water. He’ll be—last warning!—fine.”
Either Buck was a genuine sadist who shouldn’t be in charge of an ice cream truck, let alone a fire crew, or he had an extremely dry sense of humor.
Before Darcy could ask which, an almighty crash echoed in her ear. There was an instant of guilty silence. It was followed by a rapid clatter, like a troupe of tap-dancers making a speedy exit from a crime scene.
“Excuse me,” Buck said conversationally. “I have to go skin some unicorns. Be in touch.”
He hung up, leaving her stranded in bemusement. For a moment, she just stood there, wondering if she’d accidentally slipped into some parallel dimension where normal logic didn’t apply.
Darcy shook her head, returning to reality. She slid her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, then went back into the bedroom.
“Fenrir,” she whispered, not sure whether she should disturb him. “Fenrir?”
He stirred, hands clenching into fists. His eyes opened a little. She’d only left one small lamp turned on, yet he flinched, as though even that dim light hurt him.
“The Bitch.” His voice was slow, words slurring together. “Darcy.”
“I called your Superintendent.” She put a hand on his knotted shoulder, rubbing gently. He had an odd scar there; a semi-circle of deep, livid puncture-marks, rough against her fingertips. “He’s going to send someone to get you, but they can’t get here until morning. Can you last that long?”
“Will try.” His muscles shivered under her palm. “Darcy. Have to warn—have to explain—wolf might come. The Bitch must know—”
“Shhh. Don’t worry about your, uh, wolf. If it turns up, I’ll look after it.” She reached for his weird harness as she spoke, struggling to unclip the stiff buckles. “Now, let’s get this thing off you so you can rest. There will be plenty of time to talk later.”
His eyes closed, as though he couldn’t keep them open any longer. “Worried—might—not be.”
She managed to ease the harness over his arms at last. Fenrir sighed, his muscles relaxing a little. The tight elastic had left red marks across his back. He had another scar there, too, though it was nowhere near as bad as the one on his shoulder; just a faint, blurred squiggle, barely visible.
“There, you’ll be more comfortable now.” She settled herself on the bed next to him, propping herself up against the headboard. “I’m going to keep an eye on you, okay? Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Yes,” he whispered. His hand found hers. “Stay. Please.”
His shoulders went limp at last. Darcy felt his breathing settle into an easier, slower rhythm. Yet even as he surrendered to sleep, he still gripped her hand, as though frightened she might disappear if he let go.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 8
Darcy woke up with a crick in her neck, a hot, panting weight against her side, and a vague sense that something was very wrong.
Her mouth felt like a family of bats had moved in during the night. She tried to rub her sticky eyes, and discovered that she was still wearing her glasses. And, indeed, all her clothes. Despite her good intentions to watch over Fenrir all night, she must have fallen asleep.
“Fenrir?” she said groggily.
He didn’t answer. Her sense of unease deepened. She could hear him breathing, so at least he was alive. But he was way too hot. She felt like she was in bed with an industrial furnace.
“Fenrir?” She groped for him, worried that he was running a fever. “You okay, big guy?”
Her hand sank into fur.
Warm fur.
Warm breathing fur.
Darcy froze. The furry thing shifted a little, snuggling closer against her side. It let out a deep, contented sigh.
Very slowly, Darcy withdrew her hand. The thing made a kind of grumbling rrrhmph! sound, but didn’t stir.
Still moving at a snail’s pace, Darcy took off her glasses. Carefully, she cleaned the smudged fingerprints off the lenses, then replaced them on her nose. The world came into focus.
There was a wolf in the bed with her.
“Holy shit!” Darcy yelped, scrabbling away.
The animal’s massive black head jerked up, bright copper eyes flying open. It yelped too, though in a much deeper register. It flailed, trying to fight free of the covers, enormous paws tearing great rips in the sheets. With a solid thunk!, it toppled off the bed, disappearing out of sight.
Darcy pressed herself into the far corner, breathing hard. She wrenched a moth-eaten, very badly taxidermized stag head off the