CHAPTER 17
Simon raced beneath a full moon, reveling in his speed and power as he closed the distance between himself and the most delicious-tasting, succulent meat he’d ever known. His soon. All his.
He chased her until she began to tire. The pumping legs, the pumping arms. They couldn’t give her enough speed to escape a Wolf.
He caught up to her, felt the rhythm of her moving limbs, closed his teeth over her elbow as it swung back—and pulled her down.
Intoxicating scent, that blood. And meat so very delicious because it was …
<Meg!>
Simon woke with a yelp and flung himself off the bed. Panicked and panting, he peered over the edge. The room held the faint gray of early morning, which was enough light for a Wolf. He couldn’t see Meg on the bed, but …
He started to shift. Remembering his promise to stay in Wolf form, he shoved his head under the covers and sniffed.
Blood.
Scrambling away from the bed, he howled, filling the sound with his unhappiness and fear.
<Simon?> A startled response from Vlad, whose apartment was two doors down. Tess and Henry had apartments on the other side of the complex, but they would be demanding answers soon.
He didn’t have answers. He had only the memory of his teeth …
Simon howled again—and Meg appeared in the doorway. She flipped on the overhead light, momentarily blinding both of them.
“Simon, what’s wrong?”
<Meg!> He leaped toward her, caught the scent of blood, and backed away, whining. The delicious smell of her was right, but the taste in his mouth was all wrong, confusing him.
“What is wrong with you?” She looked frazzled. “Are you hurt? Are you sick?”
That wasn’t fair! She’d made him promise not to shift, but now she was asking questions that he couldn’t answer because she couldn’t communicate in the terra indigene way.
He shook his head. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Meg sagged against the doorway for a moment. “Okay. Since you’re all right, I … have to flush the toilet and wash my hands. I thought something was wrong, and I didn’t finish things.”
She hurried back to the bathroom and shut the door more firmly than she needed to.
The front door of her apartment opened and slammed shut.
“Meg!” Vlad shouted.
Simon shifted, grabbed the jeans he’d left on the floor by the bed, and pulled them on before Vlad appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“What’s going on?” Vlad asked as he stepped into the room.
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you still sick?”
“No.” In fact, now that he was fully awake, he felt good. Confused, yes, but rested, energized.
Meg returned to the bedroom and stared at the two of them. “What is wrong with all of you this morning?”
“I smelled blood,” Simon said. “It was … upsetting.” He looked at her torso, just below the breasts. Did the cut open up? If it opened up and bled again, would Meg need to speak prophecy? Or did she have a fresh cut? Was that the reason she was in the bathroom? “Is there something I should write down?”
“No,” Meg replied tightly. “It’s not a cut, so there aren’t any visions or prophecies with this kind of blood.”
He cocked his head. “There are different kinds of blood?”
Vlad, who was standing closer to her, looked at her face and took a step back. Simon wished he hadn’t put on the jeans so he could grow a tail and tuck it over his male bits.
“I’m a girl!” she shouted. “It happens!”
Simon glanced at Vlad, who looked equally puzzled.
“You’re both so quick to think it’s ‘that time of the month’ whenever a girl isn’t all sweet and sunny, but it doesn’t occur to you when it really is that time of the month?”
Probably best not to point out that she’d been living in the Courtyard for three months now and this was the first time she’d done this particular female thing. Maybe blood prophets came into season once a season? How were the Others supposed to know? The human female employees usually took those days off work to avoid being around predators who might become excited by the blood scent. So this was his first experience being around a female who was doing this and wasn’t terra indigene—and most kinds of terra indigene females only came into season once or twice a year.
“Meg,” Vlad finally said.
She gave Vlad a scalding look. “Since I’m not getting any more sleep, I’m going to put the kettle on and make some chamomile tea.”
For a short female whose weight was appropriate to her height, she could sound as stompy as a bison.
Vlad turned to look at him. “What’s going on?”
“I think Meg is in season.” That wasn’t what humans called it, but he was rattled and couldn’t remember the right word. “I was dreaming. I must have smelled the blood and …”
Vlad flipped the covers back. They looked at the brownish red smear on the bottom sheet. He flipped the covers up. “I don’t want Meg mad at me for poking into private things, so I didn’t see that.” He picked up one of the pillows and frowned. “Why is one corner of this pillow drooled on and chewed?”
That explained the taste in his mouth. Instead of answering, Simon retrieved his sweater and put it on. “You head off Henry and Tess. I’ll deal with Meg.” He paused in the doorway. “Human females. They’re kind of crazy during this time, aren’t they?”
“If you choose to believe the stories written by male writers,” Vlad replied.
They heard a bang and thump from the kitchen, followed by Meg yelling at something.
Simon sighed. “That many males can’t be wrong.”