Moon Stalked

Chapter 2-2

DESPITE WANTING TO quell Bastion’s pain, it was a relief to avoid my newly reunited family for a short while. Among them, I was out of my element. Alone, I could spend at least a few hours returning to what I did best.

So I ran, following the thread of an online conversation struck up hours earlier. “Wife beater slipped me on Madison Ave,” a local had messaged. “Interested? 50/50 cut.”

At the time, I’d scratched my head, wondering why and how Bastion had managed to update his profile on the Bounty Hunter’s Forum in between bouts of vomiting and feverish napping. Because that was the only way our local counterpart could have guessed we were in town.

Knowing my sunny cousin, Bastion had probably thought he’d shake off his sickness then get back to work within hours. He hadn’t, of course. Instead, I’d been the one stuck answering pesky PMs from people I’d never met but who felt like they knew me. That’s what came of Bastion’s forum stories, thrusting thousands of interested readers into our day-to-day lives.

In this case, I’d messaged back a curt: “On vacation.”

“Just in case you get bored,” the local had countered, following up with his telephone number.

I wasn’t bored, but I was in need of both cash and distraction. So I turned toward Madison Avenue, allowing myself to forget both the past and the future. My claws clicked through the silence of suburban sleep as I achieved the site in question. The street was dark, residential. It was after midnight.

And the perp? Jimmy English hadn’t traveled far from the spot where he’d last been sighted. I followed the gray grunge of predator-turned-prey aroma for half a mile until it strengthened into the garlicky smugness of triumph.

The bail jumper had returned home. Of course he had. Didn’t we all crave our dens?

My local counterpart swore the wife hadn’t seen her husband in days. And she probably hadn’t. In wolf skin, I couldn’t see Jimmy either, tucked away in the kids’ treehouse.

But I could smell him. Could hear him. Knew from the scent of rage on the step closest to the bottom that the wife beater was plotting revenge.

Revenge on his spouse, who might not even know her husband had failed to show up for his court hearing yesterday. She was inside, unprotected. He was outside, sharpening his rage.

The capture couldn’t wait until morning. We needed to settle this immediately.

And...I needed backup. Without a human partner—or, you know, clothes—it would be difficult to apprehend a criminal. Apparently I’d been running on adrenaline all night long.

Luckily, suburbanites are lax with locks. I gnawed my pelt off my shoulders then pried the garage door upward, cringing when wheels squeaked on their metal tracks.

But nothing came out of the darkness to check on my intrusion. And inside was just what I’d hoped I’d see.

Stairs leading into what appeared to be a man cave. Old beer. Old socks. Everything old.

Meanwhile, off in one corner, the rarest of modern utilities—a land-line telephone.

Also old. But when I lifted the receiver, I was greeted by a dial tone.

I dialed the local bounty hunter’s digits from memory. Realized too late that I was likely waking him up.

Only, I wasn’t. Slim’s voice was curt. “What?”

“This is Honor. I changed my mind. Wanna be my backup?”

“Address?”

I rattled off my current location...then froze as the point of a knife dug into the base of my skull.

***