He made an annoyed sigh. "I wanted to talk to you about your revelation. I'd wondered, of course. About your identity. This is a very brave move you've made."

"How so?"

"You've exposed yourself. But you've also created an opportunity. You might be making my job easier."

"You still haven't told me what your job is."

"I think you know more than you're letting on."

He'd mentioned the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. He must have been involved with that project, involved with reporting the findings to the government.

"Let's check that," I said. "The publicity my show is generating in some way lends weight to the research that's going on. You're trying to bring attention to that study, and my show is opening the door to that. Doing the leg-work for you. Before too long, people will be demanding that the study be exposed."

"That's a distinct possibility." He sounded like he was smiling, like he was pleased.

"Can I ask a couple of questions?"

"I reserve the right not to answer."

"Oh, always. Why wasn't that study given more publicity to begin with? It's over a year old. It wasn't classified, but it was just… ignored."

"Ironically, classifying it would have drawn more attention to it, and some people don't want that. As for publicizing it—secrecy is a powerful tool among some communities."

Like vampires. I had my own streak of paranoia in that regard. "Next question. How did you get your test subjects to participate? Based on that secrecy you just mentioned, why would they submit to examination?"

"May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"If there were a cure, would you take it?"

A couple of months after the attack, when I'd gotten over the shock and started finding my feet again, I did a lot of research. I read about wolves. I read all the folklore I could get my hands on. A lot of stories talked about cures. Kill the wolf that made the werewolf. I couldn't try that one. Drink a tea made of wolfsbane under a new moon. That one just made me sick.

Then I gave up. Because it wasn't so bad, really.

"I don't know," I said finally. "Does the name Elijah Smith ring a bell with you?"

"No. Should it?"

"You might want to look it up. Is that what you guys are doing? Looking for a cure?"

"Tell me—who do you talk to when you need advice?"

What was this, a game of questions? "Are you offering to be my bartender?"

"No. I just—I respect you. Good-bye, Ms. Norville."

"Wait—" But he'd already hung up.

I needed a drink. I needed a bodyguard.

The phone rang again, and I nearly jumped out of my chair. I swear to God, if I wasn't doing a call-in radio show, I'd get an unlisted number.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Norville?"

"Hello, Detective Hardin."

"You remember me. Good."

"I'm not likely to forget that night." Probably the second-most-fear-intensive night of my life.

"No, I guess not. I wondered if I could get you to do a little consulting on a case."

"What about?"

She paused; I could hear her drawing a deep breath over the phone, like she was steeling herself. "It's a crime scene. A murder."

I closed my eyes. "And you think something supernatural did it."

"I'm pretty sure. But I want a second opinion before I start making noise. It could get ugly."

She was telling me? All it would take was one rogue vampire sucking dry an adorable preteen girl. "You know I don't have any sort of training in this, no forensics or even first aid."

"I know. But you're the only person I know who has any familiarity with this subject."

"Except for Cormac, eh?"

"I don't trust him."

That was something, anyway, getting a cop to trust a monster more man a monster killer. Maybe the show was doing some good after all. Maybe my being exposed would do some good.

"I'll need a ride."

"I'm on my way."

Hardin picked me up in an unmarked police sedan. As soon as she pulled away from the curb she started a rambling monologue. It sounded casual, but her knuckles were white and her brow was furrowed. She was also smoking, sucking on her cigarette like it was her first all day, tapping the ashes out the cracked window.

"I started listening to your show. That night we got called to your studio was so weird—I was curious. I still am. I'm learning more all the time. I've been going over all our mauling death cases from the last few years. Most of them are too old to have any evidence to follow up on, or we caught the animal that did it. But now—I don't think I can ever write off one of these to wild dogs again. You convinced me. You guys are known for ripping people's throats out."

She looked at me sideways, smiling grimly. She had dark hair tied in a short ponytail. Hazel eyes. Didn't wear makeup. Her clothes were functional—shirt, trousers, and blazer. Nothing glamorous about her. She was intensely straightforward.

I slumped against the passenger-side door. "We don't all rip people's throats out."

"Fair enough. Anyway, a year ago I would have been looking for a pack of wild dingoes escaped from the zoo on a case like this. But now—"

"You're stalling. How bad is it?"

She gripped the steering wheel. "I don't know. How strong is your stomach?"

I hesitated. I ate raw meat on a regular basis, but not by preference. "It depends on what I'm doing," I said, dodging.

"What do you mean, what you're doing?"

How did I explain that it depended on how many legs I was walking on at the time? I couldn't guess if that would freak her out. She might try to arrest me. Best to let it go. "Never mind."

"She was a prostitute, eighteen years old. The body is in three separate pieces. Not counting fragments. Jagged wounds consistent with the bite and claw marks of a large predator. The… mass of the remains does not initially appear to equal the original mass of the victim."

"Shit," I muttered, rubbing my forehead. She'd been eaten. Maybe I wasn't ready for this after all.

"It wasn't a full moon last night," she said. "Could it still be a werewolf that did it?"

"Werewolves can shape-shift any time they want. Full moon nights are the only time they have to."

"How do I tell if this is a lycanthrope and not a big, angry dog?"

"Smell," I said without thinking.

"What?"

"Smell. A lycanthrope smells different. At least to another lycanthrope."

"Okay," she drawled. "And if you aren't around to use as a bloodhound?"

I sighed. "If you can find DNA samples of the attacker, there are markers. There's an obscure CDC report about lycanthrope DNA markers. I'll get you the reference. Are you sure it wasn't just a big dog?"

If the attacker were a werewolf, it would just about have to be one of Carl's pack. But I didn't think any of them were capable of hunting in the city, of going rogue like that. They'd have to answer to Carl. If there were a strange werewolf in town, Carl would confront him for invading his territory.

I dreaded what I was going to find. If I smelled the pack at this place, if I could tell who did it—did I tell Hardin, or did I make excuses until I talked to Carl? Nervously, I tapped my foot on the floorboard. Hardin glanced at it, so I stopped.

We drove to Capitol Hill, the bad part of town even for people like me. Lots of old-fashioned, one-story houses gone to ruin, overgrown yards, gangbanger cars cruising the intersections in daylight. The whole street was cordoned off by police cruisers and yellow tape. A uniformed officer waved Hardin through. She parked on the curb near an alley. An ambulance was parked there, and the place crawled with people wearing uniforms and plastic gloves.

In addition, vans from three different local news stations were parked at the end of the street. Cameramen hefted video cameras; a few well-dressed people who must have been reporters lurked nearby. The police were keeping them back, but the cameramen had their equipment aimed like the film was rolling.