Page 2 of Howl for the Gargoyle

"The magic is that Emmett terrifies me," I admitted to Theo, who grinned and nodded.

"He takes after his mother. Natalie loves a captive audience too. So you'll come?"

I nodded. I was greedy for time in the busy, loud, narrow little house at the edge of the city. Perhaps Theo knew, because he'd invited me after every weekly meeting this past month.

"Come on. I'll drive," Theo said, eyes lifted over my shoulder to wave at the crowd behind us.

Our meetings took place in a Boystown community center, with bright glass windows facing busy Clark Street. I pulled the hood of my coat up out of habit, ignoring the glare of the bright autumn sun. I didn't get recognized very often, but it was never a comfortable experience when it did happen.

"How's the band?" Theo asked as I followed him around the corner to the side street where he'd parked his car.

"Shit," I admitted. "The label is still pushing the tour, and I'm not ready."

"And the others?" Theo asked, a gentle reminder that there were others involved, as if I could forget.

My bandmates were dealing with their own fallout to my becoming a werewolf, their careers on hold while I tried to keep my head above water.

"Their patience is running out too," I said softly. "I think even Kiernan has started looking for other gigs."

"It bothers you," Theo noted.

"He has to work. I understand that," I said.

"You can understand it and be bothered."

We stopped at Theo's old Jeep, a mellow shade of gold, prone to acting up in traffic jams on the Dan Ryan. I glared at Theo as he rounded the hood of his Jeep, and he flashed an undisturbed grin at me. My lips twitched.

"Fine. I am understanding and angry that he'd consider leaving the band," I said.

The doors unlocked, and we both slid inside.

"I should tell Diane how much better you are at her job," I muttered, pulling the seatbelt on.

"Diane was my mentor when I started attending the group."

I stilled, watching him turn the key over in the ignition three times before the Jeep finally roared to life. "You never mentioned that."

"I was really young. It's been… It'll be twenty years this New Year’s," Theo said, gaze distant for a moment before he started to maneuver his beast of a car out of the tight spot.

It was Theo's story, offered shyly on my second visit to the support group, that had convinced me to keep attending.

Theo had been sixteen when he was bitten. It was New Year’s Eve and he'd had too much to drink, so instead of calling his parents or risking driving, he'd decided to cut through the woods between his friend's subdivision and his. He hadn’t remembered that it was the full moon, and by law, werewolves were required to seek secure locations for their transformations. But the one who'd bitten him had been loose in those woods, another teenager taking chances, an unfortunate circumstance between two people too young to feel the weight of consequences yet.

I wondered about the werewolf who bit me. Were they young? Had they been newly turned, not understanding what would happen? Was it my fault for not noting the calendar better, for building a running habit that left me vulnerable on full moons, for trusting that werewolves would follow the law to find shelter and that those rare, unfortunate incidents of someone being bitten were too statistically low for me to worry about?

Or had my instinct that night been right—had I been hunted down in the cemetery, targeted, terrified, and turned intentionally? Had the shivers running down my spine been a warning from my subconscious? Had the barely audible snarls I'd heard under my own panting breaths been a teasing hint, meant to unsettle me?

Theo's thoughts seemed to turn with mine. "Any news from the police?"

I shook my head. "They're not really looking."

"They are," Theo said, glancing at me as he drove. "They are. Ray is looking."

I ducked my head. Ray was the single werewolf officer assigned to my case, a fifty-plus-year-old silver wolf all set for retirement until I'd landed in his case files, bloodied and bitten and baffled. Theo was right—Ray gave a shit about me, about my case. He'd scented my torn clothes and the bite marks on my shoulder and ribs and hip. The sheer quantity of wounds was stronger proof that I'd been turned intentionally. He'd spent weeks digging through files. There simply wasn't anything to find.

"He calls to check in more than my dad," I admitted, flashing Theo a half smile.

"My parents didn't adjust until I was living on my own, really," Theo said.

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