Frost Moon (29 page)

“Take care,” I forced myself to say. I was still angry, though I couldn’t really say why.

“You too,” Philip said. “I… well, be safe, Dakota.”

And then he hung up.

I stood there staring at the phone glumly. I was angry at Philip for targeting Wulf, but deep down I knew I couldn’t blame him. In his place I’d have been forced to do the same thing, no matter how I felt about Wulf.

And I realized that maybe there was more at work than just the issue of trust between Edgeworlders. I did feel something about Wulf, more than just appreciation that he’d saved my ass. Seeing the man struggling with his wolf made me empathize, made me connect to him. Made me wonder what he’d be like if there weren’t so many bumps and bruises in his past. He made me care. But so did Philip, the scary man-in-black with the devilish goatee who in one moment seemed as ruthless as Wulf was wounded, and in the next seemed to be bending rules just because I asked him to.

I was very confused.

And then someone whispered in my ear, “Having trouble with your ^oooyfriend?”

33. DISTURBINGLY EASY TO FIND

“Aaa!” I cried, half leaping out of my chair and whirling around. Cinnamon sat on the reverse-facing train seat that backed up to mine, leaning her head over the joint headrest until she’d practically rested it on my shoulder—and I hadn’t noticed. “How the hell did you—”

“You’re like the world’s easiest person to track,” she said, sniffing curiously, flicking her big ears at me. “At least this time you hopped on a train, so I gots a good run. Chasing you round on that little bike is so
boring.”

She rolled over, propping her arms lazily on the seat, blinking— which gave her a good look at my hair and face. She hissed and recoiled.

“Thought
I smelled a beating. Who banged ya up?” she snarled. “Who did ya? Was it that little shit they booted out, Trans? Fuck! I’ll kill ‘im!”

“Leave him alone,” I warned. “He’s a real psycho—”

“I don’t care how nuts he is,” she said in a sing song, “I just wanna see his guts—”

“Cinnamon!” I said. “Did you listen in?”

She rolled over again, looking up at me at an angle. “Yah,” she said. “I won’t lie to ya.”

“Then you know I’m in a world of shit,” I said. “It isn’t safe for you to be around me right now—”

“You just wants to get rid of me,” she said, sniffing. “Oh, boo hoo—”

But she really did sound wounded. “I do not—” I began.

“You were happy to ditch me last week,” she countered.

“If you’re going to cost me a hundred bucks a week—”

“Hey,” she said. “I’m no bloodsucker. I still gots half that.”

“Cinnamon,” I said.
“Go home.
Stay safe until the full moon is—”

Then my blood ran cold.

“Cinnamon, aren’t you about to change?” My eyes narrowed. She’d actually grown
whiskers,
huge catlike whiskers. I hadn’t seen them before. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Maaaay
BE,” she said petulantly. “Tomorrow night, day afta. I won’t lie to ya—I gotta be back to the ‘house by nightfall ‘morrow to make lockdown.”

“They lock you up?” I said. “That’s horrible—”

“It’s a service, not a sentence,” she said. “This ain’t the country. In the city if you can’t control your beast, you die. At the ‘house, they cages it, calms it down. You can even go on hunts, supervised like, if they gots a strong alpha on deck.”

I just stared at her. It was such a different world.

“So anyway… I tolds ‘em you were’s’posed to take me today,” she grinned, leaning back over the seat a little more to look me in the eye. “You gonna rat me again, you big were-fink?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my brow. “Actually, wasn’t I
supposed
to take you today?”

“Next Friday,” she said. “But they don’ts needs to know.”

“No, the
last
thing I want is to get you in trouble,” I said. “But I don’ts supposes—I
don’t
suppose there’s any chance of you going back for your own safety?”

“With like twenty hours freedom?” she said, rolling her eyes. “You just wants me gone.”

“No,” I snapped, “But neither do I want you shot.”

“But I’m bulletproof,” she countered.

“And I’m busy,” I replied. “I’ve got to get ready to do Wulfs tattoo—”

“I wants to see that,” she said, turning round in the seat to face me over her folded arms. “I bets you’re a hell of a lot nicer on your canvases than the fag. When are you gonna do it?”

“Tomorrow, I hope,” I said.

“You gots a
hope?”
she replied. “Why you gots a hope and not a time?”

“I can’t find him,” I said. “Spleen… Spleen is dead, Cinnamon.”

“The little weasel?” she said. “No! Was it Trans—”

“He was mauled,” I said. “Like by an animal.”

Cinnamon sat there frozen. “It wasn’t me! I liked the weasel!”

“I didn’t think it
was
you,” I responded. “I think Philip suspects Wulf.”

“Do you?” she said, looking at me coolly. “Just because he’s a were?”

I suddenly realized that I had just shifted in the conversation— from her ‘in’ group to her ‘out’ group. “No,” I said, disgusted. “He had means and opportunity, but where’s the motive? Spleen was his contact. And I got him on the phone, so obviously he hasn’t already turned.”

“Okay then,” she said, still wary. “So what’s the holdup?”

“He won’t return my calls,” I said. “He’s chickened out, says he wants to ‘protect’ me.”

“Maybe he is,” she said. “Maybe he did gut Spleen and wants to keep you out of it—”

“Or maybe he’s just a pussy,” I said, and her eyebrows shot up. “I get this all the time from people who book an appointment with me. ‘I’ve decided it’s too dangerous.’ Or, ‘It’s too expensive.’ Or, ‘I remembered an appointment.’ There’s a thousand excuses and only one translation: He may have gotten cold feet. He’s scared to sit in my chair.”

“Ya thinks?” she said, grinning.

“Either that or he thinks he’ll eat me alive,” I replied. “Regardless, he called from a payphone and won’t pick up when I call back. And my so-called
boooy
friend was no help either—Wulf bailed out of his lair. Neither of us can find him. If he doesn’t call me—I’m shit out of luck.”

Cinnamon suddenly yawned and stretched, then sat sideways in her seat so her head rested on the glass, feet kicking out over the end of the double bench. She inspected her claws lazily, and said: “If only you knew someone who was, like, the
bestest
at tracking people.”

For one brief moment I wondered about the wisdom of involving a minor in this horrible mess—and then I told myself: hey,
At least she’s bulletproof.

“So, Cinnamon,” I said, leaning back so my head mirrored hers. “Wanna go for a ride?”

34. LURE OF THE WULF

“This is a bad fucking idea,” I said, having severe second thoughts as I pulled at the grimy door to the stairwell leading to the lower levels. “Why’d I let you talk me into this?”

“Don’t lie, you were gonna ask,” Cinnamon countered. “I just spat it first.”

Going back to the Krog tunnel in the darkness had given me the shakes—I kept imagining Transomnia or werewolves or
whatevers
were going to jump out at us at every moment. But Cinnamon just swaggered through, all the way from the well at Wylie down through the sewer tunnels, tail switching, long, clawed hands at the ready. But when I pried open the door to the stairwell, even she quailed.

“Wheeew—stinks, I won’t lie to ya,” she said, turning her head, though for me the garbage we’d just crawled over coming out of the well had smelled ten times worse. “Rot and rats and weres and… vamps and… other things.” She stared back into the darkness, and then looked at me. Her irises had widened to huge, eerie ovals, making her seem alien—but her voice was still Cinnamon. “Not too late to find out you’re a were-chicken, is it?”

“And you?”

“I’m a were
tiger,”
she said proudly. “I soaks bullets up like
sugah.
Not scared of
nuthin.
But if
you
chicken out, naturally I’d go with ya— like, to protect you, o’course.”

“O’course,” I said, turning on my Brinkman five-cell. “Lets—”

She reached out with her impossibly long, clawed fingers and snapped the flashlight off. “Save the bats on your club,” she said. “Your eyes will adjust. Just stay behind me, K?”

“K,” I said in resignation, following her down into the dark.

In the blackness, the journey down the stairwell was even scarier than it had been with Spleen and his yellow fluorescent. The cinderblock shaft faded into the darkness until it was just a rough presence around us, a grimy touch that occasionally brushed my shoulder as I bumped down the narrow switchbacks.

“For the love, keep quiet,” she hissed. “Clumping like a cow.”

I pulled out my cell phone and thumbed the screen twice, creating a ghostly nightlight that gave me enough to see the floor. She was right, my eyes were adjusting, but there was just no light at all here for me to pick up. Finally we got to the bottom of the stairs and exited into the wider, vaulted tunnel where Spleen had first taken me to see Wulf.

“Great,”
Cinnamon said sarcastically. “Doesn’t think to mention I’ll hafta track through
water.
By the way, could you tattoo my name on my pet jellyfish? Thanks.”

“Don’t think so,” I said, shining the light around. “They only have one outer cell layer.”

“
Zactly
,” she said.

I stared at her. “That’s pretty smart for an illiterate uneducated werecat.”

“One of the house weres is a librarian,” she said. “She’s been sneaking me audiobooks.”

“Fast,” I said.

“Whatever. You looking for
that?”

She pointed, and I turned to see the boat. “Yes. We’ll take it to the landing where I last saw Wulf—and then you take over.”

“Okay, DaKOta,” she said, in the same singsong voice, but quieter than normal. She kept looking around the tunnel abruptly, twitching her nose and tail, as if she was hearing things. When I asked, she shrugged it off. “Just night noises.
Fuck!
Let’s get this over with.”

We boarded the boat, and I rowed us awkwardly out into the tunnels. I’d forgotten how much a maze they were. We had to go through at least half a dozen turns, each tunnel getting smaller and narrower and older. Glowing phosphorescent mold curved over the walls, and occasional runes provided weak light, but it was very difficult to see. Every once in a while a surge of air washed back over us, confusing Cinnamon’s nose until she admitted she was completely turned around. I was growing more and more confused myself—my memory of the waymarks Spleen had used grew fuzzier until I started to fear we were lost.

“It’s the fucking
House of Leaves
down here,” I said, flashing my light into the bottom of the boat like Cinnamon taught me, so the beam wouldn’t kill our night vision.

“What?” she asked, eyes tracing over the ancient masonry.

“Sorry,” I said. “I doubt that one’s coming to audiobook.”

“Whatever. This shit supposed to be from the Civil War?” Cinnamon said. “No
ways
they built all this just for the fucking Civil War. It was over in, like, five years—”

“Don’t know much about history,” I said, “but maybe they built it after that.”

“Shit this old?” she said. “You
believes
that?”

“I have no fucking idea,” I replied. “I just think we’re lost—”

And then the tunnel abruptly widened up, into a vast, dungeonlike vault built from huge, rough-hewn blocks of stone. Only now could I see that Cinnamon was right: No way was this Civil War architecture… this was something far older, far more primal. When I’d first seen these runes and waymarks I’d meant to read up on them, but life since I’d taken Wulf’s assignment had been so insane I’d had no time—so I still couldn’t decipher the marks in the rock around us. All I knew was that the ones painted on it were old… and the ones scratched into it, older.

“We met here,” I said, pointing to the landing upon which Wulf had stood.

“This is a… neutral place,” Cinnamon said, flicking her ear. “But not a safe one. You be meeting here, not living here. His den will be somewhere else.”

I pulled up to the landing and tied the boat off. “Hopefully in walking distance.”

The air surged around us, like the tunnels were taking a breath. It was oddly regular, like we were crawling around the throat of some monster, feeling the rhythm of its lungs.

“Fuck,” Cinnamon said, looking around wildly. “What is
doin’
that? I mean, fuck! Let’s get this over with.”

Rough stone steps climbed up from the landing, and we followed them to a high ledge overlooking the docking chamber below. A bare stone corridor tracked off in either direction, but Cinnamon dismissed them with a sniff, taking us into narrow slots perpendicular to the ledge. Here the ancient stonework gave way to merely old brick and well-rusted steel; now it did feel like we were working our way through the foundation of some Civil War era structure.

“This is it,” she said. “Smells like a den.”

“Is he here?” I said. “Wolves are territorial, right? I don’t want to barge in—”

“Relax,” she said, moving forward cautiously. “I wouldn’t take ya into a live den. All the smells are old, and I don’t hear nothing, so—”

The air shifted again, hot breath drawn in to the throat of the unseen ‘monster’ behind us.

“Homina,” she said, breathing in deeply. “Does he looks as good as he smells?”

“Better,” I said, following her as she picked up the pace.

“How come you gets all the good boyfriends?” she complained, worming her way through the narrow tunnel. “You don’t even like ‘em!”

“I’m an outgoing, attractive woman with a job that lets me meet a lot of people,” I said, “and I do too like boys. I just like girls too.”

And then the wind shifted, the hot breath of the monster now wafting towards us.

“Fuck,” Cinnamon said, whirling. “I was wrong. He’s here.”

35. FIVE SHADES FROM FULL

Twin golden eyes glowed in the narrow tunnel behind us, twin golden sparks in the black, silhouetted form of a man. In the gloom you could actually see the light from his eyes reflecting off the ancient masonry, twin rows of vertical lines stretching towards us like golden bars.