Page 79 of Relics of the Wolf

Bolin followed my gaze, looking a little smug, but answered my question instead of commenting on his new solution. “Some potential tenants made appointments with me yesterday. When you were battling the post office.”

“I could have handled the weekend showings.”

Bolin hesitated. “The redhead was really cute.”

“Ah.” I debated if using one’s job as a property manager was an appropriate way to meet girls, but I didn’t think any business ethics books mentioned it. It wasn’t as if he was a psychiatrist—or psychiatrist’s intern—trying to hook up with vulnerable women coming in for therapy. “This place was in the news, I understand. We’re lucky potential tenants haven’t been scared away.”

“They’re actually comingbecauseof the news story. Well, more the social-media speculation about werewolves being involved. There were some videos that made it onto the internet…”

I winced, imagining my furry black ass all over one of those sites of video clips. Since nobody had confronted me about it, I assumed—at leasthoped—there wasn’t any footage of Duncan and me changing. Someone might have witnessed it, however, if tales of werewolves had arisen.

Bolin was gazing up at me, his eyes too knowing for my tastes. I’d liked it better when he hadn’t believed in werewolves.

“That’s a draw?” I asked.

“Apparently so. Some people are big fans of werewolves.”

I thought of my ex and grimaced.

“Some people believe that they can find one, ask to be bitten, and become werewolves themselves, and that they’d then be much more badass than they are as humans.”

“Huh.” I didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“If werewolves existed,” Bolin said slowly, watching me, “they wouldn’treallybe able to do that, right?”

“Not anymore.”

Judging by his disturbed expression, that might not have been the answer he wanted. It was good that I hadn’t added on that at leastonewerewolf in existence in this century might be able to do that.

A sporty red Mustang pulled into the lot, heading for one of the guest spots.

“I think that’s her.” Bolin straightened his shirt and scraped his fingers through his hair. “Them, I mean.”

Two twenty-something women got out of the car, and he hustled over to give them a tour of the available units and perform whatever awkward flirting he could manage. I didn’t worry about my collegiate spelling-bee champion being inappropriate in any way.

I was about to start the pressure washer again when movement near Duncan’s van caught my eye. No,inhis van.

Either someone had broken into it, or he’d returned.

Nerves battered my gut. Abandoning my task, I hurried to the ladder and descended. As I reached the ground, the side door in the van slid open, and someone with wavy salt-and-pepper hair hopped out. ItwasDuncan.

Wary, I paused. Was he here under Abrams’s control?

With his back to me, Duncan rummaged under the bed in his van. Werewolves under bad-guy control didn’trummage, did they? He started whistling cheerfully.

My wariness faded, and a relieved goofy grin may have sprawled across my face as I headed in his direction.

Bolin was leading the women toward the nearest building—okay, the redheadwascute—as I passed them. His eyes widened at my expression, and he paused to look toward Duncan’s van.

“Are yousureyou two aren’t dating?” he called after me.

I only lifted a hand in a vague wave of acknowledgment because Duncan had turned at the words, and my relief grew stronger. Relief andpleasure, though that was probably the last thing I should have felt after he’d tried to kill me.

No, he’d been magicallycommandedto kill me. Or so I assumed.

He was in his handsome human form now and smiled at my approach. The scar on his forehead no longer glowed.

“You’re here,” I blurted, coming to a stop in front of him.

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