Charlaine Harris - Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

I waited until his footsteps had vanished. Then I waited some more, because there was a good chance that he was hanging around the parking lot to see if I’d follow. I switched channels to a Christmas special coming from somewhere with actual snow.

After sitting through two musical numbers, including a dog that barked “Jingle Bells” and an appropriately timed antacid commercial, I decided it had been long enough. A full moon illuminated the parking lot, but there weren’t any wolves prowling around. Of course, there wouldn’t have been even if Cyrus had still been there. The old stories are a myth, based on the writings of one screwy medieval monk: Weres can change at will. It’s one of the things that makes them so deadly.

I caught a cab back to Fremont, where my Christmas present to myself was safe in valet parking. Fortunately, old habits die hard and I’d tagged Cyrus at the motel. The little spell caused me to turn my beat-up Honda motorcycle, brand-new in 1983, in the direction of its faint tug from the East.

Tracking spells are useful but they only do so much. They usually get me to the right general area, but don’t tell me exactly where a person is. But I didn’t have a long search that time, because that road only led one place.

“Strictly Pleasure, where we’re strictest about ensuring your pleasure. What fantasy can we help you fulfill tonight?”

The woman who answered the door of the plain brick structure was young, Asian, and extremely pretty. Or, at least, I assumed she was. The silk-clad body had elegant curves and the dark hair was long and sleek. But the face was covered in enough makeup to make a geisha jealous.

“I’d like a Were. Female,” I said tersely.

“Of course.” She waved me into a vestibule with an adjacent small office. “Would you like a dom or a sub this evening?” I just looked at her. “That would be a sub, then. Do you have a preference as to species?”

“Wolf.”

“I’m sorry. We’re a little short on those lately. Will a wererat work for you? They’re very sturdy—can take almost as much pain as a wolf, and it’s been my experience that they heal even faster.”

That was a lie, but I didn’t call her on it. “I don’t know. Has she been here awhile?” I needed someone who might know what was going on.

The woman looked torn. She wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, that the sex worker with whom I was contemplating spending my Christmas Eve was fresh and relatively untouched, or experienced and skilled. “She’s been here a few months,” she finally admitted. “But with their healing abilities, honestly, you can’t tell. She has almost no marks at all.”

Anything that would leave a permanent mark on a Were would have been lethal to a human. I made a note to file a report on Strictly Pleasure’s idea of safe working conditions. “I’ll take her.”

After the processing of my credit card and the reading of a few rules, which were repeated so fast that they were almost unintelligible, I was led down a corridor to “Jezebel’s” room. She turned out to be a short, muscular brunette with a dark tan and a world-weary demeanor that didn’t match her maybe twenty years. She didn’t look submissive, but I guess these things are relative, and I had asked for a Were. The room was a surprise, too, with a cluttered, college dorm feel, complete with rock-star posters on the wall, clothes dribbling out of an overstuffed wardrobe, and a Hello Kitty wall clock.

“You were expecting maybe a dungeon?” she asked, seeing my expression.

“Something like that.”

“They’re downstairs. Rent by the hour.”

“I’m just here to talk.”

“Dirty?” She sounded hopeful.

“Only if it includes information.”

The hopeful look was replaced by a frown. “What kind of information?”

“About Weres. Wolves, in particular.”

The frown became a scowl. “Why? What have they got that I don’t?”

That was the big question. “There aren’t any here, then?”

“Our last two wolf girls left a month ago.”

“Left for where?”

She shrugged. “One day, I got up and new people were moving into their rooms.”

“Is that normal?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”

“Is there any reason you shouldn’t tell me?”

“Is there any reason I should?” I took the hint and got out my wallet. Fifty bucks did the trick, mainly because she didn’t know much. “It was weird. Mostly, if someone gets lucky and a big shot wants to set her up on her own, everybody hears about it. One of the guys got a sweet deal a couple weeks ago, and he went on and on, like the rest of us were complete losers—”

“But these girls didn’t?”

“Nope. One day they’re here, next day they’re gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

Just like the high clan girls. I tried to look only mildly interested. “Lone wolves?”

“No. Felan.” It was one of the smaller, lower-ranked clans in the area. That surprised me. Clans are close-knit, with what reflects on one reflecting on all. I had a hard time imagining any clan wolves being allowed to take up a profession that, while legal in the supernatural world, wasn’t likely to improve their clan’s standing.

“Maybe the leaders found out what they were doing and came for them.”

Jezebel rolled her eyes and flopped back onto her messy bed. “Who do you think sent ’em here?”

“What?” I was certain I’d heard wrong.

“The leaders got a percentage of what they made. Mine do it, too. Lots of ’em do.”

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that their clans forced the Felani girls to work here?”

Jezebel shrugged. “I don’t know about forced. But you know how it is. Defy the leaders and you pay for it, and keep on paying. So does your family. I figured I’d do my time. Another year and I’m out of here, and nobody else from my family gets tapped. I got two younger sisters, you know?”

I nodded. A pretty little blackmail routine: do as we say or we take your sisters instead. Could that be why Daniela had been kidnapped? By parents outraged over Sebastian’s indifference to the fate of their own daughters? As much as I wanted an answer, it seemed unlikely. A low-ranking family from a minor clan would no more attack Arnou than they would turn vegetarian. Humans might try it, if they were enraged enough, but Weres just didn’t think that way.

“I need to find out where those girls went,” I said after a minute. “Where are the records kept?”

I got a disdainful look. “You want to talk about stuff everybody knows, okay. We talk. But I’m not getting in trouble for—” I waved a hundred in front of her face and she stopped abruptly, but still looked mutinous. “That won’t cover the beating I’ll get if anyone finds out I helped you.”

I added a second bill and fluttered them in front of her. “I can blank short-term memory. No one has to know.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Her eyes tracked the money, but she made no move to take it.

“I’m a war mage,” I added.

The bills were suddenly gone, disappearing somewhere in the short, bright wrapper she wore. “The records are in Yuki’s office,” she told me briskly.

“The woman who checked me in?”

“He ain’t no woman. But yeah, he runs the place.”

“Is there any way to get him away from the desk for a minute?”

Jezebel shook her head. “He wants to make sure we don’t bring any regulars in on our own and stiff the house. He guards that door like a hawk.”

“Is he a mage?”

“No. Tsume.”

“But that’s a clan name.” It meant “claw” in Japanese.

“Yeah. He’s our last wolf. Acts like one, too. No offense.”