I came out of the bathroom to find Cyrus lounging on the bed without so much as a scratch on him. “My niece totaled your bike,” he said, by way of a greeting.
“She said she could ride!”
“Normally, she isn’t bad. But she was a little upset for some reason.”
I sat on the bed and looked at him, alive and well and grinning cockily, and couldn’t manage to feel too bad about it. “You’re Sebastian’s brother.”
“I knew this was coming.”
“And a dangerous outlaw who challenged him for clan leadership?”
“That might have been slightly exag—”
“And who, despite that, is able to call in favors from him?”
Cyrus sighed. “The other clan leaders viewed Sebastian as more of a diplomat than a warrior. He needed a show of strength before the vote for bardric to help him seal the win. Beating me in open combat provided that. Plus, we’d heard some disturbing rumors and he needed someone to investigate them. We thought that clans with secrets would be more likely to talk to someone who had been publicly disgraced than to a clan wolf who might turn them in.”
“You’ve been investigating the club.”
“Among other things. It’s why I came to Vegas.”
“But why not shut it down? Those girls might still be alive!”
Cyrus took another deep breath. I briefly wondered if we had the same therapist. “And a lot of others would have gone unavenged. This has been going on for years, Lia. Without an overall leader, too much has been allowed to slip through the cracks. We needed evidence against all of the clans that participated, even those who don’t have members there at the moment.”
“But when the girls started disappearing—”
“We thought there might be a connection, but shutting the place down would have meant forfeiting our best chance of finding them. And the club isn’t the only dirty game in town—not by half. They were one suspect among many. It may take years to clean up the entire mess.”
“And you didn’t tell me this because?”
“You know why. I didn’t want to take the chance that you might go missing, too.”
“I’m a war mage. This kind of thing is my job.”
“No. This was clan business. Sebastian should never have gone to the Corps.”
“I wouldn’t have reported anything! Not if you’d explained.”
Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re a war mage. It would have been your job.” I glared at him and he did that thing where he hid a smile somewhere under the skin of his face. “I knew I couldn’t trust you to leave it to me, so I asked my informants to keep you out of the loop.”
“Including Nissa.”
“Ah, yes. Nissa. The sacrifices I make for—” I pushed him off the bed. His head popped back up, still grinning. “You seem awfully energetic for an invalid. Ready to go?”
“Go where?” I wasn’t looking forward to the screaming messages that were no doubt crowding my answering machine. The Corps had to have discovered by now that the Vegas department head had gone bad, and taken half a dozen other operatives with him. I was going to drown in paperwork for weeks.
“It’s still Christmas for . . .” He checked his watch. “Another forty-seven minutes.”
“So?”
“I got your present downstairs.” He threw some heavy denim and motorcycle leathers on the bed. “But you have to get dressed to see it.”
I pulled on the clothes so fast that I didn’t manage to flash him more than a couple of times. We snuck out the back way, dodged the few staff members who weren’t gathered around the nurses’ station, and there it was. Gleaming under the parking lot lights was a tripped-out Harley-Davidson Night Rod with black chrome and bloodred accents. It was love at first sight.
“Ever see Red Rock Canyon by moonlight?” Cyrus asked, as I ran my hand possessively over its undented sleekness.
“No.”
“You will tonight.” He threw a leg over the seat of a black and silver version parked alongside. “Race you.”
He was out of the lot before I even managed to scramble on board. But the powerful motor gladly leapt into the chase. The air was cold, the stars were out, and the Vegas skyline was lit up like a Christmas tree. It was like flying.
“It’s a full moon!” Cyrus yelled, as we turned on to Blue Diamond Road.
“So? I’m not a wolf!”
“Really?” His mouth wasn’t curved but he was smiling anyway. “Bet I can make you howl.”
He shot away, eating up the open road. I gunned it and followed. I bet he could, too.
Milk and Cookies
Rob Thurman
Rob Thurman is the author of several books making up the Cal Leandros series: Nightlife, Moonshine, Madhouse, and Deathwish (to be released in the spring of 2009); and of a second series (as yet untitled) to debut in the fall of 2009. Rob lives in Indiana, land of many cows, demanding deer, and wild turkey as savage as any wolf, Were or otherwise. Protecting the author’s house and home is a hundred-pound rescue husky with ice blue eyes, teeth straight out of a Godzilla movie, and the ferocious habit of crawling under the kitchen table and peeing on himself when visitors arrive. Reach the author at www.robthurman.net.
Christmas sucked.
The display windows covered in velvet ribbons and tinsel. The tinkle of ringing bells around every corner. The snow, the presents, the frigging good cheer.
Yeah, it sucked all right. Sure, it was only once a year, but that was one time too many. Carolers, months of Christmas music, candy canes, and all but Cindy Lou Who skipping down the sidewalk.
It was too much. Too damn much.
I was seven when I knew there wasn’t a Santa anymore. I was thirteen when my sister started the whole “Is there really a Santa?” thing and “The kids at school say . . .” The usual stuff. And that she was seven, the same age I’d been, only made it worse.
So I lied. Sure there was a Santa. And when Mom told me to take her to see store Santa, I hadn’t bitched too much. She and Dad both had to work. They worked hard. We weren’t poor, but we sure weren’t rich either. Dad was a good hunter and that put food on the table, but it didn’t pay the electric or the mortgage.
Plus I remembered what it was like, how knowing had taken the magic out of Christmas. I didn’t want to admit it. I was tougher than that. I didn’t want to admit that even six years later I missed waiting to hear hoofbeats on the roof, the jingle of bells, the thump of boots hitting the bottom of our big, old fireplace.
Yeah, I didn’t want to fess up to it, but it was true. Now Christmas was just another day. I wasn’t into Jesus or church, mangers or angels. You got presents and, sure, that was cool, but the excited knot in your stomach, the blankets clenched in your fists, the listening for all you were worth that Christmas Eve night.
Gone.
It was stupid to miss it. I was way too old for that shit. You could ask anybody. If the kids at school found out, they’d laugh me out of class. If the teachers found out, they wouldn’t know what to think. Probably send me to the counselor for soft words, ink blots, and a note for my parents. But they didn’t know, and every teacher would tell you: I wasn’t a dreamer. No way. I was a smart-ass kid. My dad told me so, my teachers, the principal . . . who spent more time lecturing me than my teachers ever did. He told me at thirteen I was too young to get into trouble, too young to be cynical. And definitely too young to have such a foul mouth.
He didn’t get out of the office much.
Smart-assed and foul-mouthed, you’d think there was no way I’d get glum every Christmas, but I did. Every single one. And no matter what had happened that one particular Christmas when I was seven—throughout the Christmas I’d first lost the spirit, I’d never get it back. I’d never get a do-over. No matter how much I wanted to.