At night you can't see the color of my tattoos-unless I want you to. The darkness robs the blue from the scales of the dragon, the red from the feathers of the eagle, and the gold from the wings of the butterfly, leaving a black pattern of tribal runes like columns of hieroglyphics.

They're mesmerizing-at least I hoped that's why the werewolf stared at me so intently with his gleaming eyes. Oh, he looked human, even handsome, crouched on the dock under the yellowed lantern light, but his white incisors were a bit too sharp, his brown beard a little too scraggly, and something hungry lurked behind the lashes of his green eyes.

I stared back, frozen. Deep in a maze of tunnels marked with magical signs I couldn't decipher, surrounded by blocks of stone that rose above us like a dungeon, trapped in a rocking boat too precarious to even stand, here I sat with the bare flesh of my arms exposed to a werewolf staring at me like dinner. Charming.

The tension grew thick enough to scare me out of my wits before the werewolf said, in a deep, rumbling voice that chilled me to my bones, "Such exquisite color. Such attention to detail. I could gaze on them all night, and not ask the question-can you do this?"

The werewolf flicked an old photograph at me, but I was too stunned to catch it.

"Don't lose it," Spleen cried, reaching out impulsively and damn near falling out of the boat, and both the werewolf and I reached to steady him.

Our hands touched-the werewolf s was shockingly warm-and we both jerked away. Spleen leaned back up, one hand drenched where he'd pitched forward, but the other-and the photograph- still held high and dry.

"Idiot," Spleen snarled at me, shaking stinking drainwater off his hand. "Why do you think I brought you down here? So he could eat v you?"