text: Simon flipped the lock on Howling Good Reads' front door, flipped the sign to Open, put on the wire-rimmed glasses, and started the rest of the routine for opening the store.
  
  A minute after he opened HGR, Asia Crane strutted through the door. She was a determined bitch, so he wasn't surprised that even a bad scare hadn't kept her away for long. If he'd liked her at all, he might have admired her determination to lure him into having sex.
  
  And if he ever found out she was sniffing around the Courtyard—and him—for something more than a walk on the wild side, he would kill her.
  
  Asia gave him a slashing look as she opened her parka and walked toward the display of new books, every bump of her hips a sharp movement in the skintight jeans.
  
  He watched the shallow way her chest rose and fell under the short, tight sweater, watched the way her encased hips kept moving even though she was picking up books and looking at the back copy—almost like she didn't dare stop moving because there was a good chance she wouldn't be able to start up again. When he saw her little, self-satisfied smile, he realized she was watching him watch her. Why would she be satisfied? Considering the way she struggled to expand her chest, she didn't even look bitable this morning.
  
  Or maybe he was still full from the deer they'd brought down yesterday and wasn't interested in another weak animal.
  
  "Mr. Wolfgard?"
  
  He focused his amber eyes and most of his attention on Heather, one of his human employees.
  
  "If you're going to man the register, do you want me to stock the shelves?" She gave him a hesitant smile and suddenly smelled nervous.
  
  "You are a sensible female," he said, raising his voice so Asia would stay at the new books display and not feel the need to slink over to hear what he was saying.
  
  "Thanks," Heather said. "Um... why? I haven't done anything yet."
  
  He waved a hand at her. "Your clothes don't lock up your body. You can take a full breath. If you were being chased, you wouldn't fall down after a few steps from lack of air." He was thinking of her escaping a human pursuer. A Wolf would run her down in seconds whether she could breathe or not.
  
  Heather stared at him.
  
  He continued to study her, understanding by the fear scent that he had taken a misstep somewhere in the past minute. He'd been indicating approval, because it was now clear to him that Asia did those exaggerated hip movements to hide the fact that she couldn't walk quickly without being out of breath. He didn't know what he'd said that had frightened Heather, but the look in her eyes made him think of a bunny just before it tries to run.
  
  Even when he wasn't hungry, he liked chasing bunnies.
  
  "I'll go stock some of the shelves," Heather said, backing away from him.
  
  "All right." He tried to sound agreeable so that she wouldn't quit. Vlad hated doing the paperwork as much as he did when a human employee quit, which was why they'd both made a promise not to eat quitters just to avoid the paperwork. As Tess had pointed out, eating the staff was bad for morale and made it so much harder to find new employees.
  
  When Heather came out of the back room with a cart of books—instead of running out the back door after leaving the words I quit on a note taped to the wall, like a couple of previous employees had done—he turned his attention to Asia.
  
  She must have been waiting for that moment. Her cheeks were a blaze of color and she looked ready to spit stone. She slammed a book back down on the display and raised her chin.
  
  "I guess there isn't anything of interest here this morning," she said coldly.
  
  "Then you should go," he replied. "Although..." He vaulted over the counter, went to the other side of the display, picked up a book, and held it out. "You might find this one interesting."
  
  It was one of the horror books written by a terra indigene. The cover was black with the open mouth of a Wolf just before it took a bite out of its enemy. Or maybe it was the second bite, since there was a little blood on the teeth.
  
  Asia forgot everything she knew about Wolves and bolted out the door.
  
  He watched her run toward the parking lot and decided two things: one, she couldn't run worth a damn in those clothes, and two, on her, he found the fear scent agreeable.
  
  Monty adjusted the collar of his overcoat with one hand while he knocked on his captain's doorway.
  
  "Come in, Lieutenant," Captain Burke said, waving him in while most of his attention remained on the sheet of paper he was studying. "Are you getting settled in all right?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Thank you for asking."
  
  Yesterday he'd gone to the temple near his apartment building and had found some peace and fellowship there. Then he called Elayne in the hope of talking to Lizzy, and got stonewalled. Lizzy had never been allowed to go over to a friend's house before the midday meal on the day of rest and meditation. He didn't think Elayne would change that rule, but if she had, it was only to deny him some time to talk to his little girl. Until that phone call he'd still thought of himself as Elayne's lover, despite the current estrangement, but she made it clear she was looking for someone whose social standing would erase the "stain" he'd put on all their lives.
  
  And that told him plainly enough that his chances of talking to Lizzy, let alone having her come to visit during her summer vacation, had gone from slim to none.
  
  "A couple of calls about Wolf sightings yesterday," Burke said. "You can hear them howling for miles, so people are used to that, but having Wolves gather in the Courtyard parking lot during the day is unusual."
  
  "I'll check it out," Monty said.
  
  Burke nodded, then turned the paper he'd been studying so Monty could see it. "Your priority is the Courtyard, but keep your eyes open for this individual while you're on patrol. Somebody wants this thief caught and the stolen items returned in a hurry, and has the clout to pull strings with the Northeast Region governor. And the governor pulled our mayor's strings, and you know how it tumbles down from there."
  
  Monty stared at the Most Wanted poster and felt the blood drain from his head.
  
  May all the gods above and below have mercy on us.
  
  "I'm going to get copies of this made and distributed, and—"
  
  "You can't."
  
  Burke folded his hands and gave Monty a smile that was full of friendly menace. "You're telling your captain what he can or can't do?"
  
  Monty pointed to the face on the poster, noting the way his hand trembled. He was sure Burke noticed that too. "That's the new Liaison at the Lakeside Courtyard. I met her the other day." Being wanted for the theft of something that would have somebody leaning on the governor for its return could explain why Meg Corbyn had been so nervous when he'd met her. She hadn't been worried about working with the Wolves; she'd been worried about being recognized by him.
  
  "Are you sure, Lieutenant?" Burke asked quietly.
  
  Monty nodded. "The hair looks darker here..." A bad dye job would explain the weird orange color. "But that's her."
  
  "You've met Simon Wolfgard. Do you think he'd hand her over to you?"
  
  Human law didn't apply in the Courtyards—or anywhere beyond the land the humans had been allowed to lease from the terra indigene in order to have farms and cities—and it never applied to the Others. But Simon Wolfgard ran a business and had no tolerance for thieves. Would that make a difference?
  
  "I can stall putting out copies of this poster," Burke said, "but I'm sure every police station received it and every other captain is going to be handing out copies to his men. So if I'm going to be the only captain defying a direct order from the mayor to apprehend this woman, you'd better give me a reason I can take to His Honor."
  
  "I'd like to make a copy of this and take it to Mr. Wolfgard," Monty said. "I'll show it to him and let him decide."
  
  "Just remember, that woman is the only one who knows where the stolen property is hidden. We need a live person, not a DLU. Make sure he understands that."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "Get your copy made and keep me informed."
  
  Monty took the poster, made his copy, and returned the original to Burke. When he finished, he found Kowalski leaning a hip against his desk.
  
  "We're going to the bookstore," Monty said.
  
  "Going to ask about the Wolf sightings?" Kowalski asked.
  
  Monty carefully folded the Most Wanted poster into quarters and tucked it in the pocket of his sports jacket. "Something like that."
  
  As they drove to Howling Good Reads, Monty considered various ways to approach Simon Wolfgard with this information. He didn't know if there was a way to get the result the mayor and governor wanted, but he did know one thing: if the Others chose not to cooperate, that Most Wanted poster could be as dangerous to the humans in Lakeside as barrels of poison were to another city a couple generations ago.
  
  Simon pulled all the slips of paper out of the envelope and arranged them on the counter according to gard . Most were book orders from the terra indigene settlements that were serviced by the Lakeside Courtyard. A few were orders that he'd pass along to other stores in the Market Square.
  
  Like telephones, electronic mail through the computers was a useful way to communicate when information had to travel from one Courtyard to another quickly or when dealing with humans. But terra indigene who didn't have to deal with the monkeys had only a passing interest in electrical things, so a territory that covered three times the area of the city of Lakeside might have a dozen buildings that had phone lines and the electricity for computers. Except in emergencies, most Others still used paper when sending an order or request to a Courtyard.
  
  A Little Bite always did a brisk business on Moonsday mornings, but HGR was usually quiet until lunchtime, which was why he set aside this time for filling orders. Retrieving a cart from the back room—and taking a moment to make sure Heather was actually working and not curled up somewhere in an effort to hide from him—Simon returned to the front of the store. After a quick scan of titles, he rolled the cart to the new-books display and filled the top shelf with a handful of each book. Then he rolled the cart back to the counter, picked up the first slip of paper, and began filling the order.
  
  "Rubber bands," he muttered. Rubber bands were small, useful items and were a perk that came with placing an order. Even if only one book was ordered, he sent it out with a rubber band around it.
  
  Before he could vault back over the counter to get the bag of rubber bands, the door opened and Lieutenant Montgomery walked in.
  
  The lieutenant and his men had been very much in sight since that first meeting last Thaisday. Not a dominance challenge or anything foolish like that. More like a quiet version of a Wolf howl—a way to say we are here. Kowalski had come in and bought a couple of the horror books the day after the arguments had closed HGR and A Little Bite.
  
  Simon wasn't sure Kowalski or his female was interested in those kinds of books or if it had been an excuse to look around. He had a feeling the police officer had been as relieved not to see any fresh bloodstains as the other customers were disappointed by that lack of excitement.
  
  The lieutenant approached the counter. "Mr. Wolfgard."
  
  "Lieutenant Montgomery." Simon absorbed the look on the face, the expression in the dark eyes, and the smell of nerves that wasn't quite fear. "You aren't here to buy a book."
  
  "No, sir, I'm not." Montgomery pulled a piece of paper out of his sports coat pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the counter between them. "I came to show you this."
  
  His mind took in the words most wanted and grand theft, but what he saw was the picture of Meg.
  
  He didn't realize he was snarling until Montgomery eased away from him, a hand brushing the overcoat and sports jacket out of the way in order to reach the gun. Knowing what he would do if the hand touched the gun, he stared hard into Montgomery's eyes. The man instinctively froze, not even daring to breathe.
  
  Satisfied that Montgomery wouldn't do anything foolish—at least not right now—Simon looked at the poster again.
  
  "It's not a fuzzy picture," he said after a moment. "So why is there no name?"
  
  Montgomery shook his head. "I don't understand."
  
  "I watch your news shows sometimes. When you catch a picture of someone stealing in a store or bank and don't know them, the picture is fuzzy. When you have a picture like that"—he pointed at the poster—"the police always know the name of their prey."
  
  He'd known she was running from someone. He'd known Meg Corbyn wasn't her name. He should have let her freeze in the snow instead of taking her in. But now that she was in, what happened to her was his decision.
  
  "Why is there no name?" Simon asked again.
  
  He watched Montgomery study the poster and smelled the man's uneasiness.
  
  "Looks like an ID photo, doesn't it?" Montgomery said softly. "Like a driver's license photo or..." He reached into a pocket, pulled out the leather holder, and flipped it open to show his own ID. Then he put the holder back in his pocket. "If someone could supply that kind of photo, why wouldn't they be able to supply the name?"
  
  Simon was going to get an answer to that question. He'd decide later if that answer was something he would share with humans.
  
  Taking the poster, he refolded it and slipped it into his trouser pocket. "I'll talk to the members of our Business Association. If we have any information about this person, we'll let you know."
  
  "I must emphasize that we're looking to apprehend and question this person about the theft."
  
  Simon smiled, deliberately showing his teeth—especially the canines that he hadn't been able to get all the way back to human size. "I understand. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Lieutenant Montgomery. We'll be in touch."
  
  Dismay. Worry. But Montgomery had sense enough to walk out of the store without further argument. There was nothing the police could do about whatever happened in the Courtyard.
  
  He waited a few moments, then called Vlad.
  
  "Simon," Vlad said. "Nyx and I need to talk to you."
  
  "Later," Simon replied, trying not to snap. "The Business Association has something to discuss. I need you to call them. I want everyone who's available in the meeting room in an hour. And call Blair and Jester. I want them there too. And a representative from the Owlgard, Hawkgard, and Crowgard."
  
  "Anyone else?" Vlad asked quietly.
  
  He knew why Vlad asked the question, just like he knew which group of terra indigene was being left out of this discussion. But they were never interested in such things.
  
  "No, that should be sufficient," Simon said.
  
  "In an hour, then. But, Simon, we still need to talk. It's important."
  
  Simon hung up. Then he shouted for Heather, passing her on his way to the stockroom. "Man the register and work on filling the orders. Call John. Tell him to come in."
  
  He put on his coat and boots for the walk to the Liaison's Office. That was acting civilized and controlled. If he didn't stay in control...
  
  She lied to him.
  
  ... he was going to shift to Wolf, and they would never be able to clean up the blood well enough to hire someone else after he tore her throat out so she couldn't lie to him anymore.
  
  The office's back door wasn't locked, so he slipped inside, removed his boots, and padded across the back room in his socks. He could hear low music even through the closed door that connected to the sorting room. As he entered the room, he saw Meg take a CD out of the player and say, "I don't like that music."
  
  "Then why listen to it?" he asked.
  
  She whirled around, wobbling to keep her balance. She put the CD back in its case and made a notation on a notebook sitting next to the player before answering him. "I'm listening to a variety of music to discover what I like."
  
  Why don't you know what you like?
  
  "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wolfgard? Today's mailbag hasn't arrived yet, but there are a few pieces of old mail. I put them in HGR's spot." She indicated the cubbyholes in the sorting room's back wall. "Also, I'm still not clear if the ponies deliver mail to the Market Square businesses or if someone from the businesses is supposed to stop in for that mail."
  
  Right now he didn't care about the mail or packages or any other damn monkey thing.
  
  He took the poster out of his pocket, opened it, and set it on the table. "No more lies," he said, his voice a growl of restrained menace. "What happens next will depend on whether you answer two questions honestly."
  
  She stared at the poster. Her face paled. She swayed, and he told himself to let the bitch fall if she fainted.
  
  "He found me," she whispered. "I wondered after the other night, but I thought... hoped..." She swallowed, then looked at him. "What do you want to know?"
  
  The bleakness in her eyes made him just as angry as her lies.
  
  "What was your name, and what did you steal?" Couldn't have been a small thing. They wouldn't be hunting for her like this if it was a small thing.
  
  "My name is Meg Corbyn."
  
  "That's the name you took when you came here," he snapped. "What was it before?"
  
  Her expression was an odd blend of anger and pride. It made him wary because it reminded him that she was inexplicably not prey.
  
  "My designation was cs759," she said.
  
  "That's not a name!"
  
  "No, it isn't. But it's all they gave me. All they gave any of us. A designation. People give names to their pets, but property isn't deserving of a name. If you give them designations instead of names, then you don't have to think about what you're doing to them, don't have to consider if property has feelings when you..."
  
  Her eyes stayed locked on his, despite her sudden effort to breathe.
  
  Simon stayed perfectly still. If he moved, fangs and fury would break loose. What did they do to you, Meg?
  
  "As for what I stole, I took this." She pulled something out of her pocket and set it on the wanted poster.
  
  He picked it up. Silver. One side was decorated with pretty leaves and flowers. The other side had cs759 engraved into it in plain lettering. He found the spot that accommodated a fingernail and opened the thing to reveal the shining blade of a thin razor.
  
  He had seen one of these twenty years ago. Seeing another one now made him shiver.
  
  "It's pretty, but it can't be worth all that much." His voice sounded rough, uncertain. He felt as if he'd been chasing a rabbit that suddenly turned into a Grizzly. Something wasn't right about this. So many things weren't right about this.
  
  "By itself, it probably isn't worth much," Meg replied. "The second thing I stole is this." She pulled off her sweater and tossed it aside. She pushed up the left sleeve of the turtleneck until it was above her elbow. Then she held out her arm.
  
  He stared at the evenly spaced scars.
  
  An old woman, her bare arms browned by the sun so the thin scars showed white, sitting behind a little table where she set out cards and told fortunes to earn the money that paid for her room and board. A little community of humans who eked out a living at the edge of an earth-native settlement that amused itself by taking tourists into the wilds for pictures and stories and sometimes even movies that would be shown in theaters. Some taught the Others basic skills like weaving or carpentry. Some assisted with the tours. And there were always a few who were looking for an excuse to die and were just biding their time, knowing the Wolves and Grizzlies would oblige them eventually.
  
  She sat there in the baking sun, her head covered by a straw hat, smiling at the youngsters, human and Other, who laughed at her as they went by in their various groups.
  
  But he hadn't laughed, hadn't walked by. The scars intrigued him, bothered him. The look in her eyes unnerved him. And then...
  
  "Not much good skin left, but this was meant for you..."
  
  The silver razor flashed in the sun as she took it from the pocket of her dress. A precise cut on her cheek, its distance from an existing scar the width of the blade.
  
  What he saw that day, what she said that day, had shaped his life.
  
  "Blood prophet," Simon whispered as he continued to stare at Meg. "You're a cassandra sangue."
  
  "Yes," she replied, lowering her arm and pushing down her sleeve.
  
  "But... why did you run? Your kind live in special places. You're pampered, given the best of..."
  
  "Whether you're beaten or pampered, fed the best foods or starved, kept in filth or kept clean, a cage is still a cage," Meg said with fierce passion. "We are taught what the Walking Names want us to know because what good is a prophet if she can't describe what she sees? We sit in classrooms, day after day, looking at pictures that describe things that exist in the world, but we're never allowed to know one another, never allowed to have friends, never allowed to speak unless it's part of an exercise. We are told when to eat, when to sleep, when to walk on the treadmill for exercise. They even schedule when we take a shit! We are alive, but we're never allowed to live. How long would you last if you were kept like that?"
  
  She was shaking. He couldn't tell if she was cold or upset, even when she retrieved the sweater and put it on.
  
  "Why don't more of you run away?" he asked.
  
  "I guess living in a cage and not having a name doesn't bother most of them. Besides, where would they go?" She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Will you let me stay until dark? I might be able to slip past whoever the Controller sent after me if I can stay here until dark."
  
  Simon tipped his head, struggling to understand her. "You're going to run again?"
  
  Now she looked at him. "I would rather die than go back there."
  
  A quiet statement. The honesty scared him because there was a little too much Wolf in her voice when she said those words. She wasn't terra indigene, but she also wasn't human like other humans. She was a confusion, and until he understood more, all he had to work with was instinct.
  
  A few days ago, she came looking for a job because she wanted to live. If that wasn't true, she would have gone to sleep in a snowbank somewhere. Now she was willing to die?
  
  He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.
  
  He pocketed the silver razor and the wanted poster.
  
  "The razor is mine," she protested.
  
  "Then you'll have to stay until I give it back."
  
  "Mr. Wolfgard..."
  
  "You're staying, Meg," he snarled. "Until I say different, you're staying." He heard a truck pull in, then another. "You've got work."
  
  As he passed through the back room, he grabbed his boots but didn't stop to put them on. Instead, he ran back to HGR.
  
  Cs759. The meaning of the letters was clear enough. He didn't want to think about the significance of the number.
  
  That Controller was trying to set the police on her trail. Were other kinds of hunters searching for Meg? Was it a hired predator who had tried to break in the other night?
  
  After telling John and Heather he was back, he went up to his office and put on dry socks. While he waited for the members of the Business Association to arrive for the meeting, he stared out the window that gave him a view of the Liaison's Office.
  
  Power. When the terra indigene dealt with humans, it always came down to power and potential conflict.
  
  He was the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard and what he wanted would carry weight, but this choice was too big for him to make alone.
  
  Meg turned off the CD player. There was no point in playing music to learn what she liked. Instead, she pulled mail out of the last old sack and tried to keep her mind on sorting it, on finishing something before she herself was finished.
  
  A white room and one of those awful beds. And Simon Wolfgard. She had seen those things in the prophecy that had revealed her own future.
  
  Was he going to hand her over to the Controller, maybe even barter for some prophecies? Or now that he knew what she was, would he do the same thing the Controller had done? Would he know how? Was that why she'd seen the bed that was used when the girls were bound for the most intimate kinds of cuts?
  
  She focused so hard on not thinking about what Simon would decide, she jolted when she heard the neighing outside the sorting room's outside door.
  
  "Oh, gods," she muttered, glancing at the clock. She'd meant to run over to the grocery store for carrots or apples. No time to do that now. "Just a minute," she yelled when the neighing became a chorus. She could imagine what Elliot Wolfgard would say about the noise if the workers at the consulate were disturbed.
  
  Rushing into the back room for her coat, she looked around for something that would serve as a treat. She didn't want to think about the reaction the ponies would have if she didn't have something for them.
  
  The only things in the kitchen area besides a jar of instant coffee and bags of herbal tea were a box of sugar lumps, a box of crackers, and a storage tin that held an open package of chocolate cookies.
  
  She shrugged into her coat, grabbed the box of sugar lumps, then rushed to open the door, because the next chorus of neighs was now accompanied by the cawing of the Crows.
  
  "I'm here, I'm here," she panted as she got the door open, set the box on the sorting table, grabbed the first stack of mail, and began filling the baskets.
  
  The ponies shifted, jostled, nipped at her coat in a way that made her think of a child tugging on an adult's sleeve in a bid for attention.
  
  She didn't have enough mail sorted to fill the baskets for the eight ponies who had shown up, but she made sure they all had something to carry. Then she opened the box of sugar lumps.
  
  "A special Moonsday treat," she said, holding out two lumps to Thunder. He took them happily. They all did. So happily, in fact, they all tried to get in line again for another serving.
  
  When she closed the box and waved bye-bye, they all stared at her—and the box—for a long moment before trotting off to deliver the mail.
  
  Sighing and shivering, Meg closed the door, returned the sugar to the cupboard in the back room, and continued with her work.
  
  The Business Association's meeting room had a ring of wooden chairs set around a low, round sectional table. It also had a secretary desk and filing cabinets, as well as a computer on another desk that could be used for e-mail or placing orders with human companies.
  
  Since the Business Association's office filled the other half of HGR's second floor, Simon was the first to arrive. He chose a seat and waited through the usual shuffling for position that took place because the bird gards wouldn't willingly sit next to one another and none of them wanted to sit next to the Sanguinati.
  
  Vlad and Nyx arrived a minute after he did. Everyone else came in a moment later, leaving their outer garments on the coatrack in the small waiting room and delaying their entrance long enough for the Sanguinati to choose their seats.
  
  Vlad sat next to him and Nyx sat on Vlad's right. From there, the chairs around the table filled in—Jester, Blair, Jenni Crowgard, Tess, Julia Hawkgard, and Henry. Allison Owlgard took the last chair.
  
  Jenni was part of the Business Association, but Julia and Allison weren't. Which meant the leaders of their gards had probably chosen them as representatives because they did work around or in the businesses that had contact with humans.
  
  "We're all here, Simon," Henry said in a quiet rumble.
  
  "Lieutenant Montgomery came to see me this morning," Simon said.
  
  "We stayed on our own land yesterday," Blair growled. "Or on the sidewalks that butt up against it, which are considered public property. The humans have no cause for complaint about that."
  
  "I heard some youngsters had fun digging in the compost pile," Jester said. "Could someone have reported that?"
  
  Blair shook his head. "That's technically our land, but we let the Lakeside parks and utilities people use it too. Both sides add to the compost piles and can make use of the material. The park and utility workers don't mind us digging. Saves them some work turning the piles. Besides, the youngsters didn't have that much fun with it. The stuff is frozen just like everything else right now."
  
  "He wasn't here about our being seen or about the compost," Simon said. Shifting his hip, he pulled out the paper and razor from a pocket. He opened the paper and set it in the center of the round table.
  
  "Oh," Jenni said, sounding pleased. "The Meg looks more like a Crow in that picture."
  
  Jester sat back, as if he wanted distance from the poster. Vlad shifted uneasily, and Nyx was unnervingly still. Tess's hair turned green and began curling wildly.
  
  Blair's eyes were filled with hot anger, but his voice was quiet when he asked, "What did she steal?"
  
  "This." Simon set the silver razor, designation side up, on the poster.
  
  "Shiny!"
  
  Jenni made a grab for the razor, then jerked her hand back when Blair turned his head and snapped at her. She made a show of holding her hand protectively against her chest and leaning toward Tess.
  
  Henry leaned forward. "What is cs759?"
  
  "Her designation." Simon hesitated. "Meg is a cassandra sangue."
  
  "A blood prophet?" Jester said. "Our Liaison is a blood prophet?"
  
  Simon nodded. "She ran away from the place where she was kept. That's how she ended up here."
  
  "It's rare for them to be out in the world," Henry said thoughtfully. "We know little about her kind of human because so few of them are out in the world. I wonder if Meg doesn't smell like prey because she is a different kind of human."
  
  "I don't think the Owlgard knows much about them except for a few rumors, and those always make them sound special and pampered," Allison said.
  
  "Caged. She said they were caged," Simon said. After a moment he added, "She said she would rather die than go back there."
  
  An awkward silence. Caging a terra indigene was considered an act of war—which was why keeping Sam in a cage for the pup's own safety was killing Simon a little more every day.
  
  "Did you see any scars?" Nyx asked.
  
  He nodded. "On her left arm, above and below the elbow. Evenly spaced."
  
  Jester blew out a breath. "Meg is the first decent Liaison we've ever had in this Courtyard—at least since I've been living here. But if the police have this poster and are showing it to you, they know she's here. Do we want to get into a fight with them over another human? We don't even know enough about blood prophets to know if it's worth the fight."
  
  Tess suddenly shifted in her chair—a jerky, angry movement. Her hair was now bloodred with green streaks and black threads.
  
  Jenni looked at Tess, let out a caw, and scooted her chair as close to Blair's as she could.
  
  "Don't ask me how I know these things," Tess said in a rough voice. "Just know that they are true."
  
  "Tell us," Simon said, struggling not to make any changes that would look aggressive.
  
  "Cassandra sangue," Tess said. "Blood prophet. A Thousand Cuts. Apparently, someone determined that was how many could be gotten out of one of these girls. The distance between cuts is precise. Too close and the prophecies... smudge. Too much space and skin is wasted. A precise cut with a very sharp blade to produce the euphoria and the prophecies. The girls become addicted to the euphoria, crave it beyond anything else. Which is what kills them in the end. Unsupervised, they might cut too deep or nick a vein and bleed out while their minds are within the euphoria and prophecies. Or they cut too close and the mixed prophecies drive them insane. However it happens, most of them die before they're thirty-five years old."
  
  "Then the caging is done as a kindness?" Henry asked, sounding reluctant.
  
  "You'd have to ask someone who has lived in that kind of cage," Tess said. "While she has any skin that can be cut, Meg is a valuable asset to someone—a source of potential wealth to someone. Like every other kind of creature, the cassandra sangue have different levels of ability. A cut on a thick-skinned, thickheaded clunker is still worth a couple hundred dollars. A sensitive skin, combined with intelligence that has been educated? Depending on what part of the body is being cut for the prophecy, you're talking about anywhere from a thousand dollars a cut to ten thousand or more."
  
  Blair whistled. "That raises the stakes."
  
  Simon looked at the people around the table. Yes, that raised the stakes. Meg could be worth thousands of dollars to the human who had controlled her.
  
  What is she worth to us?
  
  "I gather the reason you called us here was because of the potential fight if we allow Meg to stay," Vlad said.
  
  Simon nodded.
  
  "Then Nyx and I would like to add some information that the rest of you need before you make a decision." Vlad looked at Nyx, who nodded. "Meg met Grandfather Erebus."
  
  Everyone jerked in their chairs.
  
  "She came by delivering packages," Nyx said, "and she fretted over one that wouldn't fit in the boxes. It had been in the office for a while, so she didn't want to take it back, and she wouldn't leave it in the snow the way other humans would have done. So Grandfather gave her permission to enter the Chambers and place the box in front of his door. It turned out to be the box of old movies he'd been waiting for these past few months."
  
  "He has decreed that the sweet blood may enter the Chambers to deliver packages, that the Sanguinati will do nothing to harm or frighten the sweet blood within the Chambers or anywhere else in the Courtyard," Vlad said.
  
  "Sweet blood?" Simon said. "Does he know she's a cassandra sangue?"
  
  Vlad shrugged. "Does it matter? There is a sweetness about her that appeals to him, and he's made it clear what he expects from his own as far as Meg is concerned."
  
  Simon didn't comment. Meg had an annoying appeal, but he wouldn't call her sweet. Puppylike in some ways, which would interest Wolves, but definitely not sweet.
  
  Now Julia and Jenni shifted in their chairs.
  
  "She met the girl at the lake," Julia said.
  
  Jester whined.
  
  "Which one?" Blair asked.
  
  "Which one would be out there skating, wearing nothing but a short-sleeved white dress and shoes?" Julia replied.
  
  "Winter," Simon breathed. "Meg talked to Winter?"
  
  "The Hawks and Crows were warned off. Apparently, the Elemental didn't want to share the conversation. We don't know what was said, but she and the Meg chatted for a while, and then the Meg left."
  
  So at least one of the Elementals also had an interest in Meg. And Winter, if provoked, could be a terrifying bitch even for other terra indigene.
  
  They looked at one another. Then they all turned to him and nodded.
  
  "Meg stays," Simon said in confirmation. "And we'll make sure Meg—and the police—know we consider her one of us now."
  
  "How are you going to do that?" Tess asked as the black threads faded from her hair.
  
  Simon picked up the razor and the wanted poster. "With a slight change of address."
  
  Meg didn't need to see the deliveryman suddenly tense to know Simon was standing in the Private doorway. When the man left, she continued to stare out toward the street rather than look at the Wolf.
  
  "Should I close up the office?" she asked.
  
  "The office is closed from noon until two p.m., and it's almost noon," Simon said. "So, yes, you should close up until you reopen for afternoon hours."
  
  Now she turned to look at him. "I can stay?"
  
  "With some changes."
  
  "What kind of changes?"
  
  "Close up, Meg. Then we'll talk."
  
  She closed up the office, put on her coat and boots, then followed him out the back door, which he locked before she could pull out her keys.
  
  He led her to a BOW parked near the door and stuffed her into the passenger's seat. By the time she got herself sorted out, he was behind the wheel and headed into the Courtyard.
  
  She started to ask again what changes she had to make, but he was frowning more and more. Then he hit the brakes, and the BOW slid sideways before it stopped.
  
  Those amber eyes stared at her. The frown deepened. "How were you taught things in that place where you were kept?"
  
  She noticed he didn't say where she had lived. At least he understood that distinction. "We were shown pictures. Sometimes drawings, sometimes photographs. We watched documentaries and training films. Sometimes scenes from movies. After we were taught to read, we were given reading assignments, or an instructor would read aloud. Or we read aloud in order to learn how to speak properly and pronounce words." And there were things that had been done to them "for the experience," or things they had been made to watch being done to a girl who was used-up or too deficient to earn her keep through the cutting.
  
  Simon's frown deepened a little more. "You took the BOW out the other day. How did you learn to drive?"
  
  "It's not that hard," she muttered. Then she added defensively, "At least I didn't slide like you just did."
  
  He straightened the BOW and continued down the road. "You weren't taught to drive. Were you taught to do anything except speak prophecies?"
  
  "You aren't dependent on your keepers if you can do for yourself," she replied quietly.
  
  The sounds he was making were terrible and frightening. When he glanced at her, he stopped the sounds, but in the moment when his eyes met hers, she saw a queer red flicker in the amber.
  
  "Where are we going?" she asked. It looked like they were headed for the Green Complex. A minute later, he pulled into a parking space across the road from the complex.
  
  "This is guest parking or temporary parking," Simon said as he got out of the BOW. When she joined him, he pointed to a lane that ran alongside the U-shaped building. "That leads to the garages and resident parking. The morning bus wouldn't get you to work on time, so you need to use the Liaison's BOW—once you learn to drive."
  
  "I can drive," she protested. "At least, going forward."
  
  He stared at her. "You can't back up?"
  
  She didn't answer.
  
  "Right. We'll drive to work together for a few days."
  
  "But..."
  
  "You can't stay in that efficiency apartment over the shops, Meg. You're too vulnerable there. So if you're going to stay and be our Liaison, you're going to live here."
  
  "Here? But this is inside the Courtyard. Humans don't live here."
  
  "You do."
  
  There was a finality to the way he said the words, the way he took her arm and led her across the road. She'd seen some of the Green Complex when Tess brought her here to wash her clothes.
  
  Out of sight. Out of reach. Safe.
  
  "Second floor," he said, leading her to a stairway. The porch had latticework on both sides and along half the front. She guessed it would provide shade, shelter, and some privacy in the summertime. And some shelter from the snow now.
  
  He pulled a set of keys out of his coat pocket, opened the door, and stepped aside.
  
  She stepped on a welcome mat, toed off her boots, and placed them on a cracked boot mat. Then she looked around.
  
  Big living room. Natural wood and earth tones. Some furniture that didn't fill the space, but was as much as she had in the efficiency. She glanced back at Simon. He stayed near the door, an unreadable look on his face. Hesitantly, she explored.
  
  Two bedrooms. One was empty; the other had a double bed that had been stripped and a dresser. The bathroom looked modestly clean, and the kitchen had a pleasant, airy feel and included a dining area. It also had a door that led to an interior landing and a back staircase that went down to an outer door—both of which were shared with the apartment next to hers.
  
  "Acceptable?" he asked when she returned to the living room.
  
  "Yes. Thank you."
  
  He turned his head toward the door, listening for a moment before nodding. "Some females will help you make your den human clean. I'll drive you back to the office in time for the afternoon deliveries."
  
  When he opened the door, she heard Merri Lee and Jenni Crowgard talking as they came up the stairs.
  
  "Mr. Wolfgard?" she said before he stepped out the door. "I noticed the kitchen door shares a landing. Who lives in the other apartment?"
  
  He gave her a long look. "I do."
  
  Then he was gone, and Merri Lee, Jenni, Allison Owlgard, and a young woman who introduced herself as Heather Houghton were piling in with food and cleaning supplies. By the time they all piled out again to go back to their usual jobs, the only thing left for her to do was bring over her clothes and the bits and pieces she had acquired.
  
  Simon was waiting at the bottom of the steps. As the women passed him, Jenni said, "The Meg didn't want to ask you, but there's no television or movie player here. Could she bring the one from the little apartment?"
  
  Simon stared at them, then at Meg. "Anything else?"
  
  "Meg likes books," Merri Lee replied cheerfully. "If there's a spare bookcase at the efficiency apartment, you could bring that too."
  
  "I didn't say... I wasn't asking..." Meg stammered.
  
  He took her arm and led her to the BOW. The other women piled into the one parked beside his, Merri Lee in the driver's seat, Heather beside her, and Jenni and Allison curled in the back. They took off while Simon watched them.
  
  Shaking his head, he opened the passenger's door and, once again, stuffed Meg inside. Getting in the driver's side, he said, "Merri Lee doesn't drive any better than you do."
  
  "I drive just fine," Meg snapped.
  
  "Considering you don't know how." He pulled out of the parking space and sent the BOW flying down the road at a speed she wouldn't have considered.
  
  Folding her arms, she stared out the side window and muttered, "Bad Wolf."
  
  His only response was to burst out laughing.
  
  Monty followed the man named John up the stairs and down a hallway to the door that had OFFICE painted in black letters on frosted glass. John knocked, swung open the door, and retreated.
  
  "Come in, Lieutenant," Simon said, rising from the chair behind an executive's desk made of a dark wood.
  
  The quick glance he allowed himself before giving the Wolf his complete attention gave him the impression of a typical office—desk with phone, computer, trays for paperwork; a large calendar that also served as a blotter and a protection for the wood. There were filing cabinets along one wall, and a lack of anything personal—no photographs or even framed prints—but some men preferred an austere work environment, so that wasn't altogether out of the ordinary. The only thing in the room that wasn't typical of a human businessman's office was the pile of pillows and blankets in one corner.
  
  "I appreciate you responding so promptly," Simon said.
  
  "Frankly, Mr. Wolfgard, I'm surprised you asked for me at all," Monty replied. Something about those amber eyes. They were more feral now than they had been this morning, if that was possible.
  
  "I talked to the members of the Business Association, and we all agree that while the woman in the wanted poster bears a strong resemblance to our Liaison, they are not the same person."
  
  Monty opened his mouth to disagree, then realized there was no point. Wolfgard knew perfectly well Meg Corbyn was the woman on the wanted poster.
  
  "Furthermore," Simon continued, "it seems the police are not the only ones who have made that mistake. Late Watersday night, someone tried to break in to the efficiency apartments we keep over the seamstress/tailor's shop. He only got as far as breaking the lock on the outside door and climbing the stairs before being scared off by Henry Beargard."
  
  "You're sure it was one man?" Monty asked.
  
  "There might have been another waiting in the vehicle, but Henry smelled only one intruder."
  
  While Wolfgard's form didn't change, he wasn't making any pretense now at passing for human.
  
  "You didn't report the attempted break-in," Monty said, shoving his hands in his overcoat pockets to hide the trembling.
  
  "I'm reporting it now. A broken lock wasn't sufficient reason to trouble our friends in the police, but if it was an attempt to take our Liaison against her will, then it deserves everyone's attention. We have, of course, taken precautions. Meg Corbyn is now residing in the Green Complex, where safe access is only possible by prior arrangement. I live there. So does Vladimir Sanguinati and Henry Beargard."
  
  Message understood. No one who tried to reach Meg Corbyn when she was asleep or otherwise vulnerable would survive.
  
  "I'm sure Ms. Corbyn appreciates your interest in her well-being," Monty said.
  
  Simon barked out a laugh. "Not enough to notice." Then his face took on that feral look that was terrible to see on an otherwise human face. "Human law doesn't apply in the Courtyard, Lieutenant. No matter what anyone else thinks, Meg Corbyn is ours now—and we protect our own. You make sure you send that message back to whoever made the poster."
  
  "Do you know why someone is making so much effort to find her?"
  
  "It doesn't matter anymore."
  
  One other angle to try. "If the items that were stolen were returned, I don't think Ms. Corbyn would be of interest to—"
  
  Flickers of red in Wolfgard's amber eyes. When he spoke, Monty didn't think Simon was even aware of the way his voice snarled, "Meg is ours."
  
  Another message there—and a sudden suspicion that he might be dealing with something far more delicate and dangerous than he'd realized.
  
  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wolfgard." It was hard to do, but he turned his back on the Wolf and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.
  
  He didn't get all the way down the stairs when the howl came from the floor above him.
  
  He nodded to the pale young woman behind the counter and walked out of Howling Good Reads—and noticed how many people who had been browsing in the front of the store looked up and then headed for the checkout counter.
  
  Kowalski was waiting for him when he slid into the passenger's side of the patrol car. On the other side of the snow-shrunk parking lot was a van with FALLACARO LOCK & KEY painted on the sides.
  
  "Anything?" he asked as he adjusted his seat belt.
  
  Kowalski tipped his head toward the three men crowded around a glass door. "Break-in the other night. Broken lock. Intruder didn't get far enough to enter any of the apartments and take anything. Chris Fallacaro runs this side of the business. His father is semiretired, which I took to mean has some prejudice against the Others and doesn't take these particular service calls."
  
  "Does Mr. Fallacaro do any of the residential locks in the Courtyard?"
  
  Kowalski shook his head. "He's teaching a couple of the Others about replacing locks, and they've got their own key-cutting machine set up in their Utilities Complex. I had a chance to talk to him for a minute before the Others showed up. He says they don't quibble about a bill, pay in cash, and outside of crowding him to watch what he's doing and sniffing him—which can be unnerving because they can tell if he's been with his girlfriend or what his mother served for dinner the previous night—there's nothing hard about working with them."
  
  "If a key ever found its way into the wrong hands, that boy wouldn't survive a day," Monty said.
  
  "Oh, he knows that, Lieutenant. That's why he's very careful about handing over all the keys, and goes to their complex to help them make extra sets."
  
  "All right. Let's go back to the station. Looks like I'm going to spoil Captain Burke's afternoon."
  
  Monty watched his captain's expression turn stonier as he gave his report.
  
  "You really think they'll fight about this?" Burke asked.
  
  Monty nodded. "They'll fight."
  
  Burke leaned back in his chair. "You have any thoughts about why this woman is so important to them—or what she stole?"
  
  "Why do any of us bring a stray kitten into our home and feed it?" Monty replied. "It may have been no more complicated than that in the beginning, but now that someone has invaded their land to get to Ms. Corbyn, the Others are a lot more invested in keeping her." He paused, not sure how much to reveal about his own suspicions. "Something Simon Wolfgard said has been bothering me. If the victim of the theft knew who had taken the items and could give us what amounts to a photo ID for the wanted poster, why couldn't he supply a name? If this is some kind of corporate theft and Meg Corbyn was an employee, why weren't we told her name?"
  
  "You're edging toward a point. What is it?"
  
  "What if she didn't have a name? Or what if anonymity is for her own protection?"
  
  "Everyone has a—" Burke slowly sat forward.
  
  "From what I understand, those compounds are as well guarded as any Courtyard, and no one, including the clients who go to those places, really knows what goes on inside."
  
  Burke sighed. "We are standing on thin ice, Lieutenant, and if any part of what you've just implied is true, there are going to be some powerful people dropping boulders off a bridge, trying to hit the ice beneath your feet—and mine. Gods above and below, if our city government is seen to be on the wrong side of this argument, and our mayor, along with our jackass governor, has already put us on the wrong side by giving the order to circulate that wanted poster..."
  
  He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to. Finally, he pushed himself up. "I'd better talk to the chief and see what he can do about getting those posters off the streets before someone tries to make an arrest. What are you going to do?"
  
  "Talk to MacDonald and Debany when they come on shift and make sure they're aware of the potential conflict brewing. And I'm going to see if I can confirm or deny my suspicions about why Ms. Corbyn is so interesting to so many people."
  
  Monty hung up his overcoat and made himself a cup of green tea. Then he sat at his computer and spent the next couple of hours hunting for what little the police actually knew about the race of humans known as cassandra sangue.