Chapter One


Most of the time, I'm not too crazy about being a werewolf. For so many reasons: the compulsory and inconvenient transformations, the excessive reliance on Lady Bic razors . . . not to mention the difficulty explaining to potential mates that our children would probably grow a natural fur coat and tail every twenty-eight days or so. Maintaining a normal relationship—much less a career—is a hairy proposition when you tend to sprout fangs every time someone pops Moonstruck into the DVD player.

But there are compensations. The lightning-fast reflexes, for example. The ability to scare the pants off of would-be muggers and rapists. The deep, almost carnal enjoyment of a rare prime rib at Ruth's Chris. And, as was currently the case, the ability to smell every nuance of a gorgeous spring day.

It was a warm mid-March afternoon in central Texas, and I was on my way back to Austin from a meeting with my favorite client in San Antonio. The radio was playing full blast and the windows in my M3 were wide open, letting in the mingled scents of fresh earth, new grass, cows, and a complete and total absence of werewolves, which was fine by me. The cows, however, were making me hungry. Lunch had been a long time ago, I realized as I gulped back a mouthful of saliva and reached for my tumbler of wolfs_bane tea.

I was mentally reviewing the more intimate details of my meeting with Mark Sydney, CEO of Southeast Airlines. He was my client, to be sure—and landing the Southeast Airlines account had recently netted me partnership—but most of the afternoon had been spent at a romantic River Walk restaurant staring over a giant margarita at my client's deep blue eyes. I was r...