Frost Moon (30 page)

“You should not have come here, Dakota,” Wulf growled.

Cinnamon and I backed up slowly, stepping out into a pathetic, brick-pillared room, wide and low, littered with old rags and Wendy’s boxes. Moments later Wulf emerged between us, standing there in his worn Italian suit, just out of arms’ reach.

Then he bulled past us, into the room, and began pacing about. We both relaxed.

“Why are you here?” Wulf snarled, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye.

“You left me no other way to contact you,” I said.

“I told you to butt out,” he snapped. “Who is she?”

“A friend,” I said warily. “She’s a good tracker.”

“I’m Cinnamon,” she said cheerily. Then her ears flattened as he glared at her, and she looked down, avoiding his eyes.

“She’s not a wolf,” he said, glaring at her. “Why did you bring her?”

“I—I didn’t know it was a problem,” I said. “No one seemed to care, at the werehouse.”

“My beast doesn’t know jack about the werehouse,” Wulf snarled. “Dakota, I told you to stay away, and here you’ve brought a morsel into my den at my weakest hour!”

“Then let me do your tattoo,” I said. “It will give you more control—”

“It’s too late for that,” he said. “It will take a week for the tattoo to reach full strength—”

“Then let me do it on myself and transfer it to you,” I said, holding up my bare left hand. “Remember my butterfly? Cinnamon, show him.”

Wulf stared at my bare wrist, then at Cinnamon’s tufted hand, where the design he had seen before now lived. I squeezed my hand and waved it over Cinnamon’s wrist, and the sparkle of mana dancing down from my fingers made the butterfly come to life and flap once.

“I don’t believe it,” Wulf said, in a voice that indicated that yes, he
did
believe.

“I’ve already tested the procedure out with the other tattoo I was doing, which was a much more complicated design,” I said. “Come back with us. I’ve made the needles and mixed the pigments. Come back to my studio and we’ll do the tattoo tonight.”

“It’s too late for that,” he repeated, his eyes glowing an even brighter yellow.

“His wolf is angry,” Cinnamon said. “Don’t be making eye contact—”

“Come on, Wulf, try, you’ve got to try,” I said, looking at the ground. “It’s not even eleven, and the moon won’t be right overhead until midnight—”

“Dakota, you fool,” he roared. “The moon rises an hour earlier every day. Even now it stands over our heads, five shades short of full!”

Suddenly Wulf snarled, a great rumbling crackle that seemed to ripple through the room. His eyes seemed to flare, twin torches. He hunched low, growling, snarling—then in one spasmodic movement pulled off the coat of his suit and hurled it to the ground.

“Don’t run,” Cinnamon said. “Whatever you do, stand your ground. Don’t run.”

But I
couldn’t
move. I was mesmerized. Wulf was stripping before me. On some distant level I realized that was a threat, but all my eyes saw were the few tufts of grey in the hair on his tanned, ripped chest, the crisscrossing lines of some ancient tattoo or brand rippling down from that chest over his washboard flat stomach, and his buff arms, muscles bulging and shifting like the skin was packed with croquet balls.

But then the croquet balls began to move, the skin to ripple, his features to shimmer. When my eyes drew back to his face, I saw something hungry and alive peeking out behind those golden eyes, something that had always been there but… suppressed. But the beast was not suppressed now. It was awake, aware—and coming out.

“What do we do?” I said desperately. “He’s just about popped his cork—”

“You
stays still,” Cinnamon said. “Right now his
man
thinks you’re his girlfriend—but if you runs, his
wolf
will think you’re prey.”

“What about you?” I said.

“I’ll
run,” Cinnamon said. “I’ll lure him—whoa—”

Wulf snarled and pulled his pants down, kicking them away. Tremors ran down his taut legs, part muscle spasms, part something more. Neither Cinnamon nor I could seem to tear our eyes away from him, from the muscular legs, the dark briefs.

“Yes, run, little one,” Wulf snarled, dropping to a squat, one hand touching the ground as the other hooked in to his briefs. Fur began rising on his forearms, and he turned his legs to pull the briefs away as the hair of his chest and abdomen thickened into a full pelt. “Run! Take me away from Dakota before I slay her!”

And then he roared, more like a lion than a wolf, black fur erupting from his arms and spine, sharp cracks sounding like gunshots as the bones of his legs stretched and bent. His thighs and calves shortened as his feet lengthened, turning his ankle in to the backwards ‘elbow’ of a dog’s leg. The bones of his face snapped and popped as a muzzle forced its way outward, and there were horrible ripping sounds as he fell to all fours and thrashed, fur and claw and bone erupting everywhere I could see. A rapid-fire succession of pops sounded as his spine bent and cracked upward. He grew larger, more powerful, and I felt wave after wave of mana wash over me, forcing me back against the wall.

“Don’t move, for God’s sake, don’t move!” Cinnamon hissed. She dropped to a crouch at the entrance of the tunnel, fur rippling out over her own face, claws lengthening, snarling at the behemoth wolf that now stood before her. “Here, doggie, doggie, want a little treat?”

The great wolf snarled and leapt forward, and Cinnamon shot back into the tunnel. I twitched—I couldn’t help it—and the wolf stopped, one golden eye fixed on me.

I froze, not making eye contact. The wolf padded up to me, growling, sniffing. It was huge, its shoulder coming well over my hip—and was perhaps the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen. Then it whined, a low, plaintive whine, and shook its head back and forth. It looked up at me, and the golden eyes had gone green and human. The wolf whined again, almost pleading—like Wulf was in there, somewhere, desperately trying to snap out of it.

Suddenly a whistling came from up the tunnel. “Hey, doggie doggie,” Cinnamon cried. “Like to go chasing a cat?”

The human eyes vanished into a golden glare and the wolf snarled at me. With a supreme effort I remained still as it whipped away, down into the tunnel, howling and giving chase. Crashing sounds, running feet and clicking claws echoed back up the tunnel, and then the horrible scream of a cat in terror.

“Oh, God,” I said, “what have I done?”

36. THE WAITING GAME

Terrified, I screwed up my courage and went after them. By the time I entered the tunnel, the running feet, snarling wolf and screeching cat were long gone. I had no idea what I would do when I found them; maybe there was something I could do with my tattoos? Or perhaps I could coax Wulf back to human—perhaps not with Cinnamon there; she was definitely an
agent provocateur.
But I had to try, damn it. I had to try.

Halfway down the tunnel my coat caught on a root projecting from the wall. I reached down to untangle it, but got only more caught up with the bony protrusion. I looked down, and was shocked by a familiar butterfly, flapping its wings against the black shadow of the “root” that had grabbed me. Shadows and mist clinging to the “root” dissipated like ripples on a pond, leaving Cinnamon standing there, her butterfly-tattooed hand holding me back, her other hand held to her lips as she looked down the tunnel, ears alert, eyes speculative.

“So much for the famed wolf sense of smell,” she said.

“Damn, the Marquis is good,” I said. Seeing her tattoos ‘unhide’ her really was like watching
The Predator
decloak. “You tell him that, next time you see him, you hear?”

“Sure,” she said, still staring down the tunnel, ears twitching. “Okay, we’re clear. Let’s go see what we can do back at his place.”

“Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here?” I whispered, as a howl sounded down the tunnel. “Can’t he hear us—”

“Nah, he’s sweet on you, and his wolf too,” Cinnamon said, heading back to the den. “If he was really after us, he’d be here tearin’ us up. I just gave him something to chase to get him goin’— now he’s gonna to go try to run himself out. We gots maybe an hour, and then the beast will run out of juice and come back here to change. We should be gone.”

I nodded, but she didn’t catch it, and looked back to glare at me. “I
means
it. We gotta be gone then, girlfriend or no. You didn’t tell me he was a transy.”

“A transy?” I said, bewildered. “Wulf is a transsexual?”

“No! He pops his cork on transit,” she said, waving her long, tufted fingers over her head. “Most weres turns on the rise, but transies can hold off until zenith—when the full moon gets right overhead.”

“The transit of the moon,” I said, as we stepped back to the den. “Is it true what he said, that the moon rises an hour earlier every day? I’d never heard of that—”

“Cuz you’re not a were,” Cinnamon said. “More like forty-five minutes, but yeah. Anyways, the older a transy gets, the stronger their beast gets—and it gets liable to loose when the moon’s directly at zenith, completely full or no.” Cinnamon looked around, then looked at me. “So what’s the plan? Leave your new
boooy
friend a
note
with your
number?”

“He already knows how to contact me,” I said, picking up his fine Italian pants. They were worn, but I could feel how fine the fabric was, could imagine how good it once must have looked on his trim form. “I need a way to make him
use
it.”

Cinnamon looked at the coat, then began looking around, examining the pillars around us. “Think this is Civil?” she asked. “Maybe a wall-off or something?”

“I dunno,” I said, placing his folded pants and briefs back on his mattress, and turning to get his coat. Maybe leaving him a note wasn’t a bad idea. I didn’t think he’d take me up on it, but at least I could try. “You don’t have any paper on you, do you?”

“Screw that,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “I gots an idea. Call Calaphase.”

“I don’t see how he can help,” I said, “and there’s no way I’ll get a signal—”

“This is a basement,” she said, pointing up, “not a cave. We ain’t that deep.”

I raised an eyebrow, but pulled out my phone. One bar—it was worth a shot. So I dialed. A moment later, a low buzzing sounded in the cellar.

I looked up in shock to see Cinnamon pulling a cell phone from her vest. “Nicked it off him just the other day,” she said, grinning, opening the phone and miming a deep, gruff voice. “Hello? Oh hel
loooo,
Dakota! This is Wulfy-wulfy. Oh
yeah,
I’d love to go to the tat studio and get down your pants. I mean, get inked.”

“Very funny,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, fiddling with the phone. “Ok, your number’s in. Gimme that,” she said, taking the coat. She slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. “I don’t see a change of, so he’s gonna slip this back on—either tonight, or tomorrow. You can call him then.”

“I got an even better idea,” I said, fishing a receipt out of my wallet. “Why don’t we leave him a phone
and
a note just in case he’s got more clothes?”

After that, we hightailed it. We didn’t hear any howling or any running feet, but the tunnels around us were still breathing, and Cinnamon swore she heard
something
moving in the dark that was neither man nor wolf, so we practically ran down to the landing and shoved off. Once in the water we took it more cautiously, until Cinnamon and I were both certain we were not going to get lost in the maze. When the tunnels started to widen out again and things looked more familiar, I poured a little more effort into the oars, trying to put more distance between us and Wulf’s den.

Cinnamon leaned back in the bow, staring over her shoulder at the large vaulted tunnel that meant we were almost out of the water. “That went… well, I thinks.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And now I’m gonna be a big square and tell you to go back to the werehouse. It isn’t safe.”

“Can’t I stay the night?” she whined. “I don’t wanna run back to the werehouse in the middle of, ‘specially not after I said you would take me for the day.”

I scowled. “Okay,” I said. “But I’ll run you back to the werehouse in the morning, OK? Before anyone adds two and two. I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be AWOL. No joke—if you want them to keep letting you come over, you can’t go busting their nuts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “You just wants to get rid of me—”

“Not yet,” I said, staring at her. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she said, grinning. “What you gots for me?”

“What is it, near midnight?” I said. “You want breakfast or dinner?”

“Moon’s fat overhead. I wants
meat”
she said, baring her fangs. They seemed longer, somehow. “Don’t care what it’s called or when it’s’s’posed to be served.”

“You got your fake ID on ya?” I said.

“Like, duh,” she said, grinning. “Don’t leave home withouts—”

“Then let me show you a little place called the Vortex—”

And so we went to the Vortex Bar and Grill at one in the morning, stepping through the huge skull that made its front door into the pop-culture chaos of its crowded, kitschy interior, where I introduced Cinnamon to the joys of a bacon-and-cheese bison burger with sweet potato fries. She screwed up her nose at all the smokers— the only reason a burger joint had an over-18 policy, thanks to Atlanta’s new smoking ban—but chowed down heartily on rare bison while I munched on a Ragin’ Greek turkey-burger-in-pita. Pure heaven.

Cinnamon leaned back again, grinning. “Cain’t I stay tomorrow? I want to see you needle Wulf. He gots pretty skin.”

“Two people tried to take a chunk out of me,” I said, “and somebody actually got Spleen. You may be bulletproof and all—”

“No, I gots it,” she said, suddenly sober. She leaned forward, looking around as if someone might listen in. “Somebody’s really gots it out for him, don’t they?”

“I think so,” I said. “I really think so.”

She glared down at the remnants of her fries. “Fine,” she said. “He hates my guts anyway, ‘cuz I’m a cat. Stupid rogue wolves.”

Cinnamon stayed the night—sleeping on the sofa—and after picking up some Flying Biscuits I rode her back within striking distance of the werehouse and dropped her off. When I got back to the Rogue Unicorn, I found three missed calls and two messages on my phone, all from ‘Calaphase.’ In the first message, Wulf cussed me out—at least I think that’s what he was doing; it was hard to tell over all the snarling. In the second message, he was more… apologetic. After I got settled in the office and had Wulfs flash in front of me, I called him.