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The walls around me creaked in alarm. In the innkeeper world, adoption could take place at any age, provided the “parent” was at least twenty years older than the “child.” Once adopted, the “child” would be considered a rightful heir to the “parent’s” inn. But I wasn’t an orphan. This was ridiculous.
“I already have parents.”
“That was pointed out to him. He says that according to our guidelines, enough time passed that they can be declared dead soon...”
“They are not dead!” They were missing.
Brian nodded. “I know. We told him. He is determined to get you and Sean over to Scotland. He says you have ‘the vision.’”
A wall to my left parted and Sean came out of it, looking ready to fight somebody.
“It doesn’t matter what he’s determined to do. I’m not leaving Gertrude Hunt. The Assembly can’t separate us, I won’t—”
Sean put his arm around me and leaned over my shoulder to pin Brian with a stare.
Brian raised his hand. “Dina, if Lachlan reaches out to you, he might make it seem that this has been decided and you must leave your inn and go to Loch Broom. I’m telling you right now, as a representative of the Assembly, you don’t have to do what he says. If he tries to bully you, call me. You’re doing a good job where you are. You’ve bonded with your inn. Nobody is going to remove you unless a catastrophe happens. So don’t worry about it, and if he calls, tell him no. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you for the warning.”
“Let me talk to Tony, please.”
I handed the phone to Tony, and he walked away, muttering something.
Sean hugged me. “What happened?”
“An elderly Scottish innkeeper wants to adopt me.” I shook my head. “What’s next?”
“Next, you’re going to sit down for at least 15 minutes and eat something. Come on.”
He sat me down at the kitchen table, and Droplet brought me food. I took exactly two bites of the most delicious burrito I had ever tasted, and then the inn tugged on me. The werewolf was awake.
I found the werewolf in our high-tech med unit. She must’ve heard me come in, but she gave no indication of it. I approached the bed. She looked at me and didn’t say anything.
I pulled up a chair and sat. Her color was much better, and she seemed alert. Around us the walls were a nebulous charcoal, swirls of darker and lighter gray. Karat had an aversion to the sterile white, so I had adjusted it to her preferences.
Gertrude Hunt pulled on my attention, announcing an incoming call from Gaston. I took it.
“We have a slight problem,” his disembodied voice said from the empty air about eight feet up.
The werewolf sat up and squinted at the source of the voice.
“What is it?” I had dumped, that is delegated, the responsibility for the 2nd Trial, the talent show, onto Gaston and Tony. They should be at the rehearsal now.
“One of the talent demonstrations is in poor taste.”
“What do you mean?”
“I personally find it distasteful,” he said.
What would Gaston find distasteful? Orata warned me that the candidates were allowed a lot of latitude when displaying their talents. Even if one of them were to light themselves on fire, we couldn't interfere.
“Is it dangerous to other guests?”
“No.”
“You have to let them do it. If we block any of the candidates from demonstrating their talents, they could claim we prevented them from becoming a spouse.”
“Understood.”
He broke the connection. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
“You win,” she said finally.
I waited.
“I saw you kill that thing before I passed out. You’re stronger than me, so you win.”
“I never was in competition with you.”
She looked away.
“What’s wrong with your ossai?” I asked.
She gave me a dark look.
“You didn’t go into a wetwork form during the fight,” I told her. “And your rate of regeneration is lower than that of a typical werewolf.”
The ossai were a marvel of bioengineering. A programmable synthetic virus, it was the reason werewolves could bounce up tall trees, murder their opponents with insane speed and accuracy, and change shape. The werewolves had three forms: the human form they called OPS; the OM form, a quadrupedal animal shape they used for scouting and covert action; and the wetwork form, a huge human-wolf monster, which they used in combat.
Werewolves changed forms without thinking. It was instinctual like breathing. Sean had shifted into the wetwork shape when he’d attacked the cruiser and then shifted back, probably without conscious effort.
She didn’t. The corrupted ad-hal nearly killed her, but she had stayed human.
“What’s wrong?” I repeated.
The werewolf sucked the air in and let it out slowly. “Activation failure. In your boyfriend, the ossai are linked into a single bionet. They communicate with each other. My ossai don’t. Sometimes chunks of them link up, and I get a boost, but most of the time they fail.”
