“Very well.” I straightened. “I need clothes. You need food. And you need a name.”
He thought this over, his pupils holding steady. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand, pointed to his chest. “Wolf.”
I nodded. “Of course.” Pointed at myself. “Eleni.”
It was a start.
*
The marks of my claws were fresh and glaring on the freeway’s surface. We waited for traffic to clear, crouched in the shadow of the overpass. He had no feminine clothing in the efficiency, but I’d found a pair of jeans to cut down and a belt that served with a few extra holes delicately claw-punched. A none-too-fresh white tank top—laundry had evidently never been his specialty, if this was indeed his apartment—and a too-large brown leather jacket completed my oddest sartorial statement ever.
He watched with no sign of impatience or disgust as I hunted, and when my victim—a drug dealer in one of downtown’s less savory quarters—was dispatched and I rifled the pockets, Wolf stayed wide-eyed and calm. No fur had rippled out through his skin.
The roll of cash was sticky with God alone knew what, but it was serviceable. Twenty minutes later, at a street vendor’s stall, Wolf swallowed several slices of pizza; at another, he ate at least five gyros and washed everything down with a large soda. Empty calories, certainly, but better than nothing. He stared longingly at a soft-pretzel vendor, but I drew him away and he followed without demur.
Traffic roared past, a cavalcade of glaring white eyes. I heard a dead spot coming and rose. The lykanthe crouched easily. “Do you have the scent?” I asked again.
He nodded, lifting his shaggy head and sniffing. Fur crawled up his cheeks, spilled down his broad chest. Now I knew why lykanthe rarely wear shirts—tearing them in the change must be annoying. “Run,” he said, his mouth moving wetly over the word as his jaw structure changed, crackling. “Run them down .”
“Good boy.” I could not help myself. But he shivered as if the approval was pleasant, and launched himself into a leap. I followed, and a double sound—the cloth-tearing sound of the Kin using inhuman speed and the howl that burst from him—echoed under the orange-lit city sky.
*
The mansion was several miles from the city limits, a graceless mushroom-white thing with a colonnaded porch, the grounds extensive but overgrown. Wolf skidded to a stop and crouched, snarling; I curled my fingers in the thick ruff at the back of his neck. It was an instinctive move, because I sensed the thread-thin wire strung between once-ornamental and now shaggy trees, metal humming with ill intent.
“Easy,” I whispered, under the deep edge of his snarl. “Easy, young one.”
Chill night air touched my cheeks. Wolf’s growl stopped between exhale and inhale. He remained thrumming-tense, muscles bunched and ready.
I kept whispering, though there was little need. “They are on their guard now. Hopefully they are stupid enough to think their stake-gun disposed of me, but we cannot depend on that. We must go carefully, and quietly. Come back to your other form.”
Shudders ran through him in waves, but I waited. The moon, half full, was a bleached bone in the sky, above the orange stain of the city. The night was young.
“Come back,” I insisted. Fur melted, and soon I clasped the nape of a crouching young man in a loose corduroy jacket and torn jeans.
“Hear them,” he whispered. “Five, six. Maybe more.” The sibilants faded into mush, but I was better at deciphering his words now. The muzzle had damaged something, and he would be a long time healing.
“Good.” My fingers moved, soothingly. It was a cross between petting a restive animal and soothing a child. He finally relaxed. “Now. You will wait here. Do not disobey.”
He shivered. “Go. With.”
“Wait here. Should I need you, I will call. I promise.”
“Go with,” he insisted, tilting his shaggy head back as if to trap my fingers. “Need. Go with .”