Wolfsbane and Mistletoe Page 0,10

happens in a close relationship."

He took her hand between his paws and pressed it to his chest.

"So, this is the big secret," she said as they walked together out of the tool room. "All those nights you avoided me were when the moon was full. I never picked up on the pattern."

"Didn't see any way of telling you," he said.

"All things considered, that's understandable," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't understand it at the time."

"It's Christmas Eve," he said. "I think a little forgiveness is in order. Both ways."

"Okay," she said.

"Dogs, playtime's over!" he called.

They came up to him, and he knelt before them.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you all."

Tails thumped on the floor.

"Dogs, cages," he said, and they turned and went to their beds. He pressed the switch, and the cages closed.

"What are you going to do about those men?" she asked, rubbing Nicky's neck.

"I'll put what's left of them into their van, and drive it down to the old quarry pond," he said. "I should be able to sink it in there."

"Won't you be leaving fingerprints?"

He held up his paws.

"I don't have fingerprints right now," he said. "And if they find a hair, they'll just think it was a wolf."

"Want me to mop up while you're gone?"

"No," he said. "I'll do that tomorrow."

"Hell of a way to spend Christmas Day."

"Could have been a whole lot worse," he said. "You get a fire going outside."

"A fire?"

"For the marshmallows."

"Hey, Mister Lehrmann," said Bert as Sam came in. "How was your Christmas? Did your family make it over?"

"Yes, they did, Bert," said Lehrmann. "Everything worked out fine."

"And did the dogs enjoy their Christmas lamb?"

"They did," said Lehrmann. "I'm sure they would thank you if they knew how. It's like I said, Bert. There's nothing like fresh meat for a dog."

Chapter Three

The Haire of the Beast

Donna Andrews

Like Meg Langslow, the ornamental blacksmith heroine of her humorous mystery series from St. Martin's Press, Donna Andrews was born and raised in Yorktown, Virginia. These days she spends almost as much time in cyberspace as Turing Hopper, the Artificial Intelligence Personality who appears in her technocozy series from Berkley Prime Crime.

Although Andrews has loved fantasy and science fiction since childhood, during her years at the University of Virginia she grew fond of reading mysteries - particularly when she should have been studying for exams. After graduation, she moved to the Washington, D.C., area and joined the communications staff of a large financial organization, where for two decades she honed her writing skills on nonfiction and developed a profound understanding of the criminal mind through her observation of interdepartmental politics.

Among her less savory hobbies is toxic horticulture, or gardening with poisonous plants. Last year's crop of wolfsbane was particularly fine.

"Why on earth would you want to be a werewolf?" I asked.

"Why not?" Tom said. "I mean, don't you think it would be cool?"

"Cool?" I repeated. I tried to keep my tone neutral, but brothers and sisters learn to read each other.

"Okay, maybe you wouldn't, but I'd love it," he said, through another mouthful of spaghetti. "Imagine being able to turn into a wolf, and run free through the forest. Having a sense of smell a thousand times keener than we do. Night vision. Wolves are cool."

He was waving his beer in his enthusiasm, and spilling rather a lot of it.

"Wolves don't run free anywhere closer than Canada," I said, as I tried to mop up behind him. "Here in Virginia, if you see a wolf, it's either in a cage or a rug in front of someone's fireplace. They probably get shot at a lot, those free-range wolves. And unless it works way different than in the movies, it's not that you can turn into a wolf - you can't help it at the full moon. Take it from me, unavoidable monthly biological transformations are no picnic."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," he said, sounding a little sulky. "You have no sense of adventure."

"You're really going to try this?" I said, gesturing at the battered old book that lay on the table between us. "And what do you need my help for?"

"The spell's written in this really antique language," he said. "I thought you could help me figure it out."

I shook my head - in exasperation, not refusal. I pulled the book closer to my side of the table and wrinkled my nose. It smelled musty, with faint undertones of matches and rotten eggs.

"Don't get spaghetti sauce on it," he warned. "Professor Wilmarth would kill me