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Howling at the Moon (Tales of an Urban Werewolf, Book 1) Mass Market Paperback – February 26, 2008

3.9 out of 5 stars 49 customer reviews

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Editorial Reviews

About the Author

Critically acclaimed author Karen MacInerney also teaches writers’ workshops and drives a mean carpool. Her book Murder on the Rocks was selected as an Agatha nominee for Best First Novel. When she’s not writing or chauffeuring children, she loves to read, drink coffee, attempt unusual recipes, and hit the local hike-and-bike trail. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband, two children, and a rabbit named Bunny.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.


I have a secret. A big, fat, hairy secret.

And I’m not talking minor-league stuff, like I once let Joseph Applebaum feel me up behind the seventh-grade stairwell or I got a Brazilian wax after work last Friday or I’m hiding a neon blue vibrator called the Electric Slide in my night table. Which I’m not, by the way. In case you were wondering.

No, this is completely different. And as far as I knew, only two—well, technically one, but we’ll call it two—people in the entire world knew about it.

Until this morning.

Usually, I waltz into my office at Withers and Young with my skinny latte, extra foam, and find nothing but a neat stack of manila folders waiting for me. Today, however, next to the manila folders—labeled with the new apple green and pink stickers I’d bought last week—was a box.

Now, I should have been suspicious right off. I mean, it was too early for the mail, and the only thing on the front of the package was my name, in swirly letters. Not your normal business correspondence, for sure. And besides, I was an auditor. Who in the world would be sending me care packages?

But none of that percolated through my sluggish brain that morning. I had just picked up the box when my nosy assistant Sally walked in, wearing snug hip-huggers and a jarring floral blouse that barely contained her bosom. “Adele wants to talk to you about the Southeast Airlines account.” She gave me a tight smile, accentuating the cupid’s bow she’d drawn just outside the perimeter of her lips. Then her beady little eyes fastened on the box. “What’s that? Something from that tennis-player boyfriend of yours?”

“I don’t know.” I shook the box, which had just the right heft for Godiva. “Probably chocolate.” My boyfriend Heath had a penchant for surprising me with boxes of truffles. I loved them—especially those hazelnut cream ones—but it was starting to play hell with my waistline.

“Yum. Can I have one?”

“Sure.” I tried to pry up the tape with my fingernail, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Jeez, that’s wrapped up tight.”

Sally was right; it was the Fort Knox of chocolate boxes. I ran my tongue over my razor-sharp eyeteeth, tempted to use them on the tape. But with Sally hanging over my desk, it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“I’ll get scissors,” she said, heaving herself off my desk and disappearing through the door. A moment later, she returned with a pair of shears, cutting the paper off with a flourish.

The box inside wasn’t gold foil. It was plain brown cardboard. And my skinny latte must have finally kicked in, because my instincts were telling me I wasn’t going to like what was inside. And since my instincts are on the strong side, I really should have listened to them.

But hindsight, as they say, is always twenty-twenty.

“Doesn’t look like chocolate,” said Sally, who was hovering over me like a flowery vulture, reeking of Aviance Night Musk.

“Not Godiva, anyway.” A phone rang in the distance. “Isn’t that your phone?”

Sally gave me a smile that told me I wasn’t going to pry her out of my office with a crowbar. “No, it’s Mindy’s.”

“Are you sure?”


She wasn’t budging, so I went ahead and opened it.

Bad idea.

Instead of neat rows of chocolate nestled in gold foil, inside the box was a Ziploc bag of dried green leaves.

I slammed the lid down, hoping Sally wasn’t an amateur botanist.

Sally’s black-rimmed eyes grew huge. “Is that pot?”

“What?” I croaked. On second thought, maybe it would be better if she was an amateur botanist. Wolfsbane might be poisonous, but at least you couldn’t be arrested for having it.

“The bag in there,” she said, pointing at the box. “It looks like weed.”

“Oh, it’s just peppermint,” I said, tossing off a light laugh that sounded like I was choking on a chicken bone. “Probably from my mother.”

Sally narrowed her little eyes at me. “Why would your mother send you peppermint?”

“Peppermint tea,” I said. “She knows I like it.” Actually, it wasn’t a total lie. My mother did send me tea regularly, only it wasn’t peppermint.

I moved the box to my lap, resisting the urge to panic and trying to ignore the fact that Sally was still staring at me. A phone rang somewhere in the building. “Shouldn’t you get the phone?” I suggested.

“No, it’s Mindy’s again.” Sally wrinkled her nose. “That stuff doesn’t smell like mint.” She jabbed a finger at the corner of yellow legal paper that was sticking out from under the lid. “Is that a note?”

“You know, I’m kind of busy this morning.”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

Just then, a ring that was unmistakably Sally’s phone burbled from outside the door.

“Better go get that,” I said brightly.

Sally pursed her lips. “It can wait.”

I raised an eyebrow and tried to look official. “I don’t think Adele would be happy to hear that.” Adele was the head of the department and had an extremely low tolerance for anything short of professional. Which had always puzzled me, because it was Adele who had hired Sally.

Sally flashed me a nasty look and flounced from the office. When a few moments passed and she didn’t reappear, I tugged the note out of the box and opened it.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I know what you are

And your boss soon will too.

Well, crap.

I stared at the note. Despite what Sally thought, the stuff in the box wasn’t pot. And it had a lot more punch than peppermint. Most people, in fact, would consider it poison.

But I wasn’t most people.

I was a werewolf.

And somebody else knew it.

I took another sniff, inhaling the familiar bitter scent. Since I’m the daughter of a full-blooded werewolf and a psychic witch (lucky me), I’ve had to drink the stuff several times a day for years. Otherwise, I have a nasty tendency to transform every time something scares me.

Unfortunately, my mother didn’t hit on the right recipe until I was almost ten, which meant a lot of my childhood was spent packing up my Barbie dolls (I learned pretty early on that there wasn’t a Werewolf Barbie) and sitting beside my mother in a U-Haul truck. My werewolf dad scarpered before my first birthday, so my mother raised me by herself, which meant I spent a lot of time in child care.

Which is hard enough if you’re a regular kid, but an absolute nightmare when you happen to be a bouncing baby werewolf. Full moons were a problem, of course—although these days, with the help of my mother’s brew, my involuntary changes were limited to four times a year—but what was worse was my propensity for sprouting teeth and fur every time something startled me or pissed me off. You can imagine what happened when I didn’t get my bottle on time.

One of the more memorable episodes occurred in second grade, when a snotty little girl named Megan Soggs thought it would be fun to put a frog down my shirt at recess. I don’t know who was scared more, me by the frog or Megan by the wolf cub in penny loafers. But a week later, we were back in the U-Haul again, off to another city.

Fortunately, by the end of third grade, my mother had figured out how to use wolfsbane tea to keep my issues under control without doing me mortal harm. So once we found a town that was werewolf free—which turned out to be Austin—my mother unpacked the U-Haul and bought a small house. Neither of us had moved since. I still drank gallons of wolfsbane tea, and it still didn’t taste any better. As a kid, I’d taken it with chocolate syrup, strawberry syrup, and large quantities of honey, but these days I just used Splenda.

I gave myself a quick shake and reminded myself that all of that was behind me now. Since Sally was still on the phone, I gave the box a quick sniff. Coffee, cigarettes, the faint aroma of a woman, overlaid with the deeper notes of male sweat. An animal smell too—cat, maybe? I opened the Ziploc bag a crack. The wolfsbane was pure, probably grown in the Alps, if the woodsiness of the scent was any indication.

I fumbled the flaps closed and jammed the box into my bottom desk drawer, behind the Tension Tamer herbal tea box that I stocked with my own special tea bags. Relax, Sophie, relax. I pulled up the waistband of my panty hose and forced myself to take a few deep cleansing breaths, like my friend Lindsey had taught me. After the third breath, I gave up—otherwise, I was going to hyperventilate. Besides, I didn’t want to explain what I was doing pulling my control-top panty hose up to my boobs if Sally waltzed back into my office. Instead I leaned back and stared at the bottom left drawer of my desk.

The box meant that somebody knew I was a werewolf. And that was a big, big problem.

On the plus side—not that it was saying much—at least whoever it was didn’t have all the facts. The New Age books all say that if someone like me gets within ten feet of the green stuff in the plastic bag, we wilt like pansies in August. Kind of a nonviolent version of a silver bullet. Or a stake.

But unless I ate an entire bag of the stuff, wolfsbane couldn’t hurt me; in fact, I drank it three times daily. Religiously. As in I set a timer and plan my days around it. Because if I miss even one dose, things can get . . . well, let’s just say . . . hairy.

I gave the drawer a moody kick, scuffing the toe of one of my new Prada pumps, and sank back in my leather chair.

A moment later, Sally walked back into the office on a fresh wave of musk. “Did you figure out what it was?”

I shrugged. “Like I said, just a box of tea. From my mom.”

Sally narrowed her painted eyes at me. “Tea, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. It wasn’t too far from the truth; since my mom did send me a box of special tea bags every month.

As Sally eyed me suspiciously, the phone rang. The call was from my mother’s shop. Which just goes to show that you should never think about a psychic—particularly one you don’t want to talk to.

After a pointed look from yours truly, Sally stalked out of my office. I couldn’t help noticing that her too-tight pants had given her a major wedgie. Surprising, really; I would have pegged Sally as a thong girl.

I picked up the phone. “Sophie Garou.”


It wasn’t my mother. Nor, unfortunately, was it Heath, whose deep chocolate voice was even more delicious than the truffles he surprised me with. Instead it was my mother’s assistant. I relaxed a little and gazed out the window at the Travis County courthouse, which was glowing in the morning sunlight as if everything in the world was hunky-dory and no nut job had left a nasty package on my nice clean desk. “Hi, Emily. What’s up?”

“It’s about your mom.”

Of course.

I don’t like to admit it—particularly not to my clients, and definitely not to my boss—but my mother is the owner of Sit A Spell, a magic shop she opened fifteen years ago smack dab in the middle of Austin.

“What about her?” I asked apprehensively. The last time Emily called, I had had to extricate my mother from a snafu with the IRS. My mother was many things—a fortune-teller, a spell-caster, and a medium, to name just a few—but she wasn’t a stellar bookkeeper. And the last thing I needed to deal with right now was my mother’s crappy accounting practices.

“Oh . . . it’s too horrible for words,” Emily said.

“It can’t be that horrible.”

“Oh, but it is . . .”

“Did she forget to include the income from the mail-order spell business again?”

“It’s worse . . .”

I groaned. “Don’t tell me she forgot to file! After I filled out the forms and everything!”

“Your mother . . .” Emily sniffled, and I could hear her trumpeting into a tissue.

I sipped my latte and licked the foam from my upper lip. “Emily, just tell me.”

“Well . . . you see . . . she’s in jail for murder!”

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Product Details

  • Mass Market Paperback: 384 pages
  • Publisher: Ballantine Books; Reprint edition (February 26, 2008)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0345496256
  • ISBN-13: 978-0345496256
  • Product Dimensions: 4.2 x 1 x 7.3 inches
  • Shipping Weight: 6.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
  • Average Customer Review: 3.9 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (49 customer reviews)
  • Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #1,662,099 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

Customer Reviews

Top Customer Reviews

By CoffeeGurl HALL OF FAME on March 24, 2008
Format: Mass Market Paperback
Sophie Garou is a successful auditor with friends, a gorgeous boyfriend and the latest Pradas. But she's hiding a big secret: she's a werewolf. Her mother, a witch, had a romantic encounter with a werewolf, which resulted in Sophie, a half-breed. Her mother keeps Sophie's tendencies to turn into a wolf when scared or surprised under control with a special brand of tea. Sophie has managed to keep her, uh, hairy problem a secret all her life. However, someone is sending her notes, threatening to uncover her secret. To make matters worse, her eccentric mother is accused of murdering a politician. Now Sophie has to find out who the real killer is. Everything would be much simpler had she not encountered the sexiest purebred werewolf she has ever seen. The attraction is undeniable, but there is one problem -- he is dating her best friend. What is a chic werewolf to do?

The chick-lit type of language makes this novel fun to read. Sophie has a sassy voice, which makes her an entertaining narrator. The plot is light; nothing too dark, gothic or suspenseful. This seems to be more of a paranormal-slash-romance, a popular genre nowadays. And that's the main problem I had with this book. There is nothing unique about it, doesn't stand out from the dozens of paranormal series out there. It's got nothing to what I like to call the "originals" -- Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Jim Butcher and Kelley Armstrong. Then again, those authors (and, to a lesser degree, Kim Harrison, Rachel Caine, Katie Macalister and MaryJanice Davidson) are in a league of their own, and everything else is just a poor imitation. I might give On the Prowl a whirl. The series itself isn't so bad and Karen MacInerney is a fairly good writer. (She does have to research the Spanish language more though.
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Sophie Garou, an auditor on the way to success in an accountant firm in Austin, Texas, has a hairy problem: She's a werewolf. Despite the regular drinking of Wolfsbane-tea made by her mother, a professional witch, she turns into a wolf at certain times of the year and the rest of the time she goes through razors on a large scale to keep her legs hairfree - let's not forget the sideburns during that time of the month! Apart from that, all could be well, especially since she also has a wonderful boyfriend, Heath, a successful - and human! - lawyer. If only it weren't for the fact that someone at work has discovered her secret and starts sending threatening packages. Then there's Tom, the werewolf-enforcer who has just arrived in town, who gives animal attraction a whole new meaning. And to top it all off, Sophie's mother is arrested for poisoning a right-wing politician with a love potion. Drawn to two men at once and trying to stay safe and under the radar of the local werewolf packs, Sophie starts researching the murder to prove her mother's innocence - all the while trying to keep her secret from the human world and making a career in accounting...
This is a wonderful werewolf novel with great characters, a very good plot and a sense of humour that reminds me of Kim Harrison's books. I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and would highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys urban fantasy that's not too dark, but funny and intelligent without turning into the silly type of chic-lit that's become quite common recently. The 'Tales of an urban werewolf' will be continued in 'On the prowl' and are planned as a trilogy.
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To her knowledge, Sophie Garou is the only werewolf in Austin, TX. She and her Mom planned it that way. Then, a handsome man locks eyes with her as he's crossing the street and she realizes he's a lycanthrope as well.

The situation only gets stranger when Sophie starts getting packages at work from someone who clearly knows who she is. Next, her psychic-witch Mom gets arrested for killing a politician with a love potion. Then, her handsome lawyer boyfriend plans their anniversary date on the full moon--and an equinox as well.

"Howling at the Moon" will be great for you if you enjoy very light chick lit in the vein of the Evanovich novels. The story does have some hilarious moments, particularly when Sophie's trying to chase away a car thief.

Unfortunately, the characterization is light. We know the brand name of Sophie's car, purse, pantyhose, where she likes to shop, etc., but we don't get as much glimpses of her and what we do see is not favorable. For example, lying about her lycanthropy is a necessity, but lying about her Mom's shop, incarceration, etc. only gets her into trouble. Further, Sophie's lack of concern about innocent citizens being attacked by werewolves doesn't mark her as likable.

Finally, white witches do not offer love potions or compulsions. They base their practices on karma and forcing someone to do something against their will would carry a heavy karmic backwash.
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This book reads more like a mystery than a Shifter novel. It's a very different take on shifters. The heroine is a born werewolf who knows nothing about werewolves and thinks her worse problem is turning furry on the full moon. She's an accountant and tries to ignore the werewolves although she's never met any until her Romney witch Mother is arrested for killing a Councilman by poisoning a love potion she made for him. In other words this is an fascinating story that's funny, super natural, and grounded in human world. It's not sex driver but it does have romance. All in all, I devoured it. Highly recommend it if you like a good read with no bad language and no x-rated sex scenes, just excellent story telling and character development.
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