Love Bites by Adrienne Barbeau

have fangs. Hence the need to carry a kirpan —in his case, a jewel-encrusted dagger. He’s got to be able to cut his meat where he finds it. Solgar has a suckerlike opening on the tip of his tongue, and before his rhinoplasty he had only one nostril. Makes it hard to speak the language of our youth.
    “I’m not so fine, Obour,” I responded, also in Armenian. It’s an easy way to ensure our privacy, unless I’m calling from Macy’s in Fashion Square, which is the mecca for Armenian salesclerks. Then I use German. “I had a visitor Saturday night—a were—and I doubt it was a social call.”
    “And the body? You need me to dispose of it?” Ernst never questions my capabilities. There was no doubt in his mind I’d be the victor in any dispute.
    “I didn’t kill it. He was powerful, Ernst. Incredibly powerful. A wolf, and an ancient one at that. Without a pack. He attacked me alone, in my backyard, and I want to know why. Is this business?”
    “I’ve heard of nothing, Chatelaine. Nothing.” He cleared his throat. I hate it when he clears his throat; it sounds like the vacuum tube they use in a dentist’s office. No, I don’t have dental work done, but I’ve heard the sound. There’s an oral surgeon in the building next door to my office, and I can hear him through the walls. I swear last week he gave someone nitrous oxide and went down on her in the chair. It sounded like Tiny Tim coming.
    “Ovsanna, everyone is shut down for the holidays; there is no one on the phones. You’re probably the only executive who is even in her office. And what would it be about? The Japanese deal? There are only four people in town who know what we’ve structured, and one of them is dead. You and I and Maral certainly aren’t talking. I doubt the Japanese are. I can think of no one who benefits from harming you, Chatelaine.”
    “Will you make some inquiries, please, Ernst. Discreetly. The were’s intent wasn’t to harm me. He wanted my life.”
    I spent the rest of Monday in the office, playing host to the three Japanese businessmen who had the power (that is, money) to catapult my burgeoning film studio into the big leagues. I own the lot, which means income from renting to other production companies, and I’ve been operating in the black for years, quite successful with my own low-budget horror films and made-for-TV movies, but these fellows had approached me eighteen months ago with a truly seductive offer. They wanted 25 percent of my 80 percent of Anticipation so they could develop straight-to-computer, direct-to-cell-phone-and-PDA, low-bandwidth, high-def movies. I wanted the hundred million they had to offer in cash and technological investments so I could continue to maintain creative control and avoid getting swallowed by one of the majors.
    By the end of Monday, we all had what we wanted. My business affairs people went back to their office to put the finishing touches on the paperwork, and our PR department issued a press release about the merger. I went home to enjoy the solitude with Maral out of town. I checked the security cameras and made sure the alarm was on. The geese were quiet. Then I took a hot bath, lit a fire in the fireplace in my bedroom, and cuddled up in my huge, overstuffed chair to read the latest Doc Ford novel. I love Randy Wayne White’s character as much as I love Lee Child’s Jack Reacher. It dawned on me that that’s probably why I was attracted to Peter. He’s got some of their same qualities. Maybe not as iconoclastic, but definitely as macho.
    I thought about Peter, a lot. I hadn’t heard from him. Maybe it was too soon. Or maybe that meant he’d made his decision. Maybe not hearing from him was the message he wanted to send.
    I would hate that, but I’d understand.
    Tuesday afternoon, he called. Just listening to his voice brought on the Thirst, which pissed me off. I’m too old to be acting like a teenager. About four hundred years too old.
    “How are you?” I