“Leave that to me,” Orchid said, her voice rising from his pocket.
But Daniel hesitated at the sharp bark of a dog and the sudden sound of feet and a clanging pipe. Damn it to hell, he thought, knowing it was too late to hide when a group of eight men and two dogs walked boldly down the street. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dogs, unleashed and roaming free. They were huge, looking more so next to the men, who were all kind of . . . short. “Orchid?” he questioned, and she poked her head out of his pocket, swearing prettily.
“Bluff it out,” she said, dropping back down.
Bluff it out? he thought. Easy for you to say. But knowing she was with him, even if all she could do was dust different colors, he was able to pull himself together, waving at them to try to be both unassuming and in charge at the same time—in stocking feet.
“Hey, hi,” he said, uncomfortable when they circled him. They didn’t look like a gang, even if all of them had conspicuous tattoos, some sharing the same design though they were not on the same patch of skin. Their hair was long and their clothes worn, and he’d say that they were hippies except something didn’t fit—the wide range of ages, perhaps. There was no show of weapons other than that pipe the smallest was dragging, and the two dogs were not overtly aggressive even as they sniffed him. It was obvious who was in charge: the older man wearing a fisherman hat and sporting a grizzled beard. The younger men surrounding him jostled one another and cracked jokes about early trick-or-treating.
“You’re breaking curfew,” the old man said, and Daniel held up a hand, ducking his head as if it were all a big joke. He was the tallest man here, and it felt odd.
“I know. I’m sorry. My wife is pregnant, and you know, when the lady wants pickles, she wants pickles.” He stiffened when one of the dogs made a weird, chortling laugh and trotted off. No one called the dog back, and when he spotted the same eagle tattoo in the dog’s ear, he realized they were werewolves. All of them.
Fear spiked through him, and he quashed it, forcing a smile when the remaining dog cocked his head at him in question. These were not the werewolves of the horror stories, he told himself. They wouldn’t kill him or bite him to make him one of their own. They’d been quietly living in Chicago since the city had been founded, most likely, and probably had as much to do with its success as the humans living beside them.
“He’s got the blisters,” the kid with the pipe said, and Daniel’s hand rose to cover them.
“This? No. That’s razor burn,” he said, and the old man in the hat sighed.
“Mister, we can do this easy or hard, but you’re going to the hospital. It’s your choice if it’s on your two feet or carried between us.”
“Really, I’m okay,” Daniel insisted, not liking how they were circling behind him. “I wouldn’t even be out here but I have to get to the police department.”
“You said you were getting pickles,” the man next to the remaining dog said, and Daniel’s anger spiked. He didn’t like lying, less getting caught at it.
“What I’m doing is none of your business,” he said, a hand over his pocket to keep Orchid safe. Someone grabbed his arm, yanking it free of his chest. “Hey!” he shouted in affront, but they all froze at an attention-getting yip.
The sound of cans rolling into the street echoed, and they all turned to a boy, scared as he tried to put the cans back into a paper bag and skirt back into the shadows.
With a curt gesture, the alpha male sent three of his men to get him. “Is he yours?” the man asked.
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “They’re all mine,” he said, and then kneed the man holding his arm—right in the groin.
He was free. The Were fell to kneel on the pavement with a pained, whining yip of a groan. “You stinky, flea-bitten hippies!” Daniel shouted, then turned to run.
“What are you doing!” Orchid shrilled.
“Making this up as I go along,” Daniel said, a weird, delusional smile growing as he pounded toward the police station, all the Weres in tow. The kid, at least, would get away.
“Well, make it up faster,” she said as she scrambled out of his pocket and flew up and out of sight. It was none too soon, either, as with an aggressive bark of warning, one of the dogs ran right in front of him, tripping him.
Gasping, Daniel went down, rolling and bruising his shoulder. He panicked when sharp teeth clamped onto his arm, and he curled into a ball, hiding his face. “Uncle! Uncle!” he yelled, praying it really was a person under all that fur. “You got me!”
“Son of a bitch!” someone said, and Daniel clenched, waiting for the expected kick in the ribs, but it never came. “Alvin, get off him!”
Daniel took a grateful breath when the dog let go, an odd guffaw coming from it as it sat back and looked for all the world as if it was laughing.