Mimi Riser Sylver and Steele 3 The Werewolf in Red

EREWOLF

…I feel the touch of his consciousness inside mine. But that’s not

where I want his touch. More potent is the physical feel of him. Warm
flesh under my palms, hot breath on my face… If I lean forward an
inch, I could kiss him.

“The whole planet is in danger, and you’re thinking of sex?” he

growls.

“Yeah. Bad me.” I flash him a wolfish grin. “It couldn’t possibly

have anything to do with the fact you’re naked, could it?”

And it seems like years since we’ve made love.
“Only a few weeks,” he corrects. But he’s weakening, I see it in his

eyes.

“That long?” I stroke my hands down his bare back, and his growl

becomes a groan.

“Too long,” he rasps out.
I’m glad we agree on something.
“So…what do you want to do about it?” I ask, my voice going

husky.

He groans again. “Nothing. There isn’t time. We have to find Vlad

and stop him before he strikes.”

“Bullshit. The kind of seeds he’s planted won’t sprout overnight.

You don’t think he’s going to take over anything in the next five
minutes, do you?” I punctuate the question by grazing my lips over
Hunter’s.

“Um…probably not,” he concedes on a hoarse breath.
“Good, then we have time for a quickie before we go after him.”
“You’re a real pain in the ass,” Hunter grumbles, but doesn’t resist

when I push him backward onto the seat and straddle his thighs…

LSO

IMI

ISER

The Adventures Of Cassie Nova, Book I: Rebel Queen

Can’t Fight The Feeling

The Cowboys And The Courtesan

Cymric’s Rose

Dungeons & Dirty Dreams

My Knightly Adventures, Books I – III

Pirates & Other Wicked Pleasures

Pirates Do It With Passion

Playing Pirates

Return To The Burn

Romeo’s Revenge

Samantha White And The Seven Dwarves

Saving Sally Savoy

Sherwood Charade

Thunderball

Tina Takes A Tumble

Wicked Comes The Beast

Your Cheatin’ Heart

THE WEREWOLF

IN RED

MIMI RISER

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

EREWOLF

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in

writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-61124-034-4

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This story is dedicated to our beautiful Earth,

with the fervent prayer that, somehow, we can all learn to stop

fouling the nest and keep our planet beautiful.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

PROLOGUE

Like a spider in its web, Prince Vlad sat in his lair, watching

the rest of the world. For years he’d watched, in all directions, and
the view had only grown worse.

Wherever he looked he saw civil unrest and bureaucratic

nonsense. Poverty, crime, disease… Humanity was going to hell in
a handbasket, and Vlad knew why.

The laws were too lenient, and so were those who enforced

them—not like in his day. The feudal system was a good one and
should never have been abandoned. Most people were cattle and
needed a strong hand to keep them in line, whip them into shape—
literally—but too few understood that in this cowardly modern age.

People today made a mockery of true order, which Vlad truly

loved. And missed. Everyone had become soft and weak and lazy.

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No one wanted to work anymore. No one knew how to rule!

Except him.
He intended to fix all this, of course.
Soon.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

CHAPTER 1

All the world’s a stage…

Once upon a time—like last night—two mismatched lovers

locked horns over a simple little jaunt, an impromptu spring fling
one of them wanted to take. And the other didn’t. The battle ended
when the lover who was definitely in the wrong—but refused to
admit it—stalked off in a sullen huff, telling his much-maligned
partner to take a flying fling at the moon.

I drove to Philadelphia instead.
So there. I won.
I think.
This trip is what the fight was about in the first place. I’m

exactly where I wanted to be, right? Philadelphia is one of my old

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stomping grounds. I have friends and family here I wanted to visit.

Now if only I could remember why.
Right foot, left foot…right, left…
Just a couple more blocks and I can end the family part of the

visit and move on to the fun stuff. A night of gaudy décor and
bawdy entertainment at the Red Banana Revue, Philly’s très gay
answer to the Moulin Rouge.

With a Scottish kilt flapping about my knees, I steer a

determined course across Rittenhouse Square, one hand holding
the leash of a basset hound, the other towing a seven-year-old
Attila the Hun. Frankly, the kid oughta be on a leash, too. I hear
squirrels in the overhead tree branches snickering at us. Damn
rodents.

How do I get myself into these things?
Oh, right. I’m me.
Hello, world! Sylver Starr is the name, constant mishap is my

game. Really. I never go looking for trouble, but somehow it
always finds me anyway.

Sigh.
At least it’s a pretty night for a walk. A light wind rustles the

leaves, and full moon energy fills the air. Classic springtime, soft
and moist, ripe with the odors of humanity and fresh green growth,
the contradictory smells of a city park—especially pungent to a
nose like mine. Blame it on heredity.

Over two centuries ago, my Carpathian ancestors, fleeing

persecution in Europe, immigrated to America and ended up in
rural west Texas where most of my clan still live. A few of us,
however, have branched out to other parts of the country. That’s
how I happen to have a cousin in Philadelphia. Bruno Starrvoski,
Junior, son of Bruno, Senior, my dad’s brother.

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Junior and his wife Zelda are off on a spring fling of their own

this week. Which made it an excellent time to visit. I get the use of
their townhouse without having to endure them. Unfortunately,
their son Irving came with the deal. They left him behind in the
care of a babysitter. I understand why. I’m tempted to leave him
somewhere, too. But his nervous sitter would have a feathered fit if
I lost him on her, and I can’t risk that, now can I?

I tighten my grip on his hand as he tries to yank free. Irving has

been interrogating me about our mutual strange heritage and how it
affects him personally. Last year Junior taught him the basics of
what it means to be a Starrvoski. I haven’t told Irving anything he
didn’t know, but I think he was hoping for a different slant on
things from me.

“No, I don’t wanna wait till I’m older!” He digs in his heels,

jerking us to a halt. “I wanna be a wolf noooww…”

I wince at his volume. He’s already got a howl like a wolf, I’ll

grant him that. God help us all when he gains the fur and fangs to
go with it. Luckily, that shouldn’t be for several more years. Rarely
do our clan’s inbred powers manifest before puberty.

An elderly couple on a nearby park bench chuckle.
“Your little boy is cute as a bug,” the old man tells me.
Yeah. A tarantula comes to mind.
The woman squints at my costume. “Are you Scottish?”
Hardly. I just like wearing skirts is all—and with a slender

build and silver-blond hair, I do it very well. I used to be a
professional drag queen, the star attraction of the Red Banana, in
fact. But drag and seven-year-olds don’t mix, so I’ve been playing
it straight today. A kilt is perfectly acceptable masculine attire, yet
still gives me the…um, theatrical feeling I enjoy.

“Uh-uh, he’s from Texas, ’cept he lives in Massachusetts now,”

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Irving answers for me. “This is my cousin Sylvester, but we call
him Sylver. He’s a werewolf. I’m a werewolf, too. Grrr!” He bares
teeth and growls.

The gray haired pair chuckle again.
“My, he has quite an imagination,” Grandma says.
Nope, just a very big mouth. But ordinary humans never

believe him when he spouts off, so I’m not worried. I join the
amused laughter and release Irving’s hand to ruffle his mop of
brown hair.

Ow. The brat bit me.
“Feisty, ain’t he?” Grandpa shoots the boy a wink and leans

forward to pet the basset hound by our feet. “What’s your doggie’s
name, sonny?”

“Freddy Duke.” Irving pouts, disappointed the man hasn’t fled

in terror. “But he’s not my dog. He’s Sylver’s butler. Freddy’s a
lunar-shifter. He’s only a dog when the moon’s full.”

“That so?” Gramps cackles with fresh merriment.
I grab a pudgy little forearm. “Come along, Irving. It’s getting

late, and we’ve bothered these nice people long enough.”

“Oh, it was no bother at all,” Grandma calls as I drag Irving

down the path with my basset-butler trotting at my heels. “Enjoy
him while he’s young. Children grow up much too fast.”

Twilight Zone music plays in my head.
Her words prickle my back hairs. A premonition? Of what? I

realize she didn’t intend the comment as a warning, but that’s how
it sounded to me. Why, I’m not sure. I only know I’ve been having
a lot of uneasy feelings lately, a strange sense of impending
doom…

It’s with great relief that I reach the townhouse and return

Irving to his Irish babysitter, a large, motherly woman named

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Hennie. There’s a reason for that.

“I was viciously pecked in me youth by a were-chicken,” she

confided in me earlier today. “Such a horror it was!”

I can imagine. Ever since, she’s had the bothersome tendency

to shift without warning into a Rhode Island Red. But it only
happens when she’s upset. Stress seems to trigger the
metamorphosis. As a result, Hennie’s never far from a whiskey
bottle. “Me nerve medicine,” she calls it.

So, okay, the woman’s a bit of a lush, but she’s got good

reason. If you worked for a family of werewolves, would you want
to risk turning into a chicken? Of course not.

She also has a kind heart and is clearly devoted to Irving.

Someone has to be, I suppose. Tipsy or not, she watches him
closely and moves fast when needed. I’m impressed.

And bruised. The kid just kicked me in the shin.
“That’ll be enough of that.” Hennie scoops him up against her

ample bosom before he can aim another blow.

“Thanks,” I mutter, hopping on one foot.
“It’s beddy-bye for you, me fine bucko,” she clucks. “Behave

yourself, and I’ll tell you the story of Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Only if the wolf wins this time.” Irving peers over her

shoulder as she bustles him from the room. “Wolves should always
win ’cuz they’re big and bad and strong!” He sticks out his tongue
at me.

I resist the urge to show him just how big and bad a wolf can

be.

Freddy, seated by my feet, whimpers in canine sympathy.
::I’m tempted to give the little nipper a nip myself,:: he says

telepathically, the way shifters usually communicate when in
animal form. ::He’s pulled my tail a dozen times since we got here.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

Once more, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to control my bestial
instinct.::

But he will, I know. Whether on two legs or four, when he’s on

duty, Frederick Duke is a paragon of solemn dignity and
impeccable manners, the perfect English butler—and basset hound
during the full moon.

Off duty, it’s a different story. Give him a free night, and

Freddy becomes another kind of beast. A party animal. But that
goes with the territory of weredom. Shifters, by nature, are hot-
blooded, sensual creatures. Oversexed, some might say. Not that
we consider this a problem.

I lean over to give him a comforting pat and remove his collar

and lead, which were only needed because of the city’s leash laws.

“Oh, shit,” a startled voice says from behind me.
A voice I recognize, but didn’t expect.
Tossing the collar and leash onto a chair, I turn to meet an

equally startled stare. A plain young woman with short, mousy
brown hair and a dowdy dark gray dress stands framed by the
living room doorway. An overstuffed canvas grocery bag hangs
from each arm, pulling her into a stoop-shouldered slouch.

“I…I’m sorry,” she stammers. “Junior mentioned you might be

using the house while they were away, but I forgot, or I’d have
been here sooner to fix dinner for you.”

I’m sorry, too, though not about dinner. I knew my cousin and

his heiress wife employed more help than a babysitter. Hennie told
me when I arrived today that the domestic staff was out but would
be home this evening. She just neglected to say who the “staff”
was.

The young woman sets her bags on the floor and extends a

hand in greeting. “Cindy Ellis,” she introduces herself.

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Unnecessarily.

I can’t help thinking the name sounds an awful lot like

Cinderella. With the emphasis on awful.

“We met once before, at Zel and Junior’s wedding,” she adds.

“But you probably don’t remember me. No one ever does.” A tiny,
wry grin underscores the statement.

I return it with a full-beamed smile, bypass the handshake, and

give her a hug. Hell, she’s family. Almost.

“Of course I remember you. How could I forget the only one

there who was willing to talk to a guy in a pink taffeta dress? We
sat together at the reception, didn’t we? You’re Zelda’s sister.”

And servant, apparently.
What did I say about Cinderella?
“Stepsister,” she corrects.
I rest my case.
Cindy shrugs. “My mom married Zel’s dad when we were both

babies, then died a few years later. I hardly remember her. I knew
the man who raised me wasn’t my birth father, but he treated me
like his own. I got on with him better than Zel did, actually.” The
wry grin glimmers again. “I was the good girl, you see, his little
princess. She was his wild child.”

Yeah, she would’ve had to be to have married my wolfish

cousin, to let him bite her and turn her into a werewolf, too.
Shifting is a scary thing if you’re not born to it, but Zelda took to
the power like a bird to the air. She’s a natural bitch, and Junior
thinks it’s “cute.” No wonder their son is a pintsized terror. His
parents are a couple of real shitty role models.

::The lad ought to be raised in a pack environment. That’d give

him the balance he needs,:: Freddy pipes up—and right on
target—although I’m the only one who can hear him.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

Cindy is a normal human, albeit an unusually savvy one. Being

related to a were-clan through her stepsister’s marriage, she knows
as few others do that there’s a secret subculture of magical
creatures who live hidden among humanity. I remember discussing
it with her at Junior and Zelda’s wedding. But having never met
Freddy before, Cindy can’t know the watchful hound seated by our
feet is quite a ladies’ man when he’s not serving tea or chasing
rabbits. She can’t know he’s a man, period.

Unless I tell her.
::Don’t you dare!:: Freddy warns in a sudden, agitated burst of

emotion.

How very uncharacteristic of him.
And very interesting.
Hmm…
Cindy stoops down to scratch him behind the ears, and his tail

thumps the floor with canine delight.

::Pure reflex action,:: he protests. ::A dog’s head is connected

by his spine to his tail, right? Pet one end, and the other
automatically wags.::

::Along with something in the middle?::
::I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,:: he answers me, retreating

behind his usual shield of iron dignity.

I suppress a chuckle.
“What a cute pooch,” Cindy says, rising to her feet.
“He seems to like you,” I suggest. Innocently.
Freddy whimpers.
Cindy laughs. “Animals always do.” She glances downward to

pick an invisible speck of lint off her skirt. “It’s men I have trouble
with.”

Uh-huh.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

She said that last so softly, I don’t think she intended me to

hear it, but a werewolf’s senses are sharp—all six of them, the
standard five plus an inbred psychic sense. And in my case, it’s
more like seven because I have an awesome fashion sense, too.

Which this girl doesn’t. Seriously, that housekeeper outfit is

butt ugly. It makes her look like a cow. Cinderella needs a prince,
does she? Well, she ain’t gonna find one if she dresses like a
drudge. She needs a fairy godmother first.

Fortunately for her, I know where to find a whole flock of ’em.

Afterward, I wonder if she’d settle for a duke instead of a prince…

Freddy whimpers again. ::Aw, no. Please, Mr. Sylver, you’re

just going to stir up all kinds of trouble.::

So what else is new?
I grab Cindy’s hands. “Hey, hon, what am I, chopped liver?

I’m a man, and I like you.”

“You’re also gay,” she points out.
Details, details.
Cindy tugs free from my grasp and reaches for the grocery

bags. “Zel’s never forgiven you for looking prettier than she did at
her wedding.”

“Zelda’s a bitch.” Grinning, I take the bags and lead the way

down the hall. Just because I’m a gay cross-dresser doesn’t mean I
can’t be a gentleman, too.

::Better you than me right now,:: Freddy Duke grouses. But I

notice his tail never stops wagging as he follows Cindy and me to
the kitchen.

“Sit,” I order her. “I’ll unpack.”
Then I have a little excursion in mind—but I’m saving that for

a surprise.

With a sigh, my unknowing protégé sinks into a chair, props

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elbows on the kitchen table, and plants her chin in her hands.
“Thanks. My feet are killing me. I had the day off, but it was such
gorgeous weather, I decided to do the week’s shopping. Ended up
walking all the way to the Italian Market and back.”

“So I see.” A heady blend of aromas wafts out of the bags

along with the food. Exotic cheeses, plump sausages, fresh herbs,
and… My nostrils twitch. I smell something else. Something I
sensed with Cindy’s arrival but wasn’t certain of until now. A
delicate scent, undetectable to a normal human nose, but not an
animal’s or shifter’s.

Ovulation. Or, in baser terminology, a female in heat. The

fragrance has no affect on me, but I’m sure it’s straining Freddy’s
control. A less dignified dog might be inspired to hump the lady’s
leg.

::Don’t think I’m not tempted,:: he mentally mutters. ::Reflex

action is hell.::

Well, I’ll be damned. This situation is bigger than I suspected.
::Something’s getting big all right. But it doesn’t mean what

you think, Mr. Sylver.::

::Oh, no?:: I lower my gaze to see him lying under the table

with his snout between Cindy’s feet. ::Then why are you trying to
peek up her skirt, huh? Where are your manners?::

::The same place my wits must be. Let’s face it, she seems a

nice lass, but she’s bland as egg custard. I like spicier dishes.::

Like, yes. Love, however, is a whole other matter. Werewolves

believe that for everyone there is a heavenly appointed life-mate.
The tricky part is it rarely turns out to be who you’d expect. My
mate and I are proof of that.

But I don’t want to think about us right now. If I do, I’ll start

feeling as dejected as Cindy looks. The sad truth is my life-mate,

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lover, and legally wedded spouse is no longer on this Earth. I stand
here alone and bereft. Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?

::Crimey, Mr. Sylver, he’s only up in orbit on the Steele Star

space station. To hear you think it, one would assume Mr. Hunter
was dead.::

Wishful thinking, actually. Scarcely a day goes by when I don’t

want to kill Hunter. You’ve heard of interracial marriages? Well,
ours is interspecies. Canine and feline. Imagine. Of all the
heavenly powers at work in the universe, which one’s brilliant idea
was that? And how do I sue for damages?

If our animal forms were the same weight class—if Hunter

were a lion-shifter, for instance—it might make a little sense. But,
oh no, he’s just a back-alley variety tomcat. I’m able to become a
huge white wolf, and I get stuck with a mate who morphs into a
twelve pound black furball. Go figure.

To complicate matters, he’s also the founder and chief of an

underground organization dubbed Earth Guardians, Inc. Which is
exactly what it sounds like, a covert corps of special agents
dedicated to defending this planet, by fair means or foul, from all
threats inner and outer. I’m one of those agents. Damn it. But
that’s a particular sore spot with me, so we won’t probe it right
now.

::Thanks, because I hear enough about it at home,:: Freddy

says, even though my thoughts weren’t aimed at him. ::You and
Mr. Hunter are always arguing about how you want to quit the
Earth Guardians, and he won’t let you.::

Shit, we argue about everything. It’s pretty hard not to, given

our conflicting genetic codes. Besides which, we’re from polar
opposite social and economic strata. I grew up in poverty while
Hunter was raised in the lap of luxury.

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I am, in fact, married by divine decree, backed up by

Massachusetts state law, to a tall, sexy-as-sin billionaire with
ebony hair and amber eyes. The incongruous Hunter Steele,
corporate king in public, super hero in secret—Catman as opposed
to Batman—a hard-hitting business tycoon who’s also an ecology
freak and patron saint of numerous worthy charities.

::You left out “Celebrity Darling of the Decade,”:: Freddy

interjects. ::With his money and looks, he’s always in the news.
The paparazzi love him. According to the media, he’s the world’s
most photographed man.::

Yeah, and according to me, he’s the most aggravating.

Although a nosy basset-butler is running a close second at the
moment. It’s bad enough when Hunter invades my thoughts—
which he always does when we’re together. I’ve got to deal with it
from Freddy now, too? Can’t I have any privacy?

::If you don’t want other telepaths to read your mind, you

should take better care to shield it.::

Getting testy, are we?
::So should you,:: I retort.
But neither of us can. Being classic canine, such mental

subterfuge is beyond both Freddy and me. Hunter is infuriatingly
adept at guarding his thoughts. Peer into his head and all you see is
a smokescreen. Feline nature, they’re an inscrutable breed. By
comparison, wolves and dogs are flashing neon signs you can read
a mile away. It’s the pack psychology. We’re bred for teamwork,
which requires instant, clear communication.

Meaning, if Freddy can read me, I can just as easily read him.
::No, you can’t,:: he’s over-quick to deny. ::What I’m feeling is

merely a temporary biological reaction, the heterosexual male
response to female fertility. It’ll pass, you know it will. There’s no

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way I’m falling for a Plain Jane Cinderella.::

Sounds kinda like a pop science show, doesn’t he? Methinks

the laddie doth protest too much.

::Think what you like. You’re wrong. I’m not in love. No way,

no how.::

Yeah, that’s what I said the first time I met Hunter. But we

never know when or where Cupid’s arrows will strike, and for
shifters they strike especially hard and fast. The inner call of one’s
predestined life-mate is impossible to ignore.

Heh, heh.
I chuckle inwardly with devilish glee. Can’t help myself.

Suddenly I feel so…so romantic. Ain’t love grand? Well, maybe
not my love life, but the phenomenon is way fun to watch in
others. Misery adores company, you know.

::It’s not funny.:: A doggy whine underscores the complaint.

Freddy wriggles out from under the table, shoots me a baleful look,
and slinks out of the kitchen with his tail between his legs.

Cindy glances up from her weary slouch. “What’s wrong with

your pooch? I hope I didn’t accidentally kick him.”

Only in the heart, hon.
However, it’s not my place to inform her she’s just met the

love of her life. Especially when the lover himself refuses to admit
it. Yet.

“Nah, he’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Basset hounds always

look morbid.” I shove the last of the groceries into the fridge, pull
out a chair, and sit opposite her at the table. “So what’s your
excuse?”

“Excuse?” Cindy blinks.
I lean forward. “Why so glum, sugarplum? Besides the

apparent fact you were cut out of your stepfather’s will. And are

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now forced by economic need to cook and clean for the one who
did inherit?” I phrased it as a question, but I’m pretty sure I’m
correct.

Her laughter surprises me.
“You don’t mince words, Sylver, do you?”
“Not often.”
I hold her gaze for a long moment, wondering what’s going on

behind those blue eyes. Pretty eyes, really, her best feature.
Granted, a bit of mascara would help; her lashes are too pale. But
such things are easily remedied, and will be soon. I could read her
thoughts even easier—humans are no match for shifters in that
area—except that would be taking unfair advantage. Besides, I’d
rather she tell me herself.

With a small sigh of surrender, she finally does. “Well, you’re

half right. I don’t have a dime I haven’t worked for. But that’s how
it should be. I don’t want anything I haven’t honestly earned. I like
supporting myself.”

“Admirable. I feel the same way,” I have to confess.
Maybe that’s why I stick with the Earth Guardians, even

though I regularly threaten to quit. I don’t much enjoy playing
secret agent. The hours suck, and people are always trying to kill
you. It’s an excessively nerve-wracking gig. But it also pays an
excessively large salary, gives me a solid income of my own so
I’m not financially dependent on Hunter.

Unfortunately, Hunter, as the head of Earth Guardians, Inc. is

the one who pays my hard-earned salary—and never lets me forget
it—which rather dampens the independent feeling and keeps me
tied to his purse strings any way you slice it. It’s a pain in the ass
being married to your boss. If I wanted real independence, I’d
return to my first love. The stage. And, yes, I have been

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considering that.

Cindy stares across the table at me as though she were the

telepath and trying to read my mind. Why not? Everyone else does.

The ghost of a grin haunts her lips as she speaks. “You got it

backward, actually. I inherited everything, the whole frickin’
estate. Zel’s the one who was cut out.”

My brows arch up.
Hers knit together in a pensive frown. “Well, it was no

surprise—Dad had warned her—but it still seemed harsh. Zel was
crushed. And I felt partly responsible, like my virtuous behavior
had made hers look worse by comparison. She doesn’t mean to be
difficult. She’s just…not real bright. But we grew up together, and
she’s the only family I have left. I can’t help loving her.”

God, I know that feeling.
It sucks, too.
“So you signed over all the money?” I want to make sure I

have this story straight.

Cindy nods. “How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”
“I don’t know, hon, but most people would’ve given it the old

college try. Or split the estate down the middle with half for each
of you?”

She shakes her head. “Dad was rich, but he made some bad

investments in his last years. By the time he died, his fortune was
much less. With her expenses, Zel needs every penny of what’s
left—a lot more than I do.”

“And she repaid you by making you her housekeeper?”
I hate my cousin’s wife.
Come to think of it, I’ve never liked my cousin either.
“It’s not that bad.” Cindy’s chin tilts up with a trace of

stubborn denial. “And it’s not like I’m suited for much else.

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Neither Zel nor I were raised to have any career beyond
‘homemaking,’ as Dad put it. He was old-fashioned that way. But
at least I can cook, clean, organize…simple stuff, but way over
Zel’s head. I’ve spent most of my life helping her. Nothing’s really
changed. Except I get paid for it now.”

“Out of the money you gave her.”
She frowns. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”
“Yep, but I wish there were more fools like you. Unselfishness

is a scarce commodity. You deserve a halo, hon. I’m just thinking
you’re too nice for your own good.”

“Not that nice. Lucky, maybe?” Irony twists her frown into a

small smile. “If I looked like Zel, I might’ve been a wild child, too.
But it’s easy to be virtuous when men never give you a second
glance. No temptation, no trouble.”

No shit. It’s her day off, and what does she do? Grocery

shopping. How fucking boring is that? I’d love to tell her Fate has
a studly surprise in store for her—except you can’t be truly happy
with another until you’re happy with yourself. Cindy feels
unattractive, so she acts the part. Silly girl.

There are really very few natural beauties. Glamour is a façade,

crafted in part by the flash of outer trappings, but even more from
inner confidence. As the Bard said, “All the world’s a stage, and
her men and women merely players.”

Or something like that.
The cool thing is we can switch roles with a costume change.
Cindy rises from the table, signaling the subject closed—she

thinks. Turning her back on me, she pulls a paper towel from the
roll above the sink and starts polishing the counters. Which are
already spotless. She’s a compulsive neat freak, I realize. Freddy’s
one, too. He’d deny it, but I swear shining silverware gives him a

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hard-on.

Y’know, the more I consider this, the more I decide they’re

perfect for each other. A housekeeper and a butler. A Cinderella
and a…well, not a prince, but Freddy is quite charming when he
wants to be. Overall, it seems the heavenly powers do know what
they’re doing with these life matches.

So how the hell did they fuck up mine?
Never mind, don’t answer that. I came here to forget the

problems Hunter and I are having. He’s been more inscrutable than
usual lately—withdrawn, distant—more difficult than ever. I know
something is going on in that feline mind, but he refuses to tell me
what. Does he think I’m too frivolous to comprehend, or just too
stupid? He treats me like an idiot.

Even so, I can’t help worrying about him…about us. I wonder

what he’s doing now up in orbit on his fabulous Steele Star space
station. Wining and dining his jet-set friends, making billion-dollar
business deals over cocktails and canapés? Or maybe he’s holed up
deep in the bowels of the station—the hidden headquarters of Earth
Guardians, Inc.—playing James Bond hatching daring plots to save
the world.

How about saving our marriage? Is that too daring to ask?
I hope Cindy and Freddy will realize that even finding your one

true life-mate doesn’t guarantee happiness. Love’s fire burns hot,
but no fire burns without fuel. Once you and your mate are
together, you still have to work at it—both of you—to stay
together. I’m sick of doing more than my share on that score.

Cindy turns back to me, a faint smile on her lips, a look of quiet

resignation in her eyes—the complete opposite of what I’m
feeling. I’m rarely the resigned sort, and never quiet about it.

“I’ve been a lousy hostess, letting you sit there with nothing to

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eat. It’s almost nine. You must be hungry.”

Ravenous. But not for anything she can offer. Some have

suggested that for Hunter and me, arguing is a perverse form of
foreplay. Some may well be correct. I was all cranked up last night
for a post-fight fuck—wrestling match lovemaking where the
winner takes all, and the loser thoroughly enjoys it—the way our
conflicts always end.

Well, almost always. This time he walked out before we hit the

mat, left me high, dry, and horny as hell. And, no, wanking off
later in the bathtub didn’t help. I damn near got stuck when I tried
to fuck the faucet.

Don’t laugh. It may happen to you someday.
The point is I’m still horny. And sore. And growing ever more

suspicious about what’s going on with Hunter. He walked out in
the middle of a fight, for godssake. He’s never done that before.

I did—once—but I had damn good reason. I’d caught him

tomcatting around. And I don’t mean in fur. I left him for almost
two months, and it took an alien invasion to bring us back together.
Hunter seemed to turn over a new leaf after that, at least as far as
the fidelity issue was concerned. But now? I can’t figure why he’s
been acting so strange.

Unless he’s cheating on me again.
I hate this line of thought, don’t you?
It’s making me consider something I’ve never done before,

something very contrary to wolf nature. Unlike tomcats, we’re into
love for the long haul, rigidly faithful. Wolves mate for life, for
better or worse.

Still, if it ends up the latter, and the worse gets bad enough…

Well, hell, I’m a man, too, aren’t I? If Hunter’s doing me wrong,
could anyone really blame me for seeking a little extracurricular

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comfort?

“How about some dinner?” Cindy asks. “I don’t know about

you, but I could go for a couple of big juicy sausages.”

I feel a grin steal onto my lips. “Sounds good to me.”
“Great. What do you want with them?”
“Hot sauce and buns, what else?”
Except I doubt we’re envisioning the same kind of sausage.
Her brow wrinkles. “Damn, I think we’re out of hot sauce.

Wish I’d remembered to buy some today.”

“No problem. I know where we can find it by the bucketful.” I

push away from the table. “Besides, there’s no way I’m letting you
cook on your day off. I’m taking you out to dinner. Just give me a
few minutes to change clothes.”

“Well, thank you, what a nice treat.” She glances down at her

frumpy frock. “Where are we going? Do I need to change, too?”

My grin broadens. “Don’t worry, you will after we get there.

Ever hear of a club called the Red Banana?”

“Oh, shit,” she says.
I think that means yes.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

CHAPTER 2

The writing on the wall…

Hunter Steele stared at the decorative mirror in his foyer—a big

billboard of a mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling and
spanned the length of the room. A note scribbled on the reflective
surface, in garish purple lipstick in a bold flourishing hand, stared
back at him.

“Dear Hunter,” it began. “Have taken Freddy and driven to

Philadelphia. As intended.” The intended was underlined for
emphasis. “Will return next week. Maybe.” The maybe was
underlined, too. “In the interim, I have given the rest of the house
staff a vacation. Working for you, they need one. Also, as I hated
to think of any foodstuffs spoiling in everyone’s absence, I invited

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Cook to take the contents of the fridge with her. She did. There
may, however, be a few cans of tuna left in the larder, should you
return home before anyone else and find yourself hungry. Or you
could shift and catch a mouse. Or eat shit. I suggest the latter.
Love, Sylver.”

A crude drawing of a fist with the middle finger extended

straight up punctuated the message.

Hunter said a naughty word. Several of them. It was nine-thirty

at night. He was tired and tormented by the headache from hell.
He’d had a very bad day, possibly the worst day of his life. But
he’d seen the bad coming from a long way off, so he wasn’t quite
as suicidal as he might have been if disaster had struck without
warning.

In any case, being a shape-shifter, his body was made of

incredibly durable stuff. Killing himself would’ve required much
time and energy, and he had little of either to spare. Far better he
save his strength for killing someone else.

No, not Sylver. Although that idea had crossed Hunter’s mind

once or twice since arriving home to an empty house. Where was
his back-up support when he needed it?

Fuck.
Sylver was a headache for sure, but not the current one. And

Hunter was feline stock, he reminded himself. He could handle this
alone. Cats are resourceful creatures who generally land on their
feet.

“Not this time, lover,” the real headache said—and, yes, it

really was from hell, though it spoke with a slight Hungarian
accent. It stood behind Hunter, panting cold, foul breath down the
back of his neck. “How the mighty have fallen.”

Hunter’s spine stiffened at the taunting response to his

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thoughts. He sometimes probed others’ minds without invitation—
and without apology—but very few had the ability to read him. He
didn’t appreciate being telepathically reamed.

“Get used to it, lover. I’ve been reading minds a lot longer than

you have.”

Centuries longer. To sensitive feline nostrils, the speaker

smelled like grave rot and ancient agony. Hunter studied the
mirror, seeing nothing but Sylver’s message and his own grim
expression. The woman behind him, Countess Erzsébet Báthory,
who’d approached him on the Steele Star and teleported down with
him, cast no reflection. Vampires never did. But only the evil or
insane ones stank.

“How very ungallant. If I’d just lost my fortune, I’d be thinking

nice things about the one who has offered me aid. I’m the only one
who can help. I do hope you know that…lover.”

This was becoming monotonous.
Hunter turned to face his companion—a dark haired, pale

skinned enchantress in a gossamer gown—who did look better
than she smelled, but who had offered nothing yet beyond a sly
suggestion they join forces to defeat a dire threat to the world. How
had barely been hinted at. The why was a little uncertain, too.
Vampires in general weren’t big on altruism. Hungry creatures,
mercenary by nature, they made powerful allies if you could meet
their price, but their services never came cheap, and this one knew
he couldn’t pay her. With money.

The global economy was in flux, and Hunter’s golden touch

had deserted him, it seemed. Sinking sales, rising costs, bad luck…
Add treachery, and you had a recipe for ruin. Few knew of his
trouble yet—God knew he’d fought hard to forestall it—but like a
line of dominoes going down, his corporate empire had collapsed.

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As of today, for the first time in his life, Hunter’s expenses
exceeded his income. His pockets were virtually empty.

“But not your pants, eh? You still have some…assets.” A

hooded gaze slid over his body. “And I have information you need.
I know who’s behind your recent bad luck, and he’s very bad
indeed. I’m sure we can negotiate a mutually satisfying trade
agreement. Your virility is famous, lover.”

“But not available for barter, countess. You requested a private

meeting with me, and I’m giving you one, but let’s get something
straight. Whatever deal you have in mind, sex won’t be part of it.
I’m not your lover.”

“Yet.” Erzsébet grinned.
Cat-like, so did Hunter. “Never. You’re a beautiful creature,

but you’re not my type. No offense intended.”

“None taken. Your preference for men is also famous. I’ve no

quarrel with that. Should you wish to indulge such desires after our
alliance, I shan’t stop you.” She fluttered her lashes. “Provided you
allow me the same privilege. I well understand the appeal of one’s
own gender.”

Too well, perhaps. If the legends about her were correct, she

had, during her human lifetime in the sixteenth century, tortured to
death hundreds of serving girls in sadomasochistic orgies, then
bathed in their blood to preserve her beauty.

“Legends?” Anger flashed in her dark eyes. “Lies! Grotesque

exaggerations of the truth fabricated by traitors who wished to
discredit me for their own selfish aims. My accusers were far more
interested in my wealth than they were my so-called crimes. I
never bathed in anyone’s blood. How disgusting. Anyhow, I’ve
since learned it works much better if you drink it.”

She giggled at her joke.

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Cute.
Hunter scented the taint of madness in her, a volatile temper.
“Which you would be wise to not provoke. The truth is, the

king of Poland owed me money he was disinclined to repay. So he
had me charged with murder and witchcraft, then walled up in a
tower of my own castle. Those who remained true to me were
tortured, mutilated, then burned alive. And history calls me the
monster. Hmph.” She gave a haughty sniff. “Yes, I took a firm
hand with the serving staff, but they were my serfs. I could do with
them as I pleased—as did most land barons of the day. It was our
right, and we exercised it. I was no worse than the rest, and better
than some.”

Hmm… Possibly. Medieval serfs were considered property

more than people. It wasn’t a good time to be born poor.

“No time is, Hunter. But a lowly birth is not our curse. My

family produced princes and kings. And your secret cat-clan dates
back thousands of years, I’ve heard. An illustrious linage. The
blood of emperors and ancient gods flows in your veins.”

She leaned forward, slowly, her gaze fixed on his throat.
He angled to the side, a half step beyond her reach. “I’d like to

keep it in my veins, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.” Erzsébet shrugged. “I’m more interested in its

color than its nutritional value. Were you not a blueblood like
myself, I couldn’t possibly marry you. Class hierarchy, you
understand. I’m a product of my era and follow the old rules in
such matters.”

Hunter was glad one of them followed something. He could

barely follow this conversation.

Marry? What was she thinking? Erzsébet had the advantage,

shamelessly invading his mind while blocking access to hers. All

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his forays in that direction met a mental brick wall. Hell, he might
have to pull out the old battering ram, after all, just to break
through her defenses. He wouldn’t enjoy it, but desperate times
called for desperate measures. Hunter knew who’d caused his
downfall—and why—but not the bastard’s location. To discover
that, he’d dance with the devil if he had to.

And being what she was, Erzsébet could no doubt point him in

the right direction… Fuck, he wasn’t really thinking of seducing
her, was he? Sylver would be furious. Hunter was none too pleased
either. He knew when his brain was being dicked with.

Her lips curled in a sardonic sliver of a smile. “It’s the vampiric

allure. To feed ourselves, my kind are bisexual by necessity, if not
natural inclination—and, as such, irresistible to all. Few can long
withstand our power, though I’ll admit you’ve managed better than
most. You have a strong mind yourself. What better way to join
forces than marriage? You think love is a requirement for such a
union?”

With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed such a silly notion.
“Consider it a business deal. We’d make a good match, Hunter.

We both understand power and how to wield it. We were born to
rule. In my day, I oversaw great estates, negotiated with the
Ottoman Empire. I spoke four languages and have learned many
others since. With me at your side you could defeat all foes and
regain your fortune.”

How did one reason with a crazy vamp?
Hunter heaved an inward sigh.
“An interesting offer, countess, but aren’t you forgetting one

little thing?” Besides the fact he was gay, he meant, as that seemed
not to faze her. “I’m already married.”

“To a peasant werewolf? My people ruled the Carpathians

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while his crept through the mountains on all fours.” Her nose
wrinkled with disdain. “Oh, I’d let you keep him as a pet if you
wished. But that’s out of my hands. Your bad luck isn’t through
with you yet—and since you know his name, I may as well use it.
Having stolen your gold, Vlad now intends to steal your Sylver.”
Erzsébet chuckled. She did enjoy her own jokes, didn’t she? “He
wants a hostage to insure you will not challenge him again. But
you will, of course, with my help.”

Or more preferably without it. With supporters like Erzsébet

Báthory, Hunter didn’t need enemies.

“Think carefully before you refuse,” she warned. “It takes a

vampire to fight a vampire, and in this fight, I’m your best ally.
Vlad and I share similar roots. We were born in the same general
region a mere century apart. I understand his medieval mindset
better than anyone.”

“You ought to since you seem to share it.” Hunter said what he

thought—she’d read it in his mind regardless—but braced for a
blast in case her temper exploded. “Even more, you’re his creature,
aren’t you? According to legend, Prince Vlad is your master, the
one who turned you vampire. Which makes your offer now a little
suspect, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning it. Only a very stupid
or very suicidal vamp rebels against her maker.”

Then again, an insane one might try it, too.
Her expression darkened. “I told you, the legends are lies.”
“Not this one. It’s only hinted at in the human histories, but it’s

listed as fact in the vampiric records. I’ve seen your society’s
Who’s Who of the Undead. As the head of Earth Guardians, Inc., it
was my business to read such documents. When I recruited a
vampire into my service, I had to know their origins in order to
know how far I could trust them. I hope you won’t take this the

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wrong way, countess, but I don’t think I can trust you.”

Hunter met her scowl without blinking. “Your name appears

under the listing on Prince Vlad III of Wallachia, also known as
Vlad the Impaler—or more commonly by his surname, Dracula.
I’ve heard that in his native tongue dracul can be translated as
either dragon or devil. Since you’re so good with languages, which
do you think it is?”

“Both! As you’ll discover for yourself if you try to fight him

alone. Believe me or not, but I hate Vlad as much as you do. In his
lifetime he butchered tens of thousands. Even the worst slander
about me mentions no more than several hundred deaths. Yet in
Vlad’s country he’s regarded as a war hero for guarding his
borders against the Ottomans. I did the same through peaceful
negotiation”—she spat out the words—“and they call me the
Monster of Hungary.”

“Truly, there’s no justice in the world.” Hunter shook his head

in sympathy.

Erzsébet glowered. “Mock me at your peril, Catman. I’m the

only hope you have. Your Earth Guardians are gone, aren’t they?
Dismissed. I read it in your mind. You closed the organization
today because you can no longer afford to fund it. Who else do you
think will help you now? Your peasant wolf? He’s gone, too. Vlad
himself went to trap that prize—with his lustful self as the bait. He
has a special fondness for blonds.”

“Bully for Vlad.” Hunter wasn’t worried. “And good luck to

him. Sylver’s no easy target.”

“And whoever Vlad goes after, he gets.” Erzsébet sounded very

sure of that.

Hunter still wasn’t worried. “Not tonight he won’t. Sylver’s

utterly faithful to me. That’s the one thing you can be certain of

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with wolves—peasant or not—they never cheat.”

“Nothing in this world is certain—except Vlad’s unholy

powers of seduction.” A sneer exposed the tips of pearly white
fangs. “No doubt he’s impaling your lowborn lover even as we
speak.”

“Then I’d better hurry if I want to rescue him, hadn’t I?”
“And hurry straight to your doom. Fool! Your wolf is Vlad’s

prisoner by now, and Vlad will use him against you if you try to
save him. For your own safety you must forget Sylver Starr. He’s
already lost to you.”

“I’ve often wished I could lose him. But somehow he always

finds his way home again.” Hunter chuckled while Erzsébet looked
ready to snort steam. “Seriously, he’s quite capable of taking care
of himself. I was referring to the prince. If he’s targeted Sylver,
Vlad is the one in trouble. But I did say if I wanted to rescue him,
which I don’t. I just wanted to know where he is. Now I do. Thank
you, countess, you’ve been most helpful—”

A hand struck out, curled like a claw, fingers tipped with blood

red talons.

Hunter caught it in midair a few inches from his face.
And displayed gallant self-restraint, he thought, in not snapping

it off at the wrist. Vampires far outclass normal humans in
strength. But pound for pound, so do cats, as anyone who’s ever
seen one leap from the floor to the top of a refrigerator can testify.
Expand that natural feline force into a six-foot-two muscular
frame, and you have a rock crusher. Hunter squeezed just hard
enough to drive that point home.

Erzsébet gave up the battle. She might have been mad, but she

wasn’t stupid. Gently, Hunter released her.

“I wasn’t mocking you before, countess. I pity you. Those

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lying legends also say you suffered from severe seizures, and that’s
where the truth may hide. I suspect you were born with a form of
epilepsy that manifested in sudden violent rage. You couldn’t
control yourself. But you were also born into a brutal era and what
was very much a man’s world. Many women got a far worse deal
than they deserved. Many people of both sexes were victimized
and oppressed.”

“All will be victims if Vlad Dracula gains control of the world.”

Erzsébet’s voice lowered to an icy whisper. The voice of doom.
“You think I’m mad? Vlad sees himself as a savior on a mission to
purge humanity of its ills, to rid the world of poverty, crime, and
disease. And he will, given the chance. By herding together all the
sick and the poor and killing them in mass executions. He’s very
good at that, you know. During his reign of Wallachia, Prince Vlad
was notorious for the forests he planted—made from thousands of
stakes, each one with a body impaled upon it. Men, women, young
and old, rich and poor alike.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Vlad rules with an iron fist, but his

tyranny is quite democratic. He penalizes all equally with no
regard for rank or circumstance, and the smallest mistake is
punished as savagely as a major offense. He’s the worst kind of
despot. A self-righteous one.”

Hunter stared at her a long moment, pondering a paradox. For

some reason she didn’t smell that bad anymore. Had Erzsébet
changed, or just his perception of her? If odors could be assigned
colors, with muddy black the worst and clean white the sweetest,
Erzsébet smelled… Gray? Neither evil nor good but a blend of
both, like most creatures, he supposed. Hell, even Vlad might have
a few favorable features buried somewhere—but one would need a
bulldozer to unearth them.

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“You really do want to see him stopped, don’t you?” he said.
“Yes. Surprised?” Irony tinged her tone. “I’m not so crazy I’d

rather see the whole world ruined instead. With Vlad in charge, no
one will be safe. Even the vampire community fears him. His new
reign of terror will make the Holocaust look like a garden party.
He must be stopped before it begins. Afterward will be too late.
There will be nothing left worth saving.”

Hunter knew she was right. Dead right. That’s why he intended

to destroy Vlad Dracula once and for all. Tonight.

Erzsébet’s brows rose a fraction in question. “How?”
That she had to ask spoke volumes in one word. She couldn’t

read the answer in his mind because Hunter had no answer yet.

A sneak attack? Open combat? The man in him preferred the

latter; the cat counseled stealth. Creep up on the quarry, then
pounce at the last instant. But with Vlad’s psychic sensors, it
would be difficult to take him unawares. And if Hunter missed his
first chance, he might not get another…

He shrugged off the worry. “I’m not sure, but I figure I’ll

decide on something once I sight him. You’d better stay here,
countess. Just in case. If Vlad senses you near me, he’ll make your
undead existence a living hell.”

“It already is,” she murmured.
Deep in his plotting, Hunter scarcely heard her. He fingered a

small shiny rectangle clipped to his belt. A transistorized
teleporter, top-secret, created by EG’s tech team. The Earth
Guardians might be kaput, but not the equipment they’d used. With
a mere thought, holding the image of a destination in his mind, the
device would transport him anywhere he wished to go.

The Red Banana?
That was where Sylver must be. And, according to Erzsébet,

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wherever he found Sylver, that’s where he’d also find history’s
most dangerous and demonic vampire—a creature famous for his
fatally seductive force.

It was a good thing werewolves were equally famous for

fidelity. Sylver would be the absolute last person to fall prey to
such force.

Wasn’t he?

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CHAPTER 3

Catch a falling Starr…

The legendary Moulin Rouge of Paris sports a big windmill on

its roof. The front of Philly’s Red Banana features a—what else—
giant neon banana. So, okay, it looks more like a giant dick, but
that’s the whole point. When they named the club the Red Banana,
you didn’t think they were referring to a tropical fruit, did you?

Well, not unless we count Velveeta Cucaracha, a tall, tan queen

from Key West, who impersonates Carmen Miranda. Among the
revue’s other performers are Kandy Korn, Cherry Jubilee, and
Hotdog Hannah. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?

“Oh. My. God.” Cindy skids to a halt and latches on to the

doorframe with a white-knuckled grip as we enter the club.

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Chuckling, I pry her fingers loose and guide her forward into a

ballroom-sized space of elegance gone haywire—velvet
upholstery, satin drapes, garish gilt trim, and gleaming crystal. A
fancy carved wood bar fills one end of the crowded room; a raised
stage and small orchestra pit dominate the other. In between, sit
tables and chairs occupied by rowdy patrons, with a row of plush
private booths snuggled up against the dimly lit back wall. That’s
what they’re there for, too. Snuggling. And cozier endeavors.

Beneath the savory smells of French and Italian cuisine—a

mouthwatering montage of aromas—I detect the equally spicy
scent of clandestine sex. My cock twitches in response. I’ve
mentioned I’m horny, right?

Still, there’s no rush. The night is young yet.
The big clock over the bar reads nine-thirty, and the stage

stands empty, as the revue doesn’t start till ten, but the band in the
pit is playing a Dixieland jazz tune to heat things up. Laughter and
loud talk, the clink of glasses and clatter of dishes mix with the
music.

It’s not easy, really, to describe the Red Banana. Call it a

combination dinner theater, nightclub, and popular pick-up palace
for the area’s large gay population.

“So what do you think?” I ask my wide-eyed companion.
“This looks like a nineteenth century French cathouse on acid.”
By God, I think she’s nailed it.
“Sylver!” a shrill cry rings out.
“Brace yourself,” I warn Cindy.
A second later I’m knocked backward by a flying tackle hug

from a mile-high copper skinned apparition in a ruffled brassiere,
sarong skirt, and turban-style headdress decorated with kumquats,
limes, and feathers.

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Meet Velveeta Cucaracha, six-eight in her stocking feet—with

the turban, over seven. She used to be a he, Vincent Carr, a pro
basketball player, before surrendering to her true calling.

“Holy shit,” Cindy mutters.
For a nice lass, she swears rather a lot, doesn’t she?
With a broad smile, Velveeta waves an arm in the air,

beckoning the troops, her brass bangle bracelets tinkling like
chimes. “Hey, girls, look what the cat dragged in!”

Wham…
That fast we’re mobbed by the Folies Bergère. Plump, sassy

Kandy Korn, who sings bump and grind Sophie Tucker songs to
raucous applause. Cherry Jubilee, dressed as Scarlett O’Hara.
Southern comfort drips from her drawl. And Hotdog Hannah in
black leather corset and stiletto heeled boots. She does a
dominatrix act, selecting eager victims from members of the
audience.

Gee, it’s just like old home week.
I’m jostled and squeezed, kissed and hugged, laughed and cried

over. The bandleader, Buddy Knickerbocker, pokes his head out of
the pit, sees me, and the band breaks into a rousing rendition of
“The Lady In Red.”

My signature song. They remembered.
Sniffle.
A salty mist blurs my vision. Through the haze, I see someone

inching toward the exit. Whoa. I grab Cindy by the wrist and reel
her back.

Kandy eyes her up and down. “Who’s this supposed to be?”
“Cinderella,” I answer. “She needs a fairy godmother.”
“She needs somethin’,” Cherry drawls. “One hardly knows

where to begin.”

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

“Honey, you’re doing it all wrong,” Hannah chides Cindy.

“You gotta put some pizzazz into it. Stand up straight, throw your
chest out—and find a decent dress, for chrissake. No one will ever
believe you’re a woman in that sorry-ass sack.”

“Sylver…” Cindy shoots me an aggrieved and dangerous look.

It’s obvious to both of us my friends think she’s another drag
queen. And not a very adept one.

Cough.
I clear my throat. “She is a woman. She just needs a few

lessons in how to dress and act like one.”

And who better to teach her than those who had to learn the

same things themselves? People whose careers depend upon the
fine art of feminine glamour, and who have made an in-depth
professional study of the subject.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Velveeta rolls her eyes. Hands

on hips, she struts a slow circle around Cindy, viewing her from all
angles. “Could be worse,” she finally decides. “We can handle this.
Right, girls?”

“Sure. I love a challenge.” Kandy flutters inch-long false lashes

and beams Cindy an impish grin. “Look at it this way, Cinderella,
if you got real tits without having to take hormones, you’re already
a step ahead of the game. Everything else we can fix.”

“Oh, shit—” Cindy bolts for the door.
Not fast enough.
Giggling and smirking, her four fairy godmothers corral her

and lead her toward the dressing rooms hidden beyond the stage.

“Relax, sugah, you’re safe with us,” Cherry comforts her.

“We’re gonna give you a brand new look. You’ll love it.”

“Nothing too campy,” I call after them. “Keep it tasteful,

okay?”

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

“Sylver, chill,” Velveeta Cucaracha calls back. “We know what

we’re doing.”

As if in answer, a bass-baritone chuckle rumbles from behind

me. “So true. If you want a job done right, go to the experts, eh?”

“Count Poopsie!” I spin about to meet the merry gaze of a

stocky man in a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard, pearl gray tux
and ruffled shirt. The club’s owner, Count Claudio Barilla—
Poopsie to his friends—son of an Italian aristocrat and a gypsy
fortune-teller from France.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Never mind, you’re

here now, and that’s all that matters. You look ravishing!” he
declares all in one breath, then gives me a resounding kiss on each
cheek, continental style.

Well, I do look good.
I’m wearing a ruby red dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt

puffed out by frilly white petticoats. Black stockings and my dance
shoes complete the ensemble. It’s one of my old costumes. I’m
hoping to join the revue this evening, for nostalgia if nothing else.
The highlight of the Red Banana’s show is the same dance the
Moulin Rouge is famous for. Of course, we put our own special
spin on it here.

I strike a theatrical pose, embellished by my dazzling stage

smile. “Thanks, Poopsie. Got room for me in tonight’s cancan?”

“Sylver, for you there is always room. Just say the word, and

I’ll put your name back on the marquee. Your old job is yours
whenever you want it, you know that.”

He crushes me against his chest in a rib-cracking bear hug.
Oof…
“Ah, my friend, how we have missed you!” he booms.
“Likewise,” I strain out, struggling for oxygen in his burly

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embrace. The guy’s so demonstrative. You have no idea how
strong he is.

And I had no idea till I pushed open the door tonight just how

much I have missed this club—its sights, its sounds, its smells. Its
people. There aren’t many places where a gay cross-dresser of
arcane origins can really feel at home. Here is one of them. Here
I’m accepted, appreciated, applauded.

“But of course. We are your friends. We understand you.”
Claudio breaks the hug.
I suck in a big gulp of air.
Whew, it’s great to be able to breathe again.
He grips my shoulders and steps back, holding me at arm’s

length, staring into my eyes. And, yes, he just read my mind.
Doesn’t everyone? But, no, he’s not a telepathic shifter. Not
exactly.

Before he opened the Red Banana, Claudio was a stage

magician and hypnotist, except not all his tricks were done with
mirrors. He has extraordinary psychic ability, inherited from his
Romany mother, and he knows there’s more to the world than
meets the average eye.

In the old days in Europe, some Romany caravans used trained

bears in their traveling shows. However, not all those bears wore
fur all the time. Unbeknownst to the crowds who tossed coins to
see them perform, some were, in reality, shape-shifters. Claudio’s
mother was descended from such a clan, but a genetically diluted
one where the power to change form faded a little with each
generation. Claudio inherited only a portion of it. Physically, he’s
built like a bear and wields the animal’s great strength, but he can’t
morph into one.

A curious enigma, Count Claudio Barilla. Not quite human, not

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quite shifter, he walks a shadowy line between the two camps.

“So”—he leans in and lowers his voice—“shall you tell me

what troubles you, or must I dig it out of your skull? I know you
are here for more than the cancan, eh?”

I force a laugh. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Only to me, my friend. I see the worry you hide behind a

smile. I smell your frustration. And I notice Hunter is not with you
tonight.”

He leaves the comment hanging, like a worm on the end of a

hook, waiting for me to take the bait. Should I bite? I do appreciate
him fishing for answers when it would be easier for him to suck
them out telepathically. He’s got a mind like a Hoover.

The answers, however, aren’t easy at all. Hunter and I fight like

cats and dogs—big surprise—but I love him regardless. Always
have, always will, no doubt about it.

I’m just not sure anymore that love is enough.
“Poopsie, for the past few weeks, Hunter hasn’t shown much

interest in being with me any night. If you want the truth, I’m
worried we’re headed for a…parting of the ways,” I say, amazed I
got the answer out without choking on it.

“Impossible.” Bushy brows pull together in a frown. “You’re

life-mated.”

“Tell that to Hunter. Sometimes I think he’s mated to his

business more than to me.” Though it’s not really his business
affairs that bother me so much. Just affairs in general.

“I also think he’s cheating on me.”
“Again? Merde,” Claudio mutters. Raised in Europe, he speaks

several languages, but for some obscure reason, swears exclusively
in French. “You’re sure?”

“With Hunter you can never be sure of anything, but he’s been

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gone an awful lot lately—and barely there when he is home.”

“How so?”
How not?
“Silent, secretive…sullen and distracted. When I ask what’s

wrong, he mumbles ‘nothing,’ then tells me to shut up and quit
bugging him. His appetite’s been off, too, and we’re not talking
food,” I say meaningfully.

“Hunter?” Claudio’s jaw drops. “Could he be ill? No, of course

not, full-blood shifters are immune to most disease,” he answers
himself. “There’s still the possibility of hairballs, I suppose…” He
strokes his beard, thinking. “Perhaps a financial deal went sour?
He’s depressed over money?”

Fat chance. The hairball theory conjures up some fun images,

though. One could only hope.

I shake my head. “Money matters never bother Hunter.

Everything he touches turns to gold. He attracts wealth like a
magnet.”

“And spends it with equal aplomb. Easy come, easy go, eh?

The world market is unstable, my friend, and no one is immune to
bad luck. In my life, I’ve made and lost several fortunes already, so
I know how quickly the tables can turn. And if Hunter’s income is
great, so are his expenses. All those public charities he
supports…and his private endeavors? What does it cost him to run
Earth Guardians, Inc.?”

“A lot, but he can afford it. Hunter has investments all over.

Even if some sink, the others will keep him afloat.”

Right?
A sudden chill of uncertainty stirs the hairs on my arms. Or

maybe someone just turned up the air-conditioning…

Claudio’s barrel chest heaves with a sigh. “No doubt you’re

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correct. I was merely seeking a simple explanation for his
behavior.”

“There is a simple explanation. He’s a tomcat. And a hotshot

celebrity on top of it. People throw themselves at him, and he
doesn’t have it in him to refuse.”

“Ah, but he tries, Sylver. You and I both know the inbred

animal impulses are difficult to override, yet out of many choices,
you are the man he married. For one of his breed to even attempt
such a commitment says much, yes?”

I’m not sure who Claudio is trying to convince, me or himself.

He’s known Hunter and me longer than we’ve known each other.
Claudio’s the one who brought us together—right here in this club,
five years ago tonight.

Yeah, it’s the anniversary of Hunter’s and my first meeting.

Ironic, huh? Sentimental idiot that I am, that’s why I suggested the
damn trip here in the first place—the suggestion that started last
night’s argument. What was I thinking, that a joint return to the
scene of the crime would stimulate his appetite, so to speak? Nope,
I was hoping the argument itself would. But we know how that
worked out, don’t we?

All of which brings me to what I’m thinking now.
“You’re not!” Claudio stares in shock. “You can’t. Your breed

isn’t wired that way. Such behavior is beyond your ability.”

Merde.
“Poopsie, are you reading my mind?”
“No, your expression. I know that look in your eye, my friend,

and it always means trouble. What are you planning, to fight fire
with fire? You’re going to get your ass burnt.”

“If I’m lucky,” I quip. Sexual burn is what I’m after, and the

hotter the better. “Call it an experiment. It may not work, but I

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figure if I do manage to override my nature, Hunter should be able
to override his. Then if he doesn’t, I’ll know for sure it’s because
he won’t, not because he can’t. And I’ll have a godawful decision
to make.”

“Whether to leave him or not?”
“Hell, no. I left him once before, and it was an utter flop,

remember? Wolves are bound to their lovers for life. Divorce isn’t
an option for us—only death. That’s a part of my heritage I’ll
never be able to circumvent. I meant I’ll have to decide who to kill.
Hunter or myself?”

Claudio makes a strangling noise in his throat. “You’ll forgive

me, I hope, if I don’t wish you luck with either endeavor. I need a
drink,” he grumbles.

Me, too. And I’ve just spotted the one I want, a long draught of

sizzle and sin seated at the end of the bar. The guy’s not as
handsome as Hunter—no one is—but he draws your eye and holds
it. Dark hair, solid build, and a way sexy Count Dracula style cape
slung back off his shoulders. I adore a dramatic fashion flair.

“Excuse me, Poops, science calls.”
Stepping past him, I move closer to my experiment.
But not too close—yet. I stop when I reach the open strip of

floor that separates the bar from the dining area. From here I’m
standing about twelve feet away, and I have a clear profile view. I
catch a whiff of his scent.

Interesting. Very.
Another scent tickles my nostrils—abrupt and unexpected, yet

discreet. A sudden, subtle tension permeates the air.

I ignore it. I have to.
The Red Banana caters mainly to a human crowd, but Claudio

being who he is, the club also attracts a few patrons from the

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shadow side of society. Shifters, feys, vampires… Now that I
know what I’m looking at, my thirst for him grows. An evil
appetite awakens, passed down to me from my ancestors. My inner
beast wants to ravage him, devour him, engage him in carnal
combat.

Which is pretty much what the man in me wanted to do, too.

It’ll just be a juicier event now. Tougher, rougher, laden with blood
and lust—an exciting combo to my kind. A wicked, sharp thrill
knifes deep into my gut. My dick stiffens and points the way into
battle, like a spear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claudio skirting the edge of

the room, approaching the opposite end of the bar. He was right,
how quickly the tables can turn. The game has changed, but I still
intend to play. I don’t have a choice, do I?

I’m enthralled by that sexy cape and the figure in it. He angles

toward me, and our eyes meet—staring—two predators sizing each
other up. Do we like what we see?

I do. I have his full attention.
It’s a heady, intense moment. Intoxicating. Pregnant with

raunchy possibilities. I see hunger in his gaze. I’m not surprised.
We’re playing a game I know well.

I lick my lips, provocatively, to show him I’m hungry, too.
His eyes half close, and he smiles. Lazy and lascivious. Devil

on the make.

Ooooh, baby… This is getting good. Or bad, which is even

better. There’s something very compelling about him. Something
dark, sinister. Demonic? Definitely dangerous.

I like that in a lover.
Yeah, I’m a little twisted. So? I may dress like a girl, but if you

think that makes me sugar and spice or anything nice, think again.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

On four feet I possess savage strength and monstrous fangs, and I
know how to use them. In human form, I look smaller and weaker,
but I’m not.

I’m a red-blooded, hot-to-trot werewolf straight out of your

kinkiest nightmares. A walk with me is a walk on the wild side,
babe.

::A walk with you is a fast trip to the funny farm. You’re fuckin’

nuts,:: a telepathic voice growls in my head.

Guess who?
::Well, it ain’t Wendell Willkie, that’s for sure. Surprised to see

me?::

No, because I smelled him when he sneaked into the club a

minute ago. He’s been hiding under a barstool. It would be nice to
think he’s stalking me, but I know what he’s really after because I
smelled that, too. EG agents are always on call. In the war against
evil, shit happens fast. One learns to shift gears at the drop of a
hat—or flap of a cape. I’ve figured out quite a lot in the past few
moments. Except for one thing.

Who the hell is Wendell Willkie?
::Forget it. A better question is what the hell kind of game did

you think you were playing?:: Hunter demands.

You guessed it was him, right? He’s in cat form, by the way.
::And you’re in deep shit, whitey.::
We all are. I was distracting his quarry for him. But he’s ruined

it, the idiot, by making contact with me. The quarry has been
probing my mind, so he must realize we’re on to him now.

::Not yet. But I will be on him in a second—like flies on

garbage. You were fantasizing about fucking him is what you were
doing.::

Of course. That was the distraction.

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It worked, too.
::So I noticed. You got hard just thinking about him!::
Well, excuse me for trying to help trap an enemy. What he’s up

to—why we want to trap him—I don’t know, but it doesn’t much
matter. I recognized our quarry by his scent and know enough
about the bastard to lacerate him on general principle. To hold his
attention, I had to make my interest in him look real, didn’t I?

::Not that real. As soon as I kick his ass, I’m going to kick

yours, you mangy cheat.::

Cheat? Hah. Look who’s talking.
Go ahead, everyone else is. Hunter’s just morphed into man

form—minus his clothes, which never go with one when shape-
shifting. I do believe anger has made him incautious. Not that
naked bodies are anything new at the Red Banana, but rarely does
one see a body like Hunter’s anywhere. A round of applause rings
out as he lunges forward to tackle Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Demonic.

At the same instant, I hear a bear-like snarl. Claudio races the

length of the bar, heading straight for the same target. Hunter must
have telepathically contacted him before he did me and arranged
for a joint attack.

I can hardly bare to watch.
Crash!
Hunter and Claudio collide with each other and land on the

floor in a tangle of limbs.

I knew that would happen.
The second they hit, their target disappeared in a puff of smoke

between them. Gray tendrils of sulfurous fumes snake toward the
ceiling.

A breathless hush falls over the club. As the enraptured crowd

stares, the smoke reforms into a…

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Flying iguana?
How innovative. I was expecting a vampire bat.
Its eyes glow blood red. Lizard lips curl in an almost human

sneer, displaying needle sharp fangs. The thing hovers above me,
out of reach, leathery wings fanning the air. Malicious laughter
sounds in my mind.

::Too bad, werewolf. I liked your heat. If you’d pleased me, I

wouldn’t have hurt you. Much. I need an insurance policy, and
you’d have made a good one. Now I’ll have to find another.::

On that cryptic note, he vanishes.
Poof!
The audience goes wild—cheering, clapping, stamping feet.

Claudio’s reputation as a stage magician is well known to the
club’s patrons. He still performs his old act here sometimes. They
think all this was just one of his grandiose tricks. Clever old bear
that he is, the count doesn’t dissuade them.

“Thank you, thank you!” Wearing a cavalier smile that

disguises much, he hauls upright, dusts himself off, and bows to
the dinner crowd. “I’m glad you enjoyed our surprise show. At the
Red Banana you never know what you’ll find, eh? Here we
specialize in the unique, the fantastic, the—”

“Oh, wow, check out the nude dude!” someone yells from the

center of the room. “That’s Hunter Steele, isn’t it?”

“No, Wendell Willkie,” I shout, quick on the draw. But it

doesn’t stop the sudden stampede forward.

Shit. This happens wherever Hunter goes. Unless he slips into a

place incognito and stays undercover, he always gets mobbed. The
price of fame. He’s an outspoken advocate of gay rights, animal
rights, and green living, but he puts his money where his mouth is,
and is widely praised for his charity work. Really, he’s very easy to

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admire.

Until you get to know him.
And right now, of course, he’s anything but undercover, not

even a fig leaf to hide behind.

“Fuck,” he curses and dives over the bar, vanishing from view

for a second.

A moment later, I see a black cat streaking toward the exit, but

everyone else seems too busy celebrity hunting to notice it.
Leaving Claudio to deal with the mob—it is his club, after all—I
follow the furball. Hunter has a lot of explaining to do.

In his present state, he’ll also need me to open the door for him.
We reach it at almost the same time and escape out onto the

sidewalk. Then I lead the way across the street to where I parked
my little red sports coupe. Once we’re safe inside, hidden in the
shadows of the backseat, he quickly returns to human form but
retains a feral edge. Hot, hard, naked man, bristling with anger.

He’s not the only one. My temper’s been simmering for days.
And this is a compact car, not much space between us back

here…

Can anyone guess where this is leading?
His nostrils flare as he leans close, amber eyes glowing like

embers in the dark, his breath like steam on my face. “What I
needed was for you to be home tonight. You picked a hell of a time
to disappear on me.”

“Disappear, my ass. I left you a note. Illustrated, no less.”
“Yeah, very funny.”
“I thought it was pretty artistic myself.” I smirk.
Hunter doesn’t.
“Let’s not forget who disappeared first,” I add.
“I had business to attend to.” He leans closer, cramming me

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into a corner of the seat. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been up
against?”

Duh.
“How could I, when you never tell me a goddamned thing?”
His gaze goes sullen. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry?” My smirk turns to a snarl. “I thought you were

cheating on me!”

“So you were going to return the favor tonight?”
Do I detect a note of jealousy?
Good.
“I might have been considering it. If I was, you drove me to it,

pussycat. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“Since when do two wrongs make a right?”
A low growl rumbles in his throat. I feel its vibration as much

as hear it. We’re almost in each other’s laps, squashed together
chest to chest and nose to nose. I feel his body heat, smell the
smoky tang of rage. Or is that lust? With us it’s difficult to separate
the two.

As though they have a mind of their own, my hands clutch his

ribcage. “Then you confess you have been cheating on me again?”

“No.” His fingers bite into my shoulders. “I’ve been fighting a

financial conspiracy—and losing. I had to disband the Earth
Guardians today, shut down the whole friggin’ force because the
grand corporation that paid for it went belly-up. All I have left is
the Steele Star, and it may be hitting the auction block soon. I’m
broke.”

“Oh?” I blink. “Is that all?”
If I sound sarcastic, it’s only because I am. He’s gotta be

kidding.

Hunter glares. “Isn’t that enough?”

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He’s serious.
Damn.
I guess this means I’m out of a job, huh? It’s a good thing I can

get my old one back. God knows I’ll need it as it appears I
suddenly have a spouse to support. What a switch. And, no, I’m
not without sympathy for him. Just trying to look on the bright
side. We both know how I’ve wanted to quit the Earth Guardians.

“I’m glad you’re taking it so well,” Hunter grits out through

clenched teeth, spying on my mental musings.

He’s so sexy in the throes of fury. And nosy.
“I hate to burst your bubble, whitey, but there’s also a

megalomaniac vampire poised to take over the world.”

“The guy in the Dracula cape?” Who happens to be Dracula—

the original. “Hey, pussycat, it’s not my fault you let him escape. I
did everything I could to help catch him.”

“Everything except letting me know you realized who he is.”
“Hell, if I’d let you know, it would have alerted him, too. He

was probing my mind. I had to concentrate on distracting him, and
keep all other thoughts out of my head.”

Didn’t I already explain this back at the club?
Whatever.
I’ll admit I didn’t recognize Vlad at first, but I knew him the

second I smelled him. His odor is ingrained in my genes. A
sensory, racial memory. An inherited hatred. I’d have attacked him
on my own if Hunter hadn’t shown up when he did. Prince Vlad
Dracula is an ancient enemy of my clan. Generations ago in the
Carpathian Mountains, my ancestors fought him and almost
destroyed him. I refuse to be intimidated by him now. Vampires
may have fangs, but so do werewolves. And ours are bigger.

“Yeah, but this vampire’s got his fangs buried deep in the

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world’s fuel lines. I discovered his plot and tried to defuse it by
hitting him in the bank account. He hit back and cleaned me out
instead.”

Un-fucking-believable. In a business war, I’d have bet every

penny I have that Hunter would’ve won.

“I did bet everything. That’s how I lost it. He outbid, undercut,

and sabotaged me at every turn. Vlad had just a little more capital
to work with than I did.”

And far fewer scruples, I imagine.
“You got that right. He’s had centuries to amass a huge fortune,

and for the last several decades has put all his money into oil—all
over the globe.”

Figures. Oil is a demonic investment from an ecological

standpoint. Stupid, too, since it’s a finite substance that will run out
someday, and it’s not like there aren’t alternatives. Hunter’s house
in Massachusetts runs on solar power. So does the custom-built car
we’re sitting in. If you ask me, we all should have switched to
smarter, cleaner energy sources years ago.

But no one did ask me.
Some regions might manage without it, but too much of the

world is still way too dependent on fossil fuels—for transportation,
commercial shipping, and to generate electrical power. Without it,
our communications network could collapse. Cities would go
black, and people would go hungry because when the stores ran
out of food there’d be no ready way to bring in fresh supplies.

Just for openers.
Thus, at this point in time, whoever controls the Earth’s oil

could conceivably control the Earth.

“Exactly. Which is where Vlad plans to start. With a financial

takeover of the fuel industry. He intends to corner the market—and

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everything else with it.”

“Create a worldwide energy crisis? What then?”
“He’s already planted some of his mind-controlled minions in

government positions here and abroad. They’ve been lurking
behind the scenes so far. Once panic sets in, they’ll step forward to
‘save the world’—with Vlad behind them, pulling their strings,”
Hunter says, tightlipped and seething.

I feel the touch of his consciousness inside mine. But that’s not

where I want his touch. More potent is the physical feel of him.
Warm flesh under my palms, hot breath on my face… If I lean
forward an inch, I could kiss him.

“The whole planet is in danger, and you’re thinking of sex?” he

growls.

“Yeah. Bad me.” I flash him a wolfish grin. “It couldn’t

possibly have anything to do with the fact you’re naked, could it?”

And it seems like years since we’ve made love.
“Only a few weeks,” he corrects. But he’s weakening, I see it

in his eyes.

“That long?” I stroke my hands down his bare back, and his

growl becomes a groan.

“Too long,” he rasps out.
I’m glad we agree on something.
“So…what do you want to do about it?” I ask, my voice going

husky.

He groans again. “Nothing. There isn’t time. We have to find

Vlad and stop him before he strikes.”

“Bullshit. The kind of seeds he’s planted won’t sprout

overnight. You don’t think he’s going to take over anything in the
next five minutes, do you?” I punctuate the question by grazing my
lips over Hunter’s.

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“Um…probably not,” he concedes on a hoarse breath.
“Good, then we have time for a quickie before we go after

him.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” Hunter grumbles, but doesn’t

resist when I push him backward onto the seat and straddle his
thighs. “There’s not enough room back here.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. So we’re jammed together like sardines.

This is a problem?”

“It is if you want to fuck. I’m too cramped to move. And your

skirts are in the way.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of skirts. You just have to lift them

to provide easy access to the fun stuff.” I demonstrate by hiking
my petticoats to reveal I’m wearing nothing beneath but black
stockings and red garters. My erect cock juts forward like the
bowsprit of a sailing ship.

Anchors away!
“Sylver, for godssake, this is a public street. Anyone could

walk by and look in the windows.”

“In that case, we’d better give ’em a good show, hadn’t we?”
What can I say, I’m an exhibitionist. It’s why I belong on the

stage.

“You belong in a cage, you pervert.”
“Or purr-vert? Takes one to know one, pussycat. Keep it up,

flattery will get you everywhere.”

Growling, I fall on Hunter like a hungry wolf—which I am,

even if outwardly I’m in cancan-clad human form. When desire
calls, my inner beast answers. Animal instinct rules the night.

Rowrrr… If I could, I’d start at his hairline and eat my way

down to his toenails. But he’s right, there’s not much space to
maneuver in here.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

Then again, how much space do we need? It occurs to me

we’re in a perfect position right now to slick leg it. I bunch my
skirts around my waist and grind our groins together—skin to skin,
man to man—rub my dick against Hunter’s. Damn, that feels good.

With a guttural moan, he surrenders to rising fever, and that

feels even better. He digs a hand between us, fists both rods in one
firm grip, and squeezes.

Lightning crackles. The windows steam. If we could bottle

him, it would solve the world’s energy woes. Talk about
generating electricity. I comb fingers through his silky black hair
and attack his lips—kissing, nipping, sucking—ravenous for the
taste of him. A little salty, a little sweet, all red-hot spicy…mmm…
While Hunter pumps our cocks, I tongue-fuck his mouth.

I’d rather fuck his ass, but I’ll take what I can get. Considering

the close quarters—or maybe because of them—we’re doing pretty
damn good, I think.

“Better than I expected,” he pants out, dragging his lips off

mine. Luminous with lust, his eyes blaze up at me. “If you slide
forward a little, I’ll bet I could fuck your ass.”

“Terrific. We’ll try that next. But if you stop the hand action

now, I’ll rip your balls out by the roots.” My own balls burn with
anticipation. A volcanic pressure fills me. I’m almost ready to
erupt—

Tap, tap.
Someone raps on the windshield.
Do they have a death wish?
“Shit,” Hunter and I curse in unison.
I drop my skirts, covering his lower half and mine, as the

driver’s side door opens. A feminine figure in a white gown slides
onto the front seat, then swivels around to stare. I stare back,

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

seeing dark hair, dark eyes, a flawless ivory complexion, and full
red lips.

Who is this, Snow White?
“No, just a deaf vamp.” Hunter scowls at her. “Erzsébet, didn’t

you hear me back at the house? I thought I told you to wait there—
for your own safety. I’m not used to having my instructions
ignored.”

“Yes he is. I ignore them all the time,” I tell her, and am

rewarded with a smile, fanged but gracious, the sort of smile a
queen might give a humble peasant who’s pleased her. Except I’m
the queen. She’s a countess.

The Blood Countess, history has labeled her, the Monster of

Hungary. I recognize her now from old portraits I’ve seen. The
ruins of her castle still stand in the Carpathian Mountains not far
from where werewolves once roamed. My clan never had any
direct dealings with her, but we know her story. Along with other
legends of our ancestral territory, I grew up hearing the grim tale
of Erzsébet Báthory. It always raised my hackles, too.

Her accusers charged her with witchcraft and murder, but never

allowed her to appear at her own trial, and all the testimonies
against her were either hearsay or extracted under torture. It’s my
guess she was railroaded, more victim than villain, just another
casualty of the witch-hunts that plagued Europe for hundreds of
years. My clan lost many to those hunts, too, so I sympathize.

“Köszönöm,” she thanks me in whispered Hungarian.
“We monsters have to stick together,” I answer in the same

language. At least, I hope that’s what I said. My ancestors spoke
Hungarian and Romanian. Me, I speak enough of the old tongues
to often make a fool of myself in the attempt. But we understand
each other, Erzsébet and I. Our minds touch, and I glimpse the

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shadow of a once human soul, tired and tragic.

Damn, I’m afraid she does have a death wish.
::Why not?:: she asks. A rhetorical question, and silent. ::My

children, my friends, all those that I loved are centuries gone from
me, resting peacefully in their graves. Should I not wish to follow?
It’s extremely tedious this undead unending existence. And I have
Vlad to thank for it, the imperious old dragon. He’s the real
monster.::

And she hates him, both for turning her vampire and just being

his sweet tyrannical self. But as he’s her master, she hasn’t the
power to destroy him on her own. That, I see, is why she contacted
Hunter today. I see a lot in mere seconds. Thoughts travel faster
than light speed, and Erzsébet is surprisingly open with me.

Hunter glances from my expression to hers. “You let him read

your mind? You wouldn’t let me read it.”

His frown deepens.
I shoot him a smug grin. “Maybe she thinks I’m nicer than you.

I’m sympathetic. You pissed her off. She doesn’t like arrogant
males.”

“She liked me enough to propose marriage.” He returns my

smirk.

The man loves to live dangerously.
“Only as a political alliance. That’s how they worked things in

her day.” I shove my nose in his face. “She told me all about your
meeting. It’s lucky for you that you refused her proposal. I’d have
had to dismember you otherwise.”

“And gotten your ass whipped for trying.” His lips curl in a

snarl.

Erzsébet heaves an aggravated sigh and levels a stern stare at

him. “A temporary mind-link was the quickest way to enlighten

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your wolf. If he is to help you defeat Vlad, Sylver needs to know
all we discussed. I’ve just spared you a long, difficult explanation.”
She waves the matter aside with a fisted hand, then opens her
fingers to display a small metal box balanced on her palm. “I also
rescued your teleporter for you.”

Her gaze slants to mine. “Vampires don’t need such toys. We

can turn to smoke and travel the winds almost as fast as this device
works. I trailed Hunter from the house and arrived here in time to
see him shift and creep into the club. He left his clothes in the alley
behind the building. I found an old drunk pawing them, poor
peasant. I let him keep the clothes, for his own were rags, but he
wouldn’t have known what to do with this.”

“Thanks,” Hunter mumbles, chagrinned, as she drops the

teleporter into his hand.

“I thought you’d approve.” She chuckles. “I’ve heard much

about your philanthropic donations. It’s said you’d give the shirt
off your back if needed. Now you have.”

And I suddenly feel sick, reminded of all the charities Hunter

has funded. Food banks, schools, medical clinics, children’s
homes, animal shelters… What will happen to those organizations
without his financial support?

For myself, I don’t care about his corporate collapse. I’ve been

poor before so I know we’ll manage. I’ve often thought we might
be happier with a simpler life. It’s always been Hunter I loved, not
his money. But now I realize how badly the loss of his fortune will
impact needy people the world over.

“It won’t matter if Vlad wins. They’ll all be dead,” Erzsébet

predicts in a voice like dry ice. “Those who cannot provide for
themselves will be eliminated, for he tolerates none but productive
people in his domain. That was how he ruled Wallachia.”

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

So I’ve heard. He ran a tight ship back then. There’s a well-

known story about him leaving a gold cup out in the open merely
to prove that no one in his principality would dare steal it. And no
one did. The penalties were too frightening. To give the devil his
due, Vlad’s brand of rulership might actually make a more orderly
world.

It just wouldn’t be a world I’d care to live in.
“Few would. Which is why he must be destroyed. Nothing less

will stop him.” Erzsébet’s stare returns to Hunter. “I don’t imagine
you’ll accept any further aid from me, but there is one last thing I
should tell you before I leave. Vlad is still in the area. Where,
specifically, I can’t pinpoint, but I sense his presence—not close,
but not too far either. He hasn’t left the city yet. Why is another
question… Perhaps he’s paused to feed?” She slides out of the car
and stands on the curb, gazing at the entrance to the Red Banana.
“I could use a drink myself.”

Not from anyone I know, I hope.
“Don’t push your luck, peasant. I like you, but not that much.

Just tend to your business and do try not to let Vlad escape again.”
A predator on the prowl, she crosses the street and enters the club.

“Don’t worry,” Hunter says. “I’ve researched her in the

vampiric records. Despite her proposal, she really prefers women
to men, and virgins in particular. Think she’ll find either in there?”

“Smart-ass. The Red Banana is famous for its all girl revue.”
None of them are virgins, though.
“The last I looked, they all had dicks, too,” he replies. “Screw

it. We’ve got worse things to worry about and a whole fuckin’ city
to search.”

He flattens palms on my chest, struggling in scant space to

push me off him and sit up. The movement mashes our nether

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regions together. Breath hitches. We both gasp at a sudden
resurgence of pulse-pounding pressure. Speaking of dicks… What
had deflated with Erzsébet’s interruption, instantly swells with
renewed arousal, grows hot and hard. Hungry. If Hunter wants to
“screw it,” I’m oh-so ready to pick up where we left off, and so is
he, gauging by the feel of the steel rod jam-packed against mine.

“What about Vlad?” he growls. But it’s his horny growl as

opposed to his angry one—not that there’s much difference
between the two.

“Vlad who?” I shove him backward and fall on him again,

launch a fresh attack with lips and teeth and tongue. My hands
roam wild, exploring warm curves and plains, velvet skin, taut
muscle…

Never let it be said I don’t have my priorities straight. Fuck

first, then save the world. The latter depends on the former. This
isn’t for me but the Earth. It’s pure altruism. Honest. We’ve got a
stiff opponent to vanquish, right? Well, guess what, I’m stiffer. If I
don’t get rid of this boner, I won’t be able to walk, let alone fight!

“Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me. But we better make it fast.

Got any lube?”

There may be some in the glove compartment, but I’ll be

damned if I’m going to pause now to check. Animals don’t use
lube, and shifters manage quite well without it, too. Our bodies are
built for tough treatment. We like it that way. The friction of a
rough entry adds to the heat.

“Lube is for sissies,” I say on a snarl.
“Suit yourself.” Hunter flashes me an evil grin. “It’s your ass.”
“My ass? What about yours?”
“I called dibs first.”
“When?”

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

“Just now.”
He grapples my petticoats aside, grips my butt, and spreads my

cheeks. Electric shudders course through me. Sweat beads on my
skin.

“Lift up a little,” he orders.
I’m beyond arguing. Next time I’ll get him…
With a bit of joint wriggling we’re almost ready to roll. The

head of a battering ram, satin smooth and wickedly solid, bumps
my back door.

A metallic hum vibrates against my sternum.
Shit.
Hunter freezes, his gaze wary, fixed on my chest. “Your boobs

are buzzing.”

No, my cell phone. I’ve got it stashed in my bodice, between

my foam rubber falsies. Muttering dire curses, I fish it out and
squint at the caller ID.

Freddy?
“Can’t be. Not on a full-moon night,” Hunter says, reading my

mind. As usual. “Dogs don’t have the hands to use phones.”

True, but it suddenly strikes me that a chicken could peck out a

phone number with her beak. Psychic prickles sting me like nettles.
I’ve got a godawful feeling about this. Hoping I’m wrong—
knowing I’m right—I answer the call.

“Hello?”
Frantic clucking fills my ear. Behind it, I hear the howl of a

wolf pup, shrill and furious. Figures. All Starrvoskis have the same
inborn instincts; all can recognize the scent of a hereditary blood-
enemy. And every once in a great while, if danger threatens and
the need to shift becomes vital, one of them comes into his power
earlier than usual.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

In my mind’s eye, I see the whole sinister scenario, which

means Hunter sees it, too.

He utters a feral feline hiss. “Vlad.”
Yep, poor schmuck. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Since I didn’t work out as a hostage, it appears Vlad has

decided, instead, to nab my nearest kin here in the city. I wonder if
he’s ever read The Ransom of Red Chief, by O. Henry? It’s about a
couple of would-be kidnappers who target the wrong kid.

In this case, Irving.
“Your cousin’s son? He may be a werewolf, but he’s only a

puppy!”

Hunter’s never met Irving, or he wouldn’t sound so anxious.

Me, I’m more worried about Freddy. Squawks and howls pour out
my cell, but no barks from a basset hound, and I can’t get a mental
image of Freddy either. Where the fuck is he?

“We’ll find out as soon as I locate my teleporter.” With one

hand, Hunter feels around on the floor.

“I think you dropped it on the seat when you grabbed my ass.

It’s probably buried under my skirts.”

“Right. Here it is.”
Me and my big mouth. I don’t trust sci-fi gizmos, never have,

though we used a lot in the Earth Guardians—one of many reasons
I wanted to quit. I hate teleporting. I did, however, enjoy Hunter
groping between my legs just now. Too bad what he was searching
for wasn’t what I hoped he’d find.

“Hey, I already know what you’ve got down there, whitey, and

the faster we deal with Vlad, the faster we can get back to it.
Okay? What I’m a little unclear on is our current destination.
You’re more familiar with your cousin’s house than I am, so

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you’re going to have to visualize it with me to make sure we land
in the right place. You think you can keep sex out of your head
long enough to do that? Huh?”

Party pooper.
I don’t see why I can’t visualize both. In fact, I don’t see how I

can avoid it. Hunter’s teleporter is a “single,” made for
transporting one at a time. We’ve discovered it’ll transport more,
but only if the travelers hold each other very, very close…

His arms wrap around me, locking us together. I flatten against

him, soaking up his heat, hanging on hard—getting hard. Again.

Groan.
“You see? There is a bright side to teleportation,” he whispers.
I hate to tell him, but that throaty purr does not help me focus

on business. “I thought you wanted me to think about the
townhouse, damn it.”

“I thought so, too. You’re a bad influence on me.”
“Hah. You wrote the book on bad.”
“And you love me just the way I am, whitey.”
“No, I love you in spite of it, pussycat.”
To prove it, I lay a lip-lock on him, a big, fat, juicy

smackeroo—

Pop!
At the same instant, the car disappears. Or, rather, we do.

Teleportation works in the blink of an eye, not like it does on Star
Trek, no dissolving and reforming involved. One second we’re
wedged into a small backseat, the next we’re lying on…what?
Something broad…flat…soft… A mattress?

We seem to have landed in Junior and Zelda’s second-floor

guestroom. My room for the week. You can tell by the colorful
apparel scattered about.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

I wish to God we could stay here. It’s damned difficult to hit a

bed with Hunter and not take full advantage of the situation. But I
know we’ve got a job to do, and fast. I’m worried about Freddy.
And Hennie. Hell, I’ll admit it, I’m worried about Irving, too. The
kid has a way of growing on you, y’know? Like fungus or mold.

He and Hennie sound besieged—on the third-floor. I hear

puppy growls and hysterical clucks coming from the room above
us.

“Then what are you waiting for?” In one lithe motion, Hunter

rolls off the bed and onto his feet. “Come on, move it!”

Buck naked, he charges the door.
You think he’s forgotten something?
Two things, actually.
“Whoa”—snatching my bathrobe from the bottom of the bed, I

zoom past him and block his exit—“letting it all hang out was one
thing at the Red Banana, but don’t push it. Hennie’s a respectable
chicken, and she’s already panicked. You barge in like that, you’ll
give her a heart attack on top of everything else.”

Lord knows the buff sight of him always makes my heart race.
Pant.
“Quick, put this on.” I thrust the robe at him.
He stares at it. “It’s pink.”
And fuzzy. And Hunter is utterly butch. But he’s also the taller

of us and outweighs me. This is the only article of my travel
trousseau that’ll fit him well enough to cover his naughty bits.
Unless he’d rather try my Hawaiian muumuu?

“I’ll take the bathrobe.”
I figured he would. Myself, I intend to wear fur.
While he yanks on the robe, I shed my costume with the speed

of a quick-change artist. Even faster, I drop to all fours and “turn,”

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as my clan calls it.

Now I’m the larger, thirty pounds heavier than Hunter, and

eighty pounds more than my human state. It’s a paradox, that. As a
man, I’m a slender five-eight. In animal form, I’m a giant, double
the size of an ordinary wolf—big even for my magical breed—the
largest wolf of my clan, and the only white one. Fanged fury in a
silver coat.

But inside it’s still me, which is the real paradox. With a snap

of my jaws, I can sever a man’s head from his neck. I’d rather not,
though. There lies my embarrassing secret. My howl is worse than
my bite. As an agent for EG, I was sometimes forced to kill in the
line of duty, but I’ve never enjoyed it.

I think I may make an exception to that for Vlad, however.
“Only after I get through with him. You can have what’s left,”

Hunter says, somehow managing to look dangerous and
domineering even in pink fuzz. Bossiness just comes naturally to
some people.

But this is the other thing he’s forgotten.
::Get in line,:: I answer telepathically. ::I hate to rub salt into a

recent wound, but with EG closed, you’re not my boss and not
calling the shots anymore. We’re equal partners now. I’m working
with you, not for you.::

And this is my fight more than his.
If my ancestors had done the job properly when they rebelled

against Vlad centuries ago, we wouldn’t have him to worry about
now. The thing is, they did defeat Vlad the man. Who knew he’d
return as something else? Historians claim he died in battle, but
admit they don’t know how exactly. Some speculate it wasn’t the
opposing army but his own people who killed him. Other accounts
mention the howling of wolves near the battlefield. Put the two

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together and you get a glimpse of the truth. Some of Vlad’s abused
subjects were werewolves in secret—not the kind of subjects you
want to piss off.

Where my forefathers fucked up was leaving his corpse behind.

It should have been destroyed. Instead, it was found and entombed,
which allowed him to resurrect as a vampire. How is a mystery.
Some believe he was just too much of a stinker to stay dead.
Heaven wouldn’t take him, and hell couldn’t hold him.

“Works for me,” Hunter mutters. “Thanks for the tip. I

wouldn’t want to make the same mistake your ancestors did.”

Pushing past me, he darts into the hall, covers the staircase to

the third floor in two bounds, and kicks open the door at the top.

Showoff. I don’t think he heard a word I said about him not

being the boss anymore. It’s a cat thing. They were worshipped as
gods by the ancient Egyptians, and expect the rest of us to follow
suit.

Screw that.
I chase after him, cover the stairs in one leap—hah—and lunge

into Irving’s room, forgetting it has an uncarpeted vinyl tile floor
because the kid’s always spilling stuff.

Ever wonder how much traction fast-moving wolf paws have?
On a slick surface, none.
Legs flailing, I skid across the floor and slam into the wall

opposite the door. Bam! My legs crumple under me and I land on a
conveniently located cushion.

Splat.
Now I know what happened to Freddy. He must have heard the

commotion up here, charged in…and forgot about the vinyl tiles,
too.

This is why I couldn’t detect his consciousness before. Because

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he doesn’t have any at the moment. He’s the cushion. Knocked
cold. If the same had happened to me, I’d be a man again. My kind
shift by will, and if we pass out in animal form, we automatically
revert to human. But Freddy, as a lunar-shifter, is at the mercy of
the full moon. Awake or not, he’ll be a dog till dawn.

Whereas Hennie, whose shifting is sort of an allergic reaction

to stress, will be a chicken until she calms down. Some people
break out in hives when they get nervous. She breaks out in
feathers.

“Cluck, cluck—squawk!”
Wings flapping, she’s running a tight circle in a corner of the

room, like the proverbial you-know-what with its head off. Except
hers is still attached.

Hunter, on the other hand, is about to lose his. Fuck. He was

squaring off with Vlad, then careened backward. My bad. I
bumped him on my way to the wall. But, hey, I thought feline
breeds were supposed to be more surefooted.

I also had no idea Vlad knew manifestation-magic. He just

raised his hand, and something zapped into it. I guess when you’ve
been around as long as he has, you pick up a lot of tawdry tricks.

Whoosh—
::Look out!:: I warn Hunter.
He dodges to the side as cold iron slices the air near his neck.
You wouldn’t think a vampire would need a sword, would

you?

“I don’t. Not for you two buffoons,” Vlad scoffs. “I’m just

nostalgic. Sucking blood gets boring after a few hundred years.
When I want to really savor the thrill of killing, I do it the old-
fashioned way.”

Of course. I should have guessed that, too. Prince Vlad was a

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fierce warrior of his medieval day, bred for battle. Whatever else
he is, he’s no coward.

Neither is our wayward wolf pup. Hackles raised, snarling and

snapping, he crouches in defensive posture near Hennie, keeping
her corralled in the corner.

Keeping himself between her and harm?
Well, bust my furry britches, he’s trying to protect her, putting

another’s interests ahead of his own. It happens that way in rare
cases—the act of turning, itself, triggers a new level of maturity—
but I’ve never seen it happen in one so young. A curious sensation
swells my chest. Family pride? There may be hope for Irving yet.

“Depends on what you’re hoping for. I’m going to chain him to

a tree and flog him twice a day until he learns obedience,” Vlad
threatens. “The little wretch bit me. Before he turned.”

::He tasted like shit, too,:: Irving broadcasts.
Hennie squawks at him. I suspect that’s chicken for “Mind

your language, me fine bucko.” She’s really not thinking clearly.

“Neither are you, dimwit,” Hunter gripes. “Are you going to

join the show or just watch it?”

Decisions, decisions… I do have an entertaining view from this

vantage point. Pink poetry in motion, all fluid feline grace, Hunter
ducks, dives, jumps and twists to avoid a swashbuckling array of
sword thrusts. This is better than watching Errol Flynn and Basil
Rathbone go at it in Robin Hood. I wish I had some popcorn.

He throws me a scorcher of a glare. “I’ll pop you if you don’t

get your ass in gear.”

And do what, pray tell? I thought I was supposed to wait my

turn. Wasn’t that the deal Hunter declared, that he’d get the glory
of the combat, and I’d get the leftovers?

I bat innocent wolfy eyes. ::Oh no, pussycat, Vlad’s all yours,

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remember? I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your fun. Go right
ahead and amuse yourself. Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll just sit
here quietly and—::

Ack!
Irving has decided to help Hunter. Full of his new sense of

chivalry—a little too full—he whizzes forward like a fluffy
cannonball and sinks puppy teeth into Vlad’s right calf. ::Yuck,::
he complains while hanging on and growling, ::the old fart still
tastes rotten.::

Vlad bellows Romanian invectives. Don’t ask me to translate;

what he’s saying is quite rude. His sword arcs up and down—a
strike aimed to slice Irving in two.

Hunter leaps at him, striving to block the blow.
I leap faster and send all three of them flying.
Irving lands in the corner with Hennie, who promptly sits on

him as though he needs to be hatched. Hunter lands where I was
beside Freddy, who grunts, rouses a bit, then passes out again. And
I land exactly where I’ve planned to be all along.

On top of Vlad.
With my jaws clamped around his neck.
And not a second to spare.
A wooden stake through the heart is the traditional way to

destroy a vampire. Barring that, decapitation also works. Just
remember to do it fast, before your target escapes in a cloud of
smoke.

Crunch!
Vlad’s head rolls off, and he crumbles into dust instead.
Gag.
That ends that problem. He never had a chance—hadn’t a clue I

was plotting an attack. No one did because I focused on the view in

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front of me and shoved all other thoughts aside, just like at the
club. I’m getting good at this game.

I can’t say I’ve learned to enjoy it, though. In a word, killing

sucks. So, okay, that’s two words, but you get the idea.

I think I’m going to be sick.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

CHAPTER 4

Drink to me only…

“You did what you had to do,” Hunter says with feline

pragmatism.

It’s an hour after the ugly event, but this is the first chance

we’ve had to discuss it. Other tasks took priority over a
postmortem. Like vacuuming up Vlad and scraping Hennie off the
ceiling. A chicken sized dose of whiskey restored her to human
form. A pint of the same turned out to be Freddy’s real problem.
Apparently, she spilled a bottle of her “nerve medicine” tonight,
and he lapped it up before she could find a mop. Why, I don’t
know—he’s not normally a drunk—but a weird little niggle tells
me I should know…

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

Regardless, he’s sleeping it off. We sent Hennie home in a taxi,

and finally got Irving bedded down. He’d been more scared than
he wanted to admit and took a while to settle. However, he’s
physically unharmed, and shifter kids are resilient. I think he’ll be
fine by morning.

Which is more than I can claim for myself. I just spent ten

minutes puking my guts out while Hunter held my head to keep me
from falling into the commode.

“You feel better now, though,” he tells me.
Actually, no. But it’s not for lack of his trying. We’re back in

the guestroom, in bed, loosely spooned together with his groin
grazing my butt and his chest hair tickling my shoulder blades.

“Let me rephrase that.” He sidles in closer, breathing steam on

the nape of my neck, his voice a husky purr. “You feel good to
me.”

His arms snake around my middle, drawing me snug against

him. His cock nestles lengthwise in the crease of my ass.

I’d respond if I had the strength. I’m caught in the curve of his

body, surrounded by sizzle, the atmosphere so muggy it might be
midsummer instead of early spring. But inside I’m Old Man
Winter, weary and cold. I just want to sleep, but I can’t even
manage that. My mind keeps replaying the crunch of Vlad’s
vertebrae in my jaws, the way he disintegrated into grave dust
beneath me. I’ve never destroyed a vampire before.

Do they all turn to dust, I wonder, or only the ancient ones?

Given my heritage, I oughta know stuff like that. Maybe I did once
and forgot it?

I keep thinking I’ve forgotten something…
“Yeah. How to relax. You need to stop thinking, period. And

so do I.”

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Hunter exhales. A sultry sigh stirs my hair. He’s had a difficult

day, too, going from billionaire to broke. I remember that, at least.
He must be exhausted, but on him fatigue looks and sounds sexy.
Some guys can wear anything.

I twist around in his hold to face him. “I should be the one

comforting you, shouldn’t I?”

“I think the idea is we’re supposed to comfort each other. Isn’t

that how love and marriage work?”

Gasp.
I’ve always thought so, but I never thought I’d live long

enough to hear him say it. Am I on Candid Camera?

“Hell, part of my trouble I brought on myself by trying to

handle too much alone. What’s that they say about pride going
before a fall? I’ve made a lot of mistakes these past weeks, Sylver,
but the worst was not leveling with you sooner.”

Yeah, but I can guess why he didn’t. Hunter’s not the sort to

ask for help, even if he needs it.

“I’ve never had to ask for help. I’ve always been able to pay for

it.”

And very well. This time, however, all his funds must have

been tied up in the business war with Vlad.

“I thought I could end the matter right there, without

bloodshed—clean out his coffers so he couldn’t instigate his plot.
If I’d sent the Earth Guardians against Vlad at the beginning, he’d
have raised his own army in retaliation, and we’d have had a real
war on our hands between EG and the vampire community.”

Not a pretty picture, I agree.
“By the time I realized I’d taken a wrong turn, it was too late to

backtrack. Too late for anything but what happened tonight. I’m
sorry. I threw you into a bad situation with no warning—and you

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came through with flying colors. Just like you always do…partner.
There was a time I could have rewarded you with a big fat bonus.
Now all I can give you is my thanks. And a promise to try to
improve? Hubris is a hard habit to break, but if I can learn
monogamy, maybe I can learn to be a better team player, too?”

Honeyed waves of warmth flood me even as I paste incredulity

onto my face. Don’t tell me he’s finally figuring out how an
honest, supportive relationship works. Who is this man, and what
has he done with Hunter Steele?

“Grrr…” With a noise between a growl and a chuckle, he

pushes me onto my back and rolls on top. “Whatever I know about
love and support, I’ve learned from you, whitey.” His weight
presses me into the mattress, and his lips hover over mine. “I told
you you’re a bad influence on me.”

Smart-ass.
“Oh, shut up and kiss. Are we gonna talk love or make it?” I

cup his face in my hands and claim his mouth in a long, luscious
oral mating—unhurried, seductive. Succulent and rich. A feast in
itself. An appetizer for more.

Thoughts blur while flesh molds to flesh.
The temperature spirals from balmy to bone-deep burn.
Tongues tangle and heart rates speed, yet time seems to slow.

Movements grow heavy with sensual purpose. Hands wander,
limbs twine, and minutes stretch into infinity.

I’m lost in languid limbo, a sponge soaking up sensation. His

tantalizing scent, taste…the silken scorch of his skin, the solid feel
of masculine meat… I melt into the moment, needing nothing else.

Okay, I need an orgasm, maybe…definitely…but I can wait.
So rarely do Hunter and I take the scenic route to satisfaction.

So often our lovemaking happens in a hot-tempered rush, all fire

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and fury as we race to a blistering climax, ravage each other in a
feral feeding frenzy.

Tonight an unspoken truce tempers the pace. There’s no fast

food on the menu, no battle-of-wills to be won, no alpha egos to
flaunt. Nothing to prove but our own pleasure. We dine more
meticulously, sip and savor, floating together in a dreamy pool of
liquid passion.

Cat-like, Hunter rubs himself against me. A velvet purr vibrates

low in his throat, but the body it emanates from is all man. His lips
slide off mine and onto my jaw…down the side of my neck…over
my shoulder… Flames lick me as his kisses cover my
chest…stomach… Lower and lower he slides, leaving a trail of
smoke in his wake.

Blood surges south. Muscles clench. What was only semi-erect

till now, basking in his inner glow, springs to instant rigid
attention. It knows where he’s headed, what he’s hungry for. I have
a sudden, powerful craving for the same dish.

“You are the dish.” The tip of his tongue flicks out and dips

into the slit of my cock, tasting. “Mmm…my favorite brand of hot
sauce.”

And I’m the sausage it tops.
So why does that image send an icy shiver through me?
“I don’t know. I’m doing my best to warm you.” Lazy-eyed

and smug with sexual confidence, Hunter cups my sac in one hand
and squeezes with a pressure that borders on pain—the good kind.
An electric jolt crackles through me. My shaft swells to brave new
proportions. He curls thumb and forefinger around its base, like a
cock-ring, angles it toward him, and sucks me deep into the slick
heat of his mouth.

Bong, bong, bong… The grandfather clock in the living room

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below tolls the hour.

Midnight.
Bad news if you’re Cinderella at the ball.
Or me.
Fuck.
On the twelfth stroke my mind splits open like an overripe

pumpkin, spewing out memories instead of seeds.

Hunter almost chokes. His lazy gaze snaps wide awake, and he

shoves off me onto his side, bracing up on an elbow.

“Sylver, for godssake, you didn’t.”
I wish.
But we both know I did. Much worse, we know why I’d

forgotten it. Hunter reads my thoughts almost before I think them.

Panic constricts my chest.
Exasperation roughens his tone. “You took an innocent young

woman to the Red Banana and left her there?”

“Well, hell, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I was trying to help her. Under normal circumstances, Cindy

would have been perfectly safe at the club with my…bosom
buddies.

“But not in the clutches of a crazy countess thirsty for the blood

of female virgins. Erzsébet must have sensed a nearby prize as
soon as she arrived, even before she interrupted us. Vampires have
built-in radar that points them straight toward their favorite type of
prey.”

Tell me something I don’t know.
Like what to do about it?
Erzsébet must also have seen in my mind that her prey was my

friend. So she psychically inserted a temporary memory-block in
my brain during our little tête-à-tête in the car. She didn’t want me

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thinking of Cindy, or Hunter discovering anything about the girl
too soon.

“Obviously. She didn’t want us standing between her and her

next meal. I knew I shouldn’t trust her.” Hunter vents spleen with
an angry cat hiss.

I think I’m going to be sick again.
“I’d join you if I thought it would help matters.” He punches

the mattress in frustration. Which doesn’t help either.

We both know it’s too late to save Cindy. The venom of old

Carpathian vampires works especially fast. One bite from a
member of that elite club, and you’re dead.

Then a little while later, you’re not.
Cindy’s probably a vamp herself by now, bound by ancient

code and a mystical blood-tie to her maker.

And she was destined for weredom and Freddy, damn it.
“They could still marry. There’s no law against a shifter-vamp

union.”

True, which is, I presume, why Erzsébet thought she could

marry Hunter. But Erzsébet was also counting on the destruction of
her master, Vlad. Barring that, no vampire can marry anyone
without their maker’s formal consent and a complex metaphysical
ceremony to dissolve the master-slave bond between them.

Vampires aren’t intrinsically evil, but having all been natural

born men and women once, they’re more…shall we say, human
than other magical breeds—which is almost as bad. Vampire
society is governed by set rules, stiff, stubborn, and hierarchical.

“And Erzsébet is utterly mired in that medieval muck.”
Yeah, that was my impression, too. I can’t envision her

releasing Cindy for such a “silly” reason as romantic love.

“Me neither, but it’s worth a try. I’ll find her and talk to her,

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Sylver, give her two choices. Either she allows Cindy and Freddy
the chance to fulfill their destiny together…”

“Or?” I stare into Hunter’s eyes.
The Grim Reaper stares back at me. “I’ll stake her to the floor

with a mallet and wooden spike. Shit, I may have to anyway. I
sensed she had a hidden agenda, and her trick with the memory-
block proves it. In fact, I’m not so sure she didn’t put one in me,
too. I’ve just remembered something. Under vampire law,
Erzsébet, due to her age and aristocratic origins, stands first in line
to inherit her master’s estate.”

“Including his people?” A chill slithers down my spine.
Hunter pushes up to a sitting position and rakes fingers through

his hair. “Those he made vampire after he turned Erzsébet will
answer to her now. I think that’s the way their pecking order
works.”

Marvy. I’d been wondering about the puppets Vlad planted in

government positions, but hoping his demise cut their strings.
Without a mastermind to coordinate their actions, they’d be
relatively harmless.

“Unless Erzsébet plans to use them. That’s the big question.

Did she rebel against Vlad to save the world from him…or save it
for herself? The latter, I’m guessing. That vamp has some serious
control issues.”

Which Hunter knows all about, of course, despite his promise

to improve in that area. Ah well, I didn’t expect overnight
miracles. Cats are independent creatures.

“Where’s my teleporter?” He turns his back on me to rummage

through the clutter of my cosmetics on the bedside table.

While he’s distracted, I dive out of bed and into red sweatpants,

white tennies, and a black T-shirt with a silver star emblazoned on

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the front—my unisex look, which oughta suit for wherever I end
up.

One, he ain’t gonna beam anywhere naked, not again. Two,

there will be no more killing tonight, not if I have anything to say
about it. And I do. Because, three…

I’ve got his teleporter.
It was on the floor by the bed, but in my hand now.
“Give me that!” Hunter grabs for it.
I dance beyond his reach.
“Sylver, you barely know how that thing functions. You hate

teleporting.”

“With a vengeance. But Cindy is my responsibility, and I’m the

best one to negotiate for her release. Erzsébet and my people grew
from the same soil. I understand her background, speak her
language. She’ll listen to me.”

I hope.
“Okay, we’ll both go. Happy now?”
“No. Since we sent Hennie home, one of us has to stay here

with Irving. You can’t leave a seven-year-old on his own.”

“He’s not on his own. Freddy’s here.”
“Hunter, Freddy is in dog form.”
And drunk as a skunk.
“Then you stay. Let me go after Erzsébet and Cindy. You’ve

never teleported alone before.” A growl rumbles out. Muscles
tense for a pounce. “You don’t even know where they are.”

“Like you do?”
“I don’t have to. I know the intricacies of my own damn

device. It not only transports, it tracks. If I haven’t a specific place
to aim for, the teleporter can hone in on a distinctive sound or
smell—and Erzsébet’s smell is one I’ll never forget. If I focus on

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that, it should beam me to her.”

Really? You learn something new every day. I’d intended to

start at the club and search outward from there, but his way is
faster. Wouldn’t it work better, though, if I focus on Erzsébet and
Cindy? I grip the teleporter and inhale, filling my lungs with air
and my mind with their remembered scents.

“No! If they’re not close together, you could split yourself in

two—”

Now he tells me.
His roar reverberates through the house.
I hear it from the sofa in the living room.
Where I’ve just landed.
And where two figures are entering via the street door, one

supporting the other. The first looks like she just stepped off the
cover of Vogue. Brava, fairy godmothers. They did a great job.
With little more magic than a mascara wand and a chic dress, a
wallflower has blossomed into beauty.

Her companion withers before my eyes, shaky and weak,

shrouded by long gray hair.

Erzsébet?
She leans heavily on Cindy, who struggles to guide her

forward. I bolt off the sofa to help and lift Erzsébet in my arms.
Keen cat ears in the room above hear our movements, evidently.
Footsteps fly down the stairs, down the hall, and Hunter bursts in.
At least he took a second to cover himself. He’s wearing my robe
again—but doesn’t appear overly enthused about it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demands.
“I just got here myself,” I remind him.
Erzsébet giggles, a dry, scratchy sound. “Pink really isn’t your

color,” she rasps as he takes her from me, like a broken doll, and

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crosses the floor.

Her lips part in the shadow of a smile, and I notice something

missing. Her fangs. Inexplicably, she’s aged years since we last
saw her. Two hours ago? Her gown is the same, but the body
beneath it has shrunk. She looks old and fragile, very vulnerable.

Very human.
My heart wrenches.
With a gentleness that belies his gruff tone, Hunter lowers her

onto the couch and kneels beside it, by her head. “What in the hell
happened?”

“You destroyed Vlad…and me with him.” Dark eyes sunk deep

in their sockets glance from his face to mine. “Vlad’s creatures, it
seem, return to mortal once the blood-tie is severed, to wherever
they stood on their life-path before being turned. If they were
healthy young humans then, they will be again… Not myself. I
stood at the end of my road when he took me, but a short step from
eternal rest. So close. Yet so long denied…

“Köszönöm,” she thanks me. “I wasn’t sure it would work this

way, but I hoped… I’m grateful…”

A death rattle cuts off the words.
She’s gone.
Quietly and quickly at the last, with an expression of pure

peace.

A strange sense of loss grips me. Good or bad, the lady was a

legend I grew up with, a mystery for my boyhood brain to ponder.
A haunting riddle. Have I finally solved it?

Honestly, I’m not certain.
Will I miss her?
For sure.
I say a silent prayer, bidding her goodbye, wishing her spirit

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well. Hunter was right, Erzsébet did have a hidden agenda.

“Her own release from the undead,” he murmurs. “She’s free

now.”

In seconds, while we watch, her still form shrivels to a dry

husk, then bare bones…then nothing, not even dust. Just a soft
glow that sparkles the air for an instant and suddenly evaporates.

“Ooooh…” Cindy half swoons, but I’m right beside her and

catch her before she falls. She blinks like a sleepwalker awakening
from a trance as I settle her into an overstuffed armchair.

“How did I get home?” Confusion clouds her gaze. “The last I

remember, I was at the club and…and someone was gliding toward
me. Beautiful…all in white. I thought I was dreaming. Or seeing a
ghost. She looked like my m—”

Her eyes widen, staring at a thick plume of smoke curling into

the room from a crack under the front door.

Now what?
A noxious odor stings my nostrils. Cough. I’m working harder

tonight than I did as an Earth Guardian.

Hunter springs to his feet, poised for attack if needed. “I smell

vampire, the kind who doesn’t knock. And stinks.”

But at least it’s not Cindy. I checked her neck when I sat her in

the chair. Not a bite mark on her. In the interest of keeping her that
way, I plant myself between her and the smoke, which is
coalescing into a column.

“Sit tight,” I tell her. “You may not realize it, but somehow

you’ve already dodged a bullet tonight. Hunter and I will protect
you from any more.”

“Hunter? The Hunter, the one you married? He’s here? When?

Where?” She peeks around me. “Oh my God, that is him, corporate
king Hunter Steele!”

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“Pleased to meet you.” He flashes her a taut grin, one eye on

the smoke column. “But it’s ex-king. I’ve recently been dethroned.
The royal treasury is bare.”

“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” she stammers. “You did a lot of good

work.”

She gulps and grabs my arm, like a lifeline, when the column

sprouts a…bowler hat? A dour faced fellow in a sedate brown suit
forms beneath it.

“Oh, for pity’s sake”—she relaxes in relief—“well, he looks

real frickin’ dangerous.”

“I trust you’re joking, Ms. Ellis.” He tips his hat. “You’ve just

spent an hour with me, signing papers, and come to no harm. My
chauffer drove you and the countess home in my Rolls. I promised
I’d follow with your copies of the registered documents. Don’t you
recall?”

“No.” Her brow furrows.
“Ah, perhaps you were still mesmerized by the countess at the

time. Her powers began to fade a short while after the termination
of her maker, but the spell she wove about you prior to that would
have taken a while to unravel.” He shrugs. “Allow me to refresh
your memory.”

I see a vulture peering out of his eyes. An ominous leather

briefcase hangs from his right hand. He shifts it to his left, reaches
into a pants pocket, and offers Cindy a business card.

I intercept it.
“Mervin T. Gatsby, attorney,” I read aloud.
“Why not?” Hunter mutters to himself. “Most lawyers are

vampires of one sort or another.”

Mervin wrinkles his nose and sneezes. “You couldn’t ask them

to leave, could you, Ms. Ellis? I’m allergic to cats and dogs.”

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I quirk one eyebrow upward. “Color me skeptical, Merv, but

shouldn’t being turned have cured all your mortal maladies?”

“That shows how much you know, Fido.” He sniffs. “You

don’t even know what you destroyed tonight, do you?”

“But you intend to explain everything, right, Merv? And fast—

before I decide to beat it out of you.”

“A mind-probe would be less messy,” Hunter suggests.
“But not nearly as much fun.” I step toward Mervin, who

clutches his briefcase in front of his chest, like a shield, and
retreats backward. A little intimidation goes such a long way.

In this case, it backs Mervin straight into a waiting grasp.
One-handed, Hunter snags him by the collar and hoists him off

his feet, dangling him in vertical suspension a few inches off the
floor. “How’s that?”

“That’s teamwork, pussycat.” I shoot him a wink.
“All right, I’ll talk! But I can’t explain everything,” Mervin

strangles out, kicking air. “All I know is what the countess told me.
She felt Prince Vlad’s destruction the moment it happened and
called me to put her affairs in order while she still could. My firm
handles all the big cases. We hold top ranking in the Undead Law
Registry.”

How nice for him.
He stretches his spine and points his toes, straining to touch a

tangible base. “Just put me down, will you? You’re choking me—I
can’t breathe!”

“You can’t perish from suffocation either. Or escape into

smoke from this position.” Hunter hoists him an inch higher.
“Vampires need to ground their energy before pulling that stunt,
which requires contact with a solid surface.”

“Which makes me wonder how Vlad was able to vanish at the

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club while airborne,” I interject. “Care to start by explaining that,
Merv?”

“And why Vlad’s creatures reverted to human with his end?”

Hunter adds. “That’s not the way it usually works with vampires
and those they’ve turned.”

“Because Vlad Dracula wasn’t your usual member of the

undead. He resurrected as a vampire because he never was a mortal
man to begin with,” Mervin sputters. “You know what Dracula
translates to?”

“Literally, Son of the Dragon,” I answer.
“But you didn’t know it was literal, did you? I didn’t. Until

tonight, even the countess only suspected his secret. We searched
the official records, and there’s no mention of it there either. Then
I hacked into the restricted archives, and that’s where we found it.
Prince Vlad carried genes from shape-shifter stock of the oldest,
most magical order. Ancient dragon blood flowed in his veins—
not enough to make him one, but enough to give him the breed’s
manifestation and regenerative powers.”

Hah. So, like Claudio, Vlad straddled the line between super

and natural. That does explain a lot. It also means no rest for the
weary, no solace for the sexually frustrated. We’ve got a vacuum
cleaner bag full of dragon dust on our hands, which will have to be
very carefully disposed of—and very soon—or Vlad might
resurrect again.

Did you ever have one of those nights?
Mervin gasps. “If you want to hear more, you’ll have to release

me. I may not need air to survive, but I need it to talk, don’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you’ve been managing fine so far,” Hunter

says. “And I can hold you like this for as long as it takes you to
cough up the rest.”

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“Or I can.” I chuckle. Not pleasantly.
Hunter echoes it. “Just grab his briefcase. That’ll lighten the

load. There’s a very heavy document in there.”

I knew it, he’s been probing Mervin’s mind—a simple trick

with the vampire off balanced and a few key questions to unlock
guarded thoughts. I’ll confess I’ve been burglarizing his brain, too.
Easy pickings.

“Erzsébet’s last will and testament, huh, Merv?” His eyes blaze

fire as I relieve him of his burden. “With all those big cases your
firm handles, I’ll bet you don’t get many this big. The undead
haven’t much call for wills, period, do they? You thought you were
going to make a real killing.”

And I do mean real.
“You thought you’d gain Erzsébet’s estate by putting the bite

on her heir.” Hunter gives him a shake. “As Cindy’s master, you’d
have controlled her fortune.”

“My what?” Cindy jerks bolt upright, wary and worried. “I

don’t have a fortune. I gave it to Zel.”

“I know, hon. We’re talking about a different inheritance,

umpteen times larger. Never mind the details for now,” I soothe.
“Suffice it to say the world’s wealthiest vampire cashed in his
chips tonight. Under their law, his estate automatically transferred
to another—who hung on to her vamp status just long enough to
bequeath everything to someone outside their community. That’s
why it took so much paperwork. It wouldn’t have been allowed at
all if she hadn’t been able to prove a blood-tie to her chosen heir.”

“Not a vampire blood-tie, a natural one,” Hunter elaborates. “If

Mervin’s memory banks are accurate regarding what he learned
tonight, your mother was Hungarian, right? And descended from
old nobility?”

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“Supposedly. That’s why Dad called me his little princess.”

Her wary expression softens into wistful. “He called Mama his
rose. There was a portrait of her in his study. I used to stare at it
and ache because I didn’t look anything like her. She was
beautiful.”

“So is her daughter. Some flowers just take longer to bloom.” I

smile.

Mervin grimaces. “This is all very touching, I’m sure, but now

that you’ve gotten what you want, do you think you might possibly
let me go?”

“That depends. Do you think you might believe I’ll crack your

nuts open if you ever target Cindy again?” I waggle my brows at
him.

He gulps.
“I think he believes,” Hunter says, then crosses the room with

him and dropkicks Mervin out the door. “You can pass on that
message to the rest of your firm,” he calls as a parting shot. “This
girl is off bounds.”

The door shuts with a decisive click.
Sigh.
Poor ol’ Merv, we were awfully hard on him, but it had to be

done or every undead gold-digger in the area would be trying to
sink fangs into Cindy. Some of the less mercenary ones, too. Three
things attract vampires. Warm blood, cold cash, and innocence.
Cindy is prime prey. The faster Freddy sobers up and claims her,
the safer she’ll be.

Hunter dusts off his hands. “Well, that was real.” Turning away

from the door, he strides back across the room to face Cindy. “I
have one last question for you.”

Cindy looks like she has a hundred, but waits for his.

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“Do you remember your mother’s maiden name?”
She pauses a moment in puzzlement, then… “Báthory. Her first

name was Elizabeth.”

Or Erzsébet, if you prefer the Hungarian version. Perhaps

named for one whose tragic beauty she wore? A poignant legacy to
bear.

“She died of a brain seizure when I was four,” Cindy adds

softly. “Some rare form of epilepsy, I think. Dad was afraid it
might be congenital, so he had me checked and double-checked,
dragged me to a dozen different specialists, but I tested clear on all
counts. No resemblance to her inside or out.” Her tiny, wry grin
appears. “I always figured I didn’t inherit anything from my
mother’s side.”

“Just several centuries worth of accumulated wealth,” Hunter

says. He has the subtlety of a bulldozer sometimes. “Your Báthory
blood has made you the richest woman in the world.”

Huge thanks to serendipity. Without the Báthory addition, her

blood might have made her something else. Dinner, for starters.

From Erzsébet’s demeanor as she left the car—not to mention

the memory-block—I’m pretty sure she scented a meal first and
only on closer inspection detected the underlying aroma of a
distant descendant.

::Oh, no, I felt she was kin at once. Smelled it like a bittersweet

breath of the past,:: a ghostly voice whispers in my mind—in
Hungarian.

Say what?
::I entered the club merely to drink in the sight of her…then

drown my melancholy at the bar. I’d heard they serve a superb
Bloody Mary there.::

They do, and for the undead cliental, the bartender uses real

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blood. Claudio buys it on the sly from a local blood bank to keep
his vampire patrons happy—and his other patrons safe from them.

::Wrapped in shadows I watched, like a fond grandmother, not

daring to approach. Then the weight of destruction hit. Vlad’s.
Mine. A grave new concern. Suddenly I held the world’s biggest
buck, with little time to pass it, and only two choices as to where.
An established member of the vampire ranks, one made long ago
from their blood? Or someone born naturally from my own… I
entranced the girl to protect her from Mervin Gatsby while he
handled the legalities for me. If I hadn’t put her in my thrall, he’d
have tried to ensnare her in his, the greedy old lecher.

And for the record, peasant, it was Vlad who inserted your

memory-block. He wished to lure you from the club quickly and
feared you’d hesitate if you remembered you’d left the girl there.::

Makes sense, but how does she know for sure?
::I’m dead. I know everything now. Almost.::
I glance to the side, seeing nothing, yet sensing Erzsébet’s

shade hovering by me. My skin crawls, an involuntary reaction. I
deal with the arcane every day—I’m part of it—but ghosts are a
class unto themselves. Most are harmless. Some are quite friendly.
But they always have a slight edge on you, y’know?

Hunter seems blissfully unaware of the spectral voice. He and

Cindy stand across the room, where he’s been briefing her on
what’s happened, while Erzsébet weirds me out with her whisper.

“Your ancestress hated being a vamp, hated the one who turned

her,” Hunter says, “and, I suspect, hated the whole undead
community.”

::Distrust is a better word. With my exit, and the rest of Vlad’s

creatures returned to human, his wealth would have fallen to the
whim of the vampire courts. Yet while I hung on to my status, the

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estate was mine—they had to follow their own written code—and I
hung on with the proverbial death grip.::

No mean feat.
::Ah, but old training is supposed to die hard. I was a powerful

woman in my day, used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
My vampiric allure fast faded tonight, but my Báthory backbone
carried me through. A legal process that could have taken days
was settled in record time with a bit of prodding. Mervin proved
most easy to intimidate.::

She noticed that, too, huh?
::Granted, he also saw opportunity for himself in the deal. But

I trusted you’d defend the girl after my passing. You might be a
peasant, wolf, but you’re staunch old Carpathian stock. We’re a
tough breed, eh? I lasted long enough for the proper papers to be
signed, sealed, and registered. Long enough to leave a dangerous
fortune in safe hands, I hope.::

“The countess left everything to you,” Hunter tells Cindy.
Her face freezes. “How much is ‘everything’?”
“A lot. More than I ever had.”
Which sorta says it all.
“Aw, shit.” She collapses back into her chair. “Why does

everyone leave me their money? I don’t need it, and so many
others do. I like earning my keep. I like simple. And, frankly, I
have no interest in high finance. I’ve got one credit card, a little
savings account, and that’s plenty. I wouldn’t know what to do
with any more.”

But she’s suddenly thought of something. I can almost see the

light bulb click on in her mind. It shines out through her eyes in a
crafty beam focused on Hunter.

“Wait a minute…yes I do.” A triumphant smile adds sparkle to

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her gaze. “I’ll give the whole frickin’ fortune to you. It’ll replace
the one you lost, so you can keep your charities going. I know
you’ll do good with the money. It’s the best way for me to spread
it around to those who need it most.”

Hunter blanches, speechless for a few seconds.
Will wonders never cease?
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Hoarse words trickle

out, like air being forced through a clogged hose. “Um…that’s
incredibly magnanimous, but I can’t let you—”

“You can’t stop me either,” Cindy cuts him off. “I’ve already

given away one fortune. It’s no big deal to ditch another.” Her chin
tilts up, and she stares him in the eye, stubborn blue boring into
stunned amber. “Listen, I was raised rich, so I know what I’m
giving up, but the truth is I’ve never cared much for material
things. Don’t let the makeup and fancy dress fool you, Mr. Steele.
Underneath I’m a Plain Jane with plain tastes, and I’ve discovered
I’m okay with that. Being ‘fixed-up’ tonight just made me realize I
wasn’t ‘broken’ to begin with.”

In which case, the endeavor was a success, because all I really

wanted to fix was her self-image. Where I saw dull resignation
before, I see the glow of confidence now.

She aims a quick grin in my direction. “Don’t get me wrong.

Your friends were super nice. Once I relaxed, it was fun trying on
a new look. But it wasn’t me. If there is a prince out there waiting
to fit a glass slipper on my foot, he’s gonna have to take me just
the way I am, without any extra trimmings.”

::And be lucky to get her.:: A gleeful giggle vibrates my skull.

::She’s done the right thing. This is all I wished to know. The
money is in good hands. And so is the Báthory bloodline. I can rest
in peace now.::

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A sudden breeze sweeps the room, stirring the draperies.
“Köszönöm,” a voice says, audible to all.
Then utter stillness.
Hunter’s expression goes carefully blank.
His gaze slants to mine. “Was that who it sounded like?”
“Ahem”—I clear my throat—“yeah. She wanted to see how

things worked out with the will. She’s happy now. And gone.”

“And EG is back, thanks to her heir.” Hunter gives Cindy his

warmest smile, the one that charms everybody—then gives me the
one he stole from Jack the Ripper. “I only began the dissolution
process today. It would’ve taken a week to complete, and I can
stop it. As such, your service contract still stands. You’re
reinstated in the force. Effective immediately.”

Gee, I’m so thrilled.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

CHAPTER 5

All’s well that ends…

The grandfather clock in the living room tolls one—bong—as I

exit the house into the streetlamp lit night. Was it only several
hours ago I walked out this door with Cindy, en route to the Red
Banana? The world’s been upended and re-righted since then. Vlad
is dust, and Hunter’s my employer again.

You win some, you lose some.
Life is almost back to normal. For whatever that’s worth. Just

one last task to perform and we can call the case closed.

Behind me, a brawny figure fills the doorway—a recent arrival

in a baseball cap emblazoned with a feed store logo. My Texas
born, farm raised cousin Junior, who proves the adage you can take

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the boy out of the country, but not the country out of the boy. I
could play the same act, if I wanted, having grown up in the sticks
with him. Except there’s not much call for drag queens at the
Grand Ol’ Opry. When I left home for the stage, I left my western
twang behind. Junior flaunts his with gusto. To each his own.

He and Zelda cut short their trip and burned rubber to get here.

Their werewolf psychic senses warned them something was amiss,
so they raced home to protect their pup. Who’s fine, sound asleep
on the third floor. Cindy, however, may still need a measure of
protection. They can guard her while Hunter and I complete our
job.

“Don’t worry none,” Junior drawls. “If any more vampires

come callin’, I’ll show ’em some real fangs. An’ if that don’t work,
I’ll sick Zel on ’em.” He snickers as the door bangs shut. “Y’all
just do what you gotta do,” he hollers through it. “Take your time.
I ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ll see ya when we see ya.”

Not soon, I hope, though I’m grateful he resisted the urge to

make any snide comments about my costume. Canines read each
other so well, and for members of the same family pack it’s even
easier. I’m sure he knows I’ve more than business on my mind.

The commotion of the past hour has reenergized me. For

werewolves—and nightclubs—it’s the shank of the evening. I’ve
been a good little hero tonight, saving the world while putting my
own needs on the backburner. I deserve a reward now—and not the
financial kind. Screw money.

Better yet, screw me.
It’s not healthy to be horny for so long without release. My

balls could turn blue or something. And then where would I be?

I did come to Philly to party. It is Hunter’s and my anniversary.

Five years ago tonight we met. He seems to have forgotten that,

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but I haven’t. I remember how it happened, too.

I just can’t think about it right now.
He waits for me on the sidewalk, his well-known hunky form

hidden under baggy coveralls and baseball cap borrowed from
Junior.

“Agent 007 reporting for duty!” I click my heels together and

throw him a jaunty salute. A wiggle of hips rustles frilled
petticoats.

Hunter responds with a sour look and yanks down the brim of

the cap, masking his face in shadow. He’s far more the James
Bond type than I, but when he first recruited me for the Earth
Guardians I refused to join unless I could pick my own spy
number. I wanted the most famous one. Otherwise, why bother?

Besides, as head of the corps, Hunter doesn’t need a number.

Most EG agents call him chief or boss…Mr. Big…Your Majesty…
I sometimes call him mein fuhrer, but only because he hates it.
He’s not real keen on returning to the Red Banana tonight either,
but I doubt anyone will recognize him disguised as a dork.

“We wouldn’t need to return if you’d remembered to deactivate

the teleporter,” he bitches. “You have to cut its juice after each trip
or the power-pack drains.”

“Oh sure, everything’s always my fault. You forgot to

deactivate it, too.”

“I’m not the one who last used it.”
“Yeah, well, no one’s gonna use it till it’s recharged. Shit

happens. We still have to do something with this.” I wave a
vacuum cleaner bag under his nose. Vlad’s remains, powdered but
potent. Claudio has a magically reinforced money vault at the club
where the dust will be safe until we can transport it to the Steele
Star.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

“And from there, out into space. It’s too dicey to be disposed of

down here. Some dragons can rise from their ashes like a phoenix.
Can Vlad do the same from his dust?” Hunter shrugs. “Since he
was a half-breed, there’s no way of telling for sure, but we know
he regenerated once. If he does it again, I don’t want it happening
anywhere on Earth.”

He glances skyward, then starts walking, chewing up the

pavement with long strides, setting a brisk pace.

I fall into step beside him. We both know our way around

Philly, and the club’s not far, just below South Street, on
Bainbridge, several city blocks away. I drove there earlier only out
of deference to Cindy’s tired feet. She’d already hiked through the
savory chaos of the food filled Italian Market and back.

All of which reminds me I haven’t eaten since lunch—and my

car’s parked in front of the Red Banana. Securely, I trust. Fueled
by solar charged electric batteries, it starts differently from the
standard gasoline models, making it tricky to steal. As for the other
concern… With perfect timing, my empty stomach rumbles as we
turn left onto Bainbridge and spot the neon banana, marking our
destination.

“Okay,” Hunter says, taking the hint but sounding grumpy

about it. “We’ll grab a quick bite at the club before we drive back
to your cousin’s. But you’ll have to pay for it. What little cash I
had left in my pockets this evening went to the wino Erzsébet gave
my clothes to.”

I knew that, of course, and know he didn’t begrudge the

donation either, even though he was a pauper himself at the time.
He’s that kinda guy. Charming when he wants to be, a pain in the
ass when he doesn’t. Generous and demanding in the same breath,
a complex blend of compassion and aggression. Satin and steel.

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Fire and ice. You love him or you hate him.

I do both. It keeps life interesting.
“Ditto,” he grumbles, and halts by the neon lit entrance while I

lag behind. “Are you coming?”

God, I hope so. But not the way he means.
“In a sec.” I cross the street to check my car, sitting safe and

sound where I left it, and focus on how glad I am to see it intact. I
usually keep a fifty-dollar bill hidden under the dashboard for
emergencies, but I forget about that.

“Well, damn,” I mutter as I rejoin Hunter, “I didn’t think to

bring anything but Vlad’s dust and my keys. I don’t have any cash
with me either.”

His eyes narrow, and I feel him probing my mind, which I fill

with visions of the haute cuisine Claudio’s kitchen serves. You can
smell the club’s five-star fare all up and down the block. Equally
delicious, the opening strains of The Galop sound from beyond the
door. Food for the ears. The classic, quick tempo piece is from
Jacques Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underworld. Music by a
French-German composer mixes with the seductive aroma of
French-Italian cooking, adding sensory depth to my mental images.

Hunter swallows, obviously tempted, almost salivating.

“Claudio’s an old friend. He’ll probably insist on feeding us for
free. He always does.”

“Yeah, and we never let him. It’s not fair to impose on

friendship that way. This club is his livelihood. We could pay with
something besides money, though. He loves to barter.”
Nonchalantly, I push open the door and step inside. “I guess I’ll
have to sing for our supper, won’t I?”

Or dance.
The Red Banana presents two ninety-minute extravaganzas a

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night, one starting at ten, the other at midnight, both ending with a
bang. I’ve made it here right on time to join the second show’s
grand finale cancan.

Heh, heh.
Hunter grips my arm, his amber eyes blazing from beneath the

shadow of his cap brim. He knows what a Red Banana style
cancan means. “You planned this, you sneak.”

“Damn straight.” Then I buried the plan in the back of my brain

where it wouldn’t be noticed till now. “Why did you think I wore
my costume, huh?”

“I thought you were just being you.”
“That, too.” Jerking loose, I thrust the bag of dust at him, dash

through the audience, and do a flying grand écart—a magnificent
jump-split—sailing over the orchestra pit and onto the stage.

Ta-da!
Applause rings out.
Dancers shriek with delight.
I’m swept into the thick of a ruffled chorus line, all of us in

black stockings, white petticoats, and gaudy gowns. All spinning
and high kicking to Jacques’s famous tune while we pepper the air
with war whoops. You gotta yell when you cancan.

It’s visual and audio exuberance, a cacophony of color and

motion. Twirling skirts of bright blue, yellow, green…orange
stripes and pink polka dots. And smack in the center, a whirling
dervish in red. That’s me. We clash like hell, but we’re having a
heap of fun. I’m home, and it’s as though I never left.

Beside me, Kandy executes a risqué rond de jambe, a quick

rotary movement of her lower right leg with the knee raised and
her skirt hiked. Velveeta demonstrates the port d’armes, pivoting
on one foot while grasping her other leg by the ankle and

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stretching it up to her ear. Not to be outdone, I turn three
cartwheels across the front of the stage.

“Brava! More!” a deep voice booms, egging me on.
Claudio. I hear his bass-baritone laughter over the music, see

him hug Hunter. They exchange a few hushed words, then Claudio
takes custody of Vlad’s dust, ushers Hunter to a private booth and
leaves him there. Watching out the corner of my eye, I mentally
mark the spot—as I did once before.

Memories swamp me. In my mind I time-warp back to five

years ago. Then, as now, I was onstage, scanning the audience,
sizing up my prospects…

The cancan at the Red Banana always ends with the dancers

leaping out into the crowd to play naughty-and-bawdy—mingle—
embarrass and entice. We sashay around, sit on laps, tease and flirt.
It rarely goes further than a few laughs. We’re not whores; we just
act like it for the general amusement. That’s entertainment.

We view it as a social service, too, and devote merciless

attention to those who need it most. The shy guys with one foot
still in the closet. They’re easy to recognize and fluster so adorably
when you publicly proposition them. Then they come back the
next night for another dose. We show them there’s room in the
world for all kinds, and you’re allowed to celebrate what you are.
Some of them end up working here. That’s how former basketball
star Vincent Carr became Velveeta Cucaracha.

That’s how a corporate king found a queen.
Or vice-versa.

* * *

I saw what appeared to be the shyest of the shy enter the club

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that night. He slipped into a pool of shadow against the wall, as
though hoping no one would notice him. Too late, because I
already had. Then Claudio hurried forward and greeted him like
an old friend. The plot thickened. So did something under my
skirts. Discreetly, the stranger was concealed in a private booth.
Oh, the wicked possibilities that presented. I almost drooled. My
head whirled faster than my dancing feet.

I hadn’t been long off the farm and didn’t know he was a

celebrity. Not much news penetrates Turnville, Texas, a boil on the
backside of beyond, an insular community of werewolves almost as
hidden as the Earth Guardians. I didn’t realize Claudio had told
Hunter of a new star at the Red Banana—a shifter—that Hunter
had arrived to check me out as a possible recruit for EG, that I’d
shortly be shanghaied into secret service.

Who caught whom?
All I cared about in that instant was “staking my claim.”
Werewolves have a built-in sense that alerts them when they

meet their life-mate. The moment I spied him, I knew. The next
moment, I smelled cat and thought what the fuck? I balked, cursed,
fought a furious fast war with myself—and lost stupendously. The
damage was done. You can’t escape fate, however fickle it may
seem. Love hit like a dump truck.

Wham!
I went flying.
Knocked for a loop.
Head over heels.
The cancan reached its crescendo. Dancers vaulted off the

stage. I rocketed past them all and crash-landed on top of Hunter
in his booth. Body-slammed him to the bench. Flattened him.

“Hey, sailor, buy me a drink?” I said, nose to nose.

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100

It was the first and last time I’ve ever seen him blush.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” he demanded.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Mine.”
Then I kissed him.

* * *

::And for some ridiculous reason, I kissed you back.:: His

telepathic voice rumbles in my head, snapping me back to the
present. ::I plead temporary insanity. It was a moment of complete
madness.::

Yeah, sure. We both know it was because I’m utterly

irresistible.

::You’re something all right. What, has yet to be determined. If

you’re through making a spectacle of yourself, get your cute little
ass over here.::

Was that an invitation or an order?
::Both. We’ve got a new fight on our hands. The battle of the

bulge. Claudio just sent us a banquet. Champagne and caviar, coq
au vin, and pommes frites with crème fraîche. Dessert’s on the
way.::

Closer than he realizes.
You know what coq means, don’t you? A male chicken. So,

literally, coq au vin translates to “cock with wine.”

Think about it.
In a replay of history, the cancan climaxes—and me with it,

almost. Dancers catapult into the audience, yours truly in the lead.
Is there anything sexier than French food? Yes. French food with a
big juicy side dish of Hunter. I bound off the stage and into the
booth, pinning him to the bench again.

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101

“Hey, sailor, buy me a drink?”
“You’re a real pain in the ass,” he grumbles.
“And you love me just the way I am.”
His lips twitch. He’s trying not to laugh. “No, I love you in

spite of it. Now get off me so we can eat.”

Ain’t twisted déjà vu fun?
He’s really very romantic, he just hides it well. Or so I keep

telling myself. Reluctantly, I push back, allowing him to sit up and
face the table. Except he’s still facing me because I haven’t
vacated his lap yet. Straddling his thighs, I’ve got him locked in a
back corner of the booth.

“Sylver, how am I supposed to reach the food?”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way. Think creatively.” I peer

over my shoulder to survey the fare. Wow, so many options…

Functional and decorative, on snowy linen, sits a polished

pewter ice bucket holding a champagne bottle, and beside it, a
translucent ruby glass tray dotted with black caviar on golden toast
points. Savory sin on a platter.

Flanking the appetizers stand two long-stemmed crystal

glasses, filled to the brim with bubbly, a bowl of thick white crème
fraîche for dipping, and two plates heaped high with coq au vin
and pommes frites. Basically, braised chicken with mushrooms and
French fries, but it sounds more elegant en français. In any
language, the meal looks tempting as hell and smells like a slice of
heaven.

Hunger gnaws me inside, but its main force hits south of my

stomach. There’s more on the menu than what I see spread out on
the immaculate tablecloth.

Our booth is one of a row nestled against the wall. Beyond, in

the main dining area, public rowdiness continues. Within the

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102

cubicles, semi-cloistered comfort dwells. Built for pleasure—
dining and otherwise—each booth features a long table between
two wide benches, plush-padded and velvet upholstered.

Enclosed on three sides, each booth is also equipped with a

brocade curtain that can be drawn across the open end for added
privacy (if people care to respect it). But where’s the sport in that?
Anyway, I can’t reach the curtain from where I’m sitting. On
Hunter.

I stretch out an arm and grab a glass of champagne, instead.
Whoops, I just spilled it all over him.
Clumsy me.
“You did that on purpose,” he accuses.
I’m too busy to respond either verbally or mentally. Fingers

flying, I unbutton the front of his borrowed coveralls. We’ve got to
get him out of these wet clothes before he catches cold.

“How about getting yourself into a new brain before the

warranty on the old one expires? Shifters are immune to most
illness, you idiot. We never catch cold.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” I tell him. “Why take

chances?”

Swiftly, I strip the top half of the coveralls off his shoulders

and drag it down his arms, baring him to the navel. Now I’m
confronting a delectable display of hard muscled chest dusted with
downy dark curls that taper to a narrow line—a provocative path
that bisects six-pack abs and points the way into the pants of the
garment.

As if I needed directions. Hah.
I pause a moment to ogle the trail, notice tiny sparkles freckling

his skin, jewel-like beads of champagne mixed with his own sultry
essence. He’s starting to sweat. One taunting drop clings to the nub

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103

of a flat, brown nipple, begging to be licked off.

How can I refuse?
Hunter stifles a groan as I lean in and trap a taste of ambrosia

on the tip of my tongue. What a wicked tease when I’m famished
for so much more.

“That makes two of us, but I want dinner before dessert—and

more privacy than we have here. You’re going to blow my cover,
whitey.”

No, I’m going to blow him. But dinner’s part of the plan. Who

says we can’t do both? Eat while we eat? Call it multitasking.

“All that needs cover is your famous face. Keep the cap pulled

low, and you’re safe.” From everyone but me. I yank down the
brim for him, then do the same with the six-inch zipper at the
coverall’s fly. Something a good bit longer than six inches pops
out the opening. A club, thick and stiff. If it were detachable, you
could bludgeon a person to death with it. His lips may protest, but
his dick appreciates my attention.

“The rest of me would, too, if we were home. What is it with

you and public places?”

“I’m a pervert. Hasn’t that already been established?”

Although, really I’m just free spirited and spontaneous. Also
diligent. Never put off till later what you can do right now.

“You could at least draw the drapes.”
“And draw an audience? In this place, that’s tantamount to

hanging out a sign that screams, ‘Hey, guys, we’re in here
fucking!’ It’s less conspicuous and less of a challenge to the
voyeurs to leave the curtain open. If we stick to the back of the
booth, no one will notice us.”

Probably.
I twist around and pull the plates and champagne closer so I

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104

have everything within easy reach in one corner, all the edibles.
Including Hunter. My artistic dilemma is how to combine them for
optimum effect.

“If you’re asking me, I vote for covering you with caviar, then

licking you clean,” he suggests.

Pant…
Is it Christmas? Suddenly my Yule log’s burning and my

chestnuts are roasting over the fire.

He’s finally getting into the swing of things.
“No, I’m that hungry. Whatever it takes to get food in my

stomach, I’ll do.”

Uh-huh.
Without thinking about it—pure reflex action so he has no

warning—I scoop up a big handful of coq au vin and smoosh it in
his face. “Eat that, pussycat.”

Moist chunks of chicken and plump little mushrooms tumble

down his front. Wine sauce splatters us both.

Food fights have started for less.
“Grrr…” Hunter pushes me off him, seizes the bowl of crème

fraîche, and dumps it on top of my head.

I’m half blinded. It runs into my eyes, my nose, my mouth…

Wow, it’s delicious! I must share.

“Here, I don’t wanna be selfish, you take some.” I scrape off as

much as I can and finger-paint it all over him.

“You’re supposed to eat it with the potatoes.” He bares teeth in

a snarl of a grin and pitches a fistful of pommes frites at me.

I duck, and they fly out of the booth in a scattershot, landing

who knows where. I don’t bother to check; I’m gathering up toast
points. “Hell, crème fraîche is fabulous on anything. Try it with
these.”

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105

Splat! I hit him in the chest with a cannonball of caviar canapés

that explodes on impact.

He flings another serving of frites.
I retaliate with more coq au vin.
There’s something sexy about this.
The air temperature soars. Thirst strikes. I’m parched.
“Me, too.”
Together we lunge for the champagne and wrestle on the table

for custody of the bottle—drain it in a few greedy guzzles. The
pewter bucket tips over. Crushed ice spills everywhere. The little
avalanche does nothing to cool us.

The booth’s beginning to look like a Jackson Pollock painting,

and so are we—dripping with sauce and rich cream, speckled with
continental cuisine, wallowing in gooey extravagance. We’re
sticky and flushed, breathing hard, pumped up and hot with battle
fever. Hot with hunger, hot with excitement. Hot for food and each
other.

A major mess is escalating into a major turn-on.
Plates and glasses topple off the tablecloth, shoved aside to

make more room. Silverware clatters to the floor.

Throwing caution to the winds of chance, Hunter kicks out of

his coveralls. I rip free from my costume. Like animals we attack
the remains of the dinner—on us—sucking sauce off skin,
searching for tasty morsels, and finding them in the most
interesting places. He gives me a raspy tongue-bath, cat style,
growling with epicurean ecstasy. I lap up crème fraîche and caviar
while exploring his torso.

A button mushroom sits nested in his navel. How appropriate.
A fragment of chicken clings to the base of his coq. Even

better.

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106

I lick it off, then nibble my way up the underside of a meaty

drumstick, using tiny sharp bites that send noticeable quivers
through him. When I reach the top, a big juicy mouthful, purple
tinted and smooth as a plum, I wrap my lips around it. And pause.

Hunter gasps—tenses—holds his breath.
Expecting me to devour him, swallow him whole?
I’m seriously considering it…
Nah, not yet.
He groans as I reverse direction to sample his balls instead.

Drunk on champagne, I dig hands beneath him and squeeze his
muscular ass, bury my face in kinky dark curls, inhale his musk.
He boils my blood and fries my circuits. Dizzy with desire, I
torment one testicle, then the other, nuzzling, nipping—

“Ow, watch the teeth.”
Oops. Sorry, I lost control.
“I didn’t know you had any.”
He should talk.
A warm grip captures my head, and Hunter hauls me up his

body. His arms clamp around me, like a vise, and he rolls, pinning
me beneath him. I’m trapped between hard table and harder man.
Not that I’m complaining.

Amber eyes blaze down at me, a feral expression half hidden

by the shade of his cap brim. Amazingly, he’s still wearing it, but
it’s been knocked a bit crooked. How rakish, in a down-home
country sort of way. He looks like a lusty farm boy, dirty and
sweaty from a day in the fields. I knew a few of those back in
Texas, but not as well as I wished. None of them were gay. I was a
lonely and lone wolf till I hit the bright lights of the city—bored
out of my gourd—starved for love, ravenous for action.

“Now you’re ravenous only for me, and we’re going to keep it

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107

that way, aren’t we? No more tests,” he whispers, a husky hint of
warning in his tone. “What would you have done tonight if Vlad
hadn’t turned out to be an enemy, and I hadn’t shown up?”

Very little, probably. It was just an experiment, after all, born

of anger, and likely would have failed. I’m a hopeless romantic at
heart, not a…um, scientist. His question, however, charms me to
the core. Hunter so rarely shows his jealous side, I often forget he
has one. Such moments must be savored.

“Well, he was, and you did, so I guess we’ll never know for

sure, will we?” I answer. The devil made me say it.

Yeah, I’m also an evil tease. Sue me.
Hunter growls. “No more cancans either. The Earth Guardians

do damned important work, and you’re my best agent. EG needs
you more than any stage show does.”

Translation: he doesn’t want others ogling me. I’ve got his

number now. Isn’t he cute when he goes possessive?

He makes a strangling noise and squashes his nose against

mine. “You drive me nuts, you know that, don’t you?”

No, but God knows I’m trying to. I rake fingers down his back

and grasp his hips, wiggle against him and bump our goodies
together. “If you wanna fight, how about a round of dueling dicks?
You pick the worst times to talk business. Can’t we discuss EG
later? You’re killing the mood.”

“I’ll kill you if you ever again think of experimenting with

anyone but me.”

Okay, now I’m mad. At least all I did was think about it.

Hunter’s actually committed the crime.

“Not nearly as much as you’ve accused, and not anytime

recently. That’s long behind me. You might appreciate the effort
I’ve made, if nothing else. Marriage is natural for your kind. I had

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

108

to learn it—but I have. I’m sick of being blamed for past behavior
that’s as alien to me today as monogamy was to me back then.
Some leopards can change their spots.”

“You’re not a leopard. You’re a hypocritical housecat.”
“And you’re a pigheaded son of a bitch.”
“Let’s leave my mother out of this, shall we?”
“Fuck you.”
Duh.
“Well, hell, I have been waiting! Fish or cut bait, for godssake.

Go for it, pussycat.”

“Whatever you say, whitey. Just remember you asked for it.”
Snarling, all jealous anger and lust, he grips me under the

thighs and shoves my knees up to my shoulders. A heavy-duty,
passion powered jackhammer nails me to the table. I swear I hear
cheers.

Finally!
Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” sounds in my head.
Our French meal morphs to Turkish.
I’m shish kabob.
Hunter skewers my ass, stretches my passage, rams his dick in

up to my tonsils. Now we’re cookin’. I’m spitted and roasting on
his coals—ain’t nothin’ hotter.

Inferno heat floods me, bonfire burn. I smell the smoke. My

own dick swells to near bursting. My ass already is. He pulls out
and rams in again—and again—three sharp thrusts in rapid
succession.

Three strikes and I’m out.
He’s heading for a homerun.
The stadium crowd goes crazy—
“Your mental images are crazy,” he pants out, never missing a

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

109

beat. “Reading your mind is like riding a schizophrenic roller
coaster. How did we go from food to sports?”

Good question. It must have something to do with the baseball

cap. I straighten its crooked brim for him and clench inner
muscles, goading him into high gear.

He responds with a long, hard line-drive straight down

centerfield. The impact almost tosses us off the table. I clutch its
edge to anchor us in place, hang on for dear life while he runs my
bases…slides into home plate…and explodes like dynamite.

Pow!
Chest heaving with exertion, he collapses on top of me. “Did I

win the Pennant?”

Nope, something better. The game isn’t over yet.
And it’s my turn at bat.
Craftily, I squirm out from under him, which leaves him

facedown. Very tempting. Before he can move, I’m all over him,
kissing his back, nipping his neck. I burrow an arm beneath him
and fist his spent cock. Even soft, it’s a handful. I squeeze, and it
regains lost ground, grows fat and firm in my grasp. That’s one of
the things I love about Hunter. It doesn’t take much to restart his
engine.

“And it’s impossible to turn yours off.”
“Is that a complaint, pussycat? You want me to stop?”
“Hell, no.”
That’s what I figured.
He muffles a moan against the table as I mount him and

sandwich my meat in the crack of his scrumptious buns.

“Oh, great. We’re back to food imagery?”
Why not? What’s a ballgame without hotdogs?
I slide mine up and down lengthwise, teasing his opening. His

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

110

breath hitches. My heart hammers my ribs. I can’t stand anymore.
Ready or not, here I come—

“Not too soon, I hope.”
“Oh, shut up,” I tell him, and spear deep into his sweet ass.
That ends that discussion.
I’m engulfed in satin flames, caught tight in a silky hot vise.

All my nerve endings blaze alight. All my consciousness seems
centered at the base of my belly. I’ve sometimes thought my dick
had a brain of its own. I’m sure of that now. It sets a fevered pace,
pumping in and out and pulling me along with it.

“And pounding me into raw hamburger,” Hunter groans.
“Is that a complaint?” I ask again. “You want to stop?”
“Hell, no!”
“All right already. Then quit bitchin’.”
Geez, why do we always have to cover the same territory over

and over?

Pant, gasp, pant—
“Because you’re nuts?” he rasps out in labored breaths. “One

definition of insanity is repeating the same action ad nauseam,
hoping for a different result.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.” I punctuate the answer with an

inward thrust. “I did marry you, after all. That’s hardly the act of a
rational person.”

“So what does that make me? I married you,” he parries.
“If the shoe fits…”
Bump, grind, hump—
Somewhere in the middle of all this we die.
The French call orgasm “the little death.” An understatement.

There’s nothing little about it. With a blinding blast, in rocky
unison, Hunter and I climax.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

111

Grandly. Gloriously.
Like a double helix, we spiral headlong into heaven. And the

devil take any disputes. It is crazy, but it’s the way our love works.
Our hearts follow their own agenda regardless of what we think or
say. Our lovemaking melts bones and shatters souls, then binds the
pieces back together. I hear angels singing.

Or is that snickering?
I hear laughter and applause, actually, but I can’t see its source.

We’ve been facing the back wall, drunk on champagne and each
other.

“Shit.” Hiding behind his cap brim, Hunter rolls me off him,

scrambles off the table and into the shadowed corner of a bench.

Naked and unabashed, I sit up and turn around to confront the

booth’s open end. I’ve never been the shy type, and it’s too late to
start now. Remember those cheers I thought I heard earlier?

Well, it appears they were real.
A kaleidoscope of smiling faces stares into the booth. We’ve

attracted quite an audience. Arms rise out of the crowd, waving.
Multiple hands give me the thumbs-up sign. I’m tempted to take a
bow.

“You would,” Hunter grumbles.
Some people have no sense of humor.
Others are irrepressible.
In the front row, gaudy and grinning, stand Velveeta, Kandy,

Cherry, and Hannah, each holding a white card with a big black
number scribbled on it, the way some athletic competitions are
judged. I quickly tally our overall score.

“We got a nine-point-two,” I inform Hunter.
He curses again. “Shit, I’d have given us a nine-point-three at

least.”

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

112

Smart-ass.
Now you know why I love him.
And hopefully can explain it to me.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

113

EPILOGUE

The morning after…

I awake to the soft light of dawn. I always do. It’s a curse that

comes from having grown up on a farm. No matter how late I go to
bed, my internal alarm clock is set for sunrise.

Hunter’s still asleep, curled up in a ball under the covers, like a

cat. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, I slip into my red sweatpants
and star T-shirt, and pad barefoot down to the kitchen. I smell
coffee brewing and hear a strange voice…

Ah, it’s a radio newscaster, announcing the day’s headlines.

Freddy stands at the counter, preparing a breakfast tray while he
listens, a strapping figure in his butler suit, with a hangdog
expression on his handsome face.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

114

Well, he did have a difficult night. Hung over and lovesick, are

we? Ready to surrender to Fate?

“Never in a million years,” he answers the thought—still stuck

in denial, I see, though he has a new excuse for it.

“I’m worried about Mr. Hunter.” He points to the radio.

“They’re saying he’s ruined, bankrupt. It’s all over the news.
What’ll happen to his charities, all the good work he’s done? I’m
bloody well sick about it.”

I’m suddenly a bit queasy myself. Yes, Hunter has another

fortune now, but he got it from Cindy. Who got it from vampires.
It’s not like he can publicly explain how his charitable coffers
refilled. We didn’t think he’d need to. If the story hadn’t come out
this morning, there’d have been no story to report. He would’ve
been back in action before the general populace realized he’d been
gone.

“Crimey, then don’t explain!” Freddy spouts. “Just say the

news reports jumped the gun—that he had a run of bad luck, but
pulled himself out and is stronger than ever.” An intense gaze
bores into mine—a gaze gone wild, searching. “He is, isn’t he? It’s
true what I see in your mind? Miss Cindy came into a bloody big
bunch of money and gave it to Mr. Hunter? Why?” His voice
cracks on the word. He pauses, swallows. “You…you don’t think
the lass is dimwitted, do you?”

“Nope, just generous. She wanted the money to go to the

people who need it most, and figured Hunter was the best one to
distribute it.” I suppress a smirk. “The real question, of course, is
what you think. Cindy’s fortune would have been her husband’s,
too, if she’d kept it.”

Freddy coughs and looks away, hoisting his dignity up by its

bootstraps. Feigning disinterest, he glances at the open doorway.

THE WEREWOLF IN RED

115

Right on cue, Cindy appears in it.
Ain’t it amazing how these things work?
She wears a ratty, tatty terrycloth bathrobe. Her hair is tousled,

and her eyes are bleary. Her face is puffy and blotched from sleep.

Freddy’s expression freezes, then crumbles into complete

capitulation.

“My God, you’re gorgeous!” he declares, strides forward, and

sweeps her into a long, passionate kiss.

I guess that answers my question.
Cindy hangs limp in his arms when he surfaces for air. Panting

for breath, she peers over his shoulder. Her eyes seek out mine.

“Sylver, who is this man?”
“Yours, hon.”
Grinning from ear to ear, I collect the tray off the counter and

pad back up the stairs to my own life-mate.

::Wake up, pussycat, it’s time for breakfast in bed.::
For starters, we’ve got cream cheese and marmalade, and I

know just where to spread them…

IMI

ISER

Mimi Riser has been an actress, model, clown, belly-dancer,
jewelry designer, editor and publisher, but her first and foremost
love is writing. She specializes in offbeat tales where laughter
reigns and good always triumphs—but she makes her characters
really work for their happy endings. Her books have been said to
read like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and speed as it
goes. But if you think her stories are crazy, you should see her life.
Once devout city people, she and her husband exchanged the
hustle and bustle of Philadelphia a lifetime or two ago for the
natural, rugged splendor of the rural southwest. They were looking
for a simpler way of life. They got it. It ended up being so “natural
and rugged,” they spent their first six and a half years there in a
hand-built house with dirt floors, no electricity and no plumbing.
This has proved helpful for her historicals as she can now write
about the “olden days” from personal experience. They have since
rejoined the 21st century and enjoy life on the open range with a
house full of eccentric cats and a large, wacky dog who thinks
she’s a cat, too. Mimi has had five novels published to date along
with numerous articles and short stories. Her historical romance, I
Do, was a “Top Ten Finisher” in the mammoth Preditors & Editors
Readers Poll of 2003, and her contemporary comedy, Every Jack
Needs His Jil, won the poll the following year for the “Best
Mainstream Novel of 2004.” Samantha White and The Seven
Dwarves is her first erotic-romance and was one of the winners in
Amber Quill’s 2007 Heat Wave contest.

To learn more about Mimi and her writing, please visit her
website:

http://www.mimiriser.com

* * *

Don’t miss Your Cheatin’ Heart

by Mimi Riser,

available at AmberAllure.com!

For Sylver Starr, it’s not easy being a cross-dressing werewolf, a
secret agent for Earth Guardians, Inc., and also being married to
one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire who just happens
to be a cat-shifter.

Yep, canine and feline, a match made in heaven. Not!

The problem is, wolves mate for life, and we all know about
tomcats when it comes to fidelity, right? Add to Sylver’s trouble a
homophobic deputy sheriff and an alien invasion of Crocodoids
from the satellite galaxy Draco Dwarf, and…

Well, let’s just say Sylver Starr, werewolf and secret agent
extraordinaire, is about to have a very interesting night.

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

OLD

TANDARD IN

UBLISHING

UALITY

OOKS

OTH

RINT AND

LECTRONIC

ORMATS

CTION

DVENTURE

USPENSE

HRILLER

CIENCE

ICTION

ARK

ANTASY

AINSTREAM

OMANCE

ORROR

ROTICA

ANTASY

GLBT

ESTERN

YSTERY

ARANORMAL

ISTORICAL

IRECT

AVE

www.AmberQuill.com

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www.AmberAllure.com

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