“That’s a politician for you.”

“So we did a trade. My little lapse for Sedgewick’s.”

“Sounds like things are looking up.”

“Yeah. So about that bond—”

“I have some news, too,” Cyrus said quickly. “I’ve talked Sebastian into putting together a group of vargulfs to act as informants and to keep an eye on the Were gangs that remain in Tartarus. Grayshadow was able to turn them because there’s almost no way for outcasts to redeem themselves. If they end up being of service during the war, he’ll get them clan status after the dust settles. It’ll be a low-ranked clan, but it’s a start.”

“What about you? He could tell Arnou that you caught the Hunter. Allow you to redeem yourself and rejoin the Clan.”

“And then who would coordinate the vargulfs? A Clan wolf can’t be seen talking to them, nor would they be likely to take orders from one.”

“But you could go home, Cyrus.”

He leaned over to kiss my neck. “I already am.”

I smiled back and slipped a lasso around his shoulders. “So, about that bond—”

He tried to pull back, and found he couldn’t. He started to look a little panicked.

“Lia—”

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been yelling at me for the last twenty minutes—”

“That wasn’t yelling.”

“Berating, then. So it’s my turn. How come Sebastian knew we were bonded and I didn’t?”

Cyrus closed his eyes and sighed. “You were so insistent that you weren’t Were. It was almost the first thing you ever said to me. I didn’t think it could happen. You’re only half-Were and there were none of the usual signs—until you left. I almost went crazy the first week; it was worse than leaving Arnou, ten times worse. And when I realized why…” His eyes opened, and there was genuine pain in them. “How could I tell you? I’m vargulf. I have nothing to offer you.”

“You have you.”

He gave a short, unamused laugh. “Yes, and I’m such a prize. You had to rescue me.”

“You were the one who found out what was going on,” I pointed out. “If you hadn’t told me, I never would have figured it out in time. And as I recall, you’d already freed yourself by the time I got there.”

“Lia,” he paused, searching for words as Cyrus never did. “This isn’t wounded male pride talking. You could have died yesterday; you almost did die. And I could do nothing to save you.”

His eyes looked haunted, and it wasn’t hard to guess that he was thinking about the other woman he’d failed to save. Sebastian had said they’d only been children when their mother was killed, but I knew Cyrus well enough to know he blamed himself for it. “You’re right,” I agreed, and his head shot up. “You couldn’t have done anything. Grayshadow was both a Were and a mage, albeit an untrained one. Only someone who was also both could have beaten him.”

“I should have found a way, should have figured it out—”

“Even if you had, he would never have feared you enough to use those damn wards. Not after having pulverized you for most of the day. It had to be a Were who possessed the same advantages he did to make him believe that he needed extra protection.”

“A Were?” One eyebrow shot up. “You’re actually admitting to being one of us?”

“After today, the facts are kind of hard to ignore,” I admitted. “If I wasn’t Were, I would never have found you in time or been able to get before the Council to fight the duel. But if I wasn’t also a mage, I would have lost.”

Cyrus gave a lopsided grin. “You’re saying I’m mated to a mutt?”

“You tell me. I have quite a few questions about—”

Cyrus was suddenly on his feet, bad leg and all. “Damn, look at the time. Visiting hours are already over.”

“I don’t think that applies if you’re also a patient—” I began, but the door closing after him cut me off.

I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, before falling back against the pillows with a thump. Men! I picked up my bedraggled flowers, which had gotten a little squashed somehow. They looked like he’d picked them himself, from Sedgewick’s potion garden, judging by the contents. I grinned. “You can’t run forever, Cyrus.”

“I guess you’ll just have to get well enough to catch me.”

Now that was what I called incentive.

ARMOR OF ROSES

(A Hunter Kiss Novella)

Marjorie M. Liu

Chapter 1

According to Mark Twain, in a notebook entry dated in 1897, time is atomized, broken into infinitesimal fragments in which moments that have been lived are forgotten and without value, while moments that have not yet been experienced do not exist and are of no importance. Only the present, the immediate, has significance; time is isolated, time is discrete. Even memories, hardwired into the brain to give dimension to the temporal, are fleeting.

Because we die. Because each life is a single conscious moment, burning.

Lost, in time.

There were no zombies at the party. I would have been happy to find some. If nothing else, the small talk would have been less insulting. Nor would I have been as tempted to shove an opera singer over the railing of the yacht.

“But my dear, you look so cultured,” complained Madame Borega, loudly enough that heads turned to stare. “What do you mean you’re from Texas?”

Her affront was palpable, her distress audible in the faint tremor of her rich vibrato vowels. Texas, apparently, was apocalyptic. I might as well have told her that I was a killer—and that the two tiny demons hiding in my hair would be more than happy to set her face on fire.

Both of which were true. But she didn’t need to know that.

A gentle hand touched my elbow. I looked up to find Grant beside me, leaning hard on his cane. His gaze was faintly amused, but darkly so, and he settled his attention on Madame Borega with a smile that held an edge.

“Wonderful performance last night,” he said in his deep rumbling voice. “Your Aida was a joy.”

Madame Borega lowered her gaze, smiling—but, before she could thank him, or demure, or tell Grant that he was a hot, hot former priest and she wanted to pull a Thorn Birds on his ass, he added, “But frankly, Suzanne, I was shocked to learn that you were using an enhancer.”

The woman froze, staring at him. A deep crimson flush stained her décolletage and rose into her face, all that red visible beneath the heavy pale cake of her makeup. I thought she was embarrassed, but then her lips tightened and her eyes hardened, and it was like watching a skunk lift its tail.

“My voice,” she said, “needs no enhancement.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Grant said, in the most conciliatory tone imaginable. “I just thought, perhaps, that you had been ill. Using a microphone is nothing to be ashamed of, which is what I told Roger Breckin over dinner.”

Madame Borega’s gasp was so violent, this time people did more than turn their heads. Conversations stopped. Drinks were put down. I held myself steady in the three-inch heels I had been wobbling in all night, and casually rubbed the back of my neck. A small hot tongue rasped across the back of my hand.

“You told Roger…” began the opera singer, touching her throat. “Oh, my God.”

And with that, she fled—in fits and starts, stopping every few feet to stand on her toes to scan the crowd. Grant made a small humming sound, slid his large warm hand around my waist, and guided me in the opposite direction. His limp was more pronounced than usual. I kept my steps deliberately short, pretending it was the heels that were making me careful.

“I’m no opera expert,” I said, twining my fingers through his, “but I think you just ruined that woman’s night.”

Grant was taller than me even while stooping over his cane; a ruggedly handsome man with brown hair brushing the broad shoulders of his tuxedo, dark eyes keen with grim humor. “Roger Breckin helps finance the Seattle Opera House. He’s one of the richest men on the West Coast. He’s also Susan Borega’s benefactor, but his standards are exacting. One hint that her voice needs a microphone to fill the hall he paid for, and she would be ruined.”