THE SCENE BEFORE ME wasn’t a repressed memory. Surely I would have recalled facing down an irate circus performer in an effort to steal his prize possession—a half-grown wolf.
I could smell the dung of caged elephants, though, and could almost taste the sickly sweetness of cotton candy melted onto the pavement. In front of my eyes, the collared beast growled menacingly, baring his teeth in a display of solidarity with his owner.
Or rather, in solidarity with his captor. Because the one-body facing off against me kept a tight hold on the animal’s leash. And the animal wasn’t an animal after all, but a bloodling werewolf.
Hunter?
I breathed the word into our joint mind as soon as I realized where I must be—back inside the shared consciousness that I hadn’t been able to call upon for the
