How I get through that evening’s performance, and the next day, I don’t know. I’m playing on autopilot. I can say without boasting that I’m good enough that only another good musician would notice, but I’m failing myself and everyone else who has helped me to get to where I am by giving less than my best. Roberto has decided I have a mild bug of some sort, and is letting it slide, but I’ll have to pull myself together soon or that excuse won’t cover it any more. What I need is more information, something to help explain what I experienced. I still haven’t heard back from my contact at MI5, and my own research has uncovered nothing new. To cap it all, it’s the polo match. The excitement of plotting to make David look bad has completely lost its shine. If it wouldn’t feel as if I’d be letting Holly and Francesca down, and Rupert, I’d probably not go through with it. My enthusiasm is somewhat reawakened by David’s behaviour on the coach. There is more than one coach, it

I drop into the Al Cappuccino coffee shop on a whim, before rehearsal the day after the polo match. Holly was asking me about a third date as we were travelling back in the coach, and I need to get my head on straight before I see him again. I’ve promised myself to give him a proper chance over three dates. That means not starting the third date already convinced that I need to tell him it’s not working. The coffee shop is crowded, almost every table full. It’s comforting, in its own way. I am alone in the crowd, cushioned by the mass of humanity. I manage to grab a free spot by slotting myself in just as a couple are leaving. It’s a small, square table attached to the wall with barely enough room for two chairs. I’ve just got settled with my long black- no syrups or milk, just plain caffeinated goodness- when I spot another patron searching the tables. My eye is drawn to him instantly, although I couldn’t tell you exactly why, other than the way he looks out of plac

I wish I could hole myself up in my apartment, spending all day wearing pyjamas with my hair in a mess, eating ice cream out of the carton with Netflix providing a distraction from thinking. I wish I could turn the clock back and go change my mind the first time Holly asked me out, so I never got his hopes up only to go stomping all over them. I wish Holly wasn’t so d*** nice, so I could blame him instead of drowning myself in this ocean of guilt. If I wanted to lie to myself I could blame the stranger in the wine bar. I felt more then, caught between him and Holly, than I have at any time before. It’s the only time Holly has ever had my belly tingling and my panties growing wet. I didn’t need a creepy weirdo to remind me of what I could feel for the right partner, though. If I could blame anyone it would be the art student from the cafe, who was a million worlds away from Holly, all rough edges, surprise and disjointed conversation but who piqued my curiosity in just one ch

Werewolf. That’s what they had to be. Part man, part wolf, shape shifter. Monster, in so many stories, but I’ve learned something about monsters in my lifetime and I know that they come in as many shades as humans. Some of them are human. My pulse is still racing, my fingers trembling from the remembered terror of that looming figure closing on me, but I know the danger to me is over even while another figure bearing claws, and fangs, and fur is hovering right by my side. I can sense the danger in every last hair and tooth and talon of him, but none of it will harm me, and my voice is calm when I thank him. I should be running screaming, my rational human side tells me. Instead, his presence soothes me. He looks hesitant, this monstrous werewolf beast, when I turn to him. What would such a killing machine to be so hesitant around me? Bellmouth may be something to do with it. I try to reassure him, laughing at myself for it but then pausing to wonder.

I wasn’t drunk last night. My head is perfectly clear.Having been drunk would be the rational explanation. As I wasn’t drunk, the only explanations left are those that I cannot tell most people, including my mundane human friends. They either make me look insane, or grossly insensitive, or a slut, or totally lacking in any good decision making skills. Or all of them.Sleep continues to fade, making me aware that I’m lying on my bed. I’m aching pleasantly in all the right places and not so pleasantly in an area near the side of my neck, and I am rather unpleasantly sticky between my legs. There’s a solid shape beside me, not quote snoring. His breath puffs against my shoulder, and his arm is looped across my waist. I am aware of his contentment just as surely as I am aware of my own.It was his dream that woke me and not mine. Two wolves running through a forest, the dream view seen through the eyes of one of them. His feel