She blinked, then looked around, at my posters, my DVDs, my books, my cats, even glancing curiously at my glass computer desk and its Herman Miller chair. “It’s a cool pad, I guess. I means, cool for a square. Yeah, I likes it, in a dorky kind of—”
“So do I,” I said. “I keep it by keeping my job.”
“Oh, come on, who’d know?” she said. “It’s so pretty. I want another one—”
“Cinnamon… you’re thirteen.” I said. She started to protest, but I held up my hand. “I got my first tattoo, and started tattooing, when I was nineteen. I’ve been doing it for nine years. I’m five years older than who you were pretending to be. You could be my daughter.”
“Oh, could I?” she said sarcastically. Then her eyes grew distant.
We stared at each other for a moment.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “I’ve gone and picked up another stray.”
“I am not ‘Stray’ anymore,” she shouted, standing up on my bed. “I’m Cinnamon!”
The bed squeaked underneath her as she shook with rage, and the noise seemed to catch her attention. Experimentally she threw her weight on it, then started bouncing. I was about to say something… and then my cell rang.
The number was unknown, a 770 area code—outside the Perimeter. I let it ring once more, then reluctantly answered it. Maybe it was a client. “Dakota Frost.”
“Hello,” said a deep voice. “This is Buck.”
“Buck?” I said, confused. Then it dawned. “Lord Buckhead!”
“The one and only, but Buck will do,” he said. How was he using a phone with a deer’s head? Did he have one of those faux old-timey candlestick phones with the mouthpiece on its own cord? “The Bear King just called. He was quite agitated. He seems to think you may have taken something that belongs to the werehouse.”
“Let me guess,” I said, watching Cinnamon jump up and down on my bed, both feet together. “You’re missing a cross between a tiger and a pogo stick?”
“The wonderful thing about Tiggers is, Tiggers are wonderful things,” Lord Buckhead said. “But yes, that does sound like their Stray.”
She looked over, enraged. “You ratted me! You fink!”
“S-T-R-A-Y seems to want to go by ‘Cinnamon’ now,” I said, turning around, to keep the phone out of reach of her tufted claws. “And I didn’t ‘take’ her. She followed me without my knowledge and broke into my home—”
“That does sound like their missing Tigger,” Buckhead said. “Lady Dakota, I do not mean to impose, but would you do me a very great favor?”
“Certainly,” I said. “After you interceded on my behalf, I am in your debt—”
“Watch over Cinnamon today.”
I froze, staring back at Cinnamon as she stamped her feet and made claws at me to get the phone. “Uh, suuure, Lord Buckhead.”
“Thank you, Lady Dakota,” Lord Buckhead said. “She rarely has opportunities to leave the werehouse. It will do her a lot of good to see the mundane world.”
“Buck,” I said. “She’s… not a prisoner there, is she?”
“No, it is not that she is never allowed to be out but… it is good for her to be out,” he said. “The Bear King means well, but he can be overprotective of his fellow foundlings.”
“Oh,” I said as the full meaning of “fellow foundlings” blossomed in my consciousness. I assumed that his monstrous bear form had been a deliberate effect, or side effect of his power, or something to do with proximity to the full moon. I looked over at her ears, her tail. “She… uh, mentioned she was a foundling.”
“Humans have traditionally been harsh towards the werekin, especially those who could not hide their beasts. The Bear King is merely trying to keep them safe. I do not think he realizes that a place safe from human wrath is not necessarily a safe place for a child.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.
“Lady Dakota, please. The werehouse is her home, and they care about her,” he said. “Take good care of her today, and I’ll send Calaphase to fetch her in the evening.”
The line went dead.
“What wasn’t he telling me?” I asked Cinnamon. She squatted rapidly, batting at one of my cats with an outstretched arm, which batted back at her like her tufted hand was a toy. “Cinnamon, did the… did the Marquis take advantage of you?”
“The Marquis? No, he’s a faggot,” she said, looking away. “But in the werehouse, if you’re not ‘under’ someone, you gets… passed around.”