CHAPTER 16
Toward the end of Viridus, the Crows from the Talulah Falls Courtyard flew to the part of town where most of the tourists walked and ate and bought souvenirs at the kiosks. For three days, they watched humans toss sparkly toys into the trash cans—toys that were only a little broken in ways that, for Crows, did not diminish their appeal. They watched humans throw away half a hamburger still in the thin paper wrapping so it wasn’t soiled by other debris. They watched little treasures being dropped into the cans—and they watched while city workers emptied the cans and took away that food and those treasures.
And there were bits of shiny nearby, coins that had fallen from pockets and caught the sun, a glittering lure.
For three days, the Crows resisted doing more than keeping watch. But on the fourth day, a few of the adolescent Crows dared to come down from the trees to grab a shiny or snatch a morsel of food or fly off with one of the sparkly toys.
And nothing happened. The humans, who were entranced by the water thundering into the river below, barely noticed them. So on the fifth day, more of the Crows flew down from the trees to snatch a morsel of food or make off with a shiny coin or a little treasure. On the sixth day, even more Crows gathered around the cans, enjoying the hunt for discarded items that sparkled.
On the seventh day, the trash cans that had the choicest morsels of food and the best little treasures exploded, killing Crows and tourists alike.
That night, one of the Sanguinati who had been hunting for the humans responsible for murdering the Crows didn’t return to the Talulah Falls Courtyard.
And early the following morning, in Lakeside, Meg Corbyn woke up screaming.
“Meg!” Standing in their common back hallway, Simon pounded on Meg’s kitchen door, then paused to pull on the jeans he’d grabbed when he heard her scream. “Meg!” He snarled at the door when it didn’t open, when he didn’t hear anything.
Jamming his hand in the jeans’ pocket, he pulled out the keys to Meg’s apartment and turned the lock—and still couldn’t get in.
Why did she have to use that slide lock as well as the regular lock? It wasn’t like anyone used the kitchen door for visiting. Except him. And Sam when the pup was with him. The common outside door was locked, and he checked it every night before turning in, so she didn’t have to worry about an intruder coming in through the back way. He knew she didn’t have company, since she’d quietly told him she wanted to sleep alone tonight.
“And that’s the last time I listen to you about who sleeps where,” he grumbled as he pounded on the door again. “Damn it, Meg. What are you doing that you don’t want me to know about?”
The answer to that had him scratching at the door before he remembered he was in human form.
“Meg!”
Fur suddenly covered Simon’s shoulders and chest as he threw his weight against the door, breaking the wood and the slide lock. He rushed toward Meg’s bedroom, but the fresh scent of blood pulled him toward the bathroom. He shoved at the door and Meg cried out, so he squeezed through the narrow opening to avoid ramming her legs again.
She was on the floor, bleeding. The cut ran all the way across her torso just under her breasts. Too long a cut. Too deep a cut. Too much blood.
“Meg.” Barely enough room to straddle her legs when he dropped to his knees to reach her.
“Simon,” she gasped. “You have to listen.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
His friend was bleeding. It didn’t matter that she was human. His friend Meg was bleeding too much.
He lowered his head, then paused.
It would make him so angry. Like the last time when she fell in the creek and cut her chin and he had to get her to the human bodywalker.
I don’t care. She’s one of us now. Clean the wound. Get rid of the blood scent and hide the fact that she’s vulnerable.
He quickly licked the blood flowing from the cut. Licked and licked to keep it from dripping on the towel Meg had put on the floor to soak it up.
“Simon,” Meg moaned. “Simon. I see … It’s too much. I have to speak. You have to listen.”
For a moment he’d been very angry, and now he wasn’t. He heard Meg’s voice and something changed and he wasn’t angry at all.
Lick, lick.
She always tasted good. But this was wonderful.
Lick, lick.
He liked the sound of her voice. Even when she was yelling at him. Which she wasn’t doing now. She was …
The scent of arousal, as alluring as the scent of blood.
He sat back on his heels to bring his face closer to this new, delightful scent. His human body responded with pleasure, responded with a willingness that was hard to ignore.
“Simon.”
Something not pleasing in her voice now. Something … that should bother him.
“You have to remember,” she pleaded.
Remember? Yes. Lick, lick. The wonderful taste of Meg. But no biting. No tearing the flesh because … Why? It would feel so good to taste flesh. So very good. But not Meg’s flesh. He wouldn’t hurt Meg. Would never hurt Meg.
Something he was supposed to remember. Something about Meg talking when there was a cut and blood.
“Have to write it down,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” she said. “Hurry.”
He tried to get up, tried to leave the bathroom and fetch paper and pencil to write down … words! Write down words. She smelled so good. Tasted even better. Even her hair, still all weird shades of orange and red, didn’t stink anymore from whatever she had done to it.
Words. Important to write down Meg’s words.
Using the sink for support, Simon struggled to his feet. Maybe his feet. Couldn’t feel his feet. Did he still have feet?
“Write,” he growled. He should be angry. Why wasn’t he angry? Wasn’t sick, but wasn’t well either.
Fear surged through him, clearing his head for a moment.
A basket on the counter full of little brushes and pots of color. Female toys. He grabbed a pencil and wrote the words that poured out of her now.
Something wrong with him. Something very wrong. But he wrote the words until her voice stopped. Then he dropped the pencil and slid to the floor.
“Meg?” He licked at the blood still flowing from her wound and whined. “Meg?”
Her eyes were glazed. When she tried to raise her hand and touch him, she couldn’t do it.
“Your ears are furry,” she said.
They needed help. He … needed … help.
<Henry!>
<Simon? What’s wrong?>
<Sick. Meg … hurt. Hurry.>
Meg bleeding. Had to do something about Meg bleeding. Im … por … tant.
Simon stretched out on top of Meg, his face pressed into her sweet belly, where he could breathe in all those delicious scents.
Familiar scents and sounds, but nothing that said Meg to him.
Meg smelled good. Tasted even better.
“I think he’s finally coming around.” That voice belonged to Blair, the Courtyard’s primary enforcer.
Why did hearing Blair’s voice make him feel afraid?
“Simon?” That was Vlad, sounding angry. Why angry? Did Vlad also lick …?
“Meg!” Simon tried to move, to sit up, but his body seemed tangled and nothing worked quite right.
Until Vlad grabbed his arms and hauled him up enough so that all he could see was the fury in the Sanguinati’s dark eyes.
“What. Did. You. Do?” Vlad snarled.
Do? He … remembered.
“Meg was bleeding,” Simon said. His voice didn’t sound right. His jaw didn’t move the right way for human speech. What …?
Tess stepped into view next to Vlad. The hair that framed her face was black, black, black, but the rest was the red of anger. And all of it coiled and moved in a way that was mesmerizing—and terrifying.
“We know about Meg,” she said. “We’re asking about you.”
To avoid her eyes and Vlad’s, he looked at his surroundings. The living room in his apartment. How did he get there? Then he looked at his naked body—and the jolt of what he saw cleared the rest of the fuzziness from his mind.
One leg was human, the other was a Wolf’s hind leg starting from midthigh all the way down to the foot. As he processed the scents in the room and realized how many Others were looking at him, his tail curled protectively over his human genitalia. Fur on most of his torso. Hands that weren’t quite hands. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what his head and face looked like.
Between was a form that wasn’t Wolf and wasn’t human. Many of the terra indigene who lived in the wild country could take the rough shape of a human but could never pass for human, could never achieve a form that wasn’t somewhat between. The Wolfman in horror stories. The Others who lived in a Courtyard made an effort not to take a between form around humans, but they all shifted pieces when they needed some aspect of their other form. Like ears that could hear better. Or claws and fangs. There was a symmetry to that kind of shifting, even when it was more instinct than deliberate choice. But this? This was a body out of control.
He looked up at Blair, who watched him with sympathy laced with anger.
Then Henry stepped up beside Blair. There wasn’t any sympathy in the Grizzly’s eyes, but there was plenty of anger.
Surrounded by Sanguinati, Wolf, Grizzly, and Tess.
Have to choose a form. He wanted to shift to full Wolf and curl up somewhere until he had time to think it through, sort it out. But he was the Courtyard’s leader, and the leader couldn’t hide.
It took effort to shift all the way to human, and that surprised him. It felt like he’d tumbled into something sticky, something that slowed his reflexes and hampered his ability to shift.
So hard not to show fear. Impossible not to feel fear.