remembered to bring your service revolver," he says, crawling around on hands and knees, studying carpet lint.
I study the way his ass wiggles.
Groan.
"It's hidden under my skirts," I adlib.
Well, something's hidden there, and it's always loaded and ready for action where he's concerned. Whoever, whatever he is, I can't help loving him, even though normally we fight like cats and dogs. Big surprise. It's not easy for either of us being married to our polar opposite, but there's no escaping it. Werewolves believe that for everyone there is a predestined life-mate. By some curious quirk of fate, he's mine.
"Good man." He rises to his feet and turns to face me. "I trust you also have your notebook. One never knows, this could be my greatest case yet. You'll want to keep a careful account, I'm sure, so you can write it up later."
Lucky me.
I tap my head with a forefinger. "I'm taking notes up here."
"Excellent. I can always count on you, can't I?"
"Always." And that at least is no lie.
Y'know, I wasn't certain before who, precisely, he thinks I am, but there's no doubt now, is there? The role he's assigned me is a prominent one. How touching.
A quick grin warms the cool gray of his gaze--warms me. I hate to admit it, but he's kind of fun this way, sharp as a razor but without the sharp temper of his former self. Hunter and I seldom saw eye to eye--canines and felines rarely do--we bickered as a matter of course. By comparison, his new character seems less abrasive, more civil, don't you think? If he were gay, I might possibly consider keeping him. But I'm pretty sure our relationship now, though close, is purely platonic. What a waste.
I follow his eyes as he scans our surroundings. The elegant entrance chamber of what appears to be a large, rich townhouse--in Victorian England, I assume. London probably. A logical deduction, right? All carved wood paneling and heavy drapes lit by oil lamps on marble-topped tables. His gaze pauses on a stairway at the far end of the foyer, then returns to mine.
"I've determined this is a house of ill repute," he announces. "A den of iniquity for men of high standing and low morals."
Marvy. I sniff the air and have to agree. Can't say I'm surprised either. I know a bit about history. More than a bit, but don't spread it around. It would ruin my image if word leaked out I'm a closet bookworm with a longtime love of nineteenth-century literature and the culture that produced it.
The Victorians were a stuffy, staid bunch, but only on the surface. Behind closed doors, they did a lot. There's a lot doing here. A sinister stink permeates the place. My werewolf nose, keen as a bloodhound's, separates the individual scents. Fancy booze and tobacco... the pungent smell of sex... and a sickly sweet odor I can't quite identify, but it makes my scalp tingle, sets off warning bells within me.
A drug?
My companion sucks in a deep breath, then coughs, scowls. "Opium smoke. How crass. I prefer cocaine myself, a seven-percent solution."
Zero-percent now. I know many drugs are legal and easily bought in this time period, but shifters, of any era, can't handle the heavy stuff. At all. We're cheap drunks with low tolerance for intoxicants in general. Hunter, in his magically metamorphosed state, may have a higher tolerance than usual, but I can't be sure of that, and I don't want to find out the hard way.
Time to go, I think.
"C'mon, ace, haven't you seen enough here?" I have. Smelled enough, too. "Let's scout outside." Where there's more air. "Don't you need to check the street for clues?"
I reach for his hand to usher him out--stumble and bump into a wall.
Whoa, who moved the floor?
Never mind, I've got my bearings again.
Several paces away looms a big blurry rectangle with a spot of brass sticking out of it. A front door if ever I've seen one.
"Forward, march!" I tug my charge toward our escape hatch.
He tugs back. "What on earth has gotten into you?"
Poppy fumes, I'm afraid.
Have I
I study the way his ass wiggles.
Groan.
"It's hidden under my skirts," I adlib.
Well, something's hidden there, and it's always loaded and ready for action where he's concerned. Whoever, whatever he is, I can't help loving him, even though normally we fight like cats and dogs. Big surprise. It's not easy for either of us being married to our polar opposite, but there's no escaping it. Werewolves believe that for everyone there is a predestined life-mate. By some curious quirk of fate, he's mine.
"Good man." He rises to his feet and turns to face me. "I trust you also have your notebook. One never knows, this could be my greatest case yet. You'll want to keep a careful account, I'm sure, so you can write it up later."
Lucky me.
I tap my head with a forefinger. "I'm taking notes up here."
"Excellent. I can always count on you, can't I?"
"Always." And that at least is no lie.
Y'know, I wasn't certain before who, precisely, he thinks I am, but there's no doubt now, is there? The role he's assigned me is a prominent one. How touching.
A quick grin warms the cool gray of his gaze--warms me. I hate to admit it, but he's kind of fun this way, sharp as a razor but without the sharp temper of his former self. Hunter and I seldom saw eye to eye--canines and felines rarely do--we bickered as a matter of course. By comparison, his new character seems less abrasive, more civil, don't you think? If he were gay, I might possibly consider keeping him. But I'm pretty sure our relationship now, though close, is purely platonic. What a waste.
I follow his eyes as he scans our surroundings. The elegant entrance chamber of what appears to be a large, rich townhouse--in Victorian England, I assume. London probably. A logical deduction, right? All carved wood paneling and heavy drapes lit by oil lamps on marble-topped tables. His gaze pauses on a stairway at the far end of the foyer, then returns to mine.
"I've determined this is a house of ill repute," he announces. "A den of iniquity for men of high standing and low morals."
Marvy. I sniff the air and have to agree. Can't say I'm surprised either. I know a bit about history. More than a bit, but don't spread it around. It would ruin my image if word leaked out I'm a closet bookworm with a longtime love of nineteenth-century literature and the culture that produced it.
The Victorians were a stuffy, staid bunch, but only on the surface. Behind closed doors, they did a lot. There's a lot doing here. A sinister stink permeates the place. My werewolf nose, keen as a bloodhound's, separates the individual scents. Fancy booze and tobacco... the pungent smell of sex... and a sickly sweet odor I can't quite identify, but it makes my scalp tingle, sets off warning bells within me.
A drug?
My companion sucks in a deep breath, then coughs, scowls. "Opium smoke. How crass. I prefer cocaine myself, a seven-percent solution."
Zero-percent now. I know many drugs are legal and easily bought in this time period, but shifters, of any era, can't handle the heavy stuff. At all. We're cheap drunks with low tolerance for intoxicants in general. Hunter, in his magically metamorphosed state, may have a higher tolerance than usual, but I can't be sure of that, and I don't want to find out the hard way.
Time to go, I think.
"C'mon, ace, haven't you seen enough here?" I have. Smelled enough, too. "Let's scout outside." Where there's more air. "Don't you need to check the street for clues?"
I reach for his hand to usher him out--stumble and bump into a wall.
Whoa, who moved the floor?
Never mind, I've got my bearings again.
Several paces away looms a big blurry rectangle with a spot of brass sticking out of it. A front door if ever I've seen one.
"Forward, march!" I tug my charge toward our escape hatch.
He tugs back. "What on earth has gotten into you?"
Poppy fumes, I'm afraid.
Have I
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