When I was finally able to move, I slid bonelessly back to the bed and tried to catch my breath. Clive pulled me in close, so my head was on his chest.
“Stay a little longer, love,” he mumbled. The sun had fully risen, and he was finally being pulled under.
Blowing out a breath, I gave myself a moment for my heart to slow down and then kissed his cheek. “Sleep well.”
I got cleaned up, put on my running leggings and a tight tee, strapped on my axe and sheath for those nasty fae assassin encounters that occasionally popped up, and zipped on a thin hoodie. The dwarf’s axe had been spelled to disappear when it was on me, only becoming visible when I pulled it out of its sheath. I scared fewer joggers that way.
Once my running shoes were on, I slapped my thigh and Fergus jumped up, ready to begin today’s adventure. He ran down the stairs in front of me, no doubt heading toward his water bowl before something distracted him.
I rounded the bottom of the stairs and saw him staring into the den, his tail wagging. “What is it, buddy?”
And then I saw it too. Two black eyes shining in the darkest corner of the room. My hand went to my axe handle and then I heard his voice.
“So jumpy. If he’s wagging his tail, why are you ready to chop off my head?” Vlad rolled his eyes. “You really need to pay closer attention to his body language.” He put aside the book he was reading and tapped his knee.
Fergus galloped across the room, trying his best to fit his huge body on Vlad’s lap.
“We’ve discussed this,” Vlad murmured, pushing my eight-month-old Irish Wolfhound, who was already tipping the scales at one hundred and ten pounds, back down. A lap dog Fergus was not, to his everlasting disappointment. “You may sit at my feet, like a dignified and loyal hound. You may not sprawl on my lap.”
Snickering, I filled up Fergus’ water bowl. “Good morning, Vlad. I have to ask. What are you doing here? I believe we gave you my old apartment to stay in.”
Looking every inch the lord of the manor, he sat back in the leather chair, his legs crossed and a hand resting on the top of Fergus’ head. “You did. I’ve run out of my own books and have come to read yours.”
“Run out? There are hundreds of books in that apartment.” I grabbed Fergus’ leash and he leapt to me, his body wiggling in anticipation.
Vlad smirked, using his knee as a bookmark. “I should clarify. I’ve read the few worth reading. I was looking for a good book.”
Irritated, I headed to the front door with Fergus dancing around me. “Those are fighting words, vampire. You’re lucky I have more important things to do right now.” I snapped on my pup’s leash. “Come on, little man. We don’t have to put up with this disrespect.”
I closed the front door on Vlad’s chuckle, slid my phone into the hip pocket on my leggings, and began an easy jog. I needed to let Fergus warm up. Wolfhounds weren’t long-distance runners, but he’d been my running buddy since we’d adopted him, so he was building up the endurance.
Turning right, we jogged, nice and easy, up the road, past ocean, bay, and Golden Gate Bridge lookouts. We bypassed a short gate, barring vehicles, and then sped along the Lands End trail.
This was basically our backyard, and he had favorite routes. I usually let him decide where we’d run. I just needed the exercise, being a werewolf and all. I didn’t care where we went.
When we came out in Sea Cliff, I thought he was heading to Owen and George’s, hoping for treats, but he just kept going, plunging us into the Presidio. I thought maybe he wanted to visit the stables and see the horses, but he kept going. When I saw the Palace of Fine Arts ahead, I made him veer off for a visit. Clive and I had been married here six months ago.
Not one to be dissuaded, he continued his run as the city began to wake. The bell of a cable car rang in the distance while we ran through the Marina District. For a minute, I wondered if he was headed to see the dragons, but he went right past Drake’s Treasures, the jewelry store owned by George’s family. George’s sister Coco lived above the shop. Fyr and his wolfhound Alice lived in the second apartment.
Fergus had stayed with them while Clive and I were in Budapest. Fyr had mentioned that the owner of a coffee shop around here liked to give the dogs treats when they visited, so I thought that was where we were headed, but no.
We went through Marina Green and then Fort Mason. Fergus was a dog on a mission. He kept us on the roads next to the water, but he wasn’t getting distracted by seagulls or the feral cats that liked to hang out down here.
When I heard the barking of the sea lions at Fisherman’s Wharf, I figured that was what had piqued his interest. He enjoyed watching them sunning themselves on the wide raft the city had provided. Occasionally Fergus would bark back at our huge local colony of mostly male sea lions. They were a fat and sassy bunch, enjoying the fish the tourists tossed at them.
He wasn’t headed to Pier 39, though. Instead, he brought us to the back of The Mermaid’s Bubble Lounge, a fae-run nightclub. Something felt wrong. While Fergus pulled me toward the front of the building, I heard voices crackling over radios and saw lights flashing on cars.
“Excuse me, miss. You can’t be here.” A young cop waved his arm, directing us to go around the cars. “That way, please. This is a crime scene. We can’t have you here.”
“Jimmy,” an older cop grumbled. “You don’t have to give them your life story. Just move them along.”
The young cop swallowed and nodded, waving me away again.
Fergus and I went around the patrol car. The smell of death, though, slowed my steps. I looked back and saw a woman on the ground, her head at an unnatural angle. She was dressed like me in running gear. Unlike me, she had two bloody bite marks on her neck, like a vampire had drained her dry without closing the wounds. Shit.
Fergus whined, not wanting to leave the woman behind. I was right there with him.
The older cop set up a screen, blocking the public from seeing the victim. Scents were hard to untangle at the wharf. There was just too much with the fish mongers setting up for the day, the coffee kiosks, the popcorn and churros carts, cars, people—washed and unwashed—beginning their day of sightseeing, restaurants cooking breakfast, other dogs and their people walking by. Through it all, though, the odor of death was strong, too strong for her murder to have been recent. My guess was she’d been dead for hours, probably killed late last night.
