5
   The number on my beeper was the car phone of Detective Sergeant Rudolf Storr. A Christmas present from his wife last year. I'd sent her a thank-you note. Police radio made everything sound like a foreign language. Dolph picked up on the fifth ring. I knew he'd get to it eventually.
   "Anita."
   "What if I'd been your wife?" I asked.
   "She'd know I was working."
   I let it go. Not every wife would appreciate her husband answering the phone with another woman's name. Maybe Lucille was different.
   "What's up, Dolph? This was supposed to be my night off."
   "Sorry the murderer didn't know that. If you're too busy, we'll muddle through without you."
   "What's got your panties in a twist?"
   I was rewarded with a small sound that might have been a laugh. "Not your fault. We're out towards Six Flags on Forty-four."
   "Where exactly on Forty-four?"
   "Out near the Audubon Nature Center. How soon can you get here?"
   "Problem, I don't know where the hell you are. How do I get to the nature center?"
   "It's across the road from the St. Ambrose Monastery."
   "Don't know it," I said.
   He sighed. "Hell, we're out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Those are the only landmarks."
   "Just give me directions. I'll find it."
   He gave me directions. There were too many of them, and I didn't have pen and paper. "Hold on, I've got to get something to write with." I laid the phone down and snatched a napkin from the concession area. I begged a pen from an older couple. The man was wearing a cashmere overcoat. The woman wore real diamonds. The pen was engraved, and might have been real gold. He did not make me promise to bring it back. Trusting, or above such petty concerns. I was going to have to start stocking my own writing materials. It was getting embarrassing.
   "I'm back, Dolph, go ahead."
   He didn't ask what took so long. Dolph isn't big on extraneous questions. He gave the directions again. I read them back to him to be sure I had them right. I did.
   "Dolph, this is at least a forty-five minute drive." I'm usually the last expert to be called in. After the victim has been photographed, videotaped, poked, prodded, etc . . . After I come, everyone gets to go home, or at least leave the murder scene. People were not going to like cooling their heels for two hours.
   "I called you as soon as I figured out nothing human did it. It'll take us at least forty-five minutes to finish up and be ready for you."
   I should have known Dolph would have planned ahead. "Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can."
   He hung up. I hung up. Dolph never said good-bye.
   I gave the man back his pen. He accepted it graciously as if he'd never doubted its return. Good breeding.
   I went for the doors. Neither Jean-Claude nor Richard had made it to the lobby. They were in public so I didn't really think they'd have a fistfight, angry words but not violence. So the vampire and the werewolf could take care of themselves. Besides, if Richard wasn't allowed to worry about me when I was off on my own, the least I could do was return the favor. I didn't think Jean-Claude really wanted to push me that far. Not really. One of us would die, and I was beginning to think, just maybe, it wouldn't be me.
   
   

6
   The cold wrapped around me outside the doors. I hunched my shoulders, tucking my chin inside my collar. A laughing foursome walked a few yards ahead of me. They hung on each other, huddling against the cold. The women's high heels made a sharp theatrical clatter. Their laughter was too high, too shrill. A first double date that had gone well, so far. Or maybe they were all deeply in love and I was feeling bitchy. Maybe.
   The foursome parted like water around a stone, revealing a woman. The couples came back together on the other side of her, laughing as if they hadn't seen her. Which they probably hadn't.
   I felt it now, a faint stirring in the cold air. A sensation that had nothing to do with the wind. She was pretending to be unseen. Until the couples had noticed her, by not noticing her, I hadn't noticed her, either. Which meant she was good. Very, very good.
   She stood under the last streetlight. Her hair was butter yellow and thick with waves. Longer than mine, nearly to her waist. The coat she wore, buttoned all the way up, was black. The color was too harsh for her. It bleached the color from her skin even with makeup.
   She stood in the center of the sidewalk, arrogant. She was about my size, not physically imposing. So why did she stand there as if nothing in the world could hurt her? Only three things give you that kind of confidence: a machine gun, stupidity, or being a vampire. I didn't see a machine gun, and she didn't look stupid. She did look like a vampire now that I realized what I was looking at. The makeup was good. It made her look almost alive. Almost.
   She caught me staring at her. She stared back, trying to catch my eyes with her own, but I was an old hand at this little dance. Staring at someone's face while not staring at their eyes is a trick that gets easier with practice. She frowned at me. Didn't like the eyes not working.
   I stood about two yards from her. Feet apart, as balanced as I was going to get in high heels. My hands were already out in the cold, ready to go for my gun if I had to.
   Her power crept over my skin like fingers touching here and there, trying to find a weakness. She was very good, but she was also only a little over a hundred. A hundred years wasn't old enough to cloud my mind. All animators had a partial natural immunity to vampires. Mine seemed to be higher than most.
   Her pretty face was blank with concentration like a china doll's. She flung a hand outward as if throwing something at me. I flinched, and her power caught me like an invisible wave, slamming into my body. It staggered me.
   I pulled my gun. She didn't try and jump me. She tried to concentrate me out of it. She was at least two hundred years old. I'd underestimated her age by a century. I didn't make mistakes like that often. Her power beat along my skin like tiny clubs, but it never came close to touching my mind. I was almost as surprised as she looked when I pointed the gun at her. It had been too easy.
   "Hey," came a voice from behind us. "Put the gun down, now!" A policeman, just when I needed one, I pointed the gun at the sidewalk.
   "Put the gun on the sidewalk, right now," his voice growled out, and without turning around I knew his own gun was out. Cops take guns very seriously. I held the Browning out to my right, one-handed, left hand in the air, and squatted to lay the gun gently on the sidewalk.
   "I do not need this interruption," the vampire said. I glanced up at her as I stood, slowly, putting my hands atop my head, fingers laced. Maybe I'd get points for knowing the drill. She was staring past me at the approaching cop. It wasn't a friendly look.
   "Don't hurt him," I said.
   Her eyes flicked back to me. "We are not allowed to attack the police." Her voice was thick with scorn. "I know the rules."
   I wanted to say, "What rules?" but didn't. It was a good rule. The policeman could live with a rule like that. Of course, I wasn't a cop, and I was betting the rules didn't apply to me.
   The cop came into view out of the comer of my eye. His gun was pointing at me. He kicked my gun out of reach. I saw it hit the building. A hand shoved into my back, getting my attention. "You don't need to know where the gun went."
   He was right, for now. He frisked me one-handed. It wasn't very thorough, and I wondered where his partner was.
   "Enough," the vampire said.
   I felt the cop step back from me. "What's going on here?"
   Her power slithered past me, like a great beast had brushed me in the dark. I heard the policeman gasp.
   "Nothing is happening here," the vampire said. There was a flavoring of accent in her voice. German or Austrian, maybe.
   I heard his voice say, "Nothing is happening here."
   "Now go back to directing traffic," she said.
   I turned, slowly, hands still on my head. The cop was standing there, face empty, eyes wide. His gun was pointed at the ground, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.
   "Go away," she said.
   He stood there frozen. He was wearing his cross tie tack. He was wearing his blessed cross, just like he was supposed to, and it wasn't doing much good.
   I backed away from both of them. If she stopped paying attention to the cop, I wanted to be armed. I lowered my arms slowly, watching the cop. If she took her control off suddenly, and I wasn't where I was supposed to be, he might shoot me. Probably not, but maybe. If he saw me with the gun in my hand a second time, almost certainly.
   "I don't suppose you would remove his cross so I could order him about?"
   My eyes flicked to the vampire. She was looking at me. The cop stirred, struggling like a dreamer in the grip of a nightmare. She turned her eyes back to him, and the struggles ceased.
   "I don't think so," I said. I knelt, trying to keep my attention on both of them. I touched the Browning, and wrapped cold fingers around it. My hands were stiff from being exposed to the cold for so long. I wasn't sure how fast I could draw right at that moment. Maybe I should look into some gloves. Maybe ones with the fingertips cut out.
   I shoved the Browning in my coat pocket, hand still gripping it. My hand would warm up, and I could shoot through my coat if I had to.
   "Without the cross I could make him go away. Why can't I control you like that?"
   "Just lucky, I guess."
   Her eyes flicked to me. Again, he stirred. She had to stare at him while she talked to me. It was interesting to see how much concentration it took. She was powerful but it had its limits.
   "You are the Executioner," she said.
   "What of it?"
   "I didn't believe the stories. Now I believe some of the stories."
   "Bully for you. Now, what do you want?"
   A slight smile curled her lipsticked mouth. "I want you to leave Jean-Claude alone."
   I blinked, not sure I'd heard right. "What do you mean, leave him alone?"
   "Don't date him. Don't flirt with him. Don't talk to him. Leave him alone."
   "Glad to," I said.
   She turned to me, startled. You don't get to surprise a two-hundred-year-old vamp often. Her face looked very human with its wide eyes and little oof surprise.
   The cop gave a snort and looked around wildly. "What the hell?" He looked at both of us. We looked like two petite women out for the evening. He glanced down at his gun and seemed embarrassed. He didn't remember why it was out. He put the gun away, muttering apologies and backing away from us. The vampire let him go.
   "You'd leave Jean-Claude alone, just like that?" she asked.
   "You bet."
   She shook her head. "I do not believe you."
   "Look, I don't care what you believe. If you have the hots for Jean-Claude, more power to you. I've been trying to get him off my back for years."
   Again that shake of the head, sending her yellow hair flying about her face. It was a very girlish gesture. It would have been cute if she hadn't been a corpse.
   "You are lying. You desire him. Anyone would."
   I couldn't argue that. "You got a name?"
   "I am Gretchen."
   "Well, Gretchen, I wish you joy of the Master. If you need any help sinking your fangs into him, let me know. I would love for him to find a nice little vampire to settle down with."
   "You mock me."
   I shrugged. "A little, but it's habit, nothing personal. I mean what I said. I don't want Jean-Claude."
   "You don't think he's beautiful?" Her voice was soft with surprise.
   "Well, yeah, but I think tigers are beautiful. I still don't want to sleep with one."
   "No mortal could resist him."
   "This one can," I said.
   "Stay away from him, or I'll kill you," she said.
   Gretchen wasn't listening to me, not really. She heard the words, but the meaning didn't sink in. Reminded me of Jean-Claude.
   "Look, he chases me. I'll stay away from him if he'll let me. But don't threaten me."
   "He's mine, Anita Blake. Come against me at your peril."
   It was my turn to shake my head. Maybe she didn't know I had a gun pointed at her. Maybe she didn't know it had silver-plated bullets in it. Maybe she had lived for a couple of centuries and had grown arrogant. Yeah, that was probably it.
   "Look, I don't have time for this right now. Jean-Claude is yours, great, fine. I'm thrilled to hear it. Keep him away from me, and I will be the happiest woman alive or dead." I didn't want to turn my back on her, but I had to go. If she wasn't going to jump me here and now, Dolph was waiting at a murder scene. I had to go.
   "Gretchen, what are you and Anita talking about?" Jean-Claude stalked towards us. He was wearing, I kid you not, a black cape. It was a Victorian style with a collar. A top hat with a white silk band completed the look.
   Gretchen gazed at him. It was the only word for it. The naked adoration in her face was sickening, and very human. "I wanted to meet my rival."
   I wasn't her rival, but I didn't think she'd believe that.
   "I told you to wait outside so you would not meet her. You knew that." The last three words were spat out, thrown at her like rocks.
   She flinched. "I meant no harm this night."
   That was almost a lie, but I didn't say anything. I could have told him that she'd threatened me, but somehow it seemed like tattling. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to get me alone. To warn me off. Her love for him was so naked. I could not enlist his help against her. Foolish, but true. Besides, I didn't like owing Jean-Claude favors.
   "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone."
   "What lies did you tell her about us?" His words scalded the air. I could feel myself choking on his rage. Jesus.
   She fell to her knees, hands held upward, not to avoid a blow, but beseeching, reaching for him. "Please, I only wanted to meet her. To see the mortal that would steal you from me."
   I did not want to see this, but it was like a car crash. I couldn't quite bring myself to leave.
   "She steals nothing. I have never loved you."
   The pain was raw on her face, and even under the makeup she looked less human. Her face was thinning out, bones growing more apparent, as if her skin were shrinking.
   He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet. His white-gloved fingers dug into her arm. If she'd been human, there would have been bruises. "Get hold of yourself, woman. You are losing control."
   Her thinning lips drew back from fangs. She hissed at him, jerking free of his hand. She covered her face with hands that were almost claws. I'd seen vampires show their true form, but never by accident, never in the open, where anyone might see. "I love you." The words came out muffled and twisted, but the feeling in those three words was very real. Very . . . human.
   "Get out of sight before you disgrace us all," Jean-Claude said.
   She raised a face to the light that was no longer human. The pale skin glowed with an inner light. The makeup sat on that glowing surface. The blush, eye shadow, lipstick seemed to float above the light, as if her skin would no longer absorb them. When she turned her head, I could see the bones in her jaws like shadows inside her skin. "This is not over between us, Anita Blake." The words fell out from between fangs and teeth.
   "Leave us!" Jean-Claude's words were an echoing hiss.
   She launched herself skyward, not a leap, not levitation, just upward. She vanished into the darkness with a backwash of wind.
   "Sweet Jesus," I whispered it.
   "I am sorry, ma petite. I sent her out here so this would not happen." He walked towards me in his elegant cape. A gust of icy wind whistled around the corner, and he had to make a grab for the top hat. It was nice to know that at least his clothing didn't obey his every whim.
   "I've got to go, Jean-Claude. The police are waiting for me."
   "I did not mean for this to happen tonight."
   "You never mean for anything to happen, Jean-Claude. But it happens anyway." I put a hand up to stop his words. I didn't want to hear any more of them.
   "I've got to go." I turned and walked towards my car. I transferred my gun back to its holster when I was safely across the icy street.
   "I am sorry, ma petite." I whirled to tell him to get the hell away from me. He wasn't there. The streetlight glowed down on empty sidewalk. I guess he and Gretchen hadn't needed a car.
   
   

7
   There is a glimpse of stately old homes to the right just before you turn onto Highway 44. The houses hide behind a wrought-iron fence and a security gate. When the homes were built, they were the height of elegance and so was the neighborhood. Now the town houses are an island in a rising flood of project housing and dead-eyed children who shoot each other over a scuffed sneaker. But the old money stayed, determined to be elegant, even if it kills them.
   In Fenton the Chrysler plant is still the largest employer. A side road runs past fast-food restaurants and local businesses. But the highway bypasses them all. A straight line going onward and not looking back. The Maritz building spans the highway with a covered crosswalk that looks big enough to hold offices. It gets your attention like an overly aggressive date, but I know the name of the business, and I can't say that about many other buildings along 44. Sometimes aggressive works.
   The Ozark Mountains rise on either side of the road. They are soft and rounded. Gentle mountains. On a sunny autumn day, with the trees blazing color, the mountains are startling in their beauty. On a cold December night with only my own headlights for company, the mountains sat like sleeping giants pressing close to the road. There was just enough snow to gleam white through the naked trees. The black shapes of evergreens were permanent shadows in the moonlight. A limestone cliff shone white where the mountains had been cracked open for a gravel pit.
   Houses huddled at the base of the mountains. Neat farmhouses with front porches just made for sitting on. Not-so-neat houses made of unpainted wood with rusty tin roofs. Corrals sat in empty fields without a farmhouse near. A single horse stood in the icy cold, head down searching the tops of the winter-killed grass. A lot of people kept horses out past Eureka—people who couldn't afford to live in Ladue or Chesterfield, where houses cost over half a mil a piece, but you did get barns, exercising pens, and a corral in your backyard. Here all you got was a shed, a corral, and miles to drive to visit your horse, but at least you had one. A lot of trouble to go to for a horse.
   The white head of a road sign flashed in the headlights. I slowed down. A car had run into the pole and crumbled it like a broken flower stem. The sign was hard to read from a sixty-degree angle. Which was probably why Dolph had told me to look for the smashed sign rather than the street name.
   I pulled onto the narrow road. In St. Louis we'd gotten about a three-inch snowfall. Here it looked more like six. The road hadn't been plowed. It angled sharply upward, climbing into the hills. Tire tracks like wagon wheels made two lines through the snow. The police cars had gotten up the hill. So could my Jeep. In my old Nova I might have been wading fresh snow in high heels. Though I did have a pair of Nikes in the trunk. Still, jogging shoes weren't a big improvement. Maybe I should buy a pair of boots.
   It just didn't snow that much in St. Louis. This was one of the deepest snowfalls I'd seen in four years. Boots seemed sort of unnecessary.
   The trees curled over the road, naked branches bouncing in the headlights. Wet, icy trunks bent towards the road. In summertime the road would be a leafy tunnel, now it was just black bones erupting from the white snow.
   At the crest of the hill there was a heavy stone wall. It had to be ten feet tall, and effectively hid anything on the left-hand side of the road. It had to be the monastery.
   About a hundred yards further there was a plaque set in the wall next to a spiked gate. St. Ambrose Monastery was done in raised letters, metal on metal. A driveway curved up and out of sight around a curve of hill. And just across from the entrance was a smaller gravel road. The car tracks climbed into the darkness ahead of me and vanished over the next hill. If the gate hadn't been there for a landmark, I might have missed it. It was only when I turned the Jeep to an angle that my lights caught the tire tracks leading off to the right.
   I wondered what all the heavy traffic was up ahead. Not my problem. I eased onto the smaller road. Branches scraped at the Jeep, scratching down the gleaming paint job like fingernails on a chalkboard. Great, just great.
   I'd never had a brand-new car before. That first ding, where I'd run over a snow-covered tombstone, had been the hardest. After the first damage the rest was easy to take. Riiight.
   The land opened up to either side of the narrow road. A large meadow with winter-killed weeds waist high, weighted down with snow. Lightning flashes of red and blue strobed over the snow, chasing back the darkness. The meadow stopped abruptly in a perfect straight line where the mower had cut it. A white farmhouse, complete with screened-in porch, sat at the end of the road. Cars were everywhere, like a child's spilled toys. I hoped the road formed a turn around under the snow. If not, the cars were parked all over the grass. My grandmother Blake had hated it when people parked on the grass.
   A lot of the cars had their motors running, including the ambulance. There were people sitting in the cars, waiting. But for what? By the time I got to a crime scene, all the work was usually done. Someone would be waiting to take the body away after I'd finished looking at it, but the crime-scene people should have been done and gone. Something was up.
   I pulled in next to a St. Gerard County Sheriff car. One policeman was standing in the driver's side door, leaning on the roof. He'd been staring at the knot of men near the farmhouse, but he turned to stare at me. He didn't look happy with what he saw. His Smokey Bear hat shielded his face but left his ears and the back of his head open to the cold. He was pale and freckled and at least six foot two. His shoulders were very broad in his dark winter jacket. He looked like a large man who had always been large, and thought that made him tough. His hair was some pale shade that absorbed the colors of flashing lights, so his hair looked alternately blue and red. As did his face, and the snow, and everything else.
   I got out of the car very carefully. Snow spilled in around my foot, soaking my hose, filling the leather pump. It was cold and wet, and I kept a death grip on the car door. High heels and snow do not mix. The last thing I wanted to do was fall on my ass in front of the St. Gerard County Sheriff Department. I should have just grabbed my Nikes from the back of the Jeep and put them on in the car. It was too late now. The deputy sheriff was walking very purposefully towards me. He had boots on and was having no trouble with the snow.
   He stopped within reach of me. I didn't let strange men get that close to me normally but to back up I'd have to let go of the car door. Besides he was the police, I wasn't supposed to be afraid of the police. Right?
   "This is police business, ma'am, I'll have to ask you to leave."
   "I'm Anita Blake. I work with Sergeant Rudolf Storr."
   "You're not a cop." He seemed very certain of that. I sort of resented his tone.
   "No, I'm not."
   "Then you're going to have to leave."
   "Can you tell Sergeant Storr that I'm here . . . please." Never hurts to be polite.
   "I've asked you real nice twice now to leave. Don't make me ask a third time."
   All he had to do was reach out and grab my arm, shove me into the Jeep, and away we went. I certainly wasn't going to draw my gun on a cop with a lot of other cops within shouting distance. I didn't want to get shot tonight.
   What could I do? I shut the car door very carefully and leaned against it. If I was careful and didn't move around too much, I might not fall down. If I did, maybe I could claim police brutality.
   "Now, why did you do that?"
   "I drove forty-five minutes and left a date to get here." Try to appeal to his better nature. "Let me talk to Sergeant Storr and if he says I need to leave, I'll leave."
   "I don't care if you flew in from outta state. I say you leave. Right now."
   He didn't have a better nature.
   He reached for me. I stepped back, out of reach. My left foot found a patch of ice and I ended up on my ass in the snow.
   The deputy looked sort of startled. He offered me a hand up without thinking about it. I climbed to my feet using the Jeep's bumper, moving farther away from Deputy Sullen at the same time. He figured this out. The frown lines on his forehead deepened.
   Snow clung in wet clumps to my coat and glided in melting runnels down my legs. I was getting pissed off.
   He strode around the Jeep.
   I backpedaled using my hands on the car as traction. "We can play ring-around-the-Rosie if you want to, Deputy, but I'm not leaving until I've talked to Dolph."
   "Your sergeant isn't in charge here." He stepped a little closer.
   I backed away. "Then find someone who is."
   "You don't need to talk to anyone but me," he said. He took three rapid steps towards me. I backed up faster. If we kept this up we'd be running around the car like a Marx brothers movie, or would that be the Keystone Kops?
   "You're running from me."
   "In these shoes, you've got to be kidding."
   I was almost around the back of the Jeep, we'd be back where we started soon. Over the crackle of police radios you could hear angry voices. One of them sounded like Dolph. I wasn't the only one having trouble with the local cops. Though I seemed to be the only one being chased around a car.
   "Stop, right where you are," he said.
   "If I don't?"
   He unclicked the flap on his holster. His hand rested on the butt of his gun. No words necessary.
   This guy was crazy.
   I might be able to get to my gun before he could draw his, but he was a cop. He was supposed to be one of the good guys. I try not to shoot the good guys. Besides, try explaining to other cops why you shot a cop. They get testy as hell about stuff like that.
   I couldn't draw my gun. I couldn't outrun him. Arm wrestling seemed to be out. I did the only thing I could think of. I yelled "Dolph, Zerbrowski! Get your butts over here."
   The shouting stopped as if someone had clicked a switch. Silence and the crackle of radios were the only sounds. I glanced towards the men. Dolph was glancing my way. At six foot eight inches, Dolph towered over everyone else. I waved a hand at him. Not frantically, but I wanted to be sure he saw me.
   The deputy drew his gun. It took everything I had not to go for mine. But this bugnut was looking for an excuse. I wasn't going to give it to him. If he shot me anyway, I was going to be pissed.
   His gun was a .357 Magnum, great for whale hunting. It was overkill for anything on two legs. That was human. I felt very human staring down that gun barrel. My eyes flicked up to his face. He wasn't frowning anymore. He looked very determined, and very sure of himself, as if he could pull the trigger and not get caught.
   I wanted to yell for Dolph again, but didn't. The fool might pull the trigger. At this distance with that caliber of weapon I was dead meat. All I could do was stand there in the snow, my feet going slowly numb, hands gripping the car. At least he hadn't asked me to put my hands up. Guess he didn't want me to fall down again until he splattered my brains all over the new paint job.
   It was Detective Clive Perry who walked towards us. His dark face reflected the lights like ebony. He was tall, though not as tall as the deputy from hell. His slender frame was enclosed in a pale camel's-hair coat. A hat that matched it perfectly sat atop his head. It was a nice hat and couldn't be pulled low enough to cover his ears. Most nice hats couldn't be. You had to get a toboggan hat, something knit that would ruin your hair to keep your ears warm. Not stylish. Of course, I wasn't wearing a hat at all. Didn't want to muss my hair.
   Dolph had gone back to yelling at someone. I couldn't tell exactly what color uniform he was yelling at, there were at least two flavors to choose from. I caught a glimpse of a wildly gesturing arm, the rest of the man lost behind the small crowd. I'd never seen anybody wave their fists in Dolph's face. When you're six foot eight and built like a wrestler, most people are a little afraid of you. Probably wise.
   "Ms. Blake, we're not quite ready for you," Perry said.
   He always called everyone by title and last name. He was one of the most polite people I'd ever met. Soft-spoken, hardworking, courteous, so what had he done to end up on the Spook Squad?
   The squad's full title was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. They handled all preternatural-related crime in the area. A sort of permanent floating special task force. I don't think anyone planned on the squad actually solving cases. Their success rate was high enough that Dolph had been invited to lecture at Quantico. Lecturing to the FBI's preternatural research branch was not shabby.
   I kept staring at the deputy and his gun. I wasn't going to glance away a second time. I didn't really believe he'd shoot me, but I wasn't sure. There was something in his face that said he'd do it, that maybe he wanted to do it. You give some people a gun and they turn into bullies. Legally armed bullies.
   "Hello, Detective Perry. The deputy here and I seem to have a problem."
   "Deputy Aikensen, do you have your gun out?" Perry's voice was soft, calm, a voice to talk jumpers off of ledges, or madmen out of hostages.
   Aikensen turned his head, glancing back at Perry. "No civilians allowed at a murder scene, sheriff's orders."
   "I don't think Sheriff Titus meant for you to shoot the civilians, Deputy."
   He glanced back at Perry. "You making fun of me?"
   There was enough time. I could have pulled my gun. I wanted to shove it in his ribs. I wanted him disarmed, but I behaved myself. It took more willpower than was pretty, but I didn't draw my gun. I wasn't ready to kill the son of a bitch. If you draw guns, there is always the chance someone will end up dead. Unless you want someone dead, you don't draw, simple as that. But it hurt something deep down inside when the deputy turned back to me with his gun still out. So far my ego was taking a lot of bruising, but I could live with that, and so could Deputy Aikensen.
   "Sheriff said I wasn't to let anybody but police into the perimeter."
   "Perimeter" was a pretty fancy word for someone this stupid. Of course, it was a military term. He'd probably been dying to use it in conversation for years.
   "Deputy Aikensen, this is our preternatural expert, Anita Blake."
   He shook his head. "No civvies, unless the sheriff okays it."
   Perry glanced back towards Dolph, and what I now assumed was the sheriff.
   "He's not even allowing us near the body, Deputy. What do you think the chances are of Sheriff Titus saying a civilian can see the body?"
   Aikensen grinned then, most unpleasant. "Slim and none." He still held the gun very steady on the middle of my body. He was enjoying himself.
   "Put the gun away and Ms. Blake will leave," Perry said.
   I opened my mouth to say, The hell I will, but Perry gave a small shake of his head. I kept quiet. He had a plan, better than what I had.
   "I don't take orders from no nigger detective."
   "Jealous," I said.
   "What?"
   "That he's a big city detective and you're not."
   "I don't have to take crap from you, either, bitch."
   "Ms. Blake, please, let me handle this."
   "You can't handle shit," Aikensen said.
   "You've been totally uncooperative and rude, you and your sheriff. You can call me all the names you like, if that makes you feel better, but I can't let you point a gun at one of our people."
   A look passed over Aikensen's face. I could see the thought flicker into life. Perry was a cop, too. He probably had a gun, and Aikensen had his back to him. The deputy whirled, bringing the gun up as he moved. His hand flexed.
   I went for my gun.
   Perry's empty hands were held out from his body, showing he was unarmed.
   Aikensen was breathing hard. He raised the gun to head level, two-handed, steady, no hurry.
   Someone noticed us and yelled, "What the fuck?" Indeed.
   I pointed the Browning at Aikensen's back. "Freeze, Aikensen, or I will blow you away."
   "You're not armed."
   I clicked the hammer back. On a double-action you don't need to do that before you fire, but it makes a nice dramatic sound. "You didn't frisk me, asshole."
   People were running towards us, shouting. But they wouldn't get here in time. It was just the three of us in the psychedelic snow, waiting.
   "Put the gun down, Aikensen, now."
   "No."
   "Put it down or I'll kill you."
   "Anita, you don't need to shoot. He's not going to hurt me," Perry said. It was the only time he'd ever used my first name.
   "I don't need no nigger protecting me."' His shoulders tensed. I couldn't see his hands well enough to be sure, but I thought he was pulling the trigger. I started to squeeze the trigger.
   A bellowing voice yelled, "Aikensen, put that damn gun down!"
   Aikensen pointed the gun skyward, just like that. He hadn't been pulling the trigger at all. He was just jumpy. I felt a giggle at the back of my throat. I'd almost shot him for being twitchy. I swallowed the laugh and eased off the trigger. Did Deputy Numb-nuts know how close he'd come? The only thing that had saved him was the Browning's trigger. It was stiff. There were a lot of guns out there where a tiny squeeze was all you needed.
   He turned towards me, gun still out, but not pointed. Mine was still pointed. He started to lower his weapon to point it back at me. "If that barrel drops another inch, I'm going to shoot you."
   "Aikensen, I said put the damn gun up. Before you get somebody killed." The man that went with the voice was about five foot six and must have weighed over two hundred pounds. He looked perfectly round like a sausage with arms and legs. His winter jacket strained over his round little tummy. A clear, grey stubble decorated his double chins. His eyes were small, nearly lost in the doughiness of his face. His badge glittered on his jacket front. He hadn't left it inside on his shirt. He'd pinned it outside, where the big city detectives couldn't miss it. Sort of like unzipping your fly so company could see you were well-endowed.
   "This nigger . . ."
   "We don't hold with talk like that, Deputy, you know that."
   From the look on Aikensen's face you'd have thought the sheriff had told him there was no Santa Claus. I was betting the sheriff was a good ol' boy in the worst sense of the word. But there was intelligence in those beady little eyes, more than you could say for Aikensen.
   "Put it away, boy, that's an order." His southern accent was getting thicker, either for show, or because he was getting teed off at Aikensen. A lot of people's accents got stronger under stress. It wasn't a Missouri accent. Something further south.
   Aikensen finally, reluctantly, put up the gun. He didn't snap the holster closed, though. He was cruising for a bruising. I was just glad I hadn't been the one to give it to him. Of course if I'd pulled the trigger before Aikensen had raised his gun skyward, I'd never have known he wasn't pulling his trigger, too. If we'd all been cops with Aikensen as a criminal, it would have gone down as a clean shoot. Jesus.
   Sheriff Titus put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looked at me. "Now, miss, you can put your gun away, too. Aikensen here isn't going to shoot nobody."
   I just stared at him, gun pointed skyward, held loose. I had been ready to put the gun away until he told me to do it. I'm not big on being told anything. I just stared at him.
   His face still looked friendly, but his eyes lost their shine. Angry. He didn't like being defied. Great. Made my night.
   Three other deputies gathered at Titus's back. They all looked sullen and ready to do anything their sheriff asked them to do. Aikensen stepped over to them, hand hovering near his freshly bolstered gun. Some people never learn.
   "Anita, put the gun away." Dolph's usual pleasant tenor was harsh with anger. Like what he wanted to say was shoot the son of a bitch, but it would be hard to explain to his superiors.
   Though not officially my boss, I listened to Dolph. He'd earned it.
   I put the gun away.
   Dolph was made up of blunt angles. His black hair was cut very short, leaving his ears naked to the cold. His hands were plunged into the pockets of a long black trench coat. The coat looked too thin for the weather, but maybe it was lined. Though he was a little too bulky to leave room for him and a lining in the same coat.
   He beckoned Perry and me to one side, and said softly, "Tell me what happened."
   We did.
   "You really think he was going to shoot you?"
   Perry stared down at the trampled snow for a moment, then looked up. "I'm not sure, Sergeant."
   "Anita?"
   "I thought he was, Dolph."
   "You don't sound sure now."
   "The only thing I'm sure of is that I was going to shoot him. I was squeezing down on him, Dolph. What the hell is going on? If I end up killing a cop tonight, I'd like to know why."
   "I didn't think anybody was stupid enough to pull a weapon," Dolph said. His shoulders hunched, the cloth of his coat straining to hold the movement.
   "Well, don't look now," I said, "but Deputy Aikensen has still got his hand right over his weapon. He's just aching to draw it again."
   Dolph drew a large breath in through his nose and let it out in a white whoosh of breath from his mouth. "Let's go talk to Sheriff Titus."
   "We've been talking to the sheriff for over an hour," Perry said. "He isn't listening."
   "I know, Detective, I know." Dolph kept walking towards the waiting sheriff and his deputies. Perry and I followed. What else could we do? Besides, I wanted to know why an entire crime-scene unit was standing around twiddling their thumbs.
   Perry and I took a post to either side of Dolph, like sentries. Without thinking about it we were both a step back from him. He was, after all, our leader. But the automatic staging irked me. Made me want to step forward, be an equal, but I was a civvie. I wasn't equal. No matter how much I hung around or did, I wasn't a cop. It made a difference.
   Aikensen's hand was gripping the butt of his gun tight. Would he actually draw down on all of us? Surely, even he wasn't that stupid. He was glaring at me, nothing but anger showed in his eyes. Maybe he was that stupid.
   "Titus, tell your man there to get his hand away from his gun," Dolph said.
   Titus glanced at Aikensen. He sighed. "Aikensen, get your damned hand away from your damn gun."
   "She's a civilian. She drew on a policeman."
   "You're lucky she didn't shoot your ass," Titus said. "Now, fasten the holster and tone it down a notch, or I'm going to make you go home."
   Aikensen's face looked even more sullen. But he fastened his holster and plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat. Unless he had a derringer in his pocket, we were safe. Of course, he was just the sort of yahoo that would carry a backup weapon. Truthfully, sometimes so did I, but only when the alligator factor was high. Neck deep instead of ass deep.
   Footsteps crunched through the snow behind us. I turned halfway so I could keep an eye on Aikensen and see the new arrivals.
   Three people in navy blue uniforms came to stand on the other side of us. The tall man in front had a badge on his hat that said police chief. One of his deputies was tall, so thin he looked gaunt, and too young to shave. The second deputy was a woman. Surprise, surprise. I'm usually the only female at a crime scene. She was small, only a little taller than I, thin, with close-cropped hair hidden under her Smokey Bear hat. The only thing I could tell in the flashing lights was that everything on her was pale, from her eyes to her hair. She was pretty in a pixielike way, cute. She stood with her feet apart, hands on her Sam Brown belt. She was carrying a gun that was a little too big for her hands. I was betting she wouldn't like being called cute.
   She was either going to be another pain in the ass, like Aikensen, or a kindred spirit.
   The police chief was at least twenty years older than either deputy. He was tall, not as tall as Dolph, but then who was? He had a salt-and-pepper mustache, pale eyes, and was ruggedly handsome. One of those men who might not have been very attractive as a young man, but age had given his face character, depth. Like Sean Connery who was better looking at sixty than he had been at twenty.
   "Titus, why don't you let these good people get on with their work? We're all cold and tired and want to go home."
   Titus's small eyes flared to life. A lot of anger there. "This is county business, Garroway, not city business. You and your people are out of your jurisdiction."
   "Holmes and Lind were on their way into work when the call came over the radio that somebody had found a body. Your man Aikensen here said he was tied up and couldn't get to the body for at least an hour. Holmes offered to sit with the body and make sure the crime scene stayed pure. My deputies didn't touch anything or do anything. They were just baby-sitting the crime scene for your people. What is wrong with that?" Garroway said.
   "Garroway, the murder was found on our turf. It was our body to take care of. We didn't need any help. And you had no right to call in the Spook Squad without clearing it with me first," Titus said.
   Police Chief Garroway spread his hands in a push-away gesture. "Holmes saw the body. She made the call. She thought the man hadn't been killed by anything human. Protocol is we call in the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team anytime we suspect supernatural activity."
   "Well, Aikensen and Troy here don't think it was anything supernatural. A hunter gets eaten up by a bear and your little lady there jumps the gun."
   Holmes opened her mouth but the chief held up a hand. "It's all right, Holmes." She settled back down, but she didn't like it.
   "Why don't we ask Sergeant Storr here what he thinks killed the man?" Garroway said.
   I was close enough to hear Dolph sigh.
   "She had no right to let people near the body without us there to supervise," Titus said.
   Dolph said, "Gentlemen, we have a dead body in the woods. The crime scene is not getting any younger. Valuable evidence is being lost, while we stand here and argue."
   "A bear attack is not a crime scene, Sergeant," Titus said.
   "Ms. Blake is our preternatural expert. If she says it was a bear attack, we'll all go home. If she says it was preternatural, you let us do our job, and treat it as a crime scene. Agreed?"
   "Ms. Blake, Ms. Anita Blake?"
   Dolph nodded.
   Titus squinted at me, as if trying to bring me into focus. "You're the Executioner?"
   "Some people call me that, yeah."
   "This little bit of a girl has over a dozen vampire kills under her belt?" There was laughter in his voice, disbelief.
   I shrugged. It was actually higher than that now, but a lot of them were unsanctioned kills. Not something I wanted the police to know about. Vampires have rights, and killing them without a warrant is murder. "I'm the legal vampire executioner for the area. You got a problem with that?"
   "Anita," Dolph said.
   I glanced at him, then back at the sheriff. I wasn't going to say anything more, honest, but he did.
   "I just don't believe a little thing like yourself coulda done all the things I've heard."
   "Look, it's cold, it's late, let me see the body and we can all go home."
   "I don't need a civilian woman to tell me my job."
   "That's it," I said.
   "Anita?" Dolph said. That one word told me not to say it, not to do it, whatever it was.
   "We have licked enough jurisdictional butt for one night, Dolph."
   A man appeared, offering us steaming mugs on a tray. The smell of coffee mingled with the scent of snow. The man was tall. There was a lot of that going around tonight. A lock of white-blond hair obscured one eye. He wore round metal-framed glasses that made his face look even younger than it was. A dark toboggan hat was pulled low over his ears. Thick gloves, a multicolored parka, jeans, and hiking boots completed his outfit. He didn't look fashionable but he was dressed for the weather. My feet had gone numb in the snow.
   I took a mug of coffee gratefully. If we were going to stand out here and argue, hot anything sounded like a great idea. "Thanks."
   The man smiled. "You're welcome." Everybody was taking a mug but not everybody was saying thank you. Where were their manners?
   "I've been sheriff of this county since before you were born, Ms. Blake. It's my county. I don't need any help from the likes of you." He sipped his coffee. He had said thank you.
   "The likes of me? What's that supposed to mean?"
   "Let it go, Anita."
   I looked up at Dolph. I didn't want to let it go. I sipped at the coffee. The smell alone made me feel less angry, more relaxed. I stared into Titus's little piggy eyes and smiled.
   "What's so funny?" he asked.
   I opened my mouth to say, you, but the coffee man interrupted. "I'm Samuel Williams. I'm the caretaker here. I live in the little house behind the nature center. I found the body." He held his now-empty tray down at his side.
   "I'm Sergeant Storr, Mr. Williams. These are my associates, Detective Perry, and Ms. Blake."
   Williams dunked his head in acknowledgment.
   "You know all of us, Samuel," Titus said.
   "Yes, I do," Williams said. He didn't seem too excited about knowing them all.
   He nodded at Chief Garroway and his deputies. "I told Deputy Holmes that I didn't think it was a natural animal. I still don't, but if it is a bear, it slaughtered that man. Any animal that'll do that once will do it again." He looked down at the snow, then up, like a man rising from deep water. "It ate parts of that man. It stalked him and treated him like a prey animal. If it really is a bear, it needs to be caught before it kills somebody else."
   "Samuel here has a degree in biology," Titus said.
   "So do I," I said. Of course, my degree was in preternatural biology, but hey, biology is biology, right?
   "I'm working on my doctorate," Williams said.
   "Yeah, studying owl shit," Aikensen said.
   It was hard to tell, but I think Williams blushed. "I'm studying the feeding habits of the barred owl."
   I had a degree in biology. I knew what that meant. He was collecting owl shit and regurgitated pellets to dissect. So Aikensen was right. Sort of.
   "Will your doctorate be in ornithology or strigiology?" I asked. I was proud of myself for remembering the Latin name for owls.
   Williams looked at me with a sense of kinship in his eyes. "Ornithology."
   Titus looked like he'd swallowed a worm. "I don't need no college degree to know a bear attack when I see it."
   "The last reported bear sighting in St. Gerard County was in 1941," Williams said. "I don't think there's ever been a bear attack reported." The implication just sat there. How did Titus know a bear attack from beans if he'd never seen one?
   Titus threw his coffee out on the snow. "Listen here, college boy—"
   "Maybe it is a bear," Dolph said.
   We all looked at him. Titus nodded. "That's what I've been saying."
   "Then you better order up a helicopter and get some dogs out here."
   "What are you talking about?"
   "An animal that'd slice up a man and eat him might break into houses. No telling how many people the bear might kill." Dolph's face was unreadable, just as serious as if he believed what he was saying.
   "Now, I don't want to get dogs down here. Start a panic if people thought there was a mad bear loose. Remember how crazy everyone got when that pet cougar got loose about five years ago. People were shooting at shadows."
   Dolph just looked at him. We all looked at him. If it was a bear, he needed to treat it like a bear. If it wasn't . . .
   Titus shifted uncomfortably in his heavy boots in the snow. "Maybe Ms. Blake ought to have a look." He rubbed the cold tip of his nose. "Wouldn't want to start a panic for the wrong reasons."
   He didn't want people to think there was a rampaging bear on the loose. But he didn't mind people thinking there was a monster on the loose. Or maybe Sheriff Titus didn't believe in monsters. Maybe.
   Whatever, we were on our way to the murder scene. Possible murder scene. I made everyone wait while I put on my Nikes and the coveralls that I kept for crime scenes and vampire stakings. Hated getting blood on my clothes. Besides, tonight the coveralls were warmer than hose.
   Titus made Aikensen stay with the cars. Hoped he didn't shoot anybody while we were gone.
   
   

8
   I didn't see the body at first. All I saw was the snow. It had pooled into a deep drift in one of those hollows that you find in the woods. In spring the holes fill with rain and mud. In fall they pile deep with leaves. In winter they hold the deepest snow. The moonlight carved each footprint, every scuff mark into high relief. Every print filled like a cup with blue shadows.
   I stood at the edge of the clearing staring down at the mishmash of tracks. Somewhere in all this were the murderer's tracks, or a bear's tracks, but unless it was an animal I didn't know how anyone was going to figure out which tracks were significant. Maybe all crime scenes were tracked up this much, the snow just made it obvious. Or maybe this scene had been screwed over. Yeah.
   Every track, cop or not, led to one thing—the body. Dolph had said the man had been sliced up, eaten. I didn't want to see it. I'd been having a very good time with Richard. A pleasant evening. It wasn't fair to end the night by looking at partially eaten bodies. Of course, the dead man probably thought being eaten hadn't been much fun either.
   I took a deep breath of the cold air. My breath fogged as I exhaled. I couldn't smell the body. If it'd been summer, the dead man would have been ripe. Hurrah for the cold.
   "You planning to look at the body from here?" Titus said.
   "No," I said.
   "Looks like your expert is losing her nerve, Sergeant."
   I turned to Titus. His round, double-chinned face was smug, pleased with itself.
   I didn't want to see the body, but losing my nerve, never. "You better hope this isn't a murder scene . . . Sheriff, because it has been fucked twenty ways to Sunday."
   "You're not helping anything, Anita," Dolph said softly.
   He was right, but I wasn't sure I cared. "You got any suggestions for preserving the crime scene, or can I just march straight in like the fifty billion people before me?"
   "There were only four sets of footprints when I was ordered to leave the scene," Officer Holmes said.
   Titus frowned at her. "When I determined it was an animal attack, there was no reason to keep it secure." His southern accent was getting thicker again.
   "Yeah, right," I said. I glanced at Dolph. "Any suggestions?"
   "Just walk in, I don't think there's much to preserve now."
   "You criticizing my men?" Titus said.
   "No," Dolph said, "I'm criticizing you."
   I turned away so Titus wouldn't see me smile. Dolph doesn't suffer fools gladly. He'll put up with them a little longer than I will, but once you've reached his limit, run for cover. No bureaucratic ass will be spared.
   I stepped into the hollow. Dolph didn't need my help to hand Titus his head on a platter. The snow collapsed at the edge of the hole. My feet slid on the leaves underfoot. I ended on my butt for the second time tonight. But I was on a slope now. I slid almost all the way to the body. Laughter bubbled up behind me.
   I sat on my ass in the snow and stared at the body. They could laugh all they wanted; it was funny. The dead man wasn't.
   He lay on his back in the snow. The moonlight shone down on the body, reflecting on the snow, and giving the luster of midday to objects below. I had a penlight in one of the coverall's pockets, but I didn't need it. Or maybe didn't want it. I could see enough, for now.
   Ragged furrows ran down the right side of his face. One claw had sliced over the eye, spilling blood and thick globs of eyeball down his cheek. The lower jaw was crushed, as if some great hand had grabbed it and squeezed. It made the face look unfinished, only half there. It must have hurt like hell, but it hadn't killed him. More's the pity.
   His throat had been torn out; that had probably killed him. The flesh was just gone. His spine shone a dull white, like he'd swallowed a ghost and it hadn't gotten away. His camouflage coveralls were ripped away from his stomach. Some trick of the moonlight threw a thick shadow inside that ripped cloth. I couldn't see the damage inside. I needed to.
   I prefer night kills. Darkness steals the color. Somehow it just isn't as real at night. Shine some light on it and the colors explode: the blood is crimson; the bone sparkles; fluids are not just dark but green, yellow, brown. Light lets you differentiate. A mixed blessing, at best.
   I slipped the surgical gloves on. They were a cool second skin. Even riding in my inner pocket, the gloves were cooler than my skin. The penlight snapped on. Its tiny yellowish beam was dimmed by the bright moonlight, but cut through the shadows like a knife. The man's clothing had been peeled away like the layers of an onion; coveralls, pants and shirt, thermal underwear. The flesh was torn. The light glinted on frozen blood and gobbets of icy flesh. Most of the internal organs were gone. I shone the light on the surrounding snow, but there was nothing to see. The flesh, organs, were gone.
   The intestine had leaked dark fluid all over the cavity, but it was frozen solid. I smelled no odor as I leaned over. Cold was a wonderful thing. The edges of the wound were ragged. No knife had done this. Or if it had, it was like no blade I'd ever seen. The medical examiner could tell for sure. A rib had been broken. It pointed upward like an exclamation mark. I shone the light on the bone. It was chipped, but not claws, not hands . . . teeth. I would have bet a week's pay that I was looking at tooth marks.
   The throat wound was crusted with frozen snow. Reddish ice crystals had frozen to his face. The remaining eye was frozen shut with bloody ice. There were tooth marks at each side of the throat wound, not claws. The crushed jaw bore clear imprint of teeth. It certainly wasn't human teeth. Which meant it wasn't ghouls, vampires, zombies, or any other human undead. I had to hike my coat up to fish the tape measure out of the coverall pocket. It would have looked better if I'd taken the time to unbutton my coat, but, hey, it was cold.
   The claw marks on the face were wide ripping things. Wider than a bear's claws, wider than anything natural. Monstrously large. There was a nearly perfect imprint of teeth on either side of the jaw. As if the creature had bitten down hard, but not tried to tear. Biting to crush, biting to . . . stop the screaming. Can't make a lot of noise with the entire bottom half of your mouth crushed. There was something very deliberate about that one bite. The throat was torn away, but again not as bad as it could be. Just enough to kill. It was only when you got to the stomach that the creature had lost control. The man was dead before the stomach was opened. I'd have bet on that. But the creature took the time to eat the stomach. To feed. Why?
   There was an imprint in the snow, near the body. The imprint showed where people had knelt in it, me included, but the light picked up blood drained into the snow. He'd been facedown when someone rolled him over.
   The footprints had tracked through nearly every inch of snow except for the blood splatters. Given a choice, people won't walk through blood. Crime scene or not. There wasn't nearly as much blood as you'd expect. Slicing a throat is messy business. But, of course, this throat hadn't been sliced. It had been ripped out by teeth. The blood had gone into the mouth, not onto the snow.
   The blood had soaked into the clothing. If we could find our creature, it would be covered in blood, too. The snow was surprisingly clean for the amount of carnage. There was a thick pool of blood to one side, at least a yard from the body, but right next to the body-size impression. The dead man had lain by that stain long enough to bleed quite a bit, then been rolled over on its stomach, where it had lain long enough for the skin to freeze to the snow. More blood had pooled underneath the body while it lay facedown. Now here the body lay faceup, but no fresh blood. The body hadn't been turned over the last time until after he was very dead.
   I called up, "Who rolled the body over?"
   "It was just like that when I came on the scene," Titus said.
   "Holmes?" Chief Garroway made her name a question.
   "He was faceup when we got here."
   "Did Williams move the body?"
   "I didn't ask," she said.
   Great. "Someone moved him. It'd be good to know if it was Williams."
   "I'll go ask him," Holmes said.
   "Patterson, you go with her," Titus said.
   "I don't need . . ."
   "Holmes, just go," Garroway said.
   The two deputies left.
   I went back to looking at the body. Had to think of it as a body, couldn't call it a "him." If I did that, I'd begin to wonder if he had a wife, kids. I didn't want to know. It was just a body, so much meat. Don't I wish.
   I shone the penlight on the mishmashed snow. I stayed on my knees, nearly crawling on the snow. Me and Sherlock Holmes. If the creature had come up behind the man, there should have been some mark in the snow. Maybe not a whole print but something. Every print I found wore shoes. Whatever had done this hadn't worn shoes. Even with a herd of squabbling cops trampling through there should have been some imprint of claws and animal tracks. I couldn't find any. Maybe the crime techs would have better luck. I hoped so.
   If there were no prints, could it have flown in? A gargoyle, maybe? It was the only large winged predator that attacked man. Except for dragons, but they weren't native to this country, and it would have been a hell of a lot messier. Or maybe a lot neater. A dragon would simply have swallowed the man whole.
   Gargoyles will attack and kill a man, but it's rare. Besides the nearest pack was in Kelly, Kentucky. The Kelly gargoyles were a small subspecies that had attacked people but never killed. They were mostly carrion eaters. In France there were three species of gargoyles that were man-sized or better. They'd eat you. But there'd never been anything that large in America.
   What else could it be? There were a few lesser eastern trolls in the Ozarks, but not this close to St. Louis. Besides I'd seen pictures of troll kills, and this wasn't it. The claws were too curved, too long. The stomach looked like it had been cleaned out by something with a muzzle. Trolls looked frightfully human, but then they were primates.
   A lesser troll wouldn't attack a human if it had a choice. A greater mountain troll might have, but they had been extinct for more than twenty years. Also they had a tendency to snap off trees and whap people to death, then eat them.
   I didn't think it was anything as exotic as trolls or gargoyles. If there'd been tracks leading up to the body, I'd have been sure it was a lycanthrope kill. Trolls had been known to wear castoff clothing. So a troll could have tramped through the snow, or a gargoyle could have flown up, but a lycanthrope . . . they had to walk on naked feet that wouldn't fit any human shoe. So how?
   I would have slapped my forehead, but didn't. If you do that at murder scenes, you got blood in your hair. I looked up. Humans almost never look up. Millions of years of evolution had conditioned us to ignore the sky. Nothing was big enough to take us from above. But that didn't mean something couldn't jump on us.
   A tree branch snaked out over the hollow. The penlight picked out fresh white scars against the black limb. A shapeshifter had crouched on the bark, waiting for the man to walk underneath. Ambush, premeditation, murder.
   "Dolph, could you come down here a minute?"
   Dolph walked carefully down the snow-covered slope. Didn't want to repeat my performance, I guess. "You know what it is?"
   "Shapeshifter," I said.
   "Explain." He had his trusty notebook out, pen poised. I explained what I'd found. What I thought.
   "We haven't had a rogue lycanthrope since the squad was formed. Are you sure about this?"
   "I'm sure it's a shapeshifter, but I didn't say it was a lycanthrope."
   "Explain."
   "All lycanthropes are shapeshifters by definition, but not all shapeshifters are lycanthropes. Lycanthropy is a disease that you catch from surviving an attack or getting a bad batch of lycanthropy vaccine."
   He looked at me. "You can get it from the vaccine?"
   "It happens."
   "Good to know," he said. "How can you be a shapeshifter and not a lycanthrope?"
   "Most often an inherited condition. The family guardian dog, beast, giant cat. Mostly European. One person a generation has the genes and changes."
   "Is that tied to the moon like normal lycanthropy?"
   "No. A family guardian comes out when the family needs it. War, or some kind of physical danger. There are swanmanes. They are tied to the moon, but it's still an inherited condition."
   "That it?"
   "You can be cursed, but that's really rare."
   "Why?"
   I shrugged. "You've got to find a witch or something with magic powerful enough to curse somebody with shapeshifting. I've read spells for personal shapeshifting. The potions are so full of narcotics that you might believe you were an animal. You might also believe you were the Chrysler building, or you might just die. Real spells for it are a lot more complex and usually require a human sacrifice. A curse is a step up from a spell. It's not really a spell at all."
   I tried to think how to explain it. In this area Dolph was the civvie. He didn't know the lingo. "A curse is like the ultimate act of will. You just gather all your power, magic, whatever, and focus it on one person. You will them to be cursed. You always do it in person, so they know it's been done. Some theories think it takes the victim's belief to make a curse work. I'm not sure I buy that."
   "Are witches the only people that can curse people?"
   "Occasionally somebody will run afoul of a fairy. One of the old Daoine sidhe, but you'd have to be in Europe for that. England, Ireland, parts of Scotland. In this country it'd be a witch."
   "So a shapeshifter, but we don't know what kind or even how they got to be a shapeshifter."
   "Not from a few marks and tracks, no."
   "If you saw the shifter face-to-face could you tell what kind they were?"
   "What animal?" I asked.
   "Yeah."
   "Nope."
   "Could you tell if they'd been cursed or if it was a disease?"
   "Nope."
   He just looked at me. "You're usually better than this."
   "I'm better with the dead, Dolph. Give me a vamp or a zombie and I'll tell you their Social Security number. Some of that is natural talent, but a lot of it is practice. I haven't had as much experience with shapeshifters."
   "What questions can you answer?"
   "Ask and find out," I said.
   "You think this is a brand-new shapeshifter?" Dolph asked.
   "Nope."
   "Why not?"
   "The first time you change on the night of the full moon. It's too early for a brand-new shifter. But it could be a second, or third month, but . . ."
   "But what?"
   "If this is still a lycanthrope that can't control itself, that kills indiscriminately, it should still be here. Hunting us."
   Dolph glanced out into the darkness. He held his notebook and pen in one hand, right hand free for his gun. The movement was automatic.
   "Don't sweat it, Dolph. If it was going to eat more people, it would have taken Williams or the deputies."
   His gaze searched the darkness, then came back to me. "So the shapeshifter could control itself?"
   "I think so."
   "Then why kill the man?"
   I shrugged. "Why does anyone kill? Lust, greed, rage."
   "The animal form used as a murder weapon then," Dolph said.
   "Yeah."
   "Is it still in animal form?"
   "This was done by a half-and-half form, sort of a wolfman."
   "A werewolf."
   I shook my head. "I can't tell what sort of animal it is. The wolfman was just an example. It could be any sort of mammal."
   "Just a mammal?"
   "These wounds, yeah. I know there are avian weres, but they don't do this sort of damage."
   "So werebirds?"
   "Yeah, but that's not what did this."
   "Any guesses?"
   I squatted beside the body, stared at it. Willed it to tell me its secrets. Three nights from hence, when the soul had finally flown far away, I might have tried to raise the man and ask what did this. But his throat was gone. Even the dead can't talk without the proper equipment.
   "Why did Titus think it was a bear kill?" I asked.
   Dolph thought about that for a minute. "I don't know."
   "Let's ask him."
   Dolph nodded. "Be my guest." He sounded just a wee bit sarcastic. If I'd been arguing with the sheriff for hours, I'd have been a large chunk o' sarcastic.
   "Come on, Dolph. We can't know less than we do right now."
   "If Titus has any say in it, we might."
   "Do you want me to ask him or not?"
   "Ask."
   I called up to the waiting men. "Sheriff Titus."
   He looked down at me. He'd gotten out a cigarette but hadn't lit it yet. He paused with a lighter halfway to his mouth. "You want something, Ms. Blake?" The cigarette bobbed in his lips as he spoke.
   "Why do you think this is a bear attack?"
   He snapped the lid on his lighter, and took the unlit cig out of his mouth with the same hand. "Why do you want to know?"
   I wanted to say, just answer the damn question, but I didn't. Brownie point for me. "Just curious."
   "It wasn't a mountain lion. A cat would have used its claws more. Scratched him up some."
   "Why not a wolf?"
   "Pack animal. Looks like only one animal to me."
   I had to agree with all the above. "I think you've been holding out on us, Sheriff. You seem to know a lot about animals that aren't native to this area."
   "I go hunting now and then, Ms. Blake. Need to know the habits of your prey if you want to bag one."
   "So a bear by process of elimination?" I asked.
   "You might say that." He put the cig back in his mouth. Flame flared, pulsing against his face. When he flipped the lighter closed, the darkness seemed thicker.
   "What do you think it was, Ms. Expert?" The smell of his cigarette carried on the cold air.
   "Shapeshifter."
   Even in the darkness I could feel the weight of his eyes. He blew a ghostly cloud of smoke moonward. "You think so."
   "I know so," I said.
   He gave a sharp hmphsound. "Awful sure of yourself, ain't ya?"
   "You want to come down here, Sheriff. I'll show you what I've found."
   He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not?" He came down the slope like a bulldozer, heavy boots forming snowy wakes. "Okay, Ms. Expert, dazzle me."
   "You are a pain in the ass, Titus."
   Dolph sighed a white cloud of breath.
   Titus thought that was real funny, laughed, doubled over, slapping his leg. "You are just a laugh a minute, Ms. Blake. Now, tell me what you got."
   I did.
   He took a long drag on his cig. The end flared bright in the darkness. "Guess it wasn't a bear, after all."
   He wasn't going to argue. Bliss. "No, it wasn't."
   "Cougar?" he said, sort of hopefully.
   I stood carefully. "You know it wasn't."
   "Shapeshifter," he said.
   "Yeah."
   "There hasn't been a rogue shapeshifter in this county for ten years."
   "How many did it kill?" I asked.
   He took in a lungful of smoke and blew it out slowly. "Five."
   I nodded. "I missed that case. It was before my time."
   "You'da been in junior high when it happened?"
   "Yeah."
   He threw his cigarette in the snow and ground it out with his boot. "I wanted it to be a bear. "
   "Me, too," I said.
   
   

9
   The night was a hard, cold darkness. Two o'clock is a forsaken time of night, no matter what the season. In mid-December two o'clock is the frozen heart of eternal night. Or maybe I was just discouraged. The light over the stairs leading up to my apartment shone like a captured moon. All the lights had a frosted, swimming quality. Slightly unreal. There was a haze in the air, like an infant fog.
   Titus had asked me to stick around in case they found someone in the area. I was their best bet for figuring out if the person was a lycanthrope or some innocent schmuck. Beat the heck out of cutting off a hand to see if there was fur on the inside of the body. If you were wrong, what did you do, apologize?
   There had been some lycanthrope tracks leading up to the murder scene. Plaster casts had been made, and at my suggestion, copies were being sent to the biology department at Washington University. I had almost addressed it to Dr. Louis Fane. He taught biology at Wash U. He was one of Richard's best friends. A nice guy. A wererat. A deep, dark secret that might be jeopardized if I started addressing lycanthrope paw prints to him. Addressing it to the entire department pretty much guaranteed Louie would see it.
   That had been my greatest contribution of the night. They were still searching when I drove off. I had my beeper on. If they found a naked human in the snow, they could call. Though if my beeper went off before I got some sleep, I was going to be pissed.
   When I shut my car door, there was an echo. A second car door slammed shut. I was tired, but it was automatic to search the small parking lot for that second car. Irving Griswold stood four cars down, bundled in a Day-Glo orange parka with a striped muffler trailing around his neck. His brown hair formed a frizzy halo to his bald spot. Tiny round glasses perched on a button nose. He looked jolly and harmless, and was a werewolf, too. Seemed to be my night for it.
   Irving was a reporter on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.Any story about me and Animators, Inc., usually had his byline on it. He smiled as he walked towards me. Just your friendly neighborhood reporter. Yeah, right.
   "What do you want, Irving?"
   "Is that any way to greet someone who has spent the last three hours in his car waiting for you?"
   "What do you want, Irving?" Maybe if I just kept repeating the question over and over, I'd wear him down.
   The smile faded from his round little face. He looked solemn and worried. "We've got to talk, Anita."
   "Will this be a long story?"
   He seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. "Could be."
   "Then come upstairs. I'll fix us both some real coffee."
   "Real coffee as opposed to fake coffee?" he asked.
   I started for the stairs. "I'll fix you a cup of java that'll put hair on your chest."
   He laughed.
   I realized I'd made a pun and hadn't meant to. I know Irving is a shapeshifter. I've even seen his wolf form. But I forget. He's a friend and doesn't seem the least preternatural in human form.
   We sat at the small kitchenette table, sipping vanilla nut creme coffee. My suit jacket was draped over the back of the kitchen chair. It left my gun and shoulder holster exposed. "I thought you were on a date tonight, Blake."
   "I was."
   "Some date."
   "A girl can never be too careful."
   Irving blew on his cup, sipping it delicately. His eyes had flicked from side to side, taking in everything. Days from now he'd be able to describe the room completely, down to the Nike Airs and jogging socks in front of the couch.
   "What's up, Irving?"
   "Great coffee." He wouldn't meet my eyes. It was a bad sign.
   "What's wrong?"
   "Has Richard told you anything about Marcus?"
   "Your pack leader, right?"
   Irving looked surprised. "He told you?"
   "I found out tonight that your alpha is named Marcus. There's a battle of succession going on. Marcus wants Richard dead. Richard says he won't fight him."
   "Oh, he fought him, all right," Irving said.
   It was my turn to be surprised. "Then why isn't Richard pack leader?"
   "Richard got squeamish. He had him, Blake, claws at Marcus's throat." Irving shook his head. "He thought when Marcus recovered they could talk, compromise." He made a rude sound. "Your boyfriend is an idealist."
   Idealist. It was almost the same thing as fool. Jean-Claude and Irving agreed. They didn't agree on much.
   "Explain."
   "You can move up in the pack hierarchy by fighting. You win, you go up a notch. You lose, you stay where you are." He took a long sip of coffee, eyes closed as if drinking in the warmth. "Until you fight for pack leader."
   "Let me guess. It's a fight to the death."
   "No killie, no new leader," he said.
   I shook my head, coffee sitting untouched in front of me. "Why are you telling me all this, Irving? Why now?"
   "Marcus wants to meet you."
   "Why didn't Richard tell me that himself?"
   "Richard doesn't want you involved."
   "Why not?" Irving kept answering my questions, but the answers weren't helping much.
   Irving shrugged. "Richard won't give Marcus a freaking inch. If Marcus said black, Richard would say white."
   "Why does Marcus want to see me?"
   "I don't know," Irving said.
   "Yeah, right."
   "Honest, Blake, I don't know what's going on. Something big is up, and no one's talking to me."
   "Why not? You're a shapeshifter."
   "I'm also a reporter. I made the mistake years back of printing an article. The lycanthrope I talked to lied, said he never gave me permission to quote him. He lost his job. Some of the others wanted to out me, too, let me lose my job." He huddled around his coffee mug. Eyes distant with remembering. "Marcus said no, said I was more valuable to them as a reporter. No one's really trusted me since."
   "Not a forgiving bunch," I said. I sipped my coffee and found it cooling. If I drank it fast enough, it would be drinkable, barely.
   "They never forgive and they never forget," Irving said.
   Sounds like a bad character trait, but it's one of my founding principles, so I couldn't complain much. "So Marcus sent you out here to talk to me. About what?"
   "He wants to meet you. To talk some kind of business."
   I got up and refilled my mug. A little less sugar this time. I was beginning to wake up just from frustration. "Let him make an appointment to come to my office."
   Irving shook his head. "Marcus is some hotshot surgeon. You know what would happen if even a hint of what he is got out?"
   I could understand that. You might get away with being a shapeshifter on some jobs. Doctor was not one of them. There was still the dentist in Texas that was being sued by a patient. Said she contracted lycanthropy from him. Nonsense. You didn't get it from having human hands in your mouth. But the case hadn't been thrown out. People didn't have a lot of sympathy for fur balls treating their kid's sparkling teeth.
   "Okay, send someone else to the office. Surely, Marcus must trust someone."
   "Richard has forbidden anyone to contact you."
   I just looked at him. "Forbidden?"
   Irving nodded. "Anyone lower in the pack order contacts you at their peril."
   I started to smile and stopped. He was serious. "You're not kidding."
   He raised a three-fingered salute. "Scout's honor."
   "So how come you're here? You looking to move up in the pack?"
   He paled. Honest to God, he paled. "Me? Fight Richard? Hell no."
   "Then Richard won't mind you talking to me?"
   "Oh, he'll mind."
   I frowned. "Is Marcus going to protect you?"
   "Richard gave a specific order. Marcus can't interfere."
   "But he ordered you to come see me," I said.
   "Yep."
   "What's to stop Richard from busting your chops about this?"
   Irving grinned. "I thought you'd protect me."
   I laughed. "You son of a bitch."
   "Maybe, but I know you, Blake. You won't like that Richard's been keeping things from you. You certainly won't like him protecting you. Besides, I've been your friend for years. I don't think you'll stand by while your boyfriend beats the hell out of me."
   Irving knew me better than Richard did. It was not a comforting thought. Had I been fooled by a handsome face, a nice sense of humor? Had I not seen the real Richard? I shook my head. Could I be fooled that completely? I hoped not.
   "Do I have your protection?" He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes. Fear, maybe.
   "You need me to say it out loud for it to be official?"
   "Yeah."
   "That a rule in the lycanthrope underground?"
   "One of them," he said.
   "You have my protection, but I want information in return."
   "I told you I don't know anything, Blake."
   "Tell me what it's like to be a lycanthrope, Irving. Richard seems determined to keep me in the dark. I don't like being in the dark."
   Irving smiled. "I heard that."
   "You be my guide to the world of the furry, and I'll keep Richard off your back."
   "Agreed."
   "When does Marcus want to meet?"
   "Tonight." Irving had the grace to look embarrassed.
   I shook my head. "No way. I'm going to bed. I'll meet with Marcus tomorrow, but not tonight."
   He looked down into his coffee, fingertips touching the mug. "He wants it to be tonight." He looked up at me. "Why do you think I've been camped out in my car?"
   "I am not at the beck and call of every monster in town. I don't even know what Fur Face wants to meet about." I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. "No way am I going out tonight to play with shapeshifters."
   Irving squirmed in his chair, rotating the coffee cup slowly on the table. He wouldn't meet my eyes again.
   "What's wrong now?"
   "Marcus told me to set up a meeting with you. If I refused, he'd have me . . . punished. If I come here, Richard gets pissed. I'm trapped between two alpha males, and I ain't up to it."
   "Are you asking me to protect you from Marcus, as well as Richard?"
   "No," he said, shaking his head, "no. You're good, Blake, but you aren't in Marcus's league."
   "Glad to hear it," I said.
   "Will you meet with Marcus tonight?"
   "If I say no, do you get in trouble?"
   He stared into his coffee. "Would you believe no?"
   "Nope."
   He looked at me, brown eyes very serious. "He'll get mad, but I'll live."
   "But he'll make you hurt." It wasn't a question.
   "Yeah." That one word so soft, so tentative. It wasn't like Irving.
   "I'll see him on one condition. That you're present at the meeting."
   His face bloomed into a grin that spread from pole to pole. "You are a true friend, Blake." All the sadness was gone, washed away in the rosy glow of finding out what the hell was going on. Even ass deep in alligators, Irving was a reporter. It was who and what he was, more than the lycanthropy.
   The smile alone was worth a meeting. Besides, I wanted to know if Richard was really in danger. Meeting the man who was threatening him was the only real way to find out. Also, I didn't really care for someone threatening one of my friends. Silver-plated bullets only slowed down a vampire, unless you can take out the head and heart. Silver bullets will kill a werewolf, no second chances, no healing, just dead.
   Marcus might remember that. If he pushed it, I might even remind him.
   
   

10
   Irving had called Marcus from my apartment. Again Irving didn't know why, all he did know was Marcus said to call before we came. I went into the bedroom. Hung up my dryclean-only suit, and changed clothes. Black jeans, red polo shirt, black Nikes with a blue swoosh, and real socks. I abandoned jogging socks for everyday wear once winter set in.
   I reached for the bulky green sweater I had laid out on the bed. I hesitated. It wasn't the fact that the sweater had stylized Christmas trees on it, and it might not be the coolest thing to wear. I didn't give a damn about that. I was debating on whether to carry a second gun. A fashion accessory nearer and dearer to my heart than any piece of clothing.
   No lycanthrope had threatened me yet, but ol' Gretchen the vamp had. She might not be a master vampire but she was close. Besides, the memory of the cop taking the Browning away was still fresh. I had too many preternatural enemies to go unarmed. I got out my Uncle Mike's sidekick inner-pants holster. A comfy fit that didn't ruin the line of your jeans unless someone was really looking.
   My main backup gun is a Firestar 9mm. Small, light, pretty to look at, and I could wear it at my waist and still be able to sit down. The sweater hung to midthigh. The gun was invisible unless you frisked me. The gun was set in front, ready for a cross-draw. Probably wouldn't need it. Probably.
   The sweater bulked up around the straps of the shoulder holster. I've seen people wear shoulder rigs underneath bulky sweaters or sweatshirts, but you lose a few seconds groping under the cloth. I'd rather look less than fashion perfect and live.
   The sweater was too long for my leather jacket, so I was back in my black trench coat. Me and Phillip Marlowe. I didn't take any extra ammo. I figured twenty-one rounds was enough for one night. I even left my knives at home. I almost talked myself out of the Firestar. I usually didn't start carrying two guns until after people had tried to kill me. I shrugged. Why wait? If I didn't need it, I'd feel silly tomorrow. If I did need it, I wouldn't feel silly at all.
   Irving was waiting for me. Sitting on the couch like a good little boy. He looked like a schoolboy whom the teacher had made stand in the corner.
   "What's wrong?"
   "Marcus wanted me to just give you directions. He doesn't want me at the meeting. I said, you wouldn't come without me. That you didn't trust him." He looked up at me. "He's pretty pissed."
   "But you stood your ground," I said.
   "Yeah."
   "Why don't you sound happier about that?"
   He shrugged. "Marcus in a bad mood is not a pleasant experience, Blake."
   "I'll drive, you give directions."
   "Marcus said we both should drive. He said that I'd need to stay after the meeting, for a little talk."
   "Come on, Irving, I'm driving, you're giving directions, and when I leave, you leave."
   "I appreciate the offer, Blake, but you don't want Marcus mad at you."
   "If I'm protecting you from Richard, I might as well throw in Marcus."
   He shook his head. "No, you follow my car." He held up a hand. "No more arguing, Blake. I am a werewolf. I have to live in the community. I can't afford to make a stand against Marcus, not over one little talk."
   I wanted to argue some more, but I didn't. Irving knew his problems better than I did. If fighting Marcus over this would make things worse, then I'd let it go. But I didn't like it.
   The Lunatic Cafe was located in University City. Its sign was a glowing crescent moon with the restaurant name done in soft blue neon. Except for the name, and the nifty sign, the place didn't look much different from all the other shops and restaurants in the college district.
   It was Friday night and there was no parking. I was beginning to think Marcus would have to come out to my car, when a wine dark Impala pulled out of the two spaces it had been hogging. My Jeep slipped in with room for a second car on one side.
   Irving waited in front of the restaurant. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. The ridiculous muffler trailed nearly to the ground. He looked distracted and not a bit happy.
   I walked towards him with the trench coat flapping around me like a cape. Even like this, most people wouldn't see the gun. They'd see a small woman with a bright Christmas sweater. People see what they expect to see most of the time. The people that I was wearing the gun for would notice, and know I was armed.
   Irving pushed the door in without a word. Irving, quiet? I didn't like seeing him subdued, almost beaten, like a kicked dog. It made me not like Marcus, and I hadn't even met him.
   Noise poured around us just inside the door. A murmur of voices so thick it was like ocean noise. Silverware clinked, someone laughed high and bright like a hand rising from the noise, to be swallowed back again and lost. There was a bar along one wall, polished dark wood, old and lovingly cared for. The rest of the room held small, round tables that could comfortably seat about four. Every seat was full, and then some. Three doorways opened up; one beside the bar, one to the right, one in the middle. More tables were shoved into the smaller rooms.
   The cafe had started life as someone's home. We were standing in the living room. Through the doorways leading to the other rooms were open archways, as if someone had knocked down a few walls. Even with that, the place was claustrophobic. People were three deep at the bar waiting for a table. The place was jammed to bursting with happy, smiling people.
   One of the women behind the bar came around, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into the tie of her apron. She gave a wide, welcoming smile. She had a pair of menus in her one hand.
   I started to say, but we don't need . . . when Irving gripped my arm. Tension vibrated through his hand. He'd grabbed my right arm. I turned to tell him not to do that, but the look on his face stopped me. He was staring at the smiling woman as if she had sprouted a second head. I turned back to the woman, and looked at her. Really looked at her.
   She was tall, slender, with long, straight hair. It was a rich, reddish auburn that gleamed under the lights. Her face was a soft triangle, chin maybe a little too pointed, but overall she was lovely. Her eyes were a strange amber-brown that matched her hair perfectly.
   Her smile widened, just a lift of lips. I knew what I was looking at. Lycanthrope. One that could pass for human. Like Richard.
   I looked out over the room, and realized why it felt so tight. It wasn't just the crowd. A majority of the happy, smiling people were shapeshifters. Their energy burned in the air like the weight of a thunderstorm. I had thought the crowd was boisterous, too loud, but it was the shapeshifters. Their energy boiled and filled the room, masquerading as the energy of any crowd. As I stood there at the door, a face lifted here and there. Human eyes looked at me, but the glance wasn't human.
   The glance was considering, testing. How tough was I? How good would I taste? It reminded me of the way Richard had been watching the crowd at the Fox. I felt like a chicken at a coyote convention. I was suddenly glad of the second gun.
   "Welcome to the Lunatic Cafe, Ms. Blake," the woman said. "I'm Raina Wallis, proprietor. If you'll follow me. Your party is waiting for you." She said it all with a smile and a warm glow in her eyes. Irving's grip on my arm was nearly painful.
   I leaned into him, and whispered, "That's my right arm."
   He blinked at me. His eyes flicked to the Browning, and he let go, muttering, "Sorry."
   Raina leaned closer. Irving flinched. "I won't bite, Irving, not yet." She gave a low laugh that was rich and bubbling. The kind of laugh that was meant for bedrooms and private jokes. The laugh gave her eyes and body a different look. She suddenly seemed more voluptuous, more sensual than just a second ago. Nicely weird.
   "Mustn't keep Marcus waiting." She turned and began threading her way through the tables.
   I glanced at Irving. "Something you want to tell me?"
   "Raina's our alpha female. If the punishment's going to be really bad, she does it. She's a lot more creative than Marcus."
   Raina was motioning to us by the archway near the bar. Her lovely face was frowning, looking a little less lovely, and a lot more bitchy.
   I patted his shoulder. "I won't let her hurt you."
   "You can't stop it."
   "We'll see," I said.
   He nodded, but not as if he believed me. He started between the tables. I followed. A woman touched his hand as he walked past. Gave him a smile. She was about my size, and dainty, with straight black hair cut short that framed her face like black lace. Irving squeezed her fingers and kept walking. Her large, dark eyes met mine. The eyes told me nothing. They had smiled at Irving; for me they were neutral. Like the eyes of a wolf I'd seen once in California. I'd walked around a tree and there it had stood. I had never really understood what neutral meant until that moment. Those pale eyes stared at me, waiting. If I threatened it, it would attack. If I left it alone, it would run. My choice. The wolf hadn't given a damn which way it turned out.
   I kept walking, but the space between my shoulder blades was itching. I knew if I turned around that nearly every eye would be on me, on us. The weight of their gaze was physical.
   I had an urge to whirl and say boo, but fought it off. I had a feeling they were all staring at me with neutral inhuman eyes, and I didn't want to see it.
   Raina led us to a closed door at the back of the dining room. She pushed it open and motioned us through with a theatrical wave of her arm. Irving just walked through. I walked through but kept my eyes on her. I was nearly close enough for her to have hugged me. Close enough that with her reflexes she could probably take me.
   Lycanthropes are just faster than a normal human. It isn't mind tricks like with vampires. They are just flat out better. I wasn't sure how much better in human form, though. Staring up into Raina's smiling face, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.
   We stood in a narrow hallway. There was a door at either end, one showing the cold night through its glass window, the other closed, a question mark.
   Raina closed the door behind us, leaning on it. She seemed to collapse against it, head hanging down, hair spilling forward.
   "Are you all right?" I asked.
   She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at me.
   I gasped. I couldn't help myself.
   She was gorgeous. Her cheekbones were high and sculpted. Her eyes wider and more centered in her face. She looked like what might have been her sister, a family resemblance but not the same person.
   "What did you just do?"
   She gave that rich, bedroom laugh again. "I am alpha, Ms. Blake. I can do a great many things that most shifters cannot."
   I was willing to bet that. "You moved your bones around, on purpose, like do-it-yourself cosmetic surgery."
   "Very good, Ms. Blake, very good." Her amber-brown eyes flashed to Irving. The smile left her face. "Do you still insist on this one being at the meeting?"
   "Yes, I do."
   Her lips pursed, as though she'd tasted something sour. "Marcus said to ask, then to bring you." She shrugged, and stood away from the door. She was taller by about three inches. I wished I'd paid more attention to her hands. Had they changed, too?
   "Why the body sculpting?" I asked.
   "The other form is my day form. This is real."
   "Why the disguise?"
   "In case I have to do something nefarious," she said.
   Nefarious?
   She stalked down the hall towards the other closed door. Her walk was a gliding, athletic movement like a big cat's. Or would that be big wolf's?
   She knocked on the door. I heard nothing, but she opened the door. She stood there, arms crossed over her stomach, cradling her breasts, smiling at us. I was beginning not to like Raina's smiles.
   The room was a banquet hall with cloth-covered tables grouped in a horseshoe. A raised platform with four chairs and a lectern closed the mouth of the horseshoe. Two men stood on the platform. One was at least six feet tall, slender but muscled like a basketball player. His hair was black, cut short with a matching finger-thin mustache and goatee beard. He stood with one hand gripping his opposite wrist. A jock pose. A bodyguard pose.
   He wore a skintight pair of black jeans, and a sweater with a black-on-black design clung to wide shoulders. There was a fringe of dark chest hair just above the scooped neckline. Black tooled cowboy boots and a large blocky watch completed the badass look.
   The other man was no more than five foot seven. His hair was that funny shade of blond that has brown highlights in it, but still manages to be blond. The hair was short but styled and blow-dried, and would have been lovely to look at if it had been a little longer. His face was clean-shaven, square jawed, with a dimple in his chin. The dimple should have made the face look fun, but it didn't. It was a face for rules. Those thin lips were built for saying, my way or else.
   He wore a pale blue linen suit jacket over black pants. A pale blue turtleneck that matched the jacket to perfection completed the outfit. His shoes were black and polished to a shine.
   It had to be Marcus. "Alfred." One word, but it was an order. The bigger man stepped-leaped off the platform. It was a graceful, bounding movement. He moved in a cloud of his own vitality. It rolled and boiled around him almost like heat rising off pavement. You couldn't see it with the naked eye, but you could sure as hell feel it.
   Alfred came at me as though he had a purpose. I put my back to the wall, keeping Raina in sight, along with everybody else. Irving moved back with me. He stood a little away from all of us, but closer to me than anyone.
   I put the trench coat back so the gun showed plainly. "Your intentions better be friendly, Alfred."
   "Alfred," the other man said. One word, even the tone sounded the same, but this time Alfie stopped in his tracks. He stood, staring at me. His eyes weren't neutral, they were hostile. People don't usually dislike me on sight. But hey, I wasn't too thrilled with him, either.
   "We have not offered you violence, Ms. Blake," Marcus said.
   "Yeah, right. Alfie there is contained violence in motion. I want to know what his intentions are before he comes closer."
   Marcus looked at me as if I'd done something interesting. "A very apt description, Ms. Blake. You can see our auras, then?"
   "If that's what you want to call it," I said.
   "Alfred's intentions are not hostile. He will merely search you for weapons. It is standard procedure for nonshifters. It is nothing personal, I assure you."
   The very fact that they didn't want me armed made me want to keep my weapons. Stubbornness, or a strong survival instinct.
   "Maybe I'd agree to being searched if you explained why I'm here first." Stall, until I could decide what to do.
   "We don't discuss business in front of the press, Ms. Blake."
   "Well, I'm not talking to you without him."
   "I will not jeopardize all of us to satisfy idle curiosity." He was still standing on the platform like a general surveying his troops.
   "The only reason I'm here at all is because Irving is a friend. Insulting him isn't going to endear you to me."
   "I do not wish to endear myself to you, Ms. Blake. I wish your aid."
   "You want my help?" I didn't try to keep the surprise out of my voice.
   He gave a brief nod.
   "What kind of help?"
   "He must leave."
   "No," I said.
   Raina pushed away from the wall and stalked around us, just out of reach, but circling like a shark. "Irving's punishment could begin now." Her voice was low and puffing around the edges.
   "I didn't know wolves purred," I said.
   She laughed. "Wolves do a lot of things, as I'm sure you're aware."
   "I don't know what you mean."
   "Oh, come now, woman to woman." She leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, face friendly. I was betting she could bite my finger off and smile just like that the entire time.
   She bent close as if we were sharing secrets. "Richard is as good as he looks, isn't he?"
   I stared into her amused eyes. "I don't kiss and tell."
   "I'll tell you my juicy tidbit, if you'll tell me yours."
   "Raina, enough." Marcus had moved forward to the edge of the stage. He didn't look happy.
   She gave him a lazy smile. She was baiting him more than me, and enjoying it very much.
   "Irving must leave, and Alfred must search you for weapons. There is no negotiating those two points."
   "I'll make you a deal," I said. "Irving leaves now, but he goes home. No punishment."
   Marcus shook his head. "I have decreed he will be punished. My word is law."
   "Who died and made you king?"
   "Simon," Raina said.
   I blinked at her.
   "He fought and killed Simon. That's who died and made him pack leader."
   Ask a silly question . . . "You want my help, Irving goes free and untouched. No punishment."
   "Don't do this, Anita," Irving said. "You'll just make things worse."
   Raina stayed leaning beside me. Just a little girl talk. "He's right, you know. Right now he's mine to play with, but if you make Marcus really angry he'll give him to Alfred. I'll torture his mind and body. Alfred will break him."
   "Irving goes free, no punishment. I stay and let Alfred search me for weapons. Otherwise we walk."
   "Not we, Ms. Blake. You are free to go, but Irving is mine. He will stay, and with or without you he will be taught his lesson."
   "What did he do wrong?" I asked.
   "That is our business, not yours."
   "I'm not going to help you do shit."
   "Then go," he leaped gracefully off the stage, walking towards us as he spoke, "but Irving stays. You are only among us for this one night. He must live with us, Ms. Blake. He cannot afford your bravado."
   The last sentence brought him just a little behind Alfred. Close up there were fine lines around his eyes and mouth, a slackness to the skin of his neck and jaws. I added ten years to his age. Fifties.
   "I can't leave Irving here, knowing what you'll do to him."
   "Oh, you have no idea what we'll do to him," Raina said. "We heal so well." She pushed away from the wall and walked to Irving. She paced round him in a tight circle, shoulder, hip, brushing against him, here and there as she moved. "Even the weakest of us can take so very much damage."
   "What do you want to guarantee Irving's safety?" I asked.
   Marcus looked at me, face careful, neutral. "You promise to aid us, and let Alfred frisk you. He is my bodyguard. You must let him do his job."
   "I can't promise to help you without knowing what it is."
   "Then we have no bargain."
   "Anita, I can take it, whatever they dish out. I can take it. I've done it before."
   "You asked for my protection from Richard, just call it a package deal," I said.
   "You asked her for her protection?" Raina stepped away from him, surprise plain on her pretty face.
   "Just against Richard," Irving said.
   "It's clever," Raina said, "but it does have certain implications."
   "She's not a pack member. It only works on Richard because they're dating," Irving said. He looked a little worried.
   "What implications?" I asked.
   Marcus answered, "To ask pack members for their protection is to acknowledge they are of higher rank without having to fight them. If they give their protection, then you have agreed to help them fight their battles. If they are challenged you are honor bound to aid them."
   I glanced at Irving. He looked ill. "She's not one of us. You can't hold her to the law."
   "What law?" I asked.
   "Pack law," Marcus said.
   "I forfeit her protection," Irving said.
   "Too late," Raina said.
   "You place us in a quandary, Ms. Blake. A pack member has acknowledged you as higher rank than he is. Acknowledged you as dominant. By our laws we must accept that as binding."
   "I can't be a pack member," I said.
   "No, but you can be dominant."
   I knew what the word meant in the real world. Marcus was using it as if it meant more. "What does it mean to be dominant?"
   "It means you can stand as Irving's protector against all comers."
   "No," Irving said. He brushed past Raina and stood in front of Marcus. He stood tall and stared him in the eye. It was not a submissive display.
   "I won't let you use me like this. It's what you intended all along. You knew I'd ask her protection from Richard. You counted on it, didn't you, you smug bastard."
   A low growl trickled out from between Marcus's perfect white teeth. "I would watch my tongue if I were you, youngling."
   "If it offends you, I will cut it out." Alfred's first words were not comforting.
   This was getting out of hand. "Irving is under my protection, Alfred. If I understand the law. You have to go through me to hurt Irving, is that right?"
   Alfred turned cold, dark eyes to me. He nodded.
   "If you kill me, then I can't help Marcus."
   This seemed to puzzle the big fella. Great, confusion to my enemies.
   Marcus smiled. "You have found a flaw in my logic, Ms. Blake. If you truly intend to protect Irving, to the letter of the law, then you would indeed die. No mere human could withstand one of us. Even the lowliest would kill you."
   I let that comment go. Why argue when I was winning anyway?
   "Since you cannot accept challenges, and you won't let us harm Irving, he is safe."
   "Great, now what?"
   "Irving can go, and he will not be harmed. You stay and hear our plea. You may decide to aid us or not, Irving will not suffer for your choice."
   "That's mighty generous of you."
   "Yes, Ms. Blake, it is." There was a look in his eyes that was very serious.
   Raina might play sadistic games. Alfred might hurt you in an eager rush. But Marcus, it was just business. He was a mob boss with fur.
   "Leave us, Irving."
   "I won't leave her."
   Marcus turned on him with a snarl. "My patience is not endless!"
   Irving dropped to his knees, head bowed, spine bent low. It was a submissive display. I grabbed Irving's arm, and lifted him to his feet. "Get up, Irving. The nice werewolf isn't going to hurt you."
   "And why is that, Ms. Blake?"
   "Because Irving's under my protection. If Alfred can't fight me, then you sure as hell can't."
   Marcus threw back his head, and gave a sharp, barking laugh. "You are clever, and brave. Traits we admire." The laughter died from his face, lingering in his eyes like a pleasant dream. "Do not challenge me too openly, Ms. Blake. It wouldn't be healthy."
   The last of the laughter died out of his eyes. I was left staring into human eyes, but there was no one home to talk to. It looked like a human being, talked like a human being, but it wasn't one.
   I dug my fingers into Irving's parka-clad shoulder. "Go on, Irving. Get out of here."
   He touched my arm. "I would never leave you in a tough spot."
   "I'm safe tonight, you're not. Now go, please, Irving."
   I watched the struggle on his face. But finally after another dirty look from Marcus, he left. The door closed and I was alone with three werewolves. Down from four. The night was looking up.
   "Alfred must search you now."
   So much for the night looking up. "Then do it," I said. I just stood there. I didn't put my arms out. I didn't lean against the wall. I wasn't going to help him, not unless he asked.
   He took the Browning, then patted down my arms, legs, even the small of my back. He didn't pat down the front center of my body. Maybe he was being a gentleman, or maybe he was just careless. Whatever, he missed the Firestar. I had eight silver bullets and they didn't know it. The night was looking up.
   
   

11
   Marcus took a seat on the platform. Alfred stood just behind him like a good bodyguard. "Join us, Ms. Blake. It may be a long meeting to stand through."
   I didn't want to sit with Alfred at my back, so I moved to the last chair. The empty chair between us looked unsociable, but I was out of Alfred's reach. Safety before good manners.
   Raina sat on Marcus's right, hand on his knee. Marcus sat in the same manner he did everything—rigid. Posture that would have made my Aunt Mattie proud. But he didn't move Raina's hand. In fact, he laid his hand over hers. Love? Solidarity? They didn't strike me as a really compatible couple.
   A woman came through the door. Short blond hair styled and held in place with gel. Her business skirt suit was red with pinkish undertones, like a rose petal. Her white blouse had one of those blousy ties that made the suit seem feminine, and a little silly.
   "Christine, it's good of you to come," Marcus said.
   The woman nodded, and took the seat at the end of the horseshoe of tables, nearest the stage. "What choice did I have? What choice did you give any of us?" she asked.
   "We must have a united front on this, Christine."
   "As long as you're in charge, right?"
   Marcus started to say more but the crowd was growing. People drifted through the door in ones, twos, threes. He let the argument go. They could argue later, and I was betting they would. The woman's complaint sounded like an old one.
   I recognized one person. Rafael the Rat King. He was tall, dark, and handsome with short-cut black hair, strong Mexican features, and an arrogant expression. He would have looked as stern as Marcus except for his lips. They were soft and sensuous, and ruined some of the effect.
   Rafael nodded at me. I nodded back. He had two wererats with him, in human form. I didn't recognize either of them.
   There were about a dozen people sitting along the tables when Marcus stood and walked to the podium. "My friends, I have asked you here tonight to meet Anita Blake. The vampires call her the Executioner. I believe she can help us."
   "What can a vampire hunter do for us?" This from a tall man who sat alone, chairs on either side acting as walls. He had short white hair, cut in a strange Mia Farrow sixties cut, but gentler. He wore a white dress shirt, pale pink tie, white sport jacket, and cream-colored pants. He looked like the Good Humor man with money. But he had a point.
   "We don't need a human to help us." This from a man who sat with one other. He had hair cut just above his collar, so curly it looked like fur, or maybe . . . Naw. He had thick eyebrows over dark eyes, with heavy, sensual features. The Rat King's lips may have seemed kissable, but this man seemed made for nefarious deeds done in dark places.
   His clothing matched his face. The boots that he had propped on the table were of soft, velvety leather. His pants were of shiny black leather. The shirt he was almost wearing was a muscle tank top that left most of his upper body bare. His right arm was covered from elbow to fingers in leather straps. The knuckles had spikes coming out of them. The hair on his chest was as curly and dark as the hair on his head. A black duster coat was thrown across the table beside him.
   The woman on his right rubbed her cheek along his shoulder as if it were a cat scent marking. Long, dark hair formed waves around her shoulders. What I could see of her outfit looked tight, black, and mostly of leather.
   "We are human here, Gabriel," Marcus said.
   Gabriel made a rude noise. "You believe what you want to, Marcus. But we know what we are, and what she isn't." He pointed at me with his gauntleted fist. It didn't seem a particularly friendly gesture.
   Rafael stood. The gesture stopped the argument. There was something about the way he stood there in his ordinary street clothes that made you stare at him as if he were wearing a crown. His presence was more commanding than that of a ton of black leather. Marcus made the lowest of growls. Too many kings in this room.
   "Does Marcus speak for Anita Blake as he speaks for the wolves?"
   "Yes," Marcus said. "I speak for Ms. Blake."
   I stood up. "I don't know what's going on, but I can speak for myself."
   Marcus turned like a small blond storm. "I am pack leader. I am law."
   Alfred moved to face me, big hands flexing.
   "Chill out, fur face. You're not my leader, and I'm not a pack member."
   Alfred stalked forward. I hopped off the stage. I had the gun, but I might need it more later. If I drew it now, I might not have it later. He leaped off the stage, a high bounding as if he'd had a trampoline to jump from. I dropped to the ground and rolled. I felt the air of his passage. I ended up against the stage. I went for the Firestar, and he was on me. Faster than a speeding bullet, faster than anything I'd ever seen.
   His hand gripped my throat and squeezed. His lips drew back from his teeth, and made a low, rolling growl, like the sound a Rottweiler would make.
   My hand was on the Firestar, but I still had to lift up, point it, and pull the trigger. I'd never make it. He'd rip my throat out long before I could manage it.
   He drew me to my feet using my throat as a handle. His fingers dug in just enough to let me feel the strength in his hands. All he had to do was clench his fist, and the front of my throat would come with it. I kept my hand on the Firestar. I'd be clinging to it when I died.
   "Does Alfred fight your battles for you now?" It was Christine of the blousy tie. "Pack leaders must fight all challenges to their dominance personally or forfeit leadership. It's one of your own laws, Marcus."
   "Do not quote my laws back to me, woman."
   "She challenged your authority over her, not Alfred's. If he kills her, is he the new pack leader?" There was soft derision in her voice.
   "Release her, Alfred."
   Alfred's eyes flicked to Marcus, then back to me. His fingers tensed, digging in and raising me to my tiptoes.
   "I said, let her go!"
   He dropped me. I staggered back against the stage and aimed Firestar in one movement. It wasn't pretty, but the gun was out and pointed at Alfred. If he tried me again, I was going to kill him, and I'd enjoy it.
   "I thought you checked her for weapons," Marcus said.
   "I did." Alfred was backing away, hands held in front of him as if to ward off a blow.
   I scooted along the stage so I could keep an eye on Marcus. I caught sight of Raina, still sitting, looking amused.
   I backed away from everyone, working to put a wall at my back. If Marcus was faster than Alfred, I needed distance, like a hundred miles, but I'd have to settle for the far wall.
   "Have him disarm her," Raina said. She sat there, legs crossed, hands resting on her knee, smiling. "It was Alfred's oversight. Let him correct it."
   Marcus nodded. Alfred turned his eyes back to me.
   I pressed my back more solidly into the wall, as if I could make a door if I pressed hard enough. Alfred stalked towards me, slow, like a movie maniac. I pointed the gun at his chest. "I will kill him," I said.
   "Your little bullets cannot hurt me," Alfred said.
   "Silver-plated Glaser safety rounds," I said. "It'll blow a hole in your chest big enough to put a fist through."
   He hesitated. "I can heal any wound, even silver."
   "Not if it's a killing blow," I said. "I take out your heart and you're dead."
   He glanced back at Marcus. Marcus's face was all squeezed down with anger. "You let her bring a gun among us."
   "If you're afraid of the gun, Marcus, take it away from her yourself." Christine again. This time I wasn't sure she was helping me.
   "We intend you no harm, Ms. Blake. But I promised the others you would bring no weapons among us. I gave my word. If you will give Alfred your gun, this can end."
   "No way."
   "You are defying me, Ms. Blake. I cannot let anyone contest my authority."
   He had come to stand at the end of the stage, closest to me. He was closer to me than Alfred. I wasn't sure it was an improvement.
   "You step off that stage and I'll shoot."
   "Alfred." Just the name again, but it was enough. Alfred moved up beside him, eyes on Marcus's face. "Master?"
   "Take it from her, Alfred. She cannot defy us."
   "You're going to get him killed, Marcus."
   "I don't think so."
   Alfred took a step forward, in front of Marcus. His face was neutral, eyes unreadable. "This is a stupid thing to die over, Alfie."
   "He gives orders. I obey. It is the way of things."
   "Don't do this," I said.
   Alfred took a step forward.
   I took a slow, steadying breath. I had a peripheral sense of everyone else, but I was looking only at Alfred. At a spot in the center of his chest. "I am not bluffing."
   I felt him tense, knew he was going to do it. He was confident that he could move faster than I could pull the trigger. Nothing was that fast. I hoped.
   He leaped in that wide, arching roll that he'd used earlier. I dropped to one knee, aiming as I moved. The bullet hit him in midair. He jerked and crumbled to the floor.
   The gunshot echoed into silence. I got to my feet, the gun still pointed at him. I eased forward. He never moved. If he was breathing, I couldn't see it. I knelt until the gun was shoved into the back of his spine. No movement. I felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. I pulled the Browning out of his waistband left handed. I kept the Firestar pointed at everybody. I wasn't as good left handed, and I didn't want to take the time to switch hands.
   Marcus stepped off the stage. "Don't," I said. He froze, staring at me. He looked shocked, as if he hadn't thought I'd do it.
   Rafael came up through the tables. "May I look at him?"
   "Sure." But I backed away. Theoretically out of reach.
   Rafael turned him over. Blood had pooled on the floor from the hole in his chest. Bright crimson rivulets trailed down his lips to mingle with his beard. Not faster than a speeding bullet, after all.
   Marcus looked at me over the body. I had expected to see anger, but all I saw was pain. He mourned Alfred's passing. I may have pulled the trigger, but he had pushed Alfred into it. He knew it, I knew it. We all knew it.
   "You didn't have to kill him," he said, softly.
   "You gave me no choice," I said.
   He glanced down at Alfred's body, then back to me. "No, I suppose I didn't. We killed him together, you and I."
   "For future reference, so there will never be another misunderstanding between us, Marcus. I never bluff."
   "So you said."
   "But you didn't believe me."
   He watched the blood spread across the floor. "I believe you now."
   
   

12
   We had a body on the ground. The age-old question remained. What do you do with a dead body? There was the traditional approach. "I'll call the cops," I said.
   "No," Marcus said. That one word had more force in it than anything he'd said since Alfred hit the ground.
   "He's dead, folks. If I'd hit him with a regular bullet he'd heal, but it was silver. We've got to call the cops."
   "Are you so eager to go to jail?" This from Rafael.
   "I don't want to go to jail, but I killed him."
   "I think you had a little help on that." Christine had moved up beside us. She stood there in her rose-petal suit with her sensible black pumps, staring down at the body. A line of blood trickled towards her shoes. She had to see it, snaking its way towards her. She didn't move out of the way. The blood seeped around the toe of her shoe and kept going.
   Raina came up behind Marcus. She put her arms around his shoulders, leaning her face against his neck, close enough to whisper in his ear. Those lips did not move, but it had been her one needling comment that had pushed things over the edge. One little remark.
   Marcus rubbed his hand along her arm, lowering his face to kiss her wrist.
   I looked around at them. Rafael was still kneeling by the body. A line of blood was making for the knee of his slacks. He stood up quickly, fingertips brushing the bloody floor. He raised the fingers to his mouth. I wanted to say, don't, but didn't. He stuck the fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean.
   His dark eyes flicked to me. He lowered his hand as if he were embarrassed, as if I'd caught him in an intimate bodily function. Maybe I had.
   The two leather-clad shapeshifters drifted up behind the tables, as if they'd circle me. I backed away. I still had the guns naked in my hands. The one with the spiked glove looked at me, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. His eyes were a strange liquid grey. His curly black hair had fallen in a tangle over his eyes. They bore a startling luminosity peering from behind that black hair. He made no move to push his hair from his eyes. It would have driven me nuts. But then maybe I wasn't accustomed to staring out through fur.
   He stepped closer to the body, which was closer to me. I raised the guns. At this range you didn't really have to aim. I did not feel more confident with a gun in each hand. Fact was, I felt silly, but I didn't want to lose the time to holster one of them. To holster the Firestar, I had to scoot my sweater up and shove the gun in the inner-pants holster. I could probably do it without glancing down, but I wasn't sure. Habit might take over. Like driving a car. You don't realize how long you glanced down until that semi truck looms into view. If Gabriel was as fast as Alfred, a fraction of a second would be enough.
   His smile widened, the tip of his tongue traced his full lips. His gaze had heat in it. Nothing magical, just the heat that any man could put into his eyes. That look that said they were wondering what you looked like naked, and if you'd give a good blow job. Crude, but accurate. That look was not wanting to make love to anyone. The look was pure fucking. Even sex was too mild a term.
   I fought the urge to turn away. I didn't dare take my eyes off of him. But I wanted to. My skin crawled under his gaze. I felt heat creeping up my face. I couldn't meet his eyes and not blush. My Daddy'd raised me better than that.
   He took a step forward, a small movement, but it put him almost in arm's reach. With Alfred's body still warm, he was playing with me. I raised the guns a little more firmly, pointed at him. "Let's not do this again," I said.
   "Gabriel, leave her alone," Christine said.
   He glanced back at her. " 'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright/ In the forests of the night/ What immortal hand or eye/ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?' "
   "Stop it, Gabriel," she said. She was blushing. One stanza of Blake and she was embarrassed. Why that poem? A weretiger maybe? But who was the kitty cat? Maybe both.
   He turned back to me. I watched something slide behind his eyes. Some streak of perversity that made him want to take that next step.
   "Try me tonight, and you're going to join your friend on the floor."
   He laughed, mouth wide, exposing pointed canines, top and bottom like a cat. Not fangs, but not human, either.
   "Ms. Blake is under my protection," Marcus said. "You will not harm her."
   "You let Alfred nearly throttle me, then you goad him into attacking me. I don't think much of your protection, Marcus. I think I do just fine on my own."
   "Without those little guns you wouldn't be so tough." This from the brunette biker chick. Brave words, but she was standing on the other side of the little crowd.
   "I'm not going to offer to arm wrestle you. I know I'm outclassed without a gun. That's why I've got them."
   "You refuse my protection?" Marcus asked.
   "Yeah," I said.
   "You are a fool," Raina said.
   "Maybe, but I'm still the one with the guns."
   Gabriel laughed again. "She doesn't believe you can protect her, Marcus, and she's right."
   "You question my dominance?"
   Gabriel turned, giving me his back, staring at Marcus. "Always."
   Marcus moved forward, but Raina tightened her grip on him. "We've aired enough dirty laundry in front of Ms. Blake for one night. Don't you think?"
   He hesitated. Gabriel just stared at him. Finally Marcus nodded.
   Gabriel gave a purring laugh and knelt down by the body. He smeared his fingers through the blood. "It cools so fast." He wiped his hand on Alfred's sweater and touched the open chest wound. He ran his hand around the edge as though he were scooping icing from a bowl. His hand came out crimson. He raised it to his mouth, blood dripping down his arm. His tongue licked along his bloody fingers.
   "Stop it," Marcus said.
   The woman knelt on the other side of the body. She knelt, lowering her torso, butt in the air, like lions drinking at watering holes. She lapped up the blood from the floor with quick, sure movements of her tongue.
   "Jesus," I whispered.
   There was movement in the room like a wind over a field of wheat. They were all out of their seats. They were all moving towards the body.
   I stepped back, put the wall at my back, and began working my way towards the door. If there was going to be a feeding frenzy, I didn't want to be the only non-shapeshifter in the room. Didn't seem healthy.
   "No!" Marcus's voice roared through the room. He stalked to the body, pushing everyone back without a gesture. Even Gabriel rolled back onto his left side, propped up, sitting in the blood. The woman crawled back, out of reach. Gabriel stayed within touching distance of the master werewolf. He gazed up at Marcus, but there was no fear on his face.
   "We are not animals to feed on our dead."
   "We are animals," Gabriel said. He raised his bloody hand towards Marcus. "Smell the blood, and tell me you don't want it."
   Marcus jerked his head away, swallowing hard enough for me to hear it. Gabriel rose to his knees, pressing the blood close to Marcus's face.
   He slapped the hand away, but stepped away from the body, too. "I smell the blood." His voice was very harsh when he said it, every word squeezed out through a low growl. "But I am a human being. That means I do not have to give in to my urges." He turned his back on the body, pushed his way through the crowd, having to step up on the stage to find a clear place to stand. His breathing was hard and fast, as if he'd been running as fast as he could.
   I was about halfway behind the podium. I could see his face. Beads of sweat touched his skin. I had to get out of here.
   The white-haired man who had spoken first, wondering what good a vampire executioner would be to them, was standing apart from the others. He was leaning against a table, arms crossed. He was watching me. From across the room, he could watch all he wanted to. I had the guns out and pointed at everybody. There wasn't anyone in this room that I wanted to be around unarmed.
   I was almost at the door. I needed a free hand for the door. I was nearly the length of the room away from them. It was as far away as I could get without opening the door. I holstered the Firestar. Transferred the Browning to my right hand. I slid my left hand behind me along the wall, until I touched the doorknob. I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. I was far enough away from all of them, that I gave the room my back and opened the door wide. And stopped.
   The hallway was four deep with lycanthropes. They were all staring at me with wide, haunted eyes. I pressed the Browning into the chest of the nearest one. "Back up."
   He just stared at me as if he didn't understand what I'd said. His eyes were brown and perfectly human, but it reminded me of the look a dog gets when it's trying to understand English. It wants to understand, but just doesn't quite get it.
   There was movement behind me. I slammed my back against the door, pressing it flat to the wall, gun scanning the room. If the shapeshifters in the hallway surged forward, I was gone. I could shoot some of them, but not all of them.
   It was the man who'd been leaning against the table. He put his hands up to show himself unarmed, but that didn't really help. What helped was there was no sweat on his face. He didn't look glassy eyed, like the ones in the hall. He looked very . . . human.
   "My name is Kaspar Gunderson. Do you need a little help?"
   I glanced at the waiting horde and back to him. "Sure."
   Kaspar smiled. "You'll take my help, but not Marcus's?" He seemed amused.
   "Marcus doesn't offer help. He gives orders."
   "Too true."
   Rafael moved up beside him. "None of us takes orders from Marcus. Though he would like us to."
   A sound somewhere between a moan and a howl broke from the crowd in the hall. I scooted a little farther down the wall, pointing the gun at the crowd. There were too many possible dangers, I had to pick someone to trust. Rafael and the other man seemed a better choice than the crowd.
   A high ragged scream broke from inside the room. I shoved my back into the wall, and turned back to the room. What now?
   I caught a glimpse of thrashing limbs through the huddled lycanthropes. The dark-haired woman threw back her head and shrieked.
   "She's fighting it," the pale man said.
   "Yes, but she will not win unless a dominant steps in to help her," Rafael said.
   "Gabriel won't help."
   "No," Rafael said, "he enjoys the show."
   "It's not full moon yet, what the hell's happening?" I said.
   "The scent of blood started it. Gabriel fed it. He and Elizabeth. Now, unless Marcus can control them, they may all turn and feed," Rafael said.
   "And this is a bad thing?" I asked.
   Rafael just looked at me. His hands gripped his forearms so tightly the skin paled. His short-clipped fingernails bit into the skin, and tiny little half circles of blood formed under his hands. He took a deep, cleansing breath and nodded. He removed his fingers from his arms. The cuts filled with blood but only a few trickled. Minor cuts, minor pain. Pain sometimes helped keep a vamp from controlling your mind.
   His voice came out strained, but clear, each word pronounced with great care, as if it took great effort just to speak. "One of the old wives' tales that is true is that a lycanthrope has to feed after shapeshifting." His eyes stared at me, drowning deep. The black had eaten all the white. His eyes sparkled like jet buttons.
   "Are you about to go all furry on me?"
   He shook his head. "The beast does not control me. I control myself."
   The other man stood there, calmly.
   "Why aren't you having problems?"
   "I'm not a predator. Blood doesn't bother me."
   A whimper came in from the hallway. A young man who couldn't have been more than twenty was crawling on hands and knees into the room. A low whimper was rising from his throat like a mantra.
   He raised his head, sniffing the air. His head turned with a jerk, eyes staring at me. He crawled towards me. His eyes were the color of spring skies, innocent as an April morning. The look in them was not. He looked at me as if he were wondering what I tasted like. In a human I'd have thought he was thinking of sex, now . . . maybe he was just thinking of food.
   I pointed the gun at his forehead. His eyes looked past the gun, at me. I wasn't even sure he saw the gun. He touched my leg. I didn't shoot him. He hadn't offered to hurt me. I wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but I couldn't shoot him for touching me. Not just for that. He had to do something to deserve a bullet in the brain. Even from me.
   I moved the gun slightly from side to side in front of his eyes. They didn't track.
   His hands gripped my jeans, pulling him to his knees. His head was a little above my waist, blue eyes staring up at my face. His arms wrapped around my waist. He buried his face in my stomach, sort of nuzzling.
   I tapped his head with the barrel of the gun. "I don't know you well enough for you to nuzzle me, fella. Get up."
   His head buried under my sweater. His mouth bit gently into my side. He stiffened, arms rigid. His breathing was suddenly ragged.
   And I was suddenly afraid. One man's foreplay was another man's appetizer. "Get him off of me before I hurt him."
   Rafael yelled, voice roaring over the mounting chaos, "Marcus!" That one word rang out and silence fell. Faces turned to him. Faces smeared with blood. Elizabeth, the dark-haired woman, was nowhere in sight. Only Marcus remained clean. He stood on the stage rigid, but there was a vibration to him like a struck tuning fork. His face was gaunt with some great effort. He looked at us with the eyes of a drowning man, who was determined not to scream on the last trip down.
   "Jason is having some difficulty controlling himself," Rafael said. "He is your wolf. Call him off."
   Gabriel stood up, his face coated in blood. He bared his flashing teeth with a laugh. "I'm surprised Ms. Blake hasn't killed him yet."
   Raina stood from the kill, a patch of blood on her chin. "Ms. Blake refused Marcus's protection. She is dominant. Let her discover what it means to refuse our help."
   Jason was still rigid against me. His arms locked tight, face pressed against my stomach. I could feel his breath through my shirt, hot and too heavy for what was happening.
   "You asked me here for my help, Marcus. Your hospitality sucks."
   He glared at me. But even from across the room I could see a nervous tic jumping in his face. A twitching, as though something alive were trying to come out.
   "It is too late for business tonight, Ms. Blake. Things are out of hand."
   "No joke. Get him off of me, Marcus. One dead tonight is enough."
   Raina went to him, holding up a bloody hand to him. "Let her acknowledge your dominance over her. Acknowledge that she needs your help."
   Marcus stared at me. "Acknowledge my dominance, and I will call Jason off."
   "If he starts to shapeshift, I'll kill him. You know I'll do it, Marcus. Call him off."
   "If I am to give you my protection, you must acknowledge me."
   "Fuck you, Marcus. I'm not asking you to save me. I'm asking you to save him. Or don't you care about your pack members?"
   "Rafael is a king," Raina said, "let him save you."
   A shudder ran through the man. His grip tightened painfully. He stood, arms still locked behind my back. If he'd held me any closer, I'd have come out the other side. He was about my height, which put our faces very close. His eyes were full of a great hunger, a need. He bent his head as if to kiss me, but another shudder ran through him. He buried his face in my hair, lips touching my neck.
   I pressed the barrel of the Browning into his chest. If he tried to take a bite out of me, he was dead. But where Alfred had been a bully, this one, Jason, seemed unable to help himself, like a compulsion. If I waited too long I'd be just as dead. But until he hurt me it made me not want to hurt him. Besides, I was feeling a wee bit gun happy for killing Alfred. Not a lot, but a little. It cut Jason some slack.
   His teeth brushed along my neck, drawing an edge of skin into his mouth. He had just about reached the end of my patience even if he didn't turn furry.
   A low, rumbling growl vibrated along my skin. My pulse thudded into my throat. I squeezed down on the trigger. I couldn't wait for him to bite my throat out.
   I heard Kaspar say, "Rafael, no!"
   Jason's head jerked up, eyes wild. Rafael stood beside us, holding his arm in front of Jason's face. Blood ran down it from deep scratches.
   "Fresh blood, my wolf," Rafael said.
   Jason jerked away from me so fast, he threw me into the wall. My head smacked the wall after my shoulders made impact, which was the only thing that saved me from passing out. I ended up with my butt on the floor, gun in my hand only by instinct. The strength in that one movement left my gut hollow with fear. I had let him nuzzle my neck, as if he were human. He could have torn me apart with his human hands. I might have killed him first, but I'd have been just as dead.
   Jason crouched in front of Rafael. A ripple ran through his back like a wave of water driven by wind. Jason fell into a little ball, his back pulsing under his shirt.
   Rafael stood over him, blood dripping onto the floor. "I hope you understand what I have done for you," he said.
   I had enough air back to speak. "You want me to shoot him?"
   A strange look came over his face, leaving his black button eyes dead. "You offer your protection."
   "Protection, smetection. You helped me. I'll help you."
   "Thank you, but I have started it, and I must finish it, but I think you must go before you run out of silver bullets."
   Kaspar offered me a hand up; I took it. His skin was unusually warm, but that was all. He didn't seem to have the urge to touch me or eat me. A nice change.
   The crowd was coming in the door, in twos and threes and tens. Some moved like sleepwalkers towards the body at the far side of the room. That was dandy. Some went for Rafael and the writhing Jason. He'd said he could handle himself. But about six of them turned to me and Kaspar.
   They stared at us with hungry eyes. One, a girl, dropped to her knees and began to crawl towards me. "Can you do anything about this?" I asked.
   "I'm a swan, they consider me food."
   It took every ounce of self-control not to glance at him. I stared at the crawling lycanthrope, and said, "A swan, great. You got any suggestions?"
   "Wound one of them. They respect pain."
   The girl was reaching out for me. I stared at her slender arm and didn't fire. Glazer safety rounds could take off an arm. I wasn't sure lycanthropes could heal amputations. I pointed over her head at the large male behind her. I gut-shot him. He fell screaming to the floor, blood pouring between his fingers. The girl turned on him, burying her face in his stomach.
   He slapped her away. The others surged forward.
   "Let's get out while we can," Kaspar said. He motioned for the door.
   Didn't have to ask me twice. Marcus was suddenly there. I hadn't seen him come, too busy concentrating on the immediate threat. He pulled two men off the wounded one, tossing them like toys. He drew a manila file folder from under his blue linen jacket and handed it to me. In a voice that was more growl than anything, he said, "Kaspar can answer your questions."
   He turned with a snarl, tearing into the lycanthropes, protecting the one I'd wounded. Kaspar pushed me out the door, and I let him.
   I had one last glimpse of Jason. He was a mass of flowing fur and naked dripping bones. Rafael was once again the slick, black ratman I'd met months ago. The crown-shaped burn in his forearm, the mark of kingship for the rats, showed clean. He was no longer bleeding. The change had healed him.
   The door slammed shut. I wasn't sure who had done it. Kaspar and I stood in the hallway, alone. There were no sounds from behind the door. The silence was so heavy, it thrummed in my head.
   "I can't hear them?"
   "Soundproof room," he said.
   Logical. I stared down at the file folder. There was a bloody handprint on it. I held it gingerly at the edge, waiting for the blood to dry.
   "Are we supposed to sit down and have a business meeting?"
   "Knowing Marcus, the information will be complete. He's a very good bureaucrat."
   "But not a very good pack leader."
   He glanced at the door. "I'd say that somewhere else if I were you."
   He had a point. I stared up at him. His baby-fine hair was nearly white, almost feathery. I shook my head. It couldn't be.
   He grinned at me. "Go ahead. Touch it."
   I did. I brushed fingers through his hair, and it was soft and downy like the under feathers on a bird. Heat rose from his scalp like fever. "Jesus."
   Something heavy smacked into the door. I felt the vibrations through the floor. I backed away, hesitating about putting the Browning away. I compromised and put my hand in the pocket of my trench coat. It was the only coat I owned with pockets deep enough to swallow the Browning.
   Kaspar opened the door to the dining rooms. There were still people eating. Humans out for a night on the town. Carving their steaks, eating their veggies, oblivious to the potential destruction just two doors away.
   I had a horrible urge to yell, Flee, flee for your lives. But they wouldn't have understood. Besides the Lunatic Cafe had been here for years. I'd never heard of an incident here. Of course, I'd killed one man, werewolf, whatever. I didn't think there was going to be enough evidence to turn over to the cops. Maybe a few well-gnawed bones.
   Who knew what disasters had been covered up here?
   Kaspar handed me a business card. It was white and shiny with Gothic script that said, KASPAR GUNDERSON, ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES.
   "If you have any questions, I will try to answer them."
   "Even if the questions are about what the hell you are?"
   "Even that," he said.
   We were walking as we talked. He offered me his hand beside the bar in the outer dining room. The outside door was in sight, fun almost over for the night. Thank God.
   My smile froze on my face. I knew one of the men at the bar. Edward was sitting there sipping a tall, cold drink. He never glanced at me, but I knew he saw me. Kaspar cocked his head to one side. "Is anything wrong?"
   "No," I said, "no." My words were too fast, even I didn't believe myself. I tried my best professional smile. "It's just been a long night."
   He didn't believe me, and I didn't care. I wasn't good at spur-of-the-moment lying. Kaspar let it go, but his eyes scanned the crowd as he walked out, looking for whatever or whoever had bothered me.
   Edward looked like a nice, ordinary man. He was five foot eight, of slender build, with short blond hair. He had on a nondescript black winter jacket, jeans, and soft-soled shoes. He looked a little like Marcus, and in his own way, was just as dangerous.
   He was ignoring me, effortlessly, which meant he might not want to be noticed. I walked past him, wanting to ask what the hell he was doing here, but not wanting to blow his cover. Edward was an assassin who specialized in vampires, lycanthropes, and other preternatural humanoids. He'd started out killing humans, but it had been too easy. Edward did love a challenge.
   I stood in the cold dark wondering what to do. I had the bloody file folder in one hand. The other was still gripping the Browning. Now that the adrenaline was seeping away, my hand was cramping around the gun. I'd held it too long without firing it. I tucked the folder under my arm and put the gun away. All the shapeshifters were busy eating each other. I could probably walk to my car without having a gun naked in my hands.
   Edward didn't come out. I had half expected him to. He was hunting someone, but who? After what I'd seen tonight, I wasn't sure hunting them was such a bad idea.
   Of course, Richard was one of them. I didn't want anyone hunting him. I would have to ask Edward what he was doing, but not tonight. Richard wasn't inside. The rest of them could take their chances. I had a momentary thought about Rafael, but let it go. He knew what Edward looked like, if not exactly what he did for a living.
   I stopped halfway down the sidewalk. Should I warn Edward that Rafael might recognize him and tell the others? My head hurt. For this one night let Death take care of himself. The vampires called me the Executioner, but they called Edward Death. After all, I'd never used a flamethrower on them.
   I kept walking. Edward was a big, scary boy. He could take care of himself. And everyone else in the back room certainly didn't need my help.
   Even if they did, I wasn't sure I wanted to give it to them. Which brought me back to the file folder. What could they need my help for? What could I do that they couldn't? I almost didn't want to know. But I didn't throw the folder in the nearest trash can. Truth was, if I didn't read it, it would bug me. Curiosity killed the cat. Here was hoping it didn't do the same for animators.

13
   At 5:35 that morning I was tucked in bed with the file folder. My favorite stuffed toy penguin, Sigmund, was sitting next to me. It used to be that I used Sigmund only when people were trying to kill me. Lately, I'd been sleeping with him most of the time. It'd been a rough year.
   The Browning Hi-Power was in its second home, a holster on the headboard of the bed. I sometimes slept without the penguin, but never without the gun.
   The folder consisted of a half dozen sheets of paper. All neatly typed, double spaced. The first was a list of eight names with an animal designation beside them. The last two pages were an explanation of the names. Eight lycanthropes had gone missing. Vanished. No bodies, no signs of violence. Nothing. Their families knew nothing. None of the lycanthropes knew anything.
   I went back over the names. Margaret Smitz was number seven. Designation wolf. Could it be George Smitz's wife? Peggy was a nickname for Margaret. Don't ask me how you get Peggy from Margaret, but you do.
   The last few pages were suggestions about who Marcus thought I should talk to. Controlling little bastard. He did offer an explanation for why he asked me for help. He thought that the other shapeshifters would talk more freely to me than to him or any of his wolves. No joke. I was sort of a compromise. They didn't trust the police. And who else do the lunarly disadvantaged go to for help? Why, your friendly neighborhood animator.
   I wasn't sure what I could do for them. I had sent George Smitz to Ronnie for a reason. I was not a detective. I'd never handled a missing-person case in my life. When I met Ronnie the next day, cancel that, that morning, I'd fill her in. George's wife missing was one thing, but eight lycanthropes missing was a pattern. They needed to go to the police. But they didn't trust human law. As late as the 1960s, lycanthropes were still being mobbed and burned at the stake. Couldn't blame them for being leery.
   I put the folder in the drawer of the nightstand. I got a plain white business card out of the drawer. The only thing on it was a phone number. Edward had given me the card only two months ago. It was the first time I'd ever been able to contact him. Before he'd just shown up. Usually when I didn't want him to.
   The number was a twenty-four-hour phone message service. A mechanized voice said, "At the tone leave your message." A long, low beep sounded. "This is Anita. What the hell are you doing in town? Call me soon." I wasn't usually that blunt on a phone message, but hey, it was Edward. He knew me. Besides, he didn't appreciate social niceties.
   I set the alarm, turned off the light, and cuddled into the blankets, my faithful penguin at my side. The phone rang before I'd gotten warm. I waited for the machine to pick up; after the eighth ring I gave up. I'd forgotten to turn on the machine. Great.
   "This better be important," I said.
   "You said to call soon." It was Edward.
   I pulled the receiver under the blankets with me. "Hi, Edward."
   "Hi."
   "Why are you in town? And why were you at the Lunatic Cafe?"
   "Why were you?"
   "It is nearly six in the freaking morning, I haven't been to sleep yet. I don't have time for games."
   "What was in the folder you had? There was fresh blood on it. Whose blood was it?"
   I sighed. I wasn't sure what to tell him. He might be a great deal of help, or he could kill people that I was supposed to be helping. Choices, choices.
   "I can't tell you shit until I know if I'm endangering people."
   "I never hunt people, you know that."
   "So you are on a hunt."
   "Yes."
   "What this time?"
   "Shapeshifters."
   Figures. "Who?"
   "I don't have any names yet."
   "Then how do you know who to kill?"
   "I've got film."
   "Film?"
   "Come to my hotel room tomorrow and I'll show you the film. I'll tell you everything I know."
   "You're not usually this obliging. What's the catch?"
   "No catch. You might be able to identify them, that's all."
   "I don't know a lot of shapeshifters," I said.
   "Fine, just come, see what I have."
   He sounded so sure of himself, but then he always did. "Okay, where are you staying?"
   "Adams Mark. Do you need directions?"
   "No, I can get there. When?"
   "Do you work tomorrow?"
   "Yeah."
   "Then at your convenience, of course."
   He was being too damn polite. "How long will your little presentation take?"
   "Two hours, maybe less."
   I shook my head, realized he couldn't see it, and said, "It'll have to be after my last zombie appointment. I'm booked until then."
   "Name the time."
   "I can be there between twelve-thirty and one." Even saying it made me tired. I wasn't going to get any sleep again.
   "I'll be waiting."
   "Wait. What name are you registered under?"
   "Room 212, just knock."
   "You do have a last name, don't you?"
   "Of course. Good night, Anita." The phone line went dead, buzzing in my hand like an unquiet spirit. I fumbled the receiver into its cradle and switched on the answering machine. I turned the sound down as low as it would go and snuggled back under the covers.
   Edward never shared information unless forced to. He was being too helpful. Something was up. Knowing Edward, it was something unpleasant. Lycanthropes disappearing without a trace. It sounded like a game that Edward would enjoy. But somehow I didn't think it was him. He liked taking credit for his kills as long as the police couldn't tie him to them directly.
   But somebody was doing it. There were bounty hunters who specialized in rogue lycanthropes. Edward might know who they were and if they'd condone murder. Because if all eight were dead, then it was murder. None of them was wanted, as far as I knew. The police would know, but I wasn't going to involve the police. Dolph should know if lycanthropes were disappearing in his territory.
   I felt sleep sucking at the edges of the world. I flashed on the murder victim. I saw his face frozen in the snow, one eye ripped open like a grape. The crushed jaw tried to move, to speak. One word hissed out of his ruined mouth: "Anita." My name, over and over. I woke up enough to roll over, and sleep washed over me in a heavy, black wave. If I dreamed again, I never remembered.
   
   

14
   Every year I wondered what to buy Judith, my stepmother, for Christmas. You'd think after fourteen years I'd get better. Of course, you'd think she'd get better at buying for me. Judith and I always end up staring at each other across this chasm of misunderstanding. She wants me to be this perfect feminine daughter, and I want her to be my dead mother. Since I can't have what I want, I've made sure Judith doesn't get her wish, either. Besides, she's got Andria, who is perfect. One perfect kid in the family is enough.
   Ronnie and I were Christmas shopping. We had jogged on the slick wintery streets at nine that morning. I'd managed about three hours of sleep. The running helped. The freezing wind slapping my face helped even more. I was wide awake and temporarily energized when we hit the mall, hair still damp from the shower.
   Ronnie is five foot nine. Her short blond hair is cut in a sort of pageboy. It's the same haircut she's had since I met her, but then my hairstyle hasn't changed, either. She was wearing jeans, cowboy boots with purple tooling, a short winter coat over a lilac crewneck sweater. She was not wearing a gun. Didn't think the mall elves would get that out of hand.
   I was dressed for the office, because I'd need to go straight there from shopping. The skirt was a standard navy blue, with a black belt for my shoulder holster to slip through. The skirt was about two inches higher than I was comfortable with, but Ronnie had insisted. She's a tad more fashion conscious than I am. Then, who isn't? The jacket was a rich midnight blue, the color of Jean-Claude's eyes. Darker blue designs, nearly black, traced it in a vaguely Oriental pattern. The open-necked blouse was a blue that matched the jacket. With black high-heel pumps, I looked pretty snazzy. Ronnie had picked out the jacket, too. Its only fault was that it didn't hide the Browning as well. You got little flashes of it as I moved. So far no one had run screaming to the mall cops. If they'd had known I was wearing a knife on each forearm under the pretty jacket, maybe they would have.
   Ronnie was staring into a jewelry case at Krigle's, and I was staring at her eyes. They were grey. The same color that Gabriel's eyes had been last night, but there was something different. Her eyes were human. Even in human form Gabriel's eyes weren't human.
   "What's wrong?"
   I shook my head. "Thinking about last night."
   "How do you feel about loverboy after last night?" The jewelry store was three deep in people. We'd forced our way to the case, but I knew I wasn't buying anything here, so I sort of stood beside Ronnie, scanning the crowd. All the faces looked hostile, but it was nothing personal. They were Christmas shopping with two weeks to the big day. Ho, ho, ho.
   The store was a mass of shoving, jostling people. I was getting claustrophobic. "Are you going to buy something?"
   Ronnie looked up at me. "You never answered my question."
   "Get me out of this mess and maybe I will."
   She stood up and motioned me forward. I cleared us a path to the open mall. I'm small and was dressed too pretty to be intimidating, but people cleared a path. Maybe they saw the gun. When we were in the main open space, I took a deep breath. It was crowded but nothing like the stores. At least here, people weren't actually brushing against me. If they did it out here, I could yell at them.
   "You want to sit down?" There were miraculously two seats open on a bench. Ronnie had made the offer because I was dressed for work, which meant heels. In her comfy jogging shoes she didn't need to sit. My feet didn't hurt yet. Maybe I was getting used to wearing heels. Eeek.
   I shook my head. "Let's hit the Nature Company. Maybe I'll find Josh something there."
   "How old is he now, thirteen?" Ronnie asked.
   "Fifteen," I said. "My baby brother was my height last year. He'll be gigantic this year. Judith says he's outgrowing his jeans faster than she can buy them."
   "A hint to buy him jeans?" Ronnie said.
   "If it is, I'm ignoring it. I'm buying Josh something fun, not clothes."
   "A lot of teenagers would rather have clothes," Ronnie said.
   "Not Josh, not yet anyway. He seems to have taken after me."
   "What are you going to do about Richard?" she asked me.
   "You're not going to let it go, are you?"
   "Not a chance."
   "I don't know what I'm going do. After what I saw last night. After what Jean-Claude told me. I just don't know."
   "You know that Jean-Claude did it deliberately," she said. "To try and drive a wedge between you."
   "I know, and it worked. I feel like I don't know Richard. Like I've been kissing a stranger."
   "Don't let fang-face break you up."
   I smiled at that. Jean-Claude would love being referred to as fang-face. "I won't."
   She punched my shoulder softly. "I don't believe you."
   "It won't be Jean-Claude that breaks us up, Ronnie. If Richard's been lying to me for months . . ." I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't have to.
   We were outside the Nature Company. It was crawling with people like a jar of lightning bugs abuzz with activity, but not half as bright.
   "What exactly has Richard lied about?"
   "He didn't tell me about this battle he's got going with Marcus."
   "And you tell him everything," she said.
   "Well, no."
   "He hasn't lied to you, Anita. He just didn't tell you. Let him explain. Maybe he's got a good reason."
   I turned and looked full at her. Her face was all soft with concern. It made me look away. "He's been in danger for months, and didn't tell me. I needed to know."
   "Maybe he couldn't tell you. You won't know until you ask him."
   "I saw lycanthropes last night, Ronnie." I shook my head. "What I saw last night wasn't human. It wasn't even close."
   "So he's not human. No one's perfect."
   I looked at her then. She was smiling at me. I had to smile back. "I'll talk to him."
   "Call him before we leave the mall and set up a dinner for today."
   "You are so pushy," I said.
   She shrugged. "I've learned from the best."
   "Thanks," I said. "What have you learned from George Smitz?"
   "Nothing new to add to the folder you showed me. Except he doesn't seem to know that his wife is one of eight missing shapeshifters. He thinks she's the only one. I got a picture of her. You need pictures of the others. First thing you need in a missing-person case is a picture. Without a picture you could pass them on the street and not know it."
   "I'll ask Kaspar about pictures."
   "Not Richard?"
   "I'm sort of mad at him. I don't want to ask him for help."
   "You're being petty."
   "It's one of my best traits."
   "I'll check out the usual channels for a missing person, but if they're all lycanthropes, I bet it isn't a missing person."
   "You think they're dead?"
   "Don't you?"
   "Yeah."
   "But what could take out eight shapeshifters without a trace?" she asked.
   "That's got me worried, too." I touched her arm. "You wear your gun from now on."
   She smiled. "I promise, Mommy."
   I shook my head. "Shall we brave one more store? If I can get Josh's gift, I'll be halfway done."
   "You'll have to buy Richard a present, you know."
   "What?"
   "You have to buy your steady a gift. It's traditional."
   "Shit." I was halfway mad at him, but she was right. Fighting or not, I had to buy him something. What if he bought me something, and I didn't? I'd feel guilty. If I bought something and he didn't, then I could feel superior. Or angry. I was almost hoping he wouldn't buy me anything.
   Was I looking for an excuse to dump Richard? Maybe. Of course, maybe after we talked he'd give me a good excuse on a silver, excuse me, golden platter. I was ready for a knock-down, drag-out fight. It did not bode well.