by Rob Thurman
“You’re tagging along,” I drawled.
“Yes,” he sighed, falling back again. “I’m tagging along.”
“Why?” I asked. “You hated our last road trip. You don’t like fast food. You don’t like gas stations full of ‘the common people’ . . . you know, anyone who isn’t you. You get bored about thirty seconds on the road and start flashing ninety-year-old women drivers.”
“Someone needs to verify they’re taking their heart medication,” he mumbled, and sat up. “Ishiah suggested it. He thinks I should go and test my resolve or more realistically, he thinks, to give my resolve a rest.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” It was way too early to follow a puck’s train of thought. They were bullet trains at the very least. They would suck you into their two-hundred-twenty-five-mile slipstream and it would be all over for you.
He hesitated, groaned, then said, “Monogamy.”
“Monogamous? You and Ish? You?” My mouth opened, closed, and opened again as I heard Niko, infallible warrior born and bred with nerves of titanium steel, fumble wildly at the M word and drop his bag. “I mean . . . you?” Robin? The horniest puck in a race that all but defined themselves by their level of horny. Wouldn’t other pucks rush to form an intervention? Monogamous Anonymous? They’d tell him they’d have him off his feet and onto his back again in no time. Or his front. Or all fours—whichever he’d prefer. That Robin? “Seriously?”
Robin glared silently. It was answer enough.
“How . . . Christ, how long?” I felt like the hammer on the ground had levitated and smacked me in the head. It was that unbelievable—inexplicable even. Only brain damage could explain it—profound, massive brain damage.
“The whole six months.” He dropped his head in his hands. “I haven’t had it this bad since . . . Hades, since Pompeii when I was almost married. I mean, Zeus and all his conquests: Leda and Europa and Io and Callisto and so on and so on. How can this be?” He banged his forehead on the seat in front of him. “Monogamy. How can I support such a perverse lifestyle choice, especially when it involves me? How? Better yet, why? Why would I do something so horrifying and unnatural?”
Robin had once almost been married to a woman named Cyrilla. I remembered the name because it was one of the few times he’d said something about himself that had mattered, not the usual bragging and name-dropping. Cyrilla had mattered to him; she still did, although long gone, and I hadn’t forgotten. Then was monogamy that out of the question? And he would’ve married her too, that had been clear, if she hadn’t died with Pompeii. I knew that. He’d told me and I believed him. But that had been a long time ago and just the one time. Besides . . .
Robin Goodfellow?
“And Ishiah has a problem with this?” Niko closed the trunk, immediately giving a minute wince that meant he wished he could take the question back. The soap opera that was Robin’s life could be time-consuming and we didn’t have the time.
But . . . I was curious.
“Yeah, I thought he wanted you to be a little less . . . er . . . Goodfellow,” I added. “You remember. . . . Less whoring around, less lying, stealing, and cheating.” I’d thought that somewhat uptight. Robin was who he was. He was a puck, a trickster; he was born to do exactly what he did. Where did Ish get off saying he should be any different? “He’s changed his mind?”
“It seems so.” He kept his forehead pressed against the back of the seat. “It seems he’s mellowed somewhat over the past millennium and feels he has been unfair to me; may have coerced me into fidelity. As if anyone could coerce me into anything I didn’t want,” he snorted, promptly forgetting his rampant fear of the one-on-one relationship he’d been raving about seconds ago. “So he thought a small separation of a week would put things in perspective for me. I would decide if I wanted to jump the first Hooters waitress I saw or stay noble and true for him. And—wrap your mind around this—he’ll be all right with it either way. He’s ready to accept me for good or bad . . . for nonpuck or for puck. He said he was wrong and he likes me the way I am, and the way I’ve always been. It just took him a while to become a little less judgmental and come to his senses.”
“And this is bad how?” Niko asked as he swept a few stray bits of glass from the driver’s seat and sat, shutting the door behind him. “This is the perfect Goodfellow situation. You can have your cake and eat it too.” And we all knew how much Robin liked his cake. “I would think you’d be celebrating.”
I went to the passenger side and was greeted by fangs shown in a cheerful greeting, jack-o-lantern eyes, and a ruby collar with gold ID tag around a hairless neck. I opened the door and Salome, who was sitting upright, regal, and ready for her ride, didn’t move. I opened my jacket and showed her my gun. She opened her mouth and I watched her already-visible fangs slide farther out of her gray gums and double in size. I closed my jacket and got in the backseat with Robin.
“Celebrating what?” he asked mournfully. “That I’ve become something I’m not or that I’m afraid to become something new—if I even can become something new? And is new necessarily better?” This time he leaned against the backseat. “Perhaps peris and pucks cannot be. To do one justice, the other has to give up part of himself.” He closed his eyes. “Bedtime. Wake me up at the first ninety-year-old lady in need of flashing.”
“Or the first Waffle House waitress.” There were times I thought that maybe a hundred thousand years of screwing anything and everything would get old after a while, even for a puck. Then I would go to the next logical thought: This was Robin we were talking about. Not to mention that pucks were born sex addicts. It was in their genes. I knew how hard it was to fight those, even if mine was only a half dose. I was glad it wasn’t my problem to figure it out, but I had sympathy for Robin. When you were born to lie, cheat, steal, trick, and screw everything in sight—when that was your purpose designed by nature itself, that was a lot to fight against.
“When you’ve had sex with more than two people, you’re allowed a comment.” Goodfellow flicked a feather my way with an annoyed jerk of his hand. “Now? Not quite.” Then he was instantly snoring and more feathers were wafting in the air.
“Great start. Yeah, couldn’t have gone any better.” I batted them away with annoyance. “Don’t bother to wake me up in Canton, Nik, unless Suyolak is dropping every man, woman, child, and puppy in town. I don’t have any desire to say hey to Abelia-Roo.” I slid down, wedged into the corner, and got comfortable for the long haul. I planned on being nap bound as quickly as Goodfellow. I couldn’t say I blamed Promise for not coming along. Our last road trip hadn’t been enjoyable in any way, shape, or form . . . multiple forms. Once bitten, twice likely to stay home in the lap of penthouse luxury.
We were following the old Lincoln Highway that ran across the country to California long before the addition of newer interstates. Niko thought, and it made sense, that whoever had taken Suyolak would know the Rom . . . all the Rom in the country . . . would be looking for his truck. They would stick to the interstates for maximum coverage and if the guy was smart, he wouldn’t. And when Niko Googled last night an outbreak of ten meningitis cases, a higher number than your average outbreak, that were diagnosed the evening before in Canton, Ohio, along the Lincoln, it sealed the deal in his mind. He called Abelia to let her know where to meet us, and that Suyolak had either found some way of working through the coffin or there was one helluva coincidence in Canton. At least whoever had taken Suyolak apparently hadn’t opened the coffin or else Canton would be a dead zone and surrounded by the army, fingers ready to pull the trigger on anything that looked like a sick chicken, sneezing pig, or a rabid monkey.
As for who had taken him, Niko’s colleagues hadn’t come through yet. He had given them the parameters: researchers or professors in the country who know the Rom the best, but had recently dropped out of sight—real life or virtual. All academics lived/breathed/worked on the Internet these days. And any hint of one with a sick relative would be ideal.
Dr. Samuels, Niko’s first call, wasn’t having much luck, but Dr. Jones was positive she was close—she could smell it. I didn’t doubt her. Wolves smelled everything; humans smelled gossip. But right now, that spelled nothing else for me to do except catch up on my sleep, which I was on the verge of doing when my cell phone rang. It was the missing- in-action Delilah. And Robin’s problem wasn’t mine to solve, but this one was.
“Pretty boy.”
I’d never broken her of calling me that, especially with the large scar on my chest. Wolves did love their scars. “Delilah. Did you get my voice mail about unmanning, unwolfing, or whatever you want to call it, a friend of yours?”
“Yes. Grey. He hunts forever now,” she said in what sounded like an exotic accent, but was actually vocal cords stuck halfway between human and wolf. Delilah wasn’t a high or fine breed, which should’ve put her below others in her particular Kin pack—or any Kin pack. But everything else she had going for her more than managed to overcome the social scorn that the recessive breeding sought by her minority Wolf sect, the All Wolf, brought out in the high breeds. “All wolf all the time” was their motto—no, more of a religion, I guessed. They were slowly trying to breed the human out of them to accomplish that. So far I hadn’t seen much of a success story—just some really odd-looking humans with wolf teeth, eyes, and twisted jaws, though there could be more like Delilah, the differences internal and hidden.
“You don’t sound too torn up about it.” “Hunts forever” was the werewolf polite way of saying “He’s passed on” rather than “He’s deader than a rat in a university bio lab.”
“He lost breeding equipment. Speaks not much of his fighting skills. Truth . . . to me, no difference before he had them than after. Have had better lovers.” I could almost hear her shrug. “Not why I call. They know. Grey found out—you and me. He told Kin. . . . They know.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” The revenant with the loose lips had turned out to be a reliable source. It was gratifying to know that I’d killed him for more than simply the practice and exercise. And I’d known there would be consequences for the Kin’s knowing about Delilah and me. Kin were for Kin. Wolves were for Wolves. Having sex outside your species was damn near anathema for a Wolf. Sleeping with a human was bad enough, but sleeping with a half Auphe was an abomination not to be tolerated.
Someone would have to die for it; at least the Kin would think so. There was no way around it.
“We’re leaving the city on a case, so I don’t think I’ll be much help.” Not that it mattered whether I was in town or out. While I was good, I wasn’t good enough to take on the entire Kin. With thousands of criminal Wolves in NYC alone, who knew how many all over the country, there weren’t enough pepper-spray-wielding mailmen in the entire world to take them all out. Delilah’s brother, Flay, had come up on the bad side of the Kin sometime ago and he’d done the only thing a Wolf could do and survive that.
He ran.
“You going to run? Meet up with Flay?” I didn’t love Delilah. Going with her and living another life on the run, again, wasn’t an option. But if she was gone, I’d miss her sharp humor, her carelessness in the face of violence . . . because she knew she excelled in that field—Delilah with her masses of white-blond hair, her amber wolf eyes, her softer amber skin. I’d miss her intelligence and ambition, her fearlessness in the face of my Auphe blood, and her willingness to jump me anytime anywhere.
Hey, I was a guy. Grey might have lost his equipment, but I hadn’t lost mine. The jumping part was going to figure into the equation somewhere. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss her for the other reasons too.
“No running,” she replied, not sounding as worried as she should have. That was Delilah. There wasn’t a situation she didn’t think she could turn to her advantage or a creature she imagined capable of taking her down. And mostly she was right, but there was also a part of her that was crazy as hell.
“The Kin aren’t going to let this go, Delilah,” I said. She had to know that as well as I did.
She dismissed the grim warning. “I have friends. In many packs. This can be fixed, but good idea to get out of town for a while. Where do you go? I’ll meet you. Help with job, for free even.”
I paused, thinking, then answered, “Canton, Ohio. An IHOP on Cleveland Avenue. It’s a little more than four hundred miles. We’ll be there in hopefully less than seven hours, depending on Niko’s excuse for a car. Call me when you get there.”
“Seven hours,” she laughed, sounding like rough velvet. “I’ll have meal and five beers by time you come. Little boys riding tricycle.” Still laughing, she disconnected.
I closed my eyes as I leaned my head back against the seat and folded up my phone, feeling Niko’s gaze on me. “You’re looking at me, aren’t you?”
“I am.” His voice was definitely not rough velvet, but unyielding granite.
“Is it a sympathetic look full of brotherly love? You know, the kind that says I have your back? Behind you all the way?” I asked without much optimism.
“No, it is not,” he said evenly.
I kept my eyes shut. The sun-tinged pink-black was preferable to one of Niko’s glacial glares. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t suspicious. I was damn suspicious. Delilah helping on a job for free? That would happen about the same time I caught the Easter Bunny hiding eggs in our loft, but . . . after all we’d been through, she deserved a chance to prove herself. “But I’m a man now,” I said, “and able to deal with the consequences of my actions. You said so yourself.”
“It appears I was wrong in that respect. Your bringing Kin business, especially this business, along on a job is not the wisest or most mature of moves. In fact, I can’t offhand think of a more dangerous one. I revoke your pretend bar mitzvah. The bris is looking more likely, however.” He started the car and we took off as if there were a jet engine under the hood instead of a thirty-year-old V-8. I felt the two thumps in rapid succession. One was the curb; one wasn’t.
“The werewolf under the car?” I asked.
Robin would’ve seen the wolf slither under there, but would’ve known we would figure it out on our own and not bothered with a warning. I’d smelled it as soon as we’d gotten out of the taxi. Niko would’ve seen a stray strand of fur, a flicker of movement, or tracked a flight of birds across the sky and somehow read in their movements “potential roadkill below.” With my brother, it didn’t matter how. All you had to realize was that he would know.
“Yes, the Wolf under the car,” he confirmed matter-of-factly, “and now you know why I drive big, old cars. A werewolf does very little damage to it when you run one down.” I opened my eyes and turned to see what we’d left on the curb of Robin’s car lot. The car might not have suffered any damage, but the Kin Wolf couldn’t say the same.
The street sweeper was going to have a helluva time with that.
“More than a day for the coffin thief to make it to Canton from the Catskills.” The evening before last the meningitis outbreak had taken place—bacterial meningitis, the bad kind; the kind that tended to kill teenagers in a day, maybe two. “That’s not exactly making good time,” I observed. It should’ve been about an eight-hour drive. “Maybe whoever hired the guys to steal Suyolak came along with them, dumped the muscle when he had the coffin in the truck, and is doing the driving alone.” But still . . . eight hours a day? If it was as Niko and I had discussed and this guy was hoping to use Suyolak to heal a critically ill relative, he should be in more of a hurry than that.
“If Suyolak started ten or so cases of meningitis here, there’s no telling what he’s done to the men in the truck. They could have deserted. They might be in the hospital here. They might be in the morgue. This is not good news. He’s not out of the coffin; if he were, a few cases of meningitis are the very least of what he could do. But in the coffin . . . he shouldn’t be able to do anything at all,” Niko said, parking in front of the Canton equivalent of IHOP. Not that Nik would normally ever consider eating at a ge
nuine IHOP, but it was a good central location for Abelia and her own muscle, Delilah, and us all to meet.
“We need to have a chat with the Wicked Bitch of the East then, huh? See what’s up with Suyolak.” I got out of the car. “I’ll go inside and get a paper while you call Abelia and find out where her wrinkled ass is. Call Delilah too, would you? She should’ve been here a long time ago.” It was two. Niko had shaved an hour off the estimate. Maybe he’d been tinkering with the engine, because while the car looked like shit, the thing could move. I patted a growling stomach. It wasn’t only a paper I was going to pick up.
“And when you return with your lard pancakes coated with diabetes-inducing syrup and chemically created whipped cream, perhaps I might give you a foot massage while you dine. We could see what kind of time you make chasing Suyolak on two broken feet,” he offered in a tone so pleasant even the Dalai Lama couldn’t have carried it off. When Niko was pleasant, it was a good idea to look for a safe place to ride out his irritation. . . . I wondered whether they still had bomb shelters.
Niko’s opinion and mood over my inviting Delilah along or allowing her to invite herself had not improved, and that didn’t look like it was going to change any time soon. He had every reason to be pissed. There wasn’t any way this couldn’t end in trouble no matter what Delilah said. But whether it was trouble in New York or trouble wherever we happened to be, it was the same. I wanted it over with. Keeping it hanging over my head only messed with my head. It was almost poetry there and true. I’d learned that lesson more than once.
