Full Moon City

The Truth About Werewolves by Lisa Tuttle

The first meeting of the Lycanthropy Support Group came nowhere near Mel’s best fantasies; in fact, it barely missed disaster.

Besides herself, only seven people turned up, a number that made the classroom she’d reserved at the Town & Country campus of Houston Community College look ridiculously, over-optimistically large.

She watched them straggle in: two couples, two single men, one single woman. Mel took an immediate dislike to that one. She was pretty, in a blonde and doll-like manner, very petite, and way overdressed in a beige cashmere sweater, stiletto heels, and gold jewelry. None looked anything like Mel’s idea of a werewolf, but the woman was the worst of all, a designer-accessorized Chihuahua.

She was shopping, Mel decided; drawn by the lure of the supernatural to seek out something ahead of trend, not available in any store, soon to be a must-have bit of arm-candy: a werewolf boyfriend.

Just like me, said the bitchy voice inside her head. You’re nothing special, just desperate to hook up with somebody who is.

Mel ignored that self-hating part of herself. It always cropped up when she got nervous-or when she might just be about to win. Her feelings about werewolves ran much deeper than idle curiosity. What she felt was more than interest; it was a compulsion. People talked about choice-about choosing what you did and how you lived and who you loved and what you wanted, as if life were a restaurant, and anyone who wasn’t happy with the menu must be sick. Well, after years of unhappy, failed relationships, and several months of therapy, she’d decided she needed to visit a different restaurant.

Some things just could not be changed, and it was a waste of time to try. Take homosexuality. Some would rather deny its existence, or treat it as an illness, but that never worked. Whether allowed to flourish or forced underground, by now it was obvious that homosexual desires were every bit as real as heterosexual, and no more amenable to a “cure.”

Her fascination with lycanthropy was like that; so deeply-rooted, so much a part of herself that she couldn’t have changed it if she’d wanted. Some things couldn’t be denied, and you ignored them at your peril. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried; she was twenty-seven years old and had been dating since she was fifteen. But not one of the men she’d met had been right for her. There was always something missing, making true love impossible. Something that was not to do with personality or sexual technique; something that could not be fixed with good intentions.

She’d finally realized it was not her fault that her relationships never lasted-and it wasn’t the guy’s fault, either. It didn’t matter how physically attractive he appeared, no matter how kind or understanding he was at heart, no matter how clever, rich, or creative; she could never be satisfied with a man who was just a man. She wanted something else.

Mel remembered the magazine advice columns she’d read when she was younger, when she hadn’t yet figured out why none of the men she’d met made her happy. The first step to finding “the right man” was to put yourself in a position where you’d meet men-lots of men. Forget quality; think quantity. Sooner or later, amid all the disappointing strangers, there’d be one who suited you. That could never happen if you stayed home dreaming about Prince Charming. You had to get out there and hunt. In another evocative phrase: You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.

Mel stood beside the coffee urn, which had seemed so necessary to create a hospitable ambiance that she’d paid extra for it, and regarded her potential prey through narrowed eyes. They were a disappointing bunch, and not simply because they appeared so indifferent to the presence of a hot, caffeinated beverage.

Not one had the faintest trace of anything lupine or feral in his or her demeanor. The two wives (judging by body language) were mere ordinary mortals like herself who’d come along to support (or keep hold of) their partners. Seeing as they were attached, Mel politely crossed the husbands off her mental list. The whiff of danger she hoped for in a sexual relationship had nothing to do with the boring clichés of adultery.

That left two guys in their late twenties, each one unattractive in his own way. One was fat and pale as a grub, with wet, too-red lips. He wore a dingy white button-down shirt, with a pocket protector beneath the pens that bristled from his swelling breast. The other was reasonably fit but filthy, and not in a sexy way: unshaven, hair long and greasy, he had black half-moons of dirt under his fingernails and crusty yellow stains on a baggy T-shirt advertising Galveston ’s Rain Forest Café.

Everyone kept a clear distance from everyone else, the couples making still islands near the center, while the singletons prowled nervously, avoiding eye contact. Mel thought this might reflect wolf-like behavior, but maybe she was getting desperate, searching for scraps of faith.

She still believed werewolves were real-she just wasn’t sure there were any in this room.

Meeting werewolves didn’t seem like it would be that hard, at first. You could find anything on the Internet. There were chat groups and mailing lists dedicated to every precise and peculiar subdivision of the supernatural: transgendered vampires; gentle ghouls; bloodthirsty, cross-dressing fairies; elves with a fetish for whipping cream; werepanthers wanting to be bottle-fed by little people… It was in this otherworldly bazaar that she’d made contact with real, live werewolves-or, at least, with some men who said they were. They also claimed to live about as far away from her home in Houston as possible-Alaska, Calcutta, Newfoundland-even though when one gave her his phone number during their slow progression toward intimacy, it had a Kansas City area code.

Only one of these cyber relationships had progressed to an actual, face-to-face meeting. The vibes between them were good, and the sex wasn’t bad, and he had suggested that his next visit to Houston would fall around the time of the full moon… but she never heard from him again. She guessed he was married. She had no way of knowing if he’d also lied about being a werewolf.

You could be anyone, anything, on the Internet, and if you were careful, no one could catch you. She’d been honest herself, but when, after nearly two years, she was still no closer to attaining her desire, she took a cold, hard look at how she was presenting herself, and wondered if it could be her own fault.

So she tried something else: “Lonely werewolf, based in Houston, longs to run with a pack. It can’t be right to be all alone. Anyone else feel the same? Get in touch.”

She got a lot of responses. Most were not werewolves at all, as they readily admitted; just curious. Many were from elsewhere in the state, or even lived abroad. But she persisted, stressing the importance of area as much as lycanthropy, until, eventually, she had a core group of twenty she believed were genuine, Houston-resident werewolves, and she proposed a get-together.

LYCANTHROPY SUPPORT GROUP

FIRST MEETING: THURSDAY, MAY 15, 7:30

ROOM 203

HCC, TOWN & COUNTRY CAMPUS,

1010 WEST SAM HOUSTON PARKWAY, NORTH

In retrospect, looking with dismay at the small turnout, she wondered if she should have selected a more central location. The price of gas had gone through the roof recently; people were being more cautious about long journeys. But where in this enormous, sprawling city was central? She had started with the idea of staying inside the Loop, close to Memorial Park (which had always seemed to her the ideal place for a midnight wolf-pack gathering), but the prices of the few venues she’d investigated had put her off. Houston Community College was more accommodating, and although they had campuses dotted around the city, this was the one where she’d been a student, it was easy to find, and, maybe most important, it was in the northwest, her own territory, just ten minutes from her apartment in one direction, ten minutes to Memorial Park in another.

No, she decided, the location was not at fault. Some of those who’d responded lived out by the airport, some were closer to downtown, while others lived in the south, and there was at least one who’d mentioned Deer Park. This was a city of drivers, used to judging distances not in miles but in minutes by freeway. Those who had stayed away must have had other reasons. Maybe they’d never intended to come. Maybe they shared an occult, insider knowledge that let them know she was a fake. Maybe real werewolves didn’t use the Internet. Or maybe, unlike their wild brethren, they were naturally loners.

Mel continued to lurk and prowl, hoping the crowd would grow, hoping that one of the others would take charge, so she wouldn’t have to put herself on display. But no one made a move. Clearly, there were no alpha males in this sorry excuse for a pack, so at seven minutes to eight, Mel went to the front of the room, cleared her throat, and invited everyone to please take a seat.

Suddenly the little scattering of people, all so disparate they might have wandered in here by mistake rather than design, coalesced into her audience.

Under their collective gaze, Mel wondered why she’d ever thought this a good idea. She only wanted to meet one werewolf-not be stared at by a whole pack of them. And to have to go on pretending to be one! What had she been thinking? If she revealed her ignorance now, asked the wrong questions, let the mask slip, she’d be at their mercy. She clutched the edge of a table, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood as she stared at the gleam of their eyes.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” muttered the Chihuahua.

“What?” Dislike stiffened her spine; Mel glared. “Would you mind speaking up? I’m not sure everyone heard you.”

The tiny nose wrinkled disdainfully. “I wondered if you were going to tell us why you called this meeting. What you hope to accomplish.”

“I hoped you would tell me. I mean,” she amended hastily, “all of us. Maybe we could each say what we hope to get out of this meeting. That’s really all… I thought… it seemed like a good idea just to get together and talk,” she finished rather lamely.

The Chihuahua shrugged. “You start.”

“It doesn’t have to be me first.” But as no one else volunteered, she took the plunge. “I guess, like I said online, I felt lonely. I wanted to meet others in the same situation.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well… we are pack animals. Aren’t we? I think so, anyway. It’s not natural to be alone.”

“It’s not natural to be like this!” cried one of the wives. Her husband ducked his head as she spoke. “I don’t see how getting together with others is going to make anything better. I don’t want him to be part of a pack; why should he? He’s not a wild animal; he’s my husband!”

“Is he allowed to cross the street by himself?” It was the dirty man who replied. “Chrissake, he’s your husband the rest of the time. What’s wrong with you? You can’t let loose, can’t let him be something else, for just one night a month? What about you, man, how do you feel? You totally whipped? You let your woman talk for you?”

The husband’s head jerked up, and, even though she wasn’t the target, Mel took an instinctive step back.

“She knows how I feel,” he said softly. “I feel like she does. I don’t like it. I didn’t ask for it to happen. I want to be a man all the time, not lose control, lose myself, when the moon is full.” He sneered suddenly. “You like it?”

The other man shrugged. “Like, dislike, it just is. It’s part of who I am. I don’t have a problem with that.”

“No problem. Well, aren’t you the lucky one.” He moved suddenly in his seat as if about to rise. “It’s a disease, pea-brain! And I don’t accept that some disease is part of me-like my-my nose. I mean, if my nose was deformed, like a pig’s snout, I wouldn’t feel like, oh, I got no problem, that’s just me-hell, I’d go to a doctor and get it fixed! Who wouldn’t?”

“So go to a doctor.”

“You think I haven’t? Seriously, you think a doctor can fix what we’ve got?”

“I already told you. I don’t think it needs fixing.”

“The doctors think it’s in our heads. In my head. They think I’m crazy. I go to the doctor, and all he can do is give me pills, make me sleepy and dumb-they don’t change anything. They just make me feel stupid. I tried to show him-”

“You tried?”

The other man made a low groaning sound. “I showed him, all right? I got him to check me into a hospital and keep me overnight.”

There was a collective catching of the breath. The dirty man tensed, and for a moment Mel, her skin tingling, thought he would attack his adversary. Then he relaxed a little and slowly, slowly shook his head. “Man, you are… something else.”

“But the doctor didn’t think so. Still thinks I’m crazy. He offered to run some tests-which by the way my insurance wouldn’t cover-but all he could advise was I should keep taking the happy pills and also talk to a psychiatrist.”

“None so blind as he who will not see,” said his wife.

She must have seen, thought Mel, breathless. She must watch her husband transform from man into wolf every single month. And still she thought it not a wonder but a disability. But how could she appreciate what she had in him if he didn’t want it? And how could a doctor not realize what he was seeing? She supposed there must be people, even very smart people, who denied the evidence of their senses if it conflicted with what was supposed to be possible. How else could werewolves have survived into modern times without being recognized by science?

The dirty man shrugged. “My advice to you-”

“I don’t want your stupid advice,” the married man snapped back. “All I want-the only reason we came here tonight-is to hear somebody say there is a way out, there is a cure.” He swiveled around in his chair to fix his gaze on Mel. She tried not to flinch. “I thought you were talking in code,” he said. “Your ads. First you say you wanted to join a pack, then you advertise this support group.”

“Lyncanthropy,” said the Chihuahua, her mouth twisting into a smile that might have been pained, or mocking.

“That, too. A medical term, right? So, see, I thought there might be a drug, a new drug, to repress the symptoms-maybe even gene therapy…?”

Mel stood frozen, with no idea of what to say. It turned out her lack of response said it all.

“No,” he said flatly, as his expression changed, blood shining dully in his cheeks. “So obvious-what you are-stupid of me-I see now.”

His wife was already standing. He got up, too, and they left without another word. The single woman went after them, and then the other couple. Only the two single men remained.

Mel looked at them, wanting to pass off the defection of the others with some light comment, but afraid. She’d given herself away. Judging from the woman’s reaction, lycanthropy was not a term they used among themselves. And somehow pack was wrong, too, and maybe even werewolf. What did they call themselves? She tried to get some clue from the argument she’d witnessed, running it back through her head, but she’d been silent too long; she must have seemed utterly defeated, with nothing more to say, because the dirty man got up to go.

“Wait!” she called out. “Please don’t leave.”

He stopped and looked at her. She saw, beneath the grease and dirt and stubble that he might be quite attractive, and was spurred to make an effort. “I’m not… what he thought. And… maybe I did it wrong, the way I proposed this meeting and all, but I still… there’s a good reason for it,” she went on, desperately improvising. “I’d really like to talk to you. Can we just talk?”

His eyes bored into hers until she felt dizzy. “Okay,” he said, and stood there, relaxed, light on his feet, arms loose at his sides, waiting.

“Well… want to go for a drink somewhere?”

He shook his head, and her heart plummeted. But he plucked at his filthy T-shirt and smiled wryly. “I’m not fit for human company now. I came here straight from fixing my truck. I should have cleaned up first, but I was running late. We could make it another night.”

Her heart gave a hopeful leap. “Fine, yes, let’s. When?”

“Uh… how about Tuesday?”

She knew-they both knew-that would be the night of the full moon. Her mouth dried. She could only stare back at him with widening eyes and nod her head.

“All right. You like barbecue?”

“Sure.”

“Goode Company, on Kirby…”

“I know it.”

It was her favorite place for a sliced beef sandwich, even if it was always crowded at lunch. It was well inside the Loop, not far from where she worked. She wondered if that was home territory for him, or-deliberately? -not.

“Five-thirty all right with you?”

That would give him plenty of time to get far away from her after they’d eaten, long before the moon would rise, if he decided he couldn’t trust her. Fair enough. She nodded again.

“See you then,” he said. She stood watching the space where he’d been until a small sound reminded her she wasn’t alone.

The overweight young man in the short-sleeved white shirt stood up, his red lips stretched into a predatory smile. “I’ll take you up on that drink, right now,” he said. “I’d like to talk.”

She didn’t want to, but she made herself smile back in a friendly way.

“There’s coffee here,” she pointed out.

He wrinkled his nose. “Bet it’s nasty. Anyway, I’d rather have something cold. There’s a TGIF just off the feeder, how about that?”

“All right…”

“ Devon. I’m Devon.”

“I’m Mel.” They walked out together.

“What’s that short for, Melanie? Melissa? Melinda? No? Um, Okay, let me think. Melody? Melanctha?”

As they exited the building into the parking lot, he abandoned his guesses to suggest it would be a sensible, gas-saving measure to go in one car. “I have to swing back this way anyway on my way home.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said. “And I’m not leaving my ride.” She put on her helmet as she spoke, and indicated her Honda Nighthawk. “Meet you at Friday’s.”

TGIFs could be crowded and noisy at certain times, but a quarter to nine on a Thursday night was not one of them. Devon ordered a beer and a plate of nachos, and pressed her to have a specialty cocktail when she said she didn’t like beer, but she stuck to iced tea.

“Worried you might get drunk? Scared I might take advantage of you?” He gave her a loose-lipped leer. “You got a long way to go? I’d be happy to drive you home.”

“No thanks.” What a creep. She couldn’t see herself putting up with this human personality even if he did turn into a wolf once a month, but he let fall various comments that made her feel sure he was another supernatural groupie, like herself. She had no idea if he believed her claim to be a werewolf, or if it was enough for him that she was female and hadn’t actually run away screaming.

Half an hour of his undiluted company was more than enough. Even though she brushed off his attempts to get her phone number and made it clear that she had no interest in seeing him again, she left by the back alley-an easy route for the Nighthawk, but it might be tricky for his Suburban. Instead of following the tollway feeder as usual, she took off into the nearest neighborhood, accepting the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit and a meandering journey home for the certainty that she had well and truly lost her unwanted companion.

Ari-that was the formerly dirty man’s name-cleaned up beautifully. She wouldn’t even have recognized him on Tuesday if he hadn’t been waiting for her in the Goode Company parking lot and said hello as she was about to walk past.

His voice was the same, but-shaved, hair washed and fluffy, exuding a faint aroma of green tea and figs, attired in faded jeans and a snug black T-shirt-he was a different person, really quite dangerously attractive. Luckily, he noticed the Nighthawk, and that gave her a moment to recover outside the full beam of his attention.

“Wow, you have a bike.”

“Uh-huh. You?”

His lips pursed and he shook his head. “I wish. Maybe, if I make a little more money this year, I could afford…”

“You have a car, don’t you?”

He frowned. “So?”

“I mean, you could trade it in. You don’t need more than one set of wheels, do you?”

He shrugged uncertainly. “I’d rather just use it for fun, especially if I had somebody to ride with.” He gave her a look that was a reminder of her public claim to be lonely, wanting a pack to run with, and she became aware she was on a precipice, with no idea of how to talk herself down from her lie.

“Let’s go in,” she said quickly. “I’m starved, and the smell of meat is driving me crazy!”

Despite her words-and the fact that she’d had nothing to eat all day but a banana-pecan muffin and a skinny latte-Mel managed to consume barely half her sandwich, and that was a struggle. The sheer physical excitement of being close to this handsome werewolf, along with the fear that at any moment she’d say something to reveal her true nature and drive him away, made it tough to swallow.

They sat out on the patio to eat-the open air was humid and hot, but far from the unbearable sauna it would be in a few weeks-and while James McMurtry’s latest songs played in the background, they talked about themselves. Neither so much as hinted at the W-word, but concentrated on ordinary, ground-laying stuff about jobs and schools, musical preferences, and the best things on YouTube this week. It could have been any ordinary first date. Except that she’d never felt so nervous and excited, never had so much pent-up emotion invested in the outcome of any other date in her life. Maybe this was how women had felt in the olden days, when to sleep with a man was to seal your fate.

She heard very little of what Ari said; her attention was too involved with monitoring his responses to her. She knew he was attracted to her, and it was clearly no simpler for him than it was for her-she could feel the wary tingling of his nerves as he tried to make his mind up, which instinct to follow, to trust her, or not? It was all very nerve-wracking, but, in the end, as she’d hoped, he went with the physical attraction.

It was barely six-thirty, still daylight, when he suggested going back to his place.

“It’s not far,” he said. “We can have coffee, and I’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s in the ice box.”

“You give good directions?”

“No, I’m going to drive.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving my ride.”

He smiled slyly. “You don’t have to leave your ride. Wait’ll you see mine.”

It was an old Ford pickup truck, really old, like something her grandfather had owned. The back panel lay down to form a ramp; she could have ridden the Nighthawk up and in if she’d cared to. “There’s even a blanket to keep it warm, and a tarp to keep it dry if it rains. Not that it will rain.”

“Very cozy.”

“My neighbors think it drives down property values when I park it out front, but I’ve never had a more useful vehicle.”

“I bet.”

“So, are we on? Will you trust me to take you there?”

It seemed like a test, like, what would a real werewolf do? Maybe she should insist on keeping her own independence, but the connection between them was still so tenuous, she was afraid of losing him in the diabolical traffic that clogged the freeways at this time of day. What if she missed the exit and never saw him again?

“We’ll trust you,” she said.

“All right!”

They didn’t have to go on the freeway at all; it turned out that Goode Company really was Ari’s local barbecue place. His house was in an old neighborhood a few blocks off Bissonnet. Although several houses on his street were huge, recent constructions likely valued at half a million or more, his was the original bungalow built on the lot back in the 1950s. She remembered he’d told her he was an orphan, his mother having passed just a year ago, and wondered if it had been his childhood home.

But, inside, it had the feeling of a place not long occupied. The walls were a freshly painted white, with no pictures or ornaments, and the furniture was sparse and new-looking.

He made coffee, and they made meaningless small talk, standing in the kitchen while they waited for it to brew. She could tell that he was nervous and excited, too, and she wondered how much time they’d have to make love before he began to change. How sudden would it be? And how much conscious control would he have? Would he attack her? And if he did, would it be with the aim of changing her, or to kill? Was she crazy to put herself at his mercy like this?

“Are you cold? I left the air-conditioning on, but-”

“No, I’m not cold. Not at all. The opposite, really.” Her gaze locked on his until he came forward and put his arms around her. They kissed for a while as her legs grew weak, and finally he suggested they move to the bedroom.

The bed faced an uncurtained window onto a backyard screened by a privacy fence.

“I can close it if you want, but nobody can see in, and with it open like this, when the moon comes up…”

“Mmm, nice,” she said quickly, sensing she was meant to finish the sentence and not knowing how. To distract him, she stripped off her top.

They made love, and the room grew thick with shadows as, outside, evening darkened into night.

When would it happen? Mel wondered as they lay tangled together, resting. She was alert, too tightly wound up with anticipation to truly relax, but she guessed from the laxness of Ari’s muscles, and the slow rhythm of his breath, that he’d fallen asleep. Presumably he’d wake up before he changed-wouldn’t he? Surely he couldn’t be so casual about it that he’d risk sleeping through the big event! But maybe it made no difference.

She tried not to fidget, tried not to be impatient, but her leg, trapped beneath one of his, began to cramp. She had to push him to free herself. “Sorry,” she whispered, and kissed his shoulder. No response. When she let him go he flopped back, a dead weight, and as she listened, she became aware of how silent the room had become; she could no longer hear his breathing.

“Ari?” She bit her lip, then laid her ear to his chest. Inside, his heart went on beating, and when she held her own and strained to hear, she could just make out the slow exhalation of his breath.

She looked out the window and saw the silver gleam of the full moon hanging low above the treetops.

She pressed his bare upper arm, squeezed it, tried to shake him awake as she said his name, but there was no response. She gently nibbled his ear, then blew in it, before giving it a sharper nip, but he didn’t so much as flinch or groan. If she hadn’t been able to feel his warmth and the continued slow thump of his heart, she could have thought him dead. Turning on the light, she leaned over him, lightly slapped his cheeks, then clapped her hands.

“Ari! Get up now!”

Not a twitch in reply. Lifting his eyelids, she saw his eyes were rolled up in his head.

She sat back on her heels. Her vision blurred, and then hot, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Now she understood how a werewolf could spend the night under observation, and the hospital staff would never see anything they could not explain. Nothing happened, except inside his head, or inside the head of anyone who thought he was a werewolf.

For a while she wept, mourning the loss of her long-cherished dream. Then she went to the bathroom, had a shower, and dressed herself. When she came out, Ari was still lying as flat and motionless as a corpse on the bed. She supposed he’d be like that until dawn, when he’d wake up believing his wolf dreams were true.

Her hands clenched as she looked at him, and she felt a terrible urge to take revenge on his body; not to kill him, but to slash and cut and mutilate, to leave the mark of her anger and disappointment in a way he’d never be able to forget.

But that would not be fair. Of the two of them, she was the only liar.

So she forced down her fury, and turned away and went out into the night.

She was too angry, unhappy, and restless to go home; a long ride was the only thing that might make her feel better. She got on Highway 59, then took 45 going south. The flow of this main artery took her through the heart of the city and out, through south Houston, past old Hobby Airport, and down through the sprawling coastal suburbs, until she finally, truly felt she’d left the city behind. Past League City and La Marque, and then over the bridge to Galveston Island.

Tooling along Seawall, she spotted the giant shrimp on top of Casey’s and realized she was hungry, so she stopped for a big plate of cold shrimp with Cajun hot sauce and plenty of Saltine crackers, washed down with a light beer. Afterward, she rode the whole length of the island, all the way through the state park at the far end, where the darkness of night and the warm salty air and the empty space all around combined to soothe her troubled soul.

It was very late-or very early-when she left the island. She’d just come off the bridge on the mainland and was powering across the flat, empty marshland bordering Jones Bay when she saw the pack. Seven or eight large, doglike creatures loped along, parallel to the road-empty except for her-their fur gleaming softly in the moonlight.

Wolves, she thought, and then immediately sneered at herself. She had wolves on the brain. Obviously it would take a while before the truth about werewolves seeped through to her unconscious mind. That these might be real wolves was just as unlikely, since that species had been hunted to extinction in Texas many decades before she was born. These animals must be something else-coyotes, most likely, or maybe a new coyote-dog hybrid, which would explain why they looked so big.

She remembered an item on a local news program about the urban coyote. As its traditional habitats were built over, instead of being pushed farther out into increasingly smaller, less hospitable territories, the coyote had adapted to the urban environment. This was not such good news for the small pets that got preyed upon, and because of the plentiful and rich diet offered by people’s trash, not to mention cross-breeding with stray dogs, the new breed of urban coyote was not only bigger and stronger but more dangerous, being less shy of people than their wild ancestors had been.

Even as she recalled the serious face of the newscaster, warning Houstonians that these animals were a threat, Mel felt no fear. She could easily outrun them on her bike, and in any case, the pack showed no interest in her. Soon enough they vanished into the distance behind her and she was alone again in the moonlit night, with nothing to prove she’d ever seen them at all.

The road did not stay hers for long. After she passed League City, traffic began to trickle onto the highway, until, by the time she’d entered Houston city limits, there was a light but steady flow of vehicles. Because traffic was so light, most of the people on the road were driving faster than usual. Ordinary cars and trucks zoomed past Mel at speeds much higher than her bike could manage. She couldn’t help but find this annoying-she was used to being the one doing the zooming and zipping through heavy traffic-but since there was nothing she could do about it, she slowed down. There was no hurry for her to get home.

She’d just left 45 and filtered onto 610 going north when she saw the wolf.

This time, there was no chance of convincing herself it was a big coyote, rare breed of dog, or anything except a fully grown northern gray wolf. The hairs rose on her arms and the back of her neck as her awed gaze locked onto the creature. She eased off on the gas.

The wolf was far enough ahead that her bike was no threat to it, especially not at this speed. At the moment that it began to cross the freeway, all four lanes were empty of traffic. It should have been perfectly safe. But then, with shocking suddenness, a car appeared, coming out of nowhere, it seemed, and hurtling past Mel at nearly a hundred miles an hour.

It was a stupidly big car-one of those overpowered tanks designed for people who thought of themselves as road warriors, in need of protection-going stupidly fast, and the bare, unarmored creature trotting along so smoothly never had a chance.

The SUV just clipped the wolf as it was crossing the road; a quick, brutal touch that barely impacted on the machine (it kept on going without pause or wobble) but knocked the animal off its feet, lifted it, and flung it across two lanes, smack into the concrete barrier.

Did the driver even see what he had done? If so, he gave no sign as he roared away. The wolf subsided into a shrunken heap of fur and bones.

Mel felt as if she’d been struck herself. Not giving a thought to the dangers of stopping on the inside lane of a major freeway, she pulled in and dismounted.

Even though it seemed clear death must have been immediate, she couldn’t help hoping there was still something she could do to help.

Close up, she saw no blood, but the magnificent head was twisted around in a way that told her the neck was broken, the spine snapped. One open eye-the only one visible-was already glazed in death. She peeled off one of her gloves and touched the still-damp nose, from which no breath issued. She laid her hand on the thick fur, feeling the body heat that hadn’t yet had time to dissipate. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she blinked rapidly and swallowed hard.

But along with the sorrow she felt at this senseless, brutal, accidental death came a rising excitement, a sense of awe at what it meant.

A wolf had died. A wolf, on the Houston freeway.

That pack she’d seen down by the coast-not coyotes at all.

How many others were there, loping across shadowed suburban lawns or through the wild, wooded acres of Memorial Park at this very moment? Twenty, thirty, maybe even more? Most of them would be smart enough to avoid spending much time out in the open, where they might be seen, and especially to avoid the freeways with their killer cars.

And as they roamed, wherever they went, their human bodies would be lying unconscious in their beds, waiting for their souls to return after a night existing in the forms of wolves. This very physical form. She touched the rapidly cooling body again, assuring herself of its reality. This was no dream. She understood now how, through so many centuries, werewolves could be real yet remain hidden from scientific enquiry. It was easy to see why doctors and hospital staff had been blind to the truth, just as she had been herself.

But how did it work? Suddenly, she had more questions than ever. And what happened to the wolf bodies after the sun came up? She wondered if anyone knew.

Gazing down at the dead wolf, she thought that at this moment, in some house or apartment, a human being must be lying dead. One of those mysterious, sudden deaths you sometimes heard about: no suspicious circumstances, a man in the prime of life…

All at once she thought of Ari.

She looked down at the crumpled heap of flesh and bone, and went cold. What if… what if she’d somehow been responsible? What if, instead of staying safe in his usual haunts, he’d ventured out across the city in search of her?

She was shaking as she got back on her bike. She had to force herself to take it slow and easy-it would just be too stupid, too Romeo and Juliet, if she managed to get herself killed, and all along he was still safe where she’d left him, slumbering away.

It was one of the most difficult rides of her life. She arrived back at his house, soaked in sweat, her muscles achingly tight. As she dismounted on his driveway, she noticed that her bell was missing. This struck an ominous note. The little brass bell had been a token given to her by the man who’d taught her to ride. It was meant to protect her from the evil spirits of the road, and even though she didn’t really believe it-not literally-still, that it should be absent now was sinister.

When she left, Mel hadn’t been intending to return, so she was relieved to find that the door hadn’t locked automatically behind her.

Ari lay in bed just as she had left him, motionless, on his back, naked beneath the dark brown sheet. She sank to her knees at the bedside and laid her head on his chest. At first, through the rushing of blood in her ears and her own, too rapid breathing, she couldn’t hear or feel anything else, but gradually, forcing herself to calm, she became aware of the steady beat of his heart inside his warm chest, and then of his faint, shallow breathing. He was safe.

Tears filled her eyes. She wept a little, for release. She’d imagined keeping a wakeful vigil over him for what remained of the night, but a wave of tiredness washed over her, and not bothering to undress, she lay down beside him and slept.

When she awoke, the room was light with morning, and she was alone. She sat up quickly and followed the scent of fresh coffee to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily, but froze at his baleful stare. “What’s wrong?”

He made a show of considering. “Nothing, I guess, if you don’t think it’s wrong to lie.” His brows came together. “Did you think I wouldn’t know? That you could get away with it? But, wait, why should you care? You got what you wanted: a night with the freak. Tell me, Miss Melly: did it live up to your expectations? Was it as exciting as you’d hoped?”

“It was good for me,” she said, feeling her cheeks get hot. “I thought you seemed to be enjoying yourself, too.”

“Don’t change the subject. If this was just about sex you could have told me the truth.”

“Oh, really? If I’d told you over barbecue that I wasn’t a werewolf, would you still have invited me back here?” She saw him wince. “What? Oh, the W-word. You don’t use it. I didn’t know.”

“Obviously.”

“An easy way to weed out the groupies and other liars?”

He shrugged.

“Okay, so you don’t like people like me. But you came to my meeting.”

“Um. Well-I just wasn’t quite sure. I didn’t want to prejudge, just in case. You know what that guy said-Mr. It’s-a-disease-about a code? That’s what I wondered. I thought it was just possible somebody else, one of my own kind, was trying to find me.”

She thought of the pack she’d seen when she was out riding. “But can’t you find each other when you’re, you know… I mean, you must meet each other all the time.”

He grimaced. “Hardly ‘all the time.’ Once a month, in our other forms. It’s rarely planned, although when you find a good place to roam, you tend to go back again and again. Is that territoriality? Or just common sense? I don’t know. I mean, you want to be able to roam around freely, maybe hunt, definitely play, and you don’t want to be seen by the-by anyone. Memorial Park is great. I can’t remember how many square miles of land that covers, lots of places to run, easy to get lost in, and after dark, there really is just nobody else around. And right smack dab in the middle of town. But even so, this is a big city, and a short hop in the car translates into a damn long run on four legs. And leaving your car overnight, somewhere it shouldn’t be, even just once a month, is risky.”

There were so many questions she wanted to ask: why hadn’t his wolf materialized inside the house? Where did it appear, and could he control that location at all? How did it work? How much did he remember? But even if he’d lightened up a little, she didn’t think he’d put up with her questions for long. She watched as he poured himself a cup of coffee without offering her any or indicating that she should help herself.

She spoke as neutrally as she could. “If two people are in the same place, together, when the moon rises, their wolves will be in the same place.”

“Seems you know all about it.”

“No, I don’t, but I want to.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to be grateful for your curiosity?” With a jerky movement suggesting he was repressing a more violent response, he set his mug down hard on the counter. “I’m not here to be your personal freak-show!”

Seeing the strong fingers of his empty hands, she felt a thrill of fear. “I don’t think you’re a freak. I think… I think you’re wonderful. I’ve never met anyone more… more… oh, please, Ari, I love you!”

She hadn’t meant to say it so soon or so bluntly, but there it was, her final throw of the dice; she had nothing else to offer.

His shoulders sagged, and he was unable to meet her gaze. “That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?”

“It’s true.”

“You hardly know me.”

“What about last night? Doesn’t that count?”

She felt more confident now, knowing she’d disarmed him. Of course he didn’t love her yet, but he might come around to it in time. She already knew his secret, and, far from a barrier between them, it had brought them closer. It was true she’d lied to him at first, but since it had brought them together, surely that was forgivable?

She had been hovering in the doorway, but now she took a step forward. “You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. I’m not asking for a big commitment, just a chance. I mean, why not? You can’t pretend you don’t like me-I mean, you asked me out.”

His eyes flashed. “Only because I thought you were someone else.”

That hurt a little. “Well, okay, but who’s being prejudiced now? Is that fair? You thought I was… like you. I’m not, but I’m still a nice person-”

He shook his head savagely. “I don’t mean I thought you were different-I thought you might be someone else. Someone I’d already met-just once-and really, really wanted to find again.”

She flashed on the “missed connect” classifieds in the weekly press: You were the blue-eyed princess in tight blue jeans at Hooters’ Happy Hour who made me spill my beer…

Her chest felt hollow as she understood. He was in love with someone else. “You thought maybe she was looking for you, too, and might use the same language I did: ‘Lonely werewolf, longs to run with pack.’ Not a code, because you don’t have a code, but almost.”

He nodded slowly. “I knew how unlikely it was, and I was pretty sure, really, as soon as I saw you that you weren’t… her… but… well, I’d been looking for her for so long, and you’re an attractive woman, and, let’s be frank, I was horny.” He shrugged. “Well, we’re both grown-ups. No need to apologize.”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” she said, a bit hopelessly.

“I don’t love you, Mel.”

“And I don’t love you, either,” she snapped. “As you helpfully pointed out, I hardly know you. I could say the same about your lost love. You don’t even know her name or what she looks like. We’re both in love with fantasy figures.”

“Mine is real.”

“So is mine; I just haven’t met him yet.” She tried a gentler approach, softening her tone. “But look-we could still have fun together.”

“Like last night? I’m sorry, Mel, but even if it doesn’t creep you out, the idea-”

“So change me,” she said quickly. “I mean it! Make me like you. It’s what I want. Next month, you could bite me…”

He recoiled. “No!”

“Why not? If I ask you to-and then we could be together-”

“It doesn’t work like that! We’re not vampires, you know.”

“How does it work?”

But it was clear, from the hard look on his face, that he was not going to share any more secrets with her. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse, but there’s no future for us. It’s not your fault. Even if I could do it-even if you managed to change some other way-it wouldn’t change the way I feel. I’m sorry.”

There was no point in arguing about it; it was never possible to argue someone into love with you-she knew that all too well from being on the other side of these miserable, final conversations.

So she took her leave of him. He probably thought her heart was broken, and maybe it should have been after such a disappointing end. But in fact she felt quite ridiculously cheerful as she rode away from his house. She knew this was not the end, but only the beginning. She’d finally learned the truth about werewolves, and now the hunt was on.