Free Blessed by Cynthia Leitich Smith

printed list of Web links — some leading to articles that dated back to the 1920s — all attributed to Henry Johnson. I hadn’t taken my Wolf man seriously. Forty-eight hours later, I was undead.
    Today a handful of sites pulled up, but The Gothic Gourmet listed “Beyond Sashimi and Tartare: Culinary Expressions of Neovampirism” as “no longer available,” and both Eternal Elegance magazine and Underworld Business Monthly required registration. Demonic Digest offered only a preview of Brad’s article.
Hearts at Stake: Gender Politics Arising Post Vampyric Infection
by Henry Johnson
Though an unholy union, the relationship between an established eternal and his neophyte consort mirrors that of traditional human marriages in matters of dominance, fiscal responsibility, and daily management as well as the setting of sexual expectations.
    “Miss me?” a masculine voice whispered over the air-conditioning.
    I stiffened, certain I was alone in the room.
    The dogs! From outside in the backyard, the mama shepherd sounded wild, barking and snarling. What had set her off?
    Moving the laptop aside, I turned, rising on my knees to peer out the window at the sprawling live oak and surrounding historic neighborhood.
    Nothing. God, my whole ordeal with Bradley had made me crazy, paranoid.
    Then a fist popped up to knock on the window, and I screamed.

Clyde raised his head into view and screamed, too. Then he glared at me and yanked Aimee up beside him on the massive tree branch.
    Glad I didn’t have enough blood in my system to blush, I raised the window.
    “Little jumpy?” Aimee asked, falling forward onto the carpet.
    Climbing in after her, Clyde looked like hell. His lower lip was split and swollen, his cheek and jaw bruised.
    “What happened?” I whispered, though the Moraleses weren’t home yet.
    Staring at the largely emptied room, the Possum waved me off. “I heal fast.”
    “A werewolf slugged him,” Aimee explained, sitting up.
    Clyde limped to the desk chair, and with his injuries, I wondered how he’d made it up the tree. “Kieren wasn’t the only trained Wolf scholar in Austin,” he said.
    I should’ve thought of that. The city had a loose-knit shifter community made up of runaways and the banished, plus a few werepeople who’d decided to, say, study architecture or business at the University of Texas.
    Sinking to perch on the denim comforter, I prompted, “And?”
    Clyde’s claws sprouted, retracted. “Let’s just say you shouldn’t quiz a lone Wolf about vampirism if you haven’t made up a really outstanding lie to explain why you need that information.” He blew out a breath. “Mr. Accommodating wasn’t impressed with ‘uh’ for an answer.”
    “You didn’t find out anything?” I pressed.
    “Nah,” Clyde said. “I think I was barking up the wrong Wolf. I’d bet my tail that when it comes to decoding supernatural crap, Kieren’s the alpha puppy in the Lone Star State. Or at least, he used to be.”
    “Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say. But I couldn’t help wondering, had Kieren left Texas altogether? Had he confided that much about his destination to Clyde?
    God, I needed Kieren so much. Not only did I love him, but I needed him on a practical level. I was failing at the very thing he’d spent his whole life preparing to do.
    I slipped a hand over my rumbling stomach, hoping the sophomores hadn’t noticed. Hoping they didn’t realize their arrival had further piqued my thirst.
    I mentioned that the Moraleses weren’t home yet.
    “We didn’t have to climb the tree?” Aimee exclaimed.
    “Nice,” Clyde said. “I’m going to grab some ice from the freezer for my lip.”
    “Any leads at the library?” I asked Aimee as he ambled out.
    “Yes and no,” she replied. “There was the usual victim blaming. Apparently, sinners, alcoholics, suicides, witches, sorcerers, seventh children, highwaymen, plague victims, and the unpopular are more likely to rise undead.”