“No.” he said, voice rock solid and clear. “I’m sorry— about…well, everything. But it means something that you came all the way to my den. Thank you, Dakota. I won’t forget it. I had given up—”
“So does that mean I’ll get you in my chair today?” I said, cutting him off before we got distracted from the tattooing by another journey into touchy feelie territory.
There was a long pause. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I will. How long will it take?”
“Two hours,” I said. “I know I said I would do it on me and transfer it to you but… I’m not going to start it until you get here. I don’t want a werewolf sigil on my body any longer than I absolutely have to.” Come to think of it, I should call Jinx about it. I made a note to do so.
“The sun transits a bit after noon,” he said. “With it right overhead, we’ll have almost the whole earth between us and the moon. I should eat at transit, when the beast is weakest, and then let it settle—that usually keeps him fully at bay a few hours longer. I will come by at one—that gives us four whole hours to moonrise.”
“That should be more than enough,” I said. “Wulf. You’ll be here, right? You know how to get here? You need directions?”
“I know where you work,” Wulf said. “I will be there.”
But when one o’clock rolled by, Wulf didn’t show up. I turned away half a dozen potential clients while waiting for him, but he didn’t show up at two, or three, or four. I started calling him at two, but he didn’t respond to any of my phone calls. Finally, at five o’clock, with the sun hanging low in the sky, I said fuck it and headed over to the Vortex for another burger.
“I’m right across the street,” I told Annesthesia. “He comes here, you call me.”
But she didn’t call. And he didn’t call. And he didn’t answer his phone. I went back to the Rogue, but Wulf still didn’t show up. I called every number I could think of—Wulfs, Philip’s, Buck’s. Nothing. I even tried to get Jinx to call the Marquis, but we couldn’t figure out a way that he could have helped me, even if he was so inclined.
At nine the staff started to trickle out, the Rogue closed up, and I was left pacing in my office, staring at Wulf’s flash. Worried. I had given up intellectually, but somehow, I couldn’t just get up and go.
It was pushing past ten when my phone buzzed, once—a text message. Finally. I slipped it out to read: «come 2 masq lone»
I didn’t recognize the number. Go to the Masquerade? At this hour? And it was fucking closed! I thumbed back: «Not bloody likely.» A moment later, the phone buzzed again: «time runs out» I scowled. I did not need this shit at this hour. «Who the hell is this, Wulf? *You* need to come *here*!» «not wulf»
But who then? Maybe… I texted: «Marquis?» «fuck that prissy dog»
Well, they knew the Marquis. I texted: «WHO is this?!» There was a long pause. And then: «i owned u» “Oh, God,” I said. It was Transomnia. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. I looked at the office phone and thought of calling Calaphase, but then the phone buzzed again, with a picture message. I opened it, and damn near dropped the phone in terror. The tiny screen held Cinnamon’s terrified face—
And her bloody mouth was sewn shut with silver wire.
37. GET IT OFF ME
I rode to the Masquerade at just under the speed limit, terrified. I didn’t want to get pulled over, not now. Transomnia hadn’t given me a deadline, but “time runs out” made his intent pretty damn specific.
One block away I parked my Vespa on a cross street, slipped the keys into its key well and walked, taking the long way round so he wouldn’t know where I’d parked it. If I rode it straight up, Transomnia could trash my ride and leave me with no route of escape.
I walked, hugging my vest close, glad for the longsleeved turtleneck that kept out the cold. And then I rounded the corner of North Angler Street and saw City Hall East not a thousand yards away. This was pretty fucking bold. He must be sure he had me.