She didn’t bother to knock again; she could hear someone coming. The door was pulled open—the small, skinny woman had to struggle with it—and then Antonia was face-to-face with a beautiful woman (yawn…they were a dime a dozen on the Cape) with skin the color of good coffee. Her eyes were also dark and tip-tilted at the ends, giving her a regal (daresay queenlike?) air. She had cheekbones you could cut yourself on.

“Are you the queen?” Antonia asked. Dumb question; of course she was the queen, who else could be? The woman was born to be on the one dollar bill.

At least this one didn’t stink too badly—she’d had a shower that night and, even better, hadn’t drowned herself in nine kinds of powders, soaps, perfumes, and deodorants.

“I’m here to help you,” she continued when the woman didn’t say anything. “I’m Antonia Wolfton, from the Cape Cod Pack.”

The queen blinked at her, a slow-lidded, thoughtful blink, and then said, “You’d better come with me.” She turned, and Antonia followed her through an enormous entryway, down several hallways (the place smelled strongly of old wood, old wool, and Pledge), and into the largest kitchen she’d ever seen. Several people were sitting on stools, which were grouped around a long, industrial counter, bar-style.

“Guys,” the queen announced, “this is Antonia Wolfton, from the Cape Cod Pack. Hold onto your panties: She’s here to help us.”

One of them, a leggy blonde dressed in linen pants and a sleeveless white blouse, looked up from her tea. Actually, they all looked up. But it was the blonde Antonia couldn’t look away from.

And there was something going on here, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just the group, almost unnaturally still. And it wasn’t their smell—though they’d obviously gone easy on the fake scents and heavy on good, old-fashioned showers—their scents, that was it, she almost had it, could almost taste the problem, the—

She heard someone coming down the stairs and then the door about fifteen feet away swung open and a man walked in.

Well. Not walked. Loped, really. He was tall and lean, with a swimmer’s build—narrow hips and broad shoulders. Shirtless, with a fine fuzz of dark hair starting at the top of his ribs and disappearing into his jeans. He had shoulder-length, golden brown hair—sunny hair, as her pack leader’s daughter would have said—and mud-colored eyes. When he looked at her with those eyes, she had the distinct sensation of falling.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said faintly. Those eyes…they weren’t intelligent. They were just this side of savage. Oh, she liked those eyes. She just needed to fatten him up some; he was far too thin. “How’s it going, Garrett?”

“What?” the blonde said, spilling her tea. “What did you say?”