"Has anybody seen Daniel this morning?"
Jennifer glanced up from the burr she was working out of her sister's fur. "He headed up the lane about an hour ago. Said he was going to wait for the mail."
"But it's Sunday." Nadine rolled her eyes. "Honestly, that child and the day of the week. Peter, could you go get him." Her tone fell between an order and a request.
Good sergeants used much the same tone, Vicki reflected; maybe the wer could integrate more easily than she'd expected.
Peter dragged his T-shirt over his head and tossed it at Rose. "You think you can find the car keys before I get back?"
"They're in here somewhere," she muttered, shuffling through yet another pile of papers. "I know they are, I can smell them."
"Don't worry about it," Vicki advised, rescuing a lopsided stack of Ontario Farmers from sliding to the floor. "If we don't find them by the time Peter gets back, we'll take Henry's car."
"We'll take the BMW?" Peter kicked his sneakers off. "You know where Henry's keys are?"
Vicki grinned. "Sure, he gave them to me in case we needed to move it."
"All right!" He dropped his shorts on Rose's head. "Don't look too hard," he instructed, then changed and barreled out the door, heading at full speed up the lane.
Mark had intended to just drive by the farm, to see if he could spot any of these alleged werewolves and get a good look at their pelts, but when he saw the shape sitting by the mailbox it seemed like a gift from God.
"And as I have been assured, God is on our side."
So he stopped.
It didn't look like a wolf, but neither did it look quite like a dog. About the size of a small German shepherd, it sat watching him, head cocked to one side, panting a little in the heat. Its pure black coat definitely appeared to have the characteristics of a wolf pelt, with the long silky hairs that women loved to run their hands through.
He stretched an arm out the open window of the car and snapped his fingers. "Here, uh, boy. Com-ere... "
The creature stood, stretched, and yawned, its teeth showing very white against the black of its muzzle.
Why hadn't he brought a biscuit or a pork chop or something? "Come on." Pity it was black; a more exotic color would fetch a higher price.
And then he saw a flash of red coming up the lane, When it reached the mailbox, he realized that the black must only be about half grown. The red creature was huge with the most beautiful pelt Mark had ever seen. Long thick hair shaded from a deep russet to almost a red-gold in the sunlight. Every time it moved, new highlights flickered along the length of its body. Both muzzle and ears were sharply pointed and its eyes were delineated with darker fur, giving it an almost humanly expressive face.
He knew people who would pay big bucks to own a fur like that.
It studied him for a moment, head high, ignoring the attempts of the smaller one to knock it over. There was something in its gaze that made Mark feel intensely uncomfortable and any doubts he might have had about these creatures being more than they seemed vanished under that steady stare. Then it turned and both creatures headed back down the lane.
"Oh, yes," he murmured, watching them run. "I have found my fortune." Best of all, if anything went wrong this time, crazy Uncle Carl and his high caliber mission from God would take the rap.
First on the agenda, a drive into London to do a little research.
It didn't take long for Vicki to discover the attraction Henry's BMW held; low on the dashboard, discreetly out of sight from prying eyes and further camouflaged by the mat black finish - on everything including the buttons and the digital display - was a state of the art compact disk player. She was perfectly willing to admire the sound quality, she was even willing to listen to Peter enthuse about woofers and tweeters and internal stabilization somethings, but she was not willing to listen to opera all the way into London, especially not with the two wer singing along.
They compromised and sang along with Conway Twitty instead. As far as the wer were concerned, the Grand Ol' Opry ran a poor second to grand old opera, but it was better than no music at all. Vicki could tolerate country. At least she understood the language, and Rose had a hysterical gift for mimicking twang and heartache.
They cut through the east end of the city, down Highbury Avenue - Highway 126 - heading for the 401. The moment they hit traffic, Rose reached over and turned the music off. To Vicki's surprise, Peter, reclining in the back with his head half out the window, made no protest.
"We don't see things quite the same way you do," Rose explained, very carefully changing lanes and passing an eighteen wheeler. "So we have to pay a lot more attention when we drive."
"Most of the world should pay more attention when they drive," Vicki muttered. "Peter, stop kicking the back of my seat."
"Sorry." Peter rearranged his legs. "Vicki, I was wondering, how come you're going to see the OPP on a Sunday? Won't the place be closed down?"
Vicki snorted. "Closed down? Peter, the police don't ever close down, it's a twenty-four hour a day, seven day a week job. You should know that, your brother's a cop."
"Yeah, but he's city."
"The Ontario Provincial Police are police just like any others... except no one keeps messing with the color of their cars." Vicki liked the old black and whites and hadn't approved the Metro Toronto Police cars going bright yellow and then white. "In fact," she continued, "in a lot of places they're the only police. That said, on a hot Sunday afternoon in August, everyone with a good reason to be out of district headquarters should be and I might be able to get the information I need."
"I thought you were just going to go in and ask them for the names of everyone who has a .30 caliber rifle registered?" A Chevy cut in front of them and Rose dropped back a careful three car lengths, muttering, "Dickhead," under her breath.
"I am. But as they have no reason to tell me, a lot is going to depend on how I ask. And who."
Peter snorted. "You're going to try to intimidate some poor rookie, aren't you?"
Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose. "Of course not." It was actually more a combination of a subtle pulling of rank and an invoking of the "We're all in this together" attitude shared by cops all over the world. Granted, she wasn't a cop anymore, but that shouldn't affect the ultimate result.
The OPP District Headquarters overlooked the 401 on the south side of Exidor Road, the red brick building tucked in behind a Ramada Inn. Vicki had the twins wait by the car.
Had she still been a cop, it would've worked. Unfortunately, that she used to be a cop, wasn't good enough. Had she not then tried to "intimidate a poor rookie" it might still have worked, but the very intense young woman she spoke to knew Vicki had no right to the information, "working on a case" or not, and, her back up, refused to show it to her.
Things would have gone better with the sergeant if Vicki hadn't lost her temper.
By the time she left the building, most of the anger was self-directed. Her lips had thinned to a tight, white line and her nostrils flared with every breath. She'd handled the whole thing badly and she knew it.
I am not a cop. I cannot expect to be treated like one. The sooner I get that through my fat head, the better. It was a litany easy to forget back in Toronto where everyone knew her and she could still access many of her old privileges, but she'd just been given a nasty preview of what would happen when the people on the Metro force were no longer the men and women she'd served with. Her hands clenched and unclenched as though they were looking for a throat to wrap around.
She started for the car, standing in solitary splendor at the edge of the lot. With every step, she could feel the waves of heat rising up off the pavement, but they were nothing compared to the heat rising off her. Where the hell are the twins? She half hoped they'd done something stupid just so she could blow off some steam. With most of the distance to the car covered, she saw them heading across the parking lot from the Ramada Inn carrying bottles of water.
When they met, both wer took one look at her and dropped their eyes.
"It didn't work, did it?" Rose asked tentatively, peering up through her eyelashes. Under her hair, her ears were forward.
"No. It didn't."
"We just went for some water," Peter offered, his posture identical to his sister's. He held out the second of the plastic bottles he carried. "We, uh, brought you one."
Vicki looked from the bottle to the twins and back to the bottle. Finally she snorted and took it. "Thank you." It was cold and it helped. "Oh, chill out. I'm not going to bite you." Which was when she realized that they thought she might.
Which was so absurd that she had to laugh.
Both sets of ears perked up and both twins looked relieved. If they'd been in fur, they probably would have bounced; as they weren't, they merely grinned and drank their water.
Dominant/submissive behavior, Vicki thought draining her bottle. She worried about that a little. If all the wer but the dominant couple were conditioned to be submissive as a response to anger or aggression, that could cause major problems out in the world.
As Rose went around the car to the driver's side, two heavily muscled young men lounging around the Ramada Inn pool began calling out lurid invitations. Rose yawned, turned her back on them, and got into the car.
And then again, Vicki reconsidered, maybe there's nothing to worry about.
She tossed her empty bottle into the back seat with Peter. "Let's go get lunch while I come up with another brilliant idea."
Unlike a number of other places, London had managed to grow from a small town serving the surrounding farming community into a fair sized city without losing its dignity. Vicki approved of what she saw as they drove into the center of town. The city planners had left plenty of parks, from acres of land to tiny playgrounds tucked in odd corners. New development had gone up around mature trees and where that hadn't been possible new trees had been planted. Cicadas sang accompaniment throughout most of the drive and the whole city looked quiet and peaceful, basking in the heat.
Vicki, who liked a little more grit in her cities, strongly suspected that the place would bore her to tears in less than twenty-four hours. Although she emphatically denied sharing the commonly held Torontonian delusion that Toronto occupied the center of the universe, she couldn't imagine working, or living, anywhere else.
"The place is called Bob's Steak House," Peter explained as Rose pulled into a small, nearly empty parking lot. "It's actually up on Clarence Street, but if we leave the car there we have to parallel park."
"Which we're not exactly very good at," Rose added, cutting the engine with a sigh of relief.
Vicki would have been perfectly happy stopping for fast food - all she really demanded at this point was air conditioning - but the twins had argued for a restaurant "where the meat isn't so dead."
A short block east of the lot, Rose rocked to a halt in front of a little corner store and exclaimed, "Baseball stickers!"
Peter nodded. "Make him feel better."
"Is this a coded conversation," Vicki asked of no one in particular, "or can anyone join in?"
"Daniel collects baseball stickers," Rose translated. Her brow furrowed. "No one's quite sure why, but he does. If we bring a few packages back, it'll make up for him not being able to come with us."
"You two go ahead." Vicki rummaged in her bag for the car keys. "I've got this urge to go back and check the car doors."
"I locked mine," Peter told her, paused a moment, and added, "I think."
"Exactly," Vicki grunted. "And I don't want to have to tell Henry that we borrowed his BMW and lost half the pieces."
Rose waved a hand at the empty street. "But there's no one around."
"I have a naturally suspicious nature. Get the stickers. I'll meet you back here."
What's the point of new legislation on Sunday openings, Mark Williams wondered, heading back to the alley where he'd left his jeep, if the places I need to go are still closed? A truly civilized country wouldn't try to cramp a man's style and... hello!
He sidestepped quickly behind a huge old maple and with one hand resting lightly on the bark, leaned forward to take another look. It was Ms. "No First Name" Nelson. He thought he recognized the walk. Few women covered the ground with that kind of an aggressive stride. In fact...
He frowned, watching her check the car doors, wondering why the body language seemed so familiar.
Drives a BMW, eh. Not too shabby.
As she turned away from the car, he ducked back, not wanting to be seen. A number of his most profitable enterprises had begun with him watching and keeping his mouth shut. When he felt enough time had passed, he took another look.
Jesus H. Christ. She's a cop.
For those who took the trouble to learn certain subtle signs, playing spot-the-cop became a game easy to win. Mark Williams had long ago taken the trouble to learn the signs. It never hurt to be prepared and this wasn't the first time that preparation had paid off.
What's she got to do with those werewolves though, that's the question. Maybe the aged uncle hasn 't been as clever as he thought. If she's a friend of the family, and a cop...
He came out from behind the tree as she disappeared up a side street at the other end of the parking lot. He couldn't tell if she was packing heat, but then, she could be packing a cannon in that oversized bag of hers and no one would be the wiser. Thinking furiously, he sauntered slowly across the street. If she could prove the aged uncle had been blowing away the neighbor's dogs, she didn't have to bring up the subject of werewolves at all. Uncle Carl would. And Uncle Carl would get locked away in a loonybin. And there would go his own chance to score big.
She was onto something. The pine needles on yesterday's T-shirt proved she'd found the tree and he'd be willing to bet that that little lost waif routine she'd pulled in the aged uncle's flower factory was just a ploy to get close.
He laid his hand against the sun-warmed metal of the BMW.
I'm not going to lose this chance.
She wouldn't appreciate it. She'd say he was interfering, that she could take care of herself, that he should stop being such a patronizing s.o.b.. Mike Celluci put down the electric razor and glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He'd made up his mind. He was going to London. And Vicki Nelson could just fold that into corners and sit on it.
He had no idea what this Henry Fitzroy had gotten her involved with nor did he really care. London, Ontario probably couldn't come up with something Vicki couldn't handle - as far as he knew, the city didn't have nuclear capabilities. Fitzroy himself, however, that was a different matter.
Yanking a clean golf shirt down over his head, Celluci reviewed all he had learned about this historical romance writer. Historical romances, for God's sake. What kind of job is that for a man? He paid his parking tickets on time, he hadn't fought the speeding ticket he'd received a year ago, and he had no criminal record of any kind. His books sold well, he banked at Canada Trust, he paid his taxes, and his charity of choice appeared to be the Red Cross. Not many people knew him and the night guard at his condo both respected and feared him.
All this was fine as far as it went, but a lot of the paper records that modern man carried around with him from birth, were missing from Mr. Fitzroy's life. Not the important things, Celluci admitted, shoving his shirttails down behind the waistband of his pants, but enough of the little things that it set off warning bells. He couldn't dig any deeper, not without having his initial less than ethical investigations come to light, but he could lay his findings before Vicki. She used to be a cop. She'd know what the holes in Fitzroy's background meant.
Organized crime. The police didn't run into it often in Canada, but the pattern fit.
Celluci grinned. Vicki would demand an immediate explanation. He hoped he'd be there to hear Fitzroy try and talk his way out of it.
2:15. Family obligations would keep him in Scarborough until five at the earliest and even at that his sisters would squawk. He shuddered. Two hours of eating burned hamburgers, surrounded by a horde of shrieking nieces and nephews, listening to his brothers-in-law discussing the rising crime statistics and criticizing the police; what a way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
"Okay, so if the gun part of Rod and Gun Club refers to the rifle range and stuff," Peter, having convinced Rose that he should have a chance to drive, pulled carefully out of the parking lot, "what's the rod mean?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," Vicki admitted, smoothing the directions out on her knee. The napkin had a few grease stains on it, but the map was actually quite legible. "Maybe they teach fly-tying or something."
"Fly-tying?" Rose repeated.
"That'd take one real small lasso, there, pardner," Peter added, turning north.
Vicki spent the next few blocks explaining what she knew about tying bits of feathers to hooks. As explanations went, it was sketchy. Neither, when asked, did she have any idea why theoretically mature adults would want to stand thigh deep in an ice cold stream being eaten alive by insects so that they could, if lucky, eat something that didn't even look like food when cooked but rather stared up at them off the plate in its full fishy entirety. She was, however, willing to allow that it took all types.
Although Peter drove as meticulously as Rose, he was more easily distracted - any number of bright or moving things pulled his attention from the road.
So once again the wer are inside statistical norms, Vicki thought, squinting through the glare on the windshield, and we see why teenage girls have fewer accidents than teenage boys. "Red light, Peter."
"I see it."
It took Vicki a moment to realize they weren't slowing. "Peter... "
His eyes were wide and his canines showed. His right leg pumped desperately at the floor. "The brakes, they aren't catching."
"Shit!"
And then they were in the intersection.
Vicki heard the squeal of tires. The world slowed. She turned, could see the truck, too close already to read the license plate, and knew they didn't have a hope in hell of not being hit. She screamed at Peter to hit the gas and the car lurched forward. The grille of the truck filled the window and then, with an almost delicate precision, it began to push through the rear passenger door. Bits of broken glass danced in the air, refracting the sunlight into a million sharp-edged rainbows.
The world returned to normal speed as the two vehicles spun together across the intersection, tortured metal and rubber shrieking, until the back of the BMW slammed into a light pole and the truck bounced free.
Vicki straightened. Covering her face to protect it had kept her glasses where they belonged. Thankfully,she pushed them up her nose, then reached over and turned off the ignition. For the first sudden instant of silence, her heart was the only sound she could hear, booming in her ears like an entire percussion section, then, from a distance, as though the volume were slowing being turned up, came voices, horns, and, farther away still, sirens. She ignored it all.
Peter had his head down on the steering wheel, pillowed on his folded arms. Vicki unsnapped her seat belt and gripped his shoulder lightly.
"Peter?"
The lower half of his face dripped blood but, as far as she could tell, it came from his nose.
"The brakes," he panted. "They - they didn't work."
"I know." She tightened her grip slightly. He was beginning to tremble and although he deserved it, although they all deserved it, this was not the time for hysterics. "Are you all right?"
He blinked, glanced down the length of his body, then back at her. "I think so."
"Good. Take off your seat belt and see if your door will open." Her tone was an echo of the one Nadine had used that morning and Peter responded to it without questions. Giving thanks for learned behaviors, Vicki pulled herself up on her knees and leaned over into the back to check on Rose.
The rear passenger side door had buckled, but essentially held. The inner covering and twisted pieces of the actual mechanisms it contained spread across three quarters of the seat which now tilted crazily up toward the roof. The rear window had blown out. The side window had blown in. Most of the glass had crumbled into a million tiny pieces, but here and there sizable shards had been driven into the upholstery.
A triangular blade about eight inches long trembled just above Rose's fetal curl, its point buried deep in the door lining. Glass glittered in her pale hair like ice in a snow field and her arms and legs were covered with a number of superficial cuts.
Vicki reached over and yanked the glass dagger free. A 1976 BMW didn't have plastic-coated safety glass.
"Rose?"
She slowly uncurled. "Is it over?"
"It's over."
"Am I alive?"
"You're alive." Although she wouldn't have been had she been sitting on the other side of the car.
"Peter... "
"Is fine."
"I want to howl."
"Later," Vicki promised. "Right now, unlock your door so Peter can get it open."
While Peter helped his sister from the back, Vicki clambered over the gearshift and out the driver's door, dragging her bag behind her, and throwing it up on her shoulder the moment she was clear, its familiar weight a reassurance in the chaos. A small crowd had gathered and more cars were stopping. One of them, she was pleased to note, belonged to the London Police and other sirens could be heard coming closer.
With the twins comforting each other and essentially unharmed, Vicki made her way around the car to check on the driver of the truck. Blood ran down one side of his face from a cut over his left eye and the right side of his neck was marked by a angry red friction burn from the shoulder strap of his seat belt.
"Jesus Christ, lady," he moaned as she stopped beside him. "Just look at my truck." Although the massive bumper had absorbed most of the impact, the grille had been driven back into the radiator. "Man, I didn't even have fifty klicks on this things yet. My wife is going to have my ass." He reached down and lightly touched the one whole headlight. "Quartz-halogen. Seventy-nine bucks a pop."
"Is everyone all right here?"
Vicki knew what she'd see before she turned; she'd used that exact tone too many times herself. The London police constable was an older man, gray hair, regulation mustache, regulation neutral expression. His younger partner was with the twins, and the two uniforms from the second car were taking charge of traffic and crowd control. She could hear Peter beginning to babble about the brake failure and decided to let him be for the moment. A little bit of hysteria would only help convince the police they were telling the truth. People who were too calm were often perceived as having something to hide.
"As far as I can tell," she said, "we're all fine."
His brows rose. "And you are?"
"Oh. Sorry. Vicki Nelson. I was a detective with the Metro Toronto Police until my eyes went." It didn't even hurt to say it anymore. Maybe she was in shock. "I was in the BMW." She dug out her ID and passed it over.
"You were driving?"
"No, Peter was."
"It's your car?"
"No, a friend's. He lent it to us for the day. When Peter tried to stop for the light, the brakes had gone. We couldn't stop." She waved a hand at the truck. "He didn't have a chance of missing us."
"Right out in front of me," the driver of the truck agreed, swiping at the blood on his cheek. "Not even fifty klicks on this baby. And the whole front end'll have to be repainted." He sighed deeply, his belly rising and falling. "The wife is going to have my ass."
"They were working earlier?"
"We stopped just down the road without any... " The world slid a little sideways. "... trouble."
"I think you'd better sit down." The constable's hand was around her elbow.
"I'm fine," Vicki protested.
He smiled slightly. "You've got a purple lump the size of a goose egg on your temple. Offhand, I'd say you're not quite fine."
She touched her temple lightly and brilliant white stars shot inward from her fingertips. All of a sudden, it hurt. A lot. Her whole body hurt. And she had no memory of how or when it had happened. "I'm getting too old for this shit," she muttered, letting the constable lead her to the side of the road.
"Tell me about it." He lowered her gently to the curb. "You just sit there for a minute. We'll have the ambulance people take a look at you."
Everything appeared to be about six inches beside where it should be. "I think," she said slowly. "That might not be a bad idea. The ownership, insurance, everything, is in the glove compartment."
He nodded and headed for the car. Vicki stopped keeping track of things for a while.
When the ambulance attendants suggested she go to the hospital, she didn't put up much of a fight, only pulled Dr. Dixon's phone number from the depths of her bag, asked that he be called immediately, and insisted on Rose and Peter coming with her. The police, who had soon recognized the family resemblance between the twins and one of their own people, overruled the protests of the attendants and helped all three of them into the back of the ambulance.
"We're not charging you with anything," the older constable told her, handing up the tow truck driver's card, "but we will be checking with the mechanics about those brakes. This is the garage he's taking the car to."
Vicki nodded carefully and stowed the card in her bag.
As the ambulance pulled away, the tow truck driver looked down at the wreck of the BMW and shook his head. "Good thing they weren't driving domestic."
"Storm. Storm!"
Storm gave Cloud one last frenzied lick and looked up at Dr. Dixon. "Go into the kitchen and get me a glass of water, please." Vicki made a motion to rise out of her chair, but the old man waved her back. "No, I want Storm to go. Run the water good and cold. If there's ice in the freezer, you'd better use it."
Nails clicking against the hardwood, Storm left the room. The sound continued down the hall and then stopped. Vicki assumed he'd changed. Cloud, her fur stuck up in damp spikes from Storm's tongue, shook herself briskly then lay her head down on her front paws and closed her eyes.
Dr. Dixon sighed. "She's getting too close," he said softly to Vicki, "and her twin's beginning to sense it."
Vicki frowned. "She's getting too close to what?"
"Her first heat. I imagine he'll be sent away as soon as this trouble's over. I only hope it isn't too late."
"Too late?" Vicki echoed, remembering Nadine had spoken of Cloud's first heat on Saturday morning.
"Usually it happens in late September, early October, that way if there's a pregnancy, the baby, or babies, will be born in early summer, ensuring a good food supply for the last few months of gestation and the first few months of life." He chuckled. "The wer aren't born with teeth, but they come up damn soon after. Of course, all this meant more when they lived solely by hunting, but the basic biology still rules. Thank God the baby's changes are tied to the mother's for the first couple of years."
Vicki dropped her hand on the old man's arm. The hospital had cleared her of any damage except a nasty bump but her head hurt and she knew she was missing something. "Dr. Dixon, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Huh?" He turned to look at her and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm old, I forgot you've only known the wer for a short time." His voice took on a lecturing tone, slow and precise. "Cloud is nearing sexual maturity. Her scent is changing. Storm is responding. Didn't you notice the way he was licking her?"
"I thought that was for comfort, to clean the cuts."
"It was, partially, but I didn't like the look of what it was turning into. That's why I sent him to the kitchen."
"But he's her brother," Vicki protested.
"Which is why the family will be sending him away. It's hard on twins. You simply can't keep them together during a first heat; he'd injure himself trying to get to her. When he's older, he'll be able to control his response but this first time, this first time for both of them... " Dr. Dixon let his voice trail off and shook his head.
He remained silent as Peter came back into the room.
"I brought you some water, too," he said, handing Vicki the second glass he carried.
She thanked him. She needed a drink. Water would have to do. She watched carefully as Storm flopped down and rested his muzzle across Cloud's back, sighed deeply, and appeared to go instantly to sleep. It all looked perfectly innocent to her. She glanced at Dr. Dixon. He didn't look worried so apparently this was within the parameters of acceptable behavior.
The tableau shattered a moment later when a car door slammed outside and both wer leapt up and raced for the front of the house, barking excitedly.
"Their father," Dr. Dixon explained. "I called him as we were leaving the hospital. No sense worrying him before that and now he can take you back to the farm."
"Do they know it's going to happen?" Vicki asked. "That he's going to be sent away?"
Dr. Dixon looked momentarily puzzled. "Who? Oh. Cloud and Storm? Rose and Peter?" At her nod, he sighed. "They know intellectually that it's what happens, but for all they're wer, they're still teenagers and they don't believe it will happen to them." He shook his head. "Teenagers. You couldn't pay me enough to go through that again."
Vicki reached over and clinked her glass against his. "Amen," she said. "Amen."
Brows lowered, Mike Celluci worked his fingers around the steering wheel. He'd left his sister's later than he'd planned and felt lucky to get away at all. No one had warned him that their Aunt Maria would be at the "little family barbecue," probably because they knew he'd refuse to come.
"Well, surely you didn't expect Grandma to come on her own, Mike. I mean the woman is eighty-three years old."
If they'd mentioned Grandma was coming he'd have driven out to get her himself. A trip to Dufferin and St. Clair beat the hell out of an afternoon with Aunt Maria. Although he'd tried, it had been impossible to avoid her for the entire afternoon and eventually he'd had to endure the litany he'd heard from her at every meeting practically since puberty.
When are you getting married, Michele? You can't forget, you're the last of the Cellucis, Michele. I told your father, my brother, rest his soul, that a man needs many sons to carry on the name but he didn't listen. Daughters, he had three daughters. When are you getting married, Michele?
This afternoon he'd managed to keep his temper, but only barely. If his grandmother hadn't stepped in...
"And the last thing I need now is a fucking traffic jam on the four-oh-goddamed-one." He had his light and siren in the glove compartment. The urge to slap it on the roof and go tearing up the paved shoulder, around the Sunday evening traffic, was intense.
He wanted to be in London before dark, but he wasn't going to make it. If traffic didn't open up, he doubted he'd be there before eleven. Time wasn't a problem, he had three days off, but he wanted to confront Vicki tonight.
He'd called Dave Graham, to let him know where he was heading, and ended up slamming the receiver down when the other man started to laugh.
"Jealous," he growled, scowling up at the setting sun. It wasn't funny. Vicki had to be told what kind of person she'd gotten involved with. He'd do the same for any friend.
Suddenly, he grinned. Maybe he should introduce Vicki to Aunt Maria; the old lady'd never know what hit her.
"What are you so nervous about?"
Vicki jumped, whirled, and glared up at Henry. "Don't do that!"
"Do wha... Sweet Jesu, Vicki, what happened?" He reached out to touch the purple and green lump on her temple but stopped when she flinched back.
"There was an accident."
"An accident?" He glanced around, nostrils flared. "Where is everyone?"
"Outside." Vicki took a deep breath and released it slowly. "We agreed I should be the one to tell you." Peter had wanted to, but Vicki had overruled him; he'd been through enough for one day.
Henry frowned. There were strange undercurrents in Vicki's voice he didn't understand. "Has someone else been shot?"
"No, not that." She glanced out the window. Although the sun had set, the sky was still a deep sapphire blue. "The wer have been staying out of those fields, patrolling around the house; it seems to be working for now. No, this involves something else."
"Something that involves... " He flicked his gaze over to the lump and she nodded. "... and me."
"In a manner of speaking. The brakes failed on the BMW today. We - Peter, Rose, and I - were broad-sided by a truck. The car, well, the car was pretty badly damaged."
"And the three of you? You weren't badly hurt?"
"If we had been," Vicki snapped, "I'd have more to worry about than totaling your car." She winced. "Sorry. It's been a day."
Henry smiled. "Another one." He cupped her chin lightly with his right hand and looked up into her eyes. "No concussion?"
"No. Peter got a bloody nose and Rose has a few cuts from flying bits of glass. We were lucky." His hazel eyes appeared almost green in the lamplight. She could feel his hand on her skin through every nerve in her body, which was strange because as far as she could remember her chin had never been an erogenous zone before. She moved back and his hand dropped.
"You were very lucky," Henry agreed, pulling out a chair and settling into it. He wasn't sure if Vicki was responding to his hunger - his own injuries would heal faster if he fed - or if his hunger rose with her response, but for the moment he ignored both possibilities. "I don't understand about the brakes, though. I had a full service check done in the spring and they were fine. I've hardly driven the car since."
Vicki dropped into a chair beside him. "The garage was closed today, it being Sunday and all, so I'll talk to the mechanic tomorrow." She leaned her elbows on the table and peered into his face. "You're being very understanding about this. If someone trashed my BMW, I'd be furious."
"Four hundred and fifty years gives you a different perspective on possessions," he explained. "You learn not to grow too attached to things."
"Or people?" Vicki asked quietly.
His smile twisted. "No, I've never managed to learn that. Although every now and then, I make the attempt."
Vicki couldn't imagine watching everyone she cared about grow old and die while she went on without them and she wondered where Henry found the strength. Which set her to wondering...
"How are you tonight?" She plucked gently at the sling around his left arm.
"Bruised thigh, bruised head, shoulder's healing." It was frustrating more than painful. Especially with her blood so close.
"You've got that look on your face."
"What look?"
"Like you're listening to something."
To her heartbeat. To the sound of her blood as it pulsed just under the skin. "I'd better go."
She stood with him.
"No, Vicki."
Just in time she remembered not to raise her brows. "No, Vicki? Henry, you need to feed, I need to relax. I'm a grown woman and if I think I can spare you another few mouthfuls of my precious bodily fluids, you have no room for argument."
Henry opened his mouth, closed it again, and surrendered. Healing had used up whatever reserves he had and the hunger was too strong to fight. At least that's what he told himself as they climbed the stairs.
"How dare you! How fucking dare you!" Barry Wu couldn't remember ever being so furious. "You goddamned fucking son of a bitch, you actually believed I'd do something like that!"
Colin was trying desperately hard to keep his own temper, but he could feel himself responding to Barry's anger. He'd been pulled out of the car for special duty tonight, and this was the first chance they'd had to talk. "If you'd listen - I said I didn't believe you did it!"
Barry slammed his palm down on the hood of Colin's truck. "But you didn't believe I didn't! It took a fucking Toronto PI to convince you!"
"You've got to admit the evidence... "
"I don't have to admit shit!" He stomped off half a dozen paces, whirled around, and stomped back.
"And another thing, where the fuck do you get off searching my place?"
"What? I was supposed to just sit on my ass and wait for the guy to strike again?"
"You could've fucking told me!"
"I couldn't fucking tell you!"
"Hey!"
Neither of them had heard the car pull up. They spun simultaneously, shoulder to shoulder, dropped into a defensive position, and went for their guns.
Which neither of them are wearing. Celluci lifted a sardonic eyebrow. How lucky for all three of us. "You two might want to find another place to have your disagreement. Police officers screaming profanities at each other in the station parking lot looks bad to civilians." If he remembered correctly, a sergeant had once said the same to him and Vicki.
Neither Barry nor Colin wasted a moment wondering how the stranger had known they were police officers even out of uniform. They were young. They hadn't been on the force very long. They weren't stupid.
"No, sir!" they replied in unison, almost but not quite coming to attention.
Celluci hid a smile. "I'm looking for someone. A woman. Her name is Vicki Nelson. She's a private investigator from Toronto. She's working for some people who own a sheep farm north of the city. I figure by now she'll have contacted the police, for information if nothing else. Can you help?"
Colin stepped toward the car, trying to paste a neutral expression over concern. "Excuse me, sir, but why are you looking for her? Is she in trouble?"
Jackpot first try. She's probably had this poor kid breaking into police files for her. "I'm a friend. I have information about the man she's traveling with."
"About Henry?" The concern broke through. Information about Henry could mean trouble.
Barry frowned at the tone but moved forward, ready if Colin needed him.
"You know him?"
"Uh, yeah, I do." Barry looked a little surprised at the change in Colin's voice and more surprised when he continued with, "I'm Colin Heerkens. Henry and Vicki are out at my family's farm," and then proceeded to give detailed directions. There was an undercurrent of amusement about Colin's whole attitude that made Barry very nervous.
As the car pulled away, Colin gave a shout of laughter and slapped Barry on the back. "Come on," he yanked open the truck door and climbed in, "you're not going to want to miss this!"
"Miss what?"
"What happens when he gets to the farm."
"What happens?"
Colin rolled his eyes. "Christ, Barry, I know your nose isn't worth much but I don't believe you didn't smell that. That guy was so jealous he was practically green." He leaned over and opened the passenger door. "You know, if you'd learn to read nonverbal clues you'd be a better cop."
"Yeah?" Barry swung up into the truck. "And if I'd wanted to be in the canine corps, I'd have joined it." He settled back against the seat cushions and buckled in. "I still want to know what happens when he gets to the farm."
"Beats me." Colin shot him a grin as he pulled out onto the street. "But it oughta be interesting."
"You think this is pretty funny, don't you?"
"We think most of you humans are pretty funny. Laugh a minute."
"Sheep-fucker."
"Yellow peril."
"You know, Colin, your uncle's probably not going to be too thrilled by you sending this guy out to the farm." Barry drummed his fingers against the dash and shot a look at his partner. "I mean, you lot aren't big on company just generally and right now... "
Colin frowned. "You know, you're right. I guess I was reacting to his scent and the situation. Uncle Stuart's going to have my throat." He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. "I guess I just didn't think."
"It's your least endearing trait." And one that would keep him from promotion; keep him on the street, in uniform. Barry doubted that Colin would ever rise any higher than constable and sometimes he wondered how the wer would manage when he moved on.
"Barry, I did want to tell you."
"I know. Forget it." And he knew that Colin could, the wer lived very much in the here-and-now. It would take a little longer for him.