The Grand Dame Alpha was sitting at her desk in front of the fireplace when Michael knocked on the door and entered her room. She wore a silver dressing gown; the reflection of flames danced sleek against its fine silk. She was talking on the phone.
“I’ll be sending it to you very soon. Yes, you can expect the courier within the hour. Just tell him to follow the instructions I’ve written.”
She hung up, and looked at Michael, who stood back near the door.
“You may sit down,” she said. “Here is the phone you asked after.”
“Are you better now?” Michael settled on one of the plush green chairs placed near the fire. The warmth felt good on his body, which was covered up in a man’s dark blue dress shirt he had found hanging in Keeli’s closet. The discovery of such a shirt made his stomach tighten in an unpleasant manner. Or maybe that was hunger; he didn’t know. He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of jealousy.
The Grand Dame Alpha eyed the shirt Michael wore. Her nostrils flared.
“I’m well enough,” she said, still staring at the shirt. She tore her gaze away and looked Michael straight in the face. “Thank you for your help.”
“It was nothing,” he said.
“No.” The Grand Dame shook her head. “It was more than nothing. How much more, I don’t yet quite know.”
Michael reached for the phone. The Grand Dame made as if to leave, but he waved his hand at her chair. “This isn’t private. Anything Jenkins tells me you should probably hear.”
“Probably,” she agreed, still watching him with those sharp eyes.
Jenkins answered on the third ring. Michael heard pots banging, children crying.
“What is it?” Jenkins snapped, and Michael was not entirely sure he was speaking to him.
“It’s me,” Michael said.
“Oh.” A moment later, the sounds of children and kitchen utensils faded. “Sorry about that. My wife is going out of town this morning and everyone is miserable.”
Michael waited.
“So, um, yeah. The case. How’s that little punk wolf treating you? Bet that was a surprise.”
“She’s a good partner,” Michael said, aware the Grand Dame could hear everything Jenkins said.
“Is she now? I sort of thought—”
“Do you have any news?” Michael interrupted, quite certain he didn’t want Jenkins to finish that sentence.
“Small talk is a dying art,” he said. “And yes, there is news. Great news. The lab found DNA, Michael. Real fucking DNA. And it’s not the victim’s.”
The Grand Dame stirred; a fingernail tapped her teacup.
“Was it wolf?” Michael asked, watching her.
Jenkins hesitated. “Kind of.”
“Kind of? As in, kind of pregnant? Or how about kind of dead?”
“Smart-ass. The lab is pretty sure it belongs to a wolf. The problem is that there are some vampire traces, too. We got the evidence from under the victim’s fingernails. Skin was whole, no signs of decay into ash.”
“All dead skin cells from vampires turn to ash,” Michael said. “If it were solid, then it couldn’t have come from a vampire.”
“I agree. The techies don’t know what to make of it. Right now, their best guess is that another vampire was present at, or just before, the murder. Maybe it contaminated the evidence in some way.”
Michael sighed. He felt the Grand Dame watching him as he said, “But you’ve confirmed some kind of werewolf involvement. Any chance it’s a mistake?”
“This DNA may be screwy, but there are definite werewolf markers. Now, did a werewolf cause the death? Was a vampire involved? I can’t confirm anything, Michael. But I’d bet my whole year’s salary that a wolf did the deed. I can’t explain the vampire DNA, though. Like the techies said, could be the victim got in a fight just before his death. If so, someone should remember.”
“You have an idea of just who that ‘someone’ is?”
Michael could hear Jenkins smile. “We finally got an ID on the body. The fang’s name was Walter Crestin. A veteran of the civil war. The first civil war. Favorite hang-out? The Bloody Pulp.”
Michael sat back in his chair. The Bloody Pulp was a popular—but not much talked about—establishment in the Crimson Light district. Vampires only, where humans were served to the clientele from behind the bar. Michael had been there three times in the last six months, always on business.
“Michael?”
“I know the place,” he said quietly. “Have you sent anyone down there yet?” But Michael already knew the answer. He wondered if his sword would be enough this time.
“You know we haven’t. None of the other liaisons are willing, and even if they were, you’re the only vampire we trust.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“It’s nothing to do with wisdom. It’s all about gut instinct, man. Besides, they’re scared of you down there.”
The regulars at The Bloody Pulp would talk easier if they weren’t scared, but Michael did not say that. He also did not say that he might end up dead if he walked through those doors for a fourth time. It didn’t really matter in the long run. He had a job to do, and it was going to kill him eventually, whether or not he died working for the vampires or the humans—or in this case, the werewolves, too.
“I’ll go, Jenkins.”
“The sooner, the better. Remember, we’re not even supposed to be on this case. Heat’s gonna come down from above eventually, and right now, no one’s responding to my questions. Vampires aren’t saying a word, and the werewolves are even more tight-lipped. I want to know why this crime is so different, why I can’t get answers from anyone. Because, trust me—this keeps up, and every wolf will be coming in for DNA tests. We’ve got evidence to compare suspects against now. No more excuses or stalling. So give me something, Michael. Anything. I need to be able to say that the wolves are cooperating, that there’s progress on this case.”
“I’m with the wolves,” Michael said, looking at the Grand Dame. “I will get you what you need.”
Her expression darkened.
“Keeli, too. Remember what we talked about, those connections of hers.”
Michael felt the Grand Dame staring at him. “I would rather not talk about it. I’ll call you tonight, Jenkins.”
Michael hung up the phone and settled back in his chair. The Grand Dame did the same, her palms pressed together, fingertips touching her chin.
“So,” she said.
“So.” Michael met the Grand Dame’s cool gaze. “Which of your wolves would have the strength, speed, and motivation to kill and eat a vampire?”
“You waste no time.” A bitter smile flitted across her mouth. “But you have had a demonstration of all three characteristics. Would you like the names of your assailants?”
“I am not a vengeful person.” Michael hardened his voice. “You know your wolves better than I do, and as I’m sure you can appreciate, time is of the essence. If you can narrow down the possibilities—”
“I understand the situation perfectly,” she snapped. “But you’re asking me to implicate my own people. I have a responsibility to them.”
“And what’s your responsibility to a murderer? There have already been six deaths. I do not know how many more can be tolerated before there is a backlash. That cannot be allowed.”
Throwing the Grand Dame’s words back into her face was not what Michael had planned, but he had to make her compromise on this. He did not have time to question everyone—nor did it make sense to do so. The Grand Dame Alpha knew her wolves. She knew what they were capable of. Earlier, he had planned on asking Keeli for this information, but she was not here—don’t think of her; don’t think of her lips pressed tight and hot on your lips, the taste of her blood like fire, like spice, like freedom—and he had passed all caring about politeness.
The Grand Dame stared into the fire for a long time. Finally, she said, “Very few Maddox wolves would be able to murder a vampire. Fight them, yes. Inflict deep wounds. But to consume, to plot and prey …” She shook her head. “It could have been in self-defense.”
“We will find that out,” Michael promised, though he seriously doubted her theory.
Her lips tightened into a hard line. She reached for pen and paper, and began writing. “There are over eighty wolves in the Maddox pack, but a large number of those are children and young people. It has been a good season for us.” Michael heard the tight pride in her voice. “As for the adults, I can think of only three who would be capable of murdering this Walter Crestin.”
She slid the paper across the table. Michael read the names.
Estella Kinsay
Jonathon Dewey
Jas Mack
“Why?” he asked, still eyeing that last name.
“Because each of them has been hurt in profound ways by vampires. Terrible things have been done to them and the ones they love, and there has been no justice. None.”
“Tell me,” he said, but the Grand Dame shook her head.
“They are their stories to tell. Stories, I think, you will be very interested to hear.”
There was knowledge in her voice, her eyes. Michael’s cheek hurt. He said, “You know what I do.”
“I asked,” she admitted, and pushed back her chair. She stood, and Michael rose with her. “Where is Keeli?”
“There are things I need, things only I can get. But I can’t leave here during the day without certain … protection. She went to buy me some.”
The Grand Dame did not look pleased. “You have her running errands?”
“I would do the same for her,” he said, embarrassed.
Silence followed—deep, profound. The Grand Dame’s gaze never once faltered as she said, “Your breath smells like my granddaughter.”
Oh.
“You’ve touched her with your mouth.”
Oh.
“And you’re wearing her father’s shirt.”
Michael resisted the urge to close his eyes. “I didn’t know this shirt belonged to her father,” he said, unable to address his other business with Keeli. “My own clothing—”
“Yes,” she said in a tight voice. “I remember.” The Grand Dame walked past Michael and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later she returned with a bottle of green liquid. Mouthwash. She handed it to him.
“Use this before you leave my rooms. I do not want my wolves smelling Keeli on your breath.”
Her tone made him angry. “We did nothing wrong.”
“Wrong?” she snapped. “There’s nothing more wrong! Do you know what would happen to Keeli if the others found out? Her reputation would never survive. She might not survive. Such alliances are not tolerated.”
“I would protect her,” he said, forgetting himself, his place.
“How? By taking her away from us? From her people? And what of the vampires? What would they do if they knew?”
“Nothing,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “They would assume that the humiliation of such a union would be punishment enough.”
“Ah.” The Grand Dame’s smile was cold, mocking. “I suppose that the consequences are tolerable to you, then. Since you have already been shunned and humiliated by your own people.”
Michael forced himself to take a deep breath. “I would never want that for Keeli.”
“Then we have an understanding.” The Grand Dame glided close, blue eyes bright and sharp. “You act like an honorable man. Make it more than an act.”
He remembered Keeli’s lips, the press of her body tight against his own, the comfort of holding her, like coming home. The only home, the first home.
But she is a werewolf. It will never last. You cannot allow it to last.
Michael took the mouthwash to the Grand Dame’s bathroom and rinsed Keeli’s taste away.
But not the memory. Nothing could take that from him.
“The things I do,” Keeli muttered, stepping around some wannabe human punks who were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore. Their tattoos were cheaper than their piercings, which meant they looked like little kids who’d drawn on their arms with fat black markers and stuck aluminum foil into their eyebrows and noses. Keeli tried not to breathe as she passed through the cloud of smoke they were generating.
Those brats are smoking enough weed to give this whole neighborhood a high.
“Cool hair,” drawled one girl, as Keeli put her hand on the door.
“Thanks,” she said, and then: “You’re gonna fry your brain, sweet cheeks.”
Laughter, all around. “It’s medicinal,” said the girl, grinning like an idiot. She lay down on the sidewalk, propped up on one elbow, and stuck the joint back in her mouth.
The drugstore was just like any other franchise operation in the inner city—dirty, small, and dark—with only a passing resemblance to a drugstore she might see in the tamer suburbs. Both the pharmacist and the front-counter clerk were protected by bulletproof glass, which basically meant that if Keeli wanted to shoplift or rob the place, there wasn’t anyone who was going to stop her. Not that she had crime on her mind. But from the looks of the bare shelves, it seemed that others did—and had.
“Sunscreen?” she asked the bored young clerk, whose long black hair was in desperate need of a wash. “Vampire variety.”
He suddenly looked more interested. Keeli didn’t miss the way he checked out her neck. “Far right. Back shelf, along the wall. You can’t miss it.”
Which, as Keeli soon found, was because it was the only area that hadn’t been picked over or looted. She found a bottle of their strongest stuff, whistling at the price. Twenty bucks would cover it, but just barely. It was a good thing vampires had money.
Or at least, most of them did. Keeli thought about Michael’s apartment, the simple way he lived. Like a poor man. A man used to poverty. Working class, even.
She touched her lips, remembering the taste of him.
Dangerous, a voice whispered inside her mind. You’re walking the edge now.
Walking it, crossing it, diving headfirst over it. She didn’t know what the hell she was doing.
On the way out, she passed some lycanthropy meds. Crank stuff if it was over-the-counter, but she looked anyway. None of the assorted pills and injections promised to vaccinate—most of it was just treatment of symptoms. Live Like a Normal Human! promised the brand Anti-Ly. Your Friends Will Never Know.
Yeah. Easier said than done. Infecting a human with lycanthropy—whether on purpose or by accident—was a major crime. Entire clans got punished—both with fines and by losing one of their own, usually permanently, to the legal system. And then there was the victim to deal with, who almost never wanted to leave behind his human life for the underground. It was worse if there were family involved. Kids just didn’t understand why daddy or mommy had to make all those changes in their lives—or why suddenly a parent went missing, without explanation.
“Daddy had to go away,” a mother might say, bundling her kids off to live in another state. “Daddy loves you, but he’s different now.”
Daddy can’t be here. Daddy’s a werewolf. Daddy might eat you for his supper.
Daddy, Keeli thought sadly. Daddy, what happened?
Keeli walked away from the lycanthropy meds, from the illusion of control. Control could not be bottled. Control could not be sold. Control over the wolf had to be earned, and then—maybe—you could live topside permanently. It just took time. Sacrifice.
The wolf cannot be pushed aside. It must come out.
Keeli shivered. She still tasted rage, bittersweet power, lovely and furious. So easy, to become trapped in that satisfaction. Too easy.
It’s in your blood. Mad dog. Berserker. Red would be your favorite color if the others had their way. When the wolf is on you, it’s the only color they think you see.
Yeah. That was the simple taunt, the most common joke. People had been telling that one for so long, it wasn’t even funny to them anymore. And now what would they say, now that she was working for the Man, and her partner was a vampire? A vampire who was the best damn kisser she’d ever met.
And you still don’t think your life has unraveled? That’s a good one.
Keeli paid for the sunscreen. As the clerk dug around the cash register for her change, she glanced down at a pile of local newspapers stacked on the floor. Her gaze was instantly drawn to the small indie paper, Howl, written exclusively for and by werewolves in the city community. On the cover, inserted just below the main headline (alerting the werewolf community to the ongoing political debates about the new FDA-required employee blood tests), she read:
THE LAST SCION OF MADDOX IN JAIL—AND MAKING DEALS WITH THE POLICE? By Brian O’Dell
Face it, my friendly furries, there’s a double standard around the town. We all know it. There isn’t a one of us who hasn’t been sniffed, prodded, or collared by the Man. But hey, at least it was an equal opportunity screw-down—no celebrity treatment for us wolves, right?
Wrong. Just last night, Keeli Maddox—the mysterious granddaughter of Crimson City’s Grand Dame Alpha, and the sole survivor of a vicious attack that destroyed most of that infamous bloodline—was arrested for baring fang to a human. Sources verify our hotheaded Miss Maddox attacked a human man in direct response to an attempted rape. Go, girl!
That’s where the story should end, right? That’s where it ended for all the other wolves languishing in jail. Not so for Miss Maddox! She only spent one night in a holding cell, and then was released to her clan bright and early this morning. Oh, the shame! Was Miss Maddox the recipient of preferential treatment because of her relationship with the Grand Dame Alpha? Would our esteemed leader stoop so low?
Maybe. Little is known about Keeli Maddox, except that she has spent most of her life on the fringe of the werewolf community. Her own people have called her troubled, a reputation no doubt fostered by her family’s history of violent behavior. …
The article went on, but Keeli stopped reading. She wanted to puke. It was highly unusual for the gossip rags to tackle her grandmother—the wolves usually had more respect, as well as a good dose of fear—but Keeli, it seemed, was fair game. And she was dragging her grandmother’s good name in the mud.
Shit. It figures. Brian did see something in that file on Jenkins’s desk.
But come on. The article practically accused the Grand Dame Alpha of violating clan trust to pull strings for her granddaughter. Keeli had expected her own reputation to go to hell for her actions, but not her grandmother’s. The only thing she was grateful for was that Brian didn’t seem to know about her participation in the ongoing police investigation, or her partnership with the vampire. The last thing she needed was to be called a fang-banger.
Keeli’s cheeks flushed. Dammit. Maybe she already was a fang-banger. Just … without the banging.
She waved the newspaper at the clerk. “When did this come in?”
He shrugged. “About an hour ago.”
Shoot me now.
Keeli paid for the paper and left the drugstore. The little punks were gone. Jas stood in their place. Bastard had tracked her. Perfect.
“I do not need this right now,” she said, blowing past him.
“Too bad,” he growled. “I want to know what the hell is going on with you and that fang.”
“None of your business.” Keeli marched down the street, pink hair blowing back wild from her face. People took one good look and got out of her way. She wanted to laugh. If she looked how she felt—and she probably did—then even Keeli would be making room for her on the sidewalk. Scary.
Jas caught up with her, grabbed her arm, swung her around. “Tell me, Keeli. What does that fang have on you?”
“What does he have on me?” Keeli threw up her hands. “You think I’ve done something worthy of blackmail? That I could be blackmailed? Thanks a lot, you jerk.”
“Then why—” Jas stopped, abrupt. His nostrils flared. He made a strange choking sound. “You smell like him. Keeli, your breath—”
Keeli’s hand flew up to her mouth.
“You kissed him,” Jas hissed, leaning close. His hand, clamped around Keeli’s arm, squeezed so hard she fought not to cry out.
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
He looked as though he did not care, but his grip loosened and he stood back from her. The distance did not help. His body shook, the threat of violence washing over her senses; his scent, his eyes, the wolf hair pushing through his skin. All of him, screaming.
“Are you his whore?” he whispered. His hand twitched. Keeli wanted to hit him. Instead, she bared her neck, twisting to show him her unblemished skin.
“Satisfied?” Keeli leaned close. Her canines brushed her bottom lip. “You ever talk like that to me again, Jas Mack, and I will slap you down so hard they’ll be picking you up ten years from now.”
Hurt flickered in his eyes, disappearing with a blink, a breath. “How could you do this, Keeli? I thought I knew you.”
“Don’t give me that, Jas. You know me just fine. Don’t treat me like a criminal just because of the people I spend time with.”
“They are criminals. Animals. How could you treat the vampires as anything else, especially after Emily—”
“I’m sorry for that,” Keeli interrupted gently. “You know I am, Jas. But Michael isn’t—”
“Stop. Don’t you dare.” His voice broke. The scar on his face stood out in sharp relief against his red face. He breathed, “Why?”
And Keeli said, “I don’t know.”