“Vicky,” he whispered.
Instead of answering, I kissed him. Joined at the lips, our bodies pressed their full lengths against each other. This was definitely more like it. After a minute, he drew back—just a little—and again I felt his warm breath at my ear.
“You know . . .” His murmur brushed me like a caress. “Saturday’s the full moon. Are you coming with me?”
Ever have a nice, steamy shower suddenly go ice-cold? That’s the effect his words had on me. I sat up, pushing him away.
“Not this month. I’m busy.”
Kane wanted me to go with him on his monthly werewolf retreat. As a condition of getting limited legal rights in Massachusetts, werewolves were required to spend three days each month—the time of the full moon—at a secure werewolf preserve: in Princeton, in Athol, or out in the Berkshires in Savoy. For those three days, werewolves were free to unleash their inner beasts, as long as they stayed inside the twelve-foot-high electrified fences topped with silver-coated razor wire. The surveillance towers, staffed by sharpshooters, made the local townsfolk feel secure enough that they didn’t show up with torches and pitchforks.
You’d think that Kane—campaigner for PA civil rights— would object to what amounted to a three-day imprisonment of all werewolves every month. But that wasn’t how he talked about it now.
“You have no idea how beautiful it is. The moon shining over the hills, almost as bright as day. Not a human anywhere. You can run and run, feeling all the raw power and strength that you’ve held back all month, let go of everything you’ve kept coiled inside.” He moved back in, so close his lips brushed my ear as he spoke. “And making love is amazing. We can be who we really are.”
He reached for me, but I pushed him away again. “Who youreally are. I’m not a werewolf.” I slid over to the far end of the sofa.
“But you can change into a wolf. You’d be just like one of us.”
“Just like,” I repeated darkly, reaching for my coffee. Just like nothing, I thought. Sure, I could change into a wolf. But I could never be one of them. I was a shapeshifter; my instincts were different. I didn’t wantto be a sham werewolf.
Why was it so hard to explain that?
Kane sighed, then picked up his coffee mug. We both sipped in silence for a minute.
“Besides,” I said. “I already shifted once this month when I was doing a job over in the Back Bay. I’ve only got two left.”
“So come on Saturday instead of Friday. Stay for two days.”
“But then—” I tried to think of another excuse and came up dry.
“What are you afraid of, Vicky?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Nothing,” I said, hoping the bright, professional voice I used on the phone would cover up the lie. “This month doesn’t work for me, that’s all.”
His look—brows raised over skeptical eyes—said I didn’t fool him for a second.
I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand. “Don’t answer me now—not if you’re going to say no.” He scooted next to me and lightly stroked my thigh. “We’ll talk about it later, all right?”
“Later won’t make any difference.”
Another sigh. Then he sat up straight, checking his watch. “Damn, I’ve got to go.” He was on his feet. “I’m giving a press conference in front of City Hall, and I need to get there early. There’s a rumor that Baldwin might show up.”
Seth Baldwin was running for governor on an anti- “Monsterchusetts” platform, vowing to take away the few rights PAs had won and drive us from the state. “You think he’s going to crash your press conference?”
“I’d love to see him try. It’d be the perfect place to show the world what a bigoted ass he is, in front of all those rolling cameras.”
Kane left so fast it was hard to believe he’d been panting for me a few minutes before. A quick peck on the cheek and he was gone.
IN BED, I BURROWED UNDER MY TWO LAYERS OF THICK down comforters. Juliet needed the apartment cold when she slept the sleep of the dead. In spite of the coffee, I was dead tired myself. Between Tina crashing George Funderburk’s dream, me getting almost trapped inside his dreamscape, and now the feeling that I’d let Kane down—it had been a long night.
I tossed to one side, then turned to the other, sleep hovering just beyond the edges of my consciousness. Kane’s disappointed face floated against my eyelids, even when I buried my head under the pillow. He was asking too much. I wasn’t going to alter my nature, not even for him. I was a shapeshifter, not a werewolf. I was Cerddorion—part of a long line of Welsh shapeshifters stretching all the way back to the goddess Ceridwen—and I was proud of my heritage. Like others of my kind, I could change into any sentient creature, and I could do it just three times each moon cycle. So if I started hanging out with Kane and his lupine buddies every month, I’d be stuck in wolf mode. Each retreat was three nights—that’d be it for my three changes.
What are you afraid of? he’d asked. There was the answer. I was afraid he wanted me to become something I wasn’t.
But I was also afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose him.
Sleep swallowed me suddenly and deeply, like I’d tumbled into a pitch-black well. No dreams. I’d had enough of dreams for one night.
Or so I thought. Like any self-respecting demon-fighter, I have lucid dreams—I know when I’m dreaming and I stay in control. But somewhere in the depths of my sleep I heard a hammering. Loud. Insistent. And I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. No images, just blackness. I went deeper into sleep, searching for the cause of the sound. It got louder, but I wasn’t getting any closer. The sound eluded me, always just around the corner. But there were no corners. Was something wrong with my dreamscape?
Wham! The crash of a redwood falling, an avalanche booming, a cannon firing—or something that loud—resounded through the apartment. I half-leaped out of bed, getting tangled in the sweaty sheet and falling onto my side. The room, darkened by blackout shades, was as inscrutable as my sleep. Was I still dreaming? Was I awake? How the hell could I not know?
My bedroom door burst open, and light stabbed into the room. Two shapes hulked in the doorway. Somehow, I didn’t think they’d stopped by to wish me sweet dreams.
4
“FREEZE!” SHOUTED A MAN’S VOICE. “THIS IS THE HUMAN-Paranormal Joint Task Force!”
The Goon Squad? What the hell was the Goon Squad doing in my apartment? I squinted toward the doorway. Pointing two guns at my head, that was what.
“Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.” I slowly raised both hands. “What’s the problem?”
Somebody found the light switch. A blinding glare, and I could make out the features of my visitors: one human, one really big zombie. The human stepped forward, his gun steady. “You’re the problem, you damn freak.”
The zombie behind him, so tall he stooped in the doorway, growled. Not a pleasant sound.
“Shut up, Sykes,” said the human, who seemed to be in charge. “And cuff her.”
“Hey, wait a minute—” I began, but the zombie picked me up and flipped me over like he was a short-order cook making flapjacks. In two seconds he’d cuffed my hands behind my back. In another three, I was half-standing, half-hanging from Sykes’s superhuman grip as he dragged me over to his partner. Thank God I’d put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. Often I didn’t bother with pajamas.
The human cop holstered his gun. He was short, ugly, and mean-looking. He put himself right in my face, so close I could see the pores that pitted his oily skin. His breath smelled like onions and cheap cigars.
I was scared as hell. The Goon Squad meant business—police business. The Boston cops sent the Goons into Deadtown to do the dirty jobs. But I wasn’t going to let this bozo see one drop of fear. Squaring my shoulders as much as I could, given Zombie Sykes’s death grip on my arm, I glared at the human and said, “You’d better tell me what this is about. My attorney is Alexander Kane, and he’ll—”