should have eyes and ears on the back of his head,” he intoned. “He should sense when a —”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Biggs. That was an order.”
There, the Alpha-by-proxy had spoken.
Biggs subsided behind the screen of cedars. He was the only Were I felt comfortable ordering about. If they were all as simple to control as my friend on the other side of the bush, I’d be—
“Clothing,” repeated Cordelia.
It was nippy. Not quite cold enough to frost my breath—mouth breathing being required because Biggs was smelling kind of funky. Blame it on the moon. On a regular day, Weres have a distinctive aroma to them—fresh air, woods, earth, maybe with a touch of fox—but during the three nights of the full moon their scent turned nose- twitching raunchy.
Faes don’t have a scent.
This is just one of the many distinctions between Faes and Werewolves. Those born two-natured change at the moon’s call. Fae do not. We make ourselves a cup of cocoa and go to bed early. We may even clamp a pillow over our head so that we don’t hear all those dog whines and choked barks escaping from the morphing snouts of the young cubs who don’t know any better. I guess because I’m half Were I should admit that once in his wolf
