“Why now?” the uncle said. “Why tonight? He’s, what, late thirties? Why hasn’t he changed before?”
“The first time we change with our pack. Maybe he needed a pack to change.” Romanov shrugged without taking her eyes from Lobison’s. “There’ll be time to figure that out. Later.”
“Detective,” Mannaro said, “just as a matter of curiosity, are your parents still living?”
“Look,” Lobison said, “I’m not exactly in the mood for twenty questions. I’m tired and I’m filthy and my ears are still ringing from the explosion and I’m hungry—”
“You’re not just hungry,” Mannaro said, his voice understanding, almost caressing. “You’re ravenous.”
Lobison felt his stomach rumble again, this time as if in response to the words. He stared from Mannaro to Romanov. “What’s going on?” he said, and he could barely recognize his own voice in what growled out of his throat. “What the hell is happening to me?”
“Uuuuuuuncle,” Romanov said, and without warning Lobison knew that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He wanted to jump on her, tear her clothes from her body, feast on her flesh. The saliva flooded his mouth, he had never been so hungry, so edgy, so needy.
The uncle glanced up at the full moon, and back at Romanov. “Soon, Neri.”
“Noooooow,” she said. It was almost a howl, and Lobison felt that howl in the very marrow of his bones. He could smell her, her arousal, her need, he wanted to feed, to sate this abrupt, pounding need, he wanted to take. She was his, this night she was only his. He would take, he had to, it was no longer a choice, if indeed it ever had been one. He took a step forward, breath coming fast now, close enough to nuzzle her throat, close enough to smell the blood pounding beneath her skin, close enough to bite.
Mannaro looked at the two of them standing so close to each other, and laughed, a knowing sound, an invitation into the dark. “The tribe increases. Who knew? The gift that keeps on giving.” He looked at the chief of detectives, who had intercepted the Channel 2 reporter and was leading her in the opposite direction. “All right,” he said. “Now.”
The three of them melted into the trees, Lobison joining the others as if by instinct. His eyesight was suddenly so acute that impressions rushed in to overwhelm him. An owl perched on the branch of a tree blinking its knowing eyes. A hare crouched in a hollow, its white coat almost indistinguishable from the surrounding snow but he could see every twitch of a whisker, hear every flick of an ear, taste the rich, red blood, feel the crunch of bones between his teeth.
Once among the trees it seemed natural to strip the clothes from his body, to drop to his hands and knees, only they were paws now, paws with long, sharp claws that dug strongly into the snow, that claimed the earth and made the wild his own.
Mannaro put his nose in the air and howled. Now an elegant black wolf, his call was deep, mellow and compelling. It reverberated inside Lobison’s skull, swamping every other sound and sense, an imperative call he could not ignore.
Mannaro was answered immediately by Romanov, on four legs long and slender, white fur silver in the moonlight. The howl tore apart everything Lobison thought he was and the moonlight rebuilt him into something else, an untamed being of beauty and grace and hunger.
Romanov howled once more, a long, drawn-out call of yearning. Her head dropped and she looked at him, blue eyes unblinking.
He looked back, feeling that howl in every sinew and bone, in every hair of the thick gray pelt that now covered his body. He could smell her, almost taste her, the seductive, singing scent of her musk. He wanted her in a way he had never wanted her before, had never wanted anything ever before, wanted with a savage need that rode him like a demon, relentless, unmerciful, inevitable, undeniable.
She sprang at him, nipping at his shoulder, her teeth stinging, and vanished into the trees.
The smell of his own blood flooded his nostrils. In the next instant he was after her.
Christmas Past
Keri Arthur
Keri’s an Aussie gal who grew up sharing her life with dragons, elves, vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, and the occasional talking horse. Which worried her family to no end. Of course, now that she’s actually making a living sharing her life with the aforementioned creatures, they no longer contemplate calling the men with the short white coats. When not at her keyboard, Keri can be found in front of the TV, or taking her two dogs for a walk.
Normally, I love Christmas.
I love decorating my scrawny little tree with tinsel and ornaments, and hanging Christmas lights in every available corner of my one-bedroom apartment. I love making eggnog and baking Christmas gingerbreads, and the way Christmas cheer suddenly fills the usually dour offices of the Para-investigations squad. I even liked battling the Christmas hordes to get the latest “must-have” present for my niece and nephews.
And I’d been looking forward to all that and more this year to make up for the crappiness that had been last year’s Christmas. But it was all starting to go sour again, and it had a whole lot to do with my current situation.
For a start, it’s hard to feel very Christmassy when you’re standing in an elf costume in the middle of a snowstorm freezing your ass off.
And okay, it wasn’t exactly a snowstorm—more like a steady sprinkling of the wet white stuff—but when I was dressed in a silly green outfit that wasn’t even fur-lined like a Santa costume would have been, and wearing stupid pointy shoes that jingled annoyingly every time I moved, it might as well have been a storm. Warmth just wasn’t happening.
But the snow wasn’t the worst of it. I could probably have handled the snow and the cold and the non-appearance of anything resembling a bad guy, if it weren’t for the six-foot, broad-shouldered, dark-haired presence standing deep in the shadows of a doorway ten feet to my left.
That presence just happened to be Brodie James, werewolf expert and chief investigator for the Para-investigations squad. Owner of a killer smile and a body designed to inspire lust.
And the man who had dumped me without warning precisely one year ago.
I blew out a breath and rang the bell with more force than necessary. The cheery sound pealed out across the darkness, but did little to attract the attention of the strangers who scurried past. On a night like this, all anyone wanted to do was get inside. Giving to charity wasn’t even hitting their radar.
Hell, the fiend who was murdering Christmas collectors probably had more sense than to come out on a night like that.
Which meant my standing there as bait was every bit as useless as it was feeling.
“Ring that bell any harder, and you’ll probably break it,” Brodie said, his warm, rich voice filled with amusement.
It was a sound that had filled far too many of my dreams over the last year.
I didn’t answer him. I might have to work with the rat on this case, but I didn’t have to talk to him any more than necessary. I suppose I just had to be thankful he’d been out of the state on other cases for the better part of the year. I would have had to ask for a transfer if I’d had to deal with him day in and day out.
And that would have been a damn shame, because I actually liked being a part of the squad. When I wasn’t standing out in a snowstorm freezing my ass off, that was. And it was certainly a job that suited my talent for sensing “evil” in people—human or not. The squad was a small division of the FBI, and we handled any case that held even the remotest hint of paranormal activity. Humans might have accepted the presence of vamps, werewolves, and the other things that went bump in the night, but they sure as hell didn’t like getting involved with them. And the cops were very quick to handball anything mystical.