A warm feeling swelled in my chest. “Of course, Gwen. You don’t even have to ask.” But I was glad she had. For the first time in months, I felt like Gwen wanted me to be a part of her family, rather than shutting me out like I was some kind of threat.

“Promise me one thing, though,” Gwen said.

“Sure.”

“Promise me that you won’t . . . you know, make it too much fun. You know how shapeshifting is at first. Like playing make-believe, only it’s real. You have to promise that you’ll explain the downsides to her, too.”

“Wait.” That warm feeling cooled off by several degrees. “You want me to discourage her?”

“Not that so much.” But the way she toyed with her spoon, refusing to meet my eyes, showed it was exactly what she meant. “Just . . . well, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. What downsides?” I took a sip of cold coffee to keep my voice from getting shrill. “I’m a shapeshifter, Gwen—that’s my choice. I’m not going to pretend I regret it because you chose differently. I won’t try to influence her to embrace shapeshifting, but I won’t push her to choose normhood, either. And neither should you. It’s got to be Maria’s own decision—and we don’t even know for sure yet that she’ll have any decision to make.”

Gwen looked like she wanted to argue with me, but she remained silent.

“Besides, she’ll have years of dealing with shapeshifting before she can make a choice.” Don’t say it, Vicky. Don’t. “Unless you want her to get pregnant at twelve or thirteen.” Damn it all, you said it.

“Of course I don’t want that,” Gwen snapped. “I just . . .” Her voice softened and tears reappeared. “I want to protect my little girl.”

I took a deep, calming breath. I felt like a jerk. This wasn’t about me or my sister’s judgment of my choices. This was about a young girl who might be about to plunge into a very frightening and confusing time in her life.

“I’m sorry, Gwen. You can count on me. If Maria starts shifting, you know I’ll do everything I can to help her.”

“Thanks.” Gwen smiled, but her eyes held even more doubt than tears.

11

THE DOUBT IN MY SISTER’S EYES HAUNTED ME AS I WALKED from South Station back to Deadtown. If Maria started going through the change, she’d need the unconditional support of her whole family, the kind of support that Mom had offered Gwen and me when we were that age. When I got home, I’d give Mom a call, ask her to talk to Gwen. My sister might appreciate the advice of someone who’d made the same choice she had. But Mom had also explored life as a shapeshifter, killing her share of demons before she met Dad and fell in love. If anyone could see both sides of the issue, it was Mom. And anyway, I’d been too haphazard about keeping in touch since she moved to Florida.

By the time I passed through the first checkpoint, I was feeling a little better. I’d take a minute to stop by Creature Comforts and check on Juliet, and then I’d go home and make that call.

During the day, the New Combat Zone is a ghost town. (Not literally. Although I’d had a run-in a few weeks back with a shade stuck in Limbo, there’s no such thing as ghosts.) When the bars were closed, the only reason to be in the Zone was to pass between Deadtown and the rest of Boston. At this hour, most of the monsters were home, sleeping. Those who kept norm hours, like Kane, were at work. And most norms stayed as far away from Deadtown as they could get, even during the day.

Except for the vampire junkies. Those norms were a little too fond of the mild narcotic in vampire saliva that made donating blood feel so good. I passed one now, sprawled in the mouth of the alley, sleeping it off. His legs stuck out onto the pavement, and I had to choose between stepping over or walking around him. I walked around—and almost into another guy who materialized in front of me.

“Got a light?” he asked, feeling in his pocket for cigarettes. His greasy hair, parted on the side, was way past due for a trim. His eyes were dull, his neck ringed with vampire hickeys. Another vampire junkie, this one recently awakened from his beauty sleep.

“I don’t smoke.” I moved to step past him, but he blocked my way.

“How about change, then? Spare a few coins?”

“No.” I shoved his shoulder, and he stepped back. As he did, his hand came out of his pocket, holding not cigarettes but a slim spray can. A cloud of choking mist hit my face. My eyes stung and streamed with blinding tears. I doubled over, trying to cough the junk out of my burning lungs. The ground tilted, and my knees gave way. The greasy-haired guy caught me before I hit the ground. The other junkie, on his feet now, grabbed my legs. They lifted me between them and moved into the alley. I struggled to get a breath but it was like my chest was squeezed by iron bands. Buildings bounced past. The light dimmed. I had a sense we’d entered a small, dark room or tunnel. Then I didn’t know anything at all.

WHEN I CAME TO, MY FIRST FEELING WAS ASTONISHMENT and gratitude to be breathing. For several minutes I simply lay on my back, appreciating the rise and fall of my chest. A deep ache, like a fresh bruise, swelled with each motion, but I could do it. I could breathe.

But was I really awake? It was so dark. And silent. And warm. Just like the atmosphere I always chose for my dreams. I wrinkled my nose. There was something—an odor, a sharp chemical smell—that I’d never allow into my dreamscape.

I turned my head, looking for the familiar, comforting red numbers of my bedside clock. No, I didn’t. I tried to turn my head. I couldn’t. I tried to sit up, to turn on my side. I jerked my arms, my legs. I couldn’t move at all.

Panic gripped me. I was strapped down, immobile, in a strange place with no idea of how I got here.

Wait. Those two vampire junkies I’d encountered in the Zone. I remembered the greasy hair, the spray can. They’d brought me here. But what the hell did they want from me? I’d never seen either one of them before.

Vampire junkies worked for vampires. Most of them would do anything to get their fix. And the only vampires I could think of who had a grudge against me were the Old Ones. I doubted they controlled the junkies directly. The Old Ones used humans solely for food. But the Old Ones kept vampires in thrall—Juliet had said how hard it was to break free of their influence—so they could make their vampire slaves command their human junkies.

The Old Ones might know how to control vampires, but clearly they didn’t know squat about shapeshifters. Because you can’t keep a shapeshifter captive by strapping her down to a table.

A shift would snap the bonds like thread. But I had to be smart about what I shifted to. I needed something dangerous—and fast. Something that wouldn’t hesitate to attack whatever came through the door, and then could run like hell to get away. A cheetah—that might work. I’d have incisors to rival the Old Ones’ fangs, and nothing can outrun a cheetah. Well, yeah, a vampire could. But I’d have the element of surprise going for me.

I drew my attention inward to begin the shift. I thought of cheetah spots, of speed, of jungle foliage blurring at the edges of my vision as my paws beat the ground. I tensed, feeling for the change to begin, trying to make the images more vivid. Hunting. My teeth tearing into hot flesh. The smell of fresh blood . . . The images faded; I couldn’t hold on to them. They fractured, swirling away like confetti. My mind went blank.

I tried again, but the same thing happened. I pulled up images, focused, tried to make them real. But before my imaginings had any effect on my reality, they dimmed, broke into pieces, and dropped from my mind.

I couldn’t shift.

Now the panic really hit. I struggled and pulled against my bonds, bruising my own flesh but not feeling the slightest give. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. My heart pounded like it would leap from my body and gallop across the room.

The door opened, and light flowed in. I stopped struggling and listened. Footsteps approached. Two sets, it sounded like, though I couldn’t turn my head to see who they belonged to. All I could see was the stained ceiling panel directly above me. I shifted my eyes right, then left. On my left side, an IV bag hung from a metal frame. A dark head blocked my view of the bag for a moment, as a hand adjusted the drip. Then a face loomed over me. A man who looked to be in his early thirties, with black hair, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to suck in the light.

It couldn’t be.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” he said. The familiar voice had a strong Welsh accent.

I blinked, I squinted, but the face didn’t change. The only thing different from the last time I’d seen him was that he now wore a beard.

“Pryce?”

He huffed, sending a blast of foul breath across my face. His teeth were rotted, and I realized the face didn’t look like Pryce after all. Not really.

“Close,” he said, “but no. I am not Pryce, though Pryce is of me. The poor lad remains an empty husk, a spiritless shell. Soon he’ll return, but not to you. Of you, yes. To you, no.” He laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made my skin crawl.

So there I was, strapped down in a windowless room, listening to a lunatic spew riddles. My day was definitely not looking up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to sound defiant, but my voice seemed far away. An echo, not the sound itself. “Who are you? And what the hell do you want from me?”

He seemed delighted with my questions. “My name is Myrddin Wyllt. I’d say, ‘At your service,’ except for the fact that it’s so clearly untrue. If we’re talking about service, you’re indisputably at mine, wouldn’t you say?” Another high-pitched giggle.

I barely listened to his gibberish. I was thinking about the name: Myrddin Wyllt. The name Myrddin is threaded throughout Welsh mythology; several different legendary characters with that name come together in a composite to create Merlin, wizard and adviser to King Arthur, in stories about the Knights of the Round Table. But Myrddin Wyllt was no kindly old man with a long white beard, a pointy hat, and a twinkle in his eye. Myrddin Wyllt was insane.