“There's no such thing as a half werewolf,” I said, trying not to growl. I'd been dreading this conversation for six months. It figured my boss would wait until now to bring it up. Way to ruin my Christmas Eve.
Gil looked at me impatiently, his bald head reflecting the office fluorescents. The same shiny dome and lack of humor could be seen in the painting behind him: Reginald Saunders, the newly elected leader of the Silver Circle of light magic users. He was the magical community's version of a president, only without the pesky term limits. Gil was his older brother, and head of the Vegas branch of the War Mage Corps, the Circle's version of a police force. It was my luck to get transferred from a nice, nondescript department in Jersey to one where any screwup would be all too obvious.
“Your mother was a Were, Lia. House Lobizon.”
“Clan Lobizon. And my mother was a human with a disease.” God, I got tired of trying to get that simple idea through thick skulls. “Lycanthropy isn't a genetic trait, like eye color. It isn't passed on to children—”
“Except when it is.” Gil regarded me narrowly, as if expecting claws to show themselves at any second.
It was the usual reaction. Dad was a de Croissets, from an old magical family with a tradition of service in the Corps. To counteract my human surname, my mother called me Accalia, meaning she-wolf in Latin. The combination was enough to get me a double take anywhere in the magical world.
“I'm a war mage, Gil,” I said after a pause. My therapist had suggested deep breathing for my occasional anger management issues. So far, I hadn't seen a lot of improvement. Of course, working with Gil probably had something to do with that. “How many Weres do you know with magical ability?”
“None. But I know it has happened. They don't die after being bitten, like vamps, and therefore don't lose their magic.” He gave me a not-so-nice grin. “I looked it up.”
“I'm not a Were!”
“My point is that your connection to those… people… makes you perfect for this job.”
His tone made it clear that for “people” he'd just as soon have substituted “animals.” I seriously considered turning and walking out of the office. One reason I didn't was the certainty that another incident of “insubordination,”
as my superiors called anything other than unquestioning obedience, and I was out the door permanently. A second was the photograph of the girl staring up at me from the corner of his desk.
She was a pretty sixteen-year-old with china-pale skin and natural honey-blond hair. Her eyes—blue according to her file—were hidden behind Gucci shades, and her five-two frame was draped across the front of this year's trendy sports car. She didn't look like a typical runaway.
Of course, she didn't look like a werewolf, either.
“Daniela Arnou is the fifth Were girl to go missing on my watch in the last six months,” Gil informed me, his complexion darkening to pre-heart- attack level. “The Weres never ask us for help, but they have this time. And the Circle is leaning on me to show results.”
“The ransom demands should tell you something.”
“There haven't been any ransom demands. Not for any of them.”
“But… why take them, then? Attacking high clan members is tantamount to suicide. Even if they were returned unharmed, the insult would require blood. Why take that risk without a big reward?”
“There you go.” Gil looked like he'd scored a point. “This is exactly what I'm talking about. You immediately guessed their status.”
“Rank,” I corrected, “and it wasn't hard. Arnou is currently the leading clan. It doesn't change the fact that I'm not the person you—”
His palm hit the top of his desk, cutting me off. “Do you have any idea what kind of flack I'm getting over this?”
Yeah, and that's the main concern here, I didn't say. It didn't take much to set Gil off. Usually, just my presence was enough. I look more like a Were in human form than do many of the real thing, or, to be more precise, I look like the stereotype: tall, with dark hair and gray eyes. Gil's prejudice against Weres was outweighed only by his dislike for women in the Corps.
He'd hated me on sight. Of course, my service record hadn't helped. I really didn't want to remind him about certain all-too-recent issues, but I had to get him to see reason.
“Trust me. You do not want me on this case.”
“I don't want you on any case!” he said tetchily. “But I don't have anybody else. No one knows the Weres like you do.”
I gave up on subtlety, never my strong suit anyway. “Did you read my file?” I asked incredulously. The Circle might not know everything about my background, but they knew one thing for certain: no clan wolf was going to tell me a damn thing.
Lycanthropy is rarely contracted in the womb, and when it is, the child usually doesn't live. Most clan children are infected by their parents at age five or six, when their systems are strong enough to handle the change. But despite being from one of the higher clans, where respect for tradition was practically a religion, my mother had refused. The clan leaders assumed it was due to her husband's influence, and pointed out that I wouldn't be properly socialized if she didn't give in. That I would always be an outsider, always different.
She never told them that I already was.
I was born with Neuri Syndrome. It's named after an ancient Russian tribe said to have been able to change themselves into wolves. That's ironic, considering that changing is the one thing carriers of Neuri can never do.
It occurs occasionally when the mother is Were and the father is not, which is why female Weres are strongly discouraged from marrying outside the clan. Essentially, it is a milder version of lycanthropy, one that prevents the carrier from getting the full-blown disease.
Neuri is a major cause of concern for the clans. The higher clans usually intermarry among themselves, preferring to add to their numbers by reproduction than to “turn” humans, who understand nothing of the culture or hierarchy. But the lower orders aren't so picky, especially after a war or feud leaves their numbers depleted. If Neuri were to get into the mainstream population, it would render human recruitment increasingly difficult, as more and more people became immune. For that reason, tradition decreed that babies born with the “aberration” be killed at birth.
For a long time, my mother's status had been enough to protect me.
There weren't many ahead of her in clan rank and thereby able to challenge her decision, and those who were chose not to do so out of respect or friendship. But two years ago, the old bardulf, the clan chief, died and his successor decided to push the issue. Mother managed to avoid a summons to court, and thereby a new ruling, by pleading illness. Unfortunately, it wasn't faked.
She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer shortly after my twenty-third birthday. Long after the treatments failed, long after there was no hope left, she nonetheless went through every painful procedure, just to wring out a few more months, weeks, even days. Because every minute she lived was a minute that the clan couldn't touch me. A minute closer to twenty-five, the age of majority under Were custom, at which time I could formally declare my emancipation from the clan.
She missed it by less than a week. Two days after she died, I was attacked by eight clan members determined to bring Larentia Lobizon's only child into the fold before time ran out, whether I liked it or not. They forgot one little detail: I was Guillame de Croissets' daughter, too, and a war mage in my own right. Not to mention that, while Father is retired, he's far from helpless. Both of us were half crazy with grief at the time of the attack, which hadn't even waited for the funeral. The result was a bloodbath spread across three blocks, resulting in six dead Weres, two fires, over five million dollars in property damage, and headlines in all the local papers.
The Circle covered it up as a gang war, but I received a black mark on my record for letting the fight become public as well as a quick transfer. The result where the clan was concerned was still to be determined. I somehow doubted I was going to like the outcome.
Gil was looking at me expectantly, like I was supposed to spill my guts and give him all the sordid little details, as if there weren't enough already in my file. The only thing the Circle didn't know was why I'd been attacked. Thanks to Dad's quick thinking and the clan's refusal to discuss their business with outsiders, most people thought it was the result of some old family feud. And it was going to stay that way.
“Why are you expected to do anything? Sir,” I added belatedly, in response to his scowl. “The Weres usually handle this sort of thing themselves.”
“That's what I said when their council threw this mess in my lap, thereby buying myself a royal ass-chewing.” He tapped the glossy photo. “And I mean that literally. This one happens to be the daughter of the king.”
“There's no such thing. The leading clans do elect a bardric, an overall chief, in times of crisis, but Sebastian has to lead through consensus. It's not the same as—”
“I don't care what you people call it,” Gil broke in irritably.
“There is no ‘you people'! I am not a Were!”
“You're not going to be a war mage, either, if you don't find that little bitch,” he said, shoving the file into my hands. “Now get out of here.”
Two hours later, I was standing outside the velvet ropes cordoning off the high roller table at a local casino. Despite the stakes, the game was pretty boring, mainly because it was so one-sided. Not surprisingly, considering that one of the players was cheating like mad.
I'd been watching him for almost an hour, and I had to admit he was good. If I hadn't known what to look for, I might have missed it. It was a small thing, just the slight twitch and flare of a nostril. It could have been a nervous habit or a tell, only this guy was too good to have either. And there was the fact that it happened every time someone made a bet.