by Nova Nelson
“Doesn’t matter. Shifting in public or without permission in a privately owned business, with the intent to harm, is a serious crime. That werewolves feel comfortable doing it for something as silly as a bar fight is a perfect example of the entitlement and unrest that has been growing in that community.”
“Which community exactly?” I said, trying to suppress my rising temper. “The scum community? Because I can assure you that one isn’t made up entirely of werewolves. And there are plenty of werewolves I see on a daily basis who have no sense of entitlement and would hate to be grouped with Lucent and Slash.”
“Ah yes,” he conceded with a nod before pushing his glasses further up his long nose. “To be sure, there are outliers, ones who, over time, have grown to understand why society must be structured the way it is, who have stopped using the war, which was fought generations before they were born, and the witches who won as scapegoats for all their problems. It’s not outside the realm of possibility for werewolves to take personal responsibility, assimilate to civilized society, and work hard to earn something for themselves, but, unfortunately, it’s becoming less and less common these days.”
I said, “I don’t know about that,” which was my go-to phrase when someone said something incredibly ignorant and I didn’t want to set them off but was most definitely not going to agree with them.
“You wouldn’t,” he said. “You’re new in town. You haven’t seen the progression. But it’s gotten much worse. Truly, it was only a matter of time before one of those savage wolves picked up a copy of the Eastwind Watch and actually read it. I assume word about the Werewolf Protection Act has been spreading through the were community the last couple weeks and they’re none too happy about it.”
I glanced over at Landon, who looked like he was going to be sick as he glared at his former teacher but said nothing.
“Back up. Considering two werewolves were murdered within the first two months of me being here, wouldn’t they want an act aimed at protecting them?”
Annabel and Jackie giggled, and I did the very adult thing of not hitting them upside the head for being obnoxious.
“Ladies,” warned Hunter before returning his attention to me. He did a poor job of hiding his own amusement at my, apparently, naive question.
“The Werewolf Protection Act was written to protect the people of Eastwind from werewolves.”
Ah. Okay. I saw what was happening here. I’d heard this sort of thing before, and I wasn’t down with it.
Luckily, Hunter’s utter nonsense wasn’t hard to poke holes in. Fear mongering usually isn’t. “So it does protect werewolves. Because they are technically ‘people of Eastwind.’ ”
He half-cringed, his head wobbling in a slow figure eight. “And argument could be made for that, yes.”
“A very good argument. But hey, since I’m a newbie and you’re exceptionally intelligent, maybe you can help me with some legal questions.”
He took the compliment without noticing the sarcasm. “Happily.”
“Is it illegal for someone to physically and intentionally cause bodily harm to someone else?”
“Of course. The charges could range from assault to murder.”
I nodded like this was fascinating. “Since that’s already established, why do we need extra laws specifically for werewolves?”
“Ah.” He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap, settling in. “Because we want to stop crime before it happens. Assault and murder are charges that take place after someone has already been injured. We want to be more proactive and take measures that prevent such things from happening to anyone in Eastwind.”
Oh man, this guy was full of unicorn swirls. The bigotry veiled as intellectualism and concern was bringing back the nausea I’d kicked a half hour before. I wished Liberty Freeman were around to voice my obvious objections to Hunter’s horribly flawed approach. The genie would have a few interesting things to say about protecting the rights of the individual, and he’d know how to say it so that everyone loved him even more when he was finished, even those who’d started out disagreeing with him.
But Liberty wasn’t in Necro Coffee, so I had to do the best I could. “And what sort of things does this Werewolf Protection Act do to accomplish that?”
“Oh, it’s all very complicated,” he said, waving a hand about vaguely. “No point in getting into it here. But I believe there is an official copy of the proposed legislation at the Parchment Catacombs, so maybe Landon can help you find it later. In the meantime, I believe you came here to ask us about Grace.”
All very complicated? No way that wasn’t done intentionally to keep the average person from understanding what the heck was actually included in the act. Politics were politics, it seemed, no matter what realm.
“Where were we?” I asked, accepting that the conversation needed to move on from politics if I wanted to get to the bottom of Grace’s disappearance. “Right. You were saying a random werewolf probably murdered her.”
He nodded. “Yes. Now, I know you spend your days in the Outskirts, and because of that you think you understand werewolf culture. I’m sorry to disillusion you, but I spent two summers doing werewolf outreach in the Outskirts, getting to know the so-called ‘ancient’ werewolf families personally. And I can tell you without any reservation that while they were friendly enough when I had food and supplies for them, they would have torn me to pieces if I gave them half a chance. You may think you know them, but you only know their best selves, the ones they show to the world to trick everyone into forgetting what they really are. Try feeling so sentimental when they start to shift. That feral fury is as much a part of them as the face they present to civilized society. Don’t forget it.”
His argument made a certain kind of sense, and for a moment, I bought into it. Then I shook my head free of his rhetoric and replied, “How is that any different from anyone, though? We all try to show our best selves to the world around us, and we’re all capable of horrible, unimaginable things. But that doesn’t mean we get to view everyone as a potential murderer and treat whoever we want as a second-class citizen.”
Hunter frowned regretfully, his eyes drooping with a patronizing sympathy as he said, “I hear you. And I wish it weren’t this way. Really, I do. I have werewolf family members, and I would give anything to believe they were just like you and me. The fact that I can’t believe that is a testament to how different at a core level werewolves are from everyone else.”
Ooh, boy. I’d had just about enough of Hunter. And I hadn’t gotten a single useful bit of information about Grace out of him. Was he intentionally trying to stir me up so I would leave without getting what I needed?
It was entirely possible, and if that was his aim, he’d succeeded.
“Great,” I said, standing. “Thanks so much for all the valuable information. I think we’d better get going, though. I have drink plans with my best friend, a werewolf whose werewolf husband was murdered by not another werewolf, later this evening.” I nodded to Landon who seemed more than happy to get going, and we made for the exit without so much as a handshake. But before we reached the door, I said, “Oh wait, I forgot to close my tab.”
“I thought you paid out,” Landon called after me.
He wasn’t wrong.
I planted my feet at the counter and scanned the menu. Perfect. I knew a coffee shop like this would also serve wine. I pointed to the most expensive bottle on the menu, the price of which could’ve made Count Malavic wince, when Tiffany the Barista asked what she could help me with.
“Did you have a tab open?” she asked in a typical service industry singsong voice that indicated autopilot was running the show.
“No,” I said. “But my friend I’m sitting with insisted I put it on his tab.”
She leaned to see past me. Maybe it was Hunter’s expensive jacket that convinced her. “Remind me of the last name?”
“Hardy.”
She nodded and I smiled at her, and, once her b
ack was turned, I strolled out of the restaurant.
We weren’t any closer to discovering where Grace was, but that didn’t mean I’d accomplished nothing with the visit.
Chapter Eight
“You’ve already heard about it?” I asked Jane at the bar of Franco’s Pizza. It was a great place to grab a casual drink, and though she hadn’t explicitly said as much when she’d suggested it, it was also the one place where I wouldn’t have to worry about running into Tanner. Not while Donovan was working, at least. As far as I knew, the two of them hadn’t spoken since the truth came to light. My guess was that Tanner was still too angry to initiate contact and Donovan, in his own way, enjoyed the punishment.
Jane sipped the gin cocktail Donovan had whipped up for her. “Oh yeah. The stupid Werewolf Protection Act has been brewing for years now. Not sure why it’s gotten traction lately, but I’m not too worried about it.”
“You’re not? Because I don’t know what’s in it, but it sounds like a thinly veiled attempt to oppress werewolves.”
She chuckled. “That’s because it is. But stuff like this flares up every so often. The witches think werewolves can’t let go of the war, but really it’s the other way around. They can’t get over the fact that they almost lost, that a group of people—weres—wouldn’t roll over and show their bellies to the almighty witches.” She grabbed a salami and cheese roll from our platter on the bar and popped it into her mouth. “Whatever. Let them try to push a piece of hate like that through the High Council. It’ll never work. It needs a majority vote, and never in a million years would Darius Pine or Liberty Freeman vote for that garbage. I can’t see Octavia Pantagrual voting for it, either; the witches used to think ogres were dimwitted because of their stilted speech and near about hunted them to extinction just for sport.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t know anyone who’s read more books than Anton. The guy practically lives in the library.” I paused. “Actually, he might genuinely live in the library.” Did he have a home? I’d never thought to ask.
“Of course it’s ridiculous,” said Jane. “Prejudice usually is. The problem is when you start telling yourself a story and then go looking for the data to back it up. You can always find what you’re looking for and ignore all the stuff that doesn’t fit your story. Any decent person lets their story be shaped by the data. And then reshaped again and again. It’s called ‘learning and growing.’ But good luck convincing someone like Springsong or Hunter of that.”
“You’re sure it won’t gain traction?” I said.
“Eh, it might gain a little. But it would take something big. Maybe a couple somethings.”
A tingle crept up my spine. Hello, Insight. Long time no feel. “Something big like a werewolf murdering a cute, shy North Wind witch in cold blood?”
She tossed back the rest of her drink. “Yeah, that might do it. So let’s just hope that’s not the case. For a lot of reasons. What’s your next move with that?”
“Not sure.”
Donovan leaned over the bar. “What you ladies talking about?”
“Murder,” said Jane.
Donovan nodded. “Figured. Another round?”
“Duh,” said Jane.
When Donovan returned, she said, “Let me ask you something. When I trash-talk the witches that founded this town, do you as an East Wind witch, feel hated on?”
Donovan pooched out his lips and shook his head. “Nah, they were terrible. Everyone knows that.”
She grinned. “Just checking.”
“How about this wacky idea,” he said, “we keep treating each other as individual people, regardless of our breed, and if, for example, you say something that offends me, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and ask you to clarify. And vice versa.”
He’d addressed Jane, but I jumped in anyway. “Can I get in on that? It sounds like something this outcast Fifth Wind could get behind.”
Donovan nodded and grabbed his glass of water from behind the bar, and the three of us clinked glasses.
Frying up a little late-night bacon for Grim and me, I tried to keep quiet so I didn’t wake Ruby. But there’s not much to be done about the volume of bacon sizzling on a griddle. As a precaution, I added a few extra pieces so that, in the event that she did wake up, I’d have a greasy peace offering for her.
I also kept my voice to a whisper and asked that Roland, who was keeping me company in the kitchen, do the same.
Of course he agreed do it, saying he would do anything for me, and so forth. The pledges of his undying love were wearing on me, to be honest. I was sure if I was back on that clifftop in the emerald field with him, my feelings on the matter would change, but as it was, his endless promises and romantic gestures stuck out and seemed too indulgent for normal life, even Eastwind’s strange version of it.
“I haven’t seen her,” Roland said. “If I do cross paths with anyone by the name of Grace, I’ll certainly let you know.”
“How’s that bacon coming?” asked Grim from his usual spot by the fireplace. There was no fire going, but it was still a good canine vantage point, with a wall at his back and a view of the entire downstairs to make sure no one dropped a scrap without him noticing.
“Just a couple minutes. Don’t worry, you’ll get some.”
“I don’t think she’s dead,” I said, returning to the conversation with Roland. “I’m trying to put myself in her shoes, and if I’d been suckered into being a part of that awful circle through flattery or who knows what other means, I think I’d probably run away first chance I got and not look back.”
“Is she a strong-willed woman like you?”
I flipped the bacon in the pan. “I don’t know. She’s an organized person, very by-the-books, which is why she did well for herself in the Catacombs.”
“Then my guess is that she lacks a strong will. Those who doubt their ability to adhere to their own convictions stick strictly to the laws of others.”
I grabbed my chamomile tea from the counter, cradled it in two hands, enjoying the warmth, and leaned back against the countertop. “You’re saying you don’t think she would run off?”
“It seems unlikely. But people always surprise me,” he said with a half grin. “If you want to know a person, the quickest way is to get to know her environment.”
“I’m already familiar with Eastwind,” I said.
“No, no. Her immediate environment. The one she can control. The objects with which we surround ourselves tell a story of who we are.”
I glanced up at the dozens of strange baubles hanging from the parlor ceiling. “I sure hope that’s not true. You’re saying I should visit her home, though, right?”
A voice that wasn’t Roland’s, wasn’t even a man’s, struck up to my right, from the direction of the staircase. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Ruby stood at the foot of the stairs, a faded black nightgown hanging to just below the knees, her fluffy, red dog-paw slippers puffed out around her feet.
The background noise of the bacon must have kept me from hearing her descend the creaky steps, and now I found myself in a make-or-break situation. Ruby didn’t know about Roland, and I’d had no plans to tell her, despite him living—no, not living exactly, but you know what I’m saying—under her roof.
That plan was blown to smithereens now, though. “Ruby, this is, um.” How did I introduce him? I hadn’t the faintest idea. “Well, this is—”
Roland saved me the trouble, and then caused me more trouble. “My lady, my name is Roland O’Neill, and I’ve crossed through many lifetimes in search of my one true love, the woman with whom I first tasted the carnal delights of love, and the only woman I ever want to share a bed with again. I’m happy to say, I found her”—he gestured to me with a sweep of his arm—“and she brought me back with her to this strange world. I apologize for intruding upon your home without your consent, but it was the only way for me to be with my glorious Diana, and if death would not keep m
e from her, nothing will. She and I were destined to be together since the age of the gods. I hope you’ll understand.”
For fang’s sake, could he pour it on any thicker? I shut my eyes and whimpered quietly. He was going all out with that, wasn’t he?
It was definitely more than I’d been prepared to tell her. If I’d had my wits about me quicker and beat him to the punch, I might’ve said something along the lines of, “This is Roland. He’s just passing through.”
In other words, I would have flat-out lied. I have no doubt Ruby would’ve seen through it, but she likely wouldn’t have called me on it, preferring the clear opportunity to keep this not her problem.
I attempted to gauge Ruby’s reaction to the monologue. Her expression gave away nothing, and she stared at him with sleepy eyes like he might as well have said nothing.
Then she blinked a few times, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “Oh for fang’s sake, Nora. You’re not sleeping with a ghost now, are you?”
“What? No. Sure, I brought him over from some other plane I don’t fully understand, but it’s not like that. He’s just— Wait, could I sleep with a ghost?”
Ruby didn’t answer. Instead, she turned on her heels, putting her back to the parlor and kitchen and stomping onto the first stair. “I’m going to pretend this was a dream. Yes. A very unfortunate dream.” Then she disappeared from sight.
“If I didn’t know any better,” Roland said. “I’d say you are interested in the prospect of, as she put it, sleeping with me. Something changed with that lover of yours?”
“Nope,” I said quickly. “Nothing has changed.”
“But if it did,” Roland said, a small smirk giving away his delight at watching me squirm, “you’d consider exploring the possibilities of a witch and a spirit sleeping together?”
“You know what?” Grim stood. “I don’t need bacon after all. In fact, I might never eat again.” As he climbed the stairs up to my bedroom, I watched him go before turning back to Roland.