Jemmela in the Ruff

By Margot Honey

Jemmela Burch is a young, parentless woman who grew up in the foster system. She’s lived in multiple homes due to behavioral problems, but now, out on her own, she’s making steady progress working and going to the local community college. The problem is that what she took for an escalating neurological condition is actually the recurrent transformation into an extremely large werewolf. The violence of her transformations catches the eye of Weres whose job it is to educate or eliminate werewolves before they become a hazard to humans and the secrecy of werewolf society. Jemmela is considered a Rogue because of her age, discovered at twenty-three when most young Weres are collected at eleven or twelve years old. Most Rogue Weres are untenable savages that make a sack of rabid cats look like a comfy sweater, so no one is enthusiastic about her chances.
Warren Stall is the werewolf stalker sent to assess her, and he deems her salvageable despite the amount of destruction she has already caused. He forcibly enrolls her in Breckenridge School, the premier and secretive school for werewolves in the United States.
Initially Jemmela is unable to accept the situation because werewolves are a myth. It does not help that her captors are not used to dealing with students old enough to vote and drink. Jemmela is convinced she is the subject of some arcane espionage thriller, ala “The Prisoner,” and that if she accepts their version of reality then they will own her body and soul. She is stubborn as well as waspish, and she resists indoctrination into this secret world of werewolves, talents, and undead.
Karen Westfall, the instructor who should be helping her learn to control the Were, has too much psycho-baggage of her own, and cannot see why she should expend the effort on a woman she feels is already dead. Westfall chooses to stack the deck, and Jemmela has to use all the skills developed in the past to win a game with a most unpleasant jackpot: the truth. Accepting that truth while holding onto her sense of humor is the true skill.
Warren re-enters her life as her new instructor, and they both find that indoctrination into the peculiarities of Weredom is not easy at her age. There are conflicts of privacy that from Warren's perspective should make perfect sense. For Jemmela, there's got to be a way to be a good Were that does not involve public nudity.
Jemmela proves she can control herself, but finds control matters little when your one ally betrays you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margot Honey
• Release date: Mar 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370693610

Margot Honey

Writing is a great hobby, and I love entering other worlds and escaping the stress of work and bills. My favorite authors include Anne McCaffrey for the world of Pern and how different their lives were from regular, modern American living. I like Edgar Rice Burroughs for the details of Mars, and Jane Austen because her books were one of the few classics truly worth the eye strain (add Mark Twain to that list). My day job is in small animal medicine, which is often more about soothing fretful owners than diagnosing and treating an ailing quadruped. When I'm not writing or working, I also like to play time management games, and cruising (land or sea).

Book preview

This was her fourth job in two months and the third she’d lost because of Business Closed for Repairs. Jemmela Burch stood in front of Ye Olde Sandwiche Shoppe and watched workmen prepare plywood boards to put over what had been the front window and door. Rubble spread across the sidewalk and into the street, except for a clean rectangle where a truck had been parked.

Didn’t you see anything? Mr. Coney, her now ex-boss, waved a newspaper at her. You closed last night!

Jemmela scratched her chin and watched the car of the other sandwich-slapper pull into the lot next door. She wished she had a car. Taking the bus was getting creepy with that guy always at the stop lately. No, Mr. Coney. I had to ask that drunk guy to go, I was locking up, and then… she shrugged. She thought she went home, but to be honest she couldn’t remember the actual going. She had gotten out of bed at her regular time, in her own apartment, so she must have closed up and gone home.

Mr. Coney stared at her uplifted hands and his left eye began to twitch. You know…you know Sandwich King called me back when I checked your references, he pointed the newspaper at her. They told me there was something about you, that you were bad luck, that--

Jemmela backed away from the paper, fanning several inches away, but still annoying. It gave her an irrational urge to snap, and with her teeth, not her fingers.

The upside-down headline read …BODY FOUND IN… The usual cheerful news that made her stick with the funnies.

Sandwich King had been a nice job, but she’d been let go because of creative differences. How could spreading mayonnaise and mustard create a difference when it came out of a trigger?

Alice never had a problem with me, did you Alice?

Alice stood next to them now, apron dangling from her elbow. She glanced at the two of them, ground out her cigarette and went back to her car.

You can’t think I had anything to do with this, Mr. Coney! Jemmela gave him a wide-eyed look. The whole front of the store is gone! What do you think I am, a mad bomber? She chuckled slightly when she said it, but the chuckle died when it met the angry look in Mr. Coney’s eyes. There was no way to make light of this situation, not with a table-bench set on the roof of the building across the street. It would help if she could remember exactly what had happened after she closed. She couldn’t quite remember past prying the PerpetuDrunk out of booth three.

Maybe that’s just what you are. Mr. Coney said quietly. I know you’re something! You tampered with the video cameras, didn’t you! Someone did!

Video cameras? Ye Olde Sandwiche Shoppe didn’t use video surveillance. At least, not where she could see it. Aren’t you supposed to post a sign if you’re recording?

What I’m going to do is talk to the police! He strode determinedly towards the three policemen watching the handymen measure and cut. A uniformed officer peeked through the hole, a notebook in his hand. Something must have gotten his attention, because he began to navigate the path of broken concrete and rebar into the building. He came back out just as carefully carrying a dusty baseball cap. The PerpetuDrunk’s Oakland A’s hat.

They asked Mr. Coney about the hat, and Jemmela was curious what he said because when it was her turn the officers were interested in her previous jobs. They asked if she knew where the owner of the hat lived, and which way had he gone when he left the shop. She froze briefly before shrugging again. She couldn’t say she remembered seeing him leave. Everything was clear right up until she walked over to his booth to shout closing time.

I’m not sure… I was mopping. Which she probably had been doing, the mop and bucket visible beside the remains of the counter. When they asked who shut off the wireless server to the video surveillance, she could only claim ignorance that there was such a thing. The box the officer showed her didn’t look shut off; it looked fried, one of the corners slumped in a stroke victim’s smile.

The officers took down her address and told her to stay in touch. One of them kept staring at her face like she’d grown a horn, so she kept her eyes down. Waving feebly at a glaring Mr. Coney, she headed for the bus stop.

Taking public transit gave her time to think, but this was one of those times she wished she had something else to occupy her mind. She had a library book in her bag, but interest flagged as she wondered if this had been another blackout. She had to admit they had been occurring with greater frequency since she got out of high school, but if this was a blackout, it was the first in ages, well, weeks, at least.

What could have happened to PerpetuDrunk? Most days he slumped in front of the building, or by the dumpster. It was possible today was simply one of his not-days, but he always had his cap; he was fiercely protective of that thing. He’d almost broken down the door once after leaving the hat behind in the booth. Surely she would have remembered him leaving without it, wouldn’t she?

The stop for her transfer was in a semi-residential area, a sunny spot in front of upscale condominiums. The neighborhood was one of those mixed upper middle class, and despite her foster kid upbringing she felt reasonably camouflaged in her conservative jeans and patterned, short sleeve blouse. Her curly black hair and dark skin could have placed her as the off-spring of a good quarter of the inhabitants on the block. What she really lacked was the car, as most of these people drove everywhere, only a few earth-conscious and foolhardy residents brave enough to take the road on a bicycle.

With the paperback balanced face-down on her leg, she leaned forward to look up the road for the approaching bus. Instead she saw the guy strolling towards her, empty-handed like he’d done every evening for the past two weeks. He had to live nearby where he could see the stop. There was no other way he could know she’d be catching the bus now, six hours earlier than her usual time. He only came out to sit and talk; she had never seen him board the bus.

He was a tall man, white, wide shouldered and not paunchy. His face was unremarkable save for the eyes; they were blue, with laugh lines crinkling the corners. He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe a well preserved thirty. He had brownish blond hair, a titch long for office work, and he tended to dress sort of business casual, wool blend slacks and loafers. Today he wore a banker’s generic blue shirt, no tie, and lightly tinted sunglasses. He wasn’t bad looking but she looked away, chastising herself for being silly.

You’re early, he said as he sat down beside her. Always too close, she thought as she surreptitiously scooted away. Maybe he had some kind of Jem-dar. That idea made her snort in self-mockery.

Sobering, she realized that was what creeped her out: how did he know she would be here? Didn’t he have a job, or someplace to be? A family to feed or failing that, kids to mind? He looked old enough to be married, and if he was hanging around here he was either a computer junky or a house-husband. What was he doing chatting her up at the bus stop every day?

Inside, buried under tons of emotional rubble not dissimilar to what covered the sidewalk in front of the sandwich shop, a small voice said maybe he was attracted to her. She snorted again. Keep it in perspective, sister. Though she was not hideous, and the walking kept her in shape, she was by no means a ‘catch’. Besides, he was white.

Care to share the joke? He reached over to snag her paperback.

She jumped, almost standing. The book had slid, nearly off her leg. He’d saved it from a gutter bath.

He scanned the cover before handing it back to her. Andre Norton? I always pictured you for an Evanovich type.

She ignored that. Do you live around here? She made a show of looking around, glancing at the buildings behind the stop. No balconies on this side to offer a viewing point.

He shook his head and she kept her eyes on him while she stuffed the book in her bag. Without the sunglasses he looked midtwenties. Who sat down and talked to people at the bus stop anymore? Apparently this guy did. She supposed she could accept that.

Until he answered her with a question that stopped her cold.

Did you lose another job?

And that was the other part of the creep factor. People came home from work early all the time, it was how they stumbled upon unfaithful spouses and homicidal burglars. It didn’t have to mean she had lost a job, and how would he know another one? The flash of irritation made her pull her lip back, just the upper one, and not in a friendly way.

Who the heck are you, some kind of FBI or something? Though why the FBI would be interested in someone whose highest aspiration to date was to leave fast food behind was beyond her thinking.

Again the guy answered with a question.

This time was it, makes clients nervous or major structural damage? He leaned towards her despite her leaning away. Or did someone wind up in the hospital?"

Surprise kept her mouth open a heartbeat longer than intended. A trickle of fear replaced the nervous feeling, fear and just a touch of anger. In a level voice, she said, I don’t know you, but you had betterleave me alone--Now!

Her stalker’s gaze flickered over her shoulder. She wasn’t about to look away to see what was there. There might be someone and there might not, but the danger in front of her was more important.

Someone was hurt?

His voice had deepened to take on an oddly angry tone, like he expected better, like he was her principal, or no, maybe like he was speaking from experience. Either way, she figured she could walk the twenty blocks. It wasn’t like she needed to get home as fast as she needed to get away from here. She hopped off the bench, flipping her backpack to her shoulder in a wide arc meant to dissuade any grabby hands.

Jemmela.

Her feet didn’t stop but they stumbled. His voice had gone from argumentative to pancakes with butter and maple syrup in one breath. Fluffy pancakes, too. She hesitated, then turned when he asked her to come back and sit down. While one side of her mind was definitely on the fight or flight option, another part, and apparently it was the part that understood left foot-right foot, wanted to hear what he had to say. Especially if he kept saying it in that warm, soft voice.

He patted the bench and she slowly eased back onto it. Hadn’t his eyes been blue? They were amber now, and he was sitting too close again.

Correction; she had sat down too close.

Did you have another blackout?

She bit her tongue on the answer. Blackouts were not something she was supposed to talk about. There must have been one last night but she awoke at home. The only peculiarity had been that she was naked, and she was a strict flannel nightgown gal. She eased away in an attempt to get up again.

Stay here and talk to me, Jemmela.

He spoke and her knees relaxed, so much so that she started to ski off the smooth fiberglass of the bench.

Embarrassment opened her eyes--she was talking to the creepy guy, who was all the creepier now for knowing about her private business. First cold, and then a hot push of adrenaline set her heart hammering, putting her back on her feet. This time he stood with her, holding out a hand that might have touched if she hadn’t slid sideways.

I don’t know who you are-- Well, she did know his name, Scott or Tom or something generic. --But stay out of my way! Men like you make me puke! If you’re trying to be my personal stalker, don’t think I won’t find a way to put you out of my misery! It was a toothless threat, but one that would show him she was no fainting flower. She would scream if she had to. The street was quiet, but there were people who knew how to dial 911 behind those window treatments. With her next job she would sign up for one of those county cell phones.

The corner of Tom or Scott’s mouth twitched upward. Stalker, yes. Personal…no. He moved towards her. And I do know a lot about you, more than you know about yourself. I can help you--

Help was the last word she wanted to hear. She’d had help from doctors, school counselors, social workers, and court appointed psychologists. Everyone thought they could explain the disappearances, the memory loss, the property damage. Everyone was sure she was a crack head, a meth fiend, an alcoholic of the closet variety and how did she hide the fumes?

She was just a single girl, no relatives, working to pay rent and some college, who had extraordinarily bad luck when it came to keeping jobs. I don’t need your help, she told him tersely, avoiding his eyes, which were definitely yellow now. That was too weird. She started walking.

Even if it’s about a job?

More of that mellow, buttery voice, like he was speaking hot chocolate. Despite herself she paused to consider. No. Too creepy.

She heard a poof and something stung her. A fluffy red wasp was on her leg, but when she tried to brush it off she saw it was actually a small dart, metallic and pointy. Her eyes met her stalker’s and saw disappointment. There was another sting, her back this time. She had to sit down.

We’re going to take care of you… I don’t want you to worry, he said, steering her back to the bench before she could fall. He put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from slumping forward.

His hand was hot, and smelled vaguely of nutmeg. She frowned at the contact. After a deep breath she managed to knock his hand aside with a quick upswing of her own. What did he mean, we, anyway?

A truck pulled in across the street, a medium sized one like the meat packers used in one of her old neighborhoods. It was even dingy white, though it lacked the bloody handprint on the side near the grab bar. It didn’t at all resemble an ambulance, so why were they bringing out a gurney?

If she could have held her head up, she would have looked to see what kind of uniforms these gurney bearers wore. The creepy guy had his hand on her shoulder again, which was supremely irritating, even if it did keep her from grazing sidewalk. Then she felt that nervous, flu-like shiver, that all over skin quake that preceded a blackout.

Warren, neither a Tom nor a Scott, motioned the team to move faster. Two darts was the maximum they had ever had to use, but this girl--this woman--he corrected, was older than the usual adolescent recruits. She wasn’t relaxing the way they normally did.

Gerald and Ramey had the gurney clanking over the curb, but Manila remained by the truck, combing fingers through her long brown hair and pacing in a picture of disinterest. He knew she resented being recalled from chaperone duty to help collect a newbie, especially a late one, and likely rogue. She would drag her feet through the entire process unless it got hairy. Her partner, Titus, was sorting restraints that should have been untangled before the approach on the target.

The target in question shivered under his hand suddenly. Warren felt the movement of energies that signaled imminent Change. He stood, barking for the two men to grab her feet, waving a hand to beckon Manila over to help hold. He should have brought the restraint collar with him. He could try a rune, but they really were not his forte.

He tried what he did have, and leaning in closer than safety recommended, crooned, Sleep, Jemmela, rest now. It’s safe, you’re safe, you can rest. Sleep now.

He felt her body relax, the shivering stop. Her eyes rolled back and her jaw hung slack. It was working.

Then Manila shouted caustically as she pushed away from the truck, What? You goons can’t grab her without little ole me? Pathetic!

There was no shiver, just an explosion. Warren leaped back even as he was flung into the condo that was behind the bench across ten feet of gravel lawn. He scooted flat in time to evade the bench, watching as it accordion folded against the wall, shattering a window. There was another crash as he rolled to his feet panting and showing his teeth.

The gurney, wheeled legs sprayed out around it like flower petals, was partway through the side of the truck. Ramey’s legs protruded beneath it. There was no sign of Gerald, and Manila faced up the block, working to transform against Titus’ efforts to hold her back. It was too late to chase now; if she transformed, witnesses were bound to see.

Warren reinforced Titus’ commands with a clipped Stand down, laying force into the short vowels. Manila froze before stepping into an imitation of a relaxed posture. Titus took her elbow, his eyes gleaming yellow through his sunglasses.

Ramey’s legs twitched. He pulled them one at a time into the truck. After a few lurches and dips he appeared at the rear, ears pulled back and teeth bared.

Warren nodded, relieved. Ramey was not known for his strength; going through the side of the truck head first must have hurt. Where’s Gerald?

Ramey pointed up the street with his muzzle while tugging an ear that hung askew. The rear doors hid him from immediate view, but he needed to lose the ears and pull his teeth in before some nosey householder noticed it wasn’t Halloween. Raising the Change energy but holding back from transformation, Warren let it pulse until the runes shielding the truck’s electrical systems began to complain. Manila and Titus mimicked him as they made hasty repairs, metal screeching as they pushed the gurney free. The nearby streetlights came on, eight hours early, in an intense sodium glow.

Digital cameras and electronics were easily crazed by the same energy that brought transformation; with the three of them flaring there would be calls to the cable and electrical company flooding in shortly, but no television news trucks blocking the street, or helicopters circling overhead.

As if agreeing with him, a car parked across the street began to honk and flash its lights. The distressed tones dwindled to tootles before expiring in a sonorous whine. He didn’t care about some pensioner phoning into the radio station that he had seen a bear in downtown El Paso, but he did not want another letter from the Watchers Society about excessive exposure to the human public. If he had to do skulking school again because one of his team messed up, he was going to hang himself.

That wouldn’t kill him, but the rope burn would be more pleasant than reciting the A,B,C’s of staying off the Web. He checked the runes painted on the outside of the van, neat symbols designed to confuse and obstruct. One was damaged by the passage of the gurney, but the others seemed to be functioning.

Gerald came jogging towards them just when they were ready to leave. He was fully human but there were bloodstains on his shirt.

I thought you said she wasn’t Full, man! He stretched it out to show the ragged holes. What happened?

The bite pattern was odd, multiple holes perforating the denim with no clear pattern of canines or premolars. The spread was incredibly wide, like she had shaken him. Lips pressed together, Warren shook his head. He’d expected an easy pick-up, Jemmela’s calm personality and non-threatening demeanor getting his hopes up. Even Gerald had expressed his opinion with, This pretty sister is just to my tastes, except for being Rogue and all. It wasn’t false hope; Jemmela was not a typical, man-eater. At least, she hadn’t been until a few minutes ago. Did she carry you off?

Gerald shook his head, still breathing hard. No, I had a flight, man. She threw me. I hit almost three houses over, so fast I didn’t know what was happening till I landed in some lady’s gazebo! He leant over and grabbed his knees, singing out the vowels as he talked excitedly. I had to tuck my guts back in! Whoo! He stood, patting his flanks. At least I got all of ‘em.

Clearing his throat, he abruptly sobered. We might need some help for this one. Did you see her?

Warren shook his head, surprised by the nervous look in Gerald’s eye. Titus was the worrier, where Gerald was rock steady dependable. Unflappable, he was a good friend as well as a good worker. A difficult capture was nothing new to him, but he had never suggested they couldn’t handle a Rogue before.

I was too busy trying not to eat a bus bench. We need to get out of here.

I saw her, Manila said, still looking down the street. I can take her.

He was sure she could; they would not have brought her along if she didn’t have the strength and skill to bring in a Rogue. But something in Gerald’s expression suggested two Manilas would not be enough. Warren repeated his instructions, and as the others finished getting the truck together, he considered his options.

There was no sign of Jemmela, and no amount of persuasion was going to bring her in now. She could do Full Form already and that was bad; the Director would insist on termination if they didn’t bring her in today. No one wanted to waste time on an older candidate who had already proven destructive. It wouldn’t matter if she hadn’t killed anyone--Gerald’s guts weren’t going to soften the Director’s decision.

The only advantage they had was a few hours’ time. The original pick-up had been scheduled for evening. Catching her at the bus stop this early had just been luck. Bad luck, as it turned out.

Warren spotted a bag amongst the litter of shredded clothing in the gutter: Jemmela’s string backpack. He picked it up and tossed it to Gerald. We’ll take that to her, he said as he scrambled into the back. Titus already had the truck rolling. She’ll head home eventually, so let’s hope we beat her there. And that she didn’t kill anyone on the way.

***

This time the blackout ended with a hangover that left everything dancing in triplicate echoes around her pounding head. There was a terrible sound making things worse, and her right foot was freezing.

It turned out her foot was in the toilet. She wasn’t sure how that had happened, but at least she had fallen away from the glass shower doors when she went down. She was naked, but that made sense if she was headed for the shower. Her mouth tasted bad and her tongue was sticky. The noise was her groaning; she figured it out when she tried to lick her lips.

After several minutes she recognized home, but she couldn’t remember coming home. Judging from the blurry clock hands, she should not have been home so soon. She staggered into the shower.

The pounding spray, and some hot drinks of shower water, brought back the memory of Mr. Coney’s building. Then she remembered the wasp-dart sting. She remembered being angry that the Creep had his hand on her shoulder, and wanting to go home. That was about it. She had a vicious urge to sock the Creep in the mouth the next time she saw him.

Once she had her head on straight she would need to figure out what to tell the police, if she did tell them anything. People needed to know there were strange men in trucks shooting black women with darts.

Her rumbling stomach got her out of the shower and thinking of the pot of chili in the fridge. Donning her best robe, she left the bathroom and was surprised to find the sliding glass door ajar. She glanced around; the apartment was too tiny to conceal an intruder, and she had just bathed in the most convenient hiding place. Nothing was out of place, and there wasn’t much to steal because she didn’t even have a TV. The bedroom/living/dining room was empty, sparse with the sleeper sofa pushed to the wall. It was small, but it was her place, and she loved the tiny balcony. She closed the door.

The chili was extra hot after three days, the jalapenos having taken advantage of the time to permeate the mix. It should have been enough for two more days, but with the last of the grated cheddar on top she finished the pot. She washed down the fire with the remainder of a gallon of milk, then topped everything off with a loaf of whole wheat. There were some cookies, she was fairly certain, in the drawer. Yes, sandwich cookies, butter crème, almost a whole package. She crunched those down with most of a liter of Coke she didn’t remember buying, and was still hungry. Maybe she could boil some pasta. There was no sauce, but she could use butter.

Or maybe her budget could stretch a pizza: extra large with sausage, pepperoni, ham, meatballs and black olives. She reached for her checkbook and on the third try actually got it.

Her eyes wouldn’t focus on the balance. Carb-loading already making her sleepy? Kinda weird, since she’d just woken up. Had she had another blackout? Was she having one now?

Exhaustion made the checkbook too heavy to hold. Pizza would have to wait until dinner.

***

Warren knocked louder the third time, and when there was no response, forced the door open. She was slumped on the couch, barely on it and snoring softly. He stepped back to beckon Ramey up the stairs. He and Gerald carried a stretcher they’d picked up from army surplus while patching up the van. They quickly unrolled it.

Warren checked her pulse. Strong and very rapid, maybe too rapid.

How many vials did you put in the cola? he asked Ramey.

Ramey was the dart man, and remained a little put-out by this afternoon’s fiasco. Four. He grunted as he lifted his end of the stretcher.

You all right? Despite the rapid healing the Change afforded them, Ramey acted like his back still hurt.

His friend nodded. I think I gotta piece of gurney in here somewhere. He exhaled. And I put two vials in the milk. Thought I might buy us, say, five WHOLE minutes, this time.

Warren fit a collar around Jemmela’s neck. It was leather, about two inches wide and almost a centimeter thick. The edges were softened with felted material, and metallic characters gleamed on the external surface. The collar closed with a heavy metal slide bearing a rune similar to an empty eye drawn upon it. As it closed, the rune flashed and the lock faded out, making the collar appear sewn in place.

The young woman shifted her shoulders, frowning as the lock snapped, but she did not awaken. All three men exhaled suddenly, in unison. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

Chapter Two

TC

The chili must have gone off; it explained a headache that had brought its friends nausea and muscle pain along for a visit. The chills would be next, never ones to miss a bash.

She was right, but the cold came as a blast of water right in her ear. Jemmela sat up sputtering.

At first she couldn’t see because whoever was hosing her aimed at her face. She finally got turned around, and though that did not stop the water, it allowed her to breathe.

This wasn’t home. She wasn’t in her bed/living room trying to avoid a prescient pipe leak. This was a cell, four walls of metal bars and one of those stainless steel sink-toilet jobbies she had seen on a docudrama about chain-gang women. Had she been arrested? Did the police think she destroyed the Sandwiche Shoppe? Why couldn’t she remember?

The water got her ear again, forcing her to twist around. She caught a glimpse of a laughing man in a janitor’s drab uniform, wielding the hose from the corridor outside the bars. She finally had to use the mattress as a shield before he got bored and left.

The last thing she remembered was cleaning out her kitchen. She vaguely remembered feeling drowsy, which was only unusual because, prior to eating, she'd been passed out on the bathroom floor.

She was wearing her bathrobe then, but now she had on a drab gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her eyes were still too rheumy to make out the name screen-printed on the shirt.

The single cot was the only other furniture, yet the cell was big enough for six. The ceiling was so high there could have been triple-stacking bunk beds, with room for a penthouse. Through the bars, other cells were visible, the height of the roof implying a deep basement or large warehouse. A narrow lane separated the two cells on either side from hers. Light came from florescent tubes in the high ceiling. There were no windows, but she thought there might be a door at the far end. It was difficult to see with the maze of bars in the way.

Her feet were bare and there was a dog collar around her neck. The polished steel mirror showed it was thick leather covered with hazy writing. She didn’t recognize the script, but it sort of looked Russian or Middle Eastern. Was she in a foreign prison? The janitor was ye old basic white guy, difficult to say if he was a foreigner or not. Of course, he wouldn’t be foreign if this was his country. She wiped her face tiredly.

The collar had no buckle and she couldn’t find a seam except on the edges. It wouldn’t go past her chin when she tried lifting it over her head. How had they gotten it on her, by shoving her head up a cow’s backside and cutting the leather off when it ran? She struggled, spinning the collar until an unpleasant tingling sensation zipped up her fingers to make her elbows smart. Finally she gave up and flopped down on her soggy mattress.

She had been in a number of peculiar situations before. Juvenile hall wasn’t unlike this place, except those cells had not been single and there was a bathroom down the hall. She spent a weekend there waiting on a new foster home. While not a pleasant experience, she had survived it. No one had beaten her up, or infected her with hep or HIV.

For no reason she could think of, the face of that strange Tom guy came to mind. He’d been at the bus stop, earlier and creepier than usual. The collar grew uncomfortable as she remembered the way he talked, sort of smooth, like a sales person trying to cinch the deal, but also in a worrisome way, like a med pro. She’d had her fill of psychiatric work-ups and evaluations, and knew one when she heard it. He hadn’t sounded exactly like that, but he definitely had that I know what’s best for you thing going on. She had left that world behind five years ago when she turned eighteen.

How had the argument ended? She must have gotten on the bus and gone home, but there was a decided gap between the bus stop and waking up in her apartment. And waking up here. Something about a truck, and wasps? Had she had two blackouts? Something wasn’t right, and the collar was bugging the crap out of her!

She was trying to angle the leather to reach it with her teeth when she heard footsteps. She couldn’t see them because of the forest of bars, but whoever it was probably had a dog with them. She could hear its nails clicking on the concrete.

After a short interval, two men and a woman arrived outside her cage. She didn’t recognize them, not that she really expected to. It would have been nice, though, in the way of, Oh, my arch-nemesis Dr. Nefario, for example. These people were strangers.

The woman was middle-aged, probably in her late forties or early fifties. She had short blond hair that curled around her face, and was dressed in plain pants, leather shoes, and a short sleeved blouse. Her arms were very muscular.

Both men were white, one with dark brown hair in thick curls. The other, blond locks tied back with what looked like a zip tie, was dressed in athletic shorts and not much else. He carried a thick broomstick. The other guy had a small canvas bag. They both looked very fit.

And worried. Eyebrows conferred while wrinkles at the corners of lips and eyes gathered in an expressed desire to be elsewhere. Sweat stood out on Stickman’s forehead, and the fellow with the sack kept sucking his lower lip in and out like it was on fire. The woman seemed the most composed, but she lifted her feet in a rapid gait like her shoes hurt. As that mincing step carried her up to the bars, the man with the bag grabbed her arm. Careful, Lister!

Lister gave him a look to turn steel into lasagna. Taking a paper from her sleeve, she shook free and jabbed him with it. Heya! I checked you in, idiot, so don’t tell me my business! She had a soft accent, something that spoke of beans and steamers.

She’s Rogue! He tried to pull her back, but Lister shook him off again.

She’s wearing a collar! Now get off! Turning back to the bars, she stared at Jemmela a moment, then smiled. Her teeth were as yellow as banana pudding. Burch, Jemmela?

Jemmela nodded but couldn’t take her eyes off the idiot with the bag. He looked like the sort of fellow that liked talking to corpses. In the sense of ‘shoot first, then ask what they were doing climbing in that window.’

Over here, Burch. The older woman beckoned, ignoring dismayed gasps from her companions. I’m Ms. Lister.

Jemmela stopped in the center of the cage. She wasn't unwilling to come closer. It was the way Stickman moved that pole that made her hesitate. He had it leveled for a nasty jab, only she wasn’t sure what he would aim for, her eye or her gut. Neither felt like a good destination.

Jemmela Burch, El Paso, Texas, twenty-four years old? Lister held a form in her hand.

Twenty-three, Jemmela corrected automatically, trying to be agreeable despite the confusion pushing at her temper. Was this the warden?

Hm. Lister made a correction. Birthday in August?

Speaking over Stickman’s muttered, Not that she’ll reach it, Jemmela answered, September, ma’am.

Come up to the bars and let me see how that collar’s riding.

Lister took a step but both men grabbed her this time. The slapping of hands and exchange of glares ended in the older woman saying, Excuse me, Burch. Back in a minute. All three walked quickly away.

They were gone quite some time. She was trying to press water out of her mattress when Lister returned alone. Instead of the neat blouse of before, the older woman now wore a faded sweatshirt and over-large, washed out matching pants, barefoot. Though the stick had gone with its wielder, she now carried the canvas sack tucked under her elbow. There was a bit of blond hair dangling from her chin, but she foofed it away with an artful twist of her lips, brushing at her shirt in case there were more. Her own hair was a graying brown.

She retrieved her list, one corner missing, from her sleeve. Now that that’s settled, let me see that collar.

Why am I locked up? Jemmela came forward eagerly, hopeful it would be removed. Lister seemed normal despite the odd change of clothes. What had happened to the guys?

Just a sec’, think I left my pen behind in Melville’s… The woman’s voice trailed off.

After a quick dart back up the corridor, she returned with a pencil. It had a naked end where the eraser and ferrule belonged, not snapped clean but irregular like a tiny firecracker, or an extremely large termite, had been at it.

She made a scratching mark on the form. New Weres are a health hazard, Burch, and you Rogues are the worst. Lift your chin. Now turn around, full circle. Great. Top quality. Any food allergies?

Jemmela blinked, fingers dug into the leather ring around her neck. New what?

Weres. Allergic to shellfish, milk, soy, or wheat?

Processed soy gave her the whammy sometimes, but this was hardly the time to worry about gas when they were selling her! Wares? How can you--this is the twenty-first century! This is America! Wasn’t it? She hadn’t a clue where she was but they were speaking English like the flag had fifty stars. You can’t sell people and get away with it!

Lister froze, head cocked. Jemmela gave her a good show, waving her arms, and now that the dizziness had passed, jumping up and down a little. She was not going to let them think she’d go quietly, collar or no collar! I’m not a slave!

A funny noise echoed up the aisle, stopping her in mid-rant. It was a low sound, sort of like someone stepping on an asthmatic dog, but the deepness of it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Lister glanced dismissively in that direction, tsking softly. Weres, not wares, Burch! Were as in werewolf! Double-u-EEE-are E. You okay with peanut butter?

Werewolf? What’s that got to do with me?

Beats the heck outta me, but off hand I’d say you bit somebody! Next time close down and finish ‘em off—fewer tattletales that way. Lister scratched at her paper. I’m going to put a no for that allergy thing. Any woman problems, bad cramps, irregular periods? You don’t look pregnant.

None of your business! Jemmela grabbed the bars, wishing the collar were looser. She also wished this woman would stop acting so…reasonable. I didn’t bite anybody! That’s crazy!

Lister thrust the paper at her, tapping the bottom.

There was a list; purse, book, calculator, wallet. The meager wallet contents were listed as well.

That complete? There was a bathrobe, but it went to the laundry. Never see that thing again. When Jemmela gave a stunned nod, Lister asked, You taking any diazepam, Phenobarbital, thorazine, prozac, meth, marijuana, crack, or any other mood-altering drugs?

No! Is that why I’m locked up? Someone thinks I’m a druggy?

Not sippin’ the sauce regularly? Mind if I get a blood sample?

Jemmela fled to the back of the cage, hugging her arms as she climbed onto the soggy bunk. Yes, I mind! Nobody gets blood until you tell me why I’m here!

Lister shook her head. Hopefully they got enough when they tagged you. Look, I told you twice already! Now you tone it down for your instructor meeting. People are jumpy enough about the regular kids--you’ll get ‘em goin’ like those Mexican beans with the worms in ‘em because you’re old enough to gamble. Sign here. When Jemmela refused, she said, No signee, no lunchee! She dangled the sack.

A minute ago she would have said she wasn’t hungry, but now she felt her stomach jump in much the same way the rest of her had been doing in contemplation of a life of slavery. In retrospect, slavery sounded more reasonable than Lister’s explanation. Werewolves were Saturday matinee topics, not reasons for false imprisonment.

The sack was close enough to lunge for, just the other side of the bars. A part of her was tempted, but being locked up did not erase years of suspicion. What if there was a booby-trap in that bag?

It must have shown in her expression because Lister opened the bag to fan the mouth. Bready aromas wafted through the bars, free to go wherever they wanted.

Jemmela swallowed. If she wanted the food she would have to sign. She was a reasonable person, and the paper was just an inventory, not an indenture contract. Besides, signing anything in pencil could hardly be considered binding. She reached for it.

For some reason she expected Lister to flinch. Instead the woman stood there, as granite-calm as the gray in her hair. Taking the paper as well, with care not to touch Lister’s hand, Jemmela hastily initialed, then passed paper and pencil back through the bars. Maybe she should have tried something, like grabbing the woman’s hand and pulling her into the bars, like they did in the action movies. In real life you only got one take to get the action right, and there was something about that woman that made her doubt she had the strength to pull it off. There was also that Lister’s pockets hung empty of keys or anything useful for gaining freedom should she be able to render her unconscious.

The sack contained about two feet of submarine sandwich, thick bread and meaty cold cuts passing inspection. Lettuce finely shredded but not so thin it went tasteless. When she looked up, Lister was gone, but she could hear faint voices. Why would they lock her up with such a cockamamie story about biting and werewolves? Was this a psychiatric hospital? Had someone had her committed?

Sometime later the sound of a stick ringing against bars announced the return of her hosts. Despite the source, Jemmela found the tones oddly soothing, like the rhythm of a coffee mug tolling gently while sugar and cream intermixed. One of her foster moms had been a heavy coffee drinker, and every morning had begun with that music. It had been a good home, the kids pretty normal, but a house fire had dispersed them all.

The two males from before, accompanied this time by a short woman with brown hair, stopped outside her cell. The guy with the stick had a clump of hair missing.

Jemmela rose, part caution and part courtesy. Good manners went far even in Crazy Town.

Go to the door, Burch. the woman ordered in a drone.

The cell had a double door system, with a door sliding on tracks on her side, and another, heavier door with hinges sealing in the narrow vestibule. It was a way out, except there was something in her hosts's demeanor that made her less eager for freedom.

Why? Where’re we going? She moved away from the bars, and finally crouched in front of the toilet when Stickman tried to reach her. The sink back made an impossible angle and he couldn’t jab low enough to hit her. Tell me what’s going on!

The three strangers looked at each other for a moment. Then they moved to the door, working the locks, and there was something frightening in their silent coordination. With fluid grace they entered the cell.

The short woman threw Jemmela to the floor, pinning her easily. Panic made her struggle, but she