“Hey, Beau.”

They clasped each other’s forearms in greeting. “Who’s the doll?”

“Beauregard, this is Persephone. But that’s a lot of syllables, so I call her Red.”

“Ahhh, Red’s easier on the tongue. As easy as she is on the eye.” He held his hand out to me.

I took it firmly for a good shake, but he instantly jerked away.

“Jesus!” he grumbled, shaking his appendage like it hurt. “She’s a witch!”

“Yeah.” Johnny drew out the word as if confused.

I hadn’t jolted him.

Beau lifted his cane and poked Johnny in the thigh with the tip. “Could’ve warned an old man!” He hobbled around the bar. His one leg didn’t bend, and I wondered if Beau, like Nana, had bad knees. “What’ll ya drink, doll?”

“We’re not here for a drink, Beau,” Johnny said.

Beau stopped. “You wanna see him?”

Johnny nodded.

“They call you in?”

“Nope.”

Only Beau’s eyes moved then, as they angled toward me, then sank down to his opening and closing hand. To Johnny he said, “Upstairs. You remember the way? Better knock first.”

Johnny left, but my attention lingered on Beau. “How’d you know I’m a witch?”

He continued to tighten then loosen his fist. He snorted, then jutted his chin in Johnny’s direction. “Better catch up to him.”

I left, fighting the urge to hurry to catch up. Johnny was waiting for me, holding open a tall, thin door. “Stay close,” he whispered, and went up ahead of me. The stairwell was narrow. The building was a physical representation of lean times. Every step creaked. It smelled of decaying wood, like a rotten cedar chest—cedar!

Waeres. The Dirty Dog. Duh.

Atop the landing, there was a short hall and a single door.

Johnny knocked, practiced being patient, and knocked again, more forcefully.

I felt the floor shake; someone was moving beyond. Someone big.

The door opened. The person who came into view was a head taller than the door frame, and three times as broad as Johnny. His dark, curly hair was thick and short, like a wire brush. The Hawaiian shirt he wore was loose on his giant frame, but the blue and orange pineapple and surfboard print wasn’t doing him any favors. Tan pants were raggedly cut off below the knee. Apparently it had been a long, long time since his socks and sneakers were new. Whatever color they’d started out they were both a dismal gray now, and had been for a long time. “Hey, Hector.”

The big man was still and silent long enough that I had time to wonder, Is he in the WWF? and move on to, How the hell does he get out of this building? It was hard to believe that he’d fit down the stairwell.

“Johnny Newman.”

That surprised me two ways: his voice was soft, and very few people seemed to know Johnny’s last name.

“Ig taking visitors today?”

“I’ll ask.”

The man ambled across the dark, high-ceilinged room; his size made his movements seem clumsy and overdone. He slid open a pair of pocket doors and passed through. To Johnny, I mouthed the question, “Ig?”

“Ignatius Tierney,” he whispered back. “The dirija, the local waere supervisor.”

At that odd word, I remembered Johnny telling me some of the secret side of how the waere world was structured. I also recalled that he’d not wanted to reveal his at-will changes to these people. That ability meant he would certainly be crowned as the Domn Lup—Wolf King—and he was in no hurry to be burdened with the responsibilities. Similarly, I hadn’t wanted to reveal to the Elders that I was the Lustrata. We were both smart enough to know that making claim to such a position held not only power, but myriad obligations, too.

Destinies are destinies because they are inevitable.

Is that why we’re here?

Johnny began to fidget. As for me, I was breathing deeply of the aromas around me, sorting through them. Woodsy, but not quite cedar. This was more juniper, maybe cypress. And something was mixed with it . . . either a heady wine—which wouldn’t have surprised me with the bar downstairs—or ambergris.

Hector returned to view, and motioned us on. I followed Johnny, shutting the door behind us. The floor planks gave the slightest bounce. The blinds were drawn, keeping it dark.

Johnny stopped abruptly just inside the doorway.

“Never show up on a good day, do you?” The words were slurred and thick.

I peeked around Johnny’s shoulder and saw a man sitting in a hospital bed. Ig’s cheeks plumped, well, one did. He’d had a stroke.

“When?” Johnny asked.

Ig gargled saliva. I think it was supposed to be a laugh. “Two days ago.” He waited then said, “Hector.” Pronouncing the name involved massive amounts of phlegm. “Tell them.”

“There’s a clotting issue with his blood.”

Johnny’s question came quickly. “But the full moon will heal it, right?”

Hector’s chin dropped to his chest.

“No,” Ig said.

The instant Johnny looked at me, I knew what he was thinking: a transformation would heal this. Though the natural full moon was twenty-five days away, we’d gotten around that before.

“Tell them all of it,” the dirija insisted.

“It keeps happening. He gets a TPA treatment and heals to this stage immediately. This stage, no better. And it happens earlier and earlier with each moon cycle.”

“We just had a full moon four days ago,” I said.

Ig nodded. “S’pposed to be dead.”

I’d have guessed Ig to be maybe forty-five. His face was speckled with freckles and his pale red-blond hair was just starting to thin. With lashes to match his Irish hair, his green eyes seemed big. Except for a drooping eyelid and the nonworking side of his mouth, he appeared to be a man in his prime. He patted the bed. “John, sit.”

Johnny crossed the room, and Ig spotted me for the first time. “Who’s the woman?”

“That’s Red.” Johnny sat on the edge of the bed.

Ig acknowledged me with a sniff of the air in my direction. That was when I saw that under his half-buttoned pajama shirt he wore a long silvery necklace, probably platinum or white gold. The thick links of herringbone chain held a large Y-shaped centerpiece, and while I didn’t clearly see it, I was certain it was a wolf’s head. “Beautiful. But not waere.”

“I’m a witch.” Get that tidbit out of the way this time. Beau’s reaction still had me puzzled.

Hector immediately eased away from me as if he were backing away from a wild animal. “Dangerous company to keep.” He outweighed me by at least two hundred pounds. He was a foot and a half taller than I. And he was backing away from me in fear. It seemed ridiculous, but it was actually the smart thing to do.

“She’s cool, Hector. A bunch of us kennel at her place.” To Ig, he added, “I didn’t know about this.” He gestured at the bed’s frame as if that would convey the words he didn’t want to say.

“What brings you?”

“Her.”

“Back to the woman.” Again, Ig considered me, but this time it made me feel that closing and buttoning my blazer would have been appropriate. “Why?”

“She’s going to need the help of some waeres.”

“What about those who kennel?”

“Just my band, a few friends. Not enough.”

Ig scowled just a little at the word “band.” “Who’d she piss off? WEC?”

“There’s a lot going on, Ig. More than I can say. I came to ask if you would help . . . but you’ve already got your own concerns to deal with.”

“Must be important. You’d not have come back otherwise.” Ignatius took Johnny’s arm. “There’s only one way now.” Gravely, he said, “Take my place.”

Johnny recoiled and stood. “No!”

Discouraged, Ig’s hand fell to the sheet, and was still for an instant, then it clenched and his features distorted defiantly. “I’m going to die anyway. Todd will be dirija by default. And he won’t help you.”

I didn’t know who this Todd was, but the vibe in the room indicated that nobody here thought that was a good thing.