I screamed, “Get out of my life.”

Cole shook his head like he was angry, and then he jerked on my favorite leggings. The front door came open, a suited fireman framed by it.

“Are you alone?” shouted the fireman.

I glanced over to the corner. Cole was gone.

When something caught on fire, you could say It went up in flames or It all burned down. Up and down at once. Everywhere.

It was all just destroyed.

I said, “Yeah.”

Chapter Fifty

· cole ·

This is what they don’t tell you about being a werewolf.

They don’t tell you you’ll have to run from a burning building wearing a pair of too-tight rainbow-skull-printed leggings to avoid being implicated in arson. They don’t tell you that when you run to your car, you’ll remember you threw your car keys into a potted plant in front of the building you just burned down and that you’ll have to return to the scene of the crime with as much discretion as a three-fourths grown man in a pair of very shiny leggings can manage before the personal effects can be found by someone who might rename them “evidence.”

They don’t tell you that when you kneel with grace and dignity to retrieve the keys, you’ll rip the seam of the shimmery leggings right up from the ankle to what God gave you.

They’d probably tell you that being naked in public was illegal, if you asked.

But they don’t tell you how tiring it is to run from cops when you’ve just been two species in quick succession and then had to run to your car and then back again.

They don’t tell you how this long-haired guy will try to give you his number as you’re running and flapping and bouncing your way back to the parking lot in the most circuitous way possible, so as to not lead the cops back to your Mustang, which by now you wish had died in the last fire you set.

They don’t tell you how many people are going to get photos of Cole St. Clair, three-fourths naked, running around Santa Monica.

They don’t tell you how hot black cloth seats get after the sun’s come out and you sit in them and you’re wearing nothing or next to it.

They don’t tell you how even though you won’t remember a thing from when you were a wolf, you’ll remember the look on your now-ex-girlfriend’s face right before and right after for the rest of your life.

They don’t tell you anything. No, that’s not true.

They tell you, Come on, be a wolf. You’ve been looking for something for a while, and this, boy, is what you were looking for.

Chapter Fifty-One

· cole ·

f♮ live: Today on the wire we have young Cole St. Clair, former lead singer of NARKOTIKA. We had him on the show five weeks ago, just after he signed on with Baby North of SharpT33th. Did I hear a collective gasp? No worries, he’s survived, it seems. You’re just about done with the album, right?

cole st. clair: Da.

f♮ live: How would you rate the experience on a scale of one to ten?

cole st. clair: Somewhere between an F and a hydra.

f♮ live: That’s the kind of math I expect from rock stars.

You told me before we started rolling that you had just one track left to record. Then what?

cole st. clair: You tell me.

f♮ live: How world-weary you sound! How did you find L.A.? You staying with us?

cole st. clair: I love L.A., but I broke her things. I don’t think it’s going to work out.

f♮ live: You broke a lot fewer things than most of us expected.

cole st. clair: What can I say, I’m a changed man. We gonna listen to that teaser track now?

f♮ live: You East Coasters are always in a hurry.

cole st. clair: I don’t think I’m really an East Coaster.

I’m — what’s that term? Currently without country.

f♮ live: L.A. still wants you, boy.

cole st. clair: Martin, if only that were true.

Chapter Fifty-Two

· isabel ·

I knew that at some point soon, I was going to have to return Virtual Cole to Cole. I knew from both it and the radio and the calendar that he was nearly done with the album, and by extension, the show. And by further extension, Los Angeles.

By further, further extension, me.

Only that wasn’t true. I’d been done with him first.

Maybe I’d just leave his phone at the apartment gate. Then it would finally be over, really and truly. No loose ends.

The only problem in all of this was how much I missed him.

It never went away. It never got any less. I kept thinking that if I just kept myself busy, finished this class, applied for colleges, researched futures that took me away, I would stop missing him for at least one minute of one day.

But everything in this goddamn city reminded me of him.

Sierra called me a few days after the fire. “Sweetness? I’m so sorry I yelled at you.”

In her defense, she had found me standing in the smoldering remains of her business. “I think shouting was appropriate.”

“Not at you, lovely. I know that now. I’m so terribly sorry I blamed you.”

It also turned out that she was sorry that she had gotten busted for ordering an employee to violate fire code with all of the candles and none of the fire extinguishers. Turns out she was hoping I wouldn’t sue her.

“How long until you reopen?” I asked. I didn’t want to have to apply for a new job. I wanted to go back to not giving a damn.

“All of the Fall line is gone,” Sierra said. “I have to make it all from scratch. I don’t know if the energy is balanced in that place anymore. I don’t know. I have to make some tough decisions.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I was surprised to hear myself say it. I was more surprised to hear myself mean it.

“Oh, I was in such a rut, gorgeous. This is good for me! All of my old ideas are gone and a new Sierra emerges! Do come to the next party. I am still sorry about yelling. I won’t yell again.

Ah! I have to run. Ta, lovely. Ta.”

I hung up. Thinking of her party made me think of Mark, which made me think of Cole.

I missed him. I missed him all the time.

The only thing that made it a little better was the foyer of the House of Ruin. My mother had already replaced all of the marriage and wedding shots that had hung there. The photos of her and my father had become photos of me and her, looking identical and sisterly. Or just her, grinning at the camera with her medical school diploma in her hands. Only, she should have known better with that last photo. Because even though my father’s face wasn’t in it, he still technically was. That grin she wore had been for him as he snapped the picture.