Chas, 9:30 a.m.

Where to go next?

Chas stood at the corner of Freret and Upperline without any sense of direction except G’s scent on her. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

“Excuse me, ma’am, are you OK?” She popped open her eyes and a woman walking seven dogs and carrying an electronic reading tablet in one hand was looking at her with concern.

She did her best to act polite, as was her upbringing, but inside she was ready to push the lady right over because she knew exactly where to go next.

“It’s all good, thank you.” Chas sprinted in her heels around the corner and stood under the sign. The scent became more powerful. She looked up at the words on the overhanging canopy. “Howlin’ G’s Tattoos & Junk.” The name of it gave her the shivers. Was this his place? It had to be.

Damn, but she was going to enjoy bringing home a long-haired tattoo artist to meet her daddy. Provided her boy was interested in more than a one-night stand.

Inside, there were photos all over the walls of ink art, and on many of them, calligraphy letters that looked like the exact same style of the G on her ass right now.

Unbelievable.

Chas could feel she was finally getting close.

She looked around in the futile hopes of finding a female tattoo artist to help her identify the work on her ass, but she already knew the answer she was seeking. Unfortunately, there did not seem to be a single employee of the female persuasion anywhere. She would have to have a talk with G about that, as soon as she met him. Again. As soon as you meet him again.

Chas swallowed her pride, flicked her hair out of her face and clip-clopped over to the nearest artist who looked the least busy. It was a tall guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and a motorcycle vest. He had two full sleeves of tattoos with ferocious-looking creatures, all canine, morphing into humans.

“Interesting tattoos,” she said, pointing to his arm that was nearest to her.

“Thanks. Can I help you with something?” the man said gruffly.

“Yes, actually. I’m looking for someone. But can I ask you about those dogs all over your arms?”

He stared at her. “Depends,” he said. “Are you a journalist?”

She shook her head.

“Cop? Wildlife Service? Forest Service? Game warden?”

She cocked her head and gestured down at her sequined dress. “That also depends. Do you see a badge and khakis anywhere?”

Mustache Man’s question would be seriously bizarre…to someone who was not a shapeshifter or familiar with shapeshifters.

“I do not. I still don’t know if I can trust you.”

She sighed. “Fine.” And then she narrowed her eyes and let the wildcat inside her growl, deeply, from the back of her throat, just loud enough for the man to hear it.

His eyes grew wide and he put up his hands. “Are you nuts? OK, OK, I give. You win. But honestly, you already know what this ink on my arms is all about.”

“The dogs?” she asked.

“Wolves,” he corrected.

His voice gave her gooseflesh. It wasn’t the nice kind of gooseflesh. “What wolves?”

He squinted at her ignorance. “You are a DuChamps, I gather, from your reaction? Then you do know your kitty-cat kin is marrying into the wolf clan. It’s kind of a big deal.”

Her stomach dropped. “How did you know who I was? You know about us? About Rosemary? That she’s…that we are…”

He rolled his eyes and tried not to raise his voice, even though he was clearly growing frustrated with the hungover party girl in front of him. “Yes, yes, that y’all are a bunch of fuckin’ panthers, eating up all the prey that by rights belongs to the wolves. But that’s what your people do, isn’t it? Take what you think is yours?”

Chas batted her eyes, not out of flirtation or an attempt to get her way, but to take a moment to clear her head. She told herself she did not need to respond to these accusations about her family that she hardly understood or could be responsible for. Instead she focused on all this new information. Strangers know about us, she thought, and more importantly…

“First of all,” she said, a little too loudly, and pointing a finger in Fu Manchu’s face, “I am from Baton Rouge, and we Baton Rouge DuChamps are wildcats, not panthers. Panther-ism is a New Orleans thing. And second of all, I am severely hungover, dying for some coffee and I’m looking for someone named G.”

“You looking for Gavin?”

“Is that his name?”

“That’s the owner’s name. You know him?”

She drew G’s—or possibly Gavin’s—scent into her nostrils. It was comforting in this exhausting and stressful moment, and it was coming at her from all over this place.

“I might,” she said. “But first I need to confirm something. Do you have a towel or a cape I can use to cover myself while I show you my ass?”

Mustache Man got up and grabbed a large bath sheet for her to wrap around herself and cover up her goodies while she lifted her dress.

Mustache Man took one look at her ass and started to laugh. “That right there is the handiwork of none other than Weisshunt.”

Now she was really confused. “Then what does G mean?”

He crossed his arms. “Lady, if you don’t even know the last name of the most badass wolf in New Orleans, then why do you, prissy little kitty cat that you are, have his first initial on your ass?”

She huffed in frustration and dropped her dress back down over her goodies and folded the bath sheet. “I’m guessing he is not here. Would you have any idea where he might be?”

“He was here just a little bit ago.”

“Really? Oh my god! Which way did he go?”

“Fuck if I know. Probably home to sleep it off. Looked like he had a rough night.”

She gulped. “I was just there, he’s not home. I don’t suppose you have a phone charger I could use for a minute?”

He apologized. “Unless you are a paying customer, I can’t let you use the place like your own personal internet cafe.”

“Come on, man.”

“Sorry, I ain’t the boss.”

“Not even for a girl having a rough morning? You has your boss’s first initial tattooed on her ass?”

“Listen,” he said. “I know you’re used to getting your way, judging by who you are and who your family is. But I can’t just bend the rules because you’re a pretty party girl who can’t remember what happened last night.”

She nodded sadly and pulled herself together. She was not going to cry in front of this tough guy. Besides, she was on the trail of what could be the most important person in her entire life. It would all soon be over, and she would be freshly showered, fed, restored and in his arms again. If he was still into her.

“I am throwing myself on your mercy. I know what this looks like: a walk of shame. But let me tell you something. I woke up hungover, in a strange apartment, not knowing where I was, unable to call an Uber, with only this tattoo and a corner of his face in a photo. My credit card isn’t working and I have no way to get where I need to go and I am desperate to find this Gavin person. Can I please use somebody’s firewire for just a minute?”

Mustache Man stared at her for a second. Then shook his head and said, “OK, lady. Listen. You can plug in over here in the corner. But as soon as a paying customer comes in and needs that chair, I need you to vamoose.”

She nodded.

Moments later her phone was beginning to juice up and she had a mental glimmer of hope. As she waited for it to have enough of a charge to call for a car, she closed her eyes. She was desperate for coffee and food and some nice warm slippers. But when she closed her eyes, something in the back of her mind was giving her a different kind of comfort. A memory from last night.

She hated the way that memories from wild nights sort of fell into place in dribs and drabs throughout the day, either making her laugh or giving her near-panic attacks. This was none of that. When she closed her eyes, there was only warm skin, deep, intense brown eyes, his soft hair brushing against her cheek. Pillowy full lips claiming her mouth. That really happened. This time, she got the good kind of gooseflesh rising all along her arms and chest. The fact that he may be a wolf? Not what she wanted to hear. But as with most forbidden things, that just made it all the more tempting.

She could almost feel Gavin’s breath on her neck. Social constructs, like felines and canines not being made for each other, fell away. There were no embarrassing, regrettable drunk moments about it. She could tell, in her hazy brain and muscle memory, that he had been kind and gentle with her…but then there was no resolution. Maybe they were so drunk they had both passed out. Or maybe she had shapeshifted in front of him and chased him off…

“Time to go, ma’am.” It was the Mustache Man interrupting her thoughts. She opened her eyes and looked down at her phone. There was about a five percent charge on it. Yay! Just enough juice to call a car and check her text messages.

Before she headed out the door, Mustache Man called, “Listen, if he’s not at home, then you might check the coffee shop or Bobby’s Tavern on the next block. That’s all I can tell you. And hey, be careful. If you don’t understand what he is yet, then it’s not too late for you to walk away. For your own safety and his.”