 
# The Beast of Birmingham

# Under the Devil's Wing

# T.S. Barnett

# Copyright 2014 T.S. Barnett

# Published by T.S. Barnett at Smashwords

# Smashwords Edition License Notes

# This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1 Lilah

2 Sam

3 Alicia

4 Sam

5 Alicia

6 Marcy

7 Alicia

8 Sam

9 Marcy

10 Alicia

11 Marcy

12 Alicia

13 Sam

14 Alicia

15 Marcy

16 Alicia

17 Marcy

18 Marcy

19 Sam

20 Alicia

21 Sam

22 Alicia

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my husband, Jesse, a constant inspiration and source of endless support. And thanks to Daniela, without whom any German would be woefully inaccurate.

# 1 LILAH

You don't normally see many new folks in this town. The bars are filled with the same people, day after day, night after night, eating their burgers or chicken wings and drinking their beers. The wood floors are worn in trails from the jukebox to the bar, around the billiard tables and back and forth from the dart board. It's a quiet kind of bar, most nights, and that suits me fine. I'd much rather get the same reliable tip from Bronson and his boys or serve up burgers in a basket to a family passing by on the interstate on the way to somewhere more interesting than deal with city crowds and city attitudes.

Tonight seems to have shaped up to be a very normal kind of night. The neon-trimmed clock on the wall says it's about 1 a.m.—just two more hours until I can wipe down this counter and head on home. It's about as crowded as usual on a Thursday night. A few tables full of old friends, guys relaxing after a hard day's work, Jerome and Henry playing darts between beers. I take a minute to re-tie my ponytail, tugging my coppery split ends tightly into the elastic. I need to get it trimmed.

Mack and Bill wave to me as they head for the door. "You keep these fellers in line, Lilah," Mack calls with a grin, earning himself a playful objection from a nearby table.

"You know I will. Have a good night, boys."

When they're gone, I move out from behind the bar to clear their table. I stuff their tip in my apron pocket, pick up the two empty beer glasses, and wipe down the table, all with practiced monotony. The glasses go into the tub in the back sink along with the others Marshall is washing, and when I come back out to the front, I'm slightly startled by the sight of someone new sitting at the bar.

He looks like a normal guy, mid-thirties maybe, the kind you'd expect in a place like this. Messy brown hair late for a trim, heavy stubble, tan skin and a thick build. His dark blue t-shirt is a little dirty, and the neckline is starting to fray. He smiles at me when our eyes meet, friendly like, but I'm distracted by his face. All along his left cheek, his facial hair is broken up by scars that run down across his mouth and chin, ending around the right side of his neck. Some kind of animal attack, or work accident, or something. It's hard not to look, but I put on my smile as I walk over to him and do my best to keep my eyes on his. That's much better; they're a very pale green and quite nice to look at, actually.

"You're out late tonight, stranger," I say brightly. "What can I get you?"

"A neat whiskey, if you please, ma'am. Whatever's cheap." He shifts on the stool to dig in his pocket and drops a wad of small bills on the counter, flattening them out with calloused hands. There's some minor scratches on his forearms and scrapes on his knuckles, like he's been in a recent dust-up. But I don't see any fresh marks on his face, so I guess he must have won. He grins up at me when he's finished. "An' however many that'll get me." His drawl is thick, but it's not Georgian. Mississippi or Alabama, maybe.

I pull a glass and bottle from behind the bar and pour him a couple fingers. He thanks me, calls me "darlin'," and sips at his drink. I want to ask him what brings him here, what kind of trouble he's been in. I feel like I don't want to leave him, especially when he half-smiles at me over his glass and I feel a warm pit in my stomach that I haven't felt in a long time. Just about too long. But he turns away from me when one of the boys across the way calls to him to challenge him to some pool.

The bar slowly empties over the next hour, and I clear the tables and collect my tips like normal, but I can't keep my eyes off the man with the scarred face. He plays a couple of games of pool, and leans on the jukebox while he punches the buttons to play some Hank Williams. His blue jeans are dusty with a small hole torn in one knee, and the bottoms are worn at the heel of his boots. He certainly doesn't look like the type to drive through on vacation. And I've had more than my fair share of trouble when it comes to men. So why do I keep staring at this drifter's hips whenever he walks back to the table for a drink of his whiskey, or watching his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt when he leans over the pool table?

He smiles at me whenever he comes back to the bar to be topped up, and eventually he settles back on his stool, waving good night to the men he'd been passing the time with. Marshall comes out of the back and asks if he can cut out early to pick his girlfriend up from the bus station, and I let him go since there are only three or four people left.

"You always take care of this place all by yourself, darlin'?" the stranger asks, leaning his elbows on the bar.

"It's normally pretty quiet. Doesn't take but one person." In the back of my mind, I know I should be wary of a stranger asking me how frequently I'm alone at work at 3 a.m., but I push the thoughts aside in favor of staring at the white lines of scar tissue marking his lips. If he notices me looking, he doesn't seem to mind. "You always drift into bars in strange towns in the middle of the night?"

"Not always," he answers with a sly grin that makes my stomach tighten. The last few people trickle out the doors, and then it's just the two of us. He turns his back to the bar to watch me gather up the glasses and wipe down the tables. "Should I be gettin' on out of your way, sweetheart? Hate to be a bother. Or maybe you'd rather an escort home? It's awful late."

A small laugh comes out of me as I set the tub of empty glasses on the bar beside him. "I'm used to it." I feel my face flush a little. I can sense his eyes on me, one hand still loosely cupping his whiskey glass on the bar top.

"Well that sounds a mite lonely." He reaches out to me, and any instinct I may have had to pull away melts instantly when I feel his rough hand trace the back of my arm. When I look over at him, that sly smile is back on his face. "Do you get lonely out here, darlin'?"

I'm about to do something stupid. I can feel it in my bones. I don't even know this guy's name. There's something about him, something strange and attractive and predatory. If anybody else in this bar put his hands on me, they'd draw back a stump. Instead of slapping his hand away, when he pulls me closer to him, I let him. When he sets me on his knee and slips a slow hand up my thigh, I let him. He's so warm; even through my clothes I can feel the heat of his touch. Goosebumps form on my skin as he grips my hip, and I shudder when he leans in close and I can feel the rasp of his stubble against my cheek. Yep. Definitely about to do something stupid.

Suddenly his teeth are on my skin, sharply but only just, making me gasp. My fingers dig into his thick shoulders to brace myself so that I don't slide off his lap, but the hand on my hip wouldn't let me move anyway. His free hand is under my shirt, and I arch against him when I feel the snaps of my bra come undone. I feel dizzy; I'm in a haze as he lifts me effortlessly onto the bar and tugs my shirt up over my head. I touch his cheek, his chest, anywhere I can reach, clenching handfuls of his hair while his mouth travels down my bare torso, kissing and biting at my breasts and stomach. He loses his shirt at some point, and I find myself giggling as I run my fingers through the thick hair on his chest.

I'm aware of him unbuckling my belt only because of the sound, and I hear the clunk of the change in my apron hitting the wooden floor as he discards it. I feel like I'm barely taking in air at all, even though I'm panting. I've never been this worked up before, and I certainly wouldn't have pegged the dirty, scarred-up whiskey-drinker with bloody knuckles as the one to do it to me. I squirm under his kisses as my pants are tugged down my legs and onto the floor. I think they rip, but I don't care. I can feel the chill of his undone belt buckle against my inner thigh when he pulls me roughly to the edge of the bar, and the press of his body against mine, and I don't care that the lights are still on and the door is unlocked.

I reach behind my head to grip the edge of the bar and steady myself, for what little good it does. I'm only half on top of it anyway; he's easily supporting my weight with a firm grip on my waist and my legs wrapped tight around his hips as he pushes me back against the bar again and again. All thoughts of the outside world are gone now, and I'm biting my lip to keep from crying out too loudly.

A sharp pain brings me back to reality, and I look down to see a smear of blood on my chest, and a single drop falling almost in slow motion from his chin. He doesn't acknowledge me when I shout. I try to struggle, but he pins me down with one hand on my neck, and even with both hands on his arm, I can't budge him. I can feel his fingernails digging into my hip and thigh, sense the fresh scratches forming there. His teeth are on my neck, my shoulder, my breasts, leaving springs of bright red blood wherever he passes. I feel the heat of it pooling on my stomach, and hear his deep growls as his tongue runs over the blood before too much can spill down my sides.

I start to scream, but his grip on my throat tightens, and I can't breathe enough to make any real noise. I'm lifted up from the bar and pulled close against him, but I don't have the strength to even attempt to hold myself up. There's blood on his face—my blood. I feel the wet heat of it on my cheek as his mouth closes over my ear, and I cry out as best I can as the flesh tears, overwhelming the tiny clink as my hoop earring hits the floor. Then I can't cry out at all. His hand closes tighter on my neck, and something cracks inside. I can't breathe.

He drops me back onto the bar, how much longer later I don't know, and when he pulls away I crumple helplessly to the floor. My vision is dark, my body is weak from lack of blood. I don't know how many wounds I have. I want to say something, to beg, to ask him why. I feel his hand on my cheek, almost softly, and he tilts my head up to look at him. His face, chest, and hands are covered in blood. I think there are tears on my face, but my head is fuzzy. He says something to me, I think, and his thumb brushes my lip tenderly. Then his other hand is on my face, and I feel the sharp jerk of his twisting motion before the black.

# 2 SAM

I wake up as the bus lurches to a stop, my forehead rolling once against the cool glass before I sit up. I wipe away a bit of dried spit from the corner of my mouth and rub the sleep from my eyes as I yawn. I glance around as the bus empties, agonizingly slowly. It smells in here. I can smell the old woman beside me, pickled in vinegar. I can smell the kid in the seat behind me, shirt stained with some kind of juice that's turned sticky. The smokers, the sweat, the beef jerky, and I really need to get off the bus.

As soon as I'm able, I push my way into the aisle and step out into the comparatively fresh air outside the station. I grab up my duffel bag and throw it over my shoulder, pausing to have a little stretch and scratch idly at the scruff on my jaw. Need to shave. David will have a razor, I'm sure. I hope he lives in the same place, because I'll have a hell of a time finding him otherwise.

Atlanta in June is hot as hell with thick, humid air that sticks to your clothes. Too bright for someone who just got off a bus. I pause outside a convenience store with some tourist turnstiles out front and pretend to look at postcards until the guy inside turns away. Then I throw on a pair of sunglasses from the rack and carry on down the street.

I drop down on a bench at a MARTA stop and dig in a side pocket of my duffel bag for the small, ragged black notebook I need. There's various papers stuffed in between the pages, and one of them blows away and down the street while I'm looking for the name I want. It's faded, but I can still read my own handwriting from years ago. David. Now to figure out where that address actually is. I lean forward to peer at the nearby street sign, and I snort a little in irritation. The city's so different. Why do places have to keep on getting bigger and bigger, keep on changing? There's plenty of space all over the damn country, but folks have to just pile up and up in one spot and be in each other's way.

I try to ask a clerk in a store for directions, but he barely speaks English, so I leave and wander farther down the street. I bump into a few people on the way, storing up a small pile of wallets to look through later. The money I got from that bartender girl in Dalton was just about used up on the Greyhound ticket. I try another store when things start to look familiar, and I'm pointed in the direction of the apartment building.

Still a shithole. What's the point of keeping the front of a place like this locked? Who the hell's going to break in, and what would they think they could get if they did? Maybe one of the shitty air conditioners hanging onto the windows with three pounds of duct tape might be worth scrapping. I check the listing on the buzzers by the door, but I imagine his name is different now. It must have been ten years since I saw him last. There's a couple of D's listed. D. Morris. D. West. D. Talbot. I start at the top and buzz the first D, but no one answers. A woman answers the second one, so I know that's not his place. I ask anyway, but not a chance he's shacked up with a girl. That just leaves Mr. Talbot. There's a pause, then some static after I push the button.

"Hello?" That's him.

"Open up this door, boy." The intercom clicks, but the door doesn't make a sound. I frown at it, and buzz again.

"No, Sam. Go away."

"You ain't gon' turn me away in the street, son. Let's have it open."

"Not this time. Leave me alone."

"I will bust this door if I have to; you know I will. Now I wanna come up and be friendly, see my boy."

Another pause. I wait.

"Okay," he says finally, and the intercom shuts off a few seconds before the lobby door clicks unlocked.

I push my way inside and trot the few floors up to number 13. At the landing of David's floor, a woman almost bumps into me as she comes out of the apartment across the hall. She slips a little, but I catch her arm in my free hand and settle her.

"Oh, lord, thank you!" she says with a laugh, putting a hand over her heart as she looks up at me with a shy smile. She smells like cats. She's a skinny, mousy blonde, pushing 30, with a blouse that doesn't suit her and a bun falling out of its bobby pins. "You startled me. Are you new in the building?"

"No, ma'am. Just visiting a friend." I tilt my head toward the door across the way, and she smiles.

"Oh, you're a friend of David's! He doesn't have visitors very often; I'm sure he'll be glad to see you. He's such a sweet boy, but I think he must be awful lonely sometimes. My name's Sylvia, by the way."

"Sam."

"Well it's great to meet you, Sam." She pats my forearm affectionately as she squeezes by me to start down the stairs. "Sorry I can't stay and chat; tell David I said hello. We should have dinner while you're here!"

"I'll pass that along. You be careful now; don't be fallin' where I ain't there to catch you." I wink at her, and her face flushes before she turns and bustles down the stairs.

When she's out of sight, I try to rub the scent of her off of my hand onto the wall. Cats. I knock on David's door and he opens it instantly. He must have been listening.

"Get inside already," he mutters, and I clap him on the shoulder as I pass through his doorway.

"Afternoon, Mr. Talbot." The place isn't so shitty on the inside. He keeps it neat, and it's decorated with artsy black and white pictures on the wall. He has a laptop computer on the end table by the sofa, and what looks like a bag for a fancy camera on the coffee table. Through the doorway into the kitchen, I can see a clean little metal table, and a rack of spices on the back counter. There's even a potted plant. I really don't understand this kid at all.

I set my duffel on the floor and drop onto his sofa, leaning back to rest my heels on his coffee table. He slaps at my feet as he goes by me to sit in a chair, so I humor him and move them. He hasn't changed much in ten years. Maybe a little older; he looks like he could buy himself a drink now. From the right bartender, anyway. On a busy night. The kid's got a hell of a baby face. Which makes it a little hard to take him seriously as he's glaring at me from his chair in his khakis and polo shirt. Maybe he should grow a beard.

"What do you want, Sam? I don't have any money."

"I ain't here for money, damn," I say with a laugh. He doesn't like that. He sits forward in his chair, black eyes narrowed at me.

"I told you last time I didn't want to see you again. I almost had to up and leave again because of you. I've finally settled in here, and I like it that way. I have a job, and it's not just flipping burgers or stocking shelves. The paper pays me for my photos." He stops, and sits back in his chair with a frown. Even with all that protesting, he still slipped right back into telling me all his news and waiting for me to be proud of him. I try to hold back a grin, for his sake, but I don't manage very well. He notices, and pushes his hands through his hair with a sigh. It's cut shorter than last time. Must think he's a young professional, or something. Can't tell it's curly now. "Just tell me why you came back."

"Thought y'might need your ol' man's signature, get you into that prep school," I snort, nodding at him to indicate his neatly pressed clothes and tucked-in shirt.

He looks down at himself, tugging at his collar defensively. For the moment, he's forgotten he's mad at me. "This is what people wear."

"At a golf course."

"In real life," he insists. "Look at you. You look homeless. Did anyone try to give you change on your way here?"

"I am homeless," I laugh. He starts to answer, but he must have realized he lapsed back into giving me sass, so he shuts up. "Listen, I didn't come for wantin' nothin'. Just checkin' up on you, son."

"Don't call me that," he says with a sigh. "Will you just leave? I have a good thing here, and I'm not getting wrapped up in all your bullshit again."

"I didn't bring no bullshit with me. Come on. Buy a man a bite to eat, put me up for tonight, and I'll go tomorrow."

He pauses, and for a minute he just stares at me with a skeptical frown. "You promise."

"Promise." I cross my heart with one finger.

He sighs, but he gets to his feet and tilts his head to the door. "As if I can trust any promise you make, anyway. Come on."

He leads me downstairs and to the nearest Marta station, where we wait with a handful of other people. A cute blonde in a short skirt smiles at me, but before I can even take a step toward her, David thumps me in the bicep and points a warning finger at me. I frown at him as the bus pulls up and hisses to a stop. He hits hard.

"Shouldn't you be gettin' in the back of the bus?"

He scowls at me, but he pays my way and takes a seat toward the front—probably on purpose. David's mixed, or biracial, or whatever. I'm not allowed to say mulatto anymore. He doesn't like when I give him shit about it, but I don't like it when he hits me.

"So who's in town these days?" I ask as I drop down into the seat beside him.

"Garcia passed through recently; he came by for a couple days," he answers, his face to the window.

"So you'll put up the chalupa just fine, but me you gotta fight about it?"

"Chrissakes, Sam," he hisses at me. "I thought you liked Garcia."

"I do like him. What's that got to do with it?"

He sighs, shaking his head as he turns back to the window. "Never mind. He said he'd heard something. About you."

"About me?"

"Not here," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder as if any of the other dead-eyed afternoon commuters are paying us any attention. He leads me off the bus a few stops later, and into a diner that looks too nice to seat someone like me. I get a beer; he just has water.

I look across the table at him, sitting up straight in his chair and carefully folding his napkin in his lap. Clean shaven, neat hair, ironed shirt. He looks like more and more of a stuck-up asshole every time I come back to see him. He still sniffs around like an animal when a waiter passes by with a steak, though. Can't hide everything. I tap the side of my nose when he glances at me, unable to hide my smirk, and he shrinks in his chair a little and looks down at his plate. I hate to see him like this. Hiding. From what? Glancing around, keeping an eye on every exit and every person that passes close. What for? What the hell does he have to be nervous about?

"So what's this about Garcia?" I ask, tapping my fingers on the table to break him out of his paranoid scanning.

He waits until the waiter comes and goes again before answering. "He said he'd heard stories about you."

"Stories? What kind?"

"What kind do you think? You know what you do. I went on the forums after he mentioned it, and there's pages and pages about you. They don't mention your name, but Garcia knew it was you. I could tell, too."

"What forums?"

"You know, the forums? On the Internet? Never mind; of course you don't go on the internet. It's password protected; a lot of us keep in contact that way." His voice drops to a hush, but I can still hear him under the chatter of the dining room. "They say you're wild, that you kill whenever and whoever you please, that you roam through the forests all over the country and you don't care who sees you. You should see the way they talk about you. Like you're some kind of...screwed up folk tale or something. They call you Scratch."

That makes me laugh louder than he likes, and he shushes me, glancing around to the nearby tables. "Who came up with that?"

"I don't know. Listen, stories like this travel fast. It isn't like the old days. You have to be more careful. If there's even one hunter who got onto the forums—"

"Ain't no damn hunters," I sigh. "It ain't like the old days. People don't take us seriously no more, you know that."

"But if people found out—"

"What, about werewolves?" I almost shout the last word, just to prove that nobody in the restaurant gives a damn. One woman glances over, but she only chuckles and goes back to chatting with her friend. David is clutching the side of the table so hard I can hear the wood creak under his hand. "People know, son. They just don't believe. Been that way forever."

He shakes his head, but says nothing, because the waiter brings our food. I watch him delicately cut his sandwich in half and sip at the bowl of soup he ordered. I've finished my burger and fries by the time he's halfway through the bowl of—what is that, broccoli? We're going to be here all day.

"You gon' come run with me tonight?"

He seems to tense, but he doesn't look at me, just focuses on the food in front of him. "No."

"Come on. Be fun. When'd you go out runnin' last, anyhow?"

"I don't."

"That ain't just a lie, it's a damn lie. Come run. I'm goin' with or without you."

He sets down his spoon to stare at me. He seems tired, and that irritates me. "Sam, don't make trouble. I'm trying to live here. I'm doing well. Please."

"What the hell's happened to you, boy? You're too good now to go for a run with your ol' man?" I lean forward on the table, and he leans back, frowning. "You ain't never gon' be one a them, hear? Ain't nothin' gon' make you that way. You an' me, we're the same. We've always been the same."

He stays silent while the waiter drops off the check, and then he gets to his feet, drops some money on the table, and glances at me. "I can't be you anymore."

I follow him out of the restaurant, but we don't say anything else on the ride back to his apartment. There's no beer in his fridge, but he ignores me when I complain about it. I sit on his couch beside him, flipping idly through channels on the television while he does something or other on his computer. Eventually the sunlight through the window turns a darker orange, and I glance over at him.

"So, you gon' come?"

He pauses, and sighs. "Yeah."

# 3 ALICIA

I never saw myself as a victim until I met him. I'd always been the girl who looked out for herself, who didn't take shit, who took on all comers. I joined the Marine Corp when I was 19 against my parents' wishes, shipped out for training at Parris Island, then Camp LeJeune, NAS Pensacola, MCAS Cherry Point, and finally PCS at MCAS Miramar. A lot of people join the military so that they can do their four years, get some college paid for, and get out. I thought that would be me. My parents didn't have the money to send me to college, and I didn't have the grades to get a scholarship. My mom said I was crazy for signing up, and my dad said I was crazy for choosing the Marines instead of the Navy. But there was something about the Marines that I wanted. Maybe it's the exclusivity they always talk about in the recruitment ads, or maybe it's that it somehow seemed more physical than the Navy. But I wanted to be a Marine.

I'd never been a particularly athletic person, or much of a tomboy. I played some soccer as a kid, but that was it. When I'd made up my mind, I spent months running, lifting weights, doing pushups, and anything else I could do to get myself ready for boot camp. I knew I wasn't going to be the best, or even as good as most of the men, probably, but I was determined not to be the worst. And boot camp was hard. MCT was hard. But I loved it. I loved the order and the high standards and the constant encouragement to push yourself just that little bit farther than you thought you could. I even learned to love all of the super-patriotic rhetoric and codes of honor and everything else. That's why I stayed.

I was an Ordnance Technician working on the F/A-18 Hornet fixed-wing aircraft. It was a good job. I did important work, even if it seemed to be behind the scenes work, and even if it meant taking shit from the rest of the guys about not being able to count past three. I went from wanting to get a cheap education to actually wanting to serve. I worked with a great group of men and women, all of whom I broke off contact with later—probably unfairly. But I couldn't deal with them. I couldn't face them. We'd been through so much together—a lot of the people I worked with I'd known since boot camp, and some of them I took with me when I was deployed to Afghanistan. But I wasn't prepared for how it would hit me when I met him.

I was out with a few friends for my twenty-sixth birthday, and I got a little drunker than I meant to. I'd just come back from Afghanistan, and I was enjoying my bit of leave at home before getting back to the grind at Miramar. He'd seemed interested when I told him about my job, and he was so, so cute. Marines are good guys, but I'd have been damned if I'd have dated one. I'd spent a lot of time around nobody but other Marines, so I guess I was a little lonely. Maybe he noticed.

I loved his Southern drawl, and his scars made him look dark and mysterious. He told me that he got them from fighting a cougar to save a baby from drowning in a river, which might have been the most outrageous lie he could have told, but it made me laugh. He said he was staying in a hotel nearby, so I went back with him. We had a few more drinks from the mini bar, and things went downhill from there. It started out great—I like it a little rough—but then I was bleeding, and crying, and begging him to stop. He was so strong. I tried to fight him, tried to hit him, tried to get away. But everything I tried, he just shrugged off, like he didn't even notice. Like I could have been an irritating fly as easily as a desperate human being.

I passed out eventually, and when I woke up, he was gone, and I could barely move enough to reach the phone to call 911. I had a broken tibia and a fractured femur on the other leg, in addition to the various other bruises and scratches covering my body, the worst of which was a wound on my breast where he'd bitten and torn out flesh.

I was in the hospital for two days while they patched everything up and in a matching set of casts for the next three months. They put me on Convo leave to recover, and I was on Light Duty while my casts were on. But it wasn't the same. A lot of people came to visit me at the hospital, but I wouldn't see any of them. My parents sat in the room with me sometimes, and my brother acted the part of the angry protector, but I couldn't listen to it.

I told the police what happened. I didn't know his name, but I gave them the best description I could; I thought it would be easy to find someone with huge scars on his face. But it was like he'd vanished. They told me the DNA he left with me didn't match anyone in their system. He'd used a stolen credit card to pay for the room. All I did was cry for days. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw the black eye he'd given me, and the bandages over my breast that I knew in a while would come off and show how mangled it had been. After that I felt sort of numb, and I wouldn't speak to anyone for a long time.

I'd never been hurt like that before. And not just physically. I'd taken my share of lumps during normal duty, and more than my share trying to prove to the other Marines that I wasn't just some girl playing dress up. That I deserved to be where they were. I'd never had both legs broken, but I didn't care as much about the physical pain. While I was on Light Duty, people talked. I'd asked for it by going to a hotel with a stranger. It isn't like I was innocent before. There'd been rumors about me before, of course, like there were about all the women I worked with. A few of the guys I got close with stood up for me, but it didn't really make it any easier. It pissed me off. Maybe what I'd done wasn't the smartest thing, but it didn't give anyone the right to do what he did to me. I didn't sleep, and when I did I had nightmares.

My Command was actually really great to me, which was a surprise. My contract was nearly up, so the Physical Evaluation Board held a Medical hearing to determine if I was fit for active duty. Their determination was that I wasn't. I can't say I was surprised. After all the talk and the nightmares and the painful physical therapy and the frustrated crying, I didn't feel much like a Marine anymore. I felt like a weak and silly girl. I felt like I didn't deserve to be part of that world anymore, if I couldn't even deal with one crazy asshole. Once or twice I thought about ending everything. But even in that state, I couldn't bring myself to take that way out.

I stayed with my brother in Queens while I recovered. I had my pay from the Marine Corp, my parents gave me some money to help out, and my brother let me stay rent free, so I was able to just relax for a while. What time I didn't spend doing physical therapy with the nurse that came by every day, I spent on his building's rooftop garden, pretending I wasn't in the middle of a city.

Eventually, he wouldn't let me sit in silence and brood anymore. He set me up with a therapy group for rape survivors. Twice a week he drove me to the church where they held the meetings, and I sat in my wheelchair, one part of a circle of seven or eight morose women. It didn't really make me feel better or empowered or any of that stuff. It made me feel sad. I wouldn't talk to them the first few times I went. I just listened.

The other women told stories about their boyfriends or their husbands or guys they picked up at a bar, like me. Some of them had been beaten, too. Most of them didn't show it; I guess nobody thinks about therapy right after it happens, and their injuries weren't as bad as mine. One girl showed up once who had a black eye, but she didn't come back more than twice. They told stories about passing out and waking up knowing something had happened, or just feeling pressured or forced by someone they knew, without much violence. Nobody pushed me to talk.

I was there for three weeks before I told them anything more than my name. Then I decided to try. I told them everything. Their faces made it worse. I knew I had the worst story in the room by far. I showed them the mark on my breast where he'd bitten me, and one of them started crying. None of them knew what to say to me. They didn't understand. They couldn't relate the way they were supposed to. So they didn't say anything.

My casts came off eventually, and my real therapy began. It hurt, and it was hard, but every day I pushed myself a little farther. I walked on my own, and then walked farther. I could even run. The metal rods in my bones ached sometimes, but I didn't care. I went for a short run every morning.

I was finally starting to get back into a rhythm. I even thought about getting a job. I had no idea what I would do, but I was tired of mooching off my brother, and I figured that was a sign of progress. If the cops didn't have any leads by now, they'd probably never find him, and I'd have to deal with that. I just hoped the next girl he hurt was luckier than me. That he'd slip up and I'd see his smug face on the news. Because there was no doubt in my mind that I wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last. An animal like that doesn't stop. But there wasn't anything else I could do. I had to keep living.

And just when I thought I might be able to, that's when shit got even crazier than I thought was possible. Of course.

There isn't much to do holed up in my brother's apartment, and I'm only supposed to work out so much, so while he's out I take one of my frequent daytime naps. I'm still not sleeping very soundly, so when he comes into my room, I hear him. I think it's my brother at first, checking in on me like he does sometimes, but I don't think my brother would have walked up to my bed so casually and put a wet cloth over my nose and mouth. I try to struggle, but I don't have much time before my eyes roll back in my head.

When I wake up, I'm in the backseat of a car that smells like pine tree air fresheners. New, or a rental. My hands are bound in front of me with duct tape, and my ankles and knees are strapped together. As I shift in the seat, a pair of pale brown eyes flicks over to me in the rear view mirror.

"Do not be alarmed," a man's calm voice says from the driver's seat. "The restraints are merely a precaution; I did not wish for you to panic and lash out. I will remove them when we stop."

"Great, thanks," I say, tugging and twisting my wrists despite his comforting affirmation. "So who the fuck are you and why am I in your car?" I can't quite tell where we are, but traffic is moving. I'm at the wrong angle to see much of the driver's face, but he looks relatively young. White. Brown hair. Some kind of an accent, but not very thick.

"I am Lukas Reiniger. I represent an organization with which you hold a shared interest. Namely, your attacker. I assume you are still interested in locating him?"

I stop struggling for a moment and stare at the back of his head. "What? Are you a cop?" I know it's a stupid question as soon as it's out of my mouth. What kind of cop kidnaps victims? Vigilantes, I guess?

"No. I am Wolfjäger. The one who attacked you is a werewolf that we are interested in tracking."

I'm too stunned to pull at my wrists anymore. "...A werewolf. Are you a crazy person?"

"No."

"Uh-huh. Listen, if it's all the same to you—"

"You are skeptical. This is to be expected. This is why I have arranged proof, so that you may make an informed decision."

"Proof of werewolves."

"We are almost there."

I don't even feel frightened now. Just curious. So I sit still and hope that if he does turn out to be a crazy, he's at least telling the truth about untying me. "So how do you know about me exactly?"

"In our investigations in the city, we came upon stories of a wolf with a history of attacking young women. He is somewhat notorious. Further investigation brought to our attention a story of a girl who survived such an attack, so we looked into your background. You were judged to be a suitable candidate for recruitment, so I have been sent to give you a demonstration."

"Demonstration? Recruitment? What, to this werewolf hunting group?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you have a military background, you survived an attack from a dangerous wolf, and you have the tenacity to make an almost complete recovery from devastating injuries."

"Are you a military organization?"

"In a sense." He glances back to me again, and I see him nod toward a concrete building to his right. "We are here."

I wonder how long I was out. It has to be late afternoon, but I can't quite see the clock on the dashboard. I test the strength of the bands of tape on my wrists. I'd need more time than I have to get loose. He's already turning into the alley beside the building. I can't imagine what this guy has planned if he isn't telling the truth. Or if he is, actually, since he thinks he's going to show me proof that werewolves exist.

I sit still and watch him as he parks the car and walks around to my door. Slim guy. Black pants, red button-down with the sleeves rolled up. When he reaches for my door handle, I see a black tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. It's a medieval-looking bear, reared up with its tongue sticking out, with a shield shape around it. He opens the door and reaches into his pocket as he leans down to my level. Good-looking guy, for a crazy. Sharp face. He looks up into my eyes as he opens a pocket knife.

"I will remove your restraints if you will come inside willingly. If you refuse, I am afraid I must insist. It is in your best interest to see what I have to show you."

He doesn't seem that crazy, somehow. Or maybe that makes him seem even more crazy. There's no expression on his face. Just a cold, blank stare. And the alley is just deep and deserted enough that I'm not sure anyone would help me in time. I decide it really is in my best interest to avoid finding out what this man would do if he had to insist on something. So I nod, and he tears through the tape holding my limbs in place and steps back to let me out of the car. My knees pop and crack stiffly as I take a few steps, following him toward the decrepit-looking building.

He pulls open the heavy metal door and lets me inside first. I'm surprised at how clean it is inside, for a secret building with an alley entrance. The walls of the small room inside are painted cement lit by fluorescent tracks, and the only thing in the room is a second door and what looks like a small camera in a top corner. The man leading me glances up to the camera, and a buzzer sounds before he pulls open the second door. What the hell is this place? I didn't expect this kind of security from people who think they hunt werewolves. But then, I guess if I thought werewolves were going to bust in my door, I'd probably put up some good security, too.

"This way, please." He leads me through the door and into a blank-looking hallway. A couple of people pass us, giving me curious stares and my escort curt nods. We pass a few closed doors, some of them with voices behind them, and he lets me through another metal door into another short, empty hallway. "Wait here," he says shortly, and the door shuts heavily behind him, leaving me alone in the little room. The doors on both ends of the room look like they can be barred, like they expect to keep people in. Yeah, this doesn't seem weird at all. I don't know if I feel more or less safe knowing that there's other people here. He might not just be a crazy kidnapper, but I might have found myself in a whole den of crazy.

The door opens again a minute or so later, and another man enters—a kid, really—looking not at all like he belongs in the same room as the man who drove me here. He raises his hand in a vague half-wave at me, a bright grin on his face. He must be around 18. Kind of thin. He's dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with some band on it. Hispanic, I think. Tan, with messy, curly black hair that touches the tops of his ears. My escort is behind him, and he breezes by both of us to open the second door.

"This way."

The room we enter is a long hallway lit with harsh fluorescent tracking. But unlike the others, this hall isn't empty. There are cells along one wall—six or seven small rooms separated by concrete and closed by shining metal bars. Most of them are empty, but a couple of them have metal chairs in the center that look like they're built into the floor with chains in small piles on each side. There are lockers lined up along the opposite wall—filled with what, I don't know.

When we get closer, I realize there's a man inside one of the cells, with a bit of dried blood trailing down his chest and staining his shirt. He's got some kind of dirty grey stain on his face, and he isn't wearing any shoes.

"What the hell? What did you do to him? Why is he locked up?"

My kidnapper turns to look at me, and quite casually says, "Because he is a werewolf." Of course. That's perfectly sensible.

The kid glances sidelong at the man in the cell, who just eyes him with disdain. "So, what, he's going to just wolf out in there?"

"That is my hope," the kidnapper says blandly, his eyes steadily on the man behind the bars as he folds his hands loosely behind his back. The prisoner slams his hands against the bars with a growl, and the whole door shakes with the force of it. I think I see him wince, though, when his bare hands touch the metal. I jump a little and step back, and the kid's grin falters, but the one who brought me here doesn't flinch. He just stares.

"So, um," the kid starts while the other two men continue their staring contest, "Reiniger picked you up too?"

My face must look confused, because he points to the man who drove me, lifting his other hand to hide the gesture. "Oh. Uh, yeah." I glance sidelong at the man in the cell as he paces in front of the door, his face in a scowl as he watches my kidnapper—Reiniger? I guess that's what he said in the car.

"This is wild, right? Werewolves and shit. You think it's really going to happen? You think it's true? I mean, I kind of hope it is. Reiniger sure seems confident, and the other guys I've talked to seem legit. Joaquin, by the way," he finishes, and he offers me his hand.

"You're very calm about the idea," I mutter, my eyes still on the stalking man. But I glance at the kid long enough to shake his hand. "Alicia."

"Well if it's true, that's awesome, right? The world's not as boring as we thought it was. Werewolves, and werewolf hunters. Very dramatic."

"That's a person in there," I remind him, and the man in the cell pauses to look at me. I move to catch Reiniger's eye, but he only glances at me for a moment. "If he turns into a werewolf, or you think he does, what are you going to do to him?"

"I am going to kill him," he says simply.

"You're gonna try," the prisoner growls, and Reiniger ignores him.

"You can't just lock people up and kill them! Are you insane?"

"No. He is dangerous, and he will have served his purpose. You will understand."

Well, now I definitely can't leave. Both of these guys are crazy. I can't let them just kill this poor bastard. I don't know what I can do, since I'm not exactly in top form anymore. But I have to do something. Maybe once the sun goes down, and he doesn't change into a monster, they'll let him go? We'll both be heading right to a police station. For now, there's nothing I can do. I don't see any keys to the cell laying around, so I assume they're in Reiniger's pocket.

Reiniger casually checks his watch. The prisoner is still prowling back and forth. It's making me even more anxious. I shift my weight uncomfortably, feeling the rods in my legs as my muscles grow stiff. Time slows to a crawl, but it has to be close to sunset by now. The man in the cell has been progressively more antsy.

Just when I'm about to say something, ask them to let him go, this is stupid, it's night now, there's a loud clang as he slams his body weight into the bars. They don't seem like they're going to give, but it was a hard hit.

As I watch, the man in the cell writhes in pain, dropping to his knees on the dirty concrete floor and scraping his nails into the stone as he drops to all fours. He's screaming now, and I move toward the bars, but Reiniger puts an arm out in front of me. When I look up at him, he gives me a single shake of his head.

"Wait."

I can't get into the cell anyway; all I can do is watch. And it isn't long before I'm glad that Reiniger kept me out of arm's reach of the bars. The man inside is actually changing. I can hear his bones cracking, see his body twisting, his head jerking painfully as his face re-forms into...something else. It does look like a wolf. Bigger. Seemingly all of a sudden, he's got thick brown hair all over his body, and his clothing is torn away and cast aside. His legs get longer, ankles stretching out into a dog-like shape and feet widening into massive paws. His hands are huge, with thick, black claws that dig trenches in the concrete floor. A tail appears from his lower back, thick with the same brown hair. The corridor is full of the sound of his breathing, first shallow, then heavy and growling. I feel rooted to the spot. There's a werewolf in the cell.

I didn't notice Reiniger move until he's back beside me with a .45 pistol in his left hand and a pair of silver knuckles on his right. The lockers are full of weapons. He glances back to me, then the kid, who looks as pale and drained as I feel.

"You will want to move back."

The kid moves immediately, and he tugs me by the arm as he retreats down the hallway. I follow limply, but when we reach the door, both of us stand and watch. Reiniger takes two steps back from the cell bars, but he doesn't seem tense. He's just watching.

There's a loud ringing down the hall as the man—the wolf—inside the cell rushes the bars again. He really is going to bust right out. And Reiniger is just standing there. Suddenly I'm not worried about the poor bastard who got locked up; I'm worried about the only armed person in the room not making a move while this monster is beating itself against its cage. A small puff of dust appears where the bars attach to the concrete wall every time the wolf hits them. And he's just watching.

Reiniger gestures over his shoulder, clearly not at us, and for the first time I notice the cameras along the top of the walls. There's a loud buzzing sound, and the cell door clicks open. I feel the kid's grip on my arm tighten, but I'm frozen in place.

The wolf is on top of Reiniger before I even know what's happened, and I'm sure that he's dead. But the sound of the gun being fired rings out, and then again. The wolf drops on top of him, and the kid and I stay motionless. I take a half-step back when the body moves, but it only shifts enough to let Reiniger slip out from underneath, and he drops it behind him with a heavy thud.

His entire front is covered in blood. He wipes it away from his mouth with the back of one hand, but it mostly only smears it, so he spits onto the floor. Behind him, the wolf's body is already shifting, cracking and twisting back into human shape. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than half a minute.

"I trust you have been convinced," Reiniger says calmly to our surely gaping faces. "This one was young. Inexperienced. Reckless. They will not all be so. But they are not immortal. And I can teach you how to kill them." His head tilts slightly as he watches our silence, and then he reaches into his pocket with his metal-knuckled hand and retrieves two small cards. "If you refuse this opportunity, you will not see me again. If you accept, contact me here." He offers us each a card with a phone number written on it in neat blue pen. "I will then collect you, and we can begin."

He removes his knuckles and places them along with the handgun in one of the lockers, and he hands each of us an envelope as he returns to the door. "This should be sufficient money to return you home by taxi." He brushes by us, and waits for us to follow him back through the metal doors and white hallways. We walk in a daze, and before I know it we're outside in the alley again, with Reiniger staring at us from the doorway. "I will expect your call within a day's time." Then the door is shut, and we're alone in the alley.

Joaquin and I look at each other in the darkness, both holding an envelope full of money and a business card with a werewolf hunter's phone number on it. After a minute, Joaquin says the only appropriate thing.

"Fuck, man."

# 4 SAM

It's a nice night. Warm, with a humid breeze, but cooler under the cover of the trees of North woods. David walks beside me as if he doesn't enjoy it, clutching the straps of his backpack like it's his first day of school. He's leading the way; probably thinks if he takes me to just the right spot that he can keep me out of trouble. I run my hands over the rough bark of the trees as we pass them, and I peer up to try and see the moon through the branches, but David just walks straight forward, eyes ahead of him. He used to love the woods. He used to be a wolf. But tonight I saw him dig in the center console of his car for change so that he didn't get a parking ticket.

Soon he stops, and he drops his backpack onto the grass with a sigh and turns to me. "Well, go on. I'll keep watch." I haven't smelled a human in a while, but we're pretty vulnerable while we're changing, so it's handy to have a lookout if you can.

"Don't gotta act like I twisted your arm, son," I mutter as I strip off my shirt and toss it over to him.

"You did twist my arm."

"Only a little." He shakes his head at me and crouches down to open his pack, stuffing my shirt inside and catching my jeans when I throw them to him. He'll start after me. He's much quicker than I am. Quicker than most.

I drop down to the ground as I feel the familiar pain of the change run through me. You can't help but yell, even once you're used to it. Even when you do it on purpose, it's still no fun having your bones rearranged. Even your ribs crack and shift around. By the time I'm finished, so is David, and he's standing next to me on two feet, his head lifted high as he sniffs the air. He's grown since I saw him last. He's massive—must be close to eight feet, with the same black fur except for the scar on his right shoulder where I bit him so long ago. I stand up to compare height with him and find myself looking up. Didn't think he'd ever get bigger than me. He looks at me and snorts, like he's waiting, but I don't pay him any mind for long.

The park has come alive. I can hear mice and snakes rustling through the underbrush, smell the leftover strawberries thrown away by a young couple on a picnic yards away. I fall to all fours, stretch my limbs, yawn out a soft growl, and shake out the last bit of human in me.

I run.

I run wherever I want, chasing birds, climbing trees, leaping over fallen logs and splashing through a stream. I catch a rabbit and devour it, growling with content at the hot flesh in my belly. Once I almost reach the edge of the woods and I have to skid to a stop and about face. I think a car honks at me, and David definitely snaps at my heels.

But soon he's roughhousing with me like always, wrestling and biting and shoving. I like to see him like this. Like himself. He's always made a better wolf than a man. We make our way back toward the park, and I peer through the tree line despite his warning growls, trotting back and forth on all fours and trying to see if anything fun is left on the pathways. David is beside me, both of us panting to catch our breath. Then I catch the scent, and I prick up my ears to see if its source makes any sound. A human. Just one.

I take off just inside the trees, making my way around as the scent grows stronger, and then I see her. A girl is alone. Foolish. She's sitting sideways on a bench, hugging her knees and looking up at the sky. You can just see the stars here, even in the middle of the city. A breeze ruffles her sandy hair, and she pushes it back into place. I smell her on the wind. Warm. Young. Her denim shorts are ridden up on her thighs, showing their tanned, hairless flesh. I shift my weight, feeling the soft dirt under my paws, and a tremble raises my hackles, making the hair on my spine stand up straight. I can't contain the growl in my throat as I throw my weight forward, bounding out from the trees toward her.

David isn't next to me now. He must have fallen behind when I bolted. The girl doesn't turn. I'm forty feet away, thirty, twenty, fifteen—now she sees me. She's frozen, and I see a pair of blue eyes widen as I draw near. The bench crumples under my weight when I hit it, and I can taste her blood on my tongue. She screams, I think. Once. Then a mass hits my side, throwing me over onto my back and knocking the wind out of me. I twist back onto my feet with a snarl, but David is over the girl now, growling at me like a protective guard dog. I snap at him, and for a moment he looks like he might back down, but then he barks out a warning and hunkers down over the girl's limp body.

Not worth the argument. It's late, in any case. I head back into the trees, following David's scent until I find where he left his backpack. When I can feel the damp grass against my skin as I lie on my back, shuddering through the last few organs shifting back into place, I glance around the little clearing. No David. I hope he hasn't done some damn fool thing. I sit for a while in the not-quite-morning before getting dressed again, and I use a bottle of water from the backpack to clean the blood from my face. Still no sign of him, so I hook the backpack over one shoulder and head back toward the road. Hope he's having fun naked, wherever he is.

The car's gone. He drove the car? He must have done a damn fool thing. There's no money in the backpack, so I start the long walk back to his apartment. I only pick up one wallet on the way, but luckily it has enough cash in it to buy me a hot dog from a street cart. Changing always makes you hungry. The hot dog doesn't quite do it, but I can always scrounge through David's pantry once I get back.

The sun's been up for a little while by the time I reach his apartment building, and I buzz his intercom, but there's no answer. So I try the girl across the way, whatever-her-name-was-smells-like-cats, and she lets me up. David's door isn't locked, so I open it up and peek inside. Nothing. He hasn't been here since we left. I picture him with a bleeding girl in the back seat of his piece of shit car, driving naked to the nearest doctor. Would've been nicer to just let me finish, instead of making her bleed out on some stretcher. But he likes to be a hero.

I drop his backpack on the couch and strip on the way to the bathroom. His shower takes a while to heat up, but I don't care. I pick up his bottles of various shampoos, conditioners, washes, and creams, smell them, and regret it. One by one I snort away the smell and drop the bottles on the floor over my shoulder. The smells must drive him crazy, but if it's something that "normal people" do, then David has to do it, too. He's got a lone bar of regular old soap, which I use. Normally I don't use anything, but it doesn't smell too bad, and it does help get off the blood and grime from my night. I leave my used towel hung over the shower rod, picking away bits of blue fuzz that stick to my skin because it was fresh and fluffy.

I fall asleep on his couch, but I'm woken up around the middle of the day by a swat to the head. David's standing over me, looking like he slept even less than I did.

"Get up, and put some damn pants on."

"Why?" I ask through a yawn as I sit up, rubbing at the sore spot on my head.

"Because you need to come with me. Right now."

He moves back to let me by so that I can reach my jeans, and he watches me impatiently as I dress. "What's the big problem?"

"She's alive, Sam. And she's staying that way."

He seems angry at my groan. "Hell's bells, son, you really did take her off to the doctor, didn't you? What'd you do a thing like that for? You feel like takin' up babysittin'?"

"You're the one that bit her, asshole," he says with a scowl. "I was supposed to just let her die?" My blank stare and shrug seem to make him even angrier. "Just get out and get in the goddamn car."

"Can we at least get somethin' t'eat on the way?"

"Are you kidding me right now?"

I hold up my hands in surrender and follow him downstairs to his car. I don't know why he's so worried about this one girl. I don't know why he stopped me in the first place. If he hates what he is so much, you'd think he would've just let me kill her and be done with it. Save her the trouble.

We drive in silence, and he pulls up to the front of a two-story brick house with columns out front. Fancy. This isn't a back alley doctor. This is going to cost. He gets out and goes to the front door without waiting for me. By the time I'm at the door, it's been opened, and we're led inside by a 40-something woman in pale blue scrubs. There are scars on her throat, disappearing under the neckline of her shirt. Scratches. But she's still human. A bite's certain to either turn you or kill you, but you can walk away from a scratch without changing, if you can survive the wound. I was just lucky I guess.

She opens an upstairs door for us, and inside is a hospital bed with a monitor next to it, and an IV stand with a tube leading into the arm of a bandaged-up girl under a blanket. She's unconscious, or at least asleep.

"She's still stable," the woman in scrubs says quietly to David. "She just needs rest, now. She's lucky you got her here as soon as you did."

"Thank you, Lisa." She leaves us, and David takes up one of the chairs beside the bed.

I move over to the foot of the bed and look down at the girl. She's young—can't be more than 25. Kind of pretty, but not exceptional. Damn David for picking her up. I don't know if he really cared about her, or if he was trying to punish me, or what. He knows I can't just leave her now. There's no explaining the bond that forms between kin—when one wolf turns another. It's instinctual, and it goes both ways. It's the only reason David puts up with me at all, I suspect, let alone lets me keep coming and going from his life. I don't know if it's the scent, or something else. But there's no getting away from caring about someone you've turned, or the one who turned you.

"So who is she?" I ask finally, looking over at David. He's got his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand, threatening to doze off.

"Don't know. She hasn't been awake very much," he mutters. I decide to shut up and let him sleep, and I sit in the spare chair beside him and scoot it up close to the head of the bed.

I almost doze off with my head in my arms on the edge of the bed, but eventually the girl stirs and I sit up. She seems drowsy, and she furrows her brow at me when she turns her head.

"Hey there, darlin'."

"Hello," she answers sleepily.

"How ya feelin'? Need the doctor to come in?"

"Just tired." Then she's out again. Hopefully she's that calm when she really comes around.

The doctor shows up a little while later. He's short, a little pudgy, and probably in his 50s. He tells me his name is Becker.

"You must be Sam. Judging by the way David brought the girl in here, I'm guessing this wasn't intentional."

"Not really."

"Well, she's going to be fine. But we do need to discuss payment. I hate to seem crass, but she did use up a good portion of my blood supply. You did a number on that girl. And David gave me the impression that neither he nor you had much in the way of money."

"Get at it, doc. What do you need?"

"As I said, I need blood. David has given me a donation, and I'll take one from you as well, but my stock is low on all types." He peers up at me over the thin gold rims of his glasses. "You and David seem...capable. I'm sure you can come up with some way to repay me."

"Don't worry about it, doc. We'll sort it out." He nods, gives me a smile, and leaves me to sit with David and the girl. I expected something like this. Most bigger cities have doctors that know about us. Some of them are human, some of them aren't. But they're a mighty handy way to take care of injuries you can't explain at a regular hospital. And since not a lot of wolves have a ton of money, just like the rest of the world, when the doctors need payment, they frequently take it in favors. This one sounds like it could be fun.

I sit quietly in the room for a while, and I let David and the girl sleep. But I can't stand the silence, and I can't stand the waiting. So after a bit I casually nudge David's elbow out from under him, and he snorts himself awake with a start. He blinks around a little and rubs his face with both hands as he sits up in his chair.

"Hey," I say when he looks over at me. "You game for some work tonight, or I gotta pay this doctor by myself?"

He slumps back a little. "What kind of work?"

"The good kind. You know where we can get a bunch of blood, make up for what this little girl took in?"

David sighs, and takes a long glance at the girl in the bed before looking back at me. "Of course we can't just clean the house, or something. Now we've got to break in somewhere. God damnit, Sam."

"What're you God damnin' me for? You're the one brought her here."

"I didn't have a choice!" He frowns and looks at the girl again, then lowers his voice. "I had to."

"You didn't. But now you done it, so let's deal with that. Where can we get some blood?"

He hesitates, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand. "There's a blood center up north a bit, I think. Maybe there. But what do we do once we're there?"

"What'd'ya mean, what do we do? Where's your head at, boy? We bust in and we take some blood and we come back. Ain't rocket scientry."

"Science."

"What?"

"Rocket science."

"Whatever. You ain't forgotten how to bust in a place. Won't be nothin'."

He sighs. "Okay. But we have to do this quietly, okay? I don't want to wreck the place. We take what we need and we get out."

"You're the boss."

He stands, and he lingers for a minute like he isn't sure he wants to leave the girl. But I elbow him when I get up and tilt my head toward the door, and he follows. Nothing to do for her except let her rest. He thanks the nurse again on the way out, and we go back to his car. We detour back to his apartment so that he can change into jeans and a dark blue shirt, then he sits on the couch with his laptop open and says he's getting directions to the blood center. He doesn't seem to like it when I pace, but it's boring to watch him stare at a screen.

Finally he finishes, and he disappears into his bedroom again. He comes back with a small messenger bag over his shoulder, and I see him tuck inside it a small leather case that I recognize well. I knew he wouldn't have gotten rid of it. David always felt happiest picking locks, and he was always good at it. Sometimes he'd break into places and not even take anything, just because the lock looked new or tricky somehow. He's been a pro for years at opening up cars without setting off alarms. Had a hell of a time when car alarms were first invented, but he loved every minute of it. That pick set probably has new parts since I saw it last, although he'd never admit to keeping on top of something like that. Too much Old David, not enough New Boring David.

We eat before we go—a couple of family-sized microwave meals that take way too long to cook. It's not really enough, so I take a bag of jerky from his pantry and eat it once we're in the car. He gripes at me, but we aren't in the car five minutes before he's reaching his hand into the bag.

"So how're we bringin' this stuff back?"

He pauses. "Shit. I should have brought a cooler or something."

"They've probably got 'em there already."

A long sigh comes out of him, and he shakes his head. "So we're not only stealing blood, we're stealing their other supplies, too."

"Quit bitchin'. You took her to the doctor; you knew you'd have to pay him somehow. You think we're takin' lives here, but somebody before us doin' just this is what saved her life. Think about that when you get all sentimental."

"I know," he sighs, and then nothing.

I turn on the radio, and flip through the stations until he slaps my hand. It stays on a country station for a while, and then he turns it off. He slaps me again when I reach back out for the knob. I lean my head back against the headrest, muttering, "Fine," and I don't open my eyes again until I feel the car stop. We're pulled off in a driveway on the side of the dark road, and I look to David questioningly.

"I don't want them to see the car, in case this place has security cameras."

"What the hell kind of blood bank has security cameras? Don't nobody rob blood banks."

"We are."

"Yeah, but that's different."

"Anyway, better safe than sorry. You can use the exercise, old man."

"Boy, I will knock you so hard you'll shit teeth."

"Yeah, yeah." He gets out and shuts the door behind him without waiting for me. Clearly I don't actually hit him enough. I climb out of the car and follow him down the driveway and into the parking lot. There's some lights, but we're back a ways from the road, and I don't see any cameras. We keep our heads down anyway.

We stand in front of the glass entry doors, and I watch while David pulls the small leather case from his bag. I nudge him in the shoulder, chuckling. "Haven't seen them in a while. You keepin' your skills up, son?"

He huffs a little and steps closer to the door, choosing the appropriate pick and setting to work. "Shut up. This is because of you."

I keep quiet and let him work. Within two minutes he lets out the small snort of satisfaction that I know means he's done, and he pushes the door open and slips inside. I follow, pulling the door shut behind me. He warns me not to touch anything. The lights are off, but the lights in the parking lot give enough of a dim glow that neither of us have any trouble seeing our way. We move to the back and what seems to be the employee only area, and I push the door open with my shoulder and peek inside.

"Looks like a big ol' cooler back there," I say. David goes to shush me, but there's nobody here. I roll my eyes and push inside, heading to the cooler door. I grab the door handle with the bottom of my shirt and pull it open, a breeze of cold air hitting me in the face. "This'll be it, I reckon. Look here; I told you there'd be coolers. It's like they want us to take it."

David pokes his head over my shoulder. "Those are probably for taking it to actual hospitals. But I'll take it."

We move inside, and gather up four small coolers. I stuff in as many cold bags as will fit and still let the lid close, then do the same to the other cooler. We don't leave them much, and David looks at the empty racks guiltily. I nudge him. "Come on. Somebody's gettin' use out of it, what do you care who it is? We can't hang around in here." I guide him out the door in front of me and shut it. When we turn the corner to the main lobby, we see flashing red and blue lights coming through the windows and press back against the wall in unison. He swears.

"Somebody must have seen us come in," he whispers. I can hear voices outside; two men, I think. Only enough lights for one car.

I tilt my head to get him to follow me, and we go deeper into the building, looking for a back door. I step up on a chair to look out a small, high window. One of the cops is outside the door, looking around, and I look down to David and shake my head. I drop down silently and step close to whisper to him. "Easier if they're split up. Can you take one?"

"What?" he hisses. "No. We're not killing them. Forget it."

"Since when're you shy about killin' cops?"

"I don't want to kill anyone!"

I take him by the front of his shirt, which is a little awkward as he's taller than me, but he still freezes like a kid. "We don't have time for this bullshit. You be a boy scout on your own damn time, hear? Now we are gettin' out of here with this stuff and we are doin' it the easy way."

He frowns at me, but stays quiet. No objections this time.

I keep a hand on his chest a moment to keep him still, pass him my bags, and I move close to the back door, leaning in and almost touching my ear to it. I can hear the man's feet slipping lightly over the asphalt as he takes a step. He's close to the door. He's probably doing the same thing I am. I look back to David, hold a finger up to my lips despite him shaking his head, and push a nearby chair with my foot, making a small squeal of metal on the floor. I hear the man outside step again, closer. Now he's really listening. Quickly, I take a single step back and slam my foot into the door just beside the handle, sending it flying open, and I grin when I hear the expected crunch of the cop's nose.

David is right behind me when I go out the door. It only takes half a moment to pick the stumbling man up by his shoulder and crash the door shut again on his skull. David turns away. I push him, and he stumbles a bit, but starts to run. For somebody that didn't like this plan, he sure does run fast. The other cop rounds the corner, and I hear him shouting. He must see what I've done, because he pulls his gun immediately. I take off running after David, and a shot rings out through the quiet night. Then another. This guy's terrible. Lucky me. But he's chasing us on foot. We get to the car and by the time I'm climbing in, David already has it started and moving. He squeals the tires in his attempt to get away quickly, and then I have to grab the door to keep my seat when another shot is fired, and the now-deflated back wheel makes a shower of sparks as it scrapes across the road. Now he's able to hit something.

I shove open the door as we skid to a stop, growling at David to stay put, and climb out. The man stops, but keeps his gun ready. I raise my hands. "My boy's hurt," I call out. He tells me to get on the ground, so I kneel as he approaches, and when he looks into the car, David's playing dead. Smart boy. The man grips one of my wrists and I hear the jingle of handcuffs. I let him click one into place and I use it to pull him forward over the top of me. He lands on his back with his gun ready, and only the thick crack of metal on the side of his head causes the shot to graze my shoulder instead of bury in my chest. He's hit again and again, and I see David standing over him, trembling and panting, pants spattered with blood. He drops the tire iron with a ringing clatter, and his shoulders drop as he looks at me.

"That made a lot of noise. We've got to go."

I nod, getting to my feet and reaching into the car to gather my half of the small coolers. David takes his two and we run into the trees at the side of the road, not slowing down until we're sure we're far enough away. I laugh when we slow to a walk, and put my unwounded arm over his shoulders. "You did real good, son."

"I don't know how we're going to get to the doctor's without a car, carrying bags that say human blood on them, and with you wearing handcuffs and bleeding."

"And you've got blood on you."

He looks down at himself, and swears. "That too."

"We'll figure it out. Don't you worry."

We walk in silence for a while. I tug at the steel on my wrist, and use my teeth to help pry it off, only leaving a bit of a mark. I drop them somewhere in the woods. We keep to the trees as long as we can, but eventually we come to the more urban part of the city and we're forced to stop. "It's dark," I suggest. "Maybe we can get a cab and he won't notice the weird stuff.""

"Do you have any money?"

"Not really. But I've got a real good mean face."

"How much?"

I sigh, and dig in my pocket while David does the same. "Fifteen."

"I've got five," he says.

"You wouldn't be complainin' about my stolen money now, would you?"

"Shut up. Twenty bucks should get us there." He waits until a taxi comes near before stepping out to hail it, avoiding standing in its headlights. We climb in and he gives the doctor's address while he stuffs the bags down by our feet to hide their labels. I think the driver notices the blood on our clothes, but he doesn't say anything. Good man.

The doctor is sleeping when we arrive, and he answers the door in a robe and slippers, but he hurries us inside when he sees the state of us. He thanks us again and again for the blood, and leaves us in his living room while he scurries off to store it.

The nurse with the scars patches up my shoulder for free, which is lucky, because between us now David and I only have seven dollars. "She's awake, by the way," she says as she snips off the end of my stitches. "You should see her."

# 5 ALICIA

Joaquin has his cell phone with him, so he calls us a couple of cabs. We don't speak much while we wait for them. What is there to say? Werewolves are real. The man who attacked me apparently was one. I don't feel so bad about not being able to fight him off, after seeing that thing. They must be monstrously strong. And Reiniger just stood there, like he was waiting in line at the checkout or something. He killed it like it was no big deal. How do you get to where you can look a thing like that in the face and not piss yourself? I guess if I say yes he'll show me.

The ride home seems long, but there is enough money in the envelope to pay the driver. My brother loses his shit when I knock on his door. Where have I been, why didn't I leave a note, why did I leave my cell phone? I don't know what to tell him. The truth? That's more unbelievable than any lie I could make up. So I just say that a friend called at the last minute, and I forgot my phone. He's still pissed, and I'm not certain he believes me, but he lets it slide. He doesn't treat me with such kid gloves anymore, but he still acts like if he upsets me too much I'm going to spiral wildly down into depression.

I lie on my bed and try to sleep a little. It doesn't work very well. Minutes tick by, and I think I doze off once or twice, but I can't shake the memory of the night. That man's body breaking as it changed, the sounds he made. The force of his weight making the metal bars creak. Reiniger's face, cold and blank, even with a werewolf's blood on it. He can teach me how to kill them, he says. Do I want to know how to do that? Will I become like him? I may have been a Marine, and I know my way around a fight pretty well, but I worked Ordnance. I went to Afghanistan, but it's not a part of my life I like to revisit. Now that I've finally gotten better, now that I can finally start to move on, do I want to go right back to doing nothing but thinking about the man with the scars who ruined my life? It seems like a stupid thing to do.

But he's not a man. Not according to Reiniger—who I assume would know better than me. He's a werewolf. He's more dangerous than I could have imagined. Can I really sit around and hope that the cops catch him? What are the chances of that? So I just move on with my life, knowing that he's out there, doing to other women what he did to me? What if he's not the only one like him? Maybe they're all like him. Can I sleep at night knowing there's something I could be doing? I certainly can't sleep now.

What would I tell my family? I guess I could tell them anything. I found a job. Technically it would be true. I'm really considering this. Calling up this weird foreign guy who kidnapped me in the middle of the night and telling him yes, please, I would like to become a werewolf hunter, just like you. And, what, he's going to whisk me away and teach me all his ways? I imagine a montage of training and loading up assault rifles with silver bullets. I wonder if he used silver bullets. Would the normal kind have worked? I guess there are probably a lot of werewolf rules I don't know.

I get up and go to the kitchen to find some food. It's early morning now, so I must have slept a little. The question isn't any easier at the kitchen table than it was on my bed. But I kind of feel like the decision already been made for me. Going back to a normal life isn't an option. I don't even know what a normal life would mean for me at this point. A day job, a boyfriend, a dog? Maybe a little house with a white picket fence while I'm at it. That isn't for me. I'm not a big believer in fate, but maybe some things are unavoidable. Maybe some things happen so that you can get where you need to be. That sounds even worse than the white picket fence line. But I can't just pretend I didn't see what I saw.

I have a shower, dress in clean clothes, and sit on my bed with the door closed, staring at my cell phone. The card Reiniger gave me is on the nightstand. I lean over to pick it up, still hesitating, and then I decide I'm being an idiot. Am I going to spend my entire life afraid? Worrying about what werewolves are doing, hoping I never see another one? Looking into every face on the street and wondering if they are one? I can't live like that. I can help. I have an obligation to help, whether Reiniger forced it on me or not. So I dial the number on the back of the card, and I listen to the phone ring. For a second I think maybe I should have waited until a reasonable time of day to call, but then the phone clicks.

"Reiniger," the unmistakable voice answers.

"It's Alicia May. I guess...I'm calling you back."

"As expected, Miss May. You will want to pack a bag, but remember that this is not a vacation. Essentials. I will collect you this afternoon. 2 p.m."

"Okay. Do I need to bring anything, you know, in particular?"

"No. We will provide any items necessary for our purposes. Just provide for yourself."

"Okay. See you then, I guess."

"Until then, Miss May." Then the phone disconnects. Well. That's one major life decision made. No going back now, I guess.

I tell my brother that I've got a job, and that I'm leaving in the morning. It's traveling. Sales. Want to get out and see the world some more. Don't worry about the money. I'll be fine. He argues with me periodically throughout the day, and of course he calls our parents, who try to talk me out of it. I imagine if they knew where I was really going—or rather, not going, since I'm not actually leaving the city—they'd try even harder. But I remind all three of them that I'm 27 years old and going to do whatever I think is going to make me happiest, and then I shut myself in my room to pack my duffel. Happy probably isn't the right word for what I think I'm going to be. Satisfied, maybe. That's close. If I can hunt the one who did this to me, I'll be satisfied.

I don't have a lot of stuff, so it's easy to decide what to pack. Some clothes, shoes, toiletries. I pack my M-9 into the bag as well, tucked between a couple of shirts. Maybe they'll fill it with silver bullets for me. If that part's even true. Who knows what's real and what's not, now?

My brother answers the door before I can get to it, and he seems surprised to see Reiniger in the hall. He gives me a skeptical look as I sling my duffel over my shoulder, and when I hug him goodbye he mutters into my ear, "Doesn't look like a salesman to me. You be careful out there, huh? Call if you need anything. I mean it."

"Thanks, Derrick. I'll be fine." He lets me go, and then Reiniger and I are in the hallway. He tilts his head to me, just a little, and leads me out of the building and to his car. I'm allowed to sit in the front seat this time. Somehow it feels a little more awkward sitting beside him than it did being kidnapped by him. He seems more like a kidnapper than someone you take a road trip with.

"If you have any questions, you may ask them now. I will answer," he says once we're moving steadily through the traffic. I have a million questions, some of them I'm not sure he can answer for me, but I decide to start with the mundane ones.

"Are there a lot of werewolves? You know, in the world?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"That is impossible to pinpoint precisely. But the population throughout much of Europe is estimated to be approximately one in fifteen hundred."

For just a second, my brain screeches to a halt. "That many? That's insane; how are they still a secret?"

"We ensure it."

"How can that be? How many of you are there?"

"Approximately seventeen hundred."

"Holy crap. And you all hunt werewolves?"

"Yes."

"You said in Europe. What about here? Are there that many here? Are you all from Europe? I mean obviously you are personally."

"We do not yet have a permanent presence in this country. Our main base of operations is in Köln, in Germany. We have other stations in England, Norway, France, Spain, and Italy, but these are smaller. We have sent only a few to this country to assess the situation and determine your need." He sounds like a dictionary; he's not even as interesting as an encyclopedia. He keeps a firm grip on the steering wheel and watches the road. His face is so stoic. I guess he notices me staring at him, because his pale eyes flick over to me for just a moment, and he clears his throat quietly, once. "Is that all?"

"How many of you are here?"

"We are currently eleven. We are only here to set up a small base and observe, for now."

"Why New York?"

"New York is the home of Adam Weiss, a very wealthy and powerful wolf. He is the American presence of a very old and very prolific wolf family in Ingolstadt. We are beginning our investigation with him."

"How long have you been around? How long have you been doing this?"

"The Wolfjäger were formed in 1591." I wait a beat, but he doesn't continue.

"And you?"

His eyes move from the road again, briefly. "All my life."

That explains why he's so serious, I guess. "So, there's two thousand of you, and you're all over Europe, and you've been hunting them since the middle ages, so why are there still werewolves in Europe?"

"Our numbers are nothing compared to the wolves. Our initial accounts indicate they are less dense here, but that is likely to change without our presence. Germany is not a child of a country, like America. There is hardly a city or township that isn't inhabited by wolves. They spread like a disease; one can make dozens more in his lifetime. Other countries are similar. We fight a defensive war, not one of eradication. Eradication is impossible without the wolves' existence being common knowledge, and that is something we cannot risk."

I didn't consider that werewolf hunters would do anything but kill werewolves all day. But I'm having enough trouble coming to terms with the idea that they're real, and I saw it happen for myself. I can't imagine what would happen if everyone knew. Actually, yes I can. I've seen enough stupidity and paranoia just directed at other humans, let alone something as monstrous as these things. "I guess a lot of innocent people would be targeted by mistake."

"This is true. There would be mass hysteria. Right now, the wolves are mostly integrated with society, and do not cause a great deal of trouble. However, if they were exposed, if they were threatened with extinction, their numbers are such that I would not be certain of humanity's victory. So we hunt the outliers, those that cannot be trusted to keep the peace. We are playing a long game. We focus our attention on those that cause the most death and suffering."

"Like mine," I mutter.

"Yes."

"Do you know where he is?"

"We have been following stories that match his modus operandi since we learned of him. He seems to be transient; we suspect he left New York some time ago, and traveled south."

"So he's hurt other people?"

"Most likely. We cannot know for certain that he is responsible, but the reports match the stories of the wolves themselves. The one who attacked you is called Scratch by the others. We do not yet know his real name. But he has a reputation. Until we found you, we were not convinced he was anything more than an urban legend."

I laugh a little as the car pulls into the alley, but there's no humor in it. "He's real enough to me."

Reiniger doesn't answer. He gets out of the car and waits for me by the door, and we enter the building together. He leads me the opposite way down the hallway this time, and into a large room lined with bunks and lockers. It feels familiar, and I smile a little to myself. I decide I don't care about how strange it all is—that there's a whole base of werewolf hunters in New York City, who seem well-equipped and organized, or that the man who recruited me is some kind of werewolf stare-down machine.

He shows me to a bunk, and gestures to the footlocker beside it. "This is where you will stay. If you will leave your things, I will show you the rest of the outpost."

I drop my duffel on the bunk and follow him out. He leads me around the hallways, showing me the showers, the common area—where two men play ping pong at a table in the corner, which really ruins my immersion in this serious, werewolf-infested world—and the mess. I'm introduced to a man Reiniger calls the Lead. He's older, probably almost 40, and he greets me with a polite smile and a handshake.

"Alicia May. I am Peter Baumann, the Lead here." His accent is thicker than Reiniger's. Much easier to tell he's German, rather than some-kind-of-European-probably. "You are welcome; we are glad to have Americans willing to help. If you have any questions or concerns, please direct them to Miss Seidel, my aide. In the meantime, I am sure that the others will be able to provide adequately for you."

"Thank you, sir. I won't disappoint."

He nods at me and turns to Reiniger to ask him something in German. My escort gives him a clipped response, and he goes off down the hallway, presumably to handle some important werewolf business, or something. Reiniger glances down at me and gestures down the hall, indicating I should follow.

The place is really well done up. There's a room full of computers and screens showing live feeds of cameras both inside and outside the building, it looks like, and a surprisingly well-stocked armory. Not too many guns, but quite a few knives, crossbows and bolts, and a couple shelves of small glass vials. When I ask Reiniger about them, he just says, "Silver nitrate."

"So the silver thing is true."

"Yes."

"But I guess it doesn't need to be a silver bullet?"

"No." He leads me back into the common room and offers me a seat at a large, round table. He sits beside me, straight-backed, with his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. "I would prefer to wait to answer this kind of question until the other recruit arrives."

"Joaquin called you, too?"

"Not yet. But he is expected."

I decide not to ask what makes him expected if he hasn't called. But sure enough, after a way-too-long awkward silence, Reiniger's phone rings, and he tells me to stay put while he "collects" Joaquin. He leaves me sitting alone in the room. Even the ping pong players have left. I guess I could go put my stuff away, but I'm not positive they want me wandering around the secret base by myself just yet.

A woman comes in, and she grins when she sees me. She's kind of short, with dirty blonde hair in a French braid down her back. She has a hard face, but her smile is genuine and pleasant. "New girl?" she asks as she walks over.

I stand up to shake her hand. "Alicia May."

"Anke Wagner," she answers, and she urges me back into my seat as she turns a chair around and sits with her elbows on the back. "Good to see another woman around. I'm glad you agreed. It's not so bad usually, but sometimes it's kind of a boy's club in here. But you were a Marine, right? I hear that's even worse." She doesn't have a German accent at all. She sounds American.

"It can be. Did you come over here with the rest of these guys?"

"You're asking because I don't sound like Herr Baumann, right? Yeah, I grew up in Germany, but my father is American. He was stationed at Giebelstadt, and he met my mother there. So I've been back and forth from here to there a lot. I prefer it there. But New York is cool. I hadn't been here before."

"Just curious. Also, can I ask you something?" She nods, and leans her chin on her forearms on the back of the chair. "Everybody seems like they're on a last-name-basis here, but what are the ranks like?"

"We don't really work like that. Herr Baumann is lead, so he gets a title kind of, but other than that we're all pretty equal. You can call me Anke if you like, when we're not in the field. Not that I anticipate being in the field with you very much. They'll assign you with Reiniger and Hauptmann, right?"

"Reiniger's the one who came to get me, but I haven't met the other one."

"You'll like him. Everyone likes Jonas. Can't say the same about Reiniger, though. Sorry about him."

I laugh. "He's different. What's his deal?"

She shrugs. "Who knows? He's a legacy. I didn't join until I was grown; a lot of us didn't. But Reiniger was born into it. His father, his father's father, the whole thing. I think he's really proud of it. I don't know if the whole 'I'm a hard-ass stoic nothing affects me' bit is an act, or if he's actually kind of messed up. He gives me the creeps." She glances over her shoulder at the door as though she expects him to be lurking there. "But you get used to him, I guess."

We chat a bit more until the door finally is pushed open, and Reiniger enters with Joaquin. The kid looks less enthusiastic than yesterday, but he still offers me a weak smile. Anke gives me a quick salute as she hops up from her chair, and she wastes no time getting out of the room once Reiniger approaches. His brow seems to wrinkle just a little as he turns the chair back to face the table, and Joaquin sits in it. Reiniger doesn't sit; he stands opposite us with a tablet in his hand and stares at it in silence for a few moments before he returns his attention to us.

"Now we may begin."

Joaquin glances at me a little warily, but I don't have any comfort to give him. It's a brand new fucked-up world for us, and we're being led into it by a guy that people leave the room to avoid. Great.

# 6 MARCY

The first thing I really notice is that I'm not in my own bed. I feel sore all over, and I can't really move my left arm. There's an IV in my other arm and one of those finger monitors on my hand. The room is empty. It doesn't look like a normal hospital room. What am I doing here? I had dinner, I checked my email, I went to the park...the park.

There was an animal. Something big, like a bear, or a wolf, but too big to be either. It attacked me—all I remember is being thrown from the park bench, and I think its face. I don't know if it's a real memory, or some kind of amalgamation of the fever dreams I've been having since. I can remember bright green eyes—radiation green, unusual even for an animal—and the scars. On its face, there were scars, ragged, faded pink lines all over its muzzle. When I shut my eyes, I can feel its hot breath, its saliva, its teeth tearing into me. I think I must be exaggerating the memory.

But how did I get here? I vaguely remember a guy, a car ride. Why didn't that thing kill me, and how did someone just happen to find me?

I call out as best I can, but my throat feels dry and scratchy. I don't see a button to call a nurse. After I call a couple more times, a woman in scrubs opens the door and looks inside. She smiles kindly at me and comes inside with a glass of water, which I drink eagerly.

"Where am I?" I ask as soon as my mouth is empty.

"You're in a doctor's office," she says gently. "You were badly injured, but you're safe now, and you're going to be fine."

"Badly injured by what?" My head aches, and she takes the empty glass from me as I reach up to press the ball of my hand to my temple. "I can remember a...I don't even know what. I feel crazy. Am I crazy?"

"I can promise you aren't crazy," she says with a small laugh, lightly patting my knee. "I think it's best if he explains everything himself, but you aren't crazy. Try to get a bit more rest, and they should be back in the morning."

"They? Who should explain himself?"

"Don't stress yourself needlessly." She stands and moves to the door. "I'll bring you something to eat."

She brings me soup, and it tastes good, but she still won't answer my questions. She tells me to sleep, but how can I sleep when there are people coming in the morning to explain my craziness to me? I toss and turn for what seems like forever—mostly by centimeters, since my arm and shoulder ache. I can't get comfortable. I must doze off eventually, because the door startles me when it opens again.

Two men walk in, but I barely even notice the one behind. The man who enters first is muscular and scruffy, and his clothes are dirty—I think his shirt has blood on it. But his face—his face is covered in scars, right over his cheek and mouth, just like—don't be crazy. Don't be crazy. My heart pounds as he approaches the bed, and I feel like I'm sweating, even though he's smiling at me.

"Hey there, darlin'." I feel like I've heard him before. In a dream? I want to move away from him, but I can't. He has green eyes. "Don't be skittish, now," he says, and his voice is so low and gentle that I almost feel guilty for being afraid. "What's your name, honey?"

"Marcy," I whisper. The man behind him is looking over his shoulder at me. He seems familiar, too. What is going on with me?

"Well, Marcy," the man with the scars says softly, "I'm Sam, an' this here is David. I reckon you've got a lot a questions. We'll answer 'em all, all right?" When I nod, or at least I think I nod, he scoots in a chair beside the bed and sits close to me. "Just one at a time." I can see the monster over me, panting and growling, but inexplicably, this man's rumbling drawl calms me down.

I decide to start with the craziest question. "Are you...I mean, were you...from the park?"

For some reason I'm not surprised at his smile. "Yeah, that was me. Reckon I put a damper on your evening."

"But now you're...not that?"

"Not right this minute, no. I know this don't make a lot of sense, so let's get the hard part out the way. You know what a werewolf is."

I find myself laughing. The other man furrows his brow at me, but Sam smiles. "Yeah, I know what a werewolf is. Are you a werewolf?"

"Not just me, sweetheart. You know that's a bite I gave you."

"Wait, a...a bite?" I reach up to touch the bandages on my shoulder. "You're telling me that you bit me? I'm a werewolf? But they aren't real."

"I think y'know that ain't true. You know me, or you wouldn've asked about the park. You remember."

Too big to be a wolf or a bear. A massive form crouched over me, with thick fur and slavering jaws. A man with the same scars. It couldn't be, could it? Sam reaches out and puts a hand over mine. He's warm. The other man is still staring at me with a worried frown, but Sam's face is comforting. He's looking at me like I'm a child who just learned the truth about Santa. I know he's telling the truth. I can feel it in my gut, and it makes me a little sick. He must see it in my face, because he laughs.

"Don't worry, darlin'. It ain't as bad as all that. Doc said you'll be ready to go home shortly, an' we'll take right good care of you. Don't even have too long a wait 'til your time." He glances over his shoulder at the other man. "What, two weeks?"

The darker man just nods. He looks sad.

"Until my time? What time?"

Sam's smile is less comforting this time. "The full moon. You know that much 'fore I even tell you."

In two weeks I'm going to turn into a monster. Just like him. Just like them. I hiccup once, and I feel a couple of hot tears on my cheeks. Sam tuts at me, and he leans up in his chair to brush them away with his knuckles and kiss my forehead. He's so gentle; how can this person be the same as that animal? The other one is pacing now, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Sam is ignoring him; he just smiles at me and touches my hair. Normally I guess I'd be weirded out by such affection from a stranger—even one who wasn't also apparently a werewolf—but for some reason I don't mind.

"You live in town, honey?"

"Yeah."

"Well don't you bother none; me an' David are gon' take good care of you. We've got some prep to do, but we'll explain everything, understand?"

"Prep?" My head is spinning. "Prep for what?"

"You just rest for now," he says. "Get you a bit more sleep. I'll be right here."

He says that like it should be easy to just go back to sleep. The other man, David, is lurking behind him with a look on his face that makes me feel even worse. Sam gets up, and they talk quietly amongst themselves for a minute, David glancing over his shoulder at me every few seconds. This really isn't helping me relax.

I feel like my heart is pounding at a mile a minute, my shoulder aches where—apparently—I was bitten by a werewolf, and now these two strange men seem to be discussing what they're going to do with me. I want to call my dad, but I don't know where my phone is. I don't know if they would let me. I don't know where I am or if they're going to let me leave. I try to be quiet, but a small hiccup becomes a sob, and I cover my mouth to try and stifle it even as more come.

Sam looks over at me then, and he waves David away as he comes back to my side. David slips out the door, and Sam shakes his head beside me and reaches out for me again. I flinch away, and he stops, just frowning at me.

"It ain't so bad, darlin'," he says again. "You'll see."

"I want to go home." I can hear the words coming out of my mouth, quiet and whimpering. I wipe some tears on the back of my hand and wish that I could turn away from him. Even if my shoulder wasn't so sore, I wouldn't want to turn my back on him.

"We need to have a talk about that, actually. This is a lot to take in, I know it, but this all's got to be done. You got family in town, darlin'?"

I feel like cold water has been poured down my back. "What are you going to do to my family?" I whisper.

He laughs, and it startles me. He's trying to be gentle with me, I can see that at least, but he doesn't have a kind laugh. It's a rough sound, almost like he's barking or coughing. He puts a hand on mine when he stops, and he shakes his head. "Nothin', sweetheart. Nobody's doin' nothin'. We just gotta know so we know what to do with you, that's all."

"What...what to do with me?"

"A perk I ain't told you bout yet—you're gon' live a mighty long time. Which means some arrangements are gon' have to be made, 'cause you can't carry on like you been doin'."

"You don't even know what I've been doing."

He chuckles. "Whatever it is, it'll have to be different. We can't stay here."

I try to sit up a little, but I wince when pain shoots down my arm. Sam tuts at me and tells me to lie down, but I just stare at him. "Why not? What's wrong with here? I like it here," I say, touching a hand to my forehead. Not exactly a sound argument, but I'm having trouble thinking straight.

He shifts in his chair a little, with a momentary grimace of embarrassment on his face that I suspect isn't genuine. "Well, see, the doctor can't just take care of folks for free. Me an' David, we had to do a bit of business for him, and turned out that we're gon' have to leave town for a bit. More than a bit, likely."

"What did you do?"

He waves a hand at me. "Don't pay it no mind. Got your bill squared away; now we just got to make sure you're safe, understand?"

I shake my head, hating the hot tears on my cheeks. "Not at all."

Sam pats my hand. "Don't you fret, now." He leans in closer when I don't look at him, and his hand on my cheek is surprisingly gentle as he turns my face to him. "You're safe with me, hear? Ain't nothin' bad gon' happen to you while I'm here."

I actually believe him. His hand is warm, and the soft words coming out of his mouth don't seem to match the vicious-looking scars on his face or the monster I saw with my blood on its muzzle last night.

I manage a small smile, though I'm not certain how. "You mean, aside from being turned into a werewolf?"

He grins at me, and I feel a little warm inside. "Just you wait, honey. You got a whole new life waitin' on you."

He leans over to kiss my temple, and I let my eyes shut again. He keeps his hand in mine while I drift off, and I think I begin to feel a little better.

The sound of the bedroom door being shut wakes me up, and I see David looking at me with hunched shoulders and a small grimace, like he didn't mean to make that much noise. Sam is still in the chair beside me, but leaned back with his hand dangling over the side and his head back, softly snoring.

David is holding a paper bag in his hands, and he offers me a weak smile as he approaches the bed. He glances at Sam before gently setting the bag down on the table beside my bed. It smells like food. My stomach groans; I didn't realize how hungry I was.

"Hi, uh, Marcy, right?" he says quietly. "I brought food. You must want more than soup by now."

I move to sit up a little, and he's instantly got a hand on my back and another in my hand, gently helping me and stuffing pillows behind me to keep me upright. He releases me when I'm settled, and he takes a few white boxes out of the paper bag—obviously Chinese food.

"I didn't know what you'd like, so, you know...I got a bunch of stuff."

"Thank you," I say, but he only nods and helps me set one of the boxes on my knee so that I can eat. He sits nearby, not quite as close as Sam, and waits quietly while I eat. It's a little awkward, but he doesn't look at me, just sits and frowns and occasionally rubs his hands together like he's about to say something uncomfortable.

"Listen," he says finally, taking the empty box from me and throwing it away, "we need to talk about what's going to happen. What did he tell you?" He tilts his head at Sam, in case I don't know who he's talking about.

"He...he asked me about my family. They aren't going to be hurt, are they?"

"No no, no, of course not," he says quickly. "But he told you we have to leave, right? We just need to know...I mean, if you have family here, it's....trickier."

"You guys are in trouble, that's why we have to leave, isn't it?"

David sighs, lifting his hands briefly and letting them drop back to his lap. "It couldn't be helped. Look, I know you've probably got a life here. It's probably a nice one. But you really do have to come with us. You'll hurt yourself, and you'll hurt other people if you don't."

"I'm about to start law school," I protest, knowing already that I don't have a choice. David looks sympathetically at me, and I shake my head to stop whatever he's about to say. "I know. Sorry. This is all just crazy. What do I tell my parents? My sisters?"

"Don't tell them anything," he says softly. "You can't. You can't go home, Marcy, not for a long time. You're dangerous."

I hear myself laugh, but I don't feel it. "So, what, I just never see them again? The last conversation I'll ever have with my mom is about Uncle Geoff's appendectomy?"

David smiles a little. "You just have to be careful. Sam will tell you to cut ties, forget about them, fake your death, something like that. But you don't have to if you don't want to." He leans in slightly closer to me, glancing briefly across the bed at Sam. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea. You're always going to be dangerous. For a long time, you're going to have trouble controlling yourself. You'll get angry. You'll be strong. It's a bad combination. But in time, you can control it. Kind of. You'll see them again, if you want to. You'll have a few years before they start to notice you're not aging."

"Not aging? Oh, he said something about living a long time. That's true?"

"I mean, you'll be aging. It just goes slowly. It's not exact, but it's a few years per...year, if that makes any sense."

I find myself smiling at him. "Like dog years?"

He drops his gaze as he smiles. I never would have thought I'd meet a shy werewolf. "Yeah. Like dog years."

I tilt my head slightly as I look at him. "How old are you, David?"

He hesitates, and doesn't look at me. "I'm, uh. Ninety-four."

"Ninety-four?" I say louder than I mean to. Sam stirs slightly, and I cover my mouth too late. I speak in a whisper to compensate. "You don't look ninety-four!"

"Neither will you," he says simply. He shifts a little and looks at the door, the wall, anywhere but my face. "Look, um. I was at your place."

"My apartment? How did you know where I live?"

"Your driver's license was in your pocket. So I, you know. I packed your stuff. I mean, if there's something you need that I left, I can go back and get it. But I packed your clothes, and the stuff that was in your bathroom that you'd probably want. There were a couple pictures in your room that I grabbed. And your laptop."

I hold up a hand to stop him, and he finally looks at me. "David, you broke into my apartment?"

"I couldn't find your keys. They must have gotten lost in the park."

"You packed my clothes? Like...all my clothes?" I feel my face burn a little at the thought of this stranger handling my underwear, but I'm not sure if it's anger or embarrassment.

"I mean, yeah," he says under his breath. "We really don't have a lot of time. I barely got some stuff out of my place before the cops were there. We need to be anywhere but Atlanta."

"What did you guys do?"

He looks at Sam instead of me, and he frowns. "What we had to. It doesn't matter." He gets to his feet then, and he rubs his palms on his jeans while he seems to decide whether to stay or go. "I have some, you know. Some stuff to do. Is there anything you want me to get from your place, something I might have missed?"

I pause, and try to picture my apartment. I probably won't get to go back. If he took the pictures from my bedroom—God, I can't believe he was in my bedroom, touching my—oh, stop thinking about it. I'm not some kind of innocent virgin or a prude or anything. It's not like it's the first time a guy's been in that apartment. He probably wasn't even thinking about it like that, anyway. He's on the run from the cops and he was trying to make sure I had things to wear while I ran from the cops with him. That's all.

He's staring at me, and I realize I must be red-faced. I resist the urge to touch my cheeks and check for heat. "No," I say finally. "Nothing sentimental."

He nods, and seems to hesitate uncertainly for another second before making a decision and leaving the room again.

Sam snores beside me until a particularly loud inhale wakes him up, and he sits up in his chair and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand automatically. "Is that Chinese food?"

# 7 ALICIA

The next couple of days have not been exactly what I expected when I was recruited to a company of werewolf hunters. There's a surprising amount of sitting around and reading.

Joaquin took the bunk above mine, but it only took one night of him getting hissed at in angry German for him to stop trying to talk to me instead of sleeping. He seems like he's a good kid, just excitable.

It's strange being in a bunk again. People sleep in shifts, so there's usually someone in there. Joaquin and I are still on a regular day-night schedule, but some people—like Anke, who apparently works in surveillance—are on alternating shifts regardless of what time of day it is. I met Jonas, the other man that she mentioned. He seems entirely too friendly to be a werewolf hunter, but he looks the part. He's a huge guy, like a stereotype of a German barbarian.

Reiniger says we're going to be separated soon—Joaquin is apparently going to be a Funker, which seems to be the kind of nerdy thing he'd be good at. Bugs, cameras, computers, that kind of thing. I'm supposed to be a Jäger—a hunter. Reiniger says they always work in pairs, and he's going to be my partner. I can't say I'm excited. I don't consider myself a person who's easily intimidated, but he kind of weirds me out. He's very polite, most of the time, though he's very straightforward. But it's not even like he's cold, really. It's like he's too indifferent to be cold, because cold requires effort and caring. It's hard to explain.

When I see him in the barracks, I almost feel a little sorry for him. Nobody really talks to him. Not that I think he minds much. He just wakes up—5 a.m. every morning without an alarm—does his daily exercises, takes his change of clothes into the showers, and comes back perfectly pressed except for his damp hair. One evening I saw him sitting on his bunk just staring at his tablet. I assume he was reading, but he looked very out of place with the other guys clowning around right beside him, ignoring him and being ignored. Sometimes he'll nod at me if he sees me watching him, but mostly he just stares back or ignores me altogether. Some people greet me in the hallway now if I pass them, like Anke or Jonas, but nobody ever greets Reiniger. They move out of his way.

We've spent the last three days being shown the facility and introduced to the staff, but mostly we spend our time sitting at the corner table in the common room while Reiniger goes over werewolf anatomy, physiology, strengths, weaknesses, and behavior.

It's a lot to take in. Apparently they live a long time, sometimes as long as five hundred years. They're strong, at least three times as strong as a man, and they can move as fast as an Olympic runner. They have to change during a full moon, but some of them can learn to do it whenever they want, which is pretty scary. But the silver thing is apparently true. Wolfjäger use silver-coated weapons, silver bullets, and liquid silver nitrate to incapacitate them, but it isn't as easy as Reiniger made it look. He says they can take just about any beating you give them, as long as their heart doesn't stop. You can shoot them with silver bullets all day, but they're probably going to live through it unless you actually get one in their heart. He said they also use Wolfsbane, which I didn't even know was a thing, but I don't know what it's used for.

Today we're supposed to be learning more about protocol and how to deal with wolves and what our jobs are actually going to be. Reiniger isn't a very enthusiastic teacher. I almost fell asleep yesterday while he was telling us about the various weaponry and scientific things being researched at their home base in Cologne. That's probably why I can't remember what Wolfsbane is for.

Joaquin is lingering near our bunk while I do some push-ups on our fourth morning at the compound, watching me like a zoo animal. He could do with some push-ups himself. Scrawny arms.

"So you think you're really up for it?" he asks me. "I mean, it seems like I'll mostly be hanging out here, behind the scenes, you know? But you'll be out there, facing them, fighting them. Think you can do it?"

"Hope so," I answer, trying to sound confident and cavalier. In my head, I can still see his face, those scars on his smirking lips, hear his deep rumble of a voice against my ear, feel his weight and his heat on top of me. I thought I was over it or at least getting that way, but the prospect of meeting him again and being able to do something about it has brought a few unpleasant memories back to the surface.

I see Joaquin jump out of the corner of my eye and look up to see Reiniger standing beside him, so I get to my feet, dusting off my hands on my pants. He doesn't say anything, just gestures at us to follow. We know the drill by now. He leads us to our table in the common room where there's a short stack of file folders waiting for us. Reiniger stands opposite us as we take our seats, like usual, and he puts a hand on top of the files.

"These are American wolves currently under investigation. They are all dangerous to one degree or another. You will become familiar with them." He takes the top file, fat with paper, and lays it open in front of us. On the left-hand side, there's a picture of a youngish man with pale blond hair and blue eyes wearing an expensive-looking suit. The picture looks like it was taken from kind of far away because it's got that kind of zoomed-in blur, and the man is seated at an outside table at a restaurant with a cell phone to his ear.

"This is Adam Weiss," Reiniger says. "We estimate his age to be approximately one hundred and twenty years. In his true form, he is of average size, has white fur, and bears his scar on his lower back."

"What scar?" Joaquin asks, and Reiniger pauses, his brow wrinkling slightly. He doesn't take being interrupted well, but Joaquin hasn't figured it out yet.

"Werewolves do not scar, as their accelerated healing prevents them from forming. There are only two exceptions—wounds from silver weapons, and scars that form before their transformation. This includes the injury that infected them. It is usually a severe wound."

"Yeah, I bet," Joaquin says, and Reiniger just stares at him for a couple of beats before continuing.

"He is the only son of Ulrich Weiss, deceased, and Petra Weiss, who resides in Ingolstadt. His mother was already a wolf when he was born, as is the custom in the Weiss family. They believe it weeds out the weak children. He is a reasonably capable but untrained fighter, relying mostly on intimidation and intrigue to achieve his goals. For all intents and purposes, he is the head of the Weiss family. There are older wolves in Ingolstadt, but the family's income arrives almost solely in U.S. dollars, and it is known that the family hardly makes any substantial decisions without his approval. His net worth is estimated at at least 300 million Euros, or just over 400 million U.S. Dollars. His wealth is the result of his criminal activities involving the Italian crime family led by Vincent Esposito as well as various legitimate business ventures in the city. He currently resides here, in New York, in a condominium apartment near Central Park. He is not an active target at this time, but we intend to keep him under watch."

I lift my eyebrows in appreciation, and Joaquin actually lets out a quiet, "Wow." I wouldn't have expected a werewolf to seem so civilized. I mean, he's apparently in the mob, but still. I clearly can't think of them all as being just beasts, like mine. This one apparently doesn't even fight that well. I guess that's relative when you're talking about a werewolf, though.

Reiniger flips the file shut and pushes it to one side, then replaces it with the next one on the stack. The next few are what Reiniger calls the active targets—wolves that have been judged as too dangerous to continue living and that will be killed when they're found. They seem to come from all over the country. Men, women, white, black, Hispanic, young, old. He lists at least a dozen before he flips open a comparatively thin folder that's lacking a photo. In its place is a police sketch that I recognize instantly. It's the one the cops drew based on my description.

It's in color, and it looks pretty close to how I remember him, except for the eyes. They couldn't get the color right. It's green, but somehow it isn't quite the same toxic-looking color he had. I try to hide my clenched fists under the table and ignore the tingling in my spine as I look at the picture.

"This creature is known only as Scratch," Reiniger says, barely sparing me a look. If he knows how uncomfortable I am, he doesn't seem to care. "Almost everything that we know about him comes from stories traded amongst the wolves themselves. Countless deaths have been attributed to him, but very little official record exists linking him to these events as he does not normally leave survivors. Some exceptions exist, of course," he adds with a brief glance at me that Joaquin clearly notices because he stares at me with his mouth open and a question practically visible on his lips. But he doesn't ask it. I'm grateful.

"He is said to be as old as three hundred years," Reiniger continues, "though this is likely an exaggeration, based on the physical descriptions given. There are also claims that he is ten feet tall and only rarely takes human shape. Also very likely exaggerations. For reference, the largest wolf on record in Germany was two hundred ninety-four centimeters, or approximately nine feet and eight inches. The average is between six and a half to seven feet. As for his remaining in his true form for long periods, this is possible but unlikely, based on his reported tactic of seducing women before killing them." He looks at me. "If you have any details you feel might be helpful, Miss May, now would be a pertinent time to share them. Our solid information on this creature is sparse."

Joaquin is still staring at me, but I ignore him. I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms, but I ignore that, too. I stare at the picture on the table and do my best to turn my trembling heart to stone. "He's Southern," I start, glad that my voice sounds steady. "I don't know well enough to pinpoint where, but he had a heavy accent. He had a motel room, not an apartment or a house, so he clearly travels around. And it was crappy, so he probably doesn't have a lot of money. That's...that's really all I know."

Reiniger spins the file around and takes a few notes on a page inside while I talk. "We are currently investigating any stories that seem to be solid leads and attempting to contact any wolves who may know him personally. There was a recent report of a murder in a town called Dalton which seems to match the criteria, so we suspect he is currently in Georgia."

My heart skips. "Wait, you know where he is?"

Reiniger pauses after setting down the file with the others we've gone over. "We suspect that he is in Georgia. No more than that."

"But he's the big fish, right?" I sit forward in my chair. "He's the important one. He's dangerous," I insist. "If you even think you know where he is, shouldn't you be going after him? I'll go myself."

Reiniger holds up a hand before I can continue. "Miss May. Unsubstantiated claims are not the same as fact. Yours is the only solid case we have against this creature. All others are mere speculation and folk tale, and this is not something on which we can base a deployment. Even if it were, a more specific location than 'Georgia' would be necessary. Your personal feelings with regard to this case are noted, but they are not grounds for moving an urban legend to the top of our list of priorities."

"Then why did you bring me here, if we're not going after him?"

"Because I believed you had the determination and skill to be of use to the cause as a whole," he says firmly, keeping his eyes on mine. "Was I mistaken?"

I feel like I've been scolded—but I'm a Marine. I'm used to constantly defending my right just to be somewhere. So I say, "No," and leave it at that. He drops it as well, and we continue down the stack of files until we reach the table underneath.

He nudges the new pile into a neater stack and then actually takes a seat across from us, sitting perfectly straight-backed with his hands folded in front of him on the table.

"This is the last of these sessions. These files will be available for your perusal. Vargas, you will be working with Wagner and Hirsch. Your first objective will be placing audio surveillance devices in the home of Adam Weiss."

Joaquin holds up a finger and scoots his chair in closer to the table, leaning his elbows on it. "Hold on. You mean bugs? We're going to bug this guy's apartment? The multimillionaire Mafioso werewolf. That guy?"

"Yes," Reiniger says simply.

Joaquin hesitates, and then leans back in his chair with a laugh and a small shrug. "Okay then. Why not?"

Reiniger turns to look at me. "Miss May, you will be partnered with me for the time being. We have business this afternoon which I shall discuss with you shortly." I nod at him, and he glances between Joaquin and me. "Do you have any final questions before beginning your assignments?"

Joaquin looks like he has questions, but he just folds his arms and sits. Maybe he figures his questions will be better answered by an actual person, instead of Robot Reiniger. I wish I had the same option. Maybe I can talk to Jonas later.

"Then you are dismissed, Vargas," Reiniger says. "Wagner will be waiting for you in surveillance."

Joaquin gets up and scoots his chair back under the table, pausing to give me a grin. "See you around, jarhead."

I can't help returning his smile, and he gives a small wave before disappearing out the swinging doors of the common room. I can tell Reiniger is staring at me before I look back at him. "So what's our business? Somebody terrorizing the city we need to take care of?" I'm glad I can at least fake being carefree about the concept of killing a werewolf. Reiniger's face stays blank, so I can't tell if he sees through me or not.

"No. Our assignment is prevention today." He stands and pushes his chair in, then walks away, obviously expecting me to follow him. I hurry after him, and he leads me down the hall to the armory. "No guns," he says simply, and I see him choose a small folding knife, which he hooks to the inside of his pants pocket. I see the glint of his silver knuckles before he slips them into his other pocket.

I have a look around the room. I guess the crossbows are out for a middle of the afternoon "prevention" operation, so I just find a decent-sized knife, hook the sheath to the back of my belt, and let my shirt cover it. Reiniger is already waiting silently by the door, and we walk to the front of the compound where another man seems to be waiting for us. I think his name is Paolo. Reiniger told me he's a Botschafter, which seems to be kind of like a diplomat or an ambassador. They interact with the wolves in non-violent ways.

He greets me with a smile, and we head out of the compound to one of the cars parked in the small lot at the back of the alley. I climb into the passenger seat, Paolo in the back behind me, and I watch Reiniger touch a few things on the built-in GPS on the dashboard.

"So, are you going to tell me where we're going, what we're doing, any little details like that?"

His yellow-brown eyes snap over to me, and I think I almost see a little bit of a frown. He waits until he's started the car and pulled out into the street before he speaks. "We were contacted by a wolf who became aware of our presence during our investigations. He is from Germany and is familiar with our operations, so he requested our assistance."

"Assistance? We assist werewolves now?"

"As I said previously, extinction is not our agenda so much as secrecy. We must maintain order and protect the people. Sometimes this necessitates fighting, and sometimes it necessitates favors."

I narrow my eyes at him, but he's just watching the traffic. "Favors."

"Yes."

"What is it we're actually doing?"

"The man is sire to a young wolf who is currently in jail. For possession, not a violent crime. He allowed himself to be arrested rather than harm the police on the advice of his sire, but now he is not set to appear before a judge for the next three weeks, which will place him in a crowded jail during the next full moon."

"Which would be bad," Paolo pipes up from the back seat. His English is pretty good, but he has a thick Italian accent.

"So, what, we're going to break someone out of jail?"

Paolo laughs and leans forward to put his elbow on the back of my seat. "We are going to pay his bail."

I pause, and look to Reiniger for confirmation, but he only glances at me briefly. "Pay his bail?" I turn and look at Paolo. "You're joking, right?"

"The sire does not have the money, but does not wish to expose his child to a locked cell during his transformation, nor the local police to a young, untrained wolf on a full moon," Reiniger says, and Paolo nods in agreement.

"He's really a friendly guy," Paolo continues despite what is probably clear disbelief on my face. "Doesn't want to make trouble. He was right to come to us."

"How much is the bail?"

"Five thousand dollars."

My mouth drops open. "You're going to pay five thousand dollars for some wolf kid?"

"It is preferable to the consequences if we do not," Reiniger adds darkly.

"Where does all this money come from?"

Paolo shrugs. "They give us a certain amount of money for this sort of thing every month. How they run the whole thing I do not know. It must cost a lot of money."

I look at Reiniger for answers, though I don't really expect them. He stays silent, and we just drive on quietly until we reach the jail. As we walk up, I see a man pacing outside the front door, wringing his hands. Who actually wrings their hands?

Paolo greets him in German with a friendly smile and a handshake, urging him to come inside with us. I hang back with Reiniger, watching the proceedings with amazement. Paolo waits in line with him patiently, chatting about things I can't understand.

"This is so surreal," I mutter, and Reiniger glances down at me. "I never thought it would be like this. They're just...talking. That guy is really a werewolf?"

"Yes."

"He looks so normal."

"You should understand by now that the wolves can look like anyone."

"Well, yeah. But I mean, at least mine had giant scars on his face, you know?" I mime scratching my face. "Should have been some kind of hint." Reiniger is watching me now, and I realize that I just made a joke—a joke about my attack. I laugh a little, and then I have to cover my mouth to keep quiet, and I put a hand on Reiniger's arm to steady myself as I turn away from the small crowd of people in the lobby. He probably thinks I'm crazy. I laugh again as I see his face, staring with irritation down at my hand, then I clear my throat and try to compose myself, turning back to watch Paolo and the wolf wait in line.

I can feel Reiniger staring at me, but he doesn't say anything. Paolo reaches the window at the front of the line, and the wolf bends over the counter to fill out some paperwork while the woman behind the glass sorts the stack of money Paolo just handed her. They come back to us when they're finished, the wolf still pacing while we wait.

A few minutes pass before a heavy door at the back of the room opens, and a young man steps out. The wolf rushes over to him, hugs him, pats him on the back, and seems to check him over for injuries. He was clearly worried. It's strange to see a werewolf so affectionate. They both approach us, the older man repeating "Danke, danke, vielen dank" as he shakes Paolo's hand. Even Reiniger takes his hand without hesitation, so when he gets to me, I do the same.

This isn't what I expected my first mission as a werewolf hunter to be like. From the outside, he could have been any father worried about his son. We part ways outside the building as we climb back into the car and they walk off down the street together. Some of them do want to live peacefully, then. Some of them want to just live. It makes me even angrier about the one who attacked me. Some of them are just trying to get by, just like the rest of us, and meanwhile there are monsters like him out there.

We ride back in silence, and when Reiniger parks the car, Paolo hops out of the back seat cheerfully and heads inside. I don't move yet, and Reiniger doesn't either. I look over at him, and he's just watching me, holding the car keys in his lap.

"Some of them really ruin it for the rest of them, don't they?" I ask him quietly.

His face doesn't change, but I know he's following my train of thought. "All werewolves will kill, Miss May. You must understand this." When I furrow my brow at him, he continues. "Even those with the best intentions do not begin being able to control themselves. And even when they have control, it is tenuous at best. The beast is part of their nature, one that they cannot deny forever. Do not be fooled by what you saw today. Both of them are killers."

I hesitate, watching his face for any kind of sadness, or sympathy, or anything. I don't understand how to think of them as both human and animal. How to treat them politely, shake their hand, and then put a bullet in their cousin's heart the very next night. But Reiniger's face is blank, like always. There's nothing there. No hint of pained conflict in his eyes, not even anger or vengeful justice. Just nothing. Is that what I have to be?

# 8 SAM

We can't go back to David's because of the cops, and Marcy says there isn't anything she needs that isn't already in the suitcases he packed for her. All there is to do now is to figure out where to go. I said we should just hop on the first Greyhound and see where it's going, but David wasn't having it. He said Marcy needs to be somewhere safe, and he's right, I guess. She's pulled it together the last couple of days, asking questions about the change, what it'll be like afterward, stuff about David and me, too. David hardly talks to her; he acts like a skittish boy whenever he's in the room. I don't know why he acts that way. He used to be fine around women.

Right now he's sitting in his chair in the corner of the room, pretending to read a book while the nurse finishes bandaging Marcy's shoulder for the last time. The doc's been a real help, letting us stay here, but we've worn out our welcome. It's time to figure out where we're going.

"David, get in my bag there an' find that book," I call to him, and he looks up. He does as he's told, digging through my duffel until he finds my black book, and he tosses it to me over Marcy's bed. "Got any ideas?"

He shakes his head and sits back in his chair. "Nobody left in my book would put you up," he mutters as he flips back to his page.

"What book?" Marcy asks, peering over the nurse's shoulder at me.

I hold up my black book to show to her. "You'll get one too before long, I reckon. Helps to keep track of who all you run into, if you care to keep track of 'em. We're a ramblin' bunch in general, you see," I say with a grin, and she smiles back at me. She is a pretty girl—much more now that she's not crying all the time.

I lean back in my chair and flip through the book, looking for any names that aren't crossed out or so old they're sure to be outdated. One's been scratched through and rewritten so many times it takes up three pages, with the newest one written in blue ink that isn't in my handwriting. I think he wrote it himself. I wave the book around to get David's attention. "You always liked New York."

He frowns at me. "What? Who's in—no." He puts his book on the nightstand and stares at me with a very serious face. "Not him."

"Oh, come on. He's like an uncle to you."

"He's no family of mine," David insists. "Pick somewhere else."

"Who's in New York?" Marcy pipes up, pausing to smile at the nurse as she finishes her work and heads out of the room.

"A rich white asshole," David grumbles, folding his arms in protest.

"Hey now, this country's run on rich white assholes, son." He doesn't take kindly to my teasing, but it just makes me laugh when he scowls at me. "And he ain't so bad. He always puts us up. Hand me that there phone, sweetheart," I say to Marcy, and she leans over with her good arm to offer me the cordless phone from the table. I dial the number written in my book, and it rings for a while. I'm surprised when a woman answers.

"This is Emilie," the pleasant voice says.

"Uh. Hey, sweetheart," I start. David makes a face and mouths "Sweetheart?" but I ignore him. "I must have a number wrong; I'm lookin' for Adam Weiss."

"I'm Mr. Weiss' assistant. What can I do for you?"

I laugh. "Assistant, huh? Ain't that nice. Could you put him on the phone, darlin'?"

"Mr. Weiss isn't available right now. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Not available. Well where's he at?"

"He's on personal business in Germany. I can take a message for you if you'd like."

"When's he gon' be back?"

"I expect him back on the twenty-fourth of this month."

"Well shit. He ain't half useless, ain't he?"

"I'll let him know that you called the next time he checks in, Mr. Carter."

I pause. "How'd you know my name?"

I hear a light chuckle. "Mr. Weiss told me a long time ago to expect a call from a Southern gentleman. He doesn't have many contacts that fit the description, so I assumed it was you. I'm glad I assumed correctly."

"Ain't you on the ball. Well you tell him I finally called, hear? The number is—hey." I snap my fingers at David and offer him the phone. "Tell this lady what number to use."

"Oh," Marcy says, "it has to be mine, remember? David's on the lam." She smiles at him and tells me her phone number slow enough that I can repeat it to Emilie the assistant.

"I'll let him know, sir. Will that be all?"

"Sure. Thanks darlin'." I hang up the phone and toss it onto the bed between Marcy's legs.

"He's been calling me for weeks looking for you, you know," David says. "You really need a cell phone."

"Well why'd you wait til now to tell me, boy?"

"Because I didn't want you to make me go with you to see him," he says with a sigh. "I should have just told you, and then you'd have left and we could have avoided this whole thing. No offense," he finishes at Marcy.

"Why don't you like this guy, anyway?" she asks. "You know, more specifically than the rich white asshole thing."

"He's just no good," David grumps. "He works for the mob, for one thing. Everybody knows it."

"Wow, really? But wait, isn't his name Weiss? That doesn't sound very Italian."

"Turns out," I start with a laugh, "when you tell a mob boss you're a werewolf for hire, they don't care so much which fatherland you come from."

"Oh. Right."

"David just don't like people with money, anyhow."

"I don't care if he's got money," he protests. "Can we move on? We can't stay with him, anyway. So where do we go now?"

I flip through my book, knowing most of the names are probably out of date. I don't keep in touch with many people. There's one name that's almost faded completely, but I get a sneaking suspicion that this one is still accurate. I glance up at David. "How about Nat?"

He makes a face. "Sam, Nat isn't going to want to see you."

"But she'll want to see you. And you know she won't be able to keep herself from wanting to help Marcy. I'll just tag along."

"She's going to be pissed that you bit someone."

I shrug. "She was always pissed about somethin', and it was usually me. But I'll bet she still lives back in those middle of nowhere woods. It's perfect."

He reaches over for the phone but hesitates and looks at Marcy when he realizes it's on the bed between her knees. She clearly doesn't give nearly as much of a shit as he does. After a moment he just snatches it up and drops back into his chair with a small huff. I'm surprised to see that he just dials a number without checking his book or mine. They must keep in touch.

"Hey, Nat," he says, already sounding weary. "Yeah, I'm good, how are you? Oh, yeah? That's good. Yeah, I read it. But listen, I need to talk to you about something. Could I maybe...come and stay with you for a while? Not just me. There's kind of a situation. Yeah. A new girl. And I kind of have to leave town." There's a long pause, and he looks over at me. "Yeah, he is. Okay." He holds the phone out to me, and I click my tongue at him.

"What'd you tell her I was here for?"

He shrugs, standing to offer the phone within my reach. "As soon as I said someone got bitten and I had to leave town, she asked if you were here. She knows you."

Marcy giggles as I groan and take the phone. "Hey there, Nat."

"Don't you hey there me," she says immediately. Oh, I missed this. Why did I think this was a good idea? "I see you've strolled your ass back into town and started making trouble for David again. How long has it been since you saw him, exactly?"

"Dunno," I say. "What year is it?"

"What year is it. Smartass. Who's the poor girl you mangled this time?"

"Name a' Marcy."

"Why did you do it? David's too old to need a mother, Sam."

"Ain't like that. Just an accident. You gon' let us come or ain't you?"

"Ugh. Sam, this isn't a good time."

"Will it be a good time in about a week? 'Cause that's about how long she's got."

I think she pulls the phone away from her ear, because I hear her swear, but it sounds far away. "Fine," she says clearly. "But you can't make any trouble while you're here, do you understand? I won't have it. You guys come, we take care of her first moon, and then you move along, all right?"

"If that's the way you want it."

"Oh, believe me."

I laugh even though I know it pisses her off. "All right. We'll be along. Thanks, Nat."

"I'm not doing it for you." She hangs up then, and I put the phone back on the nightstand.

"Well, that's all sorted." I look at Marcy with a smile, which she returns slightly timidly. "You ready to get on the road, girl?"

"How are we getting there, anyway?" David asks. "I don't have a lot of money, and I know you don't have any. We can't get on a bus anyway with them looking for us."

"Um," Marcy speaks up, "I have a car. We can just drive."

David pauses. "Oh. Well, that's...that's easy then. Great."

He glares at me when I laugh at him, but Marcy smiles.

# 9 MARCY

I peek back at Sam, his head lolling against the window behind me, clearly asleep. That didn't take long. I'm surprised, after the shotgun argument they had. I offered to sit in the back, but David insisted he didn't want Sam up front messing with everything. Apparently there didn't have to be any discussion about who would drive, since my shoulder is still iffy, and Sam says he doesn't know how. David seems to be gripping the wheel quite tightly as he stares straight ahead, occasionally glancing into the rear view mirror. It's always weird sitting in the passenger seat of your own car, but he was right to say that my shoulder wasn't ready. I probably could drive, but it's still sore, and I don't want to pull my stitches. They're the dissolving kind, but Sam says it wouldn't matter anyway because I won't even feel it anymore after I change.

God, it's weird thinking about that. I kind of don't really believe it's going to happen. Maybe they're both just crazy, and what I remember from the park is just some kind of weird dream. Maybe I'm still dreaming, and this is the longest, most realistic dream ever. But even when I try to think like that, I feel a pit in my stomach. I know it's not true. Sam is a monster. I feel weirdly comfortable around him, and he's been nothing but kind to me since I woke up at the doctor's, but I know that he's someone who turns into a giant wolf creature and attacks young women in parks. I can't just forget that.

David, on the other hand, I can't really get a read on. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as we drive, hoping he doesn't catch me staring. He's very strange. I never asked, but he must be the one who took me to the doctor. He seems very nervous, like he's afraid of me, or maybe he's afraid of himself. Hold on. Let's not get carried away with the psychoanalysis, here. I don't even know him. All I know is that he's tied to Sam somehow and that he saved my life earlier this week.

He glances at me but quickly turns back to the road. It's too quiet in here. I don't want to wake Sam up with the radio, and David doesn't seem like much of a conversationalist. Maybe it really is as simple as him being shy. It's worth a try, anyway.

"So what's the deal with you and him, anyway?" I ask gracefully, and David looks at me like he's surprised I'm addressing him at all.

"What, me and Sam?"

"Mhmm."

He shifts a little in his seat before answering. "Sam's the one that bit me."

"He does that a lot, then."

He scoffs. "You have no idea."

"And if you're ninety-four, then he must be..."

"I don't know exactly. I know he fought in World War I. And he mentioned once that he was almost too old to be drafted, so I figure he must be at least a hundred and twenty."

I turn to look back at Sam, slumped so lazily against the car door. I try to picture him in one of those round helmets and olive drab, with the socks up to his knees, standing at attention like in the old photos, but it doesn't seem to fit him. He doesn't look like someone who's ever worn something as clean as an Army uniform. His jeans look thin with wear, and I can see the beginnings of a hole on his left knee. His t-shirt is frayed and discolored on one sleeve, like it was left out in the sun. His scars break up dark stubble on his jaw, his hair is a mess, his fingernails are dirty—he really kind of looks like a homeless person or a hitchhiker we picked up. He's what I might imagine a werewolf looking like, actually, if I'd ever thought about things like that.

David, on the other hand, isn't like that at all. I catch him glancing at me again when I turn back around in my seat, but he quickly looks away. I've seen that look before—or rather, that anti-look. I've done it myself, sitting next to a cute guy in class, wanting and not wanting him to catch you looking. I so don't have time right now to worry about whether some ninety-year-old werewolf thinks I'm cute. And besides, he'd be kind of a fixer-upper. He's wearing khakis and a dark green polo shirt, one of the stiff waffle-knit kinds. I don't know how he's not sweating in the heat, but he said he'd much rather have the window open than the air conditioner on. He's clean-shaven, though his neck is covered in razor bumps, he has a neat haircut, and I can faintly smell his soap. His watch is cheap, and the fake leather has started to crack. He looks so normal it's almost weird, but I did notice him perk up and take a few deep sniffs toward the window when a siren went off in the distance. He's still part animal after all.

But we're out of the city now, so there's nothing but trees and countryside to distract him from driving. I look out the window as we go, frowning as I see the trails of litter along the side of the road—plastic bags, McDonald's cups, beer cans. Go ahead, just throw that crap out the window. It's not like we waste eleven billion dollars a year in this country picking up after people who can't be bothered to make it to the next trash can or keep a trash bag in their car. It's not like the people who think it's okay to throw a banana peel or an apple core out their car window because it's "biodegradable" are the same ones who complain when animals like raccoons move into suburban areas. I don't say anything, because I'm sure David doesn't take much time to worry about the environment.

I feel his eyes on me, but he just looks away again when I turn my head. I might as well try to make the most of this drive, rather than getting angry about inconsiderate jerks.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you with him?" I try. "You don't seem to like him very much."

"I wasn't with him," he almost grumbles. "I hadn't seen him in ten years before he showed up in town last week. I can't get away from him."

"Why not? Can't you just tell him to leave you alone?"

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You try getting Sam to leave you alone. You'll see. You're kin now."

"What do you mean?"

"The bond between wolves and the one that bit them. You feel it already, don't you? You trust him. You love him. And you don't know why."

"I'm afraid of him," I say quietly, peeking over my shoulder to make sure he's still asleep. "But...yeah. That too. It's like I've known him forever." I look back at David curiously. "It's like that for you, too?"

"Yeah, except I actually have known him forever. He bit me when I was six years old. Raised me."

I gasp a little. "Six? How could he?"

"He said it was an accident, but I don't know. I don't remember much from back then. I was at an orphanage before he found me, I know that. I don't know if he came and got me on purpose, or if he really did just bite me by accident. Maybe it was a full moon. He was much younger then—maybe he wasn't in control. All I know is I spent the next ten years traveling up and down the country while him and Adam got rich bootlegging. Well, Adam got rich. Sam spent every dime he made before it hit the bottom of his pocket."

"The same Adam you guys tried to call? The rich white asshole?"

"Yep."

"So he kind of raised you too, then, him and Sam, right? So why do you hate him so much? Just the mob thing?"

"He was different then. I mean, even then, he was in it for the money, plain and simple. Everything he does is for the money. But back then he wasn't so...pretentious. He didn't mind sleeping pulled off a dirt road in the back of the car, or getting mud on his boots tromping through some moonshiner's farm. I didn't go to school, of course, but sometimes he'd buy me science or history books. He made sure I knew how to act civilized. He did a lot for me, I guess," he admits begrudgingly, picking at the leather stitching on the steering wheel. "But that was eighty years ago. When Sam and I went to visit him a while back, he was like a different person. For what he paid for his place you could probably feed a small African country for months. He gets his suits tailor-made, he drinks wine and goes to the opera and apparently has personal assistants to answer his phone while he's in Europe."

"You don't like him because he has a lot of money?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know," he sighs. "He's just arrogant, and he doesn't do anything good with his money, and he acts like he's forgotten what he is and where he came from."

"I think I understand," I say, though I'm not sure I do. My family is wealthy, but not custom suits and personal assistants wealthy. There must be something more than just the money that makes David dislike him, but I don't feel it's right to press him. A few minutes of silence pass, and I can see David slowly relax after getting worked up about Adam, so I decide to try again. "So who's this person we're going to see instead? You guys called her Nat?"

David's the one glancing over his shoulder now, but Sam is dead asleep, quietly snoring and leaving puffs of steam on the car window. "Nat's an old friend. One of Sam's many attempts to find a woman to be a mother for me. They never worked out. Most of them are dead."

"Dead? Dead how?"

He shrugs. "Things happen. Wolves don't just get into fights for no reason, but we do fight. Sometimes it gets out of hand. Sometimes people can't handle it and kill themselves. One of them, Betty, even died in a plane crash. Don't underestimate the bad luck that touches anybody Sam comes near. Just warning you."

"I'll remember that." Nice pep talk. "So...he just bit random women and hoped one of them would want to adopt you?"

"It wasn't always random. Nat he liked. She was a schoolteacher in the 30's. Very pro women's rights, which wasn't so popular at the time. She was educated and political—not his type at all. But he thought she'd be good for me, I guess, so he bit her. She stuck around for a few years, longer than most. Mostly for me, I think, but partly because of the bond. If not for that, she probably would have killed him. They fought like cats and dogs. This trip should be interesting, at least."

"I'm...looking forward to it?"

He looks over at me, and for just a second I think he's going to reach out for me, but he just turns back to the road ahead. "Listen," he says, his voice gentle, "this isn't going to be easy for you. Sam wants you to think it's going to be fun. And, I mean, it can be fun. But it's going to be rough for a long time, first. It's going to be scary. You aren't going to be able to control yourself. You'll see and hear and feel and not be able to act on your own. You'll probably do things you regret." He hesitates, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "But I want you to know that I'm going to do whatever I can to help you. I may not seem like it, and I don't want to come off full of myself or anything, but I'm probably the best person you could have around for your first time."

"Thank you, David." I smile at him, though I feel a bit shaken by the reminder of what's to come. Still, it's sweet that he's trying to make me feel better. Only a fixer-upper on the outside, maybe.

He nods, and the following silence is eventually broken by Sam's groan from the back seat. "Christ," I hear him say, "is this a damn highway or the Mississippi?"

"You've slept half the way already," David says. "You'll manage."

I turn around as Sam puts his hand on the back of my seat, his head drooping. "Are you okay?" I ask softly. David sits up in his seat beside me to look at him through the rear view mirror.

"Look out the window, not at the floor, dumbass. How are you still alive?"

"I told you I wanted to sit in the front, damnit," Sam grumbles.

"Are you...carsick?" I ask, incredulous.

Sam grunts at me in response, but David says, "Every time he gets in the car for more than ten minutes. It's why he always sleeps. I told you not to have such a greasy breakfast before we left," he adds.

Sam swears at him, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing. I know I shouldn't, but the idea of this menacing werewolf, the monster that I've been seeing in my nightmares for days, getting queasy sitting in the back of my car is too much for me. He makes it a while farther, but eventually he threatens David until he pulls over, and I hide my laughter in my shirt while Sam stumbles into the grass and vomits. For some reason, I feel like a bit of the weight on my shoulders has been lifted. It makes him more human to me. He isn't so scary. How can he be scary? He just got sick from riding in the back seat. He isn't just a monster, then. Maybe I don't have to be just a monster, either.

He climbs back into the car, pausing to spit onto the side of the road before he shuts the door behind him with a small groan. David pulls back onto the interstate, and I can see his small smirk of satisfaction.

A while farther down the road, I hear David curse, and I turn around to see flashing lights behind us. He's clearly hesitating, trying to decide what to do, so I urge him, "David, just pull over. We haven't done anything wrong."

There's a slight grimace on his face, but he does as he's told. The police car's tires grind on the dirt at the side of the road as it pulls up behind us, and David waits with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as the officer approaches.

"Hey there," the man greets us with a smile, glancing between the three of us. "Y'all know you've got a busted tail light?"

"No," David says quickly. "Thanks; we'll fix it."

The officer tilts his head toward the back seat. "I'm gonna need you to wake him up. Just procedure, understand. Need to make sure everyone's all right."

"He's just sick," I offer helpfully, and I turn in my seat to gently shake Sam's shoulder and call his name. He snorts at me, but he opens his eyes.

David rolls down the back window when the officer asks him to. "You all right in there, sir? How's your day going?"

"Worse now I've got your fat ass breathin' that salami lunch in here," Sam grumbles.

"Excuse me? Sir, you got any ID on you?"

Sam sits up and pats imaginary shirt pockets. "I did, but...shit, I done left it at your momma's house."

I can see David biting his lips together—does he think this is funny? The officer straightens and puts a hand on his holster.

"Sir, I'm gonna need you to get out of the car."

"Whatever you say," Sam growls. I want to hiss at him, tell him to be nice, but I feel frozen. He climbs out of the car, and before the cop can even say anything, Sam has a grip on him. I can't see very well, but I can hear the scuffle and the crash of broken glass. I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to look out the back window. Sam bends to brush some glass off of his jeans, and I see the officer, motionless on the ground, and the headlight of his patrol car shattered and stained with blood. I cover my mouth with my hands, feeling my stomach turn, but Sam just strolls back to the car and shuts the door after he gets in.

"Is he dead?" I ask in a whisper, and David tells me in a quiet voice to sit down. I do as I'm told, numbly, while Sam lays his head back against the window. "Sam, did you kill him?"

"Don't bother none, Marcy," he mumbles as David pulls back out onto the road.

"No, this is crazy. He just wanted you to tell him you were fine! He just stopped us for a tail light! He was going to give us a ticket and you were never going to pay it anyway! Why did you kill him?"

"I said don't pay it no mind," he growls, and I fasten my seat belt again, tucking my hands between my knees to hide their shaking.

"Marcy," David says softly, hesitating before he reaches out to offer me his hand. I take it, grateful for the warmth as he rests his hand near my knee, but it doesn't help much. He didn't do anything to stop it. It doesn't matter if Sam gets carsick—he is just a monster. He just killed someone for no reason other than that they woke him up from a nap. How am I supposed to go on like this? I just ride in silence, squeezing David's hand in mine.

We have to stop once more for Sam before we take the exit we need. The GPS in the dashboard got us this far, but David says he knows the way from here. We're at a tiny town called Moncks Corner, just north of Charleston. Even then he drives through the town and onto a smaller freeway, passing by a few farms, a church with a cemetery, and a whole lot of nothing but trees. Eventually he slows down, and we pass a few side streets that don't have signs. There's a sign for another church, a sign for an auto mechanic outside a building with three walls, and then finally a street with a sign. I'm certain we can't be going farther out into the wilderness than this, but he keeps going. Finally, we reach a lane that starts out paved and turns into grey dirt after a hundred feet or so. Of course it's the one he turns down.

The road is bumpy, and I realize what a pretender my car is by calling itself a sport utility vehicle. By the time David stops the car, Sam looks like he's only a couple more bumps away from making this a three-vomit trip, but he keeps it together.

I'm glad to get out of the car and stretch my legs. The house we've stopped by is nice but not large with dark wood siding and a sloping green metal roof. There's a blue pickup truck parked outside and a pretty pond across the way. Sam puts his hands on his knees for a few moments after he climbs out of the car, but he quickly shakes it off and helps David take the bags from the back of the car. I pick up one of my own bags and follow the pair up to the front porch, where the front door creaks open ahead of us. In the doorway stands a woman who looks to be in her mid to late thirties with rusty red hair pulled into a low, messy ponytail that trails over her shoulder in loose curls. She's handsome, but I wouldn't call her pretty—maybe just because of her jeans, bare feet, and slightly dingy-looking button-down that was clearly bought in the men's section.

"Samuel Carter, as I live and breathe," she says, leaning her weight on the door frame and holding the screen door open with one hand. "Can't say I expected to see your ugly mug again." He lifts a hand at her, but he's clearly too tired to be snide. "And you," she gasps, her eyes widening slightly as she looks at David. "Look at you!" She lets the screen door shut with a slap behind her as she walks out onto the porch, and she takes David's face in both of her hands. "Look at the size of you!" she says with a laugh.

I smile as I watch her pull his face down to her level and kiss his cheek. I think he blushes a little, but it's hard to tell.

"Hey, Nat," he mumbles as she pulls away, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

She turns to me with one fist on her hip, and she gestures for me to come closer, so I oblige. "Let's get a look at you too, girl. Ugh, Sam, she's just a kid. What's wrong with you?"

"More'n one thing, I'm sure," he mutters.

"Well, either way, it's done now, isn't it?" She gives me a cheery smile. "What's your name, dear? I'm Natalie, but these boys just call me Nat, so I suppose you can do the same." She offers her hand to me, and I reach out to shake it.

"Marcy. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Well look here Sam; you managed to find a girl with manners. Anyway, get inside if you're going. I've only got the one spare room, but I do have a couch, so you all can figure that out amongst yourselves. Make yourselves at home." She leads us inside, but I pause at the door to look over my shoulder at the surrounding wilderness, trying to believe that in a few days I'll be running through those woods as a werewolf.

# 10 ALICIA

There isn't an area in the base specifically for training new recruits, so Reiniger makes do with testing me in the space outside the empty holding cells, where we'll be out of the way. Fortunately for me, Reiniger is a very thorough instructor and an incredible fighter. Unfortunately for me, there aren't any mats on the concrete floor. My hips ache from repeated contact, and my elbows have left scraped-off bits of skin in the stone. I'm panting and rubbing my thigh where I can feel the metal rod inside by the time we finish, but Reiniger just has a very glamorous sheen of sweat on his forehead, and I see him take precisely one deep breath and let it out. He watches me while I lean against the wall with my hands on my knees, and he takes a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the pitiful amount of sweat from his brow.

"You have potential," he says.

"Thanks. Doesn't feel like it." I had basic hand to hand training as a Marine, of course, but then I was in recovery and light duty and physical therapy. It feels like years since I had to spar with anyone, and I'm sure it looked that way to him, too. I wave my hand at him. "What was that stuff, anyway? It's not quite the same as the MCMAP."

"Krav maga."

"Oh. Of course. Well, good job." I push away from the wall and twist my arms over my shoulders to inspect my elbows. Not bad. He doesn't ask me if I need my scrapes looked at, and I'm grateful. It's nice to be around someone who doesn't treat me like a porcelain doll because I'm tired of feeling like one.

"Tonight we have an assignment which I will discuss with you later. Until then, you are free to entertain yourself. I will collect you at 1700." He doesn't wait for me to acknowledge him or question him; he just walks out of the room and leaves me with only the thunk of the heavy door as it closes behind him.

By the time I gather my stuff from my bunk and head across the hall to have a shower, Reiniger is dressing himself in the small locker room. His dress shirt is open as he pushes his wet hair into place, and I can see his lean chest and stomach, lightly dusted with dark hair and marked with a few scars from past endeavors. He doesn't pay me any attention as I enter, but it only takes a few moments of me standing still and taking in that V-shape at his hips before I notice him staring at me. I clear my throat awkwardly and move away from him into the showers, quickly stripping and sticking my head under the water as soon as it's warm.

That is one hundred percent not what I should be doing. It's not like I'm not used to bunking and showering with guys in their prime. I haven't even thought about guys in months. Not since what happened the last time I put myself out there. But I mean, it's only normal to look, right? It's been a long time. It's not like I think every guy is going to do what Scratch did. At least, I don't think I think that. And I'm definitely not attracted to his personality. Nothing wrong with letting myself enjoy a view sometimes. Except he saw me looking. Ugh. I can just hope his microchip or whatever runs his robot brain doesn't recognize that kind of human behavior.

I run into Joaquin as I'm leaving the showers. I haven't seen him much for the past few days; he's been on the night shift with Anke. He's bursting at the seams to tell me about breaking into Weiss's apartment.

"You would not believe this dude's place. I'm talking stone tile, marble countertops, leather sofas, not to mention flat screens as far as the eye could see—it was like a magazine, I swear. I almost wanted to make sure I put back any dust bunnies I may have knocked out of place, you know? Except there weren't any. Sign me up for the mob, man, I mean it."

"I'm sure they're looking for someone with your skill set. What is that, exactly, besides a high metabolism and too-intricate knowledge of pop culture?"

"Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, you know?" He shrugs. "We can't all be the tough warrior types. Speaking of," he says as he taps his lips with one finger, "looks like he got you pretty good this morning."

I can taste just a little bit of blood on the inside of my lip where Reiniger hit me. There must be a cut showing. "He's tough. But I'm getting better. Just got to get used to fighting with my bionic legs. Now go to bed; you look like you need it."

"Yes ma'am." He gives me a little salute, and I see him collapse onto his bunk as I'm heading out the door.

I'm starving. I missed breakfast because Reiniger got me up and took me straight into the cell block to beat my ass for a few hours. I push open the door to the mess and greet Renault as I approach the counter. As far as I know, Renault has never hunted anything more dangerous than roast beef. He's part of the order, but he's just a cook. There really is every kind of person here helping the cause, keeping the place running. It must be even crazier at one of their proper bases in Germany.

Renault gives me a cold sub wrapped in plastic and a glass of orange juice, and I thank him. Since people are on such different schedules, he keeps three choices available all day and all night. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Even late at night when he sleeps, there are always portions put out that people can heat up themselves. Joaquin and Anke are probably having breakfast as I'm going to bed, so I'm sure they appreciate the effort he puts in.

Jonas sits next to me while I'm eating, grinning at me around his sandwich. His English isn't great, but he tries. He commiserates with me about getting punched in the face by Reiniger, but assures me that it hasn't adversely affected my pretty face. He's a sweetheart, and I kind of hope I never have to see him fight because I'm sure it would shatter the vision I have of him as a Germanic teddy bear. He waves to me as I finish up my meal and head out of the mess hall. I still have a while to kill before it's time for my mystery assignment.

In the common room, I see Paolo, Eberstark, and Jonas's much-less-friendly twin brother Niklas sitting at one of the round tables with cards in their hands. Paolo waves at me as I enter and grins as he calls out, "May! Come and round out our table, eh? You play poker?"

I do play poker, and I almost head over, but out of the corner of my eye I see Reiniger, sitting by himself at one of the smaller tables and staring at his tablet. I wonder if they even bothered asking him to join. I spot a box on a shelf near him, and I shake my head at Paolo. "Sorry. Next time, okay?"

He just shrugs at me, and I walk over to the small shelf and pick up the cardboard box containing the cheap cardboard and plastic chess set. I drop it onto the table beside Reiniger with a flourish, causing him to look up at me with one eyebrow slightly lifted.

I point at the board. "You play, right?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do. So let's play." I take the seat across from him and pull the top off of the box. I think I hear some muttering in German from the table across the room, but since I don't have a chance of understanding it, I ignore it. Reiniger watches me silently as I set up the board, carefully setting the pieces in their places, but he at least sets his tablet down out of the way. I let him be the white pieces, so as soon as they're set up, he moves one of his pawns. I'm not great at chess, and I haven't played in years, so I fully expect to get stomped a few times, but at least I'll be helping him interact with humanity instead of everyone just ignoring him all the time.

"So what's your deal?" I ask him after a couple of moves played in silence.

He looks up at me over the board. "My deal?"

"Yeah, you know. You told me you've been doing this forever. What about your family? Got any siblings?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"I have three brothers."

"Wow, there's four of you?"

"No. There is me, and my three brothers."

"You know what I mean. And you all are part of the order?"

"Yes."

"And which brother are you?"

"The tall one," he says dryly, and I have to pause. Was that a joke? He's still just staring at me. Who the hell can tell?

"I mean how old are you, compared to your brothers?"

"I am second. My older brother is thirty-four. My two younger brothers are twenty-six and nineteen."

"And you?"

"I am twenty-nine."

"And how is it you come to be such a hardass? I guess hunting werewolves will do that to you, huh?"

He doesn't answer, and we play quietly for a few minutes until he says, "Checkmate." I swear at him, but he doesn't show any sign of being pleased at winning. He doesn't stop me when I start to reset the pieces, so when I'm done, I spin the board around and start again.

"You know," I try again, "you're very forthcoming. You don't have to answer me if I'm bugging you."

He pauses as he reaches for a piece, and he looks at me seriously. "We are useless if we cannot trust each other, Miss May. You are in a new place, with new people, beginning a difficult task. I want you to trust me without question. If answering mundane questions about my life will help that, then I will answer."

"Well that's...practical. Here I was thinking you were just being friendly."

He stares at me for a couple of beats, then just looks down at the board and makes his move.

"So what is it we're doing tonight?"

This time he doesn't look at me, just watches me move my rook. "We are watching. We suspect one of the wolves we have marked as an active target is in the city now. We are to watch the building where he was reported, and if he shows himself, we may engage him if the situation calls for it."

I hold up a hand, and he crinkles his brow at me just a little. "Wait. We're just watching the building? All night?"

"If necessary, yes."

"So we're going on a stake out." He just stares at me. "You know, a stake out. Sitting in the car all night, binoculars, junk food. Right?"

"I am unfamiliar with the term, but I suppose so."

I stand up, making my chair screech quietly as it scoots out. "You should have told me! This is going to be awesome. I'll be back by 1700."

I think I spot an actual bemused expression on his face as I abandon our game and head for the door. I leave the compound, letting Hirsch know through the intercom that I'll be back soon.

It takes me longer than I expected to get back. Turns out choosing exactly which junk food to take on your first ever stake out is very important. I end up bringing back a whole bunch of stuff I probably shouldn't actually eat—Cheetos, doughnuts, licorice, potato chips, Red Bull—and I get Renault to fill me up a big thermos of coffee. Reiniger spots me in the hall with my plastic bags, and his eyes narrow slightly as he looks me up and down. He's holding a small paper bag, probably something suitably not-junk from Renault. I tell him to wait, and I run to the armory to outfit myself. When I come back, he's still just standing, watching me come down the hall.

"I'm ready," I assure him. "Let's do this."

Without a word, he leads me back outside and to the car, taking the driver's seat. I pile my stash on the floor between my feet, and I'm delighted to see an actual pair of binoculars propped in the cupholder in the center console. I know I'm not being very professional, but I look through them out the window while Reiniger drives until it makes me a little queasy to see things going by so fast. I've always wanted to go on a stake out, but I never had any reason to believe I ever would, so I plan to enjoy it. The sun is just going down when he parks at a meter down the street from the building we're supposed to be watching, and he steps out to put a couple of quarters in it before settling back into his seat. Well, as settled as he gets. He still looks stiff.

He doesn't look at me, and I sit quietly for a little while. I don't know stake out protocol for busting out the goodies, but I really want to say I've been on a stake out and had doughnuts, so I open the small box and offer it to Reiniger.

"No, thank you," he says without even looking. I didn't really expect him to partake.

"Come on, at least have one. I guess you guys don't have this concept in Germany, but this is kind of a big deal."

"No, thank you."

I shrug and take a doughnut for myself, biting into it and saying with my mouth full, "Well you'd at least better be ready to have some bonding, heart-opening moments or some shit."

I think he frowns at me.

Some time goes by. It turns out that stake outs are actually pretty boring when you're the only one eating junk food and drinking coffee. Reiniger eats a handful of almonds.

"So," I say when I can't take the silence anymore, "got a girlfriend back home?" I know the answer before he opens his mouth.

"No."

"I'm surprised, charming fellow like you."

He glances at me with a small downward twitch of his mouth, but says nothing. It's surprisingly fun to tease him. I consider even a little half a frown like that a victory. At least I got some kind of reaction out of him.

"Tell me about your brothers, then." He watches me silently, and it takes me a few moments to realize he's waiting for me to be more specific. "You know, what are they like? Do you get along?"

"We do not keep in close contact," he says, looking back into the street. He didn't even tell me who we're looking for, so I'm glad he's on the lookout at least.

"What about the youngest one? Didn't you say he's nineteen? Is he a hunter already?"

"Yes."

"That's so young. Didn't he get go to school or anything first?"

"When he completed Realschule, he trained at Bärenheim until he was ready to be accepted and assigned, which happened earlier this year."

"Anybody ask him if that's what he wants to do?

"No."

"Family business, I guess. What about your parents?"

"My father is Ältestenrat." He glances to me and must see my mouth opening, because he continues, "They are the elder Wolfjäger who stay at Bärenheim. They make the decisions that affect the entire order."

I try to say "Ältestenrat," but the look Reiniger gives me tells me I'm very wrong, so I give up for now. "And your mom?"

"My mother is dead."

"Oh. Sorry."

He doesn't say anything. Not surprising. I catch sight of the tattoo on his arm as he reaches to adjust the rear view mirror, and, trying to change the subject from dead mothers, I say, "Can I see your arm? I mean, when you're not hitting me with it."

He offers me his hand palm up so that I can see his forearm, and for some reason I feel hesitant to touch him. He's looking out the window again, watching for our mark and not paying my timid inspection any attention. When I take his hand to get a good view of the tattoo, he feels slightly cold. His hand is kind of delicate, with long, slim fingers, but it's calloused, and there's a small scar on the inside of his arm, putting a thin line through part of his tattoo. The black bear is a little faded, but I imagine he's had it for years. He glances at me briefly when I run my fingers over it, but he says nothing.

"Everybody gets these, huh? Why a bear?"

"A bear is the only creature of which a wolf is afraid. Wolves will attack creatures many times their size, but even a pack will hesitate to engage a bear."

"Well isn't that poetic?" I hold onto his hand for a few more moments, looking at the ink and the scar, and when I let him go he rests his hand back in his lap. "I have one too, you know." I turn in my seat, the plastic bags on the floor rustling as I kick them, and I reach over my head to pull the back of my shirt up to my neck. The lettering on my left shoulder is USMC and IYAOYAS, circling a small Marine Corps logo of the globe, anchor, and eagle. I look over my shoulder to make sure he's even looking, and then I drop my shirt and settle back into my seat. I almost bother to explain "If you ain't Ordnance you ain't shit," but I know he doesn't really care.

I have a piece of licorice in my mouth a few minutes later when I hear him say, "There."

I lean over to look out the driver's side window, and I see a man walking down the lonely street with his hands in his pockets. I recognize him now from the photos. His name is Robert Hall. In addition to being a werewolf, he also has a pattern of knocking over convenience stores and leaving dead cashiers behind. His shoulders are hunched, and he glances around like he expects to be followed. I can see why. There are plain bloodstains on his grey t-shirt, and fresh, bloody scratches on his arms. We're too late to help whoever did that to him.

As soon as he enters the apartment building, Reiniger climbs out of the car and starts across the street, so I follow. He stops me just inside the door of the lobby, and he points to the red LED sign above the elevator door, the number on it steadily increasing. It stops at six, and after another moment, Reiniger presses the button to call it back, and we enter and press the button marked six.

"Do not get carried away," he says quietly as the elevator rises. "Stay behind me if you feel you must. We are here to do a job. Your ego must not be a factor."

"Don't worry about me," I say, hoping I sound confident. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye but lets it go.

The elevator pings quietly when we reach the sixth floor, and he pauses in the hallway to look down both directions. He looks at me and points to a door down the hall. I wonder for half a second how he knew, but then I see it—every door in the place has one of those cardboard door hangers with an ad for a local pizza place, except one. I nod at him, and we each arm ourselves as we creep down the hall. I'm not certain at all about going to fight a werewolf with only a knife and a small jar of silver nitrate, but Reiniger has repeatedly assured me that guns are rarely necessary. I'd still feel better with my M-9 in my hand. He has his knife in hand and his silver knuckles on. Maybe I should get a pair of those.

We pause outside the door, and he leans in to listen. I can hear already that the TV is on, but I don't know if it's loud enough to hide the sound of an opening door from a werewolf. Reiniger seems to think it is, because he slowly places his knuckled hand on the door knob and twists. I'm surprised it isn't locked, but maybe if I was a werewolf I wouldn't feel the need to lock my door, either. There's barely a click as the door opens, and he enters in front of me.

It's dark inside except for the flickering glow of the television. I push the door closed behind me, but leave it pushed just to, so that there's no more sound. I follow Reiniger down the short hallway, frowning at the peeling wallpaper and the damp smell permeating the apartment. I can see Hall sitting on a ratty sofa in front of the television, and Reiniger slips behind him, shifting the knife in his grip. He lifts the knife as he leans forward, clearly hoping to make it a quick and clean kind of evening, but the wolf spins and snatches him by the arm. Before I can react, Reiniger is through the coffee table in front of the couch, and the wolf turns to look at me.

"You assholes picked the wrong place," he growls. I can feel my palms sweating, but I hold tight to my knife. It has to be the heart, I remind myself. Anywhere else isn't even guaranteed to slow him down. Reiniger is already getting to his feet as the wolf charges me. I can block his punches, but he hits hard, and he doesn't seem afraid of my weapon. He shoves me, slamming me back against the wall and knocking the air out of me. He must just be playing with me. I know he could probably kill me in an instant if he wanted to.

He turns his head just in time to get clocked in the temple by Reiniger's weighted knuckles, and he actually stumbles a little. He snarls at Reiniger, and I try to take advantage by pressing him again. He moves out of the way of my admittedly badly aimed stab, but I catch him in the side enough to make him shout. He backs away from both of us, baring his teeth like an animal and clutching at the wound in his side. The silver-lined blade probably didn't feel great.

"You know what I'm going to do to you, you little bitch?" His voice is barely more than a growl now. My heart is already pounding, but hearing that low voice, that animal growl, brings me right back to that dingy motel room, Scratch pressing into me, biting, scratching, pulling my hair. I freeze, and in an instant I know that he sees it. He lunges for me, and I can't do anything.

Before he can reach me, Reiniger's hand is on my shoulder, pushing me behind him as he takes the brunt of the wolf's charge, both of them dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. There's no time or space for me to help even if I thought I could. Reiniger struggles to gain the upper hand, only crawling out from underneath the wolf after a few well-placed hits with his knuckles. I can see blood on his shirt.

I remember the tiny glass jar in my pocket, and I pull the stopper from it as the wolf twists to go after Reiniger. Always aim for the eyes, he told me. I call out, "Hey, ugly!" and when the wolf turns to me with a sneer, I aim the open end of the vial and fling it into his face. He howls so loudly I'm sure someone is going to call the police, clawing at his eyes and falling back onto the floor.

Reiniger is over him immediately, hitting him again and again until his thrashing becomes a bit less spirited, and then he drops to put his weight on the wolf's stomach, places the tip of his knife with practiced certainty, and drives it deep into his chest. The wolf trembles underneath him for a few moments and then goes still, his arms dropping limply at his sides. Reiniger stands, pausing halfway to grimace and touch his ribs, and looks at me with a wrinkled brow. There's blood on his chin, dripping heavily from his mouth, and a cut on his cheekbone that I can tell already is going to be accompanied by a black eye.

I expect him to scold me. I expect him to tell me what an amateur I am and how I could have gotten us both killed. I expect him to tell me I should just pack my things and go home. But all he says is, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I say softly, half stunned.

He nods. "We must move the body."

The next couple of hours are a blur. Or maybe I just try to forget them. It's not the most glamorous thing I've ever done, dragging a dead werewolf down a fire escape and stuffing him into a trunk. We ride back to the compound in silence, and Niklas meets us at the door. I decide that thinking about why the base's doctor wants the body is not something I want to do right now.

Reiniger tells me to get some sleep while he's sitting on the clinic bed getting his ribs taped. I want to say something to him. Thank you, maybe. I would have let that wolf kill me just because I panicked like an idiot. I've been to Afghanistan, and I know how to hold my own, but a werewolf froze me in my tracks. But without hesitation, Reiniger stood in front of me, and took a beating that was meant for me. That kind of loyalty doesn't usually come so easily or so quickly. I want to say something. I want to ask him why he risked himself for me. But he's staring at me, and I feel a cold sweat on the back of my neck. So I just nod at him and go to bed, trying to tell myself that it's just good business.

# 11 MARCY

I end up sharing the spare room with Sam, which is much less awkward than I thought it would be. I still feel a little nervous when we're alone, but I think it's largely unjustified. I know he isn't going to hurt me, but I can't help thinking about how very capable he is of hurting everybody else. Still, even though he snores and smells a little bit like whiskey, it's kind of nice sleeping next to someone. It doesn't hurt that he's an exceptionally warm, muscular man who lets me sleep with my head under his arm, but I can't really think of him as a man. I guess it's because of the bond David talked about.

Either way, the last few days have gone by slowly. I wake up curled against Sam's chest, creep out of the bedroom to the bathroom so that I don't wake David on the couch, and usually find Nat already drinking coffee at the small kitchen table. David is invariably woken up by the smell of the coffee, but Sam seems to sleep through most things.

We usually talk in the mornings before Sam gets up, because once that happens, he and Nat are at each other about anything and everything. Nat complains about mysteriously missing bottles of liquor, and Sam calls her a nag or Carrie Nation, which is a reference I don't understand. But before that it's usually pretty nice. Nat tells stories about what it was like back in the 30's and what it was like being with Sam and David way back then. Most of the stories she tells are happy, but I get the feeling that David wasn't always as well-mannered as he is now.

Sometimes I see David outside with his camera, changing lenses and taking photos of various things around the property—plants, birds, Nat's truck. They're probably much more artistic than any picture I've ever taken.

One night, Nat and I sit alone in the living room and watch a movie because Sam and David are missing. It worries me a little, but Nat assures me that they're just "being boys," and in the morning I wake up beside Sam like every morning before, except there are a few twigs in his hair.

I cook breakfast for them because I feel a little guilty for causing so much trouble. David is quick to remind me that the whole thing is Sam's fault, anyway, but he thanks me for the bacon and eggs.

"So what were you doing with yourself before all this, Marcy?" Nat asks me over her cup of coffee while I'm spooning out David's plate.

"I'd just finished school, actually." I put David's plate in front of him and turn back to prepare hers. "I was pre-law and about to decide if I wanted to go to law school in Atlanta, or go back home."

"Law school, huh?" she chuckles. "What got you into that?"

"I wanted to be a criminal defense attorney," I explain. "You would not believe how broken the system is here. Do you know that in some places you can go to prison—not just county jail, but a state prison—for years just for having twenty grams of marijuana? That's ridiculous, right?" She opens her mouth to answer, but I carry on.

"And forget about the indigents—the people who can't afford an attorney and have one provided for them? Those agencies are constantly swamped. I'm talking a hundred, a hundred and fifty cases per attorney at any given time. How are they supposed to be sufficiently represented when their attorney is trying to get them off the phone and pushing unfair plea agreements on them because they have another fifty people they have to call that week? It's freaking ridiculous." I pause in scooping out her eggs and turn to face them, swinging the spatula to make my point.

"And do you know how many people are repeat offenders? Not because they actually did anything wrong, but because their attorney didn't fight for them, so they ended up on probation with all these extra costs. Probation can cost over fifty dollars a month just for the privilege of being on probation! Forget about it if you need an alcohol or a GPS monitor. These people have lost their jobs because they had to sit in jail for four months while their attorney sits on his ass and refuses to call them, and now they're supposed to get out and just join the work force with a felony on their record and a bracelet on their ankle? Sure, their probation officers are supposed to help them find work, but they're totally overrun with clients, too, so they're just pushing them through the line and hoping they don't get arrested again before they finish their community service hours. The whole system is designed for these people to fail!"

I pause, and I realize they're both staring at me. I grin sheepishly. "Sorry," I say, and I finish portioning out Nat's eggs. "So anyway, I, uh, I was going to law school. Somewhere."

"Well, it's good to be passionate," Nat laughs. "You said you'd go in Atlanta or back home. Where's home?"

"Maine."

"Does Sam know you're a yankee?" she asks with a wry smile as I put her plate down. "How'd you end up in Atlanta all the way from Maine?"

I turn away from them so they don't see my face flush as I make my own plate. "I actually, um. I moved because of a guy." When I sit down with my plate, David is watching me. "It's really silly. We met online, and then we emailed and texted for a while. He asked me to move in with him. That's how certain we were that we were going to get married and grow old together and have a million kids. I uprooted my life, came down here to finish my B.A., and ended up retaking some classes I couldn't transfer credit for. He decided after a few months that he didn't like me so much after all, and I was too proud to go back to my family after they'd all told me what a terrible idea it was to begin with. So I just stayed."

Nat clicks her tongue at me. "A man will get you in trouble every time. And you aren't any different," she says as an aside to David, who hadn't even opened his mouth yet. She tilts her head at him. "This one here is about more trouble than he's worth."

"Oh, I don't believe that's true," I say, smiling at him. "David hasn't been anything but sweet to me."

He has his face down, poking at his eggs. Nat nudges him with her elbow. "What, you're sweet now? How about that. Don't you believe it, girl. These two boys you've fallen in with are about the biggest troublemakers you'll ever meet."

David frowns at her, and he actually looks kind of guilty. "Nat, you know I've been trying to—"

"I know, baby, I know," she says, reaching over to pat his hand. "And I'm proud of you. It isn't easy for a leopard to change his spots. But enough of that. How about you, girl? You know today's your last day as a human. You ready?"

"I don't think that's possible. I guess it's happening anyway, but I'm trying not to worry. And David promised to take care of me."

"Oh did he, now," Nat chuckles, and David pointedly avoids looking at either of us. "Isn't that sweet? Well, between the two of us, I imagine we can keep you straight. We'll have to pen Sam up for the night, but we'll manage."

"Who's pennin' who up?" Sam asks through a yawn, scratching idly at the hair on his bare chest as he ambles into the kitchen.

"You, you mangy beast," Nat snaps. "You listen here; I don't want any trouble tonight. There's been some men snooping around town. I think they're onto me. Now I know you think hunters aren't real, Sam, but—"

"Ain't no damn hunters. You been skittish all your life, Nat, but there ain't nobody after you. Don't scare the girl with your stories." Sam takes a seat beside her and takes some bacon off of her plate.

"I'm just saying, it doesn't hurt to be careful every now and then. You're a bad influence, and the girl deserves a fair chance."

"This might be a silly question," I start quietly, "but what exactly is it that I might be doing that you guys need to protect me from?"

"Oh, honey," Nat sighs, "I really don't mean to frighten you. There's probably nothing to worry about all the way out here, but it's a rare thing for a brand new wolf not to get carried away and kill somebody on their first night. Or a lot of nights after that, really. But don't you worry. David and I will look after you."

I look across the table at Sam, shaking his head skeptically, and David, frowning sadly at me. They really make it seem like it's inevitable. Maybe it is.

"Thanks," I say softly, and I just eat my breakfast while Sam and Nat bicker. I can feel David's eyes on me, but I don't look at him.

Later that day, I sit on a wooden rocking chair on Nat's front porch, watching Sam nap on the grass across the yard by the pond. With as much as he sleeps, I don't know how he ever has time to get into trouble. I have a glass of lemonade in one hand and my cell phone in the other as I slowly rock in the chair. I can't decide if I should call my parents and what I would say if I did. Hey dad, won't be home for a while. Funny story, I'm actually a werewolf now. Yeah, no. I've decided to run away with an older man. How much older? Oh, a hundred years or so.

My phone chimes in my hand, making me jump, and I feel a slight pang of guilt as I see a text message from my sister on the screen. I haven't actually spoken to anyone in my family for days. Before all this, there was hardly a day I didn't at least text one or both of my sisters. They still live at home, and we've always been close, so telling one of them something is the same as telling both of them.

Haven't heard from you in a while. I wanted to tell you about my "date!"

I smile a little. I'd almost forgotten. Julia, my older-younger sister, is sixteen and desperately in love the way only a sixteen-year-old can be. I met her boyfriend, Neil, when I was home for spring break, and he seems nice enough, but I'm pretty sure it's my sister's teenage rebellion that makes her love him rather than any personal trait of his.

Our parents aren't super strict, but we do come from a wealthy New England family, so there are certain expectations that come with that. Being in high school and dating a nineteen year old with tattoos and snake bite piercings certainly isn't what parents like ours want from their daughters. I went through that stage too, though, and I suspect Kelly will too—but she's only thirteen, so she's not quite the right age yet.

Julia wants to tell me about her weekend trip to a friend's cabin, where she and Neil were supposed to finally get some "alone time." I told her I didn't really want to hear about it and wished her luck in her venture and told her to buy some condoms, but she's convinced we're the kind of sisters that share everything—even if I really could do without knowing when precisely my little sister loses her virginity.

I text her back, reiterating that I don't need any details, but she still tells me how great it was and how much she loves him and how she thinks he's going to ask her to marry him once she graduates next year. I tell her that's great, knowing full well that in a few months I'll be getting a midnight phone call from a sobbing, heartbroken sister. It's just the way of teenage romance.

I don't hear the screen door open, so I jump again when I see David suddenly next to me. He leans against the porch railing across from me and nods down at my phone.

"Calling your parents?"

"I would if I could decide what to say." It's so ridiculous that I almost laugh. "It's still kind of hard to think of it as real, you know? Nothing's happened to me yet. I don't feel any different."

He scuffs his foot on the porch a little, hunching his shoulders as he leans back into his hands. "I don't remember not being like this. I mean, maybe a few memories at the orphanage, but that was so long ago. This is the way I've always been. I guess it's as strange for you as it would be for me if someone told me I was going to be human in a few days."

"Don't suppose you've got any last-minute advice for me?"

He looks at me with a small frown. I wonder if he ever smiles. "We'll try to prepare as well as possible. Before we go out, make sure you have a big meal. It's a lot harder to keep focused if you're hungry, and when you're changed, it's not so easy to tell the difference between a deer and a man as far as what's a good meal." He must see the queasy look on my face, because he goes on, "I'm just trying to be straight with you, Marcy. It's probably going to happen. We're pretty safe out here, but you won't always be out here, and if Nat's right about these hunters—"

"Do you think she is? Are there really werewolf hunters?"

"Sam's an idiot if he really thinks there aren't. I've seen them. They're not a huge organization or anything, but every now and then you come across a small group, and they can be dangerous. But Sam thinks he's invincible."

I smile a little. "He does seem confident. Should he be? I mean, is he really that tough?"

David hesitates, looking over his shoulder at Sam dozing in the grass. "I don't want to scare you."

I feel a pit growing in my stomach, and my smile disappears. "Well saying things like that doesn't help."

He sighs. "I'm sorry. He's not really any stronger or faster or tougher than anybody else, I don't think. He's just...vicious. He doesn't have a sympathetic bone in his body. I'm not sure he even sees humans as people anymore." He shifts his weight a little. "You know, there's these forums. Online, I mean. People share stories and talk about dangerous places or safe places or couch surfing or whatever. And people talk about him."

"What do you mean they talk about him? What do they say?"

"I don't know if he just never actually hangs around anyone but me, or what, but people talk like he's a myth. He leaves bodies wherever he goes, Marcy, and he just doesn't care. He picks up women to sleep with and they almost always end up dead. He gets in bar fights and people end up dead. He goes out for a run, even if it's not the full moon, and people end up dead. People notice that. We can read between the headlines even when the cops can't. Other wolves post blurry pictures that might be him like he's Bigfoot or something. Everyone knows what a monster he is. I know he seems kind to you, and he can be. But you're kin. Just...don't let him fool you."

I look up at him, the somber look on his face, his hunched shoulders, his slightly wrinkly polo shirt that's tucked in anyway. He seems so sad, and so tired. I've seen him sometimes over the last few days, looking out the window and anxiously drumming his fingers on the sill, or coming out of the bathroom nose-first at suppertime, sniffing away. Whenever he sees me notice these things, he pulls himself together, clears his throat, asks me how my day's going. The morning after he and Sam disappeared was the most cheerful I've ever seen him, and even that was subdued. It's like he's constantly holding himself back from something.

"What about you, David?" I ask him quietly. "Are you fooling me, too?" I regret saying it almost immediately, because he looks like I slapped him.

He pushes away from the railing, dusts his hands, clears his throat. "I've got to get some stuff ready for tonight," he says softly. "I'll...I'll see you later." The screen door creaks as he goes back inside, and I look down at my lap. Is this really what I have to look forward to? The most I can hope for is spending my life denying my nature and hoping nobody notices what I'm really like?

I don't call my parents.

As the afternoon starts to fade, Nat calls me inside to a kitchen table piled high with food. Sam is already helping himself to a plate of chicken, greens, corn, and mashed potatoes.

"Eat up, girlie," Nat says with a grin. "You're going to need it."

I do my best, but compared to the three of them, I feel like I barely eat a thing. Nat did warn me that I'd be much hungrier in general after the change, but I'm still impressed at the amount of food that they put away.

After supper, I'm quickly bustled into Nat's pickup truck while Sam and David ride in the back with a large bag. I saw them pack it—bottles of water, peanut butter sandwiches and bags of nuts, changes of clothes for each of us. I find myself fidgeting in the truck. I drum my fingers, I tap my leg, I wiggle in my seat. Nat puts a hand on my bouncing knee and smiles warmly at me.

"You'll be fine, honey. We're all here for you."

I manage a smile back at her, but I can't keep myself from looking at the setting sun.

We drive for a while, even taking a dirt road back into the woods. It's lightly drizzling with rain by the time Nat stops the car, but none of them seem to notice. David has the bag over his shoulder as he walks into the trees, and we all follow. The sun seems to be sinking faster than usual. We walk for a while, and eventually I give up trying to keep myself from getting wet. David drops the bag under a tree and turns to glance at me over his shoulder. I try to give him a smile.

Sam is already undressing. I'm used to seeing him without a shirt now, but I expect to feel embarrassed as he peels off his wet jeans. But I don't. I really don't think of him like that. He's just Sam. Nat certainly isn't shy about stripping. David is very pointedly not looking at me as he drops his shirt to the ground, clearly not wanting to be accused of looking when I inevitably have to get undressed. I feel my face go a little hot as he unbuckles his belt, and I turn away from him. He's not nearly as cavalier about being shirtless as Sam is, and I wasn't expecting that his hunched posture and his stiff polo shirts were hiding such broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Maybe they all end up like that.

Nat urges me to undress as well and reminds me that we're short on time, but I still keep my back to them as I pull off my shirt and jeans. Maybe I'll get more comfortable, but right now it's just getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers, one of whom I feel a little less weird about for some reason. I hug myself automatically to hide my breasts as I turn to face them, and I gasp when I see Sam already on the ground. He's crying out in pain, his whole body thrashing in the grass as it bends and shifts. Nat moves away from me, and I see her drop to her knees soon after. The sun isn't quite set yet. I guess they're trying to get a head start?

But David is still standing. He moves closer to me, and I don't even care that we're both naked. I'm trembling all over, shutting my eyes tight against the sight of Sam and Nat twisting and changing and wishing I could shut my ears to their cries. This can't be real. This isn't going to happen to me. It can't. I can't stop myself from letting out a quiet sob, and I jump a little when I feel a warm arm around my shoulder. I can tell even now he's trying not to get too close, but I grip his hand tight in both of mine, trying to still their shaking.

I feel the light touch of his forehead on my temple, and he whispers gently into my ear, "I'll be right here."

I nod, and take a deep breath. I think I can feel the sun inching lower and lower. Then, all of a sudden, I feel like I've been hit in the stomach, and I drop to the ground. All my strength is gone in an instant. I sob as my stomach churns, and my bones creak. It's a blur of agony that lasts a lifetime. In a rare lucid moment, I notice David beside me, changing now, but he seems so calm. He isn't crying out like the others did, like I am. But I can't focus on him for long. Every cell in my body aches. By the time I come to, I can feel myself sprawled on the grass, but my body is unfamiliar. I can see the tall blades of grass bending in front of my face as I pant. I slowly climb to my feet.

There are monsters around me, but I don't see them that way. I can smell them. Familiar. I'd know Sam by his scent even if I didn't remember the pink scars on his muzzle, the same way I know that the huge black creature nosing my cheek is David. Nat is nearby, a smallish animal with dusty red fur. I can't focus. I can smell all three of them, but also the grass, the breeze, the rain. There are other small animals in these woods, and I can smell them and hear them scuttling inside their dens.

I feel anxious. Restless. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm running. I can hear two sets of feet pounding along behind me, but I don't care about them. The woods are alive. Everywhere I run, there are new scents, new sounds. The wet dirt underneath my paws feels nice. I try to climb a tree and slip and fall, but I just feel happy. I perk up when I hear a low howl coming through the trees, panting from exertion after I skid to a stop. David is still right beside me, so close I can almost feel him against my side. Sam is calling me.

I take off again, following the sound of the howl. I slip on some mud and slide into a bush, letting out a sound almost like a laugh. I've never felt so exhilarated, so powerful. I'm not making a decision to jump over this log or chase that rabbit—I just do it. There's nothing in me but instinct.

I feel like David is trying to herd me away from Sam's call, so I snap at him and carry on. I must run for miles, but I don't feel tired. Sam is hunkered down in the grass ahead. A strange smell. There's something else ahead, but I can't figure out what it is. It isn't part of the woods. David is actually pushing me now, shouldering me farther away from Sam. The rest is a blur. I think I snap at him again. Sam is calling me, growling at me, growling at something else. It's too much. There's too much noise, too much scent, too much movement. I hear a sound like a scream. I think it's a scream. I'm running again, the rain is soaking my fur, the screams are closer, there's something underneath me. There's sharp pain in my sides and I'm thrown to the ground.

Over and over I struggle against the black mass in my way, trying to reach the intoxicating scent beyond. I get distracted, I move on, I come back. The whole night passes in a few minutes and in a year. I finally go to sleep, I think, or maybe I just stop being able to pay attention.

I can feel the sun on my face before I open my eyes. My actual face. I reach up to touch it, feeling the smooth skin, making sure I'm still me. I blink against the sun as I open my eyes. I've never been so sore and tired. I wince when I sit up, feeling a blanket fall away from me, and I find long scratches down my waist and hips. How did that happen? I can't remember anything clear, just flashes and sensations. David is nearby with the bag, wearing a pair of jeans but wringing out a shirt. He looks over when I sit up, but quickly looks away with a cough. I pull the blanket back up to cover my chest, even though I don't feel embarrassed anymore.

He peeks back at me after a moment, and walks over to offer me a bottle of water and a sandwich. I drink half the bottle in a single chug, gasping afterward.

"How do you feel?" he asks when I'm halfway through the sandwich, and I pause to think about it.

Exhausted, aching. But something else. I glance around the small clearing, and I can still smell the grass, the wet ground, the trails of small animals that have spent the morning scurrying back and forth. I can smell David. I can hear mosquitoes and beetles buzzing through the trees. I can see the tracks we left last night. I feel like I've been living a half life until now—this whole world was around me all the time, and I was just blundering through it. It suddenly seems so silly to care about being naked, or getting a job, or whether my parents will miss me. Every blade of grass, every trembling breeze makes my skin come alive. I find myself smiling, and then laughing.

"I feel amazing," I say. He's still looking at me with that worried frown. Doesn't he understand? How could I still be worried? The change hurt, that's for sure, but what came after—even though I can't remember clearly, I know it was incredible. The senses, the speed, the power. Why did David spend so much time telling me how horrible it was going to be?

He sits down beside me with a bottle of disinfectant in his hand, and he tentatively reaches over to move the blanket, watching me for permission. "Sorry about the scratches," he says, inhaling sharply as I pull the blanket away from me without a care. How can he feel awkward about it? It's just a body. How has he spent so long this way, and he's still so timid? "How much do you remember?"

"Almost nothing," I laugh.

"Well, Sam almost got you into trouble. I knew we should have tried harder to keep you two apart. Even in a wilderness this size, on a Sunday night, Sam managed to find the one poor bastard out camping. It was all Nat and I could do to keep you away from him. But you didn't hurt anyone."

"Where is he?" I feel a bit of weight in my chest as I realize I care more about finding Sam this morning than I do about the fact that I apparently tried to kill someone last night, but nothing seems real to me right now. I don't even notice the sting as David rinses out the scratches on my hips.

"He'll turn up. Nat went to the truck already. She'll be waiting when you're ready. I have your clothes here."

David gets up and offers me a hand. I stand too quickly, and I have to put a hand on his chest to steady myself. I laugh about that, too. I feel giddy, like a little girl. I turn my head when I smell something familiar, and Sam appears by a nearby tree as if summoned. He's completely naked, with dark blood drying on his bare chest and a sleepy grin on his face.

"Mornin', sweetheart. You have a good night?"

I want to gush and tell him how amazing it was, how incredible I feel. I keep it to myself for now, because I can feel David's judgment like a weight on my shoulders. I see now why Sam says he's no fun. So I just nod at Sam, and we dress together while David packs the rest of the supplies back into the bag. It seems like a long walk back to Nat's truck, and I let David sit in the front seat so that I can ride in the back with Sam. I want to tell him everything, but the rocking of the truck on the dirt road soon has me back to sleep against his shoulder.

# 12 ALICIA

Reiniger looks like hell the morning after our adventure. When I see him in the mess, he's sitting up even straighter than usual (if that's possible) because of his ribs. There's a deep cut on his bottom lip held together with a couple of stitches, and the bruise around his eye covers a good portion of his face. I feel like I got off easy with only some sore ribs. I sit down next to him with my breakfast, but he doesn't pay me any attention. He never eats a proper meal for breakfast, just a thick, goopy green something in a tall glass. He has a file open in front of him that he seems to be taking notes in. I didn't notice until now that he's left-handed. It's hard to tell when you're getting your ass kicked.

"So, do you feel as terrible as you look?" I ask him, but he ignores me. I bend down close to the table to look into his face, and those hard, pale eyes lock onto mine. "Listen," I start, feeling stupid and awkward, "I didn't get to say, you know, thanks. For last night."

He stares at me blank-faced, and for a second I think he's just going to keep quiet like always, but he says, "You are welcome."

"So, do we have anything on the books?"

"Not today." He looks back at his file and continues writing. It's the file on the wolf we killed last night. Well, he killed. I barely helped. My biggest accomplishment last night was getting him to scowl at me when I dropped a potato chip between the seat and center console and couldn't reach to pull it out.

"So, what, it's a day off? What do you do on your day off?"

"Whatever I please."

"Well no shit. That's why they call it a day off."

He shuts the file and gets to his feet, picking it and his empty glass up and glancing down at me. "Miss May," he says sharply, but it's a goodbye. He drops his glass off with the dirty dishes and walks swiftly to the swinging door. He brushes past Paolo, who quickly moves to get out of his way, and then he's gone. Anke is chuckling like she's just seen someone get scolded as she slides into a chair next to me.

"What?" I ask as I turn to her.

"You are going to get your ass kicked," she snorts.

"By who?"

"You know by who. What are you thinking, trying to be all in his business?"

"By asking what he's doing today? You said yourself there's no ranks here. He's my partner, isn't he?"

"Well...yeah, but. You're so casual with him."

"So?"

She shrugs and pokes at her beef stew. She must just be coming off of her shift. "It's just, nobody talks to him like that."

"Nobody talks to him at all. Have you ever seen him kick somebody's ass for talking to him wrong?"

Anke pauses. "Well, no."

"So how do you know he would?"

She shakes her head. "Whatever you want to do, Ali. I'm just saying that I sure as hell couldn't look that guy in the face and tell him 'no shit.'"

If people are so intimidated by him that they get out of the way when he leaves a room and they think he's going to kick their ass if they say the wrong thing, it's no wonder he's alone all the time.

"Well, I mean, I am way tougher than you," I answer her with a smirk.

She thumps me lightly in the arm. "By the way," she says, "I forgot to tell you. Reiniger probably wouldn't mention it, since he's very by-the-book, but if you get a chance, you should get some perfume. It's something some of us have picked up. You don't wear it all the time, but if you think a wolf is on your tail, it's handy to be able to spritz some on. It confuses them, and you might be able to get away from one you wouldn't have before."

"Perfume, huh? Thanks. I'll keep it in mind." She grins at me and goes back to her supper.

I go back to the barracks after breakfast and see him sitting on his bunk with his tablet in his hand. It's pretty empty in here right now—just Joaquin snoring away and that one kid with the Norwegian last name I can't pronounce buried under his blanket in the corner. I sit on my bunk underneath Joaquin and dig in my pack for my iPod. If I have a free day I may as well try to go for a run or something. I try not to look at Reiniger. Even if he is my partner, everybody deserves some alone time.

He isn't reading today, though. He's holding the tablet straight in front of his face, and I can hear his low, clipped German. He's talking to someone. Who could it be? One of his brothers maybe? I'm really going to have to learn some German.

I decide to leave him alone, despite my burning curiosity, and I tug my iPod out of my bag and leave the compound to go for a run.

I come back in time for a late lunch, so I sit with Eberstark (haven't heard her first name yet), Paolo, and Jonas, and we play cards in the mess and shoot the shit while we eat.

"It's so quiet here," Eberstark mutters while she deals.

"I know!" Jonas groans, frowning. "I miss Biene."

"Who's Bean?" I ask.

"Biene. Bee-nuh," he clarifies for me. "Like honeybee. He is my dog."

"Your dog? How do you have a dog? Don't you live at the station?"

"In Germany, there are always dogs at the stations," Eberstark explains. "Depending on how large the outpost is, there may be three or four. The Botschafter will usually have one, as will each pair of Jäger." She smiles at my confusion. "Animals do not like the wolves, you see. Any animal with any intelligence will cower or snap at them if they come too near, but dogs especially. They are also useful for finding the wolves in a crowd, since the dogs can tell them by scent."

"Holy shit. I never would have thought of that, but that makes perfect sense. Am I going to get a dog?"

Jonas laughs. "If we establish here better, they will send our dogs with the next people assigned here. You cannot have Biene, but Reiniger will not miss him. You can have your own."

"Awesome. I always wanted a dog. There were some around when I was overseas, but I tried not to get too attached to them, since, you know...they were war dogs."

"Now you may have your own war dog," Eberstark smiles.

I laugh. "So awesome."

When the game breaks up, I find Reiniger still at his bunk, though now he does seem to just be reading. It must be killing him having to rest, but I'm sure Niklas told him to take it easy on his ribs. I go into the common room and retrieve the chess set, and I show it to Reiniger has I approach his bunk. He doesn't say anything, but he does put his tablet down and move back to make room for me. I'll take it as a yes.

I sit at the foot of his bed and set up the board between us. We play in silence for a few games, all of which I lose, but it's kind of nice. I'm usually the type who has to fill the gaps in conversation, even if it makes it awkward, but with him I can just sit and play a game for a little while. Plus, I get to watch him while he considers his move without it being weird, and since I've already convinced myself that it's harmless to look, I do.

I wonder briefly how he can be real. Not because he's gorgeous, because he's not. His hair is cut in a very fashionable style—short on the sides and longer on top, always parted on the left side and pushed back into place. It's the kind of effortlessly fashionable thing that I wouldn't expect from him if he didn't also dress very well. I've only rarely seen him in a t-shirt, and never in jeans. If he isn't wearing dress pants, then it's because we're sparring, so he's wearing track pants or something. He has a long face that suits his personality (or lack thereof), with a thin, stern mouth. I think he's handsome. Not going to be on any magazine covers, especially with that giant shiner, but handsome. And he's clearly fit. Strong; a good fighter. Speaks three languages fluently—I heard him speaking French to Renault the other day—and obviously intelligent in general. He seems like he's a complete package, except for the whole robot thing. I wonder if he ever has any luck with women or if he even cares.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by the realization that while I've been staring at him, he's also looking at me. I got distracted watching the little dip at the base of his neck visible through the open top button of his shirt. Maybe telling myself it's okay to look wasn't the best idea.

"It is your move, Miss May," he says.

I clear my throat and look back at the board, moving a piece that seems like a good idea but probably isn't. "You know, you can call me Alicia."

He doesn't answer me. We take a few more moves, and then he says, "Tomorrow night is the full moon. You will be on duty."

"Are we going out?"

"No. Hauptmann and Eberstark will patrol the city but will not engage any wolves they find. It seems obvious that Central Park will be heavily made use of, but their goal will be to track other possible locations that the wolves use for these purposes. You and I will remain here."

"What are we on duty for, if we're staying here?"

"Herbert Klein, the wolf whose progeny we assisted previously, has directed to us a newly bitten werewolf he came across. This wolf has not yet changed, and the first time is by far the most dangerous. They experience a complete lack of control. In order to avoid causing trouble, he has agreed to be contained here for the night, rather than risk being spotted or submitting to his urges in the middle of the city."

"Hold up. This guy is going to turn into a werewolf for the first time, and he's going to do it here?"

"In a holding cell. Yes."

"And so we're going to, what, watch him do it?"

"Yes. It is unlikely that he will be able to break free from the cell, but we are the insurance in case this happens. We will administer Wolfsbane prior to sunset so that he will be easier to control."

"Right, because that's what Wolfsbane does." I knew if I paid attention it would eventually come up.

"It cannot prevent a wolf from changing on a full moon, but he will at least be lethargic."

"So, do we have to go and get this guy?"

"He is to report to an agreed upon location tomorrow, and Hauptmann will bring him here to be detained."

"Sounds easy enough."

"Checkmate," he says instead of an answer. We play for a while longer, until I'm too pissed off from losing, and then I pack up the board and call him an asshole on my way out. If he has any problems with that, he doesn't express them.

Around the middle of the afternoon the next day, I'm standing in the room with the holding cells, watching Reiniger escort our charge to his room. I expected a young guy, but he's at least forty. I guess you don't have to be young to be bitten by a werewolf. He's polite enough. Says his name is Joel. He steps into the cell when Reiniger opens the door and takes a seat against the back wall when the cell is locked shut.

"Shortly before sunset, we will ask that you allow us to administer a dose of Wolfsbane," Reiniger says, standing in front of the cell door. "It will be uncomfortable, but you will be significantly less restless through the night. We must wait until the last moments before your change, however, as you are yet human and Aconitum is quite toxic."

"Great," Joel sighs, and he leans his head back against the concrete wall. He looks over at me. "How do you people fall into a gig like this?"

I smile at him, hoping I'm being reassuring, and I crouch down by the cell door. "Same way a guy like you falls into being a werewolf, I guess."

"Herbert said he could tell right away when he met me. Came up to me in a diner and asked me if anyone was helping me. I thought he was crazy, but after seeing him and that kid of his, I knew he was telling the truth when he told me what happened to me wasn't just an animal attack." He runs a hand over his face, rubbing his jaw wearily. "I don't know if somebody was aiming for me or if it was an accident, but if this has to happen, I don't want to hurt anybody. Herbert said you guys were my best chance at that."

"It is fortunate that he found you," Reiniger says. "Had you been taken by surprise and changed in the middle of the city, you would certainly have killed."

"So, bright side, right?" I chuckle, but Joel doesn't seem amused. I don't really know how you're supposed to comfort someone when they're about to turn into a movie monster. I rock on my feet awkwardly for a little bit, and I check my watch a couple of times.

After what seems like ages, Reiniger takes a fat syringe of brown paste from the table near the lockers and opens the cell. Joel watches him warily, but Reiniger quite politely asks for permission to give him the dose, so he opens his mouth and allows him to push the paste into his mouth. He coughs and wipes at his mouth as Reiniger pulls away, and he almost immediately starts clutching his stomach. He huffs out his next few breaths and drops back down to the floor.

"If you hope to keep those clothes you are wearing, I would suggest that you take them off now," Reiniger says in what I imagine he thinks is a helpful way. Joel stares at him, and he mutters to himself as he strips down to his underwear and passes the clothing through the bars to Reiniger.

It doesn't take long after that for him to start to change. It looks just the same as the first man I saw turn into a werewolf in these cells, but I'm still held in place by the sight of it. In fact, the day I become casual about watching a man's body twist and contort and break until it's a monster wolf's body, that's the day I quit and retire in Bermuda or something. I would say I can't imagine the kind of person who would be unaffected by something like that happening right in front of them, but Reiniger is already sitting in one of the two chairs provided for our vigil, flipping a page on his tablet. So, I guess a Reiniger kind of person can.

I watch Joel for a while, slowly pacing the cell once his change is complete, but he really does seem pretty calm. Wolfsbane must be pretty powerful stuff. Eventually I sit beside Reiniger, who of course doesn't look at me. I should have thought to bring a book, or my iPod, or something. I didn't expect this to be boring.

Reiniger's tablet makes a sound that startles me and makes Joel growl weakly from his cage. He silences it with a small frown, but it chimes again about a minute later. This happens a couple more times before I ask him, "What the hell is that noise?"

Before he can answer (if he was even going to), it chimes again, and this time I see him touch the screen and say something in slightly irritated-sounding German.

The voice that comes out of the speakers sounds young. I can't understand a word, but it's clearly a young man. I almost laugh.

"Are you Skyping right now?"

Reiniger's brow wrinkles at me, and the other voice says something excitably in German. "Who's with you?" I hear at the end, and Reiniger snaps out a curt response. "Nope, too late, I heard it. Turn me around; I want to meet your American friend." I'm a little surprised at the American-ness of his accent, following so quickly behind clearly native German.

Reiniger sighs out of his nose, but he turns the tablet around so that the screen faces me. There's really only one person that this can be. I put my hand on it and tilt it so that I can see my own face in the tiny window in the corner, as well as see the screen better. The guy looking through his own webcam at me looks kind of like a smaller, negative version of Reiniger. His hair is a dirty blonde instead of dark brown, and his eyes are almost black, instead of amber. Cute kid. He grins brightly at me and waves, the sound coming through with a bit of a delay.

"Hallo, American friend. You're the new partner? Lukas told me about you."

"Oh, Lukas did, did he?" I peek over at Reiniger and bite my tongue to keep from smiling at the little scowl he's directing at me. "You must be the littlest brother."

"Max. Is May your first or your last name? I can never tell with him."

"Last. My name's Alicia."

"Alicia. Got it." He raises his voice slightly. "Lukas, she's cute! You should have told me!" Reiniger mumbles something in German, but Max speaks over him, extending the vowel in his objection. "Nope! English! Don't be rude." He seems to squint at the screen. "You have somebody in the cage back there? On duty tonight, huh?"

I glance over my shoulder at Joel. "Yeah, he's back there. I thought this would be more dangerous."

"Wolfsbane is very effective, but you must still be on your guard," Reiniger says sternly. "Which is why we cannot chat, Max."

"If he breaks out, feel free to drop me," Max grins, and I laugh.

Reiniger turns the tablet back to face himself. "You should be asleep at this hour. Are you not leaving on assignment soon?"

"I'm a big boy. And yeah, they're sending me to Augsburg. Bavaria, can you believe it? I would have told you about it if you'd bothered to answer my calls all week."

So it was somebody else he was talking to earlier. I listen to them talk for a while—mostly Reiniger listens silently while Max talks, about anything and everything. About his tattoo healing over, a girl named Karin, how completely wasted he got a couple of weeks ago when he was initiated, and how he wished he could have been sent to the States instead of Bavaria, which he seems to have a bit of distaste for. I wouldn't have expected him to be an attentive big brother, but there it is happening right in front of me. He nods, he sometimes answers, his face becomes slightly less harsh when Max laughs. These conversations clearly aren't a rare occurrence.

"Oh! And I heard Eric is being transferred back to Köln for a while. Shit timing, right?"

Reiniger only makes a small sound of agreement, completely ignoring my curious look. So I say loud enough to be heard through the microphone, "Is Eric one of your other brothers?"

Max laughs. "No. Lukas didn't tell you about Eric? So mysterious."

"Max," Reiniger says in a warning tone.

"Okay, okay." I really want to know who Eric is, but I decide not to press him. Right now. "How are you liking the Jäger life, Alicia? Lukas, turn me around."

I smile at him despite the frown on Reiniger's face as he does what he's told. It's strange hearing someone speak with him so casually—even more than I do. We might play chess sometimes, but I can imagine how I would shrink from the look he'd give me if I called him Lukas. "I like it so far. Haven't done much yet, though, except get your brother beaten up."

"Ah, he's used to that. Better that than mess up your pretty face."

"Max," Reiniger warns again, but Max just grins at me.

"Anyway. Nice to meet you. Come to Germany someday, and we'll get better acquainted."

"You too, Max. And I will."

The brothers say good night in German, and Reiniger frowns slightly at his tablet before putting it down on the table and folding his arms casually. The charge must be almost run out after such a long video chat. I let a good long silence go by, the only sound in the concrete hall Joel's growls and snorts as he shifts uncomfortably on the floor. Then I lean over in my chair, hands between my knees, and I peer at Reiniger out of the corner of my eye.

"So, who's Eric?"

He says nothing, just exhales sharply through his nose, like that's an answer.

"Come on. Why would it be a secret?"

He looks at me in silence for a couple of beats, and then says flatly, "Eric is my husband."

I feel like picking my jaw up off the floor like in a cartoon, but I keep it together and just say, "Oh. That's nice." This person has a husband? This person has a significant other at all? I almost laugh because I absolutely cannot picture the kind of person who would be in a relationship with Reiniger, let alone a marriage. "Why didn't you tell me, when I asked if you had a girlfriend?"

"It was not pertinent information. It is a personal matter."

"I was asking you a personal question, you ass." I ignore the way his eyes narrow at me. "We had a stake-out bonding opportunity and you didn't even tell me you were married. Why don't you wear a ring?"

"Because it is a personal matter."

"So, what, it's a secret?" I lean in close to him and lower my voice. "Reiniger, are you still in the closet?"

He's getting irritated now. "Miss May, my marital status is of no consequence to you nor to my colleagues, as it does not pertain to my work and does not affect it. I am sure there is no question that you will keep this knowledge to yourself."

"Okay, okay. Jesus." We sit quietly for a minute, Reiniger staring straight ahead at the lurking wolf in the cell, and me peeking at him periodically. "Sorry your brother outed you," I say finally, unable to hold back my snort of laughter as he shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. A reaction is a reaction.

# 13 SAM

The day after a full moon is always a complete wash. In true form, Marcy sleeps almost the whole day, and I'm not far behind her. Even David stays sprawled out on the couch with a blanket over him. We do eat a hell of a supper that night though—as tired as it makes you, you get about twice as hungry.

I don't really feel like doing anything until about the middle of the morning the next day. I leave Marcy sleeping when I get up, and Nat and David are sitting in the kitchen.

"Yeah, I'll go in just a little bit," David says as I drop into a chair between them.

"Where we goin'?"

"You're not going anywhere," Nat says. "I asked David if he'd do a bit of shopping for me today."

"Well hell, if he's goin' into town, then I'm goin'." I see Marcy approaching the table with a sleepy smile. She waves at me.

"I asked David, not you," Nat snaps at me, and she pokes me in the chest with one finger. "You'll only make more trouble. You need to stay here and keep your head down. You couldn't behave yourself the other night, so why should I think you will today?"

"Damn it, Nat, we been cooped up in here for days. I ain't gon' do nothin' what's gon' make trouble for you. An' you can't stop me, anyhow."

"I'll keep an eye on him, Nat," David says.

She sighs, shaking her head skeptically, but she smiles a little when she looks up and sees Marcy. "Hey, dearie. You want to take a trip into town? You lot have about eaten me out of house and home. It'll do you good to get out among people a little bit. It's going to be overwhelming at first, so you're lucky you can practice in a small town."

"Are we all going?" she asks, taking a seat beside David.

"Not me; that's why I asked David to go," she says. "I promised a neighbor I'd help him out fixing his truck this afternoon, but you should go and have a little fun." She looks back over at me with slightly narrowed eyes. "You shouldn't. You go and help David do the shopping and have no fun, hear?"

"With David these days, ain't nobody havin' no fun," I mutter, patting him a little too hard on the head as I get up and head back to the bedroom. I think I hear him swear at me, but I'm already gone. I set my duffel on the bed and pull out some fresh clothes, and I'm pulling on my boots when Marcy comes in and drops onto the bed beside me.

I glance over my shoulder at her, and I see her with my photo case open in her hand, looking down at the picture inside with a sad-looking frown.

"Give that here," I say sternly, and I hold my hand out for it. She shuts the case carefully and hands it back to me, pulling up onto her knees. I look down at the photo before I snap the case shut and stuff it back in my bag.

The photo shows three people standing on a rickety-looking front porch. A man, young and still what you'd call fresh-faced, wearing a cheap suit that doesn't fit. A woman with her black hair done up in a bun, in a dress she made herself out of fabric she saved up for. And below her, holding her hand, a small girl in a cotton ball of a white dress, long dark hair flowing wild and free down her back and over her shoulders. They all look so serious. Most people in photos looked serious back then. I try to flatten out the photo without doing any more damage to it, and turn it over in my hand. On the back, in a neat hand using blotchy ink, it reads "Carter. Samuel, Helen, Alice. 1912." I could probably copy that handwriting exactly, I've looked at it so much. It's fading, too.

"Is that your family?" she asks in a slightly hushed voice. "Where are they now?"

"They died," I tell her. "Long time ago."

"I'm sorry, Sam. What happened to them?"

A little sigh comes out of me. I really hate when this comes up. Why do people have to try and get your life story out of you? "I killed 'em."

Her hand goes up to her mouth in a gasp. "You did? Why?"

"Weren't nobody to teach me on my first night. Had no way of knowin' what was gon' happen to me. You get scratched up by a wild animal," I say, gesturing to the scars on my face, "you get better, you don't think about it. Then one night you change, and the next thing you know there's nothin' left but bodies." I look up into Marcy's face, and I can see the same look women always get when I tell them the story they asked to hear. "Now don't you go feelin' all sorry for me," I grunt. "Was a long time ago, like I said. You just figure yourself lucky you've got folk here showin' you how it's done."

She nods, and I go out to the living room. Nat gripes at me a bit more, but she really can't stop me from going along. We get into the car, and Marcy insists that I sit up front, no matter what David says. He bitches at me, but how can he expect me not to touch a big screen right in the middle of the dashboard? Keeps me from getting sick, anyhow.

The town of Moncks Corner is quiet and quaint. I kind of like it. As soon as Marcy gets out of the car, I can see her sniffing around, taking everything in. It's overpowering being out in public at first. I grin at her when she looks at me.

"Keepin' it together, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," she says as she returns my grin. "I'm more than fine."

"Well, y'all take care now," I say, stretching my arms behind my back. "I'll meet you back here in what, two hours?"

"Sam, no," David says firmly. "You promised Nat you wouldn't get into trouble."

"She ain't gon' have no trouble from me. But a man can't sit in a house like that for days on end and not come out wantin' to stretch his legs. Y'all have fun with the groceries." I wave and head off down the street, ignoring David when he calls after me.

The only downside to this little outing is that it's the middle of the day. It won't do to try and head to a bar, but I'm itching for company. I don't have much money left, and there aren't enough people on the street to pick up any wallets. These days I have to pick twice the pockets for the same amount of money, since hardly anybody uses cash anymore. I do spot a diner that looks promising, and my stomach still feels empty from skipping breakfast, so I open the door and walk past the ringing bell above me.

I slide into a booth at the back of the diner. It's not completely deserted, but only a couple of the booths have anyone in them. It smells like stale coffee and old mop water. Not very appetizing, but I'm too hungry to care. In a minute the waitress approaches me. She's cute. Short little blonde thing, hair in a braid down one side of her neck. As always, there's a little pause as she gets a look at my face, but she quickly smiles.

"What can I get you, handsome?" She's wearing some kind of cheap, flowery perfume.

"Mornin', darlin'. I'm hopin' for some strong black coffee, and a big ol' pile of pancakes. Can you make that happen, sweetheart?"

"Only the best coffee in Moncks Corner," she says with a wink, and as I watch her head back to the counter and call out to the cooks behind the half-wall, I stretch out my legs best I can under the table. She comes back a few moments later, drops a cracked mug on my table, and pours coffee from a pitcher into it.

"Doin' a lot of hustlin' around this mornin'?"

"Sugar, you just missed the morning rush. We get a bunch of the fellas in here early on, then next to nothing the rest of the morning. Don't recognize you, though; you on vacation?"

"Just in town visitin' a friend."

"Well, isn't that nice." She looks over her shoulder when someone shouts for her, and she wanders off again, talking to a couple seated at another table. When she returns, she brings a plate stacked with pancakes, and drops a small container of syrup. "One big ol' pile of pancakes," she says with a smile.

I lean forward a bit to get a look at her name tag. "I'm much obliged, Cynthia."

She lingers while I sip my coffee, and she sets her pitcher down on my table. It's bad coffee, but not terrible. "So, you're visiting a friend, or a girlfriend?"

I smirk a little. "Just a friend. You flirtin' with the clientele, darlin'?"

"How else is a girl supposed to make good tips?"

"Is that how you do it," I chuckle. "Well when do you get on out of here? I'm all alone today, and I could use some company."

She hesitates, but I know it won't last from the way she smiles and bites her bottom lip as she looks at me. "You trying to pick me up, sugar?"

"I am."

"Well they're about to send me home, and I've got a bit before I come back for the dinner shift. If you want to wait around, I can give you the nickel tour." She winks at me, and turns away. The pancakes aren't bad. The girl's even better. Forward, smart. Seems that way, anyway. Some girls are pretty good at playing smart and being stupid.

When I finish my pancakes, I wait and drink my coffee until I see her pulling off her apron and smiling coyly at me from across the counter. I drop enough money on the table for the tab, and put the tip directly in her hand.

She fakes an offended face. "What, that's it?"

"Thought this was the nickel tour? I ain't made of money, girl."

She laughs at me and gestures for me to follow her out of the diner. We aren't halfway to her car before she stops me and leans up to whisper a suggestion into my ear. It's always the same. 'I don't usually do this.' 'I'm not really this kind of girl.' Whatever they have to tell themselves. I get into the passenger seat of her car, and as we drive down the road, she keeps peeking over at me and brushing her hand over my thigh. She squeals pleasantly when I lean over and nip at her neck at a stoplight, but she swats me away so that she can drive.

Her apartment is tiny and cramped, but I don't have time to care. As soon as we're inside, she pulls off her shirt and pushes me down onto the bed, climbing on top of me with a sly grin on her face. Her nails scrape across my stomach pleasantly as she unbuckles my belt. When she leans down over me, I put my arms around her to keep her still, and when my teeth find the flesh of her shoulder, she cries out in what can only be a happy sound.

Finding a girl that likes it when you hurt her is rare. Finding a girl who likes it and can take a good deal of punishment is like finding a four leaf clover. Every scratch, every bruise, every bite I give her, she only squirms and moans and giggles.

She seems to quite enjoy herself for a long while, but when I have to spit out a bit of flesh from her arm that comes loose, she shouts and struggles. I let her writhe under me, and I laugh at her attempts to push me away even when her nails draw a bit of blood from my chest. I let her taste her own blood on my mouth, pulling at her bottom lip until it flows red over her chin. I leave her bleeding onto her sheets from a dozen bite marks on her torso and arms, and she barely has the energy to raise her head to look at me as I slide my jeans back on. By the time I've washed her blood from my face in her bathroom, she's already out. Not likely to get up again, and now I'm already clean, so I leave without finishing her.

I have no idea where I am when I walk out of the apartment building. I try to trace the route we took in her car, and I find the diner after a while. From there it's easier to find my way, and eventually I spot Marcy's car parked on the side of the street with her and David leaning up against it. I must be late.

David scowls at me when I approach, and Marcy puts a hand to her nose. I guess I should have considered showering if I didn't want them to know.

"Sam, what the fuck?" David hisses at me. "I thought you weren't going to get into trouble!"

I just shrug, and Marcy reaches out tentatively to touch my shirt where there's a small stain. "Is that...blood?"

"Don't bother none, neither of you. I ain't in no trouble. Y'all have a good time grocery shoppin'?"

"Just get in the damn car," David just about growls. "And keep the windows down. I'm not smelling that poor woman's blood the whole ride back."

"Woman?" Marcy asks, but I don't answer her. She keeps a hand over her nose during the drive. The smell must be overpowering for her.

Nat's truck is still in front of the house when we get back, but as soon as I get out, I can smell blood. And not the stuff that's on my shirt. I share a look with David. I know he smells it. We go into the house in a hurry, Marcy trailing behind. She probably can't identify the scent yet.

David doesn't pause at the front door, even though it's clearly been broken in, but he stops just inside so that I almost run into him. I look around him and see Nat on the floor. She's been shot more than once, but I can see the one that finished her pooling blood from a wound over her heart.

David is on the floor beside her immediately, and I hear Marcy gasp as she puts a hand on my arm to see past me. Who the hell would have shot Nat?

David gingerly touches her hair, as if he expects her to move. His hand trembles slightly before it turns into a fist, and I see him lift his head to sniff the air. I can smell them too. There were men here. At least two of them. I see David get to his feet and move to the wall, where a bullet has caused the wood to splinter. He reaches out to touch the bullet hole, but then he hisses and drops the spent bullet to the floor and lets it roll away.

"Silver," he growls, so low I almost don't hear him. He turns to me with his teeth bared and a low snarl in his voice. "This is your fault."

"My fault? How the hell is it my fault?"

He moves over to me and shoves me in the chest, causing me to stumble a little and bump into Marcy. "She told you there were hunters watching her! She told you they were here! And you couldn't go one god damn night without killing someone!"

"You'd best mind who you're layin' hands on, boy," I tell him. He stands his ground when I move close to look into his face, but he doesn't move to hit me again.

"Guys, don't do this," Marcy whispers beside us. "If this is anybody's fault, it's those hunters, right? What can we do?"

"Ain't nothin' to be done," I say without taking my eyes off of David. "Scent's too faint. They've been gone a long while."

"We have to do something," he says. "Nat is dead and it's because we came here."

"You think I don't wanna tear them apart?" He frowns at me, but stays silent. "But how do you wanna track 'em, David? Where do you wanna start? Out here in the middle of nowhere, or in a town full of people?"

I can tell he wants to hit me. Wants to shout, or run. Anything. I almost wish he would. But what he does is turn away from me and sigh. "We need to leave."

"Leave?" Marcy asks. She looks relieved that there isn't going to be a fight, but I'm a little disappointed. At least it would mean that David still has some fight in him at all.

"They'll come back if they find out Nat isn't the one who killed the camper. Which they will," he says with a small growl, "as soon as somebody finds the body of your date from this afternoon."

"Sam, you killed someone?"

"It happens, don't it? Listen, if they're coming back, why don't we just wait?"

David scowls. "We don't know how many there are, and I'm not risking Marcy. You've caused enough trouble. We should just go."

I don't like to admit it when David's right about something, but he's right about this. I don't doubt that David and I could take a few hunters, but I'm not willing to risk something happening to the girl when she's only a day in. So I glance at Marcy and tell her, "Go pack up the car, sweetheart. We'll take care of her."

She carefully skirts Nat's body on her way by, tears in her eyes as she heads back into the bedroom. David doesn't speak to me, but together we pick up Nat's body and carry it to the back yard. Marcy stays away and packs the car like she's told while the two of us dig a grave that's too shallow to be really respectful, but we're short on time. We put Nat inside and cover her up. Neither of us has anything to say. We know what she was—a pain in my ass, but a fine woman. To David, she was even more. A teacher, a friend, maybe even a mother. He stands beside the grave longer than I do, but I don't rush him. Marcy starts to speak when I come around the corner to the car, but I put a finger to my lips and shake my head.

"Just get in the car, darlin'."

We hear the back door open and shut, but eventually David comes out of the house and gets into the back seat, and Marcy drives down the dirt road and back toward the highway.

# 14 ALICIA

We're allowed to sleep in the next day, since we were on duty until the sun came up at about 5:30 this morning. I'm still up past that because I caught Anke on her way to bed too, and we end up sitting in the mess together eating bacon and eggs. I'm dying to tell her what I found out about Reiniger last night, but I think he might actually murder me if I say anything, so I don't.

"How are you adjusting?" she asks me. "It's a lot to take in, but you seem like you're doing pretty well, all things considered."

I shrug and put a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "It's crazy, but my life's been crazy for a long time. This routine is the best thing that's happened to me in months."

"Even being partnered with Weirdy Creeper?"

I snort and hide my face in the crook of my elbow for a second. "He's not so bad," I say, but Anke's face makes me laugh again. "Yeah, okay, so he's bad. There's definitely something wrong with him. But I'm working with him, not marrying him." I decide to leave out how he's actually occasionally considerate, a good chess player, and a caring brother. She probably wouldn't believe me anyway, and she'd definitely accuse me of having a crush and tell me I should visit Niklas.

"Oh god, can you imagine?" She laughs. "Anyway, I'm glad you're doing okay. Do you know if they're making any progress on finding the wolf who attacked you?"

I told Anke a little while ago about what happened to me. I left out a lot of gory details, but she got the idea. I shake my head. "They haven't said anything to me about it if they have. Maybe soon."

"They'll track him down," she says warmly. "And then you'll be glad to have a partner like you've got." She puts her fork down on her empty plate and stretches over the back of her chair. "Anyway, that's it for me. You're probably dead on your feet, too. Get some rest, Ali. I'll see you later."

I smile at her, and after she leaves, I finish my dinner-breakfast and go back to the barracks to pass out in my bunk. Reiniger is still up before me, but even he sleeps until almost the middle of the day.

It was strange watching Joel become human again and then just lie there, naked, curled up on the concrete floor and snoring. He's still in there, as far as I know. Reiniger says it's always like that; they always get exhausted on a full moon. I can understand that. I'm pretty tired just from watching one all night, and he was apparently lethargic. Toward the end of the night the Wolfsbane started to wear off, and he would growl and snap and throw himself against the bars, but they held. I'm glad he stayed here instead of going out on the town and taking that aggression out on the general public. I wonder if he'll be back or if this happens often. Are these cells mostly used as some kind of werewolf halfway house?

I eat my breakfast for lunch and find Reiniger back in the barracks, wearing a tank top and a pair of black track pants that are threatening to slip even lower down his hips as he pulls himself up on the bar in the corner, jaw set as he lifts his chin above the bar over and over. I pause a moment to take in the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders move, and I sigh when I remember that not only is he super weird and probably a robot, but he's also apparently gay. And married. I guess that makes it even more okay to harmlessly enjoy him, right? I wasn't actually thinking of trying to jump him or anything, but it's still a bit of a relief to know that even if I was tempted by my increasingly long dry spell, it's completely off the table.

I go over near him, nodding when I see him glance at me, and we both finish our daily routines in silence. When we finish, we both go into the showers, and I'm glad to find that I don't feel strange at all about being in there with him. I mean, it clearly doesn't bother him, so why should I care? So I just go into the shower stall beside him and do my thing. He takes longer than me, because he balances his small mirror on the divider wall to shave his face. I didn't know anybody actually still used the whole brush and soap in a bowl deal.

I'm dressing by the time he comes out, and he glances at me as I pull my shirt on and muss my short hair into what I like to think is a fashionably messy look. "We have an assignment tomorrow," he says, taking a neatly pressed shirt from his locker and slipping it over his shoulders. When does he find the time to iron his shirts? Does somebody do it for him? "Today we must make sure you are ready."

"Sounds good. Does that mean you're going to kick my ass again?" I pause to wave at Jonas as he enters, and him I definitely look when he stops at his locker down the row and strips off his shirt. He looks like he's half bear. I look back at Reiniger eventually, who seems like he was waiting patiently for me to finish.

"It is not that kind of assignment," he says, pausing to glance into the mirror on the inside of his locker door and push his damp hair into place. "When you came here, did you bring any formal clothing?"

"Formal? I don't own any formal clothing, and if I did, why would I bring them with me to come here?"

"I suspected. I have been given a small allowance by Herr Baumann with which we are to purchase you suitable clothes."

"Suitable for what?"

"Herr Baumann has scheduled a meeting with Adam Weiss. A business dinner. We are to attend as protection in case something should go wrong."

I stare at him, trying to figure out if this is a joke or not, but his face is blank as always. "A business dinner. With Adam Weiss. The mafioso werewolf."

"Yes. You will need a dress."

"You're kidding me with this, right?"

"This is a business meeting. It would be inappropriate and rude to dress casually. Weiss is a German. He will expect we will be courteous."

"Aren't you worried this is some kind of trap or something? A werewolf just inviting you over for dinner?"

"No. Adam Weiss is not considered a threat. He is the head of a large family in Germany and has many businesses in the United States. It only stands to reason that he would want to speak with Herr Baumann, and Herr Baumann with him." He tilts his head to the door. "Shall we go?"

I follow him out the door and through the hall. "Why is it exactly you need to come with me if all I'm doing is buying a dress? I know how to wear clothes."

"I will only make sure that the dress you wear is appropriate for such a meeting." He leads me out into the alley, and we walk down the street instead of taking the car. He must know where we're going. There's a joke in here somewhere about my gay friend taking me dress shopping, but I decide not to make it, just in case Anke was actually right about him knocking the shit out of me.

We walk down the street side by side, not talking, until he stops outside a shop that looks more expensive than anyplace I've ever bought clothes before. He opens the door, and I follow him inside. Definitely expensive.

A woman approaches us with a big sales smile, but before she can start asking us what she can do for us, Reiniger says with a gesture toward me, "She needs a dress. It must be conservative but not dated." He turns to me with a little crinkle in his brow, and he looks me up and down. "Perhaps something with a heart neckline, and a–" He pauses. "A Schößchen." He looks at me like I should know what the hell he's talking about, and when I shrug at him he looks back at the clerk, who seems equally confused. "A small sort of ruffle at the top of a slim skirt."

"A peplum!" The clerk laughs. "Yes, sir. We have a small selection of dresses like that. I'll fetch some. What size are you, dear?"

"Uh."

"Try an eight," Reiniger suggests, and she smiles at him and bustles off.

"You are such a creep," I groan, and he frowns at me, just a little. "I thought you were just making sure it was appropriate?"

"I am. Both for the occasion and for your body type. You will thank me."

"Whatever." The woman comes back shortly with a few dresses over her arm, and she urges me to the back of the store to the fitting room, calling me dear as she shuts me in. I stare at the dresses hanging on the wall. I'm not a very dressy person. I've worn dresses before, when the occasion called for it, but I certainly would never have picked out anything like this, with no sleeves and a ruffle around the ass. But Reiniger seemed to know what he was talking about, and anyway, this is what I've been given, so I take down the pale yellow one and wiggle into it.

It actually doesn't look bad, except I never would have pictured myself in it. The clerk knocks on the door after a minute and asks if everything is all right. Before I can answer, I hear Reiniger's voice from outside.

"Let me see."

Ugh. Now I get to be appraised. Nobody told me that being dressed up like a doll would be part of being a werewolf hunter. I open the door and step out. Reiniger looks at me, arms crossed with his chin in one hand, and he lightly taps his cheek with one finger as he inspects me.

"No," he says after a few moments. "It must have sleeves, or she must wear a jacket. And a dark color is preferable." He brushes past me and goes into the fitting room, skimming through the dresses still on hangers. He plucks out a dark blue one and hands it to me, so I go back inside and change, trying very hard not to roll my eyes at him. How could this possibly matter so much?

The blue dress has a knee-length skirt that doesn't quite hide the scars on my leg and sleeves that touch my wrists, with a lace pattern running through them so that you can see a bit of skin through it. I like it better than the yellow one, but I can't zip it up myself. When I step out, Reiniger circles me once, and I jump slightly when I feel his hands on my waist from behind. I don't think he's ever touched me if not to hit me.

"There is not time to have it tailored, but this will do." He bends down and tugs lightly at the hem of my skirt, looking up into my face. "Can you move? It is not too tightly fitted?"

I wiggle a little, moving my legs back and forth. The material is kind of stretchy. "Sure." I'm sure he doesn't want to say 'in case you have to fight a werewolf' in front of the clerk, but I know why he's asking.

He nods as he straightens, and he glances to the clerk. "This one."

I go into the fitting room to change back into my clothes, and by the time I come out, he's already paid. The clerk puts the dress into a long garment bag for me, which Reiniger also carries. It looks like he bought a black clutch handbag, too. When we leave the store, instead of turning back the way we came, he leads me further down the street, and we spend another twenty minutes making sure I have the right shoes—they should have a heel, but not too tall, and they should have a strap around the ankle. Also apparently I need makeup of my own instead of just borrowing Anke's because "this is unsanitary." I do remember to buy some perfume, though.

I'm not sure at all about how this is supposed to go. I'm supposed to get dressed up, have a nice dinner with a werewolf, but also be ready just in case he decides to eat our Lead? It's so surreal. Even more so than having Reiniger choose my outfit for me. But to be fair, he's about as GQ as you can get living in a concrete bunker, so I guess I could have done worse.

I go to bed early, since I'm still tired from staying up all night, but I don't sleep much. I'm a little wired. It's one thing to help a guy out or watch him be sick half the night, but we're going to actually sit down and discuss the business of being a werewolf with this guy. Or...something. It should be interesting, at least.

# 15 MARCY

I can't help looking back at David as I drive. His face is blank, if a little somber, but his hand on the car door is gripping so tightly that his knuckles are white. I want to tell him I'm sorry or that we'll get those bastards or something, but Sam gives me a look every time I open my mouth. So we just drive. I kept a lot of the groceries we bought in the car as I was packing up our things, so at least we'll have something to eat if we have to stay on the road a while.

I have no idea where to go. The guys aren't offering any suggestions right now, and the only place I can think to go is my parents', and that absolutely isn't happening. I probably should call them at some point, but it seems so unimportant now. Nat was a friend to me even though we'd just met and clearly very close to Sam and David. She seemed like a kind, vibrant woman. And now she's dead—David says it's Sam's fault, but Sam isn't the one who shot her. I guess werewolf hunters are real after all and they're in the habit of killing any werewolf they find, apparently. How many innocent people have been killed because some zealot decided they didn't deserve to live just for being what they are? It makes me sick to think about it. Humans aren't just murdered for crimes they commit, especially not without a trial. Why should we be any different?

Before we even get to town, my gas light comes on. I haven't put any in the tank since we arrived. I'm about to mention it when a cell phone rings from the pile of bags in the back. I glance behind me, but David doesn't move. It's my ring tone, but it's strange to hear it. I haven't even considered checking my phone for days. Sam turns around and says what I'm thinking.

"You gon' get that, son?"

"No. It's just Adam again. He's been calling for a couple days."

Sam snorts. "It ain't occurred to you that we're out a place to stay? Get your damn phone."

David sighs and turns to dig in the back seat, but the phone has stopped ringing now. He finds it anyway and tosses it to Sam, who stares at it like it's alien technology and then offers it back to David.

"Make it call him."

I can't see David's face, but I imagine he's frowning as he snatches the phone from Sam's hand, touches the screen a couple times, and then gives it back.

Sam peers at the phone skeptically before putting it to his ear. I can't hear the voice on the phone, but after a few seconds Sam says, "Hey, brother. Heard you been lookin' for me."

I know I should be feeling bad about Nat, and I do, but I also kind of hope that we get to go and stay with this person. I'm really curious what kind of man not only works for the mob and takes regular trips to Europe and has a personal assistant but is also a werewolf. Someone who was apparently like a second father to David, even though he seems to really dislike him now.

"We're comin' from Nat's now," Sam says. "Looks like a couple of assholes got it in their heads to hunt some wolves. Yeah. Not well. No idea. Why, you got a vacancy? There's three of us." He laughs a little, and I can see David scowling at him from the back seat. "Sure thing, brother. We'll head up that a way. See you soon. Right. Bye." He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it, but Adam must hang up for him, because the screen goes black again after a second.

"So, we're going to New York?" I ask as Sam drops the phone into the center console.

"Looks that way. Adam says he's got somethin' serious goin' on up there, and he needs our help. Seems like we can help each other out."

"Something serious?" David pipes up. "What, is he getting picked up for tax evasion?"

"Keep a lid on it, son," Sam sighs. "He's doin' right by us."

David snorts, but says nothing.

I pull into a gas station when we get to town and scrounge together what cash we have left. David gets out of the car to pace around a little, which I guess is understandable. I go inside to pay for the gas, humming to myself as I pump it, and I'm putting the gas cap back on when I see David perk up and quickly turn to look across the street. I watch him lift his head to take in a few deep breaths of air, and then he seems to focus on something across the street. I call to him, but he walks off without saying anything.

A car screeches to a stop to avoid hitting him as he crosses the street, and he doesn't even seem to notice. I call again, and trot off after him as Sam climbs out of the car.

David ignores me. He pauses outside the small restaurant on the corner and puts his hand on the door, leaning in close and taking another deep breath. He opens the door and goes inside. I can see him through the large front window, looking around the small dining room. He approaches a table where two men are seated with menus in front of them, and before I even see David move, one of the men has had his head slammed against the glass so hard that a spider web of cracks forms from the impact. I hear a woman scream inside, but David seems to ignore her. The other man is on his feet now, trying to grab David or hit him, I can't tell, but David snatches him by the throat and throws him to the ground. They both look so small next to him.

I feel frozen. The rest of the people in the restaurant are pressed against the walls, too terrified to interfere. As the first man lifts his head, dazed from the hit, David grabs him by his hair and slams him face down into the table, over and over again. He bends down, keeping the man's face pressed hard against the wood, and it looks like he says something to him, but I can't hear. He hits him again and turns back to the floor. I can't see the other man anymore, just David's back as he crouches down and hits him again and again and again.

I realize Sam is standing next to me with his arms folded, head slightly tilted as he watches the scene. I want to say something, but I can't take my eyes off of David, even though I jump when there's a shout from inside and a short spray of blood appears on the glass.

"Looks like he found 'em after all," Sam mumbles, and I can hear the grin in his voice. The hunters. David could smell them from that far away? I watch him through the window, my heart pounding, and I bite my lip when I see one of the men try to get to the door, his face terrified and covered in blood, only to be snatched back by the shirt and dropped on the floor. I see David's leg lift slightly, and then a woman's scream from inside as it comes down.

Finally he's just standing there, shoulders heaving, and he looks out the window at us. This is the gentle boy, the one who saved my life and promised to take care of me? The one who scolds Sam for killing someone on a full moon and tells him to behave? He looks so out of place here with heavy splatters of blood on his neat polo shirt and a dark look on his face that I've never even seen on Sam.

He wears it well.

I can hear a siren coming. I wave at him to urge him outside, and he comes, walking past us across the street and back to the car without a word. Sam jogs after him, laughing, and he ruffles his hair affectionately before David climbs into the car.

I run back to the car and get in. If we didn't have to leave town before, we most definitely do now, so I drive quickly out of the town and get on the highway at the first opportunity. I can smell the blood on David's clothes, even worse than Sam's, and I watch him in the rear view mirror when I can look away, but he's just staring out the window again, blank-faced. His hands are relaxed now.

# 16 ALICIA

I sleep in a little because I went to sleep so late, and Reiniger is nowhere to be found, so I take my time working out, showering, and having breakfast. I spot him in the afternoon with his own garment bag, but it's got a dry cleaners logo on it, not a store's.

He stops me in the hallway to tell me to be ready at 1700, and I swear when I realize I'm going to have to actually shave my legs. Well, it was a blissful few weeks, but it's back to reality I guess. It's a little awkward trying to do it in the shower stall, and I'm pretty sure the Norwegian kid sees me with one leg up on the wall, but I don't care. I only nick myself a couple of times. I spend a while standing in front of my open locker in just a towel, staring at the garment bag and shoes. Here goes, I guess.

I shimmy into the dress, leaving it unzipped for now, and I step into the shoes. They're not so bad, but I don't think I've worn high heels since I broke my legs—since I had my legs broken. It's strange how I'm surrounded by reminders that werewolves exist every day now, but somehow I think about mine less than I did before. Still, I know that file is sitting on Baumann's desk, just waiting for him to show himself again.

I move to the row of sinks at the back of the room and lean over one to look in the mirror and do my makeup. Reiniger bought a bunch of crap, and some of it I don't even know what to do with. I put on the black eyeshadow with a smoky effect, which is pretty much the only way I ever learned how to do it, and I put on the dark pink lipstick he picked out. I fuss with my hair a little in the mirror, but there's only so much you can do with hair like mine. It's dark brown and cut quite short everywhere but on the top, so it looks like I have some bangs in the front, and I like to keep it messy. I think I actually look pretty good, considering I let a robot dress me.

I see Reiniger in the mirror behind me, and he walks up without a word and zips my dress up for me. I say "Thank you" quietly, and turn to look at him. He's wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, and a silver tie with rows of tiny white dots. He even has a pocket square, just a thin line of handkerchief visible from his chest pocket. I make a show of looking him up and down before he can do the same to me, and I nod appreciatively. "Not bad."

He actually looks mildly offended, but he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head for me to follow him, and we walk out into the main hall. We go to the armory, and I put the knife I've gotten used to and a couple of bottles of silver nitrate into my clutch. Reiniger has a holster for his knife that fits onto the back of his belt and gets hidden by his suit jacket. Joaquin is just coming out of the barracks for his shift when we leave. He whistles at me as we go by, and I flip him off. Baumann is waiting in the front corridor, also wearing a suit, but not looking nearly as good as Reiniger. Sorry, boss man, but it's true.

"Miss May," he says with a smile. We haven't really talked much, or at all, since my first day here. I guess he's busy doing leader stuff. "You look lovely. Are you prepared for tonight? This will be a new experience for you."

"Ready as I'm going to be," I tell him, and he smiles.

Reiniger drives, and Baumann sits in the back seat with me for some reason. Maybe he likes feeling like he has a chauffeur? Nobody talks the entire drive, which is fine by me. I'm playing scenarios in my head, wondering whether this is going to be as peaceful an evening as Reiniger believes.

The building we pull up to is a tower of white stone, must be at least 30 stories, and Reiniger pulls into a spot across the street to park the car. We're right across from Central Park. This place must cost a fortune. Baumann climbs out of the car and exchanges words with the door man, and Reiniger opens my door for me and offers me his hand to help me out. I'm grateful because I'm not confident in my ability to get out in this skirt without flashing everyone on the street. We go into the lobby behind Baumann, and I have to pointedly shut my mouth as we walk in. It's enormous, all white marble and warm wood. There's a fireplace—two fireplaces. The room with the elevators is all white with delicate cornices and white marble floors.

We step into the elevator when it arrives, and Baumann presses the button marked 38. I underestimated the number of floors, apparently. The hallway we step out into is clean and sparse, with a single door. Baumann rings the bell, and Reiniger and I stand next to each other behind him.

The man who answers the door is definitely Adam Weiss. Even if I hadn't seen his picture, it would have to be him. His hair is light blond and just long enough to be pushed back from his face in a stylish mess, and his eyes are such a pale blue it's almost unsettling. It's the same kind of unnatural color that Scratch had. His suit might be better than Reiniger's. It's a dark grey with a matching vest, white shirt, and a dark violet tie with thin diagonal white lines. He's an average height, probably not quite six foot, and good-looking, but it's hard to tell if I think that because he's actually good-looking or just because of the way werewolves are. I can tell right away that he has the same easy, confident manner that Scratch did, and it makes me uncomfortable to have such a living reminder right in front of me.

He smiles politely and greets Baumann in German as he shakes his hand, allowing him inside and offering his hand to Reiniger next. They exchange pleasantries in German, and then he turns to me. I take his hand, but when he greets me and I can only answer him with a blank stare, Baumann offers, "Pardon, Herr Weiss. Miss May is American."

"Ah, well that's more than all right," Weiss says with a smile. "It'll just have to be an English kind of evening, won't it? I hope you've been brushing up, Herr Baumann. Please." He gestures across the hall to an open door, and we all file into maybe the most modern-looking living room I've ever seen. It's almost sparse, with long and low black leather seating, a weirdly abstract-shaped coffee table of dark wood, and running lights built into a raised portion of the ceiling.

A pretty young woman in black pants and a white shirt stands in another doorway into the dining room, and she greets us with a smile as we enter. The long table looks like it seats eight, but it's only set for four. The table is a rich red wood, and the chairs have dark red cushions on the seat. Weiss takes the seat at the head of the table, Baumann to his right, and Reiniger and I move to the other side of the table. I almost miss Reiniger pulling my chair out for me, but he quietly clears his throat once, and I sit down awkwardly. The woman pours white wine into a glass in front of each of us without being told and then stands near the door looking submissively attentive. I wonder if she's a wolf, too. I wish there was a way to tell just by looking.

Weiss sits comfortably in his chair, looking far too slithery for my taste. I go along with it when he raises his glass for a toast, and when the woman disappears into the kitchen and returns to set a fancy-looking meal in front of us, I take a few bites to be polite. But I can hardly keep from staring at him. I know werewolves aren't all like mine. The one who wanted our help with his kid was friendly enough and clearly didn't want to hurt anyone. But Adam Weiss gives me the creeps.

He and Baumann chat idly for a while, discussing the city, Weiss's recent trip to Germany, and various other mundane things. Is this really a meeting between a werewolf and a group of hunters? It really is more like a boring business dinner. I look up from my plate when I hear my name.

"Sorry, what?"

Weiss is looking at me. "I asked how you became involved with the Wolfjäger. You must be a recent recruit; I understand there hasn't been a presence in the States for more than a few months."

"Long story," I mutter, not eager to relive it. Luckily, Baumann takes over for me.

"We have occasionally sent a few agents at a time, to test the waters here," he says between sips of wine. "You have your own kind of hunters here, but they are so often clumsy and ineffective, disconnected. Things are as stable as they get in Germany at the moment, and our recruitment rates are high. We have the resources to expand, and this country has the need for us."

"Do we," Weiss says calmly. He's smiling faintly, but it looks cold to me. "I am familiar with the way you handle things in Germany. I know you aren't unreasonable. Peacekeeping is a daunting task when your charges are my kind—so, I am willing to exchange information, if you agree to leave me be. I have wide-reaching connections, which I am willing to make use of for our mutual benefit, but I'm not interested in being monitored. I took the liberty of gathering up your bugs for you; you may collect them on your way out."

Baumann's mouth has turned into a thin line, and Reiniger has that little wrinkle in his brow. Baumann clears his throat and apparently chooses not to address the bug issue.

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement, Herr Weiss. What kind of information did you have in mind to share?"

Weiss leans forward in his chair and sets down his wine glass.

"As a show of good faith, I'll start with a prize. Now, you would be remiss in your duties if your people have been here for months and haven't heard of a wolf called Scratch."

I tense up, and Reiniger glances at me briefly, but I just put my hands in my lap and listen.

"We have," Baumann says. "But as yet we have only one, ah...confirmed sighting." He looks at me for just too long, and Weiss turns back to me with a sly smile.

"You've met him, have you, Miss May? You seem like his type. I'm sorry for your troubles; I can only imagine the state he left you in. Well done. Now I see how you became involved."

I give him a curt nod, but I don't have anything to say. I'm not interested in telling my story to this person.

"Well, in any case. He's been called a few names—Scratch, the Beast of Birmingham. Stories about him are very popular with the younger ones. He's everything they think werewolves ought to be. Ruthless, ferocious, and free. He's turning into a folk tale. But I can assure you, as can Miss May, I'm sure, that he's quite real."

"Any information you have would be very useful, Herr Weiss. As I said, we have only the scarcest details."

Weiss seems like he's talking to Baumann, but he's looking at me. "His name is Samuel Carter." I feel a chill run down my spine, and my hand clenches into a fist in my lap. He has a name. Of course I knew he had a name, but hearing it aloud makes him seem real and close. "And I know for a fact that he'll be in New York within a day or so. You must have an interest in him, don't you, Herr Baumann?"

"Of course. If even half of the stories about him are true, he has committed countless atrocities. He is of great interest to us."

"And what if I told you I could get him to come to you?"

Baumann glances at Reiniger, who gives him a small nod. I know Reiniger has read all the police reports, my medical records. He knows exactly what he did to me. I know he doesn't care about me enough to be interested in avenging me, but a wolf like that must be a real treat for someone like him.

Weiss smiles. "I thought so. Fortunately for you, dear old Sam has one huge weak spot. He's traveling with his son."

Son? A monster like that has a son?

"The boy's name is David Harris," Weiss continues. "If anything at all were to happen to him, say, being held captive by werewolf hunters, Sam would be on your doorstep in a heartbeat. David isn't a threat—he's reformed and placid now, for the most part. You'll be able to handle Sam any way you see fit."

"And what's in it for you, telling us all this?" I ask, not sure when I found my voice.

He smiles pleasantly at me, and he pauses to take a sip of his wine. "My own security, as previously discussed. I'm gift-wrapping a wolf that's been rampaging across the country for almost a hundred years; the least I can get in return is privacy."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Herr Weiss," Baumann cuts in. "We cannot promise to overlook any crimes, of course, but I do not anticipate there being problems between us."

"Good. Well then, when I know more, shall I give the information to you or to your silent bodyguard here?" There's a smirk on his lips as he gives Reiniger a quick look up and down, but he only gets the blank stare in response. "I presume you won't be going out and picking David up yourself."

"I trust Feldjäger Reiniger to handle this situation, so long as he keeps me apprised of progress," Baumann answers with a nod.

"Excellent." He turns slightly in his chair and asks the girl standing nearby to bring the dessert. Business apparently over, he and Baumann go back to talking about other things—as soon as I hear the words "You must see it; it's the best show on Broadway this year" come out of Weiss's mouth, I stop listening. I look at Reiniger a few times, and he seems just as bored as I do. The politics of this business clearly aren't his thing either.

Eventually they finish their chit chat, and we're all escorted to the door. Weiss shakes Baumann's and Reiniger's hands in turn, and he hands Reiniger a business card and says something to him in German. When he gets to me, he bends slightly and pulls my hand up to lightly kiss my knuckles. It makes me shiver a little, and not in a good way.

"Miss May," he says softly, "I hope seeing our mutual friend again is everything you dream it will be."

I pull my hand away and give him as polite a smile as I can manage. Once we're back in the hall, I try to surreptitiously wipe the back of my hand on my dress, but Reiniger must notice, because I see the tiniest pull at the corner of his lips as we step into the elevator.

Baumann tries to tell us how well that went on the ride back, but I don't think I agree. The guy creeps me out, and I don't trust him. When I ask Reiniger about it later, when we're in the locker room changing out of our dressy clothes, he just says, "Even if he is planning a trap, if we remain vigilant we can disrupt him. I do not foresee a problem."

"If you say so. I'll just plan on being extra vigilant these next few days, if it's all right with you."

He doesn't answer. When we go back into the barracks, I almost just drop into my bunk to prepare for what promises to be a long night of replaying every single moment I had with Scratch—with Sam—over and over again and making up a thousand different scenarios for how I'll see him again and what badass thing I'll say. But I happen to glance over at Reiniger a few rows down from me, and I see him sitting at the head of his bed, quietly setting up the chess board. He looks over at me, and he doesn't say a word, only slightly tilts his head toward the board. It's enough invitation for me.

# 17 MARCY

We drive for a few hours, well into the night. Sam falls asleep pretty quickly, which makes it an extra long drive just sitting in silence with David in the back seat reeking of blood and looking out the window. I want to say something to him, but what do I say? I'm not angry he killed those men. He obviously identified them as the men who had been in Nat's house, and if they're the ones that killed her, then I'm glad he did what he did. But I'm not sure he is.

Eventually I get drowsy, and I pull off the freeway and into a motel. I'm not asking David to drive tonight. Sam wipes at some crusted drool on his face when the car stops, and he mutters, "Praise the Lord" as he climbs out and stretches.

We don't have enough cash for the room, so I use my dad's credit card. I'm sure he'll call me when he sees a charge for a motel in Stafford, Virginia, so that won't be something I can avoid anymore. When we go inside, David heads straight for the bathroom and starts the shower. Sam seems less concerned about the lingering smell of blood and dirt on himself because he just strips down and climbs into the bed. I wish he would shower, but he's snoring before I can even protest his smell.

David said the blood was from a woman, and Sam didn't deny it. I could have guessed he made a habit of attacking women, but it's strange to think that the same man who holds me so gently at night and gets sick in the back of my car also goes around doing—whatever it is he does to them.

When David comes out of the bathroom, he's just holding a towel around his waist, and he walks to his bag and digs out some clothes. The skin on his chest and arms is dark pink where he's clearly been scrubbing himself. I avert my eyes as he drops the towel to change, and then I see him go back to the bathroom and go out the motel room door with his bloody clothes in his hand. He comes back a few minutes later without them, so I guess he threw them away.

I gather some clothes to sleep in and take a shower, letting David keep to himself. He's barely looked at me since he got back in the car. I wonder if he feels glad he killed those men or if he's cursing himself for giving in. It's obvious he used to be much worse than he is now. I understand not wanting to hurt innocent people on purpose, but that isn't what this was. I don't think he should feel bad at all for what he did.

I come out of the bathroom patting my hair dry with the towel and find both of them asleep, Sam on his stomach with his arm dangling to the floor and David facing the wall with the blanket pulled up to his chin. I go to Sam with the idea of getting into bed, but the smell is too much. Even though he took off his clothes, I can still smell that woman—her perfume, her house, her blood, and even some other fluids they apparently exchanged.

I look over at David's back, considering, and then I make a decision and carefully crawl into the bed beside him. He stays still while I turn out the light, but I can tell from his breathing that he isn't really asleep. If he needs time with his thoughts, I'm not going to bother him. I settle in, but after a couple minutes I feel him shift a little, and he turns onto his other side to look at me.

"Hi," I whisper, as if it's possible to wake Sam. Somehow in a dark room it just always feels like you should whisper.

"Hi," he says softly back, his brow slightly furrowed as he watches me.

"Hope you don't mind. I couldn't sleep next to that smell. It's bad enough over here."

"Yeah, it's...it's fine."

We stay like that for a minute, silent in the darkness. Then I quietly ask, "Are you okay?"

He frowns a little. Not the same kind of frown he gives Sam when he's irritated. Sad. "Yeah." I know it's a lie, and he hesitates before trying again. "I just. I don't want to be that person anymore. I can't keep doing this."

"David," I whisper, and he looks down at my hand as I touch his chest. "Don't torture yourself. Those men you killed, they killed Nat. Who knows how many others they killed? They deserved every bit of what you gave them. Hey," I stop him when he starts to protest, and I reach out to touch his cheek to make him look at me. His face is a little rough with stubble. "You are who you are. Even if you have a...a temper, or whatever, you're a good person. Nat saw that in you, and I do, too. You saved my life. You helped me during the full moon. I know you'd never hurt me. I trust you."

He shuts his eyes briefly and sighs, and I'm a little surprised to feel his hand on my waist as he leans in to lightly touch his forehead to mine. "Marcy, I—" He stops, and hesitates. I feel him take a deep breath, his grip tightening slightly on my waist.

I can see what's coming. I can hear the slight hitch in his breath, the pounding of his heart. He feels ashamed of what he did and he feels vulnerable, and he's about to pour his heart out. My heart starts to beat faster.

I can't handle this lovesick puppy business. David's nice and everything, but he's so mopey and miserable. He's in complete denial about who he is. Sam's behavior isn't what I'd call gentlemanly, but at least it's honest. And the idea of poor David confessing his feelings for me—spending days pretending he's sweet and gentle and worried for me, and then murdering two men in front of a crowd of people—almost makes me want to laugh.

When he opens his mouth again, I reach up and put my fingers on his lips to stop him. He stares at me, his brow furrowed, and I shake my head at him.

"David, I know what you're going to say. And just...don't. Please."

He hesitates, and I feel his breath against my fingers as he whispers, "Don't?"

"Don't. Let's be friends, okay? That's really better for everyone."

He pulls my hand away from his mouth. He looks like there's so much more he wants to say, but he just mumbles, "Right," and turns back to face the wall.

"Thanks," I say gently, I hope, and settle into the pillow beside him.

When I wake up, I'm barely on the bed anymore, one arm and one leg dangling out from underneath the blanket. Sam is already up, thankfully showered and changed, and he has half our food piled onto his bed. There's a lot of empty wrappers there. I untangle myself from the sheets and sit up to stretch, and Sam grins at me with a mouth full of beef jerky.

"Sleep well, sweetheart?"

"I did, since I wasn't breathing in your date all night." I go to sit on the bed across from him, open up a box of Cheerios, and eat a few handfuls right out of the box.

"Sorry 'bout that. I'm sure David appreciated the company, anyhow. You're probably the first girl he's had in his bed in twenty years."

"Fuck you," I hear David's sleepy voice from the other bed, and he sits up and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.

I offer the box of cereal to David by shaking it at him, but he just lifts his hand and shakes his head.

"So New York today, right?" I ask, trying to brighten the mood. "I've only been once with my dad a few years ago; I'm excited to see it again. Do you know where your friend lives? We can put the address in the GPS in the car."

"I'll call him for directions when we're in the city," Sam says. "All I know is he lives right by the park."

"Central Park? Wow, pricey."

"Told you he was a rich white asshole," David mutters, and he gets up to help himself to the small pile of fruit on the bed.

As we're loading up the car, I see a middle-aged black woman pushing her housekeeping cart down the sidewalk, knocking on doors. She's short, and kind of plump, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. The door she knocks on flies open so fast she bumps into her cart, and I pause to watch.

A man in sweatpants and a stained shirt is standing in the doorway, already shouting. He asks her what the hell is wrong with her knocking on doors so early in the morning, and she timidly gives back an apology, but he's getting in her face now. David is watching, too.

The guy is clearly a douchebag, but I decide to stay out of it until he starts throwing around racial slurs. Then I snap at him, "Hey! Asshole! Why don't you just let her do her job?"

He turns on me with a look that's half shock and half rage. "Stay out of it, bitch," he calls back. David puts a hand on my arm, but I slip away from him and storm over to the open door.

"It's ten in the morning," I tell him. "If you didn't want her to knock then you should have put the sign on your door, dumbass." The woman is mumbling at me that she doesn't want to make a fuss, but I wave her off. "You should apologize."

"I ain't apologizing to no nigger," he spits, and before I know what I'm doing, I hit him in the face. It stings my hand a little, but he stumbles back and drops to the floor in a daze. The woman behind me gasps as I shake out my hand. I can hear Sam's laughter down the sidewalk.

"Miss, you shouldn't have done that," she says anxiously.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I don't want to get you in trouble. But that guy was such a...ugh, he was such an asshole, right? Sorry. But he probably won't tell anybody he got knocked out by a girl half his size, so I think you're in the clear." I dig in my pocket and give her what cash I have left. "I forgot to leave you a tip in the room," I press when she tries to return the money, and I trot back to the car.

I climb into the back seat while David stares at me with a frown, but Sam shouts at him and he gets in and starts the car.

"That didn't take long," he grumbles as I stretch out on the back seat. "Sam's bullshit spreads faster than herpes." Sam just laughs at him, and I don't care about his judging tone.

I'm happy to shut my eyes and listen to the blips of eight different songs and commercials as Sam flips through radio stations. I wonder what the something serious is that's going on in New York. Is there ever a time when a werewolf can just relax? In the car in between adventures, I guess.

We drive for a few hours, stopping just outside the city and using the last of our cash on lunch, and then it's back to the car. Sam is asleep again when we start to drive by tall buildings, so I pick my phone out of my bag and call back the last number in my log.

The phone clicks after a few rings and a man's voice answers, "Weiss."

"Uh, hello," I say. "I'm Marcy, I'm calling for Sam? We don't know where you live."

"Marcy. You must be the third person he mentioned. You're Sam's newest accident, hm? How did your night go?"

"Just fine, thank you. David helped me."

"Of course he did. Do you have something to write with?"

I lean forward to get a pen from my center console, and I write the address he gives me on the inside of my arm. "Okay. We'll be there in a little bit."

"See you soon, Miss Marcy."

I hang up and lean over into the front seat to put the address into my GPS while David drives, leaning against him a little to keep my balance. It takes us another half hour or so to reach the address, and I roll down the window to stick my head out in an attempt to see the top of the building.

"Holy crap," I say quietly, but David doesn't seem impressed. He pulls up to the front of the building, and someone takes the car to park it for us. Sam tips an imaginary hat to the doorman as he goes by, his duffel over his shoulder, and David snatches our bags back from another employee who tries to carry them for us.

I stare blatantly at the inside of the building as we go in. Even the elevator looks fancy. "He said it was the 38th floor," I tell Sam, and he presses the button. When it dings quietly at the top of our ride, we pile out, and Sam knocks heavily on the door down the hall.

The man who answers the door laughs quietly when he sees us, and he and Sam briefly hug, patting each other on the back before pulling apart. He offers his hand to David as we file inside but settles for clapping him on the shoulder when his handshake is refused. Then he looks to me, and he smiles.

He's very different from Sam and David. He seems happy, confident—but not the same kind of dangerous confidence that Sam has. Very approachable, and definitely better dressed than either of them. His black dress pants and pale blue button-down have clearly been tailored. He has the sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows and the top couple of buttons undone to show just a bit of chest. His hair is perfectly mussed, and his fingernails look manicured. He's almost too well put together, but it seems to be working for him. "Miss Marcy," he says, and he takes my hand and lightly kisses my knuckles. "Very pleased to meet you." He shuts the door behind us and turns to Sam. "Had an uneventful drive up, I assume?"

"Well enough."

"And you're fine to stay in the city a while? Your Confederate blood going to be able to handle all this diversity and liberalism?"

"Yeah, yeah. Where can I drop this?" he asks, tilting his head to the bag on his shoulder.

Adam gestures down the hall, and we follow him around a corner. "The kitchen is here, and those two are the spare bedrooms. I wasn't expecting three of you, but you can situate yourselves as you please. Unless Miss Marcy plans to bunk with me," he says with a bit of a smirk, and he winks at me when I look up at him. I feel my face go a little hot.

"She's fine here, much obliged," Sam says too loudly, and he takes my suitcase from me to toss it into a bedroom with his bag. I hear David snort quietly, but he doesn't say anything, just goes to drop his stuff in the other room.

Adam chuckles, his hands casually in his pockets, and he nods toward the kitchen door. "Well get settled, and help yourselves to anything in the kitchen. Except my wine, Sam," he says, pointing a warning finger at him as he emerges from the bedroom. "If I find any of it missing, I'm selling you into slavery. The cost of even one of those bottles is higher than you can count."

"Well now I have to have one."

"I'll try to keep it safe," I say with a smile, which Adam returns.

"Please do. I'd hate to leave you an orphan." He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. It just has his name and phone number on it, no title or company or anything. He's written a number on the back in blue ink. "That's the concierge. If you need anything and I don't have it, just give them a call. Whenever you're settled, I'd like to talk to all of you about what's going on. I'd appreciate your help."

He gives me another small smile before he turns and heads back down the hallway.

Sam and David raid the kitchen, but I explore a little. The place is incredible. I don't even want to think about how much it cost. My family has money, but this is serious. David wasn't kidding when he said Adam got rich back in the day. What the hell was Sam doing with it all, if this is the kind of money he could have had? Why is he crashing on people's couches and stealing wallets?

I walk through the kitchen into the dining room, and I pause to take a few breaths through my nose. There were other people here recently. I guess we weren't his only guests. Of course someone like him would have fancy dinner get-togethers. I touch the soft leather of the sofa in the living room and take a moment to marvel at the size of his flatscreen. One of the walls has a built in bookcase that's full of books of every kind. Some of them have titles in German. There's a terrace with large French doors, and I go outside to look out over the city. It's an amazing view, and even this high I can catch so many scents—the people, the cars, the hot dog carts. I lean on the stone railing and shut my eyes, just enjoying the breeze.

When I open them, I notice there's a window looking out onto the terrace, and when I step closer I see it's another bedroom. It must be the master—it's huge, with a king sized bed, a desk, and a dark wood armoire. I see Adam inside, talking on his cell phone as he idly paces the room. He spots me when he turns toward the window, and I let out a small snort of laughter as I quickly duck out of view. Way to make a first impression, spying on your host.

I almost bump into him on my way back in. "Enjoying the view?" he asks. His smirk makes it clear he isn't just asking about the terrace, and I bite my lip, embarrassed.

"Sorry," I say. "I was just having a look around. You have a beautiful home."

"Thank you." He tilts his head slightly as he looks at me, and he reaches out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind my ear when it gets blown into my face. "I can give you a proper tour later, if you're interested."

"Sure," I say quickly, and I hope that his smile isn't because of the flush I feel on my face. "But we should probably get inside. You can tell us about your problem before Sam and David completely empty your kitchen."

"Not to worry; I was ready for them. I had Emilie stock up on the essentials. But you're right; better to make certain they aren't eating through the cabinets." He lets me go ahead of him and shuts the French doors behind us, and we go into the kitchen. There's a small bar where Sam and David sit with a true masterpiece of a sandwich between them. They seem to be arguing about the best way to get it small enough to fit in their mouths.

"Gentlemen, I see you've wasted no time," Adam says with a chuckle. "You can listen while you eat, but I'd like to discuss a bit of business."

Sam pauses in swatting at David's hands and looks over at us. "'Course. What's this big trouble?"

"I suppose I'd better start at the beginning. In Germany, there exists a highly organized group of hunters called Wolfjäger. They're well established in Europe. Everyone knows them. They're more a police force than what we think of as hunters here, but they do have a bad habit of throwing people in the backs of vans and making off with them when they misbehave. Now, it seems, they've decided to branch out here. They've set up a base somewhere in the city, and I'm sure they mean to expand further as they're able."

David is listening now, but Sam is still mostly concerned with his sandwich. "And what do you want us to do about it?" David asks, leaning his elbows on the table.

"Honestly, I was hoping you'd help me kill them," Adam says with a small shrug. "You couldn't understand what it will be like if they get a real foothold here. Some people in Germany say they do some good, and I suppose they do, but they're boogeymen. They act like police, but there are no fair proceedings. They find out you've killed, and they come and put some silver in your heart in the middle of the night. Or if they can't find you, they might take your wife, or your brother, and keep them hostage until you show yourself. They have lists of all the wolves in Germany, and I suspect it's quite a complete one."

"What?" David snorts. "How would they even get something like that?"

"Because the wolves there are required to register when they infect someone."

"And people just go along with that?"

"Don't underestimate the power of fear, David. If you make people believe you're omnipresent and unforgiving, they fall in line fairly quickly. The Wolfjäger have been at this game for the last five hundred years."

"That's awful," I say quietly, and Adam looks at me.

"I agree. Which is why I'm hoping you all can give me a hand. There's probably at least a dozen of them here, and I don't know where. I wouldn't expect you to get into much fighting, of course, Marcy, but I'm sure you can help in other ways, if you're willing."

"Well," Sam says with a mouth full of sandwich, "you know me. I'm always game for a tussle."

"That's right," Adam says, perking up. "I almost forgot to mention. Of course it should come as no surprise that they know about you, Sam, but one of them should hold special interest for you. It seems they've recruited an American woman who had a run-in with you some time ago. I didn't know you left survivors."

"Neither did I," Sam laughs. He seems impressed. "You see her? What was she like?"

He holds his hand up to indicate a height just above his chin. "Slender, dark hair. Handsome, but a bit rough around the edges. I think I saw a bit of a USMC tattoo on her back as they were leaving."

"They were here?" David asks while Sam seems to ponder. "You had them in your house." That would explain the smell in the dining room.

"Well of course they contacted me, didn't they? I don't exactly keep a low profile, here or in Germany. They know me."

"Nah, it's no good," Sam mutters. "Don't remember. Glad I left an impression, though," he chuckles.

"How do you intend to find them?" David says as he picks an olive off of the sandwich plate.

"I'm hoping they'll tell me, whether they mean to or not. For now I think we should just take it easy and keep an ear to the ground, see what happens." He reaches across the table and takes a stray bit of cucumber from the plate. "Give Miss Marcy here a chance to see the city, if she likes."

"Oh, I would," I say with a smile. "Definitely."

"Excellent," he answers. I can see David scowling at him from across the table. Sour grapes, I guess, and I decide in that moment that I kind of like the feeling of someone being jealous over me.

# 18 MARCY

We leave Sam and David behind in the morning with a warning to keep to the apartment until Adam can find out just how much the hunters know. David doesn't answer when Adam speaks to him, and he doesn't look up when I say goodbye. He really is kind of a tender little thing. So he didn't get the girl. He didn't try particularly hard in the first place. I refuse to feel sorry for him—people get rejected every day, and not every feeling has to be requited. Sam seems content to put his feet on the coffee table and watch television.

As it turns out, "seeing the city" with someone like Adam Weiss is more than just a walk through some shops. He drives us in his black Audi. I don't know a lot about cars, but I know enough to wonder why someone with an apartment overlooking Central Park isn't driving the fanciest Lexus I've ever seen. I try to phrase the question delicately, but he just laughs at me.

"You can call it brand loyalty," he says with a smile. "Audi is based in Ingolstadt—my family's ancestral home. Not that this is my only car," he adds without a hint of bragging. I think.

We visit the Empire State Building, Times Square, and a few other places that seem to run together. He knows the city inside and out, and he takes side streets and shortcuts everywhere. He tells me that he's lived in New York off and on since he was born—which was apparently in 1881—and I listen to a dozen different stories about what the city looked like way back when and how much classier the Jersey Shore used to be. He asks me about how I fell in with Sam, and I tell him. He listens politely and asks questions when I talk about my sisters, moving to Atlanta, going to college. I find him exceptionally easy to talk to, which I wouldn't have expected from a hundred and thirty-something-year-old millionaire werewolf.

It's still a little overwhelming being out around so many people, but Adam is very patient with me, and if I need to stop and try to focus and catch my breath, he waits for me.

We have lunch in a restaurant I feel under-dressed for, and when I mention it, we spend the rest of the afternoon shopping. I try to tell him no, it's too much, but he insists. After a little while I give in and enjoy myself, trying on a few sundresses while he waits outside the fitting room and stepping out to model them for him when he teases me about buying things he hasn't even seen.

One of them, a pale yellow sleeveless dress with a pattern of white flowers on it, I particularly like. I don't wear dresses all the time, but sundresses are the best in summer. When I come out of the fitting room, Adam smiles at me and takes my hand, urging me into a turn so that he can see me from all angles.

"Lovely," he says with an easy smile, brushing his thumb lightly over my knuckles before he releases me. "Honestly, how have you survived, sharing a bed with Sam this whole time? I'm surprised you don't have fleas."

I laugh a little. "He isn't so bad. I would recommend giving the room we're in a good cleaning once we leave, though."

"I may have it quarantined." He lets me back into the fitting room to change back into my jeans and tank top, and he carries the many bags of clothes he bought for me out to his car.

"Thank you so much, Adam," I say when we get back into the car. "You really didn't have to."

He chuckles lightly and glances over at me as he starts the car. "What's the point of having money if you can't spend it on pretty girls?"

I know my face is turning pink again, and I'm not sure I like it. I don't usually get this way around men. I expected it to happen less once I became a werewolf, not more—but he is good-looking and charming, and even I can tell how hard he's flirting with me. All day he's been finding small excuses to touch me, or stand close to me. I feel a little rush when he does, and my heart starts a quick patter. I haven't had this reaction to someone in a long time.

"The question now, Miss Marcy," he begins, turning to look at me while we're stopped at a light, "shall we have supper at home with the boys, or shall I keep you to myself a little while longer?"

"I'm definitely not dressed for anywhere you're likely to take me to dinner. As nice as that sounds," I add quickly. "Besides, aren't you worried about Sam wrecking your place?"

"Hm. Now that you mention it, perhaps it isn't the best idea to leave him alone for too long with only David as a babysitter. They do tend to get into trouble when left to their own devices."

We go back to the apartment and order in. Adam insists we sit at the table "like civilized people," which makes Sam laugh. David goes to bed relatively early, but I stay up with them, listening to them retell stories about their bootlegging adventures over a few beers. I start to get drowsy, and I must nod off at the table because I only have a vague memory of Sam carrying me to bed and pulling the blanket over me.

Adam says he has business to attend to the next day, so the three of us stay in. I want to go out, but Sam really shouldn't be walking around outside if there are hunters looking for him. It's a big city, but we have no way of knowing where they might be, so it's better to play it safe. I spend the day sitting on the sofa with two copies of Atlas Shrugged, one in English and the other in German, trying to sound out the unnecessarily long words. Sam and David occupy themselves with poring through Adam's record collection and playing music far too loudly.

My dad calls me, finally. I tell him I've been meaning to call, which is true, but the rest of our conversation is a lie. I tell him I've been so busy that calling has just slipped my mind, but that I got a job in New York and I'm moving. I tell him I haven't told my landlord in Atlanta because I didn't want to break my lease, and I'll have to keep moving stuff for a while anyway, blah, blah. I'm almost impressed at the ease with which the lies pour out. I make up a dream job, some sort of social work. Law school was the wrong path for me. He's extremely skeptical, and tells me that my mother will definitely want to talk to me, and they'll both want to come to New York to make sure I've found a decent place to live. I manage to dissuade him for now with promises that the company has put me up in some seriously fancy apartment until I can get out on my own. I guess that part is a little true, too. I tell him I love him, and to tell my sisters I'm fine. I don't miss them, even though I think I should. Even telling my father I loved him felt a little hollow.

David sits next to me on the sofa, gesturing to my phone. "Parents?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer him, turning the phone in my hands. "I feel weird about it," I go on. "I love my family. I mean, we've always been close. I had a good childhood and they were always there for me and everything. My sisters are great. But now...I feel like it would be okay if I never spoke to them again."

"I told you it would be different," he says sympathetically. "As much as you might want to be, you aren't the same person anymore. It's natural to feel a disconnect from humans. They'll never know the things you know, but those people are still your family. They still care about you. You're lucky to have that. Don't forget, okay?"

I nod at him, and I return his small smile. He looks like he wants to touch me to reassure me somehow, but he doesn't. He just gets up and goes back to where Sam is messing around with the record player.

On our third day in New York, Adam asks me if I want to go to the Guggenheim. Sam and David willingly admit that neither of them have any interest, but I want to go, so we go.

It's an interesting building in itself, and I have a good time just walking quietly with Adam, talking about the paintings. Once or twice he takes hold of my hand if I'm about to walk by something and miss it, and I can't help the little intake of breath I take when he does it. I really need to get a handle on this. I don't know if it's because of how close and intense every little thing feels now or if it's because of what Nat mentioned to me about emotions being harder to ignore or if I have a genuine attraction to him. Either way, blushing and feeling shy isn't something I did a lot of before I changed, and it's not something I want to start doing now. I'm not sure it really is shyness—it's a heat, certainly. Maybe something I hardly ever felt before—lust? I wonder briefly if it's even worth it trying to get a handle on it. What's the point of playing coy now? I want what I want.

With that in mind, I look over at him in the car on the way back to his apartment and put my hand on his knee. He glances at me with a curious expression, which quickly turns into a sly smile as my fingertips slip up his thigh.

"You're misbehaving, Marcy," he chuckles, keeping his eyes on the road.

"You're beating around the bush," I counter him. "Are we going to do this or aren't we?"

He laughs. "And here I was thinking that ladies liked to be romanced."

"You don't have to try and buy me," I murmur as I flatten my palm against his inner thigh. "You could have just asked."

The car lurches ever so slightly as he stops at a light, and he turns to look at me. "You seem to be doing more than asking."

"Somebody has to pick up your slack," I grin at him. I unbuckle my seat belt and lean across the gear shift, tugging him by the front of his tailored shirt and kissing him. He grips the hair at the back of my head instantly, kissing me like it's what he's wanted to do for days. I realize it's what I've wanted, too, and I feel like an idiot for acting shy. Little girls are shy. I'm not a little girl anymore.

A car behind us honks when the light turns green, and I break away from him with a giggle and drop back into my seat.

"You really are Sam's girl, aren't you," he mumbles, seeming slightly impatient, and I satisfy myself with toying innocently with the neckline of the dress he bought.

We stop on the way back to his apartment and get way more Chinese food than four people should reasonably be eating. When we get inside, Sam and David are lazing on the sofa with a half empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of them and a baseball game on the TV. Adam sighs softly but lets it go, and Sam eagerly digs into the paper bag full of food.

Adam offers me wine, and I have a glass—hopefully not one of the ones he was going to sell Sam for. Sam is just coming back from the bathroom when Adam brings the glasses out, and when he sees how close Adam is sitting to me, he forcefully squeezes himself in between us with a quick mutter of "Pardon." I can't see the look he gives Adam, but I can see Adam shrugging innocently at him.

When everyone finishes, Adam immediately starts picking up the empty cartons and cleaning up. I'm sure it was all he could do to let us eat in the living room. If this was my place, I'd want to keep it pretty immaculate, too. I take the whiskey and wine glasses into the kitchen behind him and set them in the sink while he puts what's left into the refrigerator. He moves near me to get at the coffee pot, and I feel his hand lightly on the small of my back as he inches me out of his way. He smiles down at me when I look at him.

"How do you like it?"

"Very much," I say, smiling at him and leaning back slightly into his touch.

A light smirk pulls at his lips, and he leans down close to my ear and murmurs, "Your coffee, dear."

"Two sugars, please," I finish quietly, and I pull away from him slowly to go back to the living room. I hear Sam and David talking, but they stop when I come into the room. "Coffee, guys?"

"Not for me, thanks, darlin'," Sam says, and David just shakes his head.

I poke my head into the kitchen to tell Adam it's just us two, and then I drop back on the couch between Sam and David. "You guys seem like you had a good day," I say brightly. It seems kind of morose and awkward in here, and I don't know why.

"Not as good as yours," David says with a touch of bitterness.

"It's a really nice museum," I answer, ignoring David's attitude. "You guys should have come. Maybe we can all go out tomorrow, or something."

"Maybe," Sam agrees.

David gets up, mumbling about going to bed. Sam follows him to the doorway, and I see them stop in the hallway, barely visible around the corner. Sam puts his arm around David's shoulder and leans on him, resting his weight on one leg and crossing the other over his ankle. He's saying something quietly to him, but I can't make it out. He nudges him, making him sway a little, and David turns to look over his shoulder at me. I give him a small smile, assuming Sam is giving him some kind of fatherly pep talk, but after a few long moments, he just shakes his head, mutters something to Sam, and pushes his arm away. Sam sighs as David disappears down the hall, and then he comes back to sit beside me.

"Is he okay?" I ask.

"He'll be fine. He's just a bit delicate, you know."

"Delicate? After what I saw him do the other day? Sure."

"Well, maybe delicate ain't the right word. Point is he'll be fine."

Adam appears in a few minutes with two cups of coffee, and he sets one in front of me. We spend a little while just sitting quietly and watching some action movie on TV while Adam and I sip our coffee and Sam takes drinks straight from the whiskey bottle. It's my fault for taking his glass away, I guess. He tries to get me to come with him when he decides to go to bed, but I'm not tired. He gives Adam a look I can't quite identify as he gets up, and he bends down to gently kiss my forehead and mumble a good night.

Then it's just the two of us, sitting on the couch with the TV quietly going in the background. Adam isn't particularly close to me, probably to keep Sam from planting himself between us again, just relaxing with his coffee cup in one hand and the other draped lazily across the back of the couch. He's watching the TV while I peek at him, slightly slouching with one ankle on his knee.

He looks over at me after a moment. "That's twice I've caught you spying on me, Miss Marcy." He keeps his voice low, and there's a small smirk on his lips when I look back at him.

"Sorry," I answer, not actually sorry at all, and I set my empty coffee cup on the table in front of me. I hesitate before speaking again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I keep hearing about how David is so different now than how he was when he was younger. He won't talk about it, though. I figured he couldn't have been that bad, because he seems so timid now. I mean, I thought he was timid. In some ways I think he's very timid. But before we left Nat's, he killed two men. The men who killed her. He was so...angry."

"What's your question, Marcy?"

"Was he really that bad? Do you think someone can change, when they're the kind of person who can do what I saw him do? The kinds of things Sam does?"

"No." He sets his cup down beside mine and sits forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I've known David almost his entire life, and this good guy act is relatively new. He seems like he's trying hard, but it's still just acting. When he was younger, he stole cars, picked pockets, and started fights with cops just because they were cops. He has a vicious temper. He came of age in a time when a single drop of blood was still all you needed to count as black, and being black wasn't any fun. He tries to come off as boring and normal, but he's not ever going to be that person. I can't decide if he's more bitter about that or about the black thing."

"Were you there when he was bitten?"

"Sure. I encouraged it."

"What? He said Sam told him it was an accident."

"Sam lies a lot."

"But why would you want him to bite a little kid? Weren't you worried he would die?"

"No. I suppose there was a chance, but I was willing to bet he wouldn't."

"How could you know?"

"Because he's Sam's son." He laughs at the look on my face, and reaches out to gently touch my mouth closed with one knuckle. "What, you couldn't tell?"

"But David said he was at an orphanage. Doesn't he know?"

Adam shakes his head. "Sam didn't want to tell him. He said it didn't matter. I don't understand it, but he's not my kid."

I fall back into the couch with a small huff of disbelief. "How crazy. What reason could he have for not telling him?"

He shrugs. "Sam is strange."

"I feel sorry for him," I say softly. "He seems a little lost."

"He'll probably keep feeling that way until he comes to terms with who he is."

We sit in silence for a few moments, and then I peek over at him. "He did tell me you were a rich white asshole."

Adam laughs quietly. "He's called me worse, and probably will again." He turns slightly to face me, leaning back into the couch again. He lets his arm drape across the back, and I feel his fingers lightly toying with my hair. "You never did get the proper tour," he says softly, and I bite my lip, barely hiding my grin.

"I guess I didn't."

"Would you like it now?" He just smiles at me, his fingertips brushing my temple as he moves a bit of hair out of my face. I have a vague notion that I should say something like, 'I barely know you,' or 'I don't do that kind of thing,' but I don't. I only want to say those things because they're what I think I should be saying. I just don't care anymore. Instead I say, "Sure."

He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I let him help me up, and he keeps his fingers loosely in mine as he leads me down the hall to a part of the apartment I haven't seen before. He opens the door at the end of the hall, and we go into the room I saw through the window on my first day here.

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid this about concludes the tour," he says with a small smile, gently pulling me closer to him by my hand. "You've managed to see the whole place, now."

"Well then I guess that's it," I chuckle. "Thanks for the tour; see you in the morning." He stops me when I pull away to move toward the door, and he puts one hand on it to click it closed, the other taking hold of my hip as he slowly presses my back into the wood.

"I would like to see you first thing in the morning," he murmurs as he bends to touch his lips to my neck. I gasp a little, and I think he laughs at me. "I've almost forgotten how it is in the beginning." He kisses a slow line down my neck to my shoulder, pressing me into the door with his weight. "Even the tiniest touch is like electricity," he says softly, and his other hand finds my waist. My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I might die, but I don't push him away. He lifts me up easily, and I automatically wrap my arms and legs around him to keep from slipping. When he kisses me, I can't help the little whimper in my throat, and I'm lost from then on.

I let him carry me to his bed, and I think I snap off one of his buttons in my hurry to get his shirt off. He tuts at me teasingly, but it's quickly forgotten. Everything is a blur; I can feel my hands pressing into the hard muscle of his chest, his mouth on every part of me. It's like electricity, just like he said. I never could have experienced this as a human. The heat, the rhythmic thumping of his heart in my ears, the tingling his touch leaves in its wake. He's gentle with me only until I beg him not to be. He puts me anywhere he wants me, and I eagerly comply, desperate to kiss him, to feel his hands on me.

By the time we stop, I'm a sweaty mess, and I have to push my hair out of my face with a hand that seems to weigh a hundred pounds. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart and his heavy breathing as he wraps a lazy arm around me. I wake up sometime in the early morning with his lips on my neck again, and I don't stop him. The sun is well and fully up before I wake up properly, but he lures me into the shower with him before I can leave the room. The glass of the shower wall is cold against my back, and I worry a little that we might crack it, but he assures me with a low chuckle that it's safe.

He finally lets me leave, but I pause at his door and lean up to kiss him one more time. I'm not silly enough to think he's going to want a real relationship with me. He's a businessman, probably with more women than he knows what to do with, and I'm just a girl to him. I guess I'm determined to enjoy this while it lasts.

# 19 SAM

Tonight, I am bound and determined to show David a good time. He's been a mess ever since we left Nat's and worse since we got to Adam's. I didn't notice until I saw Adam paying single-minded attention to Marcy—which I'm sure he did just to piss me off—that David's been spending his time looking at her like a sad puppy. I asked him about it while they were out, since all we had to do was sit around and drink anyway, but we were half a bottle deep before he'd admit to me that he'd had some feelings for her.

"Well damn, say somethin' to her then," I told him, but he just brushed me off and told me I didn't understand. When Adam and Marcy came back acting like it was already a done deal and David was just going to leave them be, I tried to warn him. "This is your last chance, boy," I told him under my breath in the hall. "I know how these things go. He's flashy an' he's been pourin' money on her, and he's all aflutter for it. But a girl can't resist a nervous confession. So if you don't want to see her comin' out his door in the mornin', you'd better say somethin' now."

But he wouldn't. I wish he'd tell me what happened to him to make him so damn sad and lonesome. We never did much sharing our feelings, even back in the day, but he'd at least come to me when there was a real problem. And I'd describe this as a real problem.

And what do you know, the next morning here Marcy comes, smelling like Adam's soap, and David just sinks deeper. It's no way for a boy to be. She wasn't the damn love of his life.

I call Adam an asshole when he comes into the kitchen for his coffee, but he just smiles at me.

His cell phone vibrates in on the counter, and he reaches to pick it up. He curses when he looks at the screen, and answers the phone with "Weiss," like always, but he says it like a German this time. When he starts to speak, I understand why.

"Ich habe dir doch schon gesagt, zu Monatsende. Nein. Sag Dieter, er soll mit dem Scheiss aufhören, wenn er nicht in den Knast will." He sighs during the break, while I assume he's listening.

"Ich werde erst Januar wieder nach Deutschland zurückkommen. Ich werde dich dann sehen." I see him drop the phone from his ear and lean his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, sounds still coming faintly from the speaker, before holding it up again.

"Fine. Ich werde etwas senden. Hör auf, zu weinen, Mutter. Ok. Ade. Nein. Nein. Ich hänge jetzt auf." He drops the phone back onto the table with a thunk and pads back over to pick up his cup.

"Those sure were some angry soundin' words."

He rubs at his temple with one hand. "Do you have any idea what it's like having another wolf for a mother? She is still alive. She is still nagging. She still needs money for everything. Now I'm supposed to care because Cousin Dieter knocked over another convenience store and needs bail money. I don't know why she wanted to go back there. They're all insane."

"Sounds awful," I say, but I'm holding back a laugh.

"She calls to complain, and then I have to pay her phone bill because of all the long distance charges. I just got back, and she's calling to ask me when I'm coming to visit. The next time she bothers me about a wife, I'm putting silver nitrate in her cod liver oil."

I see Marcy slip by the doorway, one of Adam's shirts wrapped around her as she darts back to my room. I'm a little annoyed, but I'm satisfied by the thought that Adam will probably be tortured by family members until he dies, so I decide to let it go.

David mopes around all morning, avoiding all of us, and I tell Adam I'm taking him out, laying low be damned. He agrees with me that it probably wouldn't help cheer David up if he came along, so he just gives me directions to a bar he thinks we'll like and hands me some money. It'll take a bit more convincing to get David not to think about what Adam and Marcy will be doing while we're gone, but I can make it work.

He doesn't want to go, of course, but I can still put enough paternal pressure on him that he agrees to come along anyway. We wander around the city looking for the greasiest burger we can find. I talk to him about anything but women for a little while. We talk about the Braves and the Yankees and going to shitty local games and getting sick off the hot dogs. I remind him of his first beer, when we'd made the trip back down to Atlanta to go see one of the Negro League games. He was sick all night, but he'd wanted so badly to act grown that he drank the whole thing. He spent the last half of the game curled up in my lap with a stomachache.

The burgers are greasy, disgusting, and delicious. I have a beer with mine, and David just has a Coke. I tell him stories, and a few times he even laughs. He doesn't want to hear about the bad things I've done, but I even hear him say "I wish I could have seen that" when I tell him about my time in Tijuana.

He tells me about the woman who moved in next door to him and how many times she brought him cookies or she'd made too much dinner or she'd locked herself out and please could she stay with him until the landlord came. He tells me how he had to start sneezing every time she was around and tell her he's allergic to cats just to get her to stop coming over all the time.

We go to the Empire State Building. I climb up on the railing and lean my forehead against the fence, looking down onto the tiny ants on the street. He stands next to me, and he shoves me when I start to snort so that when I try to spit over the edge I get it on my shirt, and I hit him in the shoulder for it. I wonder out loud if the elevator ride is long enough to have sex to completion without pushing the emergency stop. He refuses to let me even try to try.

He actually seems to be in a pretty decent mood by the time we get to the bar. It's a bit smoky inside, and it smells like old wood, but there's enough people that we won't stand out. I sit him down on a bar stool and order a whiskey. I start to order one for him, too, but before I can he tells the bartender he wants tequila. Fair enough. For once, he's not arguing. He drinks everything I put in front of him, and he stops making faces after the third shot.

I push him with my shoulder, laughing. "Well take a look around, son, see if there's anything you like."

"What?"

"Hell's bells. Women, son. Any women."

He spins in his stool, steadying himself on the bar, and looks around for a long time. Then he looks at me. "How do I know which ones will talk to me?"

"Well, see them in the booth?" I nod toward a group of girls huddled together, giggling. "That's danger. There's too many of 'em. Those girls ain't here to get picked up. They'll just give you some nonsense about just comin' out to dance, and if you try to get one of 'em away, they'll swarm you. Groups of three or less is all right. A girl on her own's the easiest, but they don't usually come out solo. Just two can be trouble, though, because the one you pick up won't want to leave the other alone, or the one bein' left behind will get tired all sudden like, and try to take your girl home. Lucky for you, tonight you have a wing man."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if there's a girl you like and she's brought out her ugly friend to make herself feel good, I'm prepared to bite that bullet for you."

"This is a shitload of rules. Was it always this complicated?"

"It ain't. We can work with any situation. I'm an old pro. Just pick one out and we'll see what's what."

He stares out at the crowd, at the people at tables and in booths, out at the small clusters of people on the dance floor, and back around again. "There's a lot of girls here," he says quietly, and I laugh at him.

"So wander on out and grab the first one that smiles at you."

He seems skeptical, but he goes when I shove him, and I watch him disappear into the crowd. I have a few more drinks while I wait for him, but he doesn't come back, and I can't find him when I wade into the crowd a little later. I hope he went home with a girl instead of just dragging his feet back to Adam's, but he isn't there when I get back, so I guess he found someone. About damn time.

Marcy is apparently just staying in Adam's room now, because she isn't in my bed when I roll into it in the early morning. Asshole. It's not the first time he's done this. He knows she's like a daughter to me and how protective I get. If he ever bit anyone of his own, he'd know how it feels.

Adam comes in and wakes me up almost immediately. I try to shove him off, but I sit up when he says, "Sam. David's been taken." Marcy is standing in the doorway with her arms nervously crossed across her stomach.

"Taken? Taken where?"

"Remember I told you the Wolfjäger like to kidnap relatives if they can't find the person they're after? I went out to the bar last night to see if I could smooth things over with David, but when I got there, they were putting him in the back of a car."

I get out of bed, growling at him. "Why the hell didn't you do somethin'?"

"What, there in the street? It's a miracle no one saw them as it was. I followed their car. I know where they have him."

"Well let's go then, damn." I'm already heading for the door, but Adam puts a hand on my arm.

"They'll kill you, Sam. You can't go alone."

"So come with me."

"You don't understand. These are real werewolf hunters, a good number of them. If we try to run in, they'll kill us both, and David too."

"We have to do something," Marcy says from the door, her voice a little panicked. "Who knows what they're doing to him?"

"Now hold on," Adam says. "They won't kill him until they think they can't get to Sam through him." He turns to me. "They'll be trying to get him to turn on you. I think we can both agree that's unlikely, but it's only been a few hours, so we have a little time."

I swear, and I pace the room in a fury. I want to go straight for them, but I'm no good to David dead, and even I have to admit I can't take on a whole den of hunters by myself. "So what the hell do we do?"

Adam pauses, and he drums his fingers on his chin for a few moments. "They left me a number to contact them. What if I try to arrange a trade? Tell them you came to me for help, and you want to turn yourself in if they agree to let David go. They'll send a small team to escort him, and we can go from there."

"Do it," I tell him, and he leaves the room.

"I'm coming too," Marcy says firmly, but I shake my head.

"The hell you are. You'll sit your ass here until we get back. This ain't no business for somebody what's just changed, and I ain't gonna babysit you."

"But I can help!"

"No you can't," I snap at her, and she flinches a little. "Stay here an' wait for one of us to call you. Get Adam to leave you the number of the doctor he uses in case we gotta take David straight there." I step close to her and put a hand on her cheek, making sure she's looking at me. "But until then you stay put, hear? I ain't got time to worry 'bout both of you."

She nods, but I can tell she's frustrated. I touch a quick kiss to her hair and brush past her.

Adam is in the living room, speaking German into the phone. He nods at me when he hangs up. "They're going to meet us in the park tonight. Just after dusk. You should try to get some sleep." I curse in response, but he presses, "Do your best. You'll be no good if you're exhausted."

Marcy watches me timidly when I pass her again, and I shut myself in the bedroom. Stupid not to make sure he came home. Stupid to lose him. What the hell kind of sleep am I going to get? But he's a tough kid. He'll take whatever they give him and spit it back in their faces. Damn Adam and his German problems.

# 20 ALICIA

The days after our dinner with Adam Weiss crawl by. I can barely sleep. I don't know how many werewolves there are in New York, but now mine is here. Every time I see Reiniger I ask him when we're doing something about it, but he always puts me off, saying it isn't time. I hear him on the phone a couple of times, and I know he's talking to Adam Weiss, but he says there's nothing to do yet.

I go for runs, I work out in the barracks, listen to music, clean my gun—anything to pass the time. I'm fidgety and anxious. This is what all of this has been for. The weeks of studying, of getting my ass kicked by Reiniger, of putting on friendly faces to werewolves. Waiting. I didn't realize that's what I was doing. This is what I've been waiting for—the chance to see him again. Once he's dead, maybe I can stop waiting and move on with my life.

Reiniger and I still sit on his bed in the evenings and play chess, but I'm too worked up to concentrate, so I lose even faster than normal. At one point I get so frustrated that I shove the board at him, and he just watches me, his eyes slightly narrowed in that way that I now call "almost concern."

"Miss May, you must control yourself," he says quietly. He might even be trying to be comforting. "If you are not focused, you will be a liability that we cannot afford."

"How can I?" I sigh, resting my head in my hand. "I know you're all business, but this one isn't business to me."

"I know."

"What if I can't face him? Whenever I think about him, I get so angry, but then I think about when we were—ugh. Never mind."

"You have trouble separating the memory of him as an animal with that of him as a man you were attracted to."

"Yes, and I know that makes me a fucking idiot," I say, lifting my hands in frustration and letting them drop back to my knees.

"No. It is something you should have mentioned before. It should be in the file."

"What? Why the hell would I tell people that, and why would you want to put it on record?"

"Some werewolves seem to have the ability to easily attract members of the opposite sex. It has been described as overpowering or irresistible by those it has affected. It is not so uncommon a trait, but not every wolf has this ability. We have not yet been able to identify precisely what causes it, but we suspect it is some sort of pheromone. It should be in Scratch's file that he is one such wolf. It certainly helps to explain his body count, and the frequency of his attacks."

"So...I'm not a fucking idiot."

"That remains to be seen, but in this instance, no."

I laugh, despite myself. "You're such an asshole."

He doesn't answer, just quietly resets the board I ruined and glances up at me. "Again?"

Finally, days after we first made arrangements with Weiss and after three or four phone calls between him and Reiniger, we get the phone call I want. I find Reiniger in the hall on my way out of the mess, on the phone and having a conversation in German. I wait beside him while he talks, tugging on his sleeve until he actually jerks away from me with a slight scowl. When he hangs up, he clears his throat once as though to compose himself after his outburst.

"Adam Weiss has arranged for us to pick up David Harris tonight," he says, and I let out a whoop so loud that the Norwegian kid down the hall almost drops his paperwork.

"So what's the plan? What are we doing?"

"We will take Hauptmann with us. Weiss claims that the boy will not give us much trouble, but if he is an associate of Scratch, we must assume that he at least has the potential to be dangerous. You are still a novice, so we will bring help."

"But what are we doing? Where do we find him? How will we know him?"

Reiniger touches the screen on his phone for a second, and then turns it to face me. There's a picture on his screen of a young man slouched in a chair. He isn't paying attention in the photo, but you can make him out well enough. Quite young-looking. Dark tanned skin, black hair. Looks tall, but it's difficult to tell since he's sitting down.

"That's him?" I move Reiniger's hand closer to my face so I can get a better look. "That's his son?" I look up at him when he takes the phone away and puts it back in his pocket. "Do you think he meant real son, or like, he bit him so he's his son?"

"It is inconsequential. Either way, if we take the boy, then Scratch will come."

"Where do we get him?"

"Weiss has sent me the address of a bar in Manhattan. If we wait there, Harris will show himself."

"Tonight though, right? You did say tonight."

"Yes."

I feel like a kid at the top of a waterslide, somewhere between exhilarated and scared out of my mind. I spend the afternoon checking my gun and other equipment again and doing a fair amount of pacing. The sun can't set fast enough.

Jonas laughs at me when we he sees how hyped up I am, and he pats me on the head like a child and tells me I'll be okay. He has a small black bag with him, presumably full of various werewolf-hunting supplies. We pile into the car, and Reiniger drives to the address Weiss gave him, where we sit across the street to watch the entrance. I sit in the back seat since Reiniger drives and Jonas is enormous. I don't even care about junk food this time, although Jonas would probably be up for a proper stake out.

We wait for a couple of hours, and I've counted the stitches on the back of Reiniger's seat five or six times when I hear him say, "There."

I sit up to look out the window, and my heart skips when I spot him. He's walking down the street alone, away from the entrance to the bar, hands in his jeans pockets and eyes on the sidewalk. Reiniger turns to look at me over his shoulder. "Stay in the car and follow us at a distance. We will need to get him inside without being seen."

I want to ask why I can't help, but I know the answer. We don't know how much he'll fight. It makes sense to send Jonas instead of me, and somebody has to drive the car. When they get out, I climb over into the front seat and start the car. I have to turn around to follow them, and I see them split up. I roll down the windows so I can hear if they call for me, and I wait. I see Harris pause when he comes to an alley, sniffing the air like an animal as he looks down the dark side street. One of them must have spoken to him. I see Jonas approaching from the other direction, walking slowly and casually, so it must be Reiniger in the alley.

Harris steps into the darkness, and I see Jonas follow him a few moments later, but I can't see what happens next. I hear a few muffled shouts and the sounds of a scuffle, and I look around the street to make sure nobody else is hearing this. It isn't a very busy at the moment, so that's handy.

After a couple of anxious minutes, I see Reiniger at the entrance to the alley and hear him snap at me to open the trunk. I pop it open, and I see both of them dragging Harris, half limp with a duct tape gag on his face, a blindfold around his eyes, and cuffs around his wrists and ankles. They drop him into the trunk and slam it shut, and Reiniger tells me to drive as he climbs into the back seat. Jonas sits beside me, his face swollen and blood running out from his mouth and over his chin.

"Holy shit, are you okay?"

Before he can answer, there's a loud thump from the trunk, and I feel the car shift so suddenly I have to grip the wheel tight to keep from hitting the car next to us.

"Keep going," Reiniger tells me in a voice far too calm for what just happened. "Harris is still awake."

I take the quickest route I can back to the compound with Reiniger's direction, but the constant heavy pounding from the trunk and the swaying of the back end of the car makes it difficult. When we finally make it, I park with the back of the car close to the door and get out to help them. Reiniger struggles a little to open the trunk because it's been dented outward and put out of place.

When it finally opens, Reiniger immediately hits Harris in the face with the silver knuckles on his left hand, and he hits again until he seems a bit dazed. Jonas lifts him out of the trunk, I grab the bag of supplies, and we're let inside the compound. Harris is struggling again before we're halfway down the hall, with Reiniger snapping at people to get out of the way. Jonas has to put him down when we reach the holding cells. He's stopped in front of one of the cells with the restraints inside.

They move him inside, and Jonas gets a grip on him from behind and forces him to his knees so that they can remove the cuffs. I open the shackles on the legs of the chair and move the chains out of their way while Reiniger unfastens the cuffs. As soon as he's free, Harris pulls to his feet, lifting Jonas from the ground on his back and earning himself a knock to the side of the head for it. He seems to shake it off, but he falls again when Reiniger snaps out a punch to his jaw with those knuckles.

"Wolfsbane," Reiniger calls to me, and I dig in the bag for it while the two of them struggle to force Harris into the chair. I prick my hand on a syringe in the bag, still dripping with clear liquid. Did they inject him with silver nitrate? I toss it aside and pull out the fat syringe full of Wolfsbane paste. I drop the bag and go back into the cell as they pin Harris's last hand down and fasten the chains around it. Reiniger pulls the duct tape from his mouth and pulls out the damp rag stuffed inside. That must be silver, too. Harris glowers weakly at me, and for just a second I feel a little bad for him. Then he snaps at my hand like a dog when I reach to open his mouth, and I grip his jaw and squeeze the Wolfsbane down his throat.

He lets out a ragged cough, and Reiniger replaces the rag and the tape. With a last burst of strength, Harris pulls on his restraints, and I think I hear the sound of cracking cement, but Reiniger hits him with the silver on his hand, again and again, until he goes still.

We all exit, and the cell door is locked as soon as we close it. Reiniger slips the silver from his hand and shakes it out a bit, clicking his tongue at the bloody scrapes on his knuckles. Jonas has his own blood all over his chest, and he looks more than a little woozy. His brother comes in a few moments later and half carries him back to the infirmary.

Reiniger and I stand in front of the cell, both of us out of breath but him probably having earned it more than I did. Harris is slumped in the chair, and for a minute the only sound in the room is his harsh breathing.

"Fuck," I say quietly, and I look up at Reiniger. "So much for him not being a threat. What was the word Weiss used? Placid? Fuck that."

"Animals are dangerous when cornered," he says calmly. "Leave him for now. He will need another dose of Wolfsbane in a few hours."

We go to the door to the main hall, and I pause to look over my shoulder at Harris. He's our ticket to finally putting Scratch down. He's going to come right to us, and I can't wait.

Jonas stays in the infirmary for the night. His jaw was fractured and had to be wired shut. I think I've really been underestimating, somehow, how strong the wolves are. Harris looks like any other young guy, but that's the last thing he is. I won't forget again.

I'm put on guard duty for the night, since there isn't much chance of him escaping. Reiniger says he'll check in, but I'm sure he could use the rest. I sit in a chair outside Harris's cell alone, with my gun loaded with silver bullets on the table beside me and a good supply of Wolfsbane on the shelf. He doesn't move much at first, just sits with his head drooped while he wheezes through his gag. The shackles in the cell are lined with silver, and I can see the raw burns on his arms where they've been chafing.

I'm a little fascinated by him. This is someone who, blood related or not, is close to Scratch—someone who hangs around with him, talks to him, travels with him. They probably treat each other like friends. I guess I knew Scratch was capable of at least pretending to be charming.

Harris stirs after a little while, chains clinking quietly as he lifts his head and looks through the bars at me. I have a plate of food I'm supposed to give him when he wakes up, so I stand and walk over to the cell door.

"Hey there, sunshine," I say, and he growls at me. It's not a sound a man should make. "I have some dinner for you here, if you can be civil. Can you?"

He tugs on his restraints a little, but I can see him wince as the silver digs into his arms. He looks up at me and gives a small, resigned shrug. I'll take it as a yes. I signal the person watching the camera in the corner to unlock the cell, and I hear the heavy clang as the lock slides open. I pull the door open and bring the plate inside, hesitating briefly before I reach out with one hand to tear the tape from his face.

I tug the rag from his mouth and tuck it in my pocket, and he coughs a few times. His cheeks and mouth are stained dark grey from the silver, and his breath is slow and raspy. He looks so young. I wonder how old he is, really. I offer him a spoonful of the potatoes on the plate, but he doesn't open his mouth. He just stares at me.

"You're her," he says in a low, weak voice.

I pause. "I'm who?"

"The one Sam left alive." A soft, cracking chuckle comes out of him. He has a Southern accent, too. "You'll wish he hadn't."

I take a step away from him without thinking. "Do you know where he is?"

He snorts. "Of course I know where he is."

"I'm going to kill him for what he did to me," I say firmly, and I'm a little surprised to find that I actually believe it.

Harris peers up at me with his eyebrows lifted skeptically. He doesn't say anything else, only tilts his head toward the plate in my hand. I don't like the smirk on his face, but I step closer. He lets me feed him the whole plate, and when I turn to get his next dose of Wolfsbane, he says, "I'm not telling you anything."

"We'll see," I tell him, and I grab his chin and pour the paste down his throat. While he coughs, I soak the dried rag in my pocket with more silver nitrate and stuff it back into his mouth. He grunts and twists his head and tries to spit it out, but I stick the tape back over his mouth to keep it in place.

I shut the cell door and it locks again, and I just take my seat and let him glare at me, idly drumming my fingers on the grip of my gun.

Joaquin comes in a little later to check on me and have a look at the prisoner. He's in the middle of his shift, but Anke must have let him out for a break. He moves forward and puts his hands on the bars to peer inside. Harris stares at him silently for a few seconds, but then he jerks suddenly on his chains and Joaquin jumps back, bumping into my table. A rough, muffled laugh comes from inside the cell.

"Maybe you should get back," I tell Joaquin, and he gives me an embarrassed look on his way out.

I stand and move to the cell door, leaning my elbows on a cross bar. "You know, it doesn't have to be this way. If you could just chill out, we could take you out of all that silver, and you could help us get a serial killer off the streets."

I think he scoffs, but it's difficult to tell with the gag in. He doesn't look at me, so I just shrug and go back to my seat.

I have to give him Wolfsbane once more before morning, but he doesn't fight me. Reiniger comes in in the morning to relieve me. I leave them alone and drop into my bunk to try and get a few hours' sleep, but there's no chance. I go back to the holding cells just a little while later and find Reiniger standing in the cell with Harris, his silver knuckles bloody on his left hand and his cell phone sitting on the table nearby. Harris's gag is out and his mouth is dripping blood onto his lap.

"Once more," Reiniger says, distant and cold. "Where is Samuel Carter?"

"Fuck you," Harris rasps out.

Reiniger is unperturbed. Instead of hitting him again, he stands in front of him and bends down until they're face to face.

"I have nowhere else to be, Harris." He reaches out and touches his face almost gently, but when Harris tries to pull away, Reiniger keeps a firm grip on his jaw and lets the silver on his hand burn into his cheek. Harris struggles, but there's nowhere for him to go. Reiniger only pulls away when Harris snaps at him, and he leaves a deep red mark down the side of the wolf's face.

Harris spits blood onto the concrete floor, and when he looks up at me, all I see is an animal. Didn't Weiss say this guy was reformed? Is this just because we jumped him? Maybe it would have been different if anybody had tried to just talk to him. Or is he that loyal?

"Hey," I say, and Reiniger pauses to look at me. "It is David, right? What are you so afraid of, David? Afraid the big bad wolf won't be able to hold his own?"

Harris scoffs, and a long drip of blood runs off of his chin.

"That's it, isn't it? You're afraid for him."

"No," he says finally, his voice only a weak croak. "I just can't fuckin' stand cops." He laughs until he's cut short by Reiniger hitting him again. His face is decidedly swollen, and covered in welts from the silver, but he still doesn't look as bad as he probably should. They really do heal quickly.

Reiniger is about to question him again when the phone on the table chimes. I can see the name Weiss come up on the screen as he steps out to answer it. They have a brief conversation in German, and then he hangs up and looks back to Harris.

"It seems you have been missed. Tonight we will take Carter into custody in exchange for you."

Harris growls and pulls on his chains, but all he does is dig the metal into the open wounds on his wrists. "He's going to kill every god damned one of you."

Reiniger ignores him. He opens a small black case on the table and retrieves a syringe of clear solution, and he steps into the cell and holds Harris's head still by his hair while he injects it into the side of his neck. The sound that comes out of the wolf then couldn't possibly be mistaken for human. I almost cover my ears, it's so awful, but Reiniger barely even seems to hear it. He steps out of the cell and shuts it behind him, and Harris pants heavily until his head slowly droops and he goes still.

"You should try to sleep," Reiniger says. "You will need to be focused tonight."

"Right." I'm happy to get out of the room. Just when I was starting to think Reiniger might be human. I guess he's had a lot of practice torturing people—but then, I'm not sure I think of Harris as "people."

I go back to my bunk and hide my head under the pillow to try and sleep. I think I succeed, at least for a while, but then Paolo is gently shaking me, telling me that we have to leave soon. He says that he and Eberstark are both coming with us as backup, since Jonas is doped up on painkillers and out of commission. I pull myself out of bed and make sure my weapons are in the right place. I found a little leather case in the armory the other day, so I put a couple of vials of silver nitrate in it and put it on my belt. I tuck my gun into the back of my pants and make sure my shirt covers it, and I check the small knife tucked into my pocket.

When I walk out, Reiniger and Eberstark have already piled a nearly-unconscious Harris into the trunk of the other car—the one without the busted out trunk. Eberstark has a collapsed crossbow slung over her shoulder.

Reiniger drives, as usual, and Paolo sits in the back with me. We ride to Central Park, and Reiniger parks in the most abandoned area he can find. Eberstark takes off ahead of us. She and her crossbow must be the backup. Harris is stirring when Reiniger and Paolo lift him out of the trunk, and I see he's been cuffed wrists and ankles again. They carry him through the trees, off of the paths, until we reach a small pond. I take over helping to carry Harris so that Reiniger can walk ahead of us, but the only person standing in the deserted little clearing is Adam Weiss.

"Where is Carter?" Reiniger calls before we get too close, holding a hand out behind him to stop us.

"He wanted to make sure you actually brought David with you. I'm glad you kept up your half of the bargain. Makes this whole thing go much more smoothly, wouldn't you agree?"

"Then let him show himself, and we can have it done."

A sharp sound from the trees nearby makes all of us turn our heads, except for Weiss. Something bounces through the grass into the clearing between us, but I can't make out what it is until it rolls to a stop near the streetlight. Eberstark's mangled crossbow.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" I call out, glad my voice doesn't waver with the pounding of my heart. I feel a huff of hot, damp breath on the back of my neck, hear the soft growl, but by the time I turn around, Harris's weight is slumped entirely on me, and I hear Paolo's scream as he's snatched away into the darkness of the trees. I let Harris drop to the ground and move to stand back to back with Reiniger, who already has his knife in his left hand and a vial of silver in the other. I pull my gun from my belt and make sure the chamber is loaded, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. I can't hear Paolo anymore.

"I did warn you he was dangerous," Weiss offers in a helpful tone from across the grass.

"Go fuck yourself," I mutter, and I hear Reiniger make a small sound of agreement. I know he's out there, just out of sight, watching us. What made us think he was going to go along with this? I should have known better. I should have warned them what he was. But this is what I wanted. He's right there. I can end it.

I expect him to jump out again, to try to steal one of us. It doesn't come. I see him, a hulking mass of brown fur, pacing slowly on all fours just inside the clearing where we can see him. He pauses where I dropped Harris and bends to sniff his limp body, but his eyes are on me. Even in the darkness, the eyes are the same. The stripes of pink scarring on his muzzle. What is he waiting for?

Reiniger tells me, "Watch yourself" under his breath, and then he makes his move. He rushes at the wolf, and I turn to keep both them and Weiss in my view. I don't know what to do. This is way beyond anything I saw on tour, and it isn't like sneaking up on a wolf in his apartment. I raise my gun, knowing I won't have a clear shot. Reiniger is barely keeping out of the wolf's grip, but I can see blood shining in the animal's fur where he's been cut, hear the growling roar as the vial of silver breaks in his eyes. Harris is moving in the grass but hasn't seemed to find the strength to get up yet. I'm about to move forward to help, somehow, when I realize I can't see Weiss anymore.

I take the knife from my pocket and hold it in my left hand, looking around to try to spot him. Then I hear him right behind me, and I spin fast enough to catch him in the face with the knife. He swears at me, but doesn't seem too deterred despite the blood running fast down his cheek. I raise my gun level to his chest, but I stumble a little when I hear a pained cry from behind me. I look over in time to see Reiniger's left arm gripped tightly in the wolf's teeth, hear his shout as he wrenches free, half of his arm a bloody mass of tissue. Weiss snatches me close to him, his forearm pressing tightly against my throat.

The next few seconds seem to creep by in slow motion. Weiss is already reaching to control my gun hand. Scratch stands on two legs over Reiniger's slumped form, dripping blood from his jaws, ready to finish him. I have time to fire. I could finish it. I could hit his heart. I might die, but Scratch would be gone. It would be over. But I see Reiniger, clutching his ruined arm and bleeding into the grass, and I think of Eberstark and Paolo, murdered by this animal. He isn't the only one like him. Weiss isn't the only one like him, putting on a friendly face and waiting to stab you in the back. In that moment, there are more important things than making sure I get my revenge.

I take a chance. I move my arm and fire a round into Harris's stomach. He jerks, a gurgling sound coming out of his throat as blood pools around his lips. Scratch bellows, but Weiss has already released me to drop to the ground beside Harris. I don't wait. I run forward, lifting Reiniger's good arm over my shoulders, and I half drag him through the trees, moving as fast as I can until we reach the car.

I expect Scratch to be on our heels, to snatch him out of my grasp at any moment, but he doesn't. I don't hear anything behind us. I forgot about the perfume in my pocket in my rush to carry Reiniger. My legs are throbbing from effort, and it's hard to breathe through the bruises Weiss left on my neck. I drop Reiniger into the back seat and hastily wrap his arm in a towel, but he's losing blood fast. I don't think he's unconscious yet, but he looks pale, and his breath is coming in shallow pants. His skin feels like it's burning up. I tell him to hold on, and I drive back to the compound as fast as traffic will allow, even losing the passenger side mirror when I try to squeeze between two cabs.

But when I pull into the alley, the door leading into the compound is open.

"Fuck, fuck, no no no," I say over and over, leaving Reiniger in the back of the car and running inside. The tile floor is slick with blood, and I almost slip when I turn into the main corridor. I call out for Niklas, for anyone, but it's silent inside. I see Jonas in the hall outside the infirmary, slumped against the wall. Those are bullet holes in his chest, not claw marks. In the barracks, I see bodies in their bunks. Anke's arm hangs lifeless over the edge of her bed, and I curse. I call out once more, not expecting an answer anymore.

I'm about to give up and go back to the car when I hear a rattle, and I spin to aim my gun at it. The door shakes on one of the lockers lining the wall, and Joaquin stumbles out, pale and shaken.

"Joaquin? What the fuck are you doing in a locker? What the fuck happened here?"

"Oh god," he says, and he covers his mouth as he sees the bodies, letting out a short retching sound.

"Never mind," I tell him, and I drag him out of the compound by his shirt.

Reiniger doesn't have time. I push Joaquin into the car, and I can hear Reiniger rasping in the back seat. He's saying something. I open the back door and climb over him to put my ear beside his lips.

"Infirmary," he says softly.

"Reiniger, I can't take you to the infirmary; everyone's dead."

He reaches up with his good hand and grips the front of my shirt. "The Antigen."

"What? What antigen?"

He shoves me away from him with his last bit of strength, and then he shuts his eyes, his head falling to the side.

"Fuck. Joaquin, call a goddamn ambulance. Right now!" I snap when he just stares at me dumbly, and I run back into the compound, skidding on the pools on blood on the floor on my way to the infirmary at the back of the building. I throw open cabinets, dig through drawers, until I find a glass case filled with small syringes of opaque white liquid. There's a handwritten label that has the word "antigen" on it, so I tuck it under my arm and hurry back outside.

Joaquin is on the phone when I get to the car, speaking far too quickly to the person on the other end. I keep an eye on Reiniger in the back seat while we wait and try to figure out what the hell I'm going to tell the paramedics when they arrive.

# 21 SAM

Adam is talking to me, but I can't understand him. David convulses in the grass, and I try to pull the cuffs off of his wrists and ankles, but they don't come. Adam snaps his fingers in my face so that I focus on him, and he says clearly, "Get him to the car."

I lift David in my arms and move as fast as I can on two legs back to Adam's car. He's following me at a run, but I'm faster. I trip on something and almost fall—maybe a person—but I stay on my feet. I have to wait at the edge of the trees, and Adam takes David from me to load him into the back seat. As he shuts the door and climbs into the driver's seat, he shouts out two street names to me, and then his car pulls away with a screech.

I run back to where I left my clothes. The pain of the change only bothers me because of how long it takes. I make it back to the street and hail a cab, pacing on the sidewalk until one comes by.

I tell the cab driver where to take me and pay him with Adam's money. There's an apartment building on the corner, and Adam is waiting outside to wave me over.

"He's inside," he tells me on the ride up the elevator. "They're going to do the best they can for him, Sam, but he's had a rough couple of days."

I don't say anything. He leads me into the apartment, where a young man waits in the living room with first aid supplies.

"They're working on him now, Mr. Weiss," he says quietly. I can hear voices from a room down the hall behind a closed door. He looks to me. "You want me to have a look at that?" he asks, nodding toward the blood seeping through my shirt. My whole body aches from the cuts I got from one of the men, but I don't care. I growl at him when he comes near me and pace the room instead. Adam sits in a chair and lets the kid put a few stitches in the deep cut on his face while I go up and down the hallway, stopping to listen at the door whenever I get close. I can't tell what's going on inside, but it seems quieter.

Marcy shows up in a little while, and she hugs me when she rushes in. Adam must have called her. She clings to my shirt, and I can't bring myself to snap at her.

"How is he? Is he okay?" She looks up at me, and I sigh and touch her hair. There's nothing I want more than to head out into the city and find that woman, but I can't leave.

"Don't know yet," I say.

She turns to Adam and gasps softly, rushing over to him and gingerly touching the stitches on his face. He moves her hand away gently, and they sit together on the doctor's couch while I prowl the hall.

Eventually the door at the end of the hall opens, and a woman exits, the front of her shirt wet with blood. She takes a deep breath and lets it out as she steps into the room.

"He's stable for now. He needed a lot of blood, and he'll probably need more. It's going to be touch and go for a little while. What the hell did you fall into, Adam?"

"It's really better if you don't know, dear," he says with a weak smile. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Not right now. He needs time and rest. And a bit of luck. That silver bullet did a number on him." She gestures to her face. "The grey marks on his mouth, those are silver nitrate stains. His whole body isn't reacting the way it should. He vomited up a bunch of some kind of bile, and that seemed to help, but he isn't fighting the way he ought to be."

"It's Wolfsbane," Adam says. "Aconitum. The Wolfjäger use it on prisoners. It'll pass out of his system soon."

I move toward the door, and Adam calls after me. "Where are you going?"

"I'm gon' go find the bitch what did this to him."

"What, in New York? If she has any sense at all she's in the wind, Sam."

"What about her other hunter buddies? You said they had a base or somethin' somewheres."

"It's taken care of."

"The hell's that mean?"

"Well I wasn't about to risk you running in and getting yourself murdered, was I? I called in a favor. So," he shrugs, "it's taken care of."

"You sent your wop thugs after a group of werewolf hunters?"

"And why not? They're just men. They're used to fighting our kind. Men with guns is the last thing they would expect."

"But the woman—"

"I know where we'll find her, Sam." He puts a hand on my arm. "She's one of them now. Now its easy." He nods toward the couch. "Come sit down. There's something we need to talk about."

I do as he asks, but I keep looking down the hallway. The doctor's gone away, probably to change her clothes, so it's just the three of us.

"Sam, come to Germany with me," Adam says.

"What?" I scoff. "The hell for?"

"To put a stop to this. You know what they're like now. You've seen what they do. This happens every day in Germany, except there isn't someone like you to fight back. If we tell people, if we show them what happened here, if we tell them that you're leading it—people will help."

"What people? An' why would they? Who the hell am I?"

"You're the Beast of Birmingham."

I can't help but snort out a laugh. "The what now? Who decided that?"

"Sam, everyone knows you. You're Scratch. You're fierce and wild, and you're a damn legend to these people. The Wolfjäger were here for just a few months and they knew about you. I may have been talking you up on the forums for a few weeks. The point is that I need your help if we're going to get rid of them for good."

"He's right, you know," Marcy says softly. "David told me about the forums. About how there's so many stories about you. I don't know if they're all true, but if someone like you decided to lead a charge like this, there are a lot of people who would follow you."

"What kinda person is gon' run off to Germany on my say so?"

"I will," she murmurs.

"The woman you're after is going to go to Germany, I promise you," Adam says, leaning over a bit to catch my eye. "If nothing else, I can guarantee you'll see her again."

That catches my attention. I couldn't care less about the plight of a bunch of wolves I've never met who live an ocean away. Their problems are their problems, and if they're too damn soft to stand up to some hunters, then that's their problem. But the woman who did this—the woman I let get away, the woman who tortured David and shot him in the gut—her I care about.

"All right," I say. "I'll wave at a crowd if you think it'll help. But if I can't lay hands on that girl, then I'm expectin' you'll buy me a ticket home, hear? I ain't spendin' the rest of my days over there."

"Deal."

I get up and go down the hall. I think Marcy tries to come after me, but Adam stops her. I open the door to David's room and go inside to have a look at him. He looks a mess. They've put some kind of ointment on all the burns on his face, bandaged him up where he needed it. He has an IV stuck in his arm and an oxygen mask on his mouth, and his breathing sounds raspy and shallow. His eyes are shut and his head has fallen slightly to the side. The hunters did this to him. She did this to him, to get to me.

I reach out to put a hand on his head, but he doesn't stir. I scoot a chair up beside his bed and just sit beside him, listening to the quiet beep of the monitor and watching him fog up the oxygen mask.

# 22 ALICIA

They only let one of us ride in the ambulance with Reiniger, so I tell Joaquin to meet us at the hospital and give him the case of syringes from the infirmary. They make me sit in the front, and I can't see a lot even when I try to turn in my seat and look. At the hospital, they roll him away into a room and I have to wait outside, so I pace. I don't know what to tell them when they ask what happened. I heard a story a while ago about coyotes living in central park, so I tell them that. They seem skeptical, but they don't ask any more questions.

How did this all get so fucked up? We should have been more prepared going to meet Scratch. But what the hell happened back at the compound? I try to ask Joaquin when he arrives, but he's a mess. All he'll say is that some men came in and started shooting everyone. He has no idea who they were, how they got inside. Nothing. I take the glass case from him and hold it protectively in my lap when I finally manage to sit down. I don't know what this is, but Reiniger clearly wanted it, so I'm going to bring it to him.

Finally someone comes out and says that we can see him. They say he still has a fever, but it's under control now, and he's resting. Joaquin waits outside. He says he needs air, so I go in alone, trying to hide the case in my arms from questioning doctors, and sit beside him. He's awake, I think, but his eyes are closed. He has a hanging bag of blood flowing into his arm, and his breathing seems steadier, but his arm is wrapped in thick bandages. I sit still, trying to stop at least a few of the million thoughts running through my head.

When he opens his eyes, he looks over at me, then at the case in my lap. He reaches for it with his good hand, and I give it to him. There's one thought that's been sitting on the tip of my tongue since the park, and I finally voice it as he snaps open the lock on the case.

"Reiniger, you were bitten."

"Yes," he says, same cold, concise answer as always.

"What are you going to do?"

"What I have to." He takes one of the syringes from the case and bites the cap off of the needle, and then he injects the liquid into his left arm just above his bandages.

"What does that mean? What is that stuff?"

He puts the used syringe back into the case, fastens it closed, and hands it back to me. "It will stop the change. At least, it usually does. There are no guarantees. I must take it twice a day."

"For how long?"

"Until I change, or until I die." He isn't looking at me anymore.

"What?" The sound that comes out of me is only a whisper, and he doesn't seem to hear or care.

"What happened at the base?" he asks instead.

"I don't know. Joaquin said some guys came in a shot everyone. They're all dead, Reiniger. Joaquin only made it because he hid."

"Fortunate for him," he says dryly. "Where is he?"

"Outside."

He turns to me again. "Is your passport up to date?"

"What? Sure, but it's at the base. Are we going somewhere?"

"Standard protocol for a failed assignment is to return to the nearest outpost. Since this no longer exists, we must report to Bärenheim."

"Germany? And then what?"

"I will make a full report, and we will be reassigned."

"Reassigned? But we'll be together, right?"

"Likely not. You will need to undergo additional training and be inducted in an official capacity. As will Vargas."

I let this sink in for a minute. Going to Germany, probably for a long time, to hunt werewolves. It doesn't take long to accept that it's what I want—but I can't get the sight of the blood-covered barracks out of my head. Jonas, Anke, Baumann, all of them. Dead, just like that. I guess that's what I'm signing up for. What Reiniger signed up for. I wonder if he has any feelings at all about being bitten. It would terrify me.

We go quiet then, and the nurse is pleasant to me when she comes to check on him. I fall asleep laying down across two chairs, and Reiniger wakes me with a surprisingly gentle nudge. He's already dressed in his pants and a white t-shirt the hospital must have given him, and his bandages look fresh.

"We must fetch our things," Reiniger says simply. "Vargas tendered his verbal resignation and excused himself. I have called Bärenheim to make a report. They have booked us a flight for this evening." Just like that. I hope Joaquin has someplace to go and a way to get there. I guess they don't care if he leaves if he hasn't actually joined yet. We leave the hospital without a fuss—I guess he paid the bill or had it paid for him while I was asleep—and together we have enough money for a cab.

The door to the base is still sitting a little open, but it looks undisturbed. This is a good sign, since I was expecting it to be blocked off with police tape by now. Reiniger and I pick our way around the blood and bodies, one of us clearly more bothered by it than the other. The smell is awful, but it isn't one I haven't smelled before. I avoid looking at Anke as we go into the barracks, and I quickly pack up my duffel.

Reiniger appears beside me with his bag in his good hand, and we go out together. We have to take the car with the busted trunk to the airport, because the other one has a back seat covered in Reiniger's blood.

I'm impressed the Wolfjäger were able to move us so quickly. I should have expected them to be crazy organized. Reiniger has to give himself an injection and throw the rest of the syringes away before we can go through security, but we don't have any problems. We sit in the terminal seats and wait for our flight to be called. I see Reiniger nod off in the seat beside me, and I'm a little glad. It's very unprofessional, but he could definitely use the rest.

I hear a buzzing and a quiet sound coming from Reiniger's bag, so I open it up to grab his phone before it wakes him up. I don't know how much help I'll be to whoever needs to talk to him, and I really hope they speak English, but I'd rather at least try to let him sleep.

But when I look at the screen, it says "Weiss." My grip tightens on the phone, and I hesitate for a second, but then I touch the screen to answer it.

"You've got a lot of nerve," I say in place of a greeting.

I expect to hear Adam Weiss on the other end, cheery and charming, or maybe mocking. But the voice that comes through makes me freeze.

"Hey there, darlin'. Glad I caught you. How's your little friend doin'?" His low drawl sends shivers through me, and for a moment I can't speak. "That good, huh? Well listen here, sweetheart. I'm right disappointed we didn't get to get together like old times. But don't you worry. We'll see each other real soon, an' I'll make it up to you."

"You son of a bitch," I get out, but he's laughing. That rough laugh. I can hear it right against my ear at the bar, over me at the motel as I cried and hit him.

"Take care, sweetheart. We have a lot of catchin' up to do."

The line goes dead then, and I sit staring at the phone in my lap, willing my hands to stop shaking.

###

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#  About T.S. Barnett

T.S. likes to write about what makes people tick, whether that's deeply-rooted emotional issues, childhood trauma, or just plain hedonism. Throw in a heaping helping of action and violence, a sprinkling of steamy bits, and a whisper of wit (with alliteration optional but preferred), and you have her idea of a perfect novel. She believes in telling stories about real people who live in less-real worlds full of werewolves, witches, demons, vampires, and the occasional alien.

Born and bred in the South, T.S. started writing young, but began writing real novels while working full time as a legal secretary. When she's not skiving off work to write, she reads other people's books, plays video games, watches movies, and spends time with her husband and daughter. She hopes her daughter grows into a woman who knows what she wants, grabs it, and gets into significantly less trouble than the women in her mother's novels.

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