I had had a really long day. My nerves were stretched thin and she was jumping up and down on the last of them.

I inhaled slowly. Two years of sorting shapeshifter politics and their run-ins with humans had to count for something. “According to the Guzman Act, a shapeshifter in the United States is free to wear whatever shape he or she chooses. It’s a federal crime to discriminate against shapeshifters based on the form of their body. It’s also illegal to make regulations interfering with their ability to freely change shape. I sincerely hope the neighborhood hasn’t considered signing such a petition.” Because if they did, I would make them eat it. Slowly.

“No, no, of course not.”

“I’m sure you weren’t suggesting that my fiancé should be limited in which shape he wears on a street in his own neighborhood?”

“No, of course not,” she said, backpedaling. “It just that it upsets the dogs . . .”

“Also, he isn’t taking a walk. He is patrolling. We live next to a wooded area. I’m sure you’ve heard coyotes howling. Judging from the ‘lost pet’ posters taped on lampposts and fences, a number of dogs and cats have disappeared from this neighborhood, but none after January fifteenth. Do you know why that is?”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s because on January fifteenth we moved into this house. My fiancé is a top-level predator. He has claimed this territory, and all of the other lesser predators know better than to challenge him.”

The magic vanished, like a veil jerked aside. The feylanterns went out and the electric porch light came on, illuminating me in all of my bloody nasty glory. Heather sucked in a sharp breath.

“Will there be anything else?” I asked.

“No.” Her face turned pale.

“Thank you so much for stopping by. If you get anything from the post office about interrupted delivery, bring it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and took off across the street to her house at a near run.

I walked into our house, locked the security door and the front door behind me, and exhaled. A delicious scent of stew floated to me. My mouth actually watered. So hungry.

I made my way into the kitchen just in time to see Curran, already showered, pull a pot of stew Julie must’ve made from the coal oven. Grendel, our freakishly large black attack poodle, sprawled on the rug, cleaning a big bone. He wagged his tail at me and went back to stripping shreds of meat. Julie set out the bowls for dinner.

“Did you see the mailman while doing your rounds yesterday?” I asked.

Curran’s face turned carefully blank. “Yes, I did.”

“Did you do anything to scare him?”

“I was perfectly friendly.”

“Mhm.” Please continue with your nice story. Nonjudgmental.