The Outlaw Demon Wails by Kim Harrison Page B

ones in bowls and called them eyeballs, stacked them up on our porches along with carved pumpkins, and generally tried to gross-out the human population that wouldn’t touch the no-longer-lethal red fruit.
    If I was stuck in my church for the night, I was going to be ticked.
    By the time I finished a quick morning prep and was headed for the kitchen, David was changed and at the table, with coffee brewing and two empty mugs waiting. The hat he had forgotten yesterday was beside him,and he looked good sitting there with a thick black stubble heavy on him and his long black hair loose and flowing. I’d never seen him so casual before, and it was nice.
    â€œâ€™Morning,” I said around a yawn, and he turned to acknowledge me. “Did you and the ladies have a good run?”
    He was smiling, his brown eyes showing his pleasure. “Mmmm. They headed home from here on paws, confident enough without me. That’s why I’m here, actually.”
    I sat at my spot at the table, the bright sun and the scent of coffee making my head hurt. There was a stack of late-night newspapers opened to the obituaries that I’d gone through before bed. There had been nothing obvious, but Glenn, my FIB contact, was running the three young witches I’d found there through their database to see if they were known acquaintances. One had died of a heart attack at age thirty, another of a brain aneurism, and the third of sudden appendicitis—which had once been a common, pre-Turn expression for a magic misfire. Soon as I got this morning’s edition, I’d pass any more likely candidates on to Glenn. He was working Halloween since he was a human and didn’t celebrate it; he policed it.
    â€œI thought you’d locked yourself out of your car,” I said, and he chuckled.
    â€œNo. I would have just run the rest of the way home if I had. I wanted to ask you about a pack tattoo.”
    My eyebrows rose. “Oh?” Most Were packs had a registered tattoo, but I hadn’t seen the need, and David was used to standing alone.
    Seeing my reluctance, David shrugged. “It’s time. Serena and Kally are confident enough to be on their own in fur, and if they don’t have a sign of pack recognition, someone might think they’re curs.” He hesitated. “Serena especially is getting cocky. And there’s nothing wrong with that. She has every right, but unless she has an obvious way to show her status and affiliation, someone will challenge her.”
    The coffeemaker finished with a hiss. I got up, eager for the distraction. I’d never given it much thought, but the tattoos that Weres decorated themselves with had a real and significant purpose. They probably preventedhundreds of skirmishes and potential injuries, allowing the multitude of packs that lived in Cincy to get along with minimal friction.
    â€œOkay,” I said slowly, pouring out the coffee into his mug first. “What were you thinking of?” I don’t want a tattoo. The damn things hurt!
    Clearly pleased, David took a mug when I came back and offered it. “They’ve put their heads together and came up with something with you in mind.”
    Images of broomsticks and crescent moons danced in my head, and I cringed.
    The Were leaned forward, the pleasant scent of musk giving away his eagerness. “A dandelion, but with black fluff instead of white.”
    Oh, cool , I thought, and seeing my reaction, David smiled with one side of his mouth. “I take it that’s okay, then?” he asked, blowing across his coffee.
    â€œI suppose I ought to get one, too?” I asked, worried.
    â€œUnless you want to be rude,” he admonished gently. “They put a lot of thought into it. It would mean a lot to them if you would.”
    A breath of guilt wafted through me, and I hid it behind a gulp of scalding coffee. I hadn’t done much with Serena and Kally. Maybe we could get our tattoos