“You reek. It’s awful! You don’t take enough showers, and when you do shower, you slop nine kinds of perfumed soap, body powders, scented shampoos, and aftershave or perfume all over yourselves. I had to take the subway once in Boston—never again! I had to get off after one stop—after I threw up.”

“I don’t think all of us stink,” Bev said carefully. “I think your sense of smell is developed to such a high degree that it seems like—”

“No. You all stink.”

“Oh. Well, sorry about that. Thanks for answering my questions.”

“Thanks for not jumping—I’m almost out of Advil.”

“It was nice meeting you.” Bev stuck out her hand. After an awkward moment, Antonia shook it, and Bev tried not to wince at the bone-crushing power in the woman’s grip. “Good luck with the queen.”

“Good luck with your life. You might try ratting your boss out to the IRS. He hasn’t paid taxes in five years. That could put a little excitement in your life—he’s a big fish and the feds would love to get him on that, if nothing else.”

Her boss? Which boss? She couldn’t mean…not the big guy. He had fingers in too many pies for her to count. Besides, she was just a worker bee in one of many hives.

“This is Chicago,” she explained to the werewolf. “Things are different here.”

“But you could change that,” Antonia said, climbing up on the ledge. She balanced easily for a moment, her long coat flapping in the wind. “And they have programs, the police do. They could give you a new name, a new life. Something more interesting than contemplating rooftops, anyway.”

“Yes,” she said dryly, “but there’s always the chance that he could have me killed.”

“Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” Antonia said, and jumped. She landed on her feet in a perfect little crouch; Bev was instantly jealous. More than jealous. Sure, it was easy for the gorgeous werewolf to give career advice. It was slightly more difficult for the little people, thanks very much.

But the niggling thought

(sounds exciting, doesn’t it?) wouldn’t go away.

Chapter 1

Antonia paused and then knocked at the door of 607 Summit Avenue. Mansions, of course, were nothing she wasn’t used to, but she had never seen an entire street of them. And this one—across from the governor’s mansion, no less—was nearly the grandest of them all.

It was white, except for enormous black shutters. Three floors that she could see from the front. Wraparound porch deep enough for couches and several rocking chairs. A detached garage as big as most people’s starter homes.

Well, a queen lives here, she reminded herself. Of course it’s going to be grand. What did you expect, a tent?

Still, it was weird. She had no idea American monkeys had started electing royals.