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Authors: Jennifer Rardin
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Fiat Scudo minibus that I could only assume the Trust used for field trips. It seated nine and looked like it had one of those tootie-toot horns that warn you all the passengers carry disposable cameras and close their shoes with Velcro straps.
The garage was windowless and the only other entrances were the shut and locked bay doors. So far the only close presence I’d detected was that of the werewolf inside. Since the locks were somewhat intricate, requiring time and possibly noise to defeat, I decided to check out the wagon house first. If I could free the bear more easily, so much the better for all of us.
The wagon house, surrounded on three sides by a confused mass of herbage that included chestnut trees and wild primroses, was a square, tile-roofed echo of the villa. To my relief, it held no vampires. All I felt was the prickling at the base of my brain that told me whatever lurked behind its extra-wide, barnlike door had a two-edged psyche, one of which was a beast.
This is just stupid , I told myself as I holstered Grief and pulled my coral necklace out from beneath my shirt. That damn bear is probably waiting right inside, licking his chops at the thought of a little grain-fed American for his midnight snack.
The shark’s tooth at the necklace’s center fit perfectly into the padlock that held the sliding door shut. I could almost see the tooth melding to the form of the key the lock required. You know, Bergman may be too good. Sometimes it would be nice if I couldn’t get into places. Like this one .
The padlock clicked open. A voice sounding oddly like South Park ’s Cartman echoed through my quivering brain. Goddammit!
Grief came back to my hand as if attached by a spring. I switched to crossbow mode for silence. Keeping my shoulder to the outer wall, I braced my foot against the door’s edge and shoved. It slid a couple of feet to the left, opening a twenty-foot-tall crack that felt like a hole in the universe.
Nothing happened.
Is he in there waiting for me? Or is he unconscious? Why doesn’t Vayl ever give me the easy jobs? I swear, if one of us was ever forced to get a massage, or watch the whole first season of Futurama for Uncle Sam’s sake — he’d assign that one to himself!
“Would you get the hell home already?” I snapped. “I don’t have all night!”
“Okay, okay, sorry if I thought maybe you’d come to kill me.” I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when the werebear, now fully transformed to a towering hulk of humanity, came shuffling out of the barn with his hands raised. Well, one hand. The other was covering his manly parts, since the vamps hadn’t seen fit to throw his clothes into captivity with him.
Though thick hair covered his chest, the pink puckered marks where Dave and I had wounded him practically glowed. And he’d been bitten so many times on the neck he looked like he was wearing a red chain.
“Do you remember anything that happened before you were brought here?” I asked.
He shook his head, his long brown curls bouncing like fishing pole bobbers as he moved. “Not much. I was flirting with a girl in the bar at the Hotel Patra. And then . . . nothing.”
“What did the girl look like?”
“Lovely, clear skin with eyes like honey. Petite. Sweet. I didn’t like her hair so well. But”—he shrugged—“it was worth all the rest.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“She had the, what do you call them?” He scrunched his free hand into his own tresses until a hunk of it fit tight into his fist.
“Dreadlocks?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Aha! So Meryl had been a key player in the Were-trapping scheme. “Okay,” I said. “Now get going. I don’t know how long they’ll be busy, but someone’s coming out here soon and it won’t be to hand you a pair of jeans.”
“But I must thank you. And to know your name, for the prayers of blessing.”
“You’re welcome. My name is Jasmine Parks.” I did mean to say Lucille Robinson. But
The garage was windowless and the only other entrances were the shut and locked bay doors. So far the only close presence I’d detected was that of the werewolf inside. Since the locks were somewhat intricate, requiring time and possibly noise to defeat, I decided to check out the wagon house first. If I could free the bear more easily, so much the better for all of us.
The wagon house, surrounded on three sides by a confused mass of herbage that included chestnut trees and wild primroses, was a square, tile-roofed echo of the villa. To my relief, it held no vampires. All I felt was the prickling at the base of my brain that told me whatever lurked behind its extra-wide, barnlike door had a two-edged psyche, one of which was a beast.
This is just stupid , I told myself as I holstered Grief and pulled my coral necklace out from beneath my shirt. That damn bear is probably waiting right inside, licking his chops at the thought of a little grain-fed American for his midnight snack.
The shark’s tooth at the necklace’s center fit perfectly into the padlock that held the sliding door shut. I could almost see the tooth melding to the form of the key the lock required. You know, Bergman may be too good. Sometimes it would be nice if I couldn’t get into places. Like this one .
The padlock clicked open. A voice sounding oddly like South Park ’s Cartman echoed through my quivering brain. Goddammit!
Grief came back to my hand as if attached by a spring. I switched to crossbow mode for silence. Keeping my shoulder to the outer wall, I braced my foot against the door’s edge and shoved. It slid a couple of feet to the left, opening a twenty-foot-tall crack that felt like a hole in the universe.
Nothing happened.
Is he in there waiting for me? Or is he unconscious? Why doesn’t Vayl ever give me the easy jobs? I swear, if one of us was ever forced to get a massage, or watch the whole first season of Futurama for Uncle Sam’s sake — he’d assign that one to himself!
“Would you get the hell home already?” I snapped. “I don’t have all night!”
“Okay, okay, sorry if I thought maybe you’d come to kill me.” I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when the werebear, now fully transformed to a towering hulk of humanity, came shuffling out of the barn with his hands raised. Well, one hand. The other was covering his manly parts, since the vamps hadn’t seen fit to throw his clothes into captivity with him.
Though thick hair covered his chest, the pink puckered marks where Dave and I had wounded him practically glowed. And he’d been bitten so many times on the neck he looked like he was wearing a red chain.
“Do you remember anything that happened before you were brought here?” I asked.
He shook his head, his long brown curls bouncing like fishing pole bobbers as he moved. “Not much. I was flirting with a girl in the bar at the Hotel Patra. And then . . . nothing.”
“What did the girl look like?”
“Lovely, clear skin with eyes like honey. Petite. Sweet. I didn’t like her hair so well. But”—he shrugged—“it was worth all the rest.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“She had the, what do you call them?” He scrunched his free hand into his own tresses until a hunk of it fit tight into his fist.
“Dreadlocks?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Aha! So Meryl had been a key player in the Were-trapping scheme. “Okay,” I said. “Now get going. I don’t know how long they’ll be busy, but someone’s coming out here soon and it won’t be to hand you a pair of jeans.”
“But I must thank you. And to know your name, for the prayers of blessing.”
“You’re welcome. My name is Jasmine Parks.” I did mean to say Lucille Robinson. But
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