A WOLF IN

GIRL'S CLOTHING

(an urban wolf short story)

by

NAOMI CLARK

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

©Naomi Clark 2011

This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

Also by Naomi Clark:

Silver Kiss (an urban wolf novel)

Dark Hunt (an urban wolf novel)

***

IT WAS A COOL SPRING evening, the sky dusky blue and orange, and the line outside the Glitz nightclub already stretched to the end of the street. It was a mixed crowd, from teenagers who’d probably be denied access unless their fake IDs were very good, to adults who surely could afford to spend their time and money somewhere less tacky. The outfits ranged from ridiculous—one group of men all dressed in afro wigs and tie-dyed jump suits—to a little scary—two girls in full bondage gear, complete with spike heels, collars, and leather bras. From inside my car, with the windows rolled up, I could still hear the shimmery, bass-heavy music pouring from the doorway and I was parked right across the street. Up close, it was surely too loud to enjoy.

Luckily for me, I wasn’t there to enjoy it. I was being paid to stake out Newcastle’s tackiest nightclub. This, I’d learned through a week of meticulous investigation, was where Toby Miller spent his Saturday nights. With a woman who was most definitely not his wife of one year.

I sipped at my latte and flipped once more through the photos sitting on the passenger seat. Toby and his wife, Manda, made a striking couple, both tall and dark-haired with olive skin. She was model-beautiful, he was almost effeminately handsome. They'd have gorgeous children, should they have any. Looking at Manda, recalling her soft voice and sweet manners, it was hard to imagine Toby would play away from home, but as a PI I saw men cheat all the time. Women too, on partners who adored them, were clever, wealthy, attractive and seemingly perfect. There was no fathoming the human heart, I'd concluded. Or the werewolf heart for that matter.

I set the photos down and turned my attention back to the queue outside Glitz. Toby was tall, well over six feet, and with his dark good looks, he ought to stand out in the crowd. The bouncer I'd spoken to earlier in the week told me Toby always showed up around eleven, once the first rush of customers had arrived, always with the same girl. It was only nine o’clock now, but I never took chances on people. People change their routines, they make new plans. And people who might suspect their wives of hiring a private eye to follow them around... Well, I was confident Toby didn't suspect anything, but again, I never took the chance. I would sit outside Glitz until closing if that's how long it took.

It took another two hours, by which time my latte had gone cold and I was stiff and a little bored. It was a relief when Toby rounded the corner, arm-in-arm with a short woman. Even if I didn't have his photos, Toby would have stood out to me in the Glitz crowd for not standing out. No glitter or fairy wings or neon plastic for him. He wore faded black jeans and a navy blue t-shirt with some band’s logo on it. His companion was almost as conservative, dressed in ripped jeans and a blood-red tank top. Her black hair was short, spiky, and streaked with hot pink. I considered her carefully. She was pretty, in a sort of waifish way, but not a patch on Toby's wife. If he was having an affair, he'd traded down.

I watched them queue, snapping pictures as they huddled together, so very comfortable with each other. Their body language was relaxed, close. The girl being so much shorter than Toby, she had to crane her neck up to speak to him, and there was warm affection on her face when they did talk, but it wasn't romantic. No hand-holding or kissing, no lingering gazes or subtle caresses. Perhaps they were just cautious—the odds of bumping into someone else you knew in Newcastle on a Saturday were pretty high.

After about twenty minutes of queuing, they slipped inside. I hurriedly grabbed my handbag, shoving my camera inside, and got out of the car. The queue had died down considerably since Toby and his companion joined it, so I was inside Glitz within ten minutes, having paid a ridiculous amount of money for the privilege. Thank God Manda was covering my expenses. I handed my coat in at the cloakroom, feeling a little awkward in the sequined sea-blue dress I wore underneath. I wasn't usually one for spangle, but I wanted to blend in, so I'd teamed the dress with towering turquoise heels and shimmery green eye shadow, my hair pinned up in a silly, fussy do.

Compared to the majority of the clubbers, I looked pretty conservative, but I felt fake and obvious.

I wove my way through the crowd, gritting my teeth at the awful music. I wanted a drink. I imagined the music would be a lot more tolerable filtered through a couple of overpriced rum and cokes, but drinking on the job was a recipe for disaster. I settled for an overpriced bottle of water and went hunting for Toby and his friend.

The plan for tonight was simply to observe. Manda wanted evidence Toby was cheating—or, more accurately, she was desperate for proof he wasn't—and this was my best chance to get that evidence. Toby was a careful man, Manda told me, private and cautious, so I didn't think I was likely to catch him making out with this girl on the dance floor, but people gave things away all the time without ever realising. If he felt relaxed and safe here, he'd let his guard down and then I might see those tell-tale touches and kisses that would confirm Manda's fears. For her sake, I hoped I didn't.

Glitz's dance floor was a huge square painted with neon swirls and ultra-violent patterns that dazzled the eyes and flashed painfully under the strobe lights. Low plastic-covered sofas sat around the edge and I perched on one of these, grimacing as my bare legs touched something slick and sticky. I hoped it was just a spilled drink.

A meter or so away from me, amidst a knot of girls in fairy wings and tutus, Toby and his friend danced gleefully, clearly immune to the awful, repetitive bass thud of the music. Or even actually enjoying it. They did hold hands now, swinging each other around, occasionally hooking up with one of the fairies in a sort of improvised jig before returning to each other. Under the flashing pink and green lights, the girl looked oddly magical, her face alight with joy. I wondered idly if she was a wolf—they always seemed more energetic and vigorous to me, as if the wild animal inside was always just on the verge of breaking free.

Toby himself did not look cautious or careful as he danced. He looked liberated, throwing himself around without a care for how ridiculous he looked. According to Manda's tearful recollections, he'd barely danced with her at their wedding, telling her he felt silly in front of their families. The man I watched now didn't care about feeling silly.

But he wasn't acting like a cheat, either. For all their touchy-feely dancing, there was still no sexual spark between him and the girl. They were both drinking; him knocking back alcopops, her on the beers, and if they were having an affair, I'd expect the alcohol to lower their inhibitions, turn their touches hot and sensual. But after half an hour and six drinks apiece, it was pretty clear they weren't about to start groping each other. I wasn't ready to write off the affair theory, but I'd seen nothing to prove it yet either.

“Alright, doll.” A shirtless man thumped down next to me, grinning widely at me. “You here alone?”

“Yes.” I shifted away from him. He stank of cigarette and beer, and even if I'd been into men, he wouldn't be my type. I could never kiss a smoker.

“Well that's no good!” he cried, shuffling closer to me. “Why's a pretty girl like you here alone? Come for a dance.” He grabbed my hand. I shook him off.

“No, thanks. I'm busy.” I debated flashing my PI's license, but the last time I did that in a night club, the idiot I showed it to thought I was part of some police drug raid, freaked out, and tried to assault me. I could live without a repeat of that. “I'm waiting for someone,” I said instead when he started to protest my refusal.

He pouted at me, as if this was somehow attractive. “Well if they stand you up, you come look for me, alright, doll?”

I smiled as politely as I could and he left. Always a relief when they got the message. I glanced back to the dance floor and saw to my dismay that Toby and his friend were gone. “Shit,” I muttered, hurrying over to the fairies. “Hey!” I caught one by the shoulder. She spun around to hug me, coating me in glitter. “Excuse me,” I said, disentangling myself, “where did the tall guy and the girl go?”

She frowned at me blearily. “You mean Ayla? She went to the ladies' room.”

Toby was unlikely to be with her, but this might be an opportunity anyway. I made my way to the toilets, fending off a few more invitations to dance on the way. I wondered if wearing my ‘No Boys Allowed’ t-shirt would have been a better choice.

The ladies' room was humid and dimly lit, and full of girls re-doing their makeup and sharing gossip, and in one case throwing up in a sink. The girl I wanted leaned against the wall nearby, wrinkling her nose as if disgusted. I guessed she was queuing for the toilet since she didn't strike me as the type to care if her eyeliner was smudged. I joined her, trying not to stare at the puking girl. I felt like I ought to hold her hair out of her face or something, since nobody else was, but I didn't want to lose my quarry.

Up close, Toby's friend was younger than I'd realized—early twenties at the most—and much prettier than I'd initially thought. She smelled like apples, sweet and sharp. I didn't realize how close I'd got, or even that I was practically sniffing her hair, until she turned her head suddenly, meeting my eyes with a surprisingly fierce gaze.

“What?” she demanded.

I stepped back, heart in my throat, caught off-guard. “Sorry, I just...” I fixed a big, fake smile on. “I'm a bit drunk.” I managed an impressively drunk-sounding giggle. “You smell really nice!”

She eyed me suspiciously, but a little of the fierceness faded. “I haven't seen you here before,” she said. “First time?”

I nodded, keeping the bright smile in place. “Thought I'd check out the talent in a new part of town.” I leaned into her, lowering my voice confidentially. “That tall lad you were dancing with... he's fit! He's not your boyfriend, is he?”

She cocked her head, regarding me with a curious smile. And then, before I had time to react, she pinned me against the wall. I squeaked a protest but she ignored me, as did everyone else. She caught my hands gently but firmly, strong enough that I couldn't wriggle free. She leaned into me now, pressing her body against mine in a parody of passion, as if she might kiss me...

...But she didn't. She pressed her lips to my ear and whispered, “You don't smell drunk.”

I flushed, realizing a little too late I'd been right—she was a wolf, and so of course her senses were far sharper than mine. Sharp enough to know I'd touched nothing but water all night.

“What do you want with Toby?” she demanded. There was a snarl in her voice but she didn't bare her teeth. That was a good sign—it meant she didn't plan on ripping my throat out just yet. She was trying to scare me, but didn't want to hurt me.

I’d taken a course on lupine-human relations as part of my PI training. It hadn’t been mandatory, but I was convinced it should be. Knowing the other woman’s show of wolfish aggression was just that—a show—was all that kept me from slinking away with my own metaphorical tail between my legs. She was intimidating, for all her small size, her pixie face tight with suspicion, her eyes alight with anger. The soft little growl rumbling in her throat was so inhuman. It flicked some switch in my brain, the part that was programmed for fight or flight. I needed to diffuse the situation before she really did lose her temper.

“I just fancied him,” I lied quickly. “Wanted to check he was available, that's all. I didn't realize you were his girlfriend, okay?”

She scowled. “I'm not his girlfriend and he's not available, so you can piss off, alright?” She backed off a little, giving me breathing space. The warmth of her body left mine and I felt a mix of relief and regret. Under different circumstances, I might have liked to be pressed so closely against her.

“Alright,” I echoed soothingly. “I didn't mean any harm, okay?”

She took another step back and that might have been the end of it if the puking girl hadn't lurched away from her sink and thrown up on us both.

I groaned in disgust as vomit splashed up my legs. The wolf—Ayla the fairy had said—swore as her jeans caught the worst of it. The girl collapsed at our feet, weeping and muttering. Her hair was caked in vomit and she was deathly pale, eyes watering, make-up smeared across her cheeks. The wolf and I exchanged glances. Annoyance and concern showed on her face. I knew my expression was about the same.

“Are you okay?” Ayla asked, crouching by the fallen girl. She shook her shoulder gently. “Hey, can you sit up?”

I knelt too, grabbing a wad of paper towels from the dispenser as I did. I wiped my legs, trying not to think about it too hard. Once I'd cleaned myself as best I could, I helped Ayla ease the drunk girl into a sitting position and began wiping her face.

“I'm really sorry,” the girl slurred. “I feel really sick.”

“Are you here alone?” I asked.

“Dunno,” she said.

I sighed. “We should get you into a taxi. Best thing you can do is get home and sleep it off.”

“I'm hungry,” she whined.

“I don't know if food is a good idea,” Ayla said. She got herself a handful of paper towels and helped me clean the girl. “Let's just get you some water and see about a taxi, okay? What's your name?”

“Vicky.”

“Okay, Vicky, let's get you up then.” Ayla lifted her with ease, leaving me to pick up the mess of paper towels and bin them. I hurried after Ayla as she helped Vicky out of the toilets and back towards the bar. I wanted to make sure Vicky got home safely, given the state she was in, but I also wanted to stick close to Ayla. I wasn't done with her yet, and this little interlude might relax her enough that I could pry loose some information about Toby.

Between us, we managed to get Vicky to drink a glass of water and then helped her outside to the taxi rank. She clung to me as we walked, groaning and dry-heaving, but didn’t throw up again, thank God. When we got her to a taxi, she suddenly stopped, slapping her forehead.

“I don't have my bag! Where's my purse? My phone...” She burst into tears.

Ayla and I exchanged looks again, a silent accord passing between us. Ayla dug in her jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled five pound note. I rifled through my bag and pulled out my purse—dropping my PI license in the process. The slim leather card holder I kept it in landed at Ayla's feet and she scooped it up before I could. I frowned, more at myself than her, and bundled Vicky into the taxi. I snatched Ayla's money and gave it to the driver, along with twenty pounds from my own wallet.

“Keep the change,” I told him. “Vicky, don't throw up in the taxi, okay?”

She slurred her thanks and slumped down in the seat. I hoped she didn't pass out before she got home. The taxi sped off. I turned to Ayla, trying to snatch back my license.

She dodged me deftly and flipped open the card holder. “Shannon Ryan, private investigator,” she read aloud before handing it back to me with a scowl. “What do you want with Toby?”

The rapport we'd built up helping Vicky was disappearing quickly. I decided I may as well be honest—I had a feeling lies wouldn't get me far with this wolf in any case. “His wife hired me,” I said. “She thinks he's having an affair.”

Her jaw dropped, eyes wide. Yes, I decided, she didn't like lies because she was an appalling liar herself. No poker face whatsoever. Her mouth flapped silently for a few seconds, fish-like, before she snapped, “He's not!”

“He's acting like a man who is,” I countered. “Sneaking off, lying to his wife about where he goes and who he's with...”

“She wouldn't understand,” Ayla jumped in. “She couldn't... She wouldn't get it.”

I folded my arms, resisting the urge to smile at her since I didn't think she'd appreciate it. I admired her loyalty to her friend—her quick, hot defense of him—but I couldn't go back to Manda with, ‘you wouldn't get it’. Not only would I have utterly failed at my job, I'd have failed her too.

“Look,” I said, “I get that you want to protect him, but consider his wife. They've only been married a year, she's worried sick he's going to leave her, she's at her wit's end, and he's obviously lying to her about something. If not an affair, then what?”

“Well he's not having an affair with me,” she said, then added quickly, “or with anyone else.”

“Then why is he lying to his wife about coming here with you?” I challenged.

That stumped her for a second. She glowered at me. “I don't have to tell you anything. It's not like you're the police.” She made to stomp past me, back into Glitz. I caught her arm as she passed.

“I understand you don't want to talk to me,” I told her, “but think about Toby. He's living a lie and that's going to get harder and harder for him. The guilt, the pressure, it breaks people down. I see it all the time. Whatever his secret is, eventually it will get out and it will ruin lives. His, his wife's, and maybe yours, if you're involved. Is that what you want for him? Because if you're his friend, or lover, or whatever, you can help him.”

She wavered, looking distraught. “It's not that simple.”

“Tell me,” I offered. “Maybe I can help.”

She looked me up and down and laughed. “You wouldn't get it either,” she said.

“You might be surprised.” I was gambling on Ayla. She might just walk away, go tell Toby his wife was spying on him, and blow everything. But I had a feeling a girl who was willing to help a drunk stranger home even after she'd been puked on was a bit more of a soft touch than she let on. I hoped my appeal might tug at her heart strings.

Sure enough, the look of uncertainty was back. “I shouldn't say. It's not my secret to tell.”

I stepped closer, wondering how far I could push before I sent her scurrying away. “In the end, it will come out,” I told her. “It's better Toby has the chance to tell Manda on his own terms than because he's forced into it, or exposed by me.” I tried a smile. She smiled back reluctantly.

“He's gay,” she said finally. “Manda doesn't know. Nobody does.”

I bit my lip. It wasn't the answer I was expecting, although it made sense. But... “Why on earth would he get married if he's gay?” I asked.

She sneered at me. “Told you that you wouldn't get it. It's a different world for us, okay? His parents didn't accept him, they pressured him, told him it was a phase. None of his mates wanted to know, and he thought he could... pretend. Shut it off. He really cares about her, you know, he does, but he can't... You know...” She trailed off, waving her hands vaguely.

“I understand,” I said softly. “I thought my parents would be the same so I pretended for ages. I dated this poor boy for almost a year before I decided I couldn't take lying anymore. And then when I did tell my parents, they were fine with it.”

She gaped at me again. It was hard not to laugh at her. “You're not gay.”

“I don't really think that's your call,” I replied. “Now look. I sympathize with Toby's situation. Honestly, I do. But as his friend, is this what you want for him? A life of deception and fakery? Is it what he wants for himself?”

“You're not gay,” she repeated.

“I didn't know werewolves had gaydar on top of all the other heightened senses,” I teased, oddly enjoying her disbelief. “And I don't think my sexuality is the issue here.”

She seemed to recover herself, swallowing hard and glancing back towards the club. “It would kill him,” she said pleadingly.

I had to admire her determination to protect her friend, but it was pointless. No matter how much she pleaded, I had an ethical obligation to tell Manda the truth. I folded my arms and regarded Ayla seriously. “Isn't it better that he does this on his own terms?” I suggested.

She wavered, so I pushed. “If you want to help him, this is the best way. I have to tell his wife what I've learned.”

She chewed her lip, anger and anxiety playing over her pretty face. Finally, she nodded, determination replacing the worry. “Let me speak to him. Just... just don't say anything to his wife until I've spoken to him, okay?”

She looked desperately earnest. I had to smile. “Here.” I rooted around in my bag and found my business cards. “Why don't you call me in the morning? First thing. I'm meeting with Manda at noon.”

She took the card and managed an ever-so-slightly flirtatious smile. “So is this how you pick up girls?”

“I don't date girls,” I told her, mock-serious. “I date women.” That made her laugh. It was a good laugh, wild and careless. I felt a tug of attraction that I firmly suppressed. “Go and find Toby,” I said. “Buy him a stiff drink and talk to him. Make him see sense.”

She nodded, gave me one last, nervous smile, and headed back into Glitz. I sighed, shoulders slumping as she disappeared. I hoped she would talk to Toby. I was asking a lot of her, but she seemed like a decent person. If there was any way to forge a decent outcome from this investigation, I wanted it.

***

I went straight home after that, desperate to wash off my heavy make-up and change into my cosy old flannel dressing gown. I reflected on the night as I curled up on my sofa with a bowl of ice cream, and resisted the urge to check my phone every five minutes. I didn't expect to hear from Ayla tonight. Part of me didn't expect to hear from her tomorrow either. In her position, would I make my friend confess to his wife? Or would my desire to protect him override that?

I couldn't honestly say and that bothered me. I didn't enjoy moral grey areas. They made my job a lot harder.

***

Contrary to my expectations, my phone rang at eight am, jerking me from a strange dream about wolves with fairy wings. I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes and yawning. I'd gone to bed late—well after two—and the shrill ringing of my phone was offensively loud. “Hello?” I mumbled into the phone.

“Is that Shannon?”

It was Ayla. I suddenly felt a little more awake. “Yes, hello. Can I help?”

She was silent for a few long seconds, and I thought she might hang up. “I spoke to Toby,” she said finally.

“How did it go?” I kept my tone neutral, encouraging her to talk. Too eager might scare her off, make her feel pressured and cornered. Another tip from human-lupine relations.

“It was pretty horrible,” she said frankly. “We had this massive row, and he wanted to find you, but I wouldn't give him your number, and... Well. It just wasn't nice.”

“I'm sorry.” I meant it. She sounded despondent, and I could too easily imagine her sad expression. She felt guilty, I guessed, responsible for Toby's anger. That made me feel guilty. I didn't want her to be upset. “But it's not your fault,” I told her. “You did the right thing.”

“I know,” she said, although she didn't sound sure. “He went home to talk to Manda in the end. He said he'd call me, but...”

“It's early,” I said, checking my alarm clock. Very early, I thought with a grimace. “They've probably had a long, tough night.”

“Well so have I,” she said, sounding grumpy now. “Thanks to you and your 'honesty is the best policy' bull, which is completely hypocritical coming from someone who spies on people for a living, by the way.”

That stung. “I don't think either of us are in a position to talk about honesty, are we?”

“Is that some sort of dig about me being a werewolf?” she snarled.

“What?” I laughed, more out of confusion than humor. “I don't see what that's got to do with anything.”

She inhaled deeply and fell silent again. I wondered if I should hang up. I was too tired to deal with snappy wolves, even cute ones. I had a ton of chores to get through before I met Manda, and I had a feeling I'd need all my mental reserves for that meeting. Just as I was about to make my excuses and hang up, Ayla spoke again.

“I'm sorry. It's not your fault Toby can't be honest.”

“It's not yours either,” I told her gently, oddly touched by the apology.

She sighed heavily. “I should go then. I probably woke you.”

I started to say that no, of course she hadn't, but that would be silly. We had nothing to talk about, no reason to prolong the conversation. I wanted to keep it going. I wanted to tease a smile back into her voice.

Instead, I said goodbye, hung up, and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn't. The image of Ayla's face outside Glitz last night—worried and determined, and I wondered bleakly if I'd done the right thing by forcing her to get involved. I could have kept quiet, showed Manda the pictures and let her and Toby fight it out.

Of course, Ayla was the girl in those incriminating pictures, so she'd be involved either way. But I felt personally responsible now. She'd acted tough last night, but I'd seen flashes of a softer side, when she helped Vicky and when she so fiercely defended Toby. I guessed Ayla wasn‘t as tough as she wanted people to think.

***

“I'd rather he was cheating!” Manda screamed at me, flinging the photos in my face. “I could deal with another woman! But gay? How am I supposed to deal with that?”

We'd met in a small coffee shop, me figuring a public place might keep Manda from reacting too badly. I'd figured wrong. She was weeping openly, clutching a huge coffee mug with shaking hands, and I had a nasty feeling I'd be wearing that coffee before much longer. I reached for her hands, drawing the mug down to the table.

“Manda, I know this is hard for you—”

“I'm not paying you,” she said abruptly, pulling away from me and sloshing coffee onto the table. “I'm not giving you a penny!”

That wasn't an unusual reaction when I gave clients unpleasant news. It didn't make it any easier to hear. “Mrs Miller,” I said severely, deciding a more business-like tone was needed. “I understand you're upset, but yelling at me in public isn't going to solve anything.”

She cringed at that, glancing furtively around the cafe. One or two people were watching us, but they hurriedly averted their eyes when they saw Manda glowering at them. “I'm not paying,” she repeated, quietly now but just as firmly. “This isn't what I wanted.”

I suppressed my sigh. “You wanted to know what your husband was doing, what he was keeping from you, and where he was going on Saturday nights. That's what we agreed on and that's what I found out for you. I do understand—

“No you don't!” she shouted again, eyes glistening with tears. “I thought he was cheating on me with a woman! But he's been out chasing men! How am I supposed to explain that to people? They'll blame me, they'll say I wasn't enough for him...”

I didn't want to listen to this anymore. I'd heard this rant before, or variations on it, and I wasn't in the mood for it today. It would get ugly. I held up my hands for silence and, surprisingly, Manda stopped shouting. “You've had a shock,” I said calmly. “Maybe you need to go visit a friend and talk this over before you and I meet again.”

She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes, nodding. “Alright. Fine. But I'm not paying.”

I smiled sweetly, pushing my own empty mug towards her as I rose. “How about you cover the drinks and we'll call it quits?”

***

Outside in the pale spring sunlight, I spent a few seconds breathing deeply and pushing down my annoyance at the woman. I felt bad for her, I really did. Nobody deserved to be deceived so cruelly, least of all by their own spouse. But blaming me for bringing her the information she'd asked for was just sad. Not to mention highly irritating. I didn't want to have to chase her for payment—it would be time-consuming and tedious.

I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and walked away from the coffee shop, feeling listless. I prided myself on solving my clients' problems but I'd failed miserably with this case. It was times like this I wished I'd taken my gran's advice and become a teacher instead.

“Shannon!”

A semi-familiar voice stopped me and I spun round to see Ayla emerge from a second-hand book shop. She waved at me, quickening her pace to catch up.

“Oh, hi.” I smiled, suddenly feeling a little brighter. “How's it going?”

She held up a bag with the book shop's logo on it. “Retail therapy. I need some entertainment today.”

She had picked books over TV. I liked that. “Buy anything interesting?”

She showed me a couple of trashy-looking paperbacks. We fell into an awkward silence, neither of us moving to leave, but neither of us able to think of anything to say.

“So what are you up to now?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just... wandering really. I was...” She trailed off, then wet her lips as if working up the courage to say something. I found myself waiting eagerly for her words, hoping they wouldn't be 'goodbye.'

“Are you busy?” she asked. My heart skipped. “I was just going to get a coffee and...”

“Not coffee,” I said firmly. I'd left Manda in the coffee shop and I expected she was still there, wailing into her mug. “I need something stronger.”

She grinned, eyes lighting up. “How about a beer? I know a good pub round the corner.”

I wanted to say yes. I liked her—she was cute, loyal, honest. All the things I liked in a woman. She was also a werewolf. I didn't know if that was an issue for me or not, but it was certainly a point to consider.

It's one beer, I scolded myself as Ayla waited for my answer, her pixish face expectant and hopeful. It's not like you're committing to anything. “Sounds good,” I told her decisively. “Lead the way.”

She took me to a quiet little Irish pub, tucked away off the main street and treated me to a beer. I sank back in the faded leather seat and wondered how much of a coincidence it really was that Ayla just happened to be shopping so close to the coffee shop. “Have you spoken to Toby this morning?” I asked her.

She contrived to look innocent and failed. I bit back a grin. She’d never make a poker player. “Oh, no,” she said, staring into her cider. “Well, you know. We had such a terrible argument last night, so I felt like I had to call him today and try to get things straight. So to speak.” She cracked a weak smile at her own bad joke.

“And?” I persisted gently.

“And he didn’t really want to talk to me.” She began peeling the label off her cider bottle, shrugging as if his rejection didn’t hurt her. “He said Manda was meeting you today and he’d probably be divorced this time next week and that was that.”

I guessed Toby had either told her where I was meeting Manda, or she’d used her super-werewolf tracking skills to find the other woman. It seemed like a lot of effort to make for... Well, I wasn’t sure what for. Maybe she just wanted to find out what happened between me and Manda, to see if there was anything she could tell Toby that might heal their sudden rift. “So you just figured you’d come and hang out near a particular coffee shop?” I asked. “Just randomly, with no ulterior motive?”

She flushed. “I didn’t know you’d be there,” she said too quickly. “Toby just said that was where Manda liked to go to relax and I wanted to see her and let her know Toby hadn’t actually cheated on her. I just... I don’t know.” She threw her hands up in defeat. “I thought it might help. But it won’t, will it? It’s stupid to even think it. And then I saw you and...” She trailed off again, returning her attention to her cider label, cheeks flaming.

I smiled privately, heart fluttering a little, although I wasn’t sure why. Except I remembered how hopeful she’d looked when she’d invited me here, I remembered how sweet she’d been to Vicky the night before, and I remembered how my day had seemed a little less frustrating when I heard her call my name. “And...” I encouraged.

She squirmed in her seat. It was adorable. “And I really liked your dress last night,” she finished.

This time we smiled at each other.

***

I wore the dress again when we went out for dinner the next weekend. And after that dinner there were picnics, cinema trips, night clubs and finally, a month later, breakfast. It didn't take more than three dates for me to decide Ayla being a werewolf wasn't an issue. Some differences, I decided, were only skin deep. Our similarities went down to the bone.

BONUS MATERIAL

Read Chapter One of

DARK HUNT

an urban wolf novel

NAOMI CLARK

One

My first view of Paris was a McDonald’s across the street from the entrance of Gare du Nord train station. I’d expected can-can dancers and mimes and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. “Surely we didn’t come all the way to France to eat Big Macs?” I asked Shannon, tugging on her sleeve.

She was busy snapping photos of the impressive Gare du Nord, angling her camera up to take in both the pale blue sky and the massive statues at the corners and centre of the roof. “I could murder a Big Mac,” she replied absently. “I’m starving.”

I grimaced. I’d spent the train ride from London to Paris day dreaming about veal tartare and Boeuf de Chalosse. I could have stayed in England and eaten Big Macs. “Shall we go find the flat then?” I asked, setting my suitcase on the pavement so I could pull my street map from my coat pocket. “It should be within walking distance.”

“In a minute,” she replied, still snapping pictures. “Did you know all these statues represent different cities? I’m trying to figure out which one is London.”

I turned to scan the row of stately statues and couldn’t see anything that conjured up images of red buses or Big Ben. Leaving Shannon to it, I surveyed the street once more, inhaling deeply to see if Paris smelled any different to home. Ignoring the familiar greasy smell of burgers and fries, I took in the scents of fresh lilies from the flower vendor nearby, the smoke of cigarettes, and the lingering odor of the train station—a weird mix of sugary pastry and coffee from the coffee shop near the entrance—and metal from the trains. My wolf wagged her tail at the new smells. It was like England but different. I felt myself relax, suddenly conscious of how glad I was to not to be at home.

Shannon, apparently satisfied she’d found London, tucked her camera away and picked up her own suitcase. There was a steady flow of people entering and exiting Gare du Nord, and we were jostled on all sides as we exited the station. My wolf, normally so prickly about crowds, took it with good grace. We were both excited to be in a new city with our mate, ready to have some fun and adventures. I had my priority firmly fixed in my mind; I’d find a street mime this week if it killed me.

“Okay, which way?” Shannon asked as we crossed the road to stand outside McDonalds. “Maybe we should just take a taxi.”

“No! If we walk we’ll find our way around the city better.” There was no way I was getting into a cramped car after three hours on a cramped train. I glanced around to get my bearings. I’d only just put the map away, but already the route from Gare du Nord to Montmatre had faded from my head, pushed out by the sights and sounds of Paris. Music drifted from an open window overhead, fast-paced French vocals that were wonderfully exotic to me.

A little old man, wrapped up in an overcoat and battered beret despite the warm March weather, shouted out news headlines from a newspaper stand a few feet away. I remembered enough French from school to pick out a few words—Morte and Mystère and maybe something about downstairs. I grinned, loving the musicality his rich accent gave the words.

“Ayla,” Shannon said patiently, tapping my arm. “Stay with me.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. Flat. Right.” I pulled out the map again, twisting it around to get it lined up with the street we were standing on. “If we go this way, we should end up on Rue d’Amsterdam.”

Shannon peered over my shoulder at the map, a frown on her lips. “Are you sure?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I’m not. We’re on holiday, we’re exploring.”

She kissed my cheek and smiled. “Okay then. Let’s go.”

We only got lost twice. Each time Shannon just smiled and shook her head and let me mess around with the map until we got back on track. It wasn’t really like her. Normally she’d insist on taking the lead, being the practical one in the relationship. But ever since the events with Sly last month, she’d treated me differently. Like I was fragile, breakable. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the kid-glove handling. After all, I was the werewolf, she was the human. If either of us was breakable, it was Shannon.

On the other hand, dealing with Sly and Silver Kiss—a drug that turned werewolves into ravening beasts—had certainly thrown me in danger’s path. I’d escaped lightly compared to some of the other Pack members; Moria Clayton still needed physiotherapy after Sly broke two of her legs. Molly Brady, a cub Sly and Alpha Humans had forced into fights as part of their sick game, was still withdrawn and might never fully recover from her ordeal. And Eddie, one of our alphas, had lost his life trying to bring Sly down. I’d never agreed with Eddie’s methods, his blackmailing and bullying, but nobody deserved to die like that, shot between the eyes defending his Pack.

So yeah, I understood some of Shannon’s behavior. Sometimes at night I still woke up in a cold sweat knowing I could have died. It could have been me instead of Eddie. Then I’d roll over to huddle closer to Shannon, soaking up comfort from her warm, sleeping form, reminding myself that I was okay. I was alive.

It didn’t help that we’d been going through a rocky patch during all the trouble with Sly and the Alpha Humans. The extra strain had pushed us both almost to breaking point. While I was out helping my Pack alphas hunt down the drug-dealing feral and his wolf-baiting ring, Shannon was at home helpless and frightened. It had given her too much time to think, too much time to regret our move from the north of England to the south. We hadn’t spoken about that recently—there’d been too much else going on. Sly’s trial was scheduled to start in the summer. We’d both spent endless hours giving statements to the police, going over the whole ordeal again and again.

The issues, I knew, would come up again. Sly’s arrest and impending trial had forced us to put our lives—and our problems—on hold, but that wouldn’t last forever.

And that was why we were in Paris now, blundering our way up and down Rue de Clichy looking for the Moulin Rouge. The holiday was going to help us sort out our problems, help Shannon and I get back on solid ground. At least, I hoped so.

“You didn’t tell me Joel’s place was in the heart of the sex district,” Shannon remarked as we walked past yet another seedy-looking porn shop. This one had sailor outfits in the window. “Doesn’t seem like him.”

“It’s his parents,” I corrected. “I think technically it’s in the Opera Quarter.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t seem like them either.” Shannon lingered outside a classier looking adult shop with swirling pink writing on the window, advertising videos, toys and more. “I like those shoes.”

I pulled back to look at the towering black heels. “Glory would love them.”

“Do you think people can actually walk in those?” She seemed fascinated and I had to drag her away from the shop. I didn’t come to Paris to look at shoes.

“We’re not far now. Let’s get settled at the flat and then you can come back and look at shoes, okay?”

Shannon let me drag her away, indulging me. I wondered if I ought to be taking advantage of this new, pliable Shannon and demanding some kinky sex, breakfast in bed or something. I saved that thought for later. It was midday, I was starving and I wanted to dump our luggage so we could go eat somewhere fancy and French.

The Moulin Rouge appeared as if by magic as we walked up the street, the red windmill unlit but still just as enchanting as I’d imagined. It looked so out of place amongst the crepe vendors and sex shops, yet somehow it also made these things more glamorous, touched by the promise of glitter and dance. We lingered outside to take photos and check the prices for shows.

“It’s expensive,” Shannon said doubtfully.

“But worth it. We could do a meal and a show one night. We should. We can’t come to Paris and not go to the Moulin Rouge! Glory would never forgive us.”

She smiled. “We’ll come back later.”

I nodded and we headed away from the Moulin Rouge towards the flat. It was all uphill from there and by the time we’d clambered the stupidly steep sidewalk—past the cheese shops, bakeries, and boulangeries—I was so hungry I could have cried. My wolf, cooped up too long, wanted release. She wanted to break free and race through this new city, explore all the corners, learn all the secrets. I tipped my head back to stare at the sky. It would be a new moon tonight. I wondered if the Parisian werewolves would be welcoming.

Joel’s parents had holiday homes in Barcelona and Rome as well as Paris, but as far as I knew, they never used any of them, preferring to holiday in Scotland. It baffled me, but I wasn’t going to argue their choices. It meant we had free access to a beautiful flat in the Opera Quarter for as long as we wanted.

“This is gorgeous,” Shannon said as we stood outside, getting our breath back. “I can’t believe they don’t just live here.”

It was a small block of flats, only three stories high. The brick was a rich cream color, with dark ivy creeping up the sides. The windows were small, with iron bars curling around the wooden frames. It was all rustic and...well, French. Like Shannon, I fell in love instantly. “Have you got the key?”

Shannon nodded. Inside we climbed the rough, creaking wooden stairs to the third floor. The building was silent; I supposed all our new neighbors were at work or out miming. I liked the silence. This would be a sanctuary for us, somewhere to chill out and put the chaos and mess of the last few weeks behind us. Shannon unlocked the front door and the scent of vanilla flooded the hall, making my nose twitch.

“Wow,” she said, stepping aside so I could enter.

Definitely wow. The flat had clearly been built with wolves in mind; it was open plan and the furniture was comfortable and simple. There was a sofa in the lounge area and a farmhouse style table in the kitchen area. Nothing you could break or ruin with a sudden, violent change. The decor was very much to Joel’s taste, lots of cream and powder blue. Off the living room was a double bedroom with an en suite, also showing Joel’s hand at work. The bedroom was decorated in plum and chocolate, the bathroom in cool greens and yellows. Joel, an architect by trade, loved nothing more than a new house to furnish.

“Perfect,” I announced, leaving our suitcases in the bedroom and throwing open the window to diffuse the vanilla. As soon as I found the source, I was binning it. I hate vanilla. Shannon snuck up behind me to wrap her arms round my waist and hug me, resting her chin on my shoulder. She was wearing new perfume, swapping her usual sandalwood and jasmine for cherries and dark chocolate. I turned in her arms to nuzzle her neck, nipping lightly at her collarbone where the scent was strongest. My wolf loved the new perfume, wanted to lick the scent off Shannon’s body.

“So what first?” she asked me. “The Louvre? Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower...”

“Food,” I said promptly. My breakfast fry-up seemed like a long time ago. “How about we explore round here for the rest of the day and save the proper tourist stuff for tomorrow?”

We had a week and a checklist of places to visit. I wanted to draw out the experience as much as possible, savor every second of our time here. I knew that all too soon we’d be back in England, facing all the issues we had before we left. I was in no hurry to get back to that.

We set out arm-in-arm to explore Montmartre. Parts of the area were glorious tourist traps, the streets lined with tiny shops all selling the same tacky souvenirs, from red and yellow Chat Noire bags and socks to Eiffel Tower key rings and an endless supply of berets. Shannon posed in one, looking so perfectly elegant in her skinny jeans and white top that I had to buy the beret for her.

After an hour or so of aimless wandering and peering into shop windows, we found a bistro and sat at one of the street tables to eat our soupe à l’oignon.

“I hate to say it,” Shannon said through a mouthful of soup, “but it puts Vince’s cooking to shame.”

“Don’t ever tell him that,” I warned, watching passers-by come and go, trying to pick out the wolves from the humans. “It’ll kill him.”

There was another newspaper vendor on the street, his booth also stocked with postcards and keyrings, and I singled him out as a wolf straight away. He had that distinctive musk of Pack, hidden under the smell of tobacco and too much cologne. Once Shannon and I were finished eating and paid up, I hurried over to him, prepared to try out my rusty French skills while she picked out postcards for her parents.

“Pardonez moi,” I started.

“I speak English,” he cut in with a touch of impatience. He must get sick of tourists mangling his native tongue, I thought. “You want a paper? Keyring?”

“No thanks.” I waved away the magazine he thrust at me. “I was wondering, where do the wolves go to run round here?” It was a relief not to have to ask that in French. I figured there must be a local park for wolves to stretch their legs. The twisty streets and hills of Montmartre didn’t offer any real place to exercise and I couldn’t go a whole week without a proper run.

He looked at me a little blankly. “No park, we run on the streets. You are not a city wolf, no?”

“Well, yeah, I am, but...” I shrugged helplessly, hoping the gesture conveyed my thoughts. No park? That was ridiculous! I’d seen plenty of green spaces on my street map, but nothing significant near where we were staying. I didn’t fancy going all the way to the city limits every time I needed a proper run. “What do you do then?”

He gestured around himself, at the busy roads and bustling streets. “We have all this. Walk the streets, smell the city, hunt the rats, no? Visit the river. There are parks,” he shrugged, somehow implying that parks weren’t for real wolves, “but Paris is not about parks.”

“Oh.” I hid my disappointment and surprise. I thought I’d done a good job of it, until he laughed in my face.

“You will see. No wolves go running alone after dark anymore anyway.” He shoved a newspaper under my nose. “Le Monstre, you see? The Monster.”

“Monster?” I stared at the headline, picking out the same words I had earlier, outside Gare du Nord. Morte. Mystère. “Mystery death,” I echoed as Shannon left the rack of postcards to join me.

“Oui,” the vendor nodded, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You take my advice, cherie, you stay at home after dark, non? Le Monstre, he likes wolves just as good as humans.”

***

“What do you think it is really?” I asked Shannon as we strolled down by the Seine an hour later. Le Monstre screamed from the headlines at every newspaper stand we passed and people grabbed copies with exclamations and soft curses. Funny how swearing sounded so much more eloquent in French. “A feral wolf? Or maybe Silver Kiss has found its way to France.” Sly had forced some of the drug on me the night Eddie was shot; I found it all too easy to believe it could turn an average werewolf into a monstrous killer.

“It’s probably all just tabloid speculation,” Shannon said. “I don’t know enough French to be sure, but the paper looked like a red top, so it’s probably a stray dog mangling pet rabbits or something.”

That wasn’t as exciting a theory as monsters, or even ferals—werewolves that had given themselves completely to the wolf. The paper man, I decided, was probably playing the whole thing up to spook us silly tourists. No amount of blood-and-guts headlines were going to keep me inside after dark. Paris was the city of light, after all.

I shook off visions of a scarlet-lit Moulin Rouge pinwheel. We still had an hour or two of daylight to spend. The Seine was flat and dark, its banks lined with street artists and more souvenir stands. No mimes, I noted with disappointment. The vendors were already starting to close for the day, packing up their wares and shaking their heads when people approached. The sun was sinking slowly, spreading patches of gold light across the streets and the river. Couples of all ages wandered up and down the bank, hand-in-hand, talking in low murmurs and a mix of languages. It was all exactly as peaceful and romantic as I’d hoped and I pulled Shannon to a halt to kiss her.

She responded warmly, cupping my face in her hands. Someone across the street wolf-whistled and we broke apart with a laugh, Shannon’s cheeks glowing from the brief, hot kiss. “We’ll never get to Notre Dame if you keep this up,” she scolded me lightly, taking my hand again.

“Well there’s no rush, is there? We won’t be able to go to the top at this time of day anyway, I shouldn’t think.”

Shannon was keen to see the famous gargoyles. I was a little dubious about trekking to the top of the cathedral. I’m not scared of heights, not exactly. My wolf just doesn’t like being so far away from the ground. I fully intended to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe during our stay, but I knew it would be easier said than done. Notre Dame, I thought, would be a good first test for my animal side.

It was a long walk down the Seine to Notre Dame and a dusky spring evening had fallen over the city by the time we got there. It was a beautiful sight, rising up out of the darkening street in a blaze of pale light, the sandy brickwork glowing. The Gothic arches were dramatic, the sheer size of the cathedral awe-inspiring. I wondered how long it had taken to build that, how many people had worked to carve those arches and pillars. There was an evening service just finishing as we arrived. People were streaming out of the doors and making it almost impossible for us to squeeze past and get inside.

Once inside though, it was as if the street outside vanished completely. The silence was heavy. People crept around the rows of pews mutely, gazing upwards at the bluish-purple stained glass windows with almost reverential awe. I found myself doing the same, as Shannon and I wandered around. Stone statues of saints and the Virgin Mary stood in every corner, proud and dignified. Every curve of stone, every kaleidoscope of rainbow glass was elegant and beautiful, almost overwhelming in their splendor. I’d imagined the cathedral would smell like a library—all dust and old paper—instead I smelled melting candle wax and floor polish and a cool, plastery scent wafting from the walls.

“It’s beautiful,” Shannon breathed in my ear as we paused before a tall orange-brown statue of Louis XII. “I can’t wait to get up there and see the gargoyles.”

I stared at the vaulted ceiling and my stomach twinged at the thought of being all the way up there. It felt like an impossible feat to my wolf. I pushed the pinch of fear aside. I’d be fine. I’d been higher than that in planes and I’d been fine, so...I’d be fine.

Hungry again, with my wolf restless and eager to be free after a long day of confined spaces, I dragged Shannon from Notre Dame. I promised her we’d be back for the gargoyles later in the week and we headed back the way we came. Darkness had truly fallen. Although the streets were still busy, I got the sense that the crowds were thinning out, that nobody planned to linger and watch the lights of the cathedral or sit by the river. People were moving, determined to get wherever they were going as fast as possible.

I wondered again about Le Monstre, wondered if a body had been found nearby. I hadn’t seen any police cars or even police officers and my wolf-senses weren’t picking up anything weird or unusual. I figured Shannon and I were safe enough walking back to Montmartre.

I hadn’t quite realized how long a walk it was though and by the time we were back on Rue de Clichy I was ravenous and Shannon was exhausted. “We’ll take the Metro next time,” she announced as we trudged up the stairs to our flat. “I’m not ruining my heels trekking across Paris every day.”

I was about to tell her she was far too soft when I heard weeping from up the stairwell, on our floor. Not just sobbing, but hysterical, breathless crying, like somebody was in real gut-wrenching pain. There was shouting too, a male voice. Not really angry, but exasperated and tired. Shannon heard it too and frowned at me.

“Sounds like the neighbors are home.”

“What do we do?” I whispered, suddenly feeling awkward. It sounded like they were out in the hall and I didn’t want to have to creep past some domestic dispute to get to our flat. On the other hand, if the crier—a woman—was in trouble, I wasn’t going to ignore it either.

Ever decisive, Shannon marched up the stairs, making sure to stomp her heels as she did so the arguing couple couldn’t possibly ignore our arrival. Sure enough, as we reached the hallway, the argument stopped. I rounded the corner of the stairwell to see a heavily-pregnant Asian woman leaning against the wall between our flat and another that I took to be her own. A man with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips stood in the doorway of the other flat, looking guilty and embarrassed. The woman smelled of Pack, the man like a human.

There was only a narrow space between our front door and theirs and it felt smaller with the pressure of his anger and her misery. They stared at us in uneasy silence and my wolf reacted like it was a challenge to us being there, my inner hackles going up. I edged closer to Shannon, trusting her to diffuse the tension.

“Bonsoir,” Shannon said brightly as we moved past the woman. “Excuse us, please. We didn’t mean to eavesdrop...”

The man swore violently, his accent American rather than French like I’d been expecting. “This is exactly what I’m talking about!” he told the woman, who stared at him with trembling lips, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. “There’s no privacy, there’s always an audience, isn’t there? Fuck this. I can’t live like this, Sun.” He stormed past me, down the stairs, without a backwards glance.

The woman burst into tears and my wolf’s mood switched, suddenly eager to comfort a Pack mate. Pack was Pack wherever you were—one of things I liked least about it, sometimes—and a pregnant wolf was an especially precious creature. “Oh hey, don’t cry, it’s okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. She fell into my embrace without hesitation, recognizing a fellow wolf and reaching for the comfort that represented. “Come on, come into our place,” I told her, glancing at Shannon, who opened the door and ushered me and the woman inside.

We sat her down on the sofa and I fixed her a cup of tea while Shannon sat with her and talked her out of her tears. Shannon was much better at that kind of thing than me. By the time I presented Sun with her tea, Shannon had her talking without sobbing.

“Feeling better?” Shannon asked her as I sat down to join them.

Sun nodded, then shook her head and shrugged. “Mike’s not a bad guy,” she said . “I mean, it’s hard for him, you know?” She had an American accent too, the sort of middle-of-the-road nowhere accent that you heard on TV. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, smearing mascara and shimmery purple eye shadow down her cheeks. “This holiday was supposed to fix everything!”

I winced; her words struck close to home.

“What happened?” Shannon asked, taking Sun’s hand and rubbing her back. Shannon saw a lot of weeping women working as a PI. Adulterous spouses had been her biggest source of income for years.

Sun stroked her bump absently. “He’s human,” she said simply, as if that explained it all.

And it did explain some of it. Shannon and I knew as well as anyone all the problems that came with being a human-werewolf couple. I think Sun was too distraught to realize it was a human woman holding her hand, otherwise she might not have spoken so bluntly. Shannon stiffened almost imperceptibly and loosened her grip.

Sun didn’t notice, just carried on petting her bump and wiping her eyes. “I don’t blame him,” she said. “The whole situation is just so...fucked!” She began crying again then, burying her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Shannon glanced at me, looking helpless, probably wondering how on earth we dealt with Sun. Crying women were one thing, but heavily pregnant, hysterical women were well outside my experience. Part of me just wanted to send her on her way, as cruel as that sounded. This was supposed to be mine and Shannon’s holiday. I didn’t want us to spend our first night in Paris comforting a babbling mother-to-be. We couldn’t do that though and not just because she was Pack. Stifling a sigh, I knelt down in front of Sun.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” I suggested. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems.”

Sun sucked in a deep breath, shaking her head. “No, I don’t want to waste your time, really. He’ll be back once he’s calmed down, it’s fine. He always comes back.” She stood, pushing her untouched tea into my hands. “Thank you, really, but it’s fine. It is.”

“Well, look,” I said, rising with her, “we’ll be in all evening if you want a friendly ear or anything, okay? I’m Ayla and this is Shannon.”

“Sun Jung Nam,” she said, managing an unconvincing smile through her tears. “And thank you guys. I didn’t mean...” She waved her hands in a vague way that could have meant anything.

I smiled and patted her gently on the back as she left. “We’re just across the hall if you need anything.”

As soon as the door fell shut, Shannon sighed heavily, reaching for the abandoned tea. “I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but I really hope she doesn’t come back.”

I curled up beside her, resting my head on her shoulder. “She’s probably very nice when she’s not in the middle of a domestic.”

“I don’t care if she is. I’m not spending our holiday playing agony aunt to some stranger.”

“Grouch.” I poked her affectionately. “What about love thy neighbor and all that?”

“I don’t think that counts on holidays,” she replied.

“Either way,” I admitted, “I hope she doesn’t have any more domestics tonight at least.”

“Who’s the grouch now?” Shannon teased, “I thought you’d be pleased to have a wolf neighbor to play with.”

I shook my head. “She won’t be shapeshifting any time soon. She looks ready to pop.” Shapeshifting during pregnancy was mostly risk-free for the first three months or so, but after that the strain it put on the body and the baby made it too dangerous. The shifting instinct faded as the pregnancy went on and the market was full of potions to help suppress it—teas loaded with Jamaica dogwood, creams made with valerian and skullcap. My mum had taken lavender and lemon balm when she was pregnant with me, which sounded vile, but apparently did the trick. Mum swore she hadn’t even wanted to shift during the whole pregnancy.

I couldn’t imagine how anyone lasted for six months without changing. The frustration must be unbearable. Just the idea of it made my wolf scratch and claw for freedom. It gave me a lot of sympathy for those poor Tudor noblewomen who were forced to stay in darkened rooms for the whole of their pregnancies. It sounded like total hell.

Too worn out to think about eating out now, we raided the surprisingly well-stocked kitchen—I saw Vince’s hand at work there—and threw together a quick cheesy pasta dish. Afterwards, we curled up on the sofa again, flicking through TV channels and giggling at the surreal French adverts. Despite my earlier words, I listened for any sign of trouble from Sun’s apartment. I heard nothing and eventually we drifted off to sleep, tangled together too tightly to think about moving to the bed.

The screams woke us.

DARK HUNT

Published by

QUEEREDFICTION PRESS

NAOMI CLARK lives in Cambridge and is a mild-mannered office worker by day, but a slightly crazed writer by night. She has a perfectly healthy obsession with giant sea creatures and a preference for vodka-based cocktails. When she's not writing, Naomi is probably either reading or watching 80s cartoon shows, and sometimes she manages to do all three at once.

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Table of Contents

A Wolf in Girl's Clothing

Midpoint