Usually by now I’d wrecked it somehow, or the man had done something I could point at and go See, see I knew it wouldn’t work. Micah had managed to walk the maze that was my heart and not get caught in any of the traps. He said his good-byes to the people and came to me.

He smiled, the edge of his mouth quirking up like it did sometimes, his eyes shining as if laughter were just a thought away. “What are you looking at?” he asked, voice low.

I smiled back because I couldn’t help it. “You.”

Our hands reached for each other at the same time, our fingers just finding each other, entwining, playing along the touch and feel of each other. I’d had one friend say that we could get more out of just holding hands than some couples got out of kissing. But we did that, too, leaning in and being careful of the lipstick. Micah went through most nights with a touch of my lipstick on his mouth. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Who was that?” I asked as we turned and began to make our way hand in hand with the last of the crowd toward the auditorium.

“One of the families in our support group,” he said.

Micah was the head/spokesperson for the Coalition for Better Understanding Between Human and Lycanthrope Communities. It was affectionately known as the Furry Coalition. The Coalition helped new shapeshifters adjust to the change in lifestyle, and kept them from shifting early outside safe houses. A new shifter was unpredictable. It could take months of full moons before they were in control enough to be trustworthy without older, more experienced shifters riding herd on them. And yes, unpredictable meant they were consumed by a craving for flesh, and fresh was better. They also blacked out and had few memories of what they’d done. Most newbies passed out after shifting back to human form, so they needed to be either in a safe place or where someone could get them under some literal cover.

Micah and some of the other local leaders had come up with an idea for a family support group, where the members of the families that weren’t shapeshifters could talk freely about their parents, siblings, or even grand-parents. It was legal to be a shapeshifter in the United States now, but discrimination still occurred. There were entire professions where failing one blood test would get you excluded forever. Military, police, food industry, medical care—it was hard to keep a job if you were a teacher of children and the parents found out you turned into the big bad wolf once a month. That kind of discrimination was illegal, but hard to prove. It was one of the reasons that Richard Zeeman, junior high science teacher and local Ulfric, wolf king, wouldn’t be here tonight sitting on the other side of Jean-Claude. Richard was technically Jean-Claude’s wolf to call, as I was his human servant. We were a triumvirate of power and should both have been here at his side, but Richard wouldn’t risk being outed and losing his job. That, and Richard really hated being a werewolf, but that was a problem for later. For right this moment, nobody who had come with Jean-Claude had a problem being exactly who and what they were.

Most of the seats were already full, and it was Asher’s hair that I spotted first, gleaming golden under the lights. I wasn’t kidding about the gold. He wasn’t blond; his hair was as close to true gold and still a natural color as any person I’d ever met. Of course, once I’d found Asher, Jean-Claude was at his side. Jean-Claude’s black hair curled over the seat back, inches longer than Asher’s, which was just past shoulder length. Jean-Claude had grown his hair out because I seemed to like more hair on my men. Asher had informed me, “It takes energy for a vampire to grow his hair longer than it was when he died. I don’t have that kind of energy to spare.” Which implied that Jean-Claude did, and that had been interesting to know.

There was another blond on his other side. J.J., Jason’s current girlfriend, had traveled from New York so she could watch him onstage. They’d gone to school together and known each other a little during college. They’d met again at a friend’s bachelorette party, and now here she was coming to see him onstage. He’d traveled to see her onstage with the New York City Ballet three times. This would be her third trip to St. Louis in as many months. It was as serious as I’d ever seen Jason over anyone.

He’d been almost embarrassed when J.J. said she’d come out for the recital. He’d said, “It’s just amateur stuff. You do the real deal.” I don’t know what she’d said, because I’d left him to finish the phone conversation in private, but whatever she’d said, there she sat looking pale and beautiful, her long, straight blond hair in a neat braid down the graceful curve of neck and shoulders. Her dress was a pink that was almost white, with thin spaghetti straps. She was like most ballet dancers, honed down to muscle and grace so she could wear the filmy dress with nothing much under it and have it look great. I’d have looked like I was in desperate need of a bra. My curves only honed down so far.

Jean-Claude and Asher stood before we’d actually come up to the aisle. They turned without looking around, as if they’d sensed us, and maybe they had. Or at least Jean-Claude had.

Another man stood up in the row in back of them, and only then did I realize it was Truth. He’d combed his shoulder-length hair back in a tight, neat ponytail, and he was completely clean-shaven. Truth’s face was trapped in that not-quite-beard stubble because that’s how he’d looked when he died. Shaving meant that he might not be able to grow it back even if he wanted to. He was wearing a nice suit, too. If his hair hadn’t still been its usual brown I might have thought it was his brother, Wicked.

I stood there staring up into his face, stunned. I wanted to ask, Where are your boots? Where’s your leather? But that seemed the wrong thing to say.

Micah leaned in and said, “Say something to him.”

“Um, you look nice,” I said, and it was hopelessly inadequate. I tried again. “I guess I’ve just never seen you cleaned up like this. You look great.”

He tugged on the front of the suit jacket. “I borrowed it from Wicked. He’s in the row ahead of them.”

Micah mercifully turned me away, so I moved up to Asher and Jean-Claude, who were still standing. Truth always looked like a mix between an outlaw biker and a medieval forest ranger. He was here as security. Had Jean-Claude insisted he get neatened up?

Wicked gave a small nod and a smile from the row in front of them. He looked, more than ever, like his brother’s twin, though I knew they had been born a year apart as humans. His hair was straight and blond, thicker-textured than his brother’s slight wave of brown. They both had the same blue-gray eyes, and now that Truth’s chin was bare, the same deep dimple in their chin was very clear.

Asher took my hand in his and I was suddenly looking up at someone who made both Wicked and Truth look too manly, too modern-day handsome in comparison. Asher was almost as broad of shoulder as the brothers, but that face. The mass of wavy gold hair, the eyes so pale a blue, like ice given life and color, in a rim of darker lashes and brow. But it was the face that was always breathtaking. It was a beauty to make angels weep, or want to trade sides. He was just simply one of the most gorgeous people I’d ever seen. He thought his face was ruined because holy-water scars traced the right side of all that beauty. But they only went about halfway up, and the perfect curve of mouth was untouched. It was almost as if the inquisitioner who had tried to burn the devil out of him had flinched at the ruin of that face.

I knew the scars continued down the right side of his chest to trace the edge of his hip and thigh. He managed the Circus of the Damned and was the masked ringmaster, so he could be beautiful and mysterious and not show everyone the scars. For him to come out in public like this was a good sign. Though he was a master at using shadow, darkness, his hair, so that people around him would probably never see the scars if he didn’t wish them to. He was wearing a soft blue silk shirt with a high, soft collar pierced by a stickpin that held a pale blue diamond almost the color of his eyes. Jean-Claude and I had bought it for him just this year. Admittedly, most of the money for the stone had come from Jean-Claude. I made good money, but the diamond was almost as big as my thumbnail.