Ilona Andrews - Magic Rises

“Nothing so far. Nobody has ever seen anything even remotely like this, or if they have, they’re not talking.”

Figured. “I need to meet with the three packs individually. Can you set this up for tomorrow?”

“Sure. To what purpose?”

“I’d like to howl in the dark.”

Barabas frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“It’s a wolf term. When you sense someone in the dark but you don’t know if he’s prey or a rival, you howl and see if he runs or answers. I’d like to howl at the packs and see if somebody snarls back.”

“I see. They will talk to us to avoid offending us and to remove suspicion from themselves, but they might not answer any questions and we can’t really compel them to do so.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“Okay. I will let you know as soon as I find out more. And Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I have your back,” he said.

“Thank you.”

I left the balcony. Thinking about Lorelei pissed me off, but there was nothing to be done about it now. I would find Curran today and I would figure out what sort of demented plan he had cooked up. Until then, I had to concentrate on keeping Desandra alive.

Both Andrea and George had hunted and changed shape twice in less than six hours. They would be tired. Between the man in the cage and Lorelei, I, on the other hand, was fresh as a daisy. Anger—a better alternative to caffeine.

A shadow peeled itself from the wall and followed me. Derek, moving silently along the hall, like some lethal shadow on soft wolf paws.

“This whole stealthy walking-behind-me thing you’re doing is making me feel stalked. Why don’t you catch up?”

He trotted over. “Just trying to keep you safe.”

Et tu, Brute? “First, Barabas tells me he’s got my back and now you’re shadowing me. Do the two of you know something I don’t?”

Derek shrugged his shoulder. “I don’t like this place.”

“Neither do I. Did Doolittle look at the scale?”

“Yes. He wants to talk to you.”

I reversed my course. We stopped by Doolittle’s room. Inside, Eduardo and Keira were playing cards. The good doctor was reading a book by the window.

“How did it go with the scale?” I asked.

“As can be expected, given the lack of equipment.” Doolittle peered at me. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

“He’s stumped and it’s making him cranky,” Keira said.

Doolittle rolled his eyes. “The scale isn’t a scale in the traditional sense. It’s a scute.”

“That explained nothing,” I told him.

“Have you ever heard of a pangolin?” Doolittle asked.

“No.”

“It’s a mammal of the Pholidota family native to some parts of Africa and Asia. It’s similar in appearance to an anteater covered with long horny scales.”

“It looks like a walking pinecone,” Eduardo offered. “Picture an anteater that an artichoke threw up on.”

“The bony plates of pangolin are made of keratin,” Doolittle said. “Same as our claws or fingernails. The skin has several layers. The top layer is the epidermis, which consists of dead cells. In snakes the scales are formed from the epidermis and they are connected, which permits ecdysis. In other words, snakes eject the entire outer layer of their skin during molting. In theory, a reptile shapeshifter would have scales every time he or she transformed. Scutes are formed in the dermis, the deeper layer of the skin. They are similar to hair in composition in that each one is individually rooted, and while they may be similar in appearance to scales, the two are different.”

“So the scale is a scute. What does it mean for us?” I still wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this.

“I believe they have a choice,” Doolittle said. “When a shapeshifter changes form, he or she controls certain aspects of the change: the length of claws, the density of fur, the bone mass, and so on. That’s what makes warrior form possible. If these shapeshifters are capable of both fur and scute production, they may choose which to sprout. Because scutes originate deeper in the dermis, a shapeshifter can keep them hidden until necessary. I also tested the tissue samples from the severed head,” Doolittle said. “Their levels of Lyc-V and hormones are nearly double ours. The higher the levels of Lyc-V, provided they don’t result in loupism, the greater the shapeshifter’s control over his or her body.”

“Okay. So what you’re telling me is that they can choose to have scales or not to have scales?”

“Yes.”

“But what about the wings?”

Doolittle spread his arms. “Bring me a wing and I’ll tell you more.”

I sighed and took myself to Desandra’s room. Derek followed me, which was just as well since he was my partner for the shift.

I stuffed Lorelei far into the deep corner of my mind, the same place I put the realization that Hugh d’Ambray was within killing distance. If I concentrated too hard on either one, I’d do something rash. Rash wasn’t in my vocabulary under the present circumstances. Not if I wanted to keep all of us breathing.

At least the Lorelei thing could be solved very simply. I had to find Curran and talk to him. He wouldn’t lie to me. Of course, he wouldn’t.

When I walked through the door, Andrea’s eyes were really big and she had that pained expression that usually meant she wanted to pull her gun out and shoot somebody.

“What’s up?”

“The Italians won the hunt,” Raphael said. “We’re supposed to have a big celebratory dinner in a couple of days in their honor.”

Okay. Not really surprising. I’d stayed behind, which dropped our team’s numbers to eleven. Half of them had guarded Desandra, and I had a feeling that Aunt B, Raphael, and Andrea had concentrated purely on getting the best kill for the panacea.

“I was just telling them it was Gerardo,” Desandra said. “It’s his long legs. He can run forever. Most men don’t have sexy legs, but he does. They are very elegant.”

Aha.

“And, like I was saying, he is hung.”

Oh boy.

Andrea turned her back to Desandra and rolled her eyes. Raphael grimaced. They both looked scandalized. Dear God, what could she have said to scandalize a bouda . . .

“No, really!” Desandra nodded. “Okay, so most guys don’t have a nice ball sack, right? It looks all hairy and wrinkled like some small animal died between their legs, but Gerardo’s is like two plums in a velvet bag . . .”

Derek, who’d been lingering in the doorway, took a careful step to the left behind the wall and disappeared from my view.

Kill me, somebody. I raised my hand. “Hold that thought. I need to borrow Andrea for a minute.”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway. Behind us Raphael growled, “Don’t leave me!”

Andrea leaned toward me. “Plums.”

“Listen . . .”

Andrea raised her hands, imitating holding plums the size of small coconuts, and moved them up and down. Desandra had no idea, but I was about to save her life.

“I’m sorry I’m late. There’s been another murder.”

“Where?”

“On the tower.” I brought her up to speed. “So sorry I got held up, but I’m here now to take Desandra off your hands.”

“I love you. In a purely platonic way.” Andrea stuck her head into the doorway. “Honey, come on.”

They escaped. I came in and sat in the chair so I could see the door and Desandra. Derek parked himself just outside.

Desandra tried talking to me. I let her go on. After I listened for twenty minutes to detailed descriptions and point-by-point comparisons of Gerardo’s and Radomil’s private parts, complete with size demonstrations, Desandra finally wore herself out and fell asleep. She snored a little, whistling to herself, her belly propped on a small pillow.