The wolf-man clumsily snapped the seal, pulled out a single piece of paper, holding it with his claws, and offered it to me. I took it. His claws left small tears in the paper.

Four lines written in beautiful calligraphy said

His Majesty Curran,
the chosen Lord of Free Beasts,
requests your presence at the meeting of his Pack
at 22:00 of this night.

The paper was signed with a scribble.

“My own fault, huh,” I said to the wolf-man. “I did tell him I wanted a formal invitation.”

The wolf stared at me. His drool made small sticky puddles on the kitchen linoleum. I thought of being alone with two hundred monsters just like him, each faster and stronger than me, ready to tear me apart at the whim of their leader, and a sinking feeling sucked at my stomach. I didn’t want to go.

“Are you supposed to escort me?”

The nightmare opened his mouth and produced a low guttural growl, the frustrated snarl of a mind gifted with the power of speech but locked in a body unable to produce the words. Only the most adept of the shapechangers could speak in a midform.

“Nod, if yes,” I said.

The wolf nodded slowly.

“Very well. I need to change. Stay here. Don’t move. This is a dangerous place for a wolf. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded.

I stepped into the hallway and touched the wall, activating the ward. A translucent red partition materialized in the doorway, separating the kitchen and the monster within from the rest of the apartment. I went to get dressed.

I CHOSE LOOSE DARK GRAY PANTS, CUT TO FLARE at the bottom. They masked my foot when I kicked. The prospect of many claws at my back made me think of light armor, but my suit waited for me at my real house along with the rest of my supplies, long overdue. Not that it would help anyway, not in the middle of the Pack. I dug in the closet, where I kept a couple changes of clothes. When Greg was alive, I only came to his apartment as a last resort, which usually meant I was bleeding and my clothes were ruined.

I thumbed through the outfits and my hands grazed leather. A black leather jacket. I could dimly recall wearing it at some point. Must’ve been during my “Oh look, I’m tough!” days. I slipped it on and looked in the bedroom mirror. I looked like a bravo. And it was hot. Oh well. It was better than nothing. I took the jacket off, changed my T-shirt for a dark gray tank top, slipped on the tangle of the back sheath, and put the jacket on again. Thugs are us. Great. Just add a super-tight ponytail and loads of mascara, and I’d be ripe to play a supervillain’s evil mistress. Ve haf vays of making you gif us your DNA sample.