Kitty and the Midnight Hour

Chapter 10

Cormac, arms crossed and expression a mask, took his spot holding up the wall. One of the cops stayed with him. The officer didn't have his gun out, but he kept his hand at his belt. The other two began a search of the apartment, looking in closets, drawers, and behind doors.

Hardin came straight to me.

I'd expected lights, sirens, mayhem. Plenty of warning to maybe duck out the back. But Hardin probably wasn't going to advertise her presence when she was looking for a killer.

I should have had Carl come pick up the body before the cops showed up. Then again, that would have been just what we needed, someone watching us loading a body into his truck, writing down the license plate number, then calling the police. Werewolf battles usually happened in the wilderness, where bodies could just disappear.

This way, at least only I got bagged.

God, what was I thinking. This whole tiling was a mess. Zan was dead.

She said, "You want to tell me about the ripped-up body we found downstairs?"

I glanced at Cormac, who didn't move a muscle, damn him.

"No," I said, which was probably stupider than not saying anything at all.

"Did you do it?"

I'd already been through this once tonight. "No."

"Ms. Norville, I think I'd like to take you down to the station and ask you a few questions."

Hardly surprising, but my stomach still did a flip-flop. I may have been a werewolf, but I'd never even gotten a parking ticket, much less been arrested for anything. Then again, I'd never owned a car.

But I wasn't being arrested. This was just questioning.

"Let me get a jacket," I said, my voice a whisper. When I stood, my injured side turned toward her. Hardin tilted her head, glancing at the red slashes and puckered skin on my arm.

"When did that happen?"

"Tonight."

"Impossible. Those have been healing for weeks."

"You need to do more reading. Did you get those articles I sent you?"

"Yeah." She stared, like she was trying to read my mind. "Who did this to you?" She said it like she actually cared about me or something.

I glared. "The ripped-up body downstairs."

She waited a beat, then, "Are you telling me that guy was a werewolf?"

I finished shrugging on the jacket and grabbed the key to the apartment. "Should I call a lawyer or something?"

Outside, there must have been a half-dozen cop cars, along with the coroner's van. They had the whole street blocked off. Yellow tape fluttered everywhere. A swarm of people wearing plastic gloves huddled around Zan, swabbing things and sticking them into baggies. Evidence. All the evidence they needed.

Too much exposure. Carl had always warned me this might happen. He really was going to kill me this time.

Cormac and I got a ride in the nice police car. He'd already called his lawyer, who he thought would represent me as well, if I asked him.

I shuddered to think of the kind of experience a lawyer got working for Cormac. But hey, the bounty hunter wasn't in jail.

They put Cormac and me in separate rooms. Mine was similar to the interview room I'd been in before, the size of a small bedroom, institutional and without character. I didn't get coffee this time.

It must have been four in the morning. I hadn't slept, and I was feeling light-headed. I wanted to ask someone for a glass of water. The door wasn't locked. I opened it, looked in the hall outside, and didn't see anyone. I had a feeling that if I tried to sneak out, a swarm of cops would suddenly appear. I went back inside.

I laid my head on the table, thinking about how much this week had sucked, and dozed. When the door opened, I jerked awake, startled, and shivered inside my coat. I felt worse for the few moments' worth of napping.

The man who entered was in his early thirties. He was rumpled, with swept-back, mousy blond hair that needed trimming, a stubbled jaw, a gray suit jacket that fit but still managed to seem too big, and an uninspiring brown tie. He slouched and carried his briefcase under one arm.

He strode to the desk, switching the briefcase out from under his arm so he could extend his hand for me to shake.

"Hi, Kitty Norville? I'm Ben O'Farrell. Cormac says you need a lawyer." He had an average voice, but spoke with confidence and met my gaze.

"Hi." Tentatively, I shook his hand. I tried to get more of a sense of him. He smelled average. Normal. The jacket maybe needed washing. "I don't know if I do or not."

He shrugged. "Never hurts when the cops are around. Here's my card, my rates." He pulled a card out of one pocket, a pen out of another, tried juggling them and the briefcase, then set the briefcase down so he could write on the card, which he handed to me when he was finished.

That was a big number. It was a per-hour number.

"You any good?" I said.

"Cormac isn't in jail."

I smiled in spite of myself. "Should he be?"

When O'Farrell matched the smile, he looked like a hawk. It made me feel better; at least, it would so long as he was on my side. It made me glad I hadn't pressed charges against Cormac that night he barged in on the show.

"Can you stick around for tonight? Hopefully I won't need you any longer."

He nodded and went to the door.

"Wait." I winced, only starting to realize the kind of trouble I was in. He was letting the cops in. I wanted to run. Wolf started itching, and I didn't need that now. "I don't want to tell them what happened."

He looked thoughtful a moment, then said, "Okay." He glanced out the still-open door and gestured someone inside. Detective Hardin.

O'Farrell took a seat at the table and looked busy with his briefcase. Hardin closed the door and remained standing by the wall, arms crossed, grouchy.

She said, "What was that hit man doing in your apartment?"

That wasn't a good place to start the conversation. Was there a good place to start this conversation?

I glanced at O'Farrell. He shrugged, noncommittal, and continued shuffling papers. Did that mean it was okay to talk or not? I could refuse to answer. Mainly because I didn't know what to say, and not because I was hiding anything.

"I called him. I was pretty beat up earlier, and I needed help. We've been in touch. Professional consulting."

"No hard feelings over what happened last month, then?"

"I guess not."

"What was the dead guy doing at your apartment?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. O'Farrell said, "Could we get some water in here? Thanks."

With an even more surly frown, Hardin leaned out and called to someone. A moment later a couple of cups of water arrived.

This all just wasted time.

"You going to answer me?" Hardin said. Her hair was sticking out in all directions, and her eyes were shadowed. She hadn't gotten any sleep either.

"He—he was waiting," I said, stammering. "For me. He wanted to hurt me." I took another drink of water and ducked my gaze. I was having trouble talking.

"Why?"

I couldn't answer that. I couldn't say it. It would take too long to explain.

"Then can you tell me who else was there?"

I couldn't answer that either. Once again, I looked at O'Farrell for help. Hardin looked at him, too.

He said to Hardin, "I'm assuming she hasn't been Mirandized? She doesn't have to answer any question she doesn't want to. She's here as a voluntary witness." Voluntary? Nominally.

"At this stage," Hardin said. She turned back to me. "It wasn't a wild dog that bit that guy's head off, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't you. They found blood under the victim's fingernails and in his mouth. I'm willing to believe that it's yours and that part of your story checks out. If it does, it means you were there and you probably know who did it. Was it that rogue werewolf you've been telling me about? The one we've been looking for in the mauling deaths?"

"No," I said, forgetting myself. "This doesn't have anything to do with the rogue." This was all inside the pack and none of her business."

Hardin started pacing. "Ms. Norville. Kitty. Right now you're a witness, not an accessory to murder. Don't make me have to change that assessment."

"What?"

"If you know who did it and you don't tell me, I can charge you with being an accessory to murder."

"That's a bluff," O'Farrell said. "The most you could charge without more evidence is obstruction of justice."

What the hell were they talking about?

Hardin plowed on, ignoring him. "If you're trying to protect whoever did this, you're guilty of a crime."

"It wasn't… like that. Zan made the challenge; he was asking for it—this isn't… this isn't… criminal."

"Ms. Norville." O'Farrell made a calming gesture. I sat back.

Hardin said, "A man has been murdered and you're saying there's nothing wrong with that?"

"No, it's just—" It's just that yeah, within the law of the pack, it was all right. T.J. was the dominant wolf and Zan had overstepped his bounds. I wanted the double standard, now that it would benefit me. "He did it to protect me. Zan attacked me first, and—"

"Ms. Norville." O'Farrell's tone was cautioning.

I was doing everything I could to not say the name. And really, it wasn't defensive. Zan had backed off. T.J. killed him anyway. In the eyes of human law, T.J. was a murderer.

I curled up in the chair and pressed my face to my knees.

O'Farrell stood up. "Detective Hardin, could I have a word with you?"

The lawyer and detective moved to the opposite corner of the room and spoke in low whispers. They didn't seem to know I could still hear them.

"Ms. Norville is cooperating to the fullest extent of her current ability. She's been injured, hasn't had any sleep, and is in no state to answer your questions at this time. Let her go home and get some rest. You can talk to her later. She'll probably be more helpful then."

"Let her go so she can get together with this other guy and straighten out their stories?"

"Look at her record—she's not even a flight risk. Clean as a whistle."

"Except for being a werewolf."

He shrugged. "Not her fault."

Hardin looked away with a huff. She pulled a cigarette out of her trousers pocket, patted the other pocket for a lighter, but didn't find one. She pointed at O'Farrell with the unlit cigarette. "If I let her go, promise me you'll talk some sense into her. I don't want to have to arrest her for anything."

"I'll do my best, Detective."

I had to talk to T.J. That was all I wanted right now.

O'Farrell stood next to my chair. "Ms. Norville? Come on, let's go."

Hardin stopped me before opening the door. "Don't leave town."

My throat was still dry. This place tasted dry and cold. All I could do was press my lips together and nod, my eyes downcast.

Outside, the sky was gray with dawn. Almost too bright. My exhausted eyes stung with the faint light. The air was biting, reaching into my bones.

The lawyer and I stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside the police station.

I said, "Me being a werewolf. Does it bother you? Are you an antimonster crusader like Cormac?"

He smiled as if I'd said something funny, an expression reminiscent of one of Cormac's smirks. "If Cormac were a crusader, he'd have shot you the first time he met you, no matter what the circumstances were."

"Then what is he?"

"He just likes seeing how close to the edge he can get without falling off."

Somehow, Cormac as mercenary-with-a-death-wish was a scarier proposition than Cormac as mercenary-with-convictions.

"What are you?"

He shrugged. "Equal opportunity attorney-at-law."

"Yeah, I guess. Thanks for getting me out of there."

"It was easy. Hardin likes you. Can I give you a ride someplace?"

"No thanks."

"A word of advice, Ms. Norville. You should tell the cops his name. That way, only one of you goes down. If he's your friend, he'll understand." He was a good fit for Cormac, as lawyers went. I could picture him in a gangster movie, finding loopholes and talking tough at the judge.

"I'll think about it."

"At the very least, don't talk to this guy. If you go to him, you'll make it real hard for me to prove you're not trying to cover anything up."

"I'm—we're not used to human law. We're usually a lot better about cleaning up our bodies."

He didn't say anything. I got tired of waiting for him to speak, so I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked away. I could sense him staring after me.

I went to T.J.'s.

If Hardin sent someone to follow me, I didn't know about it. It wouldn't have surprised me if she had. It was stupid to go, to possibly lead her right to him. But I wasn't thinking straight by then.

I had a little bit of sense and took side streets and footpaths where cars couldn't follow. I ran, and I could run fast, even injured, like any werewolf worth her salt.

The front door of his house was unlocked. I slipped in, closed the door quietly, and locked it. He had two rooms, a living room with a hide-a-bed and a kitchen/utility room. The bathroom was in back.

He was lying asleep on the living room floor, naked and tangled in a blanket. He must have been out all night, too. He had a great body, muscled arms flowing into well-defined shoulders and back. He was curled in a ball, tense, like he was having a nightmare. His hair was damp with sweat. He hugged a pillow to his chest.

I took off my jacket and shoes and knelt beside him. I touched his cheek, holding my hand near his nose so he could smell me. He shifted, moaning a little. I lay next to him and snuggled close as he woke up, slipping into his arms.

He didn't open his eyes, but I could tell he was awake because his embrace tightened around me.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," I whispered.

He smiled and kissed my forehead. "Hm. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Now, I was. At least for a little while. "Why'd he do it, T.J.? I didn't think he was that dumb. If he'd wanted to challenge me, why didn't he do it in front of the pack? This wasn't going to win him back his standing."

He waited so long to answer I thought he'd fallen asleep again. The question was half-rhetorical anyway. I'd never understood why Zan did things.

Then T.J. said, "Someone put him up to it. Someone wanted him to kill you without the pack watching."

So it wasn't Zan's idea. That almost made sense. "How do you know?"

"Because I told him if he ever went after you again, I'd kill him."

My eyes stung, tears slipping down, because I had to tell him about the police. I had to ask him to tell me what to do. He couldn't go to jail. What would they do with him during full moon nights?

I nestled closer, resting my head on his chest. "Who put him up to it?"

"Someone who outranks me. He'd only listen to someone who scared him more than I did. That leaves Carl or Meg."

Time passed, and sunlight began to trace the window shades when I said, "I think it was Meg."

"I think it was Carl." Then, very softly, "I used to be in love with Carl."

In so many ways, the alpha of the pack was god to us. I remembered my first few months with them. I trembled whenever Carl came near. I cowered at his feet, worshiping him, adoring him. When had that gone away?

"Me, too," I said.

We slept for a time. I was only half-awake when he stretched his back and sat up. He paused, took several deep breaths, then brought his face close to me, smelling my hair, moving down to sniff my neck and shirt.

He said, his tone doubtful, "You smell like a police station."

I told him everything while he made bacon and eggs for breakfast. Even the smell of frying meat filling the kitchen couldn't make me hungry. We sat at his Formica table, plates of food in front of us, and neither one of us ate.

He picked at his for a while, breaking the yolks of his fried eggs and stirring them with bacon. He looked at me, and I stared at my plate.

Finally, he said, "This is what you get for going to the cops in the first place."

"It's because I went to the cops and got on their good side that I'm not in jail now." There I was, arguing again.

"I can't go to jail," he said. "Neither can you. You'll tell them I did it. That'll get you off the hook. And I'll run. I'll go into the hills, maybe go wolf for a while. That way I can hide."

I didn't like the sound of that. It wouldn't get him off the hook. We had no idea how long he'd have to hide. I wanted some solution that would let everyone believe T.J. was innocent. But he wasn't, really. That was the problem.

Any way we looked at it, I was in danger of losing him.

My voice cracked when I said, "Have you ever heard of someone Changing and not being able to shift back?"

"I've heard stories. It hasn't happened to anyone I know."

"I don't want you to go wolf. You're not a wolf."

"It can be a strength, Kitty. If it can help, I'd be stupid not to use it. That's something you've never learned—how to use the wolf as a strength."

"I'll miss you. Who'll look out for me if you go?"

He smiled. "I thought you said you could take care of yourself."

I wanted to say something rude, but I started crying.

"You can always come visit," he said.

I went home. The police cars, coroner's van, swarms of people, and Zan's body were gone. A few scraps of yellow crime-scene tape fluttered, caught in the shrubs outside the building. A guy sat in a sedan parked across the street, sipping coffee. Watching. I ignored him.

I threw away the bloody towel and shirt that were still lying in the kitchen sink. I opened a window and let in some air, because the place felt like Cormac, Hardin, and the cops were still trooping through, making the room stuffy. I pulled O'Farrell's card out of my pocket and left it on the kitchen counter. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, looked at myself in the mirror. Red, puffy eyes. Greasy, tired hair. I looked pale.

I started to tell myself that I just had to wait for everything to get back to normal. Take it one step at a time, things would settle down, and I'd feel better. But I stopped, because I tried to think of what was normal, and I couldn't remember.

Shape-shifting once a month, waking up tangled with a half-dozen other naked bodies, sniffing armpits as foreplay. Was that normal? Letting Carl beat up on me, fuck me, tell me what to do, just because it felt right to the wolf half? Was that normal? Did I want to go back to that?

Normal without the Wolf was so long ago I couldn't remember what it was like anymore.

I had two choices regarding Carl. I could leave him, or challenge him. Leaving him meant leaving the pack. That made it hard. Too hard to think about.

Could I make it on my own?

Could I fight him and win?

Six months ago, I would have said no to both those questions. Now, I wasn't sure. I had to be able to answer yes to one of those, if I couldn't go back to being what I was six months ago.

Now all I had to do was decide which one I could answer yes to.

"… be kinda cool to look through a bunch of autopsy reports and find out how many of those people were shot with silver bullets."

"I'm going to add that to my list," I said into the microphone. "Do the police check bullets for silver content?"

"They ought to," the caller said with a humph, "Seems kind of obvious, doesn't it?"

"Indeed. Thanks for calling. This is Kitty, and in case you've just tuned in, I'm putting together a list of questions that law enforcement officials might want to start asking about certain crimes. Our topic tonight is law enforcement and the supernatural. I've got some national crime statistics here, a breakdown of murders that happened all over the U.S. last year—murder weapons, causes of death, that sort of thing. It says here that police reported that fourteen people died with stakes through their hearts last year. Of those fourteen, eight were also decapitated, and three were found draped with crosses. All were reported as, quote, ritualistic slayings, unquote. I should think so. My question is, did they check to see if those murder victims really were vampires? Could they check? Probably not. Some varieties of vampire disintegrate upon death. Though there exists a CDC report describing tests for identifying lycanthropes and vampires. Let's take a call. Hello, Ray, you're on the air."

"Hi, Kitty. I just want to bring up a point you seem to be missing: If those fourteen 'murder victims,' as you call them, really were vampires, is it really murder?"

Ooh, controversy. "What do you think?"

"Well, I'd call it self-defense. Vampires are predators, and their only prey is humanity. Humanity has a vested interest in getting rid of them whenever they can." Sounded like a rancher talking about wolves.

"Gee, Ray. Some of my best friends are vampires. What if the vampire in question has never killed anyone? Let's say she only takes blood from voluntary donors, keeps to herself, never causes trouble. Then one day some crusading vampire hunter comes along and stakes her just because she's a vampire."

"That's been going on for hundreds of years. I think you're the first person to call it murder."

"Actually, I'm not. And at the risk of offending lots of people out there in lots of different ways, the Nazis didn't call it murder either." I clicked him off the line before he could say anything indignant. "Let me present another thought experiment. We've got a werewolf, vampire, whatever. He's killed someone for no good reason. What should happen? If it were a normal person, he'd get arrested, go on trial, and probably go to jail for a really long time. Maybe be sentenced to death if the situation warranted. Now, let's take the werewolf. Can we put a werewolf in jail for a really long time? What are they going to do with him when the full moon comes along? Or the vampire—do you realize how impractical it would be to sentence a vampire to life in prison? I've got Timothy on the line. Hello."

The caller said in a low, smooth voice, "Of course it's impractical sentencing a vampire to life in prison. I think there'd be no other choice but to have a vampire hunter take care of the problem. That's what they're for."

"So you're saying law enforcement should stay completely out of it. Just let the vampire hunters loose willy-nilly."

"Of course not. Unless the vampires are allowed to hunt the hunters, willy-nilly, as you say."

I was guessing he was a vampire. He had that arrogant tone, and that clipped diction that usually meant someone had learned to speak in a culture that valued refined grammar, which meant not recent culture.

"Which is still outside mundane law enforcement. The supernatural underground should take care of its own, is that what you're saying?"

"I believe it is. If a werewolf kills another werewolf in the course of a pack dominance challenge, do you really want the police to become involved?"

Ouch. Double ouch. But I'd asked for it. That'd teach me to do a show on a personal topic I was worried about. Unfortunately, I wasn't the type to backpedal. I read a quote by Churchill once: If you're going through hell, keep going.

"Let me turn that question back on you: What would you recommend to a police officer who did get involved in an internecine squabble? Let's say a mauled body shows up. The cop looks into it and in a particular show of brilliance and open-mindedness decides that the attacker couldn't have been an animal and thinks werewolf. What's more, he runs a couple of tests and discovers that hey, the victim was a werewolf, too." Maybe Hardin was listening. Maybe we'd both learn something. "What should he do next?"

"Buy lots of silver bullets," Timothy answered without hesitation.

"That is so not helpful." Yikes, I'd said that out loud. I hung up on him. "Okay, moving on. Are you a lycanthrope or a vampire or the like who has had an encounter with the law? What did you do? What's your advice? And as always, any comments on the issues we've been discussing throughout the hour are welcome. Next caller, you're on the air."

"Hi, Kitty. The best and only advice I can give when the cops are after you is to run like hell. There's no way the cops can keep up. That's the beauty of it…"

"… if you're going to put vampires and werewolves under the jurisdiction of human law enforcement, then you absolutely need to put vampires and werewolves on the police force…"

Vampire cops? Was she serious? Then again, they'd always have somebody to take the graveyard shift.

The calls kept coming.

"… the same laws don't apply. They never can, they never will. Death and murder don't mean the same thing to people who are immortal and nearly indestructible…"

My head hurt. My callers were making me feel stupid. They kept taking me to the same place, that T.J. was right and I shouldn't talk to the cops anymore. Supernatural glasnost was impossible. I was the stuff that nightmare stories were made of and I should learn to live with it. Or shoot myself with silver.

I wondered what the statistics were on suicide among lycanthropes.

For the last few days, Hardin had people watching me.

I did nothing but travel between work and home. I didn't call anyone. I didn't tell Hardin anything.

I said, "True confession time. You know that I do it occasionally, take these questions out of the abstract and talk about how they apply to my own life. And what I'm thinking right now is, what's the point? If these two worlds, the supernatural and human worlds, are destined to be at each other's throats; if there's no way to compromise about things like who has the right to govern whom, then what am I doing here? Why should I even bother doing the show? I'm feeling an impulse to run to the hills and forget I was ever human. But you know what? I would miss chocolate. And movies. And the next album by my favorite band. And I'm wondering if this is where the problem is, that lycanthropes and vampires might not technically be fully human, but they used to be, and they can't ever forget it. Or more to the point, they shouldn't ever forget it. When they do is when the problems happen."

The monitor was full of calls. I looked at Matt through the window, wanting some kind of guidance, not wanting to choose. I didn't want to hear about anyone's problems. I didn't want to hear any more righteous rhetoric from either camp. I just wanted… I didn't know. Maybe to play some music, like in the old days. Maybe I could do that for the next show, get a band on and talk about music for a couple of hours. Yeah, that was a plan.

Matt was leaning back in his chair, smiling at me. He'd stuck it out with me during the whole run of the show. That smile said he was happy to be here. I couldn't help but smile back.

He was my friend, and he was human. That said something.

I straightened and took a breath, making my voice lighter, to drag the show from its depressing low. "All right, it looks like I have a repeat caller on the line. I always appreciate the people who come back for more. James, hello."

"Kitty, I just want to tell you how much your show means to me. It's—you're this voice of reason, you know? You actually think these things through. It helps, it really helps. I hope you don't ever stop doing this." His voice sounded even more strained than it had the last time. If the show was helping him, I'd hate to think of what he'd sound like without it.

"Thanks. That means a lot. How are you doing?"

"I've been thinking about it. I think I'm okay. I think I'm doing what I was meant to do. Why else would this have happened to me, if not to be this way and be able to do these things?"

My stomach froze. "Do what things, James?"

"I have a confession, Kitty. I didn't much like being human, when I was human. So being a werewolf isn't much different, except I'm strong now. I'm—I know what to do. When I can't decide what to do, the wolf tells me what to do."

James was psychotic. He'd probably been that way before he became a lycanthrope. So, what happened when a self-loathing, misanthropic psychotic became a werewolf?

Blood pounded in my ears when I double-checked the monitor. We collected first names and hometowns from the callers. I couldn't remember where he was from. I squinted to read the monitor.

Oh, my God. Denver. He'd been under my nose the whole time.

I covered the mike and hissed at Matt, mouthing, "Caller ID. Get his number. Now!"

Leaning into the mike, I tried to keep my voice steady. "What does your wolf tell you to do, James?"

"You know, Kitty. You know. What does your wolf tell you to do? You understand."

Use claws. Teeth. Get blood. Run. Yeah, I understood. But I'd won that battle.

"Do you ever stop to think that your wolf may be wrong?"

"But the wolf is so much stronger than I am." He said this admiringly.

"Might doesn't make right. That's the whole point of civilization. You called me a voice of reason, James. Where does reason come into all this?"

"I told you. If there's a reason that this happened, then this is it. For me to be strong."

I checked the clock. I still had fifteen minutes to go. I'd never let a show go unfinished. I'd never had a better reason to. But I didn't. I finished. I tried to sound normal, because I didn't want James to think anything was wrong. "Okay, we're going to break for station ID. We'll be right back with The Midnight Hour."

I switched off the mike and called to the booth, "Did you get the number?"

"Yeah," Matt said, walking through the door with a piece of paper in his hand. "And an address. Kitty, you've gone white. What is it?"

My mouth was dry, and my heart was beating so fast I was shaking. "I don't know yet. Just—let's just finish this up. I have to make a call before we go back on."

Call the police! That was the right thing to do. Except it wasn't, because all this shit, the supernatural, the claws and fangs and stuff that made us different, made right different. Maybe that would change someday.

James as a wolf wouldn't be a wolf. He wouldn't even be a psychotic human in the shape of a wolf. He'd be a little of both, and while I liked to pretend I had the best of both worlds, James seemed to have the worst. A wolf would run away when Hardin faced him down with a gun. James would attack. I couldn't call Hardin. She'd be killed. Or infected. I wasn't going to put her in that situation.

Once again, I called Cormac instead of the cops. The shadow law.

"Yeah."

"It's Kitty. Feel like going hunting tonight?"

He hesitated for a beat. "I don't know. What've you got?"

"I think I've got the rogue who's behind the maulings."

"You call Hardin with this?"

"No. This guy—he called into the show. He's local. He was talking insane. Hardin wouldn't know what to do with him. She'd try to arrest him, and he'd claw her to pieces."

"You don't mind if I get clawed to pieces, then?"

"I know you can handle it."

"Thanks, I think."

"I want to go with you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll know his scent from the crime scenes. It's the only way I can tell if this is the guy."

"Fine. You at work now?"

"Yeah."

"I'll pick you up there." The phone clicked off.

Matt was standing in the doorway between the booth and the studio. "Kitty. Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You heard the guy. He wasn't talking like he was going to do something. He's already done it. How much time do we have left?"

"I don't know." He had to look back at his board. "Ten minutes?"

I took a couple more calls and spent all my effort trying to sound normal. I couldn't remember what they were about, or what I said. I hoped I sounded normal.

"This is Kitty Norville, Voice of the Night." I signed off with a sigh and listened to my recorded howl.

"Be careful!" Matt called as I started out of the booth. I grimaced, the best kind of reassuring smile I could manage at the moment. He didn't look reassured. He gripped the doorway, white-knuckled. Wasn't anything I could do about it.

Cormac pulled up to the curb as I left the front door of the station. He drove a Jeep. Not an SUV, but a real Jeep with mud caking the wheel wells. I got in the passenger side and told him the address. Thank God for the online reverse directory.

We'd driven for about five blocks when he said, "You understand that we have to kill this guy. By not calling the police, by going outside the law, that's the only thing we can do. Not arrest him, not talk reason into him, but kill him."

"You were listening to the show." I probably had double the number of listeners the ratings said I had, since no one seemed to want to admit they were listeners.

"You ever kill anyone?"

"No."

"Just stay out of the way so I can get a clean shot."

I leaned on the door, holding my forehead in my hand. Vigilantism, that was the word for what we were doing. But the niceties of legal technicalities were slipping away. Four women had been murdered. A werewolf had done it. Someone had to stop him.

Cormac's cell phone beeped. It was jammed into the ashtray, near the stick shift. He grabbed the hands-free wire dangling from it and stuck the earpiece into his ear. It took about six rings. So that was why he always took so long to answer.

"Yeah." He waited a minute, then said, "Just a minute." He covered the mouthpiece part of the wire with his hand. "It's Hardin. She wants to know if I know how to get hold of you. She wants to talk to you about tonight's show. I guess she was listening."

"Should I tell her?"

"What's the saying? It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."

He was right. She'd just get in the way. "I'll call her back when it's all over."

Cormac uncovered the wire. "Detective? I'll have to get back to you on that… What am I doing? Driving… Yeah, I'll keep in touch." He pulled the wire out of his ear, smirking. "She's an optimist," he said. "That's her problem."

The address was northeast, in a neighborhood of dilapidated houses on the edge of a region of industrial warehouses, oil refineries, and train tracks. It might have been a nice place once, maybe fifty years ago. A few big, old trees lurked in many of the yards. But they were dead, their branches broken, and the yards themselves were overgrown with weeds. The streetlights were all out, but the wash of the sodium floodlights from the warehouses reached here, sickly and orange.

As we pulled onto the street, Cormac turned off the Jeep's headlights and crawled ahead.

"There it is," he said, pointing to a bungalow set back from the road. A fifty-year-old house, maybe three or four rooms. It used to be white, but the paint was peeling, chipping, streaking; the wood of the siding was split and falling apart. Half the shingles were gone.

I rolled down the window. The air smelled of tar, gasoline, concrete. There was some wildness, even here: rats, raccoons, feral cats. This was a dried-up, unpleasant place. The pack never came here. Why would we, when we had hills and forest, true wilderness, so close by? That was one of the things I liked about Denver: It had all the benefits of a city, but forest and mountains were a short drive away. Why would any wolf—were- or otherwise—want to stay in this desolation? If he didn't have any place else to go, I supposed.

Then how had he gotten here in the first place? Werewolves weren't born, they were made. Someone had made him, then left him to fend for himself, and he came here.

Or someone put him here to keep him out of the way, where he wouldn't be found, because the pack never came here. That meant… did Carl know about this guy? If not Carl, then who?

"You okay?" Cormac said. "You look like you just ate a lemon."

"I don't like the way this place smells."

He smiled, but the expression was wry, unfriendly. "Neither do I."

We stepped out of the Jeep. Cormac reached into the back and pulled out a belt holster with his handgun. He strapped it on, then retrieved a rifle. He slung another belt, this one with a heavy pouch attached to it, over his shoulder. I didn't want to know what was in there. We closed the doors quietly and approached the house.

I whispered, "Let me go first. Get the scent, make sure he's the same guy. He might freak out if he sees you first."

"All right," he said, but sounded skeptical. "Just give the word, and I'll come in shooting."

Why didn't that make me feel better?

I walked a little faster, moving ahead. A light shone in horizontal lines through the blinds over the front window of the house. I tilted my head, listening. A voice sounded inside, low and scratchy—a radio, tuned to KNOB. The show had been over only a half an hour or so. I reached the walkway and followed it to the front door. Cormac was a couple of steps behind me. I tried to look through the front window, but the slatted blinds were mostly closed.

I put my hand on the knob, turned it. It was unlocked. I took my hand away. I didn't want to surprise anyone inside. So I knocked.

Cormac stepped off the walkway and stood against the wall of the house, out of sight of the door. And, by chance, downwind of the door. Or maybe not by chance.

I waited forever. Well, for a long time. I didn't want to go into that house. But no one answered. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he was out killing someone. If I went in, at least I would get a scent. I'd know if it was the same guy I'd smelled at the murder sites.

I opened the door and went inside.

The hardwood floor of the front room was scarred and pitted, like a dozen generations of furniture had been moved back and forth across it, and several swarms of children had been raised on it. But that was long ago, in someone else's life. An old TV sat on the floor in one corner. The radio was on top of it. It might have been Rodney, the night DJ, calling the last set. A sofa that would have looked at home on the porch of a frat house sat in the middle of the floor. Wasn't much else there. A box overflowing with trash occupied another corner. The walls were bare of decoration, stained splotchy brown and yellow. I wondered what this guy did for a living. If anything. There was no evidence of a life here. Just a place, sad, decayed, and temporary.

I took a deep breath through my nose.

I didn't identify the smell so much as I flashed on the scene. The blood. The victim's body, splayed across the alley. People say scent is tied to memory. What does that mean for a werewolf, whose sense of smell is so acute? The memory sparked vividly, all the sights and sounds and other smells that I'd imprinted along with the scent of the werewolf, the murderer. My stomach turned with the same nausea.

Straight ahead, a hall led to the rest of the house, probably kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. A sudden gush of water ran through the house's pipes. A toilet flushing. A door opened and closed. A man emerged into the hallway and walked toward me.

He wore a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. He was tall, built like a construction worker, thick arms, broad chest. He had a crew cut that was growing out, a beard that was a couple of days unshaven. He was barefoot. He smelled the same as the room, close and ripe.

He stopped when he saw me. His nostrils flared, taking in scent like a werewolf would. His hands clenched. Glaring, he moved toward me, stalking like a predator.

I stood straight, careful not to flinch, not to show any weakness that his wolf would take as an invitation to attack.

I said, "Are you James?"

Again he stopped, as if he'd hit a wall. His brow furrowed, his face showing confusion. "What did you say?"

It was him. That voice, low and strained, close to breaking. "James. Are you James?"

He squinted harder, like he was trying to bring me into focus. Then his eyes grew wide.

"You're her. Kitty." He closed the distance between us, and I thought he was going to pounce on me with a bear hug, but he halted a step away—I didn't quite flinch. He was gesturing with his hands like he was pleading. "I'm such a big fan!"

"Thanks," I said weakly. I should have yelled. Just yelled and ducked as Cormac came storming through the door, guns blazing. But James had stunned me.

James didn't ask the questions I would have asked a celebrity who happened to show up at my house, like how did you find me, why are you here. He acted like he didn't find this strange at all, like this sort of occurrence was a natural part of the life he'd made for himself. The kind of life where he constantly made calls to late-night talk radio shows.

He slouched, ducking in front of me like he was bowing. He had to stoop to make himself shorter than I. That was what he was doing, showing submission, one wolf to another. He kept turning his gaze away. His instincts were taking over.

I stared. Not a dominant, I'm-a-bigger-wolf-than-you stare. More like a bewildered, disturbed stare. What was I supposed to do with him? I didn't want him touching me, but he was inching closer, like he was going to start pawing me, rubbing me, the way a subordinate wolf would to the one he'd identified as the alpha. I stepped back.

He cringed, pulling his arms close to his body, his eyes sad and hurt. "You don't understand," he said. "This… this is great. It's what I've always wanted. You can help me. You're the only other one—one of us, one like us, I mean—I've ever met besides—" He stopped, swallowing. His breathing came fast.

"Besides who, James?" My voice caught.

"Besides the one who made me. She's been helping me. She said I could have a pack, if I killed this other werewolf and took his. She said she would show me. I—I can do that. I know I can do that. I've been practicing. But she won't tell me where to go. She—she hasn't been to see me in a while. But you'll help me, won't you? You help so many people."

I felt sick. James needed help, but I couldn't give it to him. Who could? What hospital could hold him? What could anyone do? That was the human talking, of course. I remembered Cormac's words: You understand that we have to kill this guy. As a wolf, he'd overstepped his bounds. Like Zan. But what did that mean if there'd been no one to teach him the rules?

James looked up, over my shoulder. Cormac stood in the doorway.

"Norville, is he the one?"

All I could do was nod.

Cormac raised his arm, fired his handgun.

I ducked out of the way. James was already running. I thought he would turn around, try to make for the back of the house. That was what I would have done. But he dived forward, under the range of the gun, past Cormac, shouldering him aside, and out the door.

Cormac struck the door frame, but recovered in a heartbeat, turned outside, and fired twice more. His arm remained steady, his sight aimed at his target, tracking smoothly like he was mounted on a tripod.

"Shit!" He pointed the gun up when James disappeared around the corner of the house.

I ran after him, aware that he might have been waiting on the other side of the house to ambush whoever followed him. I didn't want to lose sight of him. Cormac was right behind me.

In the strip of yard between the two houses a trail of clothing led away: jeans, briefs, and a white T-shirt, torn to shreds. There was a dark, wild odor—the musk, fur, and sweat of a recently shifted lycanthrope.

I unzipped my jeans and shoved them to the ground.

"What are you doing?" said Cormac, stopping in his tracks.

I paused. I didn't know if I could do this. I didn't have a choice.

"I can move faster if I Change. It's the only way I'll keep up." It can be a strength, T.J. had said. We'd see.

He opened his mouth, starting to argue. But he didn't say anything. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away. I took off my shirt, my bra. The air was cold, sending pimples crawling across my shoulders. Inside, I felt warm. My muscles tensed, already preparing to run, because I knew what this meant; Wolf knew what this meant. I wanted to hunt, and I needed her. I was ready. She crouched inside, filling me with anticipation.

Cormac started to walk away.

"Wait," I said. "I want you to watch."

"Why?" he said, his voice rough.

"I want you to see what I look like, so you don't shoot me by accident."

"If I ever shoot you, it won't be by accident."

I walked up to him, naked, unself-conscious. I was on the edge of my other world, human mores falling away. I didn't know how else to be, like this, with Wolf looking out of my eyes.

I stood a step away, holding his gaze.

"Here's your chance. If that's what you're planning, get it over with now so I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder."

I didn't know how long I planned on waiting for him to raise that gun and shoot me in the head. I stood, arms spread, offering myself to him. My glare didn't match my vulnerability. But once and for all, I had to know what he wanted to do.

Finally he said, "Be careful."

"Yeah. You, too." I turned away, walking to the back of the alley.

"Don't try to fight him, Kitty. He's bigger than you. Just find him, and I'll take care of it."

I nodded.

Holding her back felt a little like holding my breath. As soon as I thought of shifting to Wolf, the Change started, sensations coursing with my blood, waking those nerves and instincts that lay buried most of the time. Any time except full moon nights, I could hold it back. But if I wanted to shift, I just had to let that breath out, think of exhaling, and the next breath would belong to her.

My back bent, the first convulsion racking me. Think of water, let it slide, and fur sprouted in waves down my back and arms, needles piercing skin. I grunted, blocking the pain. Then claws, then teeth and bones and muscle—

She shakes, ruffling her fur and slipping into her muscles.

Her ears prick, and she raises her head to see the figure nearby. He stands on two legs and smells of danger, of mechanical pain. Her other self recognizes the weapons that can kill her.

Her other self also recognizes him, and keeps her hackles flat and buries the growls.

"Norville?"

Tension, anxiety, fear. She can take him, kill him if she has to. He's weak. But those weapons are stronger. They smell of fire.

"You in there? You know who I am?"

The tone is questioning, seeking reassurance. His anxiety isn't because of her, because there's another danger. The other one, the rogue, the outcast. She remembers.

Identifying him as friend, she wags her tail.

"Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."

He says this to her back, because she's already running.

She seeks the one who has invaded her territory, caused havoc, broken the code. He's run far ahead, but the night is still, the ground is clear, and she can smell him, chase him, like she would a rabbit. With her nose close to the ground, her legs racing, her muscles flowing, close to flying, she will find him. Her mouth hangs open a little; her tongue tastes the air.

Closer, she gets closer. He's turned up ahead. She feels a thrill because he's trying to confuse her, to make her lose him, but she isn't fooled. Stretching full-out, running hard, she turns the corner.

He is waiting for her.

He strikes, tumbling into her from the side. She doesn't have time to stop or swerve. He lays his paws on her, clamps his teeth around her throat, and they roll in a tangle of legs. Snarls, driven from the belly and guttural, echo.

Her speed carries her away from him, sends her rolling out of his grasp and away from his teeth, but she is dazed. She shakes her head. He doesn't hesitate, springing to his feet and leaping at her again. She braces, her lips pulled tight from bared teeth. When he is about to reach her, she rears to meet him, their front legs locking around each other's shoulders, teeth snapping at whatever purchase they can find.

He is so much larger than she, though. He pushes her over without effort; she falls on her back, with him on top of her, her throat and belly exposed. She writhes, kicking, desperate to protect herself. He bites hard catching her upper foreleg, and she yelps. The noise of pain spurs her to frenzy.

She arches forward, closes her teeth under his jaw, bites hard. Taste of blood. He cringes back, and she twists to her feet, is up and running.

Instinct, fear drive her away. She runs, wanting to escape, but he is faster. He jumps, catches her hind end, sends her sprawling. His claws dig into her fur, searching for flesh, scrabbling over her, pinning her to the ground. A memory of hate and wrongness surfaces. He has no right to do this. He is outcast. But he is stronger. If she showed submission, if she whined and turned her belly to him, would he listen? Would he stop?

She doesn't think so. He would kill her.

She can't let him. She also thinks, He may be stronger. But I am better.

That other voice, the day self, the human, says: his eyes. Tear his face.

He climbs her, gnawing her fur and the tough skin of her shoulder, looking for the soft parts, for the chance to rip into her. His weight presses down on her, pinning her no matter how she struggles. She waits until he comes close, until his face is at her neck. Then she attacks.

Jaws open, she lunges. His muzzle is turned down, buried in her hackles. She slams into the top of his face, as hard as she can. Surprised, he pulls back. Released from his weight, her sinewy body twists back on itself. She smashes her mouth into him, searching for purchase, chewing, doubling her effort when her teeth find soft targets, when she can feel his flesh popping, shredding.

He squeals, scrambling backward. She will not let go; he's dragging her with him by the grip she has on his face, her canines hooked into his eye sockets. Her snarls sound like a roar.

He bows, head low to the ground, and swats at her with his forelegs, like he is trying to scrape mud off his face. His claws slash her face; the pain barely registers. He has made himself lower than she, has exposed himself. Has shown fear.

Opening her mouth, she dives at his throat so fast he doesn't even flinch.

She gnaws, breaking skin. Blood erupts into her mouth, washes warm over her muzzle. When she finds a firm grasp, she shakes, worries, mauls, back and forth as much as she can. He's too large for her to toss around properly. But she has this piece of him, and it is hers, and the blood flows hot and fast. The thick taste of it makes her dizzy, ecstatic.

His struggles fade to a reflexive kicking, then nothing.

Blood covers his neck and chest, and her own face, neck, and chest. She licks her muzzle, then she licks him, burying her nose in the wound she made. She keeps growling as she digs into him. Bites, rips, gnaws, swallows.

The body under her is shifting as she feeds. The fur shrinks to naked skin, the muscles melt, the bones reform, until she is digging into the neck of a human body.

"Norville!"

Crack, a sound like thunder bursts, with a smell like fire. She recoils, springing to stand a foot away from where she was, to assess the danger. Her nostrils quiver.

The man, the dangerous one, the friend, stands there, arm pointing up, hand holding the source of the burning smell. The weapon.

"Kitty!" he shouts and stomps toward her, radiating a fierce challenge. She trots a couple of steps away and circles back, staring. Does he mean it?

Pounding human footsteps travel toward them. More of them arrive, smelling of weapons, anxiety, danger. They are pointing at her.

The man yells, "Hardin, hold your fire! It's Kitty!"

There are too many of them.

She runs.

She runs for a long distance, until the world is quiet and the smells are peaceful. She searches for trees, shelter, comfortable scents, finds none of these. She's far from home, doesn't know this place.

A patch of dry ground in the corner between two walls makes an uncomfortable but acceptable den. She is hurt—aches in her face, leg, and shoulders, a sharp pain in her back. She needs rest. She misses the others. There should be others. There should be pack, for her to feel safe.

All she can do is curl tight around herself, snugged in the corner of the den.