Cody makes Simon want to paint the gaps in the murals. That was all Simon could think of as he left Cody in the storage room. The empty space in the painted garden.
If Cody were a vampire, Simon would suspect him of scheming for favors, to put Simon in his debt.
But Cody is a werewolf. Which is why he’s currently locked in a storage room, and why the gun at Simon’s hip carries silver bullets.
Simon is infatuated, he’ll admit. But he’s not an idiot.
Part of him is reluctant to solve his own attempted assassination. Once the threat is over, Cody will leave. Dima will go silent. Simon will learn who wants him dead—ignorance is bliss, as they say.
Childish reluctance hasn’t stopped Simon from reaching out to a few people from Kimiko’s guest book, though. Vampires who owe him favors, and who might know something about local hunters or Lawrence Baird.
So far, Simon’s questions have only turned up rumors, not answers. Whispers about this guild or that coven scheming to break the treaty. Or a werewolf pack. Or a crew of rogue vampires.
An ocean, Simon decides, as he examines the empty glass on Cody’s nightstand. He’ll paint a stretch of ocean, dark and moonlit, to fill the gap in the garden mural. It won’t fit the rest of the painting, but it doesn’t have to. Not everything in life requires a pattern.
Alertness strikes by instinct. Quicker than thought.
Simon is already turning, hand to his gun, when he registers the footsteps and quiet breaths. The steady drum of an approaching heartbeat from a too-large creature.
A wolf emerges from the hallway shadows. It pauses in the doorway, half lit by the bedroom light.
Fire flickers at the edge of Simon’s vision. A helpless, reflexive grasping for magic that does nothing, because bottled blood isn’t good enough. That’s fortunate, because Simon doesn’t want to lash out withoutthinking.
He just didn’t expect Cody’s wolf form to be enormous.
The wolf’s shoulders are the height of Simon’s chest. Dark gray fur brushes the doorframe, with pale silver beneath his snout, inside his ears. Gold-orange eyes fix intently on Simon.
“What are you doing here?” Simon asks, striving for calm as his mind races. Where is Tobias? How did Cody get out?
Whys and hows can wait, because Cody is in no shape to answer.
Simon eases the gun from its holster. A slow, natural movement, practice substituting for instinct. He doesn’t want to shoot, but he can’t tell how aware Cody is right now.
The wolf tenses, ears pinned back at the sight of the gun. So, he understands the threat. Cursing himself for antagonizing the werewolf, Simon aims for a shoulder. He just wants to disable, not—
Cody doesn’t lunge forward. He waits, watching. Muscles relax from the near-crouch, and his ears prick forward. This isn’t just any werewolf. This is Cody.
They watch each other for two beats of Simon’s slow heart, and a hundred of Cody’s. Simon’s sense of danger ebbs, as if the moon has already pulled away.
“Can you understand me?” Simon asks, and holsters his gun.
Another watchful moment, before Cody moves. His pelt ripples as he passes the doorframe. Then he pauses, as if unsure whether to continue.
“That wasn’t a very clear answer.” Simon props his hands on his hips, each movement slow and careful. “How about one bark for yes, one bark for no?”
No sound except Cody’s breath and pulse. Cody takes another step forward.
Simon marvels to find himself calm. “I could get you one of those button toys. The ones that let cats and dogs talk to their owners. You could press one button for food, and another button for walkies.”
Either Cody can’t understand him, or he completely lacks a sense of humor in wolf form. Nary a grimace or flick of his ears. But he pads closer, as if Simon’s words are permission to approach.
Simon supposes they are. “It’s all right whether you understand me or not, as long as you behave.”
He reaches out, palm down, fingers relaxed.
Simon has never been this close to a shifted werewolf before, and Cody seems more massive with every step. Yet Simon isn’t afraid at all. A memory surfaces, sharp as teeth through flesh. One night, a month after Dima bit him, when the shadow-gift’s first thrilling rush had worn off. Simon had woken in his coffin, feral with hunger, suddenly horrified by the fangs in his mouth, the silence of his heart.
Dima had been there that time, to soothe him through it, and Simon had been grateful. Which was probably why Dima helped.
