Pulphouse Fiction Magazine #13: Pulphouse, #13

By Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Annie Reed and 17 more

The Cutting Edge of Modern Short Fiction

A three-time Hugo Award nominated magazine, this issue of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine offers up nineteen fantastic stories by some of the best writers working in modern short fiction.

No genre limitations, no topic limitations, just great stories. Attitude, feel, and high-quality fiction equals Pulphouse.

"This is definitely a strong start. All the stories have a lot of life to them, and are worthwhile reading." —Tangent Online on Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #1

Includes:

"Brick Houses" by Annie Reed

"Starlings" by Jerry Oltion

"The Man who Married his Wife's Thigh" by Bonnie Elizabeth

"Bear Trap Island" by Jamie McNabb

"Walking the Dog" by J. Steven York

"Being Ernest" by Rick Wilber

"Art of the Homeless" by Joe Cron

"January 3rd" by Ron Collins

"When the Sun Goes Down" by David H. Hendrickson

"The Poodles of Panama" by Kent Patterson

"The Return of NOPD in 2006" by O'Neil De Noux

"Specialty Hummus" by Jason A. Adams

"New England's God" by Lee Allred

"The Pearce Shootout" by Robert J. McCarter

"A Jury of Their Peers" by Jim Gotaas

"Till Death" by R.W. Wallace

"Knowledge Blooms" by Rob Vagle

"The Last Surviving Gondola Widow" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"The First Hollywood Cowboy of the Bropocalypse" by Robert Jeschonek

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Aug 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201408060

Dean Wesley Smith

Considered one of the most prolific writers working in modern fiction, USA Today bestselling writer Dean Wesley Smith published far more than a hundred novels in forty years, and hundreds of short stories across many genres. At the moment he produces novels in several major series, including the time travel Thunder Mountain novels set in the Old West, the galaxy-spanning Seeders Universe series, the urban fantasy Ghost of a Chance series, a superhero series starring Poker Boy, and a mystery series featuring the retired detectives of the Cold Poker Gang. His monthly magazine, Smith’s Monthly, which consists of only his own fiction, premiered in October 2013 and offers readers more than 70,000 words per issue, including a new and original novel every month. During his career, Dean also wrote a couple dozen Star Trek novels, the only two original Men in Black novels, Spider-Man and X-Men novels, plus novels set in gaming and television worlds. Writing with his wife Kristine Kathryn Rusch under the name Kathryn Wesley, he wrote the novel for the NBC miniseries The Tenth Kingdom and other books for Hallmark Hall of Fame movies. He wrote novels under dozens of pen names in the worlds of comic books and movies, including novelizations of almost a dozen films, from The Final Fantasy to Steel to Rundown. Dean also worked as a fiction editor off and on, starting at Pulphouse Publishing, then at VB Tech Journal, then Pocket Books, and now at WMG Publishing, where he and Kristine Kathryn Rusch serve as series editors for the acclaimed Fiction River anthology series. For more information about Dean’s books and ongoing projects, please visit his website at www.deanwesleysmith.com and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Issue Thirteen

Edited by

Dean Wesley Smith

WMG Publishing, Inc.

Contents

From the Editor’s Desk

Brick Houses

Annie Reed

Starlings

Jerry Oltion

The Man Who Married His Wife’s Thigh

Bonnie Elizabeth

Bear Trap Island

Jamie McNabb

Walking the Dog

J. Steven York

Being Ernest

Rick Wilber

Art of the Homeless

Joe Cron

January 3rd

Ron Collins

When the Sun Goes Down

David H. Hendrickson

The Poodles of Panama

Kent Patterson

The Return of NOPD in 2006

O’Neil De Noux

Specialty Hummus

Jason A. Adams

New England’s God

Lee Allred

The Pearce Shootout

Robert J. McCarter

A Jury of Their Peers

Jim Gotaas

Till Death

R.W. Wallace

Knowledge Blooms

Rob Vagle

The Last Surviving Gondola Widow

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

The First Hollywood Cowboy of the Bropocalypse

Robert Jeschonek

Minions at Work

J. Steven York

Subscriptions

From the Editor’s Desk

Stories Do Magically Appear

I think one of the top five questions I get as the editor of this fun magazine is where do I find such high quality and strange stories? My answer is often, From high quality and very strange writers.

Sort of a flip answer, I must admit, at least on the surface, but far, far more truth to it than it would seem.

But more than anything, right at this moment, I want to thank all the writers. When we started up, I had the ability to find stories six months before the first issue was to publish from some top professional writers as well as some of the best young writers coming in.

At that point when we started, we were a quarterly magazine instead of an issue every two months as we are now. And being fearful, I overbought slightly, having almost a full year of issues of stories on hold.

Not that unusual for an editor starting up a new magazine.

Then before I could use all those early stories, I couldn’t pass the chance to buy another year’s worth of stories.

And then the pandemic shut this down for seven months.

I am proud and honored to say that every writer let me hang on to their stories through all that. In fact, a couple in this issue I have been holding onto now for over two years. I can’t begin to thank the writers enough for their patience.

But the original question I get so often had nothing to do with what happened. I just wanted to thank my writers for not only great stories, but for patience.

The original question wonders how I find high-quality stories for these pages.

Actually, the real answer is Almost everywhere.

I do not read stories unsolicited, meaning what is called a slush pile. I have done that in the distant past and swore about 1993 I would never, ever, ever do that again. And I have not and will not.

The reasons. I have writing to do and my life is too short and I am too old.

But surprisingly, I still find fantastic stories. Sort of magic how it works, and I’m happy with that explanation, to be honest.

So my original answer holds. Where do I find such high quality and strange stories? From high quality and very strange writers.

And with maybe just a touch of magic as well.

Enjoy.

—Dean Wesley Smith

Las Vegas, Nevada

Brick Houses

Annie Reed

Annie Reed writes stories that span genres and are always fun and powerful. In fact, with Annie, you just never know the type of story you might be reading but you will always know it will grab you and be a wonderful read. This story is no different.

Annie’s stories appear regularly in many varied professional markets and I am proud to say she is also a regular contributor to Fiction River, as well as having a story in most every issue of this magazine so far.

Her story The Color of Guilt was selected for The Year’s Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016. Look for so much more of this prolific writer’s work at her website https://anniereed.wordpress.com/

Lettie topped off the beer for her last remaining customer of the night, put a fresh napkin down on the polished surface of the bar, and plopped his glass on top.

Yanno, he said, slurring his words into near unrecognizability, fact’s a fact, Jack, and that’s a fact.

He snickered, but his half-assed smile had no humor to it.

Two hours ago he’d been sober and straight as a rail, just another customer in the decent sized midweek crowd at the Brick House Bar. Now he sat slouched on his stool, his tie loosened, and his shirt collar unbuttoned far enough that wisps of dark chest hair poked through the open vee.

What facts are we talking about? Lettie asked.

She didn’t expect a coherent answer. She’d never met a werewolf who could hold his liquor worth a damn, and this guy was no exception.

Not that he’d wolfed out or anything. She’d just known a lot of werewolves in her time. Some of them were even family, and this guy had all the classic signs.

Take his hair. Sure, he’d had it expensively cut and styled with enough product to tame the mane on a lion, but it hadn’t taken much—just a couple of rakes with his long, thin fingers—to make him look like he’d been caught outside in a stiff wind. And that chest hair was another clue. Not that every guy with chest hair had a were of some type lurking in his gene pool, but combine that with his eyes, and it was a dead giveaway.

Her customer’s eyes were a unique shade of golden brown flecked with specks of deep, deep red. When weres wolfed out, the red in their eyes took over. She’d seen it happen once or twice over the years, and if she never saw it happen again, it would be too soon.

Luckily, drunk weres rarely wolfed out. It had something to do with the concentration necessary to make the change happen. Alcohol interfered with that. Kind of the universe’s way of protecting drunks and fools from themselves, not to mention the fools who happened to be around drunken werewolves. Or weremonkeys. Or wereferrets.

Yeah, she’d seen a couple of those, too. Terrifying little things.

At least her drunken werewolf was a handsome drunken werewolf, not to mention a werewolf of means.

She’d been a little wary of him when he’d first sat down at the bar. She’d pegged him as an uptown type—banker, lawyer, investment advisor—who’d had a really, really bad day, otherwise he wouldn’t be in her bar. His suit and his shiny black shoes and the watch on his wrist had probably cost him more than her bar netted her in a month. The smoothness of the skin on his face told her that he’d recently had a shave that came from a barber shop where the razors were straight, beards got soaped with a little round brush, and the customers had hot towels wrapped around their faces to make their skin behave.

But all he’d been interested in was drinking his way to oblivion, and he had the cash to do it, so she’d let him be.

She didn’t get many werewolves of means—or werewolves period, for that matter, which suited her just fine. The Brick House catered mostly to blue collar workers, and most of them were human. She didn’t have a humans only policy, but in her experience magic folk—even those who hid their true natures in order to get along with the rest of the world—tended not to hang out in places where the majority of customers were strictly human.

Like sticks with like, her grandpa used to say.

Not that Lettie believed that. Neither had her grandpa in his earlier years, as it turned out, but that was ancient history.

The expensive suit jacket her customer had been wearing when he came in the bar was now draped over the empty stool next to him. Lettie had rescued the jacket from the floor a half hour ago after he’d taken it off and not bothered to look where he’d dropped it.

The floor was messy with spilled drinks, cigarette butts, and bits of bar food—greasy fried pickles and French fries and something the guys in the kitchen called an onion bomb, which was currently the bar’s best seller. Lettie had saved her customer’s jacket from the worst of the crap on the floor, and she hoped she’d saved him from a hefty dry cleaning bill.

Not that he’d noticed or bothered to thank her. He was too busy drinking like it was going out of style.

The beer he’d been swilling down wasn’t the cheap stuff either. This particular brand came from a local microbrewery—some type of apple ale. She’d taste tested it before she’d placed an order. It wasn’t bad for an ale, just a little on the sweet side, but it had a cutesy name and her regulars didn’t want to try it. She’d been thinking about making it a nightly special just to use up her supply, but thanks to this guy, she might not have to.

Yanno, her customer said again, this time leaning over the bar to get closer to her, like he wanted to impart some great mystery of the universe. Facts don’t give a crap if you believe in ’em or not.

She thought about telling him this was a bar, not a political rally, but what the hell. He was drunk, and all the rest of her customers who might object to whatever rant her customer was about to embark on had gone home or wherever the hell they went when they weren’t spending grocery money or rent money on alcohol and bar food. This close to closing time the place was quiet enough now she could hear herself think, and the little clouds of cigarette smoke that hovered over the booths in the back where smoking was allowed had begun to dissipate.

Even the guys in the kitchen had finished up and left a half hour ago. The cleaning crew—a couple of ogres in a work release program for ex-cons—wouldn’t be in until an hour before sunrise. She didn’t care if her customer ranted a little while she did her last little bit of work for the night. Let him work whatever it was out of his system so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing to the wrong person out in the real world where most people seemed to have lost their frigging minds.

Ain’t that right? her customer asked, stabbing the air with an index finger pointed in her general direction.

Facts can be stubborn, Lettie agreed.

People could be, too, but she didn’t mention that.

And unfortunately, she said, one irrefutable fact is that I’m closing up here in a few minutes. Time to settle up your tab, fella.

He’d started out the evening by placing a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and telling her to keep the drinks coming. He’d gone over that fifty a couple of rounds ago.

In response, he leered at her. The wolfish grin convinced her that yeah, this guy definitely had a werewolf in his family tree, if not in his own closet.

The leer caught her off guard, even though it shouldn’t have.

Nobody ever came on to her unless they were drunk.

Lettie knew she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world. She was solid and muscular and not all that tall, where the feminine ideal—epitomized by women who graced magazine covers and movie posters and the evening news (such as it was)—specified that women be lean and tan and willowy, if not necessarily tall. Lettie’s face was round, her cheeks chubby, and her dark brown eyes a little too close set. Her strawberry-blond hair was curly to the point of frizz, her skin always burned, never tanned, and her nose could only charitably be described as pert.

She’d come to terms with all that. She was—just like the facts, Jack—a somewhat stubborn not to mention pragmatic woman. Too stubborn to lament all that life hadn’t given her, and too pragmatic to ever consider using spells or glamours to change her appearance. Waste of good money, that was.

She did have some good qualities, like her keen business sense and a way of commiserating just the right amount with customers who came to her bar and wanted someone to talk to who wouldn’t make fun of them.

The werewolf didn’t care about any of her good qualities. He just wanted a discount on his tab, that was all.

She smiled back—her polite, barkeep smile—as she reached beneath the bar to flip the switch that would turn off the soft jazz station she’d had playing on the satellite sound system tonight.

Her customer sighed, recognizing her smile for the impersonal smile it was, and reached for his wallet.

She flipped another switch that turned off the lights in the fancy Open sign next to the bar’s front door. The neon sign over the front door that advertised the bar’s name was on an automatic timer, just like the sign for the tattoo shop next door.

Her customer was wobbling a bit on his stool as he tried to pry his wallet from his back pocket when the front door of the bar banged open.

The Brick House had a metal door—this wasn’t the best neighborhood in the city, after all—and hydraulic hinges, so banging it open wasn’t an easy feat. Lettie’s heart gave an unsteady half beat at the sudden, booming crash, and her customer nearly slid off his bar stool.

A hefty man in a red plaid flannel shirt barreled into the bar.

Sorry, dude, we’re clos…

The rest of what Lettie was going to say dried up along with all the moisture in her mouth.

She knew the man who’d just blown through the door even though she hadn’t seen him in years. He was broader across the chest than he used to be, and his strawberry-blond hair was long and shaggy.

Arnie, her brother.

What the hell? she managed to croak out.

Arnie slammed the door shut with as much force as he’d slammed it open. He threw all three deadbolts and then leaned against it. He was breathing hard, and she saw the gleam of sweat on his ruddy, bearded face.

Hey, Piglet, he said. I hope you got a gun behind that bar.

Lettie, she said automatically. He knew she hated that nickname. And again…what the hell?

She’s coming, her brother said. And she’s not happy.

Who’s coming?

Her customer, the werewolf, plopped his wallet down on the bar, polished off the rest of the apple ale in his glass in one long gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

That, he said, would be my sister. He turned his wolfish, unsteady grin on Arnie. And you’re right. She’s definitely pissed.

To say Lettie’s family life was complicated was an understatement.

Her grandpa, he of the normally pragmatic ways, had apparently sown a great many wild oats in his youth. Name a vice, and he’d probably done it. Lettie’s grandma was his fifth wife—mistress—girlfriend—whatever. Lettie had never seen their marriage license, so she only had his word to take for it that they’d actually been married.

Lettie’s grandpa and grandma had only had one child—Lettie’s dad—and Lettie’s dad only had one wife—Lettie’s mom. Their family had been the most nuclear of the bunch, just Mom, Dad, and their three kids: Leticia (Lettie), Arnold (Arnie), and Wilbur (Will).

But then there were the Steps, as Grandma used to call them.

Grandpa’s other four wives—mistresses—girlfriends—whatevers…well, they had been remarkably fertile. And they hadn’t all been human.

At least two of them had been werewolves.

Which meant that at least some of Lettie’s step-aunts and -uncles (she was a little lost on their exact designations since she hadn’t met many of them) were at least partly werewolves. She was a little lost on what that meant as well.

What she did know was that she had a slew of cousins—step-cousins?—most of whom she’d never met.

And at least some of whom wanted to kill her and her brothers.

Not because of anything they’d done.

No, this particular feud had started with Grandpa.

See, Grandpa had truly turned pragmatic in his old age. And he’d loved Grandma most of all, as he used to say, and he wanted to do right by her and their son. Grandpa had invested heavily over the years in the right stocks and bonds, not to mention the right start-up companies, and he’d made himself a mint.

He would have left it all to Lettie’s grandma, but she’d been the first of the two of them to pass on. When Grandpa passed away, he left all his money—quite a significant amount—to Lettie’s dad.

Who’d promptly taken all that money and set up trust funds for his kids.

Which effectively left all of Grandpa’s remaining progeny from his first four wives—mistresses—girlfriends—whatevers out in the cold, and they weren’t happy about that.

There’d been lawsuits, the occasional death threat that resulted in restraining orders, and the even more occasional late-night visits by police officers who snapped magic-dampening handcuffs on some wolfed out relative who’d decided to take matters into their own hairy paws.

Arnie, Will, and Lettie had all made a pact with each other. They weren’t about to give up the money—Dad (and Grandpa) had wanted them to have it, after all—but they didn’t like looking over their shoulders. They agreed that as soon as they got access to their part of the trust, they’d take the money and hightail it for parts unknown. At least parts unknown to the rest of the family. The three of them agreed to always find a way to stay in touch.

It had worked well for Will, who was the oldest of the bunch. He wanted to see the world anyway—the parts of the world that had good beaches for surfing. When he hit twenty-one, he took his share of the money and lit off for parts unknown.

Arnie wasn’t quite as adventurous. Only a year younger than his older brother, Arnie hated the beach. He liked trees. His idea of a good time was to go on a ten-mile hike. He studied forestry in college, and when he got his share of the trust, he took his newly minted degree and headed up north.

They’d stayed in touch with Lettie pretty regularly for the first year or so, but by the time Lettie turned twenty-one and got her own inheritance, she was lucky if she got a postcard from her brothers every few months.

With her parents’ blessings, not to mention no small measure of relief—after all, Lettie was the youngest of the three kids who’d inherited the bulk of Grandpa’s fortune, and no doubt they hoped that with the rest of the money distributed, the Steps’ squabbles with their family would finally come to an end—Lettie had taken the money and struck out on her own.

She’d spent nearly a year traveling from one side of the country to the other before she’d lucked out with the Brick House. The former owner had been looking to sell so he could retire, and Lettie had been able to buy the place at a price that would have made her grandpa proud. She’d taken the rest of the money and invested it, and overall was doing quite well for herself.

And she’d managed to stay off the Steps’ radar.

Until now.

Lettie glared at her customer. Which one are you? she asked.

Roy, he said.

The name didn’t ring a bell. Not that Lettie knew the names of all the far-flung Steps.

Esmeralda’s oldest son, Roy elaborated.

That still didn’t help.

Step Two, Arnie said.

Ah. That made a difference.

Back when they were kids, Lettie and her brothers given the Steps shortcut names to keep them all straight. Step Two descended from Corrine, Grandpa’s second wife—mistress—girlfriend—whatever. She’d been a full-blooded werewolf descended from a long line of werewolves. Grandpa apparently spent a lot of time in the sack with Corrine (not that Lettie wanted to think about her grandpa having sex—ever—much less werewolf sex) because Corrine gave him not one, not two, but six kids. Six! Two sets of twins among them.

And from what Lettie had heard through the grapevine, all six of Corrine’s kids had been just as fertile with their own respective mates.

Esmeralda was apparently one of Corrine’s six children. Which meant the drunk werewolf (Roy) was related—very distantly—to Lettie. And he’d known that when he’d leered at her.

Which made the leer downright disgusting.

A very loud whump! rattled the bar’s front door.

Your sister, I presume? Lettie asked Roy.

Yup.

Lettie waited for him to supply a name, but he just stared at the index finger he’d used to point at her. A few hairs were sprouting from the back of his knuckles, but that was it.

Roy was apparently too drunk to wolf out. Thank goodness.

Lettie turned her glare on her brother. Arnie was sweating up a storm now, his back still against the door.

And you very helpfully brought his sister here? she asked Arnie. To my place?

They found us, Arnie said. All of us. They would have come for you anyway, with or without me. They got to Will last week. I just wanted to warn you, that’s all.

Lettie blinked as she felt her blood run cold.

Werewolves got to her brother?

Tell me what happened, she said.

Arnie did.

According to Arnie, Will had apparently decided to call a little island in the South Pacific home for the time being. Good waves, he’d told Arnie the last time they’d spoken.

On Facetime, Arnie said. That island has great Internet.

Will had just rented himself a little two-room grass shack on the beach—the island’s version of a vacation cottage—when Roy and his sister had shown up demanding her share of Grandpa’s money, plus interest. Will said no.

That was one of the traits Lettie and her brothers all had in common. None of them liked to part with money when they didn’t have to. Or when they didn’t think they should. And Dad had given Grandpa’s money to them, so it was their money now.

Faced with a firm and resolute no, Roy and his sister had wolfed out and trashed the shack trying to catch Will, but he’d managed to grab one of his boards and paddle out to sea. He’d been picked up by a fishing boat (which also had great Internet), contacted Arnie to warn him trouble was on the way, and then gone off the grid.

So, that was the good news. As far as Arnie knew, Will was still among the living.

The bad news was that Roy and his sister were only getting started.

After he got done talking with Will, Arnie had boarded up his cabin and caught the next bus headed south.

Cabin? Lettie asked.

He shrugged. Been doing competitive lumberjacking for the last couple of years. I’ve got a cabin and a few acres of forest land. Gives me a place to practice. Asked one of the guys I work out with to keep an eye on the place.

He gave Lettie a scared, sad little look which was totally at odds with his rather muscular body and his bearded, outdoorsy face. Competitive lumberjacking had done wonders for him. He’d always been a flabby kid, even after he’d started hiking.

My place burned to the ground two nights ago, he said.

Jeez!

Another loud whump! rattled the door in its frame and jiggled glasses on the tables near the front of the bar.

Still perched precariously on his stool, Roy gave a frustrated little grunt. His index finger was halfway wolfed out, but that was it. Lettie guessed that now that his pissed-off sister had arrived to trash the bar, he was a little annoyed he wouldn’t be able to join in the fun.

The smart thing would be to take Arnie and hightail it out the back door.

Except this was her bar. Something she’d purchased with her grandpa’s hard-earned money and improved with her own long hours and hard work.

Well, she’d be damned if she’d let Roy’s sister destroy the place. Lettie had been too young to do anything about the Steps when they’d tried to challenge Grandpa’s bequests first in court and then with direct threats against her family, but she wasn’t too young now. Her brothers might have left their own houses to burn, but she wasn’t about to let the Brick House go up in flames.

Time to put an end to this stupidity once and for all.

No bar owner worth her salt—especially no bar owner in a working-class neighborhood where tempers ran hot and disagreements over sports teams weren’t the only things that sparked a fight—went to work totally unarmed. Lettie was no exception.

She didn’t mind if her patrons let off a little steam every now and then. But with the way things were out in the real world these days, arguments had become more heated than normal, and she’d had to wade in and break things up before someone called the cops.

Lettie kept a stun gun on a little shelf below the cash register. That worked for most problems, and when it didn’t, the cooks kept a couple of baseball bats in the kitchen.

Too bad she didn’t have a gun loaded with silver bullets, but she never thought any of the Steps, even the werewolves, would resort to physical violence.

Given the pounding on the bar’s front door, maybe she should have considered that.

Let me in! came a loud, growling roar from the other side of the locked metal door. I know you’re in there. I can smell you!

Wolfed out, or well on her way. Lettie couldn’t reason with a wolfed-out werewolf, especially not a wolfed-out werewolf out for blood.

Tell me her name, Lettie said to Roy.

His shoulders slumped as he stared at his lone, semi-wolfed out finger. Rosie.

Rosie and Roy.

Any other brothers or sisters or cousins showing up that I should know about? Lettie asked.

He shook his head. Just Rosie. She’s always been a hothead, and she’s still pretty pissed about the whole thing.

No kidding.

Roy was still slurring his words, so with any luck she wouldn’t have to worry about him. Just Rosie the werewolf banging on her door.

Lettie came out from behind the bar, stun gun in hand. Not that a stun gun would do much damage to a werewolf, but it might slow her down.

A little.

Rosie! Lettie shouted to make herself heard through the door. I’d like to talk to you. But I’m not going to talk to wolf you, understand?

Another growl, this one more wolf-like, followed by another assault on the metal door.

You can do that all night and the door won’t budge. At least Lettie hoped not. She’d never tested its strength against a were creature before.

This time nothing happened. No growls. No bangs against the door.

In fact, it got eerily quiet outside the Brick House.

Can she get in another way? Arnie asked. Like a back door? Or a window?

Lettie shook her head. The back door was metal just like the front, and while people could get out just fine—fire exit and all—no one could get in without a key. And the Brick House had no windows in front or back. It made for a shock sometimes when she locked up at night and walked outside into a snowstorm or torrential rain, but it also made her feel a lot more secure.

Especially now.

This place is built to withstand a lot, she said. One of the reasons I bought it.

Unlike grass shacks and wooden cabins.

You’re forgetting I can let her in, Roy said.

He was on his feet—rather unsteadily, and still with only one wolfed-out finger.

Oh, please, Lettie said. "I could huff and puff and blow you down without working up a sweat."

Arnie gave her a sidelong glance. Huff and puff?

Lettie shrugged. Read it in a book somewhere.

Oh. Her brother still stood with his back to the door, but now he looked more thoughtful than scared. You know, I thought weres didn’t get drunk.

Most don’t, Lettie said. At least none of the weres she knew in her extended family—including the wereferret—ever did. The few werecreatures who did stop in the bar usually limited themselves to one or two drinks, especially the werewolves. But Roy here really seemed to like this microbrew I have. In fact, he’s pretty much the only one who ever ordered the stuff.

The knock on the front door nearly made Lettie jump out of her skin.

It was a polite knock, if not a tentative one.

We can talk if you let me in, came a decidedly feminine voice. I promise not to hurt you.

Did you make the same promise to my brothers? Lettie asked. Rosie might have gotten her wolf under control, but Lettie didn’t trust her. We can talk just fine through the door.

That’s not very polite, Rosie said. Besides, if he really wanted to, Roy could make you let me in. I’m just trying to be nice.

Roy tried to work up a halfway decent menacing growl. On his drunken human face it looked ridiculous.

Nice try, Lettie said. But your brother’s in no shape to attack anyone. Except maybe another drink.