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Red curtains or blue curtains? I peered at the guest suite for Nuan Cee’s “employee.” When I pressed Nuan Cee for specifics about his guest, he played dumb. I tried dropping subtle hints, then more obvious hints, until finally, I straight out asked what sort of furniture I should provide for the new addition to his delegation. His answer was “large,” after which he informed me that he was too tired to continue the conversation and needed to retire.
Large as in human large? Vampire large? Nuan Cee large? Which large were we talking about? First, Sophie, now this. This new thing with guests arriving but not bothering to explain to me their species or any preferences was getting really annoying.
I caught myself before my irritation tainted the room. I had settled on a very basic set of furnishings, light bamboo floor, and beige walls. The room desperately needed color, but I would have to add it on the fly. Here is hoping his guest wasn’t a Ravelian Slug.
“It will have to do,” I told Beast.
A chime sounded in my head. Lord Robart’s guests were about to arrive. I checked the time. We had less than fifteen minutes before the celebration was set to start.
Time is a funny thing. When you have a headache, five minutes seem like an eternity. When you’re trying to prepare for the otrokari celebration, make two additional guest suites, one for the vampires and the other for the merchants, and pacify a melodramatic seven foot tall hedgehog-like chef convinced that his fish will become inedible because it has to wait an extra hour in the refrigerator, three hours go by in a blink.
I hurried to the front room. The sun had set, the day burning down to purple embers in the west. Twilight claimed the streets, painting the floorboards of the hallway in cool blue and purple. We had less than fifteen minutes before the celebration started. I made it just as George walked down the stairs. He was wearing an indigo doublet that set off his pale hair. Jack followed him, dressed in dark brown leather.
“The House Meer is incoming in ten minutes,” I told them.
“Good.” George smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The magic of the inn tugged on me. Something was happening in front of the building. I stepped to the window. In front of me the long stretch of Camelot Road rolled out before turning, and on the corner, half-hidden by the enormous prickly pear the Hendersons refused to trim, a police cruiser waited. Oh great.
“Problems?” George asked.
“Officer Marais’ intuition never fails.”
George glanced at his brother. Jack shrugged and pulled off his shirt, exposing a hard, muscled frame.
“Jack will take care of it,” George said.
That’s what I was afraid of. “Please don’t hurt him,” I said.
“The guy is ruining your life and you want me not to hurt him.” Jack’s pants followed. He kept going, and I kept my gaze firmly on his face.
“Officer Marais isn’t trying to ruin my life. He’s trying to do his job and keep the neighborhood safe.”
“Fine, fine.” The last shred of clothing landed on the floor. “I’ll be back in time for the fireworks.”
Jack stretched and then his body broke apart. Fur spilled out. For a moment he almost appeared to be suspended in midair, then his body twisted, crunched, knotted on itself, and a large lynx landed on my floor.
Okay. That was certainly interesting. What the hell was he? He wasn’t the Sun Horde, that’s for sure.
“Could you open the back door please?” George asked.
The back door swung open and the lynx shot out through the kitchen into the night. Something banged. A screech echoed through the inn.
“It is enough I put up with the dog. Must I have cat hair in my food as well?” Orro yelled.
He’d missed his calling. He should’ve become a Shakespearean actor instead.
Beast barked, clearly offended.
“My apologies.” I turned to the wall. “Screen please. Front camera feed, zoom in three hundred percent.”
A screen sprouted on the wall giving me a detailed view of Officer Marais’ car and its owner, leaning back in his seat.
Something thumped the cruiser. It rocked on its wheels.
Officer Marais sat up straight.
Another thump.
Another.
Officer Marais swung the door open and stepped out, illuminated by the glow of the nearby street lamp, one hand on his gun. He stepped around the car and checked its rear.
The crape myrtle bushes in the yard across the street rustled.
Officer Marais turned smoothly and stepped away from the car. The bushes rustled again, shivering, as something moved away from the car toward the street light.
Marais followed, his steps careful.
A lynx emerged from the bushes and sat on the pavement.
Officer Marais froze, his hand on his sidearm. His face told me he was calculating his odds. He’d walked too far from the car. If he turned and ran, the lynx would catch him.