“Morning, Pea. Nell,” Occam said. He handed me a travel mug of coffee and poured another for himself. He looked tired and disheveled, and when he yawned, his jaw cracked. He hadn’t shaved today, and the two-day beard looked good on him. I blinked at the thought, as he reached across for sugar packets, his shoulders stretching the plaid shirt and pulling it from his jeans to reveal a slice of flesh, tanned and golden. He tossed the packets on the table between us.
I sweetened my coffee and sipped, my attention now firmly on my mug. I wondered why I felt so out of sorts all of a sudden.
“Nell, sugar, I hope one of us got a good night’s sleep.”
“Not really. Why didn’t you—? Oh. The full moon’s close.” That explained a lot, including my sudden fascination with an inch of skin. I shook that thought from my head. “Weres don’t sleep well before the three days of full moon, do you?” I glanced at Pea. Had she been trying to saymoon?
Occam drank down half of the coffee in a single gulp and chuffed, a sound more catlike than human. He slid a hand through his hair, pulling it behind his ears, and drawled, “A lot of creatures are moon called, but we weres are the most affected by its phases.” His words, the shape of the syllables, were more Texan today, and the lower pitch of his voice sounded more cat than usual. I struggled to remember everything I had studied about weres in the full moon, but all I could think of was theglimpse of golden skin. I clamped down on the thoughts. Were-magics were well documented, even the unintended ones, like sexual allure.
Pea snuggled up under Occam’s jaw as if scent-marking him. Occam stroked down her back, the way one might a friendly house cat. “The urge to shift and to hunt waxes strong three days out, abides the three days of, and wanes three days after. Nine nights of pleasure and nine days of hell.” It sounded like a quote.
“Are you safe to be around?” I asked, making the words casual, but knowing it might be taken as an insult. I’d had a class in were-manners, but they differed by species, and cats were among the most prickly of them all.
“Not sure that I’m eversafe, Nell, sugar.” He sipped, his brownish eyes gripping me with the intensity of a cat watching a mouse, and taking on a glow, faint flecks of gold shining in his irises. “’Specially ’round the full moon.”
I looked away from his eyes. The color change there was dangerous. Occam had been raised in captivity in his cat shape, from the time he was ten years old, and he had less control than some. I’d learned that a color change or a glow meant that a were-creature was closer to shifting than might be healthy for bystanders.
Few other PsyLED units had were-creatures as members, and in private mentoring sessions, LaLa had warned me that I might have to defend myself on a full moon. LaLa had actually suggested that I keep one weapon loaded with silver, but silver could kill a werecat, and I wasn’t interested in that, no matter what happened. Pulling out and sliding into a chair at an angle, the table between us, I asked, “So you’re dangerous. Do I need to keep my weapon handy, Occam?”
He chuffed a laugh. “Nell, sugar, the proper response to an out-of-control were-creature is standard ammo, gunfire enough to knock them off course and sway any accidental lapses of control, but lemme guess.” Occam’s golden eyes went hard. “Privately you were told to use silver. Just in case.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “Kill you dead, just to be safe.”
“Hmmm,” he said, his tone lowered, a burr of sound, his eyes so heated that it felt like two torches burning into me. “You got your service weapon in your hand?” He sipped his coffee and waited. When I didn’t answer and the silence between us grew heavy, he said, “Safe... is overrated. Sometimes it’s better tolive dangerously.” When I still stayed silent—having been reminded of that trick by Daddy—Occam asked, sounding more like himself, “You got a quote for were-creatures?”
I lifted my chin and said, “He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.”
“I got no knowledge about the last two, but the first ones I can attest to.” He chuckled, the sound a low vibration that quivered along my spine. “But you’re more’n safe with me, Nell, sugar. Safer than a running deer or rabbit.”
“I ain’t never been a rabbit,” I said in church-speak. “And I figure Pea right there”—I nodded to his shoulder—“will rip out your’un throat if’n you decide to bite me.”
“And you’ll pull the trigger before I can get across the table,” he drawled. “Right?”
I pulled my weapon, racked back the slide, injecting a round into the chamber, and off-safetied, all in one slick motion. His eyes widened. “I will now,” I said. “Because I know when a cat is playing games with me, and I mean to stop it now, once and for all.”
Behind me, Rick said, “You playing games with the mouse, my brother?”
His voice was deeper too, and my skin prickled, rising in a tight chill. A faint sweat started, and I knew they could both smell the change on me. Both of them edged closer to me, a minuscule, almost silent shifting of feet on the floor. Was I in danger? I wondered if I’d really have to shoot them.
Over the loudspeakers, music flowed, saxophone and flute and the deep, distant notes of trombone. The melody swelled and fell like waves rolling on an ocean. Pea swiveled her head and stared at me, her eyes as green as her neon coat. The gold in Occam’s eyes was snuffed. He shook himself like a cat who had been thrown in a tub full of icy water. Rick shook himself, entered, and went to the coffeemaker. Occam offered Rick a cup of coffee and the boss accepted a mug from him, both guys dipping their heads in that peculiarly male manner of greeting. As if nothing had happened and they were just starting their day.
I blinked, unchambered the round, reset the mag, safetied, and holstered the gun. Because that was what I was supposed to do. But my insides were churning. Fear trickled through my arms and legs and out my boot soles into the floor. I thought to take a breath, and my ribs felt creaky with the motion. I was shaking slightly.
Tandy entered the break room, his ten-mil held at his side, and took a chair beside me. “On the nine days of the full moon,” he said softly, “they get antsy. Soon as they do, we start the music playing. Twenty-four-seven. Understand?” Tandy holstered his weapon, no expression on his face.
I said, “Trust me. I will not forget.Ever. I’m guessing there’s drives with the music on them?”
He placed two in my hand. “One for your cell. Sync it to everything electronic you have. Keep a backup at your house. On the full moon, you keep the music handy and play it continuously.”
“Okay. I just got one question. Why didn’t Pea do something?”
“Pea?” Tandy, swiveled his head, taking in the entire room, seeing Pea back on Occam’s shoulder. His mouth opened slowly and he breathed, “Oh... Nell...”
“What?”
Before he answered my question, his cell buzzed, and Tandy left the room, his phone to his ear. When I had first known Tandy, he had been this quiet, unassuming, introverted man. Not a man I would think would ever own, much less hold, a gun. Not a man I might consider capable of protecting himself. Not a man I associated with violence, except on the receiving end of it.
I had helped him when we first met, sending him some small bit of strength and power to resist the emotional impressions of the others. Had I sent him more than I knew? Had T. Laine’s spells given him access to more assertive, violent personality traits? Had he picked up the aggression from the werecats? Or had Tandy alwaysbeenmore than I knew?
