Chapter 4: One of Everything, Signed and Dated

"This next song goes out to the lady in booth nine, who has just resigned from her marriage," the singer announced.

The spotlight swung over and landed on my face.

I threw up a hand to block it.

Between my fingers I saw a fox shifter on the small stage, winking at me, his big red tail swinging behind him.

The whole bar whistled.

I sank into the booth with my ears burning.

I should not have come.

The mark on my neck still hadn't been removed, and the skin beneath my hair felt warm.

But three days ago, I had posted online asking which clan territory had quiet streets, good schools and gentle men.

Forty strangers had answered with opinions.

One of them had sent me a ranked list with footnotes, and his name was Felix Tremlett.

He had texted me that afternoon: Come hear me play. I'll buy you a drink and answer follow-up questions.

I had come to answer my follow-up questions.

Halfway through his second song, Felix jumped off the stage with his guitar still around his neck and walked straight to my booth.

The room went wilder.

He slid in across from me and propped his chin on his hand.

"I was starting to think you'd stand me up," he said.

"I don't stand people up. I'd owe them an apology."

"That sounds exhausting."

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