There were three doughnuts sitting on Hargroves’ desk. Not normal sized ones; I doubted he ate that much in a week. No, these were minis, six little powdered-sugar-coated temptations, one of which had a single bite taken out of it. And doesn’t that say everything about the man, I thought evilly. To most people, one of those doughnuts was a bite, but Hargroves could make a single doughnut last him all day.
        Sort of like a single lecture.
        This one had been going on for what felt like a week, although knowing the boss’s tight schedule, was probably more like ten minutes. I’d stopped listening after two because it was always the same thing. My students were wreaking havoc; my students were out of control. I don’t know what else he expected.
        Thanks to the needs of the current war, the War Mage Corps—the supernatural community’s version of the police—had started accepting younger and younger recruits. This last batch didn’t contain a person over the age of nineteen. Teenagers. He was giving me magically gifted teens with hormones on overdrive and power to burn and expecting me to churn out spit and polished recruits. Okay, yes, they’d blown up the gym. Again. I was just lucky they hadn’t taken the rest of the Corp’s new headquarters along with it.
        Not that it would be much of a loss, I thought, glancing around the dingy office. Only to have the boss notice. And apparently, number ten thousand and one on the list of things I did to irritate him was allowing my mind to wander during a chewing out.
        Although what came out of his mouth next wasn’t what I’d expected.
        “Which is why I’m promoting you,” he said sourly.
        I blinked. “Promoting, sir?”
        “To train our new task force. They’re to be housed in a separate facility, with rather more security features than this one.” The sour look intensified. “Perhaps you can manage to keep it intact for a week or two.”
        I blinked some more, this time in confusion. “But . . . my students—”
        “Reassigned to Mage Reynolds.”
        “Reynolds?” It took me a second, but then an image of a sandy haired, round faced, jolly tempered mage, fresh off the turnip truck from one of our more rustic offices, came to mind.
        Dear God, they’d eat him alive.
        “But, sir, we just had a breakthrough—”
        “Yes, of the back of the building!”
        A comeback leapt to my lips, but I held it back ruthlessly. Not for myself; Hargroves already thought I was stubborn, unpredictable and a bit of an asshole. Which was why he had me teaching.
        The supernatural community might be at war, but teaching assignments were thought to be far more worthy of combat pay. And considering what often went on in the classroom, I firmly agreed with that. Magic didn’t like to be leashed, and young, bountiful, reckless magic even less so.
        My students needed me.
        “Sir, I really think—”
        “Let’s go meet your new class, shall we?” Hargroves said, and stood up without letting me finish.
        I got up, because he was the boss, but I was frowning when we reached the corridor. And even more so when we left the admin wing and headed across the big open room that served as reception area, training ground and gym, all in one. Part of which was still on fire.
        I assumed that was why I was suddenly the focus of half the eyes in the place.
        That was better than when I’d first been assigned here, nine months ago, and the stares had been for a different reason. Part fey were not all that strange in the War Mage Corps. Maybe five percent of the whole had some kind of unusual blood in their veins, although it was often so far back as to manifest as nothing more than a faint tinge of blue or green along a cheekbone, or better than average sight in the dark.
        Weres, on the other hand, were a lot less thick on the ground.
        Of course, we weren’t supposed to be on the ground, at least not wearing a war mage uniform. But my father was Guillame de Croissets, from a family with a long history of service to the Corps and many times decorated for his service. He was retired now, but when he’d announced that his daughter Accalia was going to follow in his footsteps, no one had had the gall to tell him no.
        Or the courage, probably.
        Dad had a temper.
        Something he’d passed down to me, along with my dark brown hair and lanky, five-foot-nine build. But my gray eyes were wolf eyes, my mother’s eyes, and while they looked human enough, I’d heard that they were hard to meet. Which was probably why a couple of nearby gawkers scurried off when I sent them the glare they deserved, before following Hargroves downstairs.
        And started to get nervous.
        The Corps’ new digs were in a decrepit, thirteen thousand square foot warehouse on an arid bit of desert in the vicinity of Nellis Air Force base. Or, at least, the upper level was. It was mainly taken up by administrative offices, training areas and housing for new recruits, while the newly excavated subterranean sections hid the harder to explain stuff, like the interspecies medical facilities, weapons storage and labs.
        And the lock up, which was where it looked like we were headed.
        “Uh, sir?” I said, wondering why my new students were already incarcerated. That usually took a few weeks, at least. But Hargroves wasn’t listening.
        “Open up,” he snapped at the guards standing on either side of a large, metal door.
        Considering the types of wards draped over it, I didn’t know why they were there at all. It could have withstood a nuclear blast, much less an escape attempt. Not that the junkies, scammers and drunks that made up most of its current residents warranted that kind of precaution, but then, it hadn’t been made for them.
        It had been made for them, I thought, after we passed through the door and down a corridor, only to stop in front of a large, well-warded cell.
        And, suddenly, I caught a clue.
        I also caught Hargroves’ eyes, which were looking almost pleased for once. And forgot about my resolution about not pissing off the boss. Because he certainly hadn’t made a similar one!
        “You have got to be freaking kidding me.”

 
*   *   *

        A couple of very long hours later, I pulled my Harley into my driveway only to find a similar bike already there. The sleek crotch rocket was parked alongside a battered pick up, with a ladder and some paint buckets sitting in the back. I suddenly felt better.
        I let myself into the house, which looked less like a war zone than it had for months. A previous issue with another class of students had utterly trashed the place. It wasn’t their fault; a mage had used their inexperience to enthrall them and then send them against me, resulting in a fight where I was caught between not wanting to kill my students and not wanting to die at their hands.
        The result had been the almost destruction of my brand-new house, something my boyfriend was trying to rectify.
        And looking good doing it.
        Not that Cyrus ever looked less than edible. But in an old tank riding up to show off sculpted abs, and paint splattered jeans clinging to a better backside than any man deserved, he was stunning. Enough to make me pause in the doorway in admiration.
        He heard me, of course. I hadn’t inherited my mother’s super sharp senses, but Cyrus had the full wolfly package. He’d heard me drive up; hell, he’d probably heard my bike from a dozen blocks away and he’d smelled me before I hit the door. Yet he didn’t turn around. He just kept painting my living room wall with the tasteful soft beige I’d picked out, the smooth movement of the roller a counterpoint to the stretch and flex of all those muscles.
        I was suddenly very happy that I’d brought dinner.
        Dining in was sounding better all the time.
        I dropped my keys into a dish and Cyrus finally glanced over his shoulder, the too-long, dark brown hair curling against his neck, because he only remembered to get it cut occasionally. And what looked like two days’ worth of scruff on his cheeks, even though I knew he’d shaved that morning. He’d been staying at my place while renovations continued, and I’d found little bits of hair in my sink before I left. It was annoying, like the fact that he appeared to need six towels to take a bath.
        A grin broke over the handsome face, and the whiskey-colored eyes lit up at seeing me.
        I could deal, I decided.
        “Fun day at the office?” he asked.
        I took off my jacket and stretched, watching his eyes follow the movement. “No.”
        “No?” An eyebrow raised as he came down the ladder—with no hands and without looking at it, because Weres have uncanny spatial awareness. “Just no?”
        “Just no,” I agreed. There were days when I wanted to talk about the job—or bitch, more often. This wasn’t one of them.
        With tarp-covered holes in the walls, I didn’t run the AC much, just a fan over the bed at night. And, even to my human nose, he smelled of paint and sweat and the beer he’d had on a break, the bottle of which was still sitting by the wall. I didn’t care.
        Hard arms engulfed me, a harder body pressed up against me, and a mouth came down on mine that wasn’t just hard, it was hungry. And so was I. I had the tank off and him pushed against the wall in seconds, and was working on the phoenix belt buckle one of his own sort-of-students had given him when he grabbed my wrist.
        “Not now.”
        “Why not now?” He was ready; I could feel it. And, God, so was I! Time to work off some stress.
        “We have company.”
        “What?”
        I glanced up to find him looking over my shoulder, where a swivel of my head showed me two lanky teens lounging in the doorway to the dining room, trying not to grin.
        They weren’t trying very hard.
        “Accalia de Croissets, meet Jace and Jayden.”
        “Brothers?” I guessed.
        “Twins,” the slightly taller one said. “Fraternal.”
        Ah. That would explain why, although they favored, they weren’t identical. One was milk chocolate, the other dark. One had a buzz cut and the other was growing a very respectable ‘fro. One had on baggy jeans that must have been enchanted, because no way were they staying up otherwise, while the other was wearing a track suit worthy of a Russian mobster.
        Yet they really were similar. In fact, other than for the piercing in track suit’s nose, I’d have been hard pressed to tell them apart by facial features alone. Especially since they both smelled of wolf.
        But not of clan.
        Normally, having two vargulfs—the outcasts of the Were community—in your house would be cause for alarm, assuming you lasted that long. They tended to be desperate, dangerous types with murky pasts, the kind with a lot of power but few restrictions on how they used it, because they literally had nothing left to lose.
        But when your boyfriend is one, too, you get a different perspective. Not that it was so clear cut in his case. Because Cyrus was something I wasn’t sure the Were world had ever seen before: an outcast by choice.
        It had started when his older brother, Sebastian, the leader of the powerful and wealthy Arnou clan, had decided that he wanted to be bardric. Humans would translate the term as “king”, but that was pretty far off the mark. “First among equals” would be a better version, although it actually meant “war chief”, because the only time the clans had ever agreed to submit to one man’s rule was when they were threatened with disaster.
        And even then, it was touch and go.
        Weres didn’t play well with others, and resented being bossed around by a wolf outside of their own clan. Like, really resented. Like tear-your-head-off-and-feed-on-your-entrails resented. Yet the war had demanded sacrifices from everyone, and theirs had involved choosing a leader.
        It had gone about the way you’d expect.
        After weeks of yelling, fighting—sometimes literally—and utter stalemate, Sebastian had come up with an idea. The other clan leaders viewed him as more of a diplomat than a warrior, because he occasionally liked to talk before the head ripping started. In the human world, that would be an asset; in the Were, not so much.
        Not that most Weres were quite that temperamental, but any sign of weakness in a leader was anathema. Your Alpha was your life. He could lead you to success or utter destruction, so you damned well wanted him to be the baddest son of a bitch out there.
        Which was why, despite the power and prestige of Arnou, Sebastian had been having trouble sealing the deal. But he’d had to seal it, because the next mostly likely candidate was Whirlwind of Rand, the wolf name of the leader of the second most powerful clan. And Rand hated the current human-Were alliance.
        If Whirlwind became bardric, the Corps would be fighting this war alone, unless you counted the vampires. And nobody counted the damned vampires. They dealt with high level politics and otherworld invasions, which was all well and good and absolutely needed, but what about the little guy on the street? Who protected them?
        And they needed protection. The other side knew that the best way to keep the Corps busy was to run us ragged preventing terrorist attacks, and for a while, they’d done a pretty good job. But that was before the Were council started providing support.
        Unlike vamps, who tended to stay in their own little enclaves, Weres were a part of their communities. They ran businesses, employed locals, bought homes, and went to farmer’s markets. Yes, their kids usually went to special schools, both to teach them clan norms and to keep youthful hormones in check, especially around the full moon. But other than that, and for a few festivals and meetings of the clan throughout the year, their lives weren’t markedly different from the guy down the street.
        Except that the guy down the street couldn’t throw you through a building if you pissed him off.
        But the clans kept that kind of thing pretty much in check, and their involvement in the community had been a lifesaver for the Corps. Turns out, super senses were really good for picking up danger signs. Weres could smell magic, and even differentiate between light and dark varieties. Having the clans on board had cut the Corps’ workload by an order of magnitude, helping us hunt down dark mage enclaves, protect vulnerable human communities, even stop an attack on HQ.
        That last had been an accident. A Were had been in line at headquarters, waiting to get a shaman’s license renewed, when he smelled the stench of blood magic. It was emanating off a new arrival so thickly that it had almost knocked him down.
        Our enemies had known that getting a bomb past the Corps’ fearsome wards would be impossible, so they’d found some old drunk, stuffed him to the gills with life magic, the kind that wards couldn’t detect because all magical humans have it, and sent him in.
        The magic in his veins was bound to a spell powerful enough to have taken out half the facility and killed who knew how many mages. And it would have, except that the Were jumped him half a second before his body exploded. The vicious attack caused the tainted blood to spirt out everywhere, the magic to disperse, and the Were to be tackled by no fewer than eight war mages for his trouble.
        They’d eventually sorted things out, and he’d received an apology and a reward from the Corps. But it showed that, despite every possible precaution, if somebody wants to get to you, they can get to you. Unless, of course, you have paid Were guards stationed all over your lobby, as we now did.
        One of them, Hernando, made the world’s best tamales. They’d caused the cafeteria’s revenues to take a nose dive ever since he started showing up with a cart that he parked outside the front door, ‘cause why not double dip? I’d gained at least five pounds, and felt a lot safer, ever since.
        But that could all go away if an anti-Corps leader like Whirlwind got into power. Which was why Sebastian and Cyrus had rigged up a plan. Sebastian needed a show of strength to impress the clan leaders, but nothing penny ante would do. So, Cyrus had challenged his brother for leadership of Arnou and then thrown the fight, ensuring that Sebastian looked bad ass enough to win the vote.
        As a result, the Weres stayed in the war, a lot of people stayed alive, and Cyrus was made an outcast for life. Or until the war ended and he and Sebastian could admit what had happened and bring him back into the fold. That would entail its own special set of problems, but they were minor compared to a world without family, something that to wolves was literally a fate worse than death.
        Which I guess was why Cyrus had made his own.
        Two of whom were currently eyeing my bag of tamales.
        “You guys want some?” I asked, and had the bag snatched away almost before the words left my lips.
        The two ran off, I guess so they wouldn’t have to share, and I arched a brow at Cyrus.
        “I’ve been having them do grunt work,” he told me. “They need the cash.”
        “Except now we have no dinner. Guess that means you’ll have to take me out.”
        “I’d planned on it. Way out.”
        I cocked my head. “Do I want to know what that means?”
        The grin returned. “Oh, yeah.”
 

Chapter Two

        We took both bikes, because my beat-up old truck was not going to make it where we were going, and because the boys were coming along for the ride. “Jayden and I’ll take this one,” Jace said, staring in approval at my tripped-out Harley-Davidson Night Rod, with black chrome and blood red accents. Cyrus had a black and silver version, but I guess Jace liked my color scheme better.
        So did I, and preferably intact.
        “Not a chance,” I told him.
        “Oh, come on. Then you can ride with Cyrus.”
        I threw a leg over. “Yeah, but this way, I can race Cyrus.”
        Jace’s eyes lit up.
        We set out sedately enough, until we left my nice, quiet subdivision behind and hit the open road. Then we floored it. I heard Jace whoop from behind me, while Jayden clung to Cyrus like he was afraid the wind was going to blow him off the back of the bike. Which it just might have, because the open road outside Vegas is really open.
        And really fun. With long, straight highways that seem to go on forever, surrounded by dusty plains, sweeping hills, and giant azure skies, Nevada has some of the best riding country anywhere. And if you add in the Valley of Fire, with the red hills glowing like embers in the sunset, it turns into pure magic.
        My only question was what we were doing out here, especially with the boys. Cyrus and I frequently went camping, but usually for some alone time. Somewhere no one would hear us howl.
        I got my answer when we turned off the beaten path and bumped across open country to a busy campsite, where I sent my partner a look. He just took off his helmet and shook out his hair at me; the bastard knows I love that. And then helped poor Jayden off the back of the bike, who was looking about as shaken as a Were can.
        “We won! We won!” Jace said, laughing, because we’d rolled to a stop maybe five seconds before they had.
        “I don’t want to race anymore,” Jayden said thickly. And then he threw up.
        There was some fussing over him after that, and some teasing from the circle of young men around a campfire, who already had some hot dogs roasting. Jayden went over to sit with them, perking up slightly at the smell of meat, because nothing puts a Were’s stomach out of commission for long. Somebody threw a blanket around his shoulders and handed him a stick, and the ride from hell was soon forgotten.
        Leaving me looking at the pretty picture of deepening violet twilight, with a rim of reddish orange still clinging to the horizon, and stars blooming overhead. It contrasted nicely with the firelight splashing the excited faces of nine young men, most of them in their late teens, yet looking like kids at their first camp out. Which for all I knew this might be.
        “Wanted to get them out of the city,” Cyrus murmured, coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist. “It’s a full moon tonight.”
        I nodded. Unlike the legends, Weres had full control of when and where they Changed, which was one reason they were so deadly. But the full moon did affect them, making them more reckless, less inhibited, and more prone to violence than usual. And that was for people who weren’t vargulfs with self-control issues.
        I could understand why Cyrus wanted his proteges somewhere a little more remote tonight.
        And it looked like they planned to stay for a while. There was a ring of tents beyond the firelight, little two-man things that blended into the countryside pretty well. And a beaten-up old Winnebago that definitely did not.
        “The new digs?” I guessed. He’d said he was going to up his camping game.
        “Better than a tent,” he agreed, nibbling my neck. “It has a bed.”
        “Which we’d get more use out of if you hadn’t brought half the city.”
        “They’re sound sleepers.”
        I doubted that, especially tonight. The moon wasn’t up yet, but as soon as it rose, the boys would be off, transformed and chasing unfortunate little creatures all over the wilderness. Leaving the camp basically deserted.
        I perked up.
        “Dinner first,” I told him, because those hot dogs were smelling seriously delicious.
        They were good, as it turned out, and so was the company. That surprised me a little. The vargulfs I’d met in the past had been suspicious, angry, alienated types with little to say. And that was when they were talking at all and not trying to gut me.
        But that was sort of understandable when you realized what most of them had been through.
        The Were community was governed by a very strict caste system, with the older, richer, more influential families at the top, and everyone else spread down the ladder at different levels. Everybody except the vargulfs, that is. They didn’t have a clan, and thus had no access to the money, protection, and rights that afforded, including the right to set foot on clan property. More than one vargulf had been killed simply for entering the wrong business, without first checking to see who owned it.
        The clans said it was necessary to keep their people safe, that vargulfs had gotten that way for a reason, and that they were dangerous. And sometimes, that was true. A person could be thrown out of the clans for any number of things, including some pretty bad stuff. Many vargulfs were every bit as dangerous as the clans made them sound.
        But there were other reasons why someone could end up without clan affiliation. Being born on the wrong side of the blanket, for example, to a father or mother who didn’t choose to claim you. Or being born to someone who was already vargulf themselves. Or having done something that displeased your clan leaders, even if said something was not worthy of lifelong exile.
        And the bad part of it was, there was no way back again. Once you were out, you were out, unless you could convince some other clan to take you. But guess how many of the insular clans wanted to waste resources on someone who hadn’t been wanted even by their own families?
        Yeah, just about that many.
        It was something Cyrus was trying to change.
        Born to privilege in Arnou, he’d never thought much about the outcastes of the Were world until he became one himself. At first, he’d thought exile would be easy. He’d even thought that it might be fun, surviving for a while on his wits, free of the responsibilities of being essentially Were royalty, just him against the world.
        It hadn’t been fun. He’d confessed to me once that killing himself had started to look like a really good option, just a couple of months in. He’d never before realized how much he’d relied on the clan, how much of his strength he drew from it, how much of his identity, until it suddenly wasn’t there anymore.
        And that was while having something these boys had never known: hope.
        Hope that the war would end, and Sebastian could risk telling everyone the truth. Hope that he could avoid getting killed until that happened. Hope that there would come a time when he would wake up from this nightmare, when clan affiliated people wouldn’t cross the street to avoid him, and when he could hold his head up again.
        Hope that somehow, someday, he could go home.
        But what if you didn’t have a home, and knew you never would? It wasn’t too surprising that a lot of vargulfs didn’t last long. And those who did were easy pickings for the less respectable elements in Were society, who knew that the outcastes could be exploited without the risk of having a family come down on your neck.
        Because these boys no longer had one.
        Although you’d never know it tonight. They were laughing, talking and eating—especially eating—like they didn’t have a care in the world. It looked like Cyrus had bought out half a grocery store, and he needed every bit of it.
        Young men can eat, but young werewolves can eat everything, especially on the night of a full moon. I could tell that Cyrus had taken the guys shopping with him, because there was all sorts of junk food scattered around the fire. But there were a few grown up items, too, including potatoes roasting in the embers.
        I grabbed one, burning my fingers, and loaded it up with the some of the bacon that one of the guys was frying in a pan, shredded cheese, and chives. Who had thought to bring chives I didn’t know, but they went well with everything else. Including the two chili dogs that were slid onto my plate by a short redhead.
        “You can’t just eat a potato,” he said, ducking his head shyly.
        Actually, I could, and probably should. Thanks to Hernando’s tamales I needed to drop a few pounds before my next fitness evaluation. I suddenly wondered if that was why the Corps’ cafeteria was so terrible, to keep us all slim.
        It was a theory.
        But I guess the moon was affecting me, too, because I wolfed it all down, while the guys joked and laughed and talked. It was obvious that they’d forgotten for a moment who they were and where they fit—or didn’t fit—into the world we lived in. Which I guess was why they started debating how it got that way.
        “Everyone was a vargulf once,” one pointed out. He was the stereotypical Were—tall, gray-eyed, and dark-haired—and maybe sixteen or so. I thought his name might be Colin. “I mean, nobody had clans at the beginning, right?”
        “Of course, we had clans,” one of the others said. He was a dishwater blond with uncharacteristically bright blue eyes. Cyrus had introduced him with the very un-clan-like name of Noah. “We’ve always had them—”
        “We couldn’t have,” Colin argued. “We were cursed into being, and after the first ones Changed, their families probably threw them out. Just like us.”
        Things suddenly quieted down, while everyone remembered what that had felt like. Until Jace spoke up. “So, we’re like cave men.” He glanced around at the night, which out here was calm and wildly beautiful. “I could deal.”
        “It wasn’t that far back,” the brunet argued. He looked at Cyrus. “More like four or five thousand years, right?”
        Cyrus had been working on beer and bratwurst, and not paying much attention. Except to see how much sauerkraut he could pile on a single dog. It was a lot.
        But at that he looked up. “What?”
        “The first Weres. They were cursed by the old gods, weren’t they?”
        “Naw, it’s a disease,” Noah said. “Everybody knows that—”
        “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
        “—just the metaphysical kind. Like the vampires, you know?”
        Colin nodded. “That’s what I mean. They can be cursed with vampirism, as well as get it through a bite. Just like we can with the Were strain. Right Cyrus?”
        Cyrus swallowed spicy cabbage. “That’s one theory.”
        “What, that we’re cursed?” Jace said. “I never heard that!”
        “You didn’t have little werewolf school?” one of the others asked. “That’s what we used to call it,” he clarified, when Jace just looked at him. “You know, lore and shit.”
        “I didn’t have school,” Jace said shortly, and turned back to Cyrus. “Is he right? Were we cursed?”
        “I don’t know.” Cyrus chewed pork. “The ancient Greeks believed that. The legend goes that some guy named Lycaon got in trouble with Zeus—”
        “For serving him human meat,” one of the boys said eagerly. “I remember that story!”
        “—for trying to test his omniscience,” Cyrus said, without going into detail. Maybe because he was trying to eat. “But Zeus realized what Lycaon had done, and changed him and his sons into wolves. Which is why the mages call us lycanthropes sometimes—when they’re feeling suicidal.”
        He grinned, showing teeth, and several of the boys bared theirs back.
        I noticed that some were also wearing the same type of western shirt that Cyrus had about fifty of in his wardrobe. He could have lent them the clothes, but I didn’t think so. The shirts would have been a lot broader across the shoulder, if so. More likely there was a little hero worship going on.
        I bit back a smile.
        “But the legend doesn’t say anything about them turning back,” I said. Because I’d studied the lore, too. “So, they weren’t Weres, just wolves.”
        “It’s a point,” he conceded.
        “What do you believe, then?” Colin asked, shifting those gray eyes to me. “Who were the first Weres?”
        I shrugged. The real answer was “nobody knows,” but I didn’t think he’d be satisfied with that. He was looking kind of intense.
        “The Norse Volsung saga dates to the thirteenth century,” I said instead. “It recorded ancient stories, including one about a father and son who found enchanted wolf pelts that could turn them into wolves for ten days, after which they’d transform back. As far as I know that’s the first time anybody wrote about wolves turning back into people.”
        “I heard dark mages can use our pelts in spells,” one of the other boys piped up. “They use magic to strip them off us, then sell them and the power they contain. Maybe that’s where the myth started.”
        “It’s not a myth!” Colin said sharply. “We were cursed by the gods, and afterwards the strongest made the clans—”
        “I don’t know about that,” Cyrus demurred. “Even if you believe the legend, it doesn’t say anything about—”
        “It doesn’t have to! That’s all that matters—strength. We all know it!”
        “There’s plenty of things more important than strength,” Cyrus said, with a frown. “Decency, kindness, honor—”
        “Bullshit!” Colin suddenly stood up. He looked around the circle, and with the firelight splashing his face and leaping in his eyes, he looked more than a little feral. “If we were stronger our clans would have kept us! If we were stronger, we’d have homes! If we were stronger—”
        He broke off suddenly and bolted, vanishing into the darkness so fast that it almost looked like he’d disappeared. Cyrus frowned harder and got up. “I’ll be back,” he told me, and I nodded.
        There was silence around the campfire for a moment after he left, except for the soft crackle of the flames and the even softer hiss of the wind. And then Jace spoke up. “Don’t mind Colin,” he told me. “He had a bad experience.”
        “A bad experience?”
        I regretted the words almost as soon as I’d said them, because one thing you never asked a vargulf was how he got that way. But my attention had been on Cyrus and the boy, and my mouth had been on automatic. That was rarely a good thing.
        But Jace only shrugged. “Colin’s parents were part of a group who split away trying to form their own family, after a disagreement with their clan leaders. But they were attacked a few weeks later by some of their old clan, who didn’t want to look weak by letting them go.”
        “Attacked?” There was surprise in my voice, because that sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. Yes, clans had a lot of autonomy over their members, but there were rules. A rather large number of them, in fact, as to how acts of vengeance could be carried out.
        And sneak attacks weren’t among them.
        “Didn’t they report it?” I asked. “The council—”
        “Wasn’t in session. There was no bardric then, so it would have had to be called to give a ruling. And who was gonna call it? The parents were all dead.”
        “And the kids?” I asked, wondering if I wanted to know.
        “Dragged back to the clan,” Jace shrugged. “But not all of them were let back in. The elders made them fight, and only the strongest were restored, while the rest were killed or driven off.”
        It was said so matter-of-factly that, for a moment, I wasn’t sure what I’d heard. “They were made to fight?”
        He nodded. “Any who were old enough to Change. I think they kept all the littler ones.”
        “But . . . people can Change as young as nine or ten, some even sooner—”
        “And those mostly didn’t make it. Colin was one of the few who got away, limping off into the desert after an early round. He’d been given a bad leg wound in the first fight and knew he wouldn’t last through a second. But that’s also why nobody went after him right away; they thought he wouldn’t get far, and they’d round him up once the contest was over. But he got a ride with a norm into town, then ran into Jayden—”
        “Wolf eyes in the dark,” Jayden said, without looking up from his overloaded plate. “I almost had a heart attack. Thought the clan had come for me for sure.”
        “He took him back to our camp,” Jace added. “We’re staying in an abandoned building off Mesquite, so we had plenty of room. He fit in okay.”
        “’Cept he’s angry all the time,” Jayden added. “You know he is.”
        “We’re all angry.”
        “I’m not. Not anymore.” He glanced at Cyrus’s trailer, and then back at his plate again. “I’m going places.”
        Jace laughed, and ruffled his brother’s ‘fro. “Yeah, you’re going places, all right.”
        “Not the hair, man. How many times I hafta tell you?”
        The brothers’ interaction cut the tension, and in a few minutes, the lighthearted banter was back. Not that everything was forgotten, far from it, but these guys had learned the hard way that you take your fun when you can get it. And they were.
        By the time Cyrus came back alone, it almost felt like nothing had ever happened. “Where is he?” I asked, as somebody handed me another beer.
        “He’s fine. Wanted some time alone.”
        Yeah, so did I, but not for the same reason as before. I wanted that boy’s clan name. Nobody else around the fire seemed to realize that they’d just reported multiple homicides to a war mage, along with a few dozen more minor crimes, if child abuse counts as minor. I didn’t intend to point it out since learning that they had a cop in their midst might not go down well, but I damned well intended to act on it.
        But I could get the particulars from Cyrus later. If I knew him, he’d already reported everything to his brother. That was partly why Sebastian had agreed to this craziness: Cyrus wanted to use his status as vargulf to get information on badly behaving clans. It had been a long time since there had been a bardric, and things had gotten sloppy. Sebastian was trying to change that, but he needed information on the inner workings of the clans to do it.
        And who better to give it to him than their victims?
        I told my inner war mage to relax, lay back, and enjoy the night. I rested my head on Cyrus’s leg and looked up at the stars. The fire was throwing ash and burning embers skyward, black and red and yellow. The guys were kicking back beers that they were too young to buy, but that with their metabolisms would never catch up enough to make them drunk. And then somebody pulled out a harmonica.
        It crystallized into one of those times that you remember for years. When things, for one brief moment, are so perfect that they don’t seem real. The chill of the desert air, the warmth of the fire, the hard muscle of Cyrus’s leg under my head, shifting a little because he felt it, too.
        And then it got better.
        The clouds had been a low cover all day, making things feel a little claustrophobic even in the great outdoors. But they finally parted, sending beams of moonlight down onto the scene, almost like they were putting a spotlight on the camp. We laughed, every one of us, in a spontaneous chorus, because it was just too beautiful. One of the boys even held out a hand, as if trying to catch the rays streaming through his fingers.
        And then they were off, transforming at almost the same time, as if choreographed. I felt Cyrus’s leg twitch under mine, and knew that he desperately wanted to run alongside them. But that he wouldn’t because of me.
        “Go,” I said. “It’ll take me a while to clean up anyway.”
        “You sure?” It was sober. Because Cyrus knew how much I wanted to run, too, but couldn’t. Thanks to a human father and a little thing called Neuri Syndrome, transforming was something I’d never be able to do. But that didn’t mean that I’d deprive him.
        “I’m sure.”
        He kissed me quick. “Camper’s not locked, but the door sticks.”
        And then, before I could respond, a huge black and tan wolf was bounding away across the sand.

 

Chapter Three

        I looked around and sighed. Cyrus had forgotten to strip first, and now his clothes were shredded, along with most of the boys’. Weres were hell on wardrobes.
        I bundled the empty chip bags, beer bottles, condiments and used napkins into the now rags and let myself into the trailer. I was looking for a trash can—and was pleasantly surprised. Not only did I find one, and with an actual plastic liner no less, but there were other homey touches, too.
        It made me smile to see them. Cyrus had an apartment downtown, giving him access to the guys he’d been fleecing at the gaming tables, because nobody cheats at cards like a Were. Their noses are better than a lie detector, sensing the nervous sweat of a mark a mile off.
        But while it was a convenient base, the city always made him itch, like a wool coat that was two sizes to small, as he’d put it. He preferred to be out here, under the huge dome of the sky, unfettered and free. And while he could almost certainly have afforded a better bolt hole than this—he was a very successful card cheat—maybe he preferred something that helped him better connect with the boys.
        I wondered if he realized that he was well on his way to forming his own little clan. There’s no such thing as a solitary Were; the “lone wolf” of legend goes against every instinct they have. And Cyrus’s longing for a home was palpable in everything from the chintz curtains at the kitchen window, printed with little Las Vegas signs, to the “who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” fridge magnet supporting a photo.
        It was of him and the boys in some kayaks on what looked like the Colorado River. He’d somehow talked them into wearing life vests, and several had zinc covering their noses. It was frankly adorable, and no, I wasn’t saying that just because I was stupid about the guy.
        Cyrus had started this whole thing with the outcast boys to help them and his brother. But it looked like it was helping him, too. Bad décor and all.
        I finished doing the dishes that weren’t paper, tossed the rest, stripped and took a quick shower in the tiny plastic cubicle wedged into the hall beside the bedroom. Then I put on the nightie I’d brought in my saddlebags, because I was not afraid of the big bad wolf. Quite the contrary, I thought, grinning.
        Full moon sex was the best sex.
        And there was a bed, a big one that had somehow been shoved into the tiny back room where it took up most of the space. But it was comfy, and my full belly was working against me. I’d no sooner lay down on the soft, rumpled covers that smelled like Cyrus and home and clan than a yawn split my head. Damn it, this was no time to get sleepy! I wanted to stay awake, to finish tidying up, to wait for Cyrus, to—
        The door handle jiggled.
        “That was fast,” I called out. “I’m in the bedroom.”
        The Winnebago creaked and groaned, but nothing else happened. The damned door must be stuck again. I sighed and got up, grabbing my coat out of the saddle bag because I hadn’t thought to bring a robe and it might be one of the boys.
        Then I flung open the door.
        And found a monster staring back at me.
        It wasn’t a Were, even a transformed one. I didn’t know what it was. And I didn’t have time to find out. I had a split-second glimpse of a huge maw of razer-edged teeth, a pair of feverish yellow eyes, and a mass of matted gray fur.
        And then it was on me.
        The fact that it had to rip open the side of the trailer to get in told me it was big, but I couldn’t have said otherwise. Because it moved so fast that it might as well have been a cyclone tearing its way inside. The only saving grace was that I had grabbed that coat.
        The long leather overcoats worn by the Corps aren’t only meant to hide all the weapons we carry around. They also provide protection, courtesy of the many spells woven into and layered on top of them. Like the ones that kept eight-inch claws out of my chest.
        But that’s all they did. The repelling charms supposed to send an attacker flying did nothing, the shields I popped out as an instinctive response to danger did nothing, and the force of the attack sent me slamming back into the fake oak paneling above Cyrus’s dinette. Where I cut myself on the window glass that shattered behind me.
        It fell everywhere, but I ignored it. I was already slinging spells and sending the animated weapons in my coat at whatever was trying to gut me—and trying hard. But I was trying, too, and a war mage about to die is motivated.
        Which was why the next few seconds devolved into a tornado of magic, flung potions and flying weapons, the latter because a war mage’s arsenal can levitate and fight independently.
        Not that that made any difference. My weapons were firing, stabbing and blowing holes the size of basketballs in the sides of Cyrus’s new digs. But the creature moved like nothing I’d ever seen, so fast that I literally couldn’t track it with my eyes, only getting glimpses whenever it paused for a millisecond.
        And it didn’t do that much.
        Even worse, when something of mine did connect, it didn’t seem to have much effect. The bastard shrugged off bullets and knives like bee stings, barely paused at potions, and didn’t seem to mind when half of the roof caved in. And when I rolled off the table, hit the floor, and sent a spell powerful enough to have knocked the damned creature the length of a football field away, the only reaction was the blowback—on me. I went sailing through the door to the hall, like from the recoil of the world’s largest gun, while the creature went nowhere.
        Except straight at me again.
        I caught a glimpse of liquid movement and did the only thing I could think of, namely the opposite of the spell I’d just thrown. Instead of trying to eject him from the camper, I drew it in on top of him. Casting a spell that caused the two sides of the hall to scrunch in on each other like a metal fist, in an attempt to trap the thing.
        Which . . . might not have been my best move.
        Because it tore free by the simple procedure of ripping the trailer in half. My part must have gotten shoved backwards in the process, because it abruptly went rolling on the two wheels it had left, scattering the fire and knocking me back to my knees. But the distance finally gave me my first good look at what I was fighting.
        I almost wished it hadn’t.
        It had the general shape of a wolf, if wolves were sixteen feet tall. And had strangely elongated limbs, a hunched back, claws like short swords and a maw that looked big enough to swallow me whole. It looked like someone had taken the idea of a werewolf and told some Hollywood effects studio to push it to the limit, and then to push it some more. And to keep on pushing until it broke the brain to look at it, because what was left wasn’t the sleek, deadly predator of legend, which was beautiful in its own right.
        But something straight out of a nightmare.
        It leapt for me again and I forgot my training, at least the part about not screaming and wetting yourself. But I nonetheless managed to throw the worst item in my arsenal: a very nasty little device called a dislocator. It does exactly what the name implies, relocating the parts of your body that it has selected to fuck up to other areas, leaving arms growing out of your sternum or feet quite literally in your mouth.
        Or, at least, that’s what the illegal street versions do. The Corps’ variety isn’t so kind. What I threw should have had pieces of the creature springing off its body and adhering to any available surface—the other half of the trailer, the surrounding rocks, each other—until there was nothing left but a scream echoing in the night.
        You notice I said should.
        Because the dislocator landed—I damned well saw it. But the effect wasn’t what I’d intended. The creature’s body literally leapt apart all right, pieces springing off the trunk and scattering into the air like a fleshy bomb—
        For about a second. Then they were flying together again as if they’d been attached by a bunch of rubber bands, ones that had reached their limit and snapped back. Although into what, I didn’t know.
        All I could see was a storm of fur and bone and sinew, a working mass of body parts wrapped in a fog of blood. It was horrible and fascinating and terrifying, all at the same time. Although not as much so as when it stopped.
        And the creature stood there, not in part but all of it, together again as if nothing had ever happened.
        And immediately leapt for me again.
        But, this time, something leapt for it, too. Out of the shadows came a blur of motion that I didn’t identify as Cyrus in wolf form until he landed on the thing’s back, ripping, snarling and tearing. And dying, any second now, if I didn’t do something!
        The momentary paralysis that had left me staring in shock finally broke, and I leapt out of the still moving trailer. I felt dirt and burning embers under my feet, along with some glass shards from the shattered window that I’d picked up when I hit the kitchen floor. I barely noticed. Like I only dimly saw the other wolves gathering around, their eyes shining in the night, reflecting the light from the few scattered logs that were still on fire.
        They registered, but they were distant, vague, like the pain in my body where the creature’s blow had connected, like the sighing of the wind over the desert, like my heart pounding in my ears.
        None of it mattered; only Cyrus.
        The darkness brightened, time seemed to slow down, and for a moment, I could see everything: the motes of burning ash in the air, like fireflies drifting across the scene; the beams of moonlight cascading through a gap in the clouds; the surrounding boys, some still in wolf form, others just changed back and crouched low to the ground, disbelief and horror on their faces.
        And Cyrus, locked in a battle he couldn’t win, but that he would fight nonetheless—to save me.
        Then I was up and moving, my coat in one hand, my potion belt in the other. Because I wasn’t a damsel in distress; I was a war mage. I did the saving.
        And I’d better do it soon.
        I started running just as Cyrus slashed a gash across the creature’s throat, spewing a gout of blood out onto the air. It hadn’t even hit the soil when a great claw grabbed him off the misshapen back and threw him what must have been forty feet, into the side of a cliff. I didn’t have time to see how he landed or if he was all right. Because the hero-worshipping circle of boys gave a howl, and jumped for the monster who had hurt their mentor.
        And were savaged by a hurricane of slashing claws.
        “No!” I yelled. “Get back! Get out of there!”
        They got back, all except for one. It was Jayden; I could see the nose ring winking at me from the snout of a sleek, dark gray wolf. He was like smoke on the wind, sure footed and lightning fast, and not darting and slashing blindly as the others had been. He emulated Cyrus and went straight for the jugular.
        He almost made it.
        He was faster than any wolf I’d ever seen—except for the one he was attacking. The giant creature caught him a split second before he completed his leap, snatching him out of the air with those huge jaws. And then snapping them shut, the resulting crunch so loud that it echoed all over the canyon, bouncing off the hills and magnifying in the still, night air.
        Along with his brother’s horrified scream.
        I heard Jace but I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anything except my target. And Cyrus, leaping out of the dark once more, distracting the beast.
        Giving me a chance to strike.
        I didn’t bother trying to figure out what might work. I threw it all, the whole damned belt, basically everything I had left. While recalling my gun, which had been levitating around the creature’s head, pumping lead into a cranium that didn’t even seem to notice.
        Let’s see if you notice this, I thought, and fired.
        The potion belt exploded, practically at point blank range, releasing dozens of spells right on target. Cyrus veered away, the liquid muscle under all that sleek fur rippling in the moonlight. Several newly arrived boys, who had also been leaping for the fray, stopped on a dime, their haunches bunching up almost comically around their faces. For a split second, all of us froze, watching and waiting to see if it would be enough.
        And then the beast screamed.
        It was a horribly human sound, making my skin crawl even as I started moving again. But I didn’t hesitate. After seeing it throw off a dislocator in seconds, I knew I didn’t have much time. But then, I didn’t need it.
        Because war mage coats have a number of functions, including one that very few people know about. It isn’t seen very often because it isn’t needed very often. But in extremis, it can perform one final service for its master.
        That one.
        I hurled the coat, the final spell I would ever cast over it on my lips, just a whisper in the night. But it was enough. Because I’d had that coat ever since I became a war mage. My father had given it to me when I turned eighteen, just as his father had given it to him, a generation’s old family heirloom dating back centuries, to a many times great grandfather who had layered the first foundation spells onto the leather.
        I’d added to them as I grew, until it was a tapestry of everything I knew, of all that I’d learned and become. I loved that coat like a friend, like the constant companion it had always been, like my right arm. And like what it was: a repository of my magic and that of the entire de Croisset family, who had served the Corps for eight hundred years with our strength, our honor, and our cunning.
        All of which was woven into every fucking piece.
        It hit the thrashing body, but unlike the potions, it didn’t explode. It didn’t hurt the creature at all. Instead, it engulfed him, expanding outward and wrapping him up in what looked like all the leather in the world, a great sheet of it that blocked out the sky.
        Until it suddenly contracted.
        The monster didn’t scream this time, probably because it could no longer open its jaw. It also couldn’t see, other than a sea of brown leather, or hear with the muffling folds cutting out any outside noise, or move effectively. It couldn’t do anything except thrash about . . .
        And slowly suffocate to death.
        The thrashing finally stopped, and the coat peeled away from the body. It was no longer a cherished family heirloom, but just a worn old scrap of leather, patched and faded, its magic exhausted. I stared at it in disbelief and grief for a moment, but also in overwhelming gratitude. Dad had always said it might save my life someday. Looked like he’d been right.
        But it hadn’t saved someone else’s.
        Cyrus had already Changed back, and had run up to where a wolf had been a few moments before, but where only a boy now lay. I knew it was too late even before I joined him, limping up with a twisted ankle and a bruised ribcage, from where my shields hadn’t been strong enough. But the physical pain was easier to bear than what was happening in front of me.
        “No! Let me go.” Jace tore away from the two boys holding him and ran up as well, only to stop in disbelief over the body of his brother. But if he was hoping for a moment to say goodbye, he was disappointed.
        The body had been all but bisected by that terrible bite.
        Jace went to his knees, his eyes huge and disbelieving. I started to say something, I’m not sure what, but Cyrus stopped me with a look. Well-meaning platitudes weren’t going to help, and might easily be resented.
        I backed away.
        And realized that, while I’d been distracted, the other body had transformed as well. It was still larger than Jayden’s, but was now human-sized. It was also vaguely familiar.
        Two of the boys rolled it over, revealing limp limbs, a pale face, and a shock of dark brown hair almost the same color as mine. Like the eyes, open and staring and the steel gray of the clans. Colin, I thought dully, recognizing the angry boy from earlier. And, for a moment, it sounded like the hills were whispering the name back to me.
        But it was just the boys, belatedly recognizing who we’d been fighting.
        And then the hills were echoing, but not with words. Unearthly, desolate, ghostly howls erupted in the night, floated over the sand and seemed to merge with the stars. Not just from the throats of the still transformed, but from all of them.
        A strange, hybrid pack mourning the loss of not one, but two of their own.