In fact, the more I thought about it, the more appeal the idea had. All my friends were humans. Jason was right: I had gone as far as I would ever go with Clare de Lune, which was nowhere. And I had so much more to offer. But if I worked for a human company…with my natural cunning and imagination, with my enhanced senses and with all I had learned about being the best in the business from the best in the business…why, within five years I could be running any human company that let me get a foot in the door.
And of course, such a thing was not entirely without precedent. Michael St. Clare, heir apparent to the entire St. Clare empire and future leader to us all, had only last year walked away from his family and his fortune to go and live with humans. He had even married one of them. As a group, we were still reeling with shock from that one. And I suppose that knowing how much distress Michael had caused everyone did take some of the appeal from the prospect of striking out on my own.
Still, it was a pleasant fantasy, and I smiled over it during the brief subway ride to the office. Unlike the subways in most major cities, the Montreal Metro is clean, safe and relatively enjoyable. The train took me back to the main business and shopping district, and I did not even have to go outside to reach my office. I followed the underground brick sidewalk past bright store windows filled with colorful displays, then hurried through the revolving door that leads to the elevators for Clare de Lune.
The offices that house the marketing division of Clare de Lune are like any other in the city, perhaps a little more expensive, a little more elegantly decorated. We use only the best, and the company has a great deal of money to spend. No one would ever know, upon entering, that it was an office managed by werewolves.
First of all, as I’ve mentioned, werewolves are not distinguishable from humans by appearance, except, of course, that they are a little more handsome, a little more beautiful and possess, I am told, a noticeably higher level of sex appeal than the average human. Second, in the Montreal office, we employ a much higher percentage of humans than anywhere else in the company. The fact of the matter is that, although werewolves are superior in many ways—again, no offense intended—when it comes to marketing our products to the human world, we are smart enough to rely heavily on humans.
The support staff and quite a large percentage of the junior account executives are human. All of the management and senior account executives are werewolves. But as I said, it looks like any other advertising office for any other company in any other city in the world.
Before I got off the elevator I heard voices, scraps of conversation that humans would have no idea I could overhear even if they had thought to conceal their voices from me. Did I mention the werewolf sense of hearing is also several hundred times more acute than humans’? And mine, without meaning to brag, is in the high range of normal even for a werewolf.
“Must be something big—”
“You can tell he’s important just by the way he walks.”
“Yeah, and that eighty-thousand-dollar limo doesn’t hurt any, either.”
“But why was he asking about her? Of all people—”
“Well, he’s waiting for her now and he didn’t look any too—”
“Trouble’s happening, you mark my word. Don’t you have any idea—”
“I’m just a secretary, I don’t—”
“You might be a secretary looking for a job before this day is over. You know what they say…”
By the time I was halfway down the hall, all the conversations—the interesting ones, anyway—had faded. The werewolves, who would have heard me coming from almost as far away as I could hear them, continued with business as usual, but I did not miss one or two furtive looks from them as I passed. The humans were far less adept at concealing their emotions. Their body language practically radiated danger. Something had happened to upset them, and I had a cold tight feeling in the pit of my stomach that it had something to do with me.
But there was no point in expecting anyone to enlighten me. The looks that followed me from desk to desk, from cubicle to cubicle as I passed made me wonder if I had food on my face, or something equally as embarrassing, and I even managed a quick sidelong glance at my reflection in a glass door—dark hair, fur coat, neat lipstick, no food. The wary looks followed me.
The human secretary who served me and three other people was conveniently not at her desk, so there was no hope there. Fighting trepidation, I rounded the corner into my own cubicle, expecting a “While You Were Out” message to solve the puzzle. I wondered if, in fact, I would like what it contained.
But there was no message on my desk. Instead, there was a tall, blond, gorgeous werewolf in an Italian suit sitting in my chair. His back was to me, and he was on the telephone. His voice was clipped and authoritative as he said, “Yes, all right. And I expect it right away. I’ll be at this extension for another ten minutes.”
He hung up the phone and swung around in the chair to face me, scowling. I caught my breath.
It was Noel Duprey.
CHAPTER TWO
Noel
You wouldn’t know me—not unless you are a king, minister or mogul in the world of human business and finance…or perhaps a fashion model or a rock singer or another member of the beautiful, fun-loving set with whom I used to roam. And even then you wouldn’t really know me. You wouldn’t know what I am.
My name is Noel Duprey. I like my music loud, my cars fast and my women leggy. I hate carrying a briefcase. Until six months ago, I was vice president in charge of research and development of Clare de Lune Perfumes, and I ran my division in accordance with my personality—brilliantly, creatively and with a great deal of laissez-faire.
It may surprise you to know I held a position of such responsibility, but I come from a family of high achievers. I was also, if I may say so, a very good chemist and an inspired researcher; no one gets to be a vice president in the St. Clare Corporation without demonstrating exceptional ability.
The fact that I could have achieved so much so young and still have time left over for the indulgent life-style I so enjoyed is not unusual among our kind. What we do, we do very well and with a definite flair.
I applied myself and I was pleased with what I had achieved. I had a secure future, high status and just enough responsibility to keep me from growing lazy. I even had hopes of one day becoming second-in-command to Michael St. Clare, who was heir to the entire St. Clare empire.
Instead, I am now heir to the empire, and I’m sometimes still not entirely sure how it happened.
Until six months ago, my life was perfect. I had a job I liked and excellent prospects for advancement. I had a fabulous town house in London and a black Ferrari. I worked maybe three days a week, and let me assure you, when I gave a party it wasn’t the kind where anybody worried about which fork to use. I climbed the Matterhorn. I raced the Grand Prix. I spent weekends on the Riviera, where even now, in the midst of all this craziness, memories of a certain nude beach can put a smile on my face that no one else can understand.
I still have the town house, of course, though I never see it. The Ferrari is gathering dust in a garage somewhere, for now I’m chauffeured around in a Rolls with no less than two bodyguards everywhere I go. The Riviera is a thing of the past. The Grand Prix? Forget it. I’ll be lucky if I get a chance to watch it on television. And now I carry a briefcase wherever I go.
I once had something of a reputation as a playboy—or playwolf, if you will—and why not? I’m only thirty-two years old, which is young among our kind. I had plenty of time to settle down.