Page 8 of Junk Magic

And then it got better.

The clouds had been a low cover all day, making things feel a little claustrophobic even in the great outdoors. But they finally parted, sending beams of moonlight down onto the scene, almost like they were putting a spotlight on the camp. We laughed, every one of us, in a spontaneous chorus, because it was just too beautiful. One of the boys even held out a hand, as if trying to catch the rays streaming through his fingers.

And then they were off, transforming at almost the same time, as if choreographed. I felt Cyrus’s leg twitch under mine, and knew that he desperately wanted to run alongside them. But that he wouldn’t because of me.

“Go,” I said. “It’ll take me a while to clean up anyway.”

“You sure?” It was sober. Because Cyrus knew how much I wanted to run, too, but couldn’t. Thanks to a human father and a little thing called Neuri Syndrome, transforming was something I’d never be able to do. But that didn’t mean that I’d deprive him.

“I’m sure.”

He kissed me quick. “Camper’s not locked, but the door sticks.”

And then, before I could respond, a huge black and tan wolf was bounding away across the sand.

Chapter Three

I looked around and sighed. Cyrus had forgotten to strip first, and now his clothes were shredded, along with most of the boys’. Weres were hell on wardrobes.

I bundled the empty chip bags, beer bottles, condiments and used napkins into the now rags and let myself into the trailer. I was looking for a trash can—and was pleasantly surprised. Not only did I find one, and with an actual plastic liner no less, but there were other homey touches, too.

It made me smile to see them. Cyrus had an apartment downtown, giving him access to the guys he’d been fleecing at the gaming tables, because nobody cheats at cards like a Were. Their noses are better than a lie detector, sensing the nervous sweat of a mark a mile off.

But while it was a convenient base, the city always made him itch, like a wool coat that was two sizes to small, as he’d put it. He preferred to be out here, under the huge dome of the sky, unfettered and free. And while he could almost certainly have afforded a better bolt hole than this—he was a very successful card cheat—maybe he preferred something that helped him better connect with the boys.

I wondered if he realized that he was well on his way to forming his own little clan. There’s no such thing as a solitary Were; the “lone wolf” of legend goes against every instinct they have. And Cyrus’s longing for a home was palpable in everything from the chintz curtains at the kitchen window, printed with little Las Vegas signs, to the “who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” fridge magnet supporting a photo.

It was of him and the boys in some kayaks on what looked like the Colorado River. He’d somehow talked them into wearing life vests, and several had zinc covering their noses. It was frankly adorable, and no, I wasn’t saying that just because I was stupid about the guy.

Cyrus had started this whole thing with the outcast boys to help them and his brother. But it looked like it was helping him, too. Bad décor and all.

I finished doing the dishes that weren’t paper, tossed the rest, stripped and took a quick shower in the tiny plastic cubicle wedged into the hall beside the bedroom. Then I put on the nightie I’d brought in my saddlebags, because I was not afraid of the big bad wolf. Quite the contrary, I thought, grinning.

Full moon sex was the best sex.

And there was a bed, a big one that had somehow been shoved into the tiny back room where it took up most of the space. But it was comfy, and my full belly was working against me. I’d no sooner lay down on the soft, rumpled covers that smelled like Cyrus and home and clan than a yawn split my head. Damn it, this was no time to get sleepy! I wanted to stay awake, to finish tidying up, to wait for Cyrus, to—

The door handle jiggled.

“That was fast,” I called out. “I’m in the bedroom.”

The Winnebago creaked and groaned, but nothing else happened. The damned door must be stuck again. I sighed and got up, grabbing my coat out of the saddle bag because I hadn’t thought to bring a robe and it might be one of the boys.

Then I flung open the door.

And found a monster staring back at me.

It wasn’t a Were, even a transformed one. I didn’t know what it was. And I didn’t have time to find out. I had a split-second glimpse of a huge maw of razer-edged teeth, a pair of feverish yellow eyes, and a mass of matted gray fur.

And then it was on me.

The fact that it had to rip open the side of the trailer to get in told me it was big, but I couldn’t have said otherwise. Because it moved so fast that it might as well have been a cyclone tearing its way inside. The only saving grace was that I had grabbed that coat.

The long leather overcoats worn by the Corps aren’t only meant to hide all the weapons we carry around. They also provide protection, courtesy of the many spells woven into and layered on top of them. Like the ones that kept eight-inch claws out of my chest.

But that’s all they did. The repelling charms supposed to send an attacker flying did nothing, the shields I popped out as an instinctive response to danger did nothing, and the force of the attack sent me slamming back into the fake oak paneling above Cyrus’s dinette. Where I cut myself on the window glass that shattered behind me.

It fell everywhere, but I ignored it. I was already slinging spells and sending the animated weapons in my coat at whatever was trying to gut me—and trying hard. But I was trying, too, and a war mage about to die is motivated.

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