JASON O'SULLIVAN. NOW I REALIZE WHERE I'D SEEN him before. Not in person, but in media accounts of the restaurant opening. He'd accompanied his parents that night. Video of the three of them exiting a limo and being greeted at the door by Gloria had run on every newscast.
So what was he doing this morning hugging the woman accused of killing his father?
I pick up the phone and call the hotel. When I ask to be connected to Gloria's room, I'm told she's left a "do not disturb" message. Crap. I leave a message for her of my own-"Call me. And do not ever have the operator refuse my calls again."
I slam the receiver down. She's probably in a sedative-induced coma. She made it clear on the courthouse steps that she wasn't going to talk about Jason, which leaves only one other person to ask.
Jason.
David doesn't have a desktop computer at home, only a laptop, and it's nowhere in sight, so I figure he must have it with him. That means back to the office.
David and I are Mac people. We each have a monitor on opposite sides of our big, oak partner's desk. I power mine up.
I figure odds are against a listed telephone number, but check online anyway. I'm right. No listing in his name. I could ask Gloria's lawyer to get it for me, but then I'll have to explain why I want it. Since Jason is a minor, I'd rather not involve Gloria's lawyer, Jason's mother and the army of O'Sullivan lawyers no doubt on the family payroll when I talk to him. Time enough later to share information.
If it turns out there's anything to share.
I do know another way to track down a teenager.
I log on to MySpace. David and I got an account not long ago for this purpose-it's a great tracking tool. I do a search for "Jason O'Sullivan." I get ninety-four hits, including every variation of the name you can imagine. Sixteen actually are "Jason O'Sullivan's." It takes the better part of an hour to sort through some pretty whacked-out profiles to find one that seems promising. Says he's eighteen, naturally, looking for friends. Lives in L.A. The kid in the picture, though it's not a sharp image, looks like the kid I saw with Gloria today.
It's worth a shot.
I send an instant message: FRND OF GLORIA. RESPOND FUR 2.
I have no way of knowing if this is the right Jason or if he's online. Nothing to do now but wait.
So, it's back to Frey's book. I settle into my desk chair, prop my feet up on the desk and start to read.
A few paragraphs into chapter three, and I have dubbed this one "the care and feeding of werewolves." Werewolves are human in most aspects twenty-seven days out of the month. Except for not being able to make babies (something weres and vampires have in common), they work (or "toil" in the book's archaic turn of phrase) in jobs, can have a social life outside of the pack, attend church and perform "works of goodwill" in their communities.
It's the other three days that create problems.
Werewolves must make a change at least once a month, usually during the full moon. The moon, however, does not cause the change. It's the life cycle of the were that requires it. Since a transformation must take place at least once a month in order for the were to survive, the full moon is merely a way of calculating time. A lunar wake-up call.
If the were does not make the change, his body goes into "crisis" (a condition not described), from which he will not recover. He needs the belt of wolf fur to make the change. Without it, the animal cannot emerge. (What does this "belt" look like? Is it literally a belt of fur that can be taken off? Does it meld into his skin to precipitate the change? Damn. Not enough details here.) If he doesn't "metamorphose" at least one time a month, he dies.
However, if he is transformed during the full moon, the odds are increased that the were will do humans harm. Since early recorded history, it has been observed that many animals are more prone to bite during a full moon than any other time. In his animal form, the were is particularly vulnerable to this behavior. Ordinarily, the were will only do what wolves do-hunt, feed, mate in a pack. Food sources are what would be found in the woods: small rodents, birds, such game as they can bring down. Should a pack happen upon a human, however, while an ordinary animal might be frightened away by aggressive behavior or shouting, a were pack is more likely to attack. The majority of werewolf killings occur this way.
How does one recognize werewolves? Most obvious is to see a pack in an area or location where wolves should not be, specifically, in a town or village. If the animals are observed acting in ways that suggest a higher intelligence or unusual physical abilities, or if you strike one with a nonmetallic object and do no harm, or (I love this one) if you are in an area with a large concentration of immigrants from Eastern Europe, most likely you will have made contact with werewolves.
Silver offers protection against werewolves. (Finally, something in the lore that I recognize.) A silver-topped cane or silver saber or knife will dispatch a werewolf, as will silver bullets.
The most effective method of protecting oneself?
Avoidance. Simply put, all ye, stay away from werewolves.
I close the book and lay it on the desk.
Stay away from werewolves.
Good advice under most conditions, I'm sure. My meeting with Sandra has nothing to do with her being a werewolf and everything to do with finally freeing myself of Avery. When we fought and I killed him, I did it defending my life. I didn't do it to become heir to his fortune. I wasn't aware of the ancient vampiric law that bestowed his property on me as survivor of an unjust battle. I didn't ask for it. I didn't want it. I've spent the last six months trying to forget it.
As far as I'm concerned, Sandra's claiming title as Avery's wife is a relief.
There isn't a reason in the world why Sandra and I shouldn't part tonight as friends.
An urgent stirring sends heat flooding through me.
Maybe more than friends.
I stand up, stretch, move to the deck.
I need to move. I need air to clear my head. I need to understand why once again, thoughts of Sandra spark such a powerful sexual response.
That I'm attracted to Sandra sexually is startling. I made fun of it with Culebra, blamed the feeling on a spell. I've almost finished Frey's reading assignment, however, and there has been no mention of werewolves being capable of casting love spells.
I think about seeing her in the bar. How I hadn't noticed her at first. Hadn't noticed her at all, really, until she wanted me to. Then she hit me with a psychic sexual punch so strong, it left me dizzy.
So strong, the sound of her voice made me agree to go to Avery's tonight, something I'd sworn never to do.
So strong, I get shivers of delight imagining how it would be to please her.
Like a junkie jonesing for a fix.
Doesn't make sense.
Until suddenly, it does.
It's crystal clear.
I don't know how she's doing it, but I do know why. This compulsion to be with her, this need to please her, is a weapon. She either doesn't understand or doesn't believe that I'm not going to fight her claim for Avery's property. That I'm relieved to be free of it. So she's set this velvet-lined trap.
A damned effective one.
Tonight, all I need do is make her understand that she has nothing to fear from me. She can revoke the spell. I'll give her anything she wants. Willingly.
Anything.