throat before he could squelch it. The sound brought the smile back to Qi’s face.
“You’re welcome.” Qi gave a small, mocking bow, then disappeared.
Chapter Eight
Mixed Messages
Qi’s departure left behind a stench of burning sulfur. Tony immediately removed his hand from Aaron’s scruff. Aaron looked up at him, but Tony avoided his gaze. A moment later the Thurisaz sigil appeared, glowing softly in the exact spot the demon had been standing. Qi’s appearance at—and assumed intended compliance to—human command was listed on the exhaustingly long list of official bad ideas noted in the British Anglo-Demonic Pact.
“I should call that in before Braven sends a team out here,” Tony said. He bent down and unfastened the restraints, then stood and moved away. “Why don’t you change? There are clothes in the bedroom closet. Take whatever you want.” He gestured up the stairs, fished his phone out of his pocket and gave Aaron his back.
Aaron watched him dial the switchboard number and give his access code. Would Tony include him in his call-in? Would he report that he had a werewolf for a partner? Aaron decided he didn’t want to hear. He trudged up the steps, Tony’s voice fading only slightly due to his excellent hearing. Once he’d changed, however, his human ears wouldn’t be able to pick up the sounds of his partner turning him over to Braven.
Aaron wasn’t looking forward to shifting back into human form. As a wolf he was still dimly aware of his alter ego’s concerns, but the wolf mind had little time for trivialities like feelings of disappointment, betrayal, humiliation. The man part of Aaron, though, would keenly know each of those feelings, and would undoubtedly wish to wallow in one or more of them. The dark thing, spurred by the terror of Qi’s insinuation that he was no ordinary werewolf, urged him not to bother with any of it a moment longer. It told him to run off into the night, find the deepest, most secluded patch of woods and happily hunt rabbits until he died. Aaron had to admit it sounded nice, except the shift couldn’t last forever. He was human first, wolf second. So to human he would always revert, no matter how much he fought, how much control he exerted. At some point his body would force itself back into its natural state, then he would be a naked man squatting in the woods with a dead rabbit hanging from his mouth.
As if this last thought flipped a switch in his head, his bones began to grind. A whine escaped from his tightly clamped muzzle. His chest heaved with repressed panting. The thick hair covering his body retracted. His skin stretched with the extension of his skeleton. Tendons groaned under the pressure of his shifting structure. His face raged with agony as his muzzle pulled back into his sinuses. His eye sockets shifted, the pressure stuffing up his diminishing nose. He kept his focus away from the standing mirror in the corner of the open loft bedroom. He had once made the mistake of catching a reflected glimpse of this current stage of his transformation. Patchy, with clumps of fur hanging from his body, bent at the waist with half human, half canine appendages, face a wreck of a hodgepodge, fangs overlying human lips. It was a sight he never wished to see again.
The final sinews popped into place. Aaron collapsed onto his side. The return shift always took more out of him. He laid there for a few minutes, marveling at his fingers and the precise control they had—so different from the ungainly paws—and ignored the warning sirens wailing in his mind. If Tony had called Kapre, if an acqxterm team was on their way, there was little he could do about it. The bulk of his supernatural power lasted only as long as the shift, and burned up much of his regular human energy to boot. It was one of those secrets Carlos had warned him the general public could never hear of. They had to think werewolves’ strength persisted at all times. If word got out that
“You’re welcome.” Qi gave a small, mocking bow, then disappeared.
Chapter Eight
Mixed Messages
Qi’s departure left behind a stench of burning sulfur. Tony immediately removed his hand from Aaron’s scruff. Aaron looked up at him, but Tony avoided his gaze. A moment later the Thurisaz sigil appeared, glowing softly in the exact spot the demon had been standing. Qi’s appearance at—and assumed intended compliance to—human command was listed on the exhaustingly long list of official bad ideas noted in the British Anglo-Demonic Pact.
“I should call that in before Braven sends a team out here,” Tony said. He bent down and unfastened the restraints, then stood and moved away. “Why don’t you change? There are clothes in the bedroom closet. Take whatever you want.” He gestured up the stairs, fished his phone out of his pocket and gave Aaron his back.
Aaron watched him dial the switchboard number and give his access code. Would Tony include him in his call-in? Would he report that he had a werewolf for a partner? Aaron decided he didn’t want to hear. He trudged up the steps, Tony’s voice fading only slightly due to his excellent hearing. Once he’d changed, however, his human ears wouldn’t be able to pick up the sounds of his partner turning him over to Braven.
Aaron wasn’t looking forward to shifting back into human form. As a wolf he was still dimly aware of his alter ego’s concerns, but the wolf mind had little time for trivialities like feelings of disappointment, betrayal, humiliation. The man part of Aaron, though, would keenly know each of those feelings, and would undoubtedly wish to wallow in one or more of them. The dark thing, spurred by the terror of Qi’s insinuation that he was no ordinary werewolf, urged him not to bother with any of it a moment longer. It told him to run off into the night, find the deepest, most secluded patch of woods and happily hunt rabbits until he died. Aaron had to admit it sounded nice, except the shift couldn’t last forever. He was human first, wolf second. So to human he would always revert, no matter how much he fought, how much control he exerted. At some point his body would force itself back into its natural state, then he would be a naked man squatting in the woods with a dead rabbit hanging from his mouth.
As if this last thought flipped a switch in his head, his bones began to grind. A whine escaped from his tightly clamped muzzle. His chest heaved with repressed panting. The thick hair covering his body retracted. His skin stretched with the extension of his skeleton. Tendons groaned under the pressure of his shifting structure. His face raged with agony as his muzzle pulled back into his sinuses. His eye sockets shifted, the pressure stuffing up his diminishing nose. He kept his focus away from the standing mirror in the corner of the open loft bedroom. He had once made the mistake of catching a reflected glimpse of this current stage of his transformation. Patchy, with clumps of fur hanging from his body, bent at the waist with half human, half canine appendages, face a wreck of a hodgepodge, fangs overlying human lips. It was a sight he never wished to see again.
The final sinews popped into place. Aaron collapsed onto his side. The return shift always took more out of him. He laid there for a few minutes, marveling at his fingers and the precise control they had—so different from the ungainly paws—and ignored the warning sirens wailing in his mind. If Tony had called Kapre, if an acqxterm team was on their way, there was little he could do about it. The bulk of his supernatural power lasted only as long as the shift, and burned up much of his regular human energy to boot. It was one of those secrets Carlos had warned him the general public could never hear of. They had to think werewolves’ strength persisted at all times. If word got out that
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