"I'm just angry at Zan. He wouldn't leave me alone. That's all."

"Next time, try asking for help." She prowled off to stash the money.

T.J., beta male, Carl's lieutenant, had been standing behind her. I forgot sometimes that within pack law he had as much right to beat up on me as Carl did. I preferred having him as a friend.

I leaned into T.J., hugging him. Among the pack, touch meant comfort, and I wanted to feel safe. I—the part of me I thought of as human—was slipping away.

"What was that all about?" T.J. said, his voice wary.

"I don't know," I said, but I—she—knew, really. I felt strong. I wasn't afraid. "I'm tired of getting picked on, I guess."

"You'd better be careful—you might turn alpha on us." He smiled, but I couldn't tell if he was joking.

Because the pack hunts together this night, she feeds on deer. An injured buck, rich with flesh and blood. Because she is no longer lowest among them, she gets to taste some of the meat instead of being left with bones and offal.

Others prick their ears and bare their teeth at her in challenge, but the leaders keep them apart. No more fighting this night.

She runs wild and revels in her strength, chasing with the others, all of them singing for joy. Exhausted, she settles, warm and safe, already dreaming of the next moon, when she may once again break free and taste blood.

I woke up at dawn in a dog-pile with half a dozen of the others. This usually happened. We ran, hunted, ate, found a den and settled in to sleep, curled around one another, faces buried in fur, tails tucked in. We were bigger than regular wolves—conservation of mass, a two-hundred-pound man becomes a two-hundred-pound wolf, when a full-grown Canis lupus doesn't get much bigger than a hundred pounds or so. Nothing messed with us.

We always lost consciousness when we Changed back to human.

We woke up naked, cradled in the shelter of our pack. Becky, a thin woman with a crew cut who was a couple of years older than me, lay curled in the crook of my legs. Dav's back was pressed against mine. I was spooned against T.J.'s back, my face pressed to his shoulder. I lay still, absorbing the warmth, the smell, the contentedness. This was one of the good things.

T.J. must have felt me wake up. Heard the change in my breathing or something. He rolled over so we faced each other. He put his arms around me.

"I'm worried about you," he said softly. "Why did you challenge Zan?"

I squirmed. I didn't want to talk about this now, in front of the others. But the breathing around us was steady; they were still asleep.

"I didn't challenge him. I had to defend myself." After a moment I added, "I was angry."

"That's dangerous."

"I know. But I couldn't get away. I couldn't take it anymore."

"You've been teaching yourself how to fight."

"Yeah."

"Carl won't like that."

"I won't do it again." I cringed at the whine creeping into my voice. I hated being so pathetic.

"Yeah, right. I think it's the show. You're getting cocky."

"What?"

"The show is making you cocky. You think you have an answer for everything."

I didn't know what to say to that. The observation caught me off guard. He might have been right. The show was mine; it gave me purpose, something to care about. Something to fight for.

Then he said, "I think Carl's right. I think you should quit."

Not this, not from T.J.

"Carl put you up to this."

"No. I just don't want to see you get hurt. You've got a following. I can see Carl thinking that you're stepping on his toes. I can see this breaking up the pack."

"I would never hurt the pack—"

"Not on purpose."

I snuggled deeper into his embrace. I didn't want to be cocky. I wanted to be safe.

"Next caller, hello. You're on the air."

"It—it's my girlfriend. She won't bite me."

Bobby from St. Louis sounded about twenty, boyish and nervous, a gawky postadolescent with bigger fantasies than he knew what to do with. He probably wore a black leather jacket and had at least one tattoo in a place he could cover with a shirt.

"Okay, Bobby, let's back up a little. Your girlfriend."

"Yeah?"

"Your girlfriend is a werewolf."

"Yeah," he said in a voice gone slightly dreamy.

"And you want her to bite you and infect you with lycanthropy."

"Uh, yeah. She says I don't know what I'd be getting into."

"Do you think that she may be right?"

"Well, it's my decision—"

"Would you force her to have sex with you, Bobby?"

"No! That'd be rape."

"Then don't force her to do this. Just imagine how guilty she'd feel if she did it and you changed your mind afterward. This isn't a tattoo you can have lasered off. We're talking about an entire lifestyle change here. Turning into a bloodthirsty animal once a month, hiding that fact from everyone around you, trying to lead a normal life when you're not fully human. Have you met her pack?"

"Uh, no."

"Then you really don't know what you're talking about when you say you want to be a werewolf."

"Uh, no."

"Bobby, I usually make suggestions rather than tell people flat out what to do, but I'm making an exception in your case. Listen to your girlfriend. She knows a heck of a lot more about it than you do, okay?"

"Uh, okay. Thanks, Kitty."

"Good luck to you, Bobby," I said and clicked Bobby off. "And good luck to Bobby's girlfriend. My advice to her is dump the guy; she doesn't need that kind of stress in her life. You're listening to The Midnight Hour with me, Kitty Norville. The last hour we've been discussing relationships with lycanthropes, bones to pick and beef to grind. Let's break now for station ID and when we come back, more calls."

I waved to Matt through the booth window. He hit the switch. The On-Air sign dimmed and the show's theme song, CCR's "Bad Moon Rising," played. Not the usual synthesized goth fare one might expect with a show like this. I picked the song for its grittiness, and the joy with which it seemed to face impending doom.

I pulled off my headphones and pushed the microphone away. If I'd gotten tired of this, as I expected I would during the first six months, quitting would be easy. But I liked it. I still liked it. I hated making T.J. angry, though. Not in the same way I hated making Carl angry. But still. If they were both pissed off at me, what could I do? I didn't want to give up something that I was proud of, like I was proud of the show. I hated them for making me this stressed out about it.

A werewolf pack was the most codependent group of beings in existence.

"You okay in there?" Matt said. His dark hair was just long enough to tie in a ponytail, and he was a few days late shaving. Anywhere but here he'd have looked disreputable. Behind the control board, he looked right at home.

I had my elbows propped on the desk and was rubbing my temples. I'd been losing sleep. My head hurt. Whine.

"Yeah," I said, straightening and taking a big swallow of coffee. I'd have time enough to stress myself into an ulcer later.

Could werewolves get ulcers?

The two-minute break ended. Matt counted fingers down through the window. The On-Air sign lit, the lights on my caller board lit. Headphones on, phone line punched.

"Welcome back to The Midnight Hour. We have Sarah from Sioux City on the line."

The woman was in tears. She fought not to cry, a losing battle. "Kitty?"

"Hi, Sarah," I said soothingly, bracing myself for the onslaught. "What do you need to talk about?"

"My husband," she said after a shuddering breath. "I caught him last week. I mean, I spied on him." She paused, and I let her collect herself before prompting her.