But it was over, and both the humans and the supernaturals of Silveropolis were safe. That was what really mattered. I stretched my arms out, relishing the little crackles and pops of my joints, when I smelled something on the wind. Aggression, fear, violence. And it was headed our way.
My head whipped towards a clump of trees to the north. Gil was doing the same, staring, waiting, but he was relaxed. Wasn’t he sensing what I was picking up on?
Twigs broke and leaves shifted as a mob came shouting and stampeding out of the woods and into the clearing. Familiar people. Leading the charge was Jackie of the Blood of Garm, wielding a baseball bat with some nails in it. And beside her, brandishing Garm’s Fang, was Damien, slick with sweat, eyes wild.
“We heard the howl,” he shouted. “It was huge. Who are we fighting?”
Thor roared in laughter. Gil followed suit. I sat on the ground and shook my head. Damien searched the clearing, then our faces, clearly confused.
“What? What did I miss?”
34
Ribs, corn on the cob, and two heaps of what appeared to be potato salad and mac and cheese. The smell of smoke and tangy sugar wafted up from the plate of food Jackie pushed into my hands. Tasty.
“I could’ve fixed myself a plate, but thanks?”
She nodded over to where Damien was sitting. “Boss man says you need to stuff something down your gob. Something that isn’t blood, mind you.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, sticking my fork into the mac and cheese. “Did you make any of this?”
“The marinade for the ribs,” she said. “I put in tons of garlic, just for you.”
I laughed. “Flirt.”
She rolled her eyes at me, ruffled Asher’s hair in passing, then went off to sit with Damien again.
“She’s starting to warm up to me,” I said. “I think.”
Asher smoothed his hair back into place and shrugged. “I mean, she knows the garlic won’t actually kill you, so that’s a step.”
“Jackie’s a tough nut to crack, but she’s a great gal,” Gil said, taking a swig of his beer. “Hell of a gal.”
Hell of a party, too. The Blood of Garm knew how to have fun. The tone of the night: celebration. The parking lot outside the Dead Dog was filled with raucous laughter and rock music. Someone had set up a couple of speakers, foldout chairs, and a suitably impressive rig for grilling. I would’ve asked if the bar was allowed to use the parking lot like this, and then asked if the cops would care.
But it was just like that blood trial – everyone knew everyone in town, it seemed, and that just didn’t matter. The cops did care – about the barbecue, that is. A couple of squad cars were parked, the officers who usually rode in them out rubbing shoulders with werewolves and partaking of the spread.
“This is nice,” Asher announced, looking around, smiling.
Gil took a swig of his beer, swallowed, and grimaced. “I like it. I didn’t expect to, but I like it.”
When the boys and I first drove up to Silveropolis, previously known to me as the middle of bumfuck nowhere, I thought it was going to be the most eye-gougingly boring experience of my life. And yet there we were at a blood moon barbecue for werewolves.
Two things I learned that night. One, werewolves partied hard. Two, they could grill up some mean ribs. I wondered if every clan had its own favorite recipes, passed down from some ancient grizzled granny wolf. Maybe if they stopped posturing and fretting over petty rivalries long enough, they could put their heads together and come up with a cross-clan cookbook.
But who was I to talk? Vampire conflicts weren’t any better. You want clannish and cliquish? Hah. It wasn’t just Scepter rivalries, either. The courts had plenty of political infighting, probably enough to stage a reality show. That was why I liked hanging out with people outside my demographic. Broadens your horizon
s. The world is a colorful place. Diversity is the future. Go ahead, pet your local werewolf. Hug your mummy. Say hello to your neighborhood smoke witch.
Tabitha was over by the grill, doing incredibly creative things with the smoke wafting off the coals. A captive audience of wolves watched, offering rounds of polite applause as she turned clouds of smoke into bunnies, moons, mountains. She wasn’t joking about the bourbon, either. She sucked down a bottle shortly after we arrived at the Dead Dog, with barely any change in her mood or behavior. Maybe witches had stronger livers. Who can say?
Bastion was still sleeping like a baby when his Lorica subordinates showed up to collect him. There was a tense moment where someone or another assumed that Asher had done something nefarious to him. That passed quickly, though. The sight of Bastion sucking his thumb must have been a clear enough signal that no harm had been done, except maybe to Bastion’s reputation. Comparing notes with the Lorica, we figured out that it wasn’t just injuries or the strain of magic that knocked Bastion out. He’d been working hard for days.
I’d scooped up the Filigreed Masque and squirreled it away long before the Lorica showed up, though. But after prying what was left of Uriah off it with a twig, of course.
And Thor was more enthusiastic than anyone about showing up for a party, slinging his arm across Damien’s shoulders as a way of accepting the invitation. It was the Norse god in him, I think, all that feasting.
He came over, stumbling. I thought I spotted a little dab of rib sauce on his beard. “So this has been fun,” he slurred. “But I think I’ll be heading home for now.”