"Never mind, then." Struggling into his suit coat, he leaned on me and made pretty respectable time through the crowd for a man with one good leg. You didn't get to be as long-lived as Goodfellow without a healthy survival instinct. "What did you see on the roof of that building?"

I frowned. I didn't know what I'd seen. It had been too fleeting a glance and the distance too far. There was something indefinable… something I couldn't quite put my finger on that made me think it wasn't human. But, hey, in this city that wasn't so unusual. You think a human invented the falafel stand? Yeah, right. "It was the Easter Bunny, Loman, come to plant an egg up your ass if you don't get moving." He grumbled and complained but hopped a little faster. And that suited me just fine. The more distance between us and the thing on the roof, the better. I had a feeling, one of those goddamn feelings, that whatever it was up there was far from bunny territory.

Unless the Easter Bunny was one nasty son of a bitch.

Two days later I was experiencing the drawbacks of a mirror-free life. I didn't much mind. After nearly a year, fumbling around had become second nature. With short careful strokes, I applied the liquid bandage to the three-inch cut on my jaw. It was long and ugly, but not particularly deep. Other than cleaning and disinfecting it I'd left it alone. But tonight was poker night. Walking into a building full of wolves when I smelled of raw flesh wouldn't be conducive to anything but becoming a doggy treat. The clear liquid would dry in seconds and seal off the wound and the scent.

"Do you need help with that?"

Niko stood in the bathroom doorway already dressed and ready for the game. It would be hard to guess that this grim figure, all in black with an expression nearly as dark, didn't own a mirror either, out of respect for my twisted little phobia. A doorway was a doorway, whether it was mounted over a bathroom sink or tucked away in a purse. And Darkling had come through just such a doorway to fuck me up but good.

"I think I've got it." By feel I applied one last stroke, sealed the bottle, and gave my brother my full attention. "Jesus, Cyrano." I grimaced at the set look on his face. "Who pissed in your wheat germ?"

"You did," he said calmly. "You and Goodfellow and Promise. You've taken what was an iffy situation to begin with and actually managed to make it, if possible, more hazardous."

"All three of us, huh? That's a lot of piss." He was right, though. Between my shortcut, Robin's leg, and Promise's stubborn will, we had managed to screw things up more than a bit. "Hey, I was willing to go in by myself." Unfortunately, being lousy at poker ruled that out. I knew what a pair was… barely. With that in mind, getting in a game with Boaz would be a neat trick. And being on point on this one wasn't an option for Goodfellow now. He could hobble at a fair speed, but when you're running from wolves, fair isn't good enough. Promise had offered to step into his place. Actually, "offered" wasn't quite the word. Promise had laid down the law. She was a full partner too and she was determined to carry her load.

Robin had sat the two of us down and played a hand with us. Before that hand was over, there had been a knocking at the door. George didn't need to be buzzed in on the rare occasion the front-door lock worked. Anyone who saw her would just open the door. It was impressive, uncanny, and, at that moment, a pain in the ass. George had given us all a smile, stood at my side, and said she would just watch. Anything else wouldn't be fair, she'd added cheekily. And Robin, who could say no to anyone and everyone, couldn't say no to her. She had pulled up a chair next to mine, and as we'd played, brown eyes peeked at my cards, warm fingers meandered up and down my arm, and explosive red hair lurked in the periphery of my vision like a field of poppies. Probably the same field of poppies that had taken Dorothy down on her way to see the Wizard.

Needless to say, I hadn't done so hot. At the end of twenty games Robin had decided that when it came to gambling I was unsalvageable, unteachable, and borderline mentally challenged. Promise was a competent player and he'd decided to concentrate his efforts there. Truth was, she'd never be half the player Goodfellow was, but she would pass. More importantly, she was nonhuman. She could walk into that bar at my side and raise fewer eyebrows than I would.

I stood and said seriously, "Don't worry, Nik. I'll take care of your girl. Nothing will happen to her."

"Strange. She said the same of you." From behind his back, he revealed a thick roll of white tape and stretched out a long piece with a ripping sound. "What portion of skin do you mind losing the least?"

I eyed him with suspicion. "This isn't revenge, is it?"

"Vengeance is a petty endeavor." With quick and efficient motions he taped the tiny microphone just below my chest. "Petty," he repeated, slapping on several more completely unnecessary pieces of the adhesive stuff, "but enjoyable. In any event, Promise is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And she can fly. Can you?"

"She can…" I started, then finished up with a scowl, "You're shitting me, aren't you?"

He put the tape aside and studied his handiwork. Satisfied, he passed me my shirt. "You watch too many movies, little brother."

The shirt was courtesy of Goodfellow. Black silk, it was worlds away from my more casual style, but the scent would match that of the silk tape on my chest.

It should fool curious wolf noses. I buttoned it, lifting my upper lip. "Who said disco was dead?"

"Actually I thought it more of the gigolo genre, but whatever lets you retain your self-respect." He looked me up and down, his own lip twitching slightly. "Such as it is."

Robin's silk shirt was the only exception to my normal look. I was still in my ever-present jeans with my hair pulled back. Hardly charging-for-it wear. "I'm beautiful and you know it." I grinned.

"You have been spending too much time with Goodfellow. Far too much time."

I ended up spending even more time with the puck. We all did. An hour later the four of us sat in a van from Robin's car lot, the same lot where he let us park Niko's ancient car, and went over last-minute details. Niko tested, retested, then tested again the reception of the microphone taped to my chest, while Goodfellow, wrinkling his noble brow in manfully concealed pain, propped his leg on a crate and pillow. I'd already fetched him two aspirin and then a bottle of water. I drew the line at the requested leg massage. "The wolves are looking better and better all the time," I commented to Promise.

"The growling and snapping will certainly be less," she said solemnly, her gaze candidly aimed at Niko.

"I do not growl or snap." Niko didn't need to look up to register her glance. How telling was that? "I am centered and at peace." Deciding there was too much tape muffling the sound quality, he jerked off a piece with no consideration for my pained yelp. "Perfectly at peace."

I rubbed my chest gingerly and let the shirt fall down into place. Maybe it would keep my peaceful brother's hands to himself. "I think we're more than ready here, guys. How about we get the show on the road while I still have some skin left?"

The place was out in Jersey… Newark. And while that made living with yourself harder, it did make parking somewhat easier. The van was parked about two blocks away, close enough for Niko to come to our aid if needed, and far enough not to arouse wolfish suspicions. Humans didn't tend to frequent this type of establishment; when the bouncer at the door has raw-meat breath, rabid eyes, and the personal hygiene of Sasquatch on a low-deodorant day, you tend to move on. It was called a social club, a private one. What that actually meant was a gambling "den" for the unnatural, den being a remarkably apt word, all things considered. Wolves loved to gamble. A chance to throw their money away had tails wagging like nothing else but a good juicy massacre, and this place promised to give them just what they wanted.