Moonburn (31 page)

“Yes, of course, English sausage is going to set me to rights,” muttered Malachy under his breath. “Better
serve it quickly, before I start swinging from the chandelier.”

I didn’t question why he sounded so bitter. Even though we had every reason to believe that I’d be able to inject him with an initial dose of his medicine, Malachy knew that he was going to temporarily lose his ability to reason, and that I was going to see him in that irrational state. That would be shaming for anyone, but particularly so for a man like Malachy, who prized reason above all else.

I put my hand on Mal’s, wishing I knew how to comfort him. To my surprise, I felt a surge of warmth at this small contact, and then Mal closed his fingers over mine, and my breath caught. I hadn’t meant for him to interpret my touch as sexual, but I didn’t know how to take my hand back. His green eyes glowing like a lycanthrope’s, Malachy slowly stroked his thumb across the surface of my palm, sending a current of electricity right through me.

He looked different, I realized as I watched his face. Younger. Healthier. More vital. There were fewer gray strands interlaced with his wiry black curls. The medicine that controlled his disease had also been poisoning him. In its absence, his control might be weakening, but his body was growing stronger.

I had to remove my hand. We were holding hands now, and anyone could see, Red could see—Red—and then I gasped and pulled away as a stabbing pain lanced through my left arm.

“What is it, Abra?” Malachy took my arm in his hands and turned it over, inspecting the scar. The thin scar from the bonding ceremony looked inflamed, and it was throbbing unpleasantly. “What have you done to yourself?” He sounded annoyed, like his usual self.

From the table to our right, the young man looked up from his laptop. “She has not done this to herself.”

“I beg your pardon?” Malachy said, turning to the young man seated in the corner, with his back to the wall.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” the young man said in an accent identical to Magda’s. “But this scar was given to her.” He pushed up his old-fashioned, wire-rimmed spectacles. In his mid- to late twenties, he had a pale, narrow, serious face. In his button-down shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, he had the look of a scholar from a previous century, but this was clearly not the case: I could see enough of his laptop’s screen to make out an aerial view of our village.

I realized that he must be one of Magda’s brothers, doing reconnaissance. Nodding at my arm, he said, “You are mated, yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recall either of us asking your opinion,” said Malachy shortly. He had the British knack for making “sorry” sound like a synonym for “deeply offended.”

“Forgive me, I interrupt your conversation.” The young man smiled a little wistfully, more at me than at Malachy. I had a feeling women usually forgave him anything and everything. “But I thought you should know, because you are touching her, and she belongs to another.”

“Well, you should mind your own bloody business.” Malachy turned his attention back to me. “So, is this boy correct? You and Red are mated?” He gave the last word ironic emphasis.

I nodded, feeling as though I’d just admitted something vaguely shameful. I glanced over at Magda’s brother, wondering if I should say something, but he was back to working on his laptop.

“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order,” said Malachy. “What does this mean, precisely: You and Red are setting up a den together?” Malachy’s sardonic tone was what I would have expected, but there was something in the set of his face that gave the words a different emphasis. He wasn’t amused; he was annoyed.

“Yes, that is what it means,” our neighbor said.

Malachy glowered at the young man in a way that had reduced both interns and residents to stuttering imbeciles. “I think we can conduct our conversation without your assistance.”

“At least, I believe that is what it means,” the young man said, frowning as if confused by something. “But your scent …” he turned, looking at me with undisguised interest. Masculine interest. “You are not entirely mated, are you? There is a trace of … you are still available, I think.”

And then I understood why Magda’s brother kept interrupting, despite his mild demeanor. I wasn’t exactly in heat, but I wasn’t entirely out of it, either.

Malachy ran his finger over the scar on my arm, which burned at his touch. In the past, if I’d ever had a fleeting thought of what he would be like as a lover, it had involved books and conversation, a meeting of minds.

But there was another aspect to Malachy, and now I could see it staring out from behind his eyes: a darker self, raw and carnal in a way that was not wolf, but
could speak wolf. “That’s interesting,” said Malachy. “Care to explain the discrepancy?”

If you don’t have complete faith in me, this could be dangerous
. I had refused the symbols, and not completed the mating, and now I was being punished. Or tempted. Maybe it was Red who was being punished. Overcome with guilt, I wondered what Red might be feeling in his arm right now.

“Well?” Malachy prompted, and I could see that the young man was waiting, as well. I was saved from having to reply when Penny came bustling over with a tray loaded with food. Whatever Dana had told her, it was clear that Penny had won the argument over our order. She set the burner for the fondue in front of me, lit the flame, and then set the food down in front of us. “Now, then,” she said with a defiant toss of her bobbed blond hair, “mind you keep stirring the pot, now. And be careful, it’s really hot.” The bubbling cheese smelled wonderful, and my mouth began to water.

“Thank you, Penny.”

“Enjoy,” she replied, but as she left I thought I heard her mutter under her breath, “made a mistake, my fanny.”

Deciding that it was time to change the subject, I addressed the young man, who had gone back to his satellite map. “I take it you’re one of Magda’s brothers.”

“Grigore—the younger.” Grigore nodded his head to Mal, and then to me. “Vasile is Magda’s twin. And you are Abra. I have smelled your scent in the forest. Please,” he said, indicating my food. “Do not let me keep you from your meal.”

I speared a piece of bread with the long fondue fork and twirled it into the cheese. Despite the colossal strangeness of everything, I was still hungry. “Listen,” I said, realizing that this was a perfect opportunity to make peace with my new neighbors, “I don’t know
what Magda has told you about me, but I don’t want a fight with you, or anyone else.”

“Then you should leave.” Grigore spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Not that I wish it. I wish, well, you are a very attractive woman, and a fertile female is always welcome. But mine is not the vote that counts, you understand. And I will support my brother, and my sister.”

“Tell me, are you always such a bloody idiot?” Malachy pushed away his cup of tea as though it had offended him. “Because you seem like a bright young man. I don’t know how long you’ve been in town, but surely you’ve noticed that we have a few problems that outweigh your little pissing contest.”

“You speak of the Bear creature? My sister says this talk of mysterious Liminal creatures is a ploy to distract us.” Grigore paused, and removed his glasses to polish them on a napkin. “But to be honest, I was intrigued. Your manitous sound a great deal like the Cabeiri—ancient Greek deities.”

“Actually, I was referring to what appears to be a little epidemic we have brewing down in the office.”

Grigore hesitated before admitting, “I am not familiar with this word.”

“We think the lycanthropy virus may be mutating and affecting the animals.” I glanced sideways at Malachy. “But we haven’t confirmed it yet.”

Grigore pressed a button, closing a window on his computer: We had his full attention now. “Ah, epidemic,” Grigore said, giving the word a different intonation. “Interesting. So the dogs are infected? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“I’ve been manipulating the viral DNA,” said Malachy, taking a sip of his tea. “And recently one of my research subjects got loose.”

That was the first I’d heard of it. “When did this happen?”

“While you were frolicking under the full moon,” Malachy snapped. “And before you blame me, I should say that I’m pretty sure someone or something released the animal from its cage.” Before I could ask the question, Malachy said, “And no, I don’t believe it was Pia. There were small paw prints leading up to the cage.”

“You think it was one of the manitou,” I said, swallowing down another bite of cheesy bread. God, I was starving. Looking at Grigore, I explained, “We’ve invaded their space, and now they’re invading ours.”

“Yours, perhaps,” said Grigore, shrugging. “But we have greater numbers.”

There was something about this Grigore that was really rubbing me the wrong way. For a guy still in his twenties, he had an irritating way of speaking, as though he were the professor and we were the students. “Listen, Greg.” I pointed a fondue fork at him. “I don’t know what Cabeiri are, but I’ve met a manitou. It’s not something you outmuscle. It’s not even something you outmaneuver. It’s something that gets inside your head and starts making you think that offering yourself up as a midnight snack is a swell idea. This isn’t just a problem for us, or for people living near the mountain. The manitou are spreading out, and they’re hungry.”

“And clever,” added Malachy. “I sincerely doubt that releasing this particular subject was an accident.” He took another sip of tea. “Of course, this still doesn’t explain what’s going on with the cats. And they’re a lot more worrisome—your standard housecat is the number one killer of songbirds. If they all start growing to the size of bobcats, they’ll probably start hunting anything that size and under.” Malachy pointed to the toddler, who was staring at him, openmouthed. “If some
grow to be as large as cougars, however, they can take down the mother as well.”

From the other side of the cafe, there was a thin wail. The boy’s mother was trying to gather up her toddler’s things, which had become scattered all over the floor. I stood up to help her and she held up a hand.

“Oh, no, I think you’ve done enough!” The mother knelt down, her thong visible over her low-rise jeans as she scooped up a plastic toy. “First you start in with all this talk of S-E-X and mating, and then you go on to hungry monsters. Can’t you see that you’ve terrified my child?”

Winston, who had stopped crying, didn’t look particularly terrified as he looked up at his mother and asked, “What’s mating?”

“Nothing nice,” said the mother, squeezing her son’s hand until he gave another sharp yowl.

“I’m sorry,” I said, watching helplessly as the woman stuffed the toys into her oversized shoulder bag and stuffed the hysterical toddler into his jacket.

“You should be,” snapped the woman. “Come on, Winston, we have to go!”

Winston pointed a chubby finger at the kitchen. “But the fat lady said she’d give me a magic bean!”

“Unfortunately, we have to leave, because
some
people just have no idea how to behave around children.” The woman hefted the child onto her hip and left, slamming the door behind her. In her wake, a single yellow plastic top wobbled forlornly on the floor.

“My goodness,” said Dana, wiping her hands on her apron as she emerged from the kitchen. “She was in a hurry.” Dana gave us a flash of her impressive cleavage as she picked up the toy, but as she began to clear the woman’s table, her ready smile froze. I realized that she was looking at our table as her mouth hardened into a
thin line of disapproval. “Excuse me,” she said sharply, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Malachy and I stared at each other as Dana returned, carrying a tray with sausages and mashed potatoes for him and a grilled hamburger on a toasted bun for me. “I’m so sorry,” she said, removing Mal’s plate. “I did tell Penny that this wasn’t what you wanted.”

“I was eating it,” Malachy said curtly. “It was fine.”

“And what about you?” Dana stood next to me, her cheeks flushed with anger. “Do you want this burger or not?”

“I don’t usually eat meat,” I replied. “But that does smell delicious.”

“Well, do you want it, or not?”

“I did start on the fondue already …” Although now that I could smell the sizzling burger, the cheese seemed a bit too cloyingly rich. “I’m not sure.”

Penny came out, saw Dana at our table, and rushed over to protect her territory. “Deinyo,” she said, “I cannot believe you are pestering customers this way.”

Dana set her dishes down on our table. “Well, Pemphredo,
you
didn’t get the order right.” I realized that the sisters must have been from Greece, originally; I had never heard the original form of their names before.

“They’re perfectly happy with their food!”

Dana folded her plump arms under her generous bosom. “They’re being polite.”

“I know how to settle this,” said Penny, her slender form quivering with outrage. “Enid!”

“Really, all we want to do is eat in peace,” protested Malachy, but no one paid him any attention.

And then Enid emerged from the kitchen. The oldest Grey sister rarely left the kitchen, and I had only seen her once or twice before. Tiny and almost swamped by her ruffled blue dress and apron, her face a wizened apple topped by a few wisps of sparse white hair, Enid’s
eyes were covered by the milky film of cataracts. She didn’t seem blind, however: Either she had memorized the layout of her shop and had really good hearing, or she had some way of seeing us that didn’t involve eyes.