Robin had once almost been married to a woman named Cyrilla. I remembered the name because it was one of the few times he’d said something about himself that had mattered, not the usual bragging and name-dropping. Cyrilla had mattered to him; she still did, although long gone, and I hadn’t forgotten. Then was monogamy that out of the question? And he would’ve married her too, that had been clear, if she hadn’t died with Pompeii. I knew that. He’d told me and I believed him. But that had been a long time ago and just the one time. Besides…
Robin Goodfellow?
“And Ishiah has a problem with this?” Niko closed the trunk, immediately giving a minute wince that meant he wished he could take the question back. The soap opera that was Robin’s life could be time-consuming and we didn’t have the time.
But… I was curious.
“Yeah, I thought he wanted you to be a little less… er… Goodfellow,” I added. “You remember… Less whoring around, less lying, stealing, and cheating.” I’d thought that somewhat uptight. Robin was who he was. He was a puck, a trickster; he was born to do exactly what he did. Where did Ish get off saying he should be any different? “He’s changed his mind?”
“It seems so.” He kept his forehead pressed against the back of the seat. “It seems he’s mellowed somewhat over the past millennium and feels he has been unfair to me; may have coerced me into fidelity. As if anyone could coerce me into anything I didn’t want,” he snorted, promptly forgetting his rampant fear of the one-on-one relationship he’d been raving about seconds ago. “So he thought a small separation of a week would put things in perspective for me. I would decide if I wanted to jump the first Hooters waitress I saw or stay noble and true for him. And-wrap your mind around this-he’ll be all right with it either way. He’s ready to accept me for good or bad… for nonpuck or for puck. He said he was wrong and he likes me the way I am, and the way I’ve always been. It just took him a while to become a little less judgmental and come to his senses.”
“And this is bad how?” Niko asked as he swept a few stray bits of glass from the driver’s seat and sat, shutting the door behind him. “This is the perfect Goodfellow situation. You can have your cake and eat it too.” And we all knew how much Robin liked his cake. “I would think you’d be celebrating.”
I went to the passenger side and was greeted by fangs shown in a cheerful greeting, jack-o-lantern eyes, and a ruby collar with gold ID tag around a hairless neck. I opened the door and Salome, who was sitting upright, regal, and ready for her ride, didn’t move. I opened my jacket and showed her my gun. She opened her mouth and I watched her already-visible fangs slide farther out of her gray gums and double in size. I closed my jacket and got in the backseat with Robin.
“Celebrating what?” he asked mournfully. “That I’ve become something I’m not or that I’m afraid to become something new-if I even can become something new? And is new necessarily better?” This time he leaned against the backseat. “Perhaps peris and pucks cannot be. To do one justice, the other has to give up part of himself.” He closed his eyes. “Bedtime. Wake me up at the first ninety-year-old lady in need of flashing.”
“Or the first Waffle House waitress.” There were times I thought that maybe a hundred thousand years of screwing anything and everything would get old after a while, even for a puck. Then I would go to the next logical thought: This was Robin we were talking about. Not to mention that pucks were born sex addicts. It was in their genes. I knew how hard it was to fight those, even if mine was only a half dose. I was glad it wasn’t my problem to figure it out, but I had sympathy for Robin. When you were born to lie, cheat, steal, trick, and screw everything in sight-when that was your purpose designed by nature itself, that was a lot to fight against.
“When you’ve had sex with more than two people, you’re allowed a comment.” Goodfellow flicked a feather my way with an annoyed jerk of his hand. “Now? Not quite.” Then he was instantly snoring and more feathers were wafting in the air.
“Great start. Yeah, couldn’t have gone any better.” I batted them away with annoyance. “Don’t bother to wake me up in Canton, Nik, unless Suyolak is dropping every man, woman, child, and puppy in town. I don’t have any desire to say hey to Abelia-Roo.” I slid down, wedged into the corner, and got comfortable for the long haul. I planned on being nap bound as quickly as Goodfellow. I couldn’t say I blamed Promise for not coming along. Our last road trip hadn’t been enjoyable in any way, shape, or form… multiple forms. Once bitten, twice likely to stay home in the lap of penthouse luxury.
We were following the old Lincoln Highway that ran across the country to California long before the addition of newer interstates. Niko thought, and it made sense, that whoever had taken Suyolak would know the Rom… all the Rom in the country… would be looking for his truck. They would stick to the interstates for maximum coverage and if the guy was smart, he wouldn’t. And when Niko Googled last night an outbreak of ten meningitis cases, a higher number than your average outbreak, that were diagnosed the evening before in Canton, Ohio, along the Lincoln, it sealed the deal in his mind. He called Abelia to let her know where to meet us, and that Suyolak had either found some way of working through the coffin or there was one helluva coincidence in Canton. At least whoever had taken Suyolak apparently hadn’t opened the coffin or else Canton would be a dead zone and surrounded by the army, fingers ready to pull the trigger on anything that looked like a sick chicken, sneezing pig, or a rabid monkey.
As for who had taken him, Niko’s colleagues hadn’t come through yet. He had given them the parameters: researchers or professors in the country who know the Rom the best, but had recently dropped out of sight-real life or virtual. All academics lived/breathed/worked on the Internet these days. And any hint of one with a sick relative would be ideal. Dr. Samuels, Niko’s first call, wasn’t having much luck, but Dr. Jones was positive she was close-she could smell it. I didn’t doubt her. Wolves smelled everything; humans smelled gossip. But right now, that spelled nothing else for me to do except catch up on my sleep, which I was on the verge of doing when my cell phone rang. It was the missing- in-action Delilah. And Robin’s problem wasn’t mine to solve, but this one was.
“Pretty boy.”
I’d never broken her of calling me that, especially with the large scar on my chest. Wolves did love their scars. “Delilah. Did you get my voice mail about unmanning, unwolfing, or whatever you want to call it, a friend of yours?”
“Yes. Grey. He hunts forever now,” she said in what sounded like an exotic accent, but was actually vocal cords stuck halfway between human and wolf. Delilah wasn’t a high or fine breed, which should’ve put her below others in her particular Kin pack-or any Kin pack. But everything else she had going for her more than managed to overcome the social scorn that the recessive breeding sought by her minority Wolf sect, the All Wolf, brought out in the high breeds. “All wolf all the time” was their motto-no, more of a religion, I guessed. They were slowly trying to breed the human out of them to accomplish that. So far I hadn’t seen much of a success story-just some really odd-looking humans with wolf teeth, eyes, and twisted jaws, though there could be more like Delilah, the differences internal and hidden.
“You don’t sound too torn up about it.” “Hunts forever” was the werewolf polite way of saying “He’s passed on” rather than “He’s deader than a rat in a university bio lab.”
“He lost breeding equipment. Speaks not much of his fighting skills. Truth… to me, no difference before he had them than after. Have had better lovers.” I could almost hear her shrug. “Not why I call. They know. Grey found out-you and me. He told Kin… They know.”