Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

and Denis. Russians denoted female gender by adding a vowel to the end of their surname, so a female form of Konov would be Konova. Given that, I thought the names were worth a try.
    I dialed the first one and was informed by an indifferent female voice that the number had been disconnected. I tried the second number. The phone rang and an older female voice said with a slight accent, “Yes?”
    “Hello, can I speak with Alisa, please?”
    There was a long pause.
    “Ma’am?”
    “Alisa’s missing,” the woman said quietly. “We don’t know where she is.”
    She hung up the phone before I had a chance to ask anything else. Since Molot was my second best bet, I looked for it and found six Molots. I hit pay dirt on the fourth one—a young male told me that Sandra was his sister and reluctantly informed me that she was also missing since the fourteenth of last month but refused to say anything else, adding “the cops are still looking for her.” I thanked him and hung up.
    I called nineteen people with the last name Ying and twenty-seven with the surname Gomez. I could not find Jennifer Ying, but there were two Angelinas among the Gomezes. The first one was two years old. The second was twenty and missing.
    It was a safe bet that Jennifer Ying had suffered the same fate as the other three women. I considered a visit to the precinct, but the rational part of my brain informed me that not only would they throw me out without any information, I’d also call enough attention to myself to make my job even more difficult. Cops had respect for full-fledged knights, but they did not cooperate with them unless the circumstances left them no choice. I was not even a knight.
    It was possible that all four ladies grew claws and fur and called Curran “Lord,” in which case it would be logical to suppose that they were missing, because they were among the seven dead shapechangers. I called Jim to verify, but either he was not home or he decided not to take my calls. I didn’t leave a message.
    With nothing left to do, I put away the file. It was nearly lunchtime and I had a plastic surgeon to meet.

    THE DECORATOR OF LAS COLIMAS MUST HAVE been a great admirer of both early Aztec and late Taco Bell architectural styles. The restaurant was a gaudy mess of bright booths, garish piñatas, and fake greenery. A resin skull rack modeled after the actual racks, which the ancient Aztecs filled with countless skulls of human victims, crowned the roof of the long buffet table. Small terra-cotta replicas of arcane relics sat on the windowsills among the plastic fruit spilling from wicker cornucopias.
    The setting did not matter. The moment I walked in, the delicious smell enveloped me, and I hurried past the five-foot-high terra-cotta atrocity meant to personify the famous Xochopilli, the Prince of Flowers, which separated the entrance from the cash register. A redheaded waitress thrust herself in my way.
    “Excuse me,” she said with a smile that showed off her entire set of teeth. “Are you Kate?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your party is waiting. This way, please.”
    As she led me past the buffet table, I heard a male voice asking the waitress, “Do you serve gravy with that?”
    Only in the South.
    The waitress delivered me to a corner booth, where Crest sat, immersed in the menu.
    “I found her, Doctor!” she announced. The patrons at the neighboring tables glanced at me. If the restaurant was not so crowded, I would have strangled her on the spot.
    Crest glanced from the menu and shot her a smile. “You remembered,” he said, his voice filled with surprise. “Thank you, Grace.”
    She giggled. “Let me know if you need anything!”
    She swept away, putting an extra kink into her walk. I would not have thought that a woman with an ass that bony could make it wiggle so much but she proved me wrong.
    I landed.
    “A storm walking in,” he said.
    “Five minutes here and the waitresses already bat their eyelashes at you,” I said. “It must be a talent.”
    He unrolled his napkin, took a round-tipped serrated knife from it, and mimicked being stabbed in the heart. “Actually, it’s not a talent,” he explained, waving the knife around. The knife’s blade looked sharp. “Most people treat waitresses like dogs. They bring you food and wait on you, therefore they must be a lower breed of human being and don’t mind being harassed.”
    I took the knife away from him before he hurt himself and put it on the table.
    The