Free Blood Rock by Anthony Francis Page A

sharp-featured man with severe glasses and even more severely cut red hair. His clothes looked almost normal: a navy turtleneck and brown jacket, almost like a businessman. But his eyes were wrong, the pupils … off. Too wide, almost horizontal slits. He could pass for human. But just barely.
    “Here,” the werekin said, reaching as if to take Cinnamon from me and scowling as I made no move. Instead I just straightened, looking down at him, and the werestag reassessed. “Krishna Gettyson, day captain for the werehouse.”
    “Dakota Frost, Cinnamon’s mother,” I said, picking a hand out of the blanket and extending it to him awkwardly. “Thanks for taking us in. This was a real emergency.”
    “You aren’t the stray’s mother,” Gettyson snapped. His eyes flicked sideways to the car. “And you gots no idea how to take care of a were.”
    “Well, I’ll have to learn,” I said, meeting his eerie gaze. “And she goes by Cinnamon.”
    He just frowned at me, then cried, “Tully! Where’s the wheelchair?”
    “I can carry her,” I said. “She’s light as a feather.”
    “You’re an outsider,” Gettyson said flatly. “You shouldn’t even be here, and I sure as hell don’t intends to let you into the dens.”
    “I’ll carry her there myself and watch over her, or we’ll go elsewhere,” I said.
    “I won’t let you,” Gettyson said.
    “You think you can stop me? Mother. Cub. Do the math,” I said, and Gettyson tensed.
    “Dakota,” purred a warm, masculine voice, smooth as silk. “How good to see you.”
    A stern pale man stepped out of the darkness. A long-tailed coat clung to his trim form, and a glittering chain dangled from the pocket of his vest, but the overall effect was high style, not old fashioned. His once-frosted locks were now wavy and styled, but against his ivory-pale skin, his blond hair looked almost brown, and his blue eyes almost seemed to glow.
    Or perhaps they did glow. He was Calaphase the vampire, head of the Oakdale Clan, my second-best ally in the werehouse … and Revenance’s best friend.
    “Gettyson,” Calaphase said, smiling icily. Clearly the status of the Oakdale Clan had risen with the werekin. Last time I’d been here, Calaphase had been walking on thin ice, but now there was an edge in his voice as he warned the werestag off. “I’m sure we can bend the rules for Dakota—”
    “That’s a bad idea,” Gettyson said. “Every time we brings in an outsider—”
    “You said the same about me,” Calaphase said. “But haven’t we proven our worth?”
    As he talked, I realized this is how things started first time I met him. Calaphase had shielded me from his fellow vampire Transomnia, ultimately kicking him out of the clan. For his shame, Transomnia had beaten me and nearly murdered Cinnamon. Not again.
    “No,” I said. “Wait, Cally. I screwed up. Gettyson, I came here for help and then turned into an ass.” Oddly, Gettyson’s nostrils flared at ‘ass.’ How had that offended him? “I’m sorry. I just get protective about Cinnamon. Not too long ago, someone tried to kill her.”
    Gettyson just stood there, jaw clenched, and then I realized what pile I might have just stepped in: perhaps he wasn’t a werestag. So I decided to risk one step further. “And if you’re a were-donkey or something, sorry about the ‘ass’ comment. I didn’t know.”
    “Werehorse,” Gettyson said curtly. “There’s no such things as were-donkeys.”
    My mouth opened to correct him: from what I’d learned in school, you could make a werekin out of anything with a genome. Then I shut my mouth—there was no point in getting into an argument with him about his beliefs.
    “My apologies,” I managed finally. “I’ve never met a … a werehorse.”
    Gettyson’s nostrils flared, but he nodded as Tully pushed up a wheelchair, stopping just out of reach of Gettyson’s arm. “Apology accepted,” Gettyson said, in a tone that clearly indicated that it wasn’t