Now, there was a picture I could get behind.
I sipped some water and turned my thoughts to tonight’s Harpy attack. Harpies don’t attack at random. They’re conjured to go after a specific target—usually to torment, but this one was going for the kill. Who’d sent it after me?
Simone? Would she pay a sorcerer to get rid of the competition? I didn’t think so. Most werewolves preferred a more direct approach. They relished confrontation. Sneaking around and dealing with sorcerers wouldn’t occur to a werewolf. Okay, so I had Simone on the brain. And I was looking for the slightest excuse to make that hair-ripping picture a reality. But I didn’t believe she’d sent the Harpy.
No, if I were betting on who was behind the attack, I’d put all my cash on Pryce.
Pryce had lost his shadow demon, but he knew how to conjure Harpies better than any sorcerer. And he’d already tried so many times to kill me that he could list “attempted murder” under Hobbies on his résumé.
In the weeks since Myrddin revived him, Pryce had been quiet, in hiding. But maybe he was active again. Maybe that’s why the book kept showing me recent events. Not for my benefit, of course, but to taunt me, to remind me that my nemesis—the would-be king of the demons—was still out there.
And probably trying to kill me.
I could be jumping to conclusions, but I didn’t think so. In February, I’d ruined his attempt to take over the Ordinary. If he was getting ready to try again, he’d want me out of the way.
A hand pushed the door partway open and Juliet’s voice came through. “Bye now,” she was saying. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” (Juliet loves to quote Shakespeare—she can hold entire conversations stringing together the Bard’s immortal words.) The front door opened and closed. A moment later, Juliet strolled into the kitchen. She looked better—her eyes were bright and a pink flush colored her cheeks—except for the scowl that twisted her features. Her expression didn’t match the flirtatious, musical quality of her farewells. “I’m still hungry,” she said. She yanked open the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of blood. After dumping the contents into a mug, she put it in the microwave and jabbed some buttons. “See what I’m reduced to?” she demanded, as the microwave hummed. “I have an appetite for steak, and they bring me a celery stick.”
“I thought you liked Marvin.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Why ever would you think that?”
“‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’? Aren’t those words for a Romeo?”
“Please. First of all, Romeo did not make my Top Ten Lovers list, not even for his century. Second, I was not talking to that Marvin worm.” Her eyes glazed as she licked her lips. “I was talking to Brad.”
“Brad?” I thought about who else had been in the room. “Don’t tell me you have a crush on one of those Goons.”
“Crush—such a brutal word. I prefer to say I have a…thirst for him.” Her small, private smile revealed the tips of her fangs.
“So which Goon is Brad, the norm or the zombie?” Both were big and muscular, the way Juliet liked her men.
She rolled her eyes at my question. Vampires don’t drink zombie blood—or whatever it is that flows through those reanimated veins. If she was thirsting, it was for hot human blood.
The microwave dinged. Juliet removed the mug and carried it to the table, where she sat down across from me. She took a sip and made a face. “I don’t know which is worse, stale blood or an anemic norm.” She downed the rest of the blood, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “So, what are you going to do about Simone Landry?”
Damn. Just when I’d actually managed to stop thinking about Simone for five whole minutes. In a row.
“How about I invite her over here on some pretense and you can help me beat her up?”
“Yes!” Juliet’s eyes glowed. “You could tell her we’re having a party and Kane is coming. Then when she gets here—” She smiled evilly. But both smile and glow faded when she caught my expression. “Oh. I take it you were kidding.”
“I’m not going to beat up a city councilor.” Juliet might be thirsting for Brad, but I didn’t want a visit from the Goons.
“But you must. She’s a werewolf. If you don’t slap her down, she’ll think you’re weak. She’ll think she can push you around.”
“Let her try. Anyway, I trust Kane.”
Juliet opened her mouth, but I didn’t want to hear whatever it was she was going to say. Enough about Simone. I kept talking. “That Old One you’ve been interrogating, Colwyn. Has he said anything else about Pryce?” The Old Ones had hidden Pryce during the time Myrddin worked to revive him. Juliet’s Old One was the best lead for finding him now.
She shook her head. “Only what I told you before. The Old Ones are looking for him, too.”
“Do you think they’re working together?”
Juliet considered. “I doubt it. When Pryce’s name came up, Colwyn’s thoughts flared crimson. Lots of anger on that topic.” She stared into her empty mug. “I think Colwyn has realized I can eavesdrop on his thoughts. He tries to shield them. But sometimes things slip through. I’m not certain, but I think Pryce has something the Old Ones want.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. That’s what Colwyn is shielding. But the thought of it makes him livid.”
“Do you think Pryce has his precious secret to eternal life?”
Juliet shrugged. “Personally? I don’t think any such thing exists. But that doesn’t mean Colwyn has given up his illusions. All I know is that Pryce has something Colwyn believes is his.” She stood and stretched, yawning. “Dawn’s on its way. I’m going to resume the shroud.” She carried her mug to the dishwasher and placed it in the top rack. “But speaking of people who want something someone else has—keep an eye on that Simone. If you’re not going to beat her up, at least ‘watch her like Argus,’ as the Bard might say. That werewolf thinks Kane is already hers.”
JULIET MAY HAVE BEEN TUCKED SNUGLY INTO HER COFFIN, but I wasn’t ready for bed. Not with her warning about Simone still ringing in my ears. I did trust Kane. He’d traveled across an ocean to tell me I was important to him. More than once, he’d stepped up to face danger beside me. He’d risked his own life to rescue me. Those things mattered. Emerald eyes and glossy chestnut hair weren’t enough to turn his head.
Or they wouldn’t be, if Kane were human. But he was a werewolf. What if the pull of raw instinct was strong enough to stir a need in the lone wolf to start a pack of his own? Although he hadn’t said anything, the signs were there that he wanted to take our relationship to the next level. Signs my own commitment-shy brain had chosen to ignore. He’d given me a key to his apartment. My bathrobe hung beside his on the bathroom door. Last fall, he’d asked me to come with him on his full-moon retreat. As a shapeshifter, I could take on a wolf’s form if I chose. But I’m Cerddorion, not a werewolf, and the whole idea had made me uncomfortable. If I pretended to be a wolf, I wouldn’t fit in with the real ones. Worse, I wouldn’t be true to myself. When I explained all that, he dropped the matter.
Kane knew what I was. He knew I’d never be an ersatz wolf. And he also knew I’d never be a mother. Among my kind, only females can shift—and they lose the ability if they give birth. I’d decided long ago that my path was to carry on the Cerddorion tradition of protecting the world against demons. If Kane wanted to start his own pack, it wouldn’t be with me.
Did he want to start his own pack? Kane had always been so immersed in his work—his goal was to establish paranormal rights at the federal level—that other concerns got pushed aside. Work came first, just as it did for me. It was one of the reasons we got along so well. Or so I thought.
If instinct was tugging at Kane, Simone knew how to manipulate its pull. I didn’t have a clue. But I didn’t want to manipulate him. I wanted to talk to him. If he wanted more than I could offer, it was something we both needed to know.
I checked the kitchen clock. Six thirty. As a lawyer, Kane kept norm hours, so he was usually up by seven. I’d surprise him with breakfast in bed, and we could talk.
I pictured him, lying between the sheets, his silver hair rumpled, his gray eyes hooded with sleep and desire. Mmm. First bed, then breakfast, then talk.
IN GENERAL, DEADTOWN ISN’T BIG ON BREAKFAST. THE norms’ morning is Deadtown’s bedtime. When the sun comes up, most residents are home snoozing behind their blackout shades, as Juliet was now. But for werewolves it’s a different story. Most werewolves hold professional jobs in the human-controlled part of town: they’re bankers, lawyers, accountants, architects, engineers. They earn salaries and have expense accounts and go to work in clothes that need dry cleaning. Each month, for the three days and nights of the full moon, state law requires them to be in residence at one of the state’s three secure werewolf retreats. But state law also requires that employers make accommodations for werewolves to go on retreat. Werewolves tend to be such valuable workers that employers are happy to comply. As long as the guy who manages your investment portfolio or the woman who arranges your business loans stays out of sight while becoming a huge, slavering, bloodthirsty wolf, it all works out fine.
I stopped at a place I knew would be open, a cafe that was a popular spot for werewolves to grab coffee and a bite to eat on their way to work. Inside, the air was fragrant with scents of coffee and frying bacon and sausage. (Werewolves need their protein in the morning.) The cafe was decorated in cheerful shades of yellow and green, and ferns hung in the big front window. Werewolves lined up at the takeout counter; others sat at tables or the booths that lined two walls. I threaded my way through the tables to join the line.
I was halfway to the counter when a familiar voice called my name. I turned, scanning the room, to see Kane sliding out of a booth near the back.
