Page 83 of Her Wolf

Moon dust

Finn had radioed almost every person on the cartel’s guard roster. No one had seen Lars. The only place left to check was the kitchen. He moved past a steady stream of waiters — some with crates of alcohol to restock the bars, others bearing trays of bite-sized desserts.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he ripped off his mask so he could better scan the interior.

The kitchen looked like a kicked over ant nest. Penguin-suited staff bustled across his field of view, an impossible din of shouts and clashing crockery filling the air.

He grabbed the first person who wasn’t moving past him at full tilt, and pulled her to the side.

“You seen someone wearing one of these?” he yelled over the noise as he hoisted his mask for the woman to see. “Tall, blond hair?”

She gave a quick nod. “Outside,” she yelled back, pointing across the kitchen.

Thank fuck.

Finn snatched his radio from his belt, lifting it to his lips. “Bravo, this is Mike, come in.”

He held the radio to his ear as he attempted to navigate his way through the kitchen without getting a pan, tray, knife or elbow in his stomach.

The saying, ‘bull in a china shop’ suddenly carried so much more significance to him.

“Bravo, come in for fuck’s sake!” Finn yelled into the radio. “Over!”

“This is Bravo,” came Bailey’s staticky response. “What’s going on, over?”

“Might have a lead on Lars. Checking the back of the kitchen, over.”

“Need me to get there, over?”

“No. Stay where you are.” He gritted his teeth. Worms moved under his skin. His eyes were agitated. And his beast had long since began pacing, claws tick-tick-ticking over the basement of his mind. “But if I don’t check in after five minutes, then you get down here. Over.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Finn clipped his radio back on his belt as he pushed open the door leading outside.

Full night had fallen, hardly dispelled by a full moon and a light dusting of stars.

“Lars?” Finn bellowed, scanning what little he could see. There was a light on outside the kitchen’s back door, but it highlighted little more than the front of an overflowing dumpster. “Lars!”

He moved to the left, but a wall soon cut him off. He turned back, about to head back inside the kitchen.

Lars had probably come outside to smoke a joint. Maybe the waitress had not seen him come back inside and cut through the kitchen. It was fucking busy in there, how could she? He had to be inside—probably jiving on the dance floor. He loved dancing after he’d smoked; said it was almost as good as getting high and fucking.

Pale moonlight gleamed off something, catching Finn’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, stepping to the right.

There, in a tangle of weeds on the other side of the chain-link fence spanning the hotel’s perimeter, lay an empty bottle of soda water.

“Lars?”

Finn hurried forward, and ducked his head around the corner.

His heart sunk into his feet, which was why they were suddenly so heavy and clumsy that he half-fell, half lunged forward.

Lars lay on his side, one hand outstretched, the other trapped under him.

Motionless.

Skin as gray as moon dust.

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