I kept Hardin between me and the cameras as we walked to the crime scene.

She spoke to a guy in a suit, then turned to make introductions.

"Kitty Norville, Detective Salazar."

The detective's eyes got wide, and he smirked. "The werewolf celebrity?"

"Yeah," I said, an edge of challenge in my voice. I offered my hand. For a minute I didn't think he was going to shake it, but he did. He stood six inches taller than me, and I didn't look that scary. And I had a winning smile.

Salazar said to Hardin, "You sure this is a good idea? If those guys find out she's here, they're going to have a field day." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the news vans.

That was all I needed, my face all over the nightly news: "Werewolves Loose Downtown."

"I'll keep an eye on them. She's a consultant, that's all."

Too late. We were already attracting attention. One of the cameras pointed at us. A woman reporter in a tailored skirt suit glanced at the camera, then at us. As soon as their attention was on us, the other news teams looked to see what they'd found. In my jeans and sweater, I was obviously a civilian in a place where the cops didn't normally allow civilians. The media would ask questions. I turned my back to the newspeople.

"I don't like cameras," I said. "I'd rather people don't know what I look like."

"Okay." Hardin shifted, blocking the cameras' view of me. "Salazar, get people into those buildings to make sure they don't try filming down from the windows."

"Already done."

"Good. This shouldn't take too long."

"Let's just get it over with," I said. Salazar led us both to the mourn of the alley.

I'd seen what werewolves and vampires could do when they really lost it, when all they knew was blood and slaughter. Shredded venison. Deer guts everywhere, with a half-dozen wolves swimming in the carcass. I thought I knew what to expect. This was nothing like it.

Her eyes were open. Blood caked her dark hair, splattered her slack face, but I saw the eyes first, frozen and glistening. The head was about four feet away from the rest of the remains. My vision gave out for a moment, turning splotchy. There were pieces. Legs twisted one way, naked arms and torso twisted another way, clothing torn right along with them. A spill of organs—shining, dark lumps—lay between them. Like rejects from a butcher's shop, not something that belonged out in the street, in the open.

The worst part was, I could work out how the attacker had done it. Claws together in the belly, ripped outward in opposite directions, jaws on the throat—

I was human. I couldn't do that. I couldn't think it. But the Wolf could. Did. For a second, I didn't know which I was, because I was stuck between them. I had to remind myself who I was. I covered my mouth and turned away.

Some joker in a uniform laughed. "And you call yourself a monster."

I glared—another wolf would have taken it as a challenge. But this clown couldn't read the sign.

"I've never ripped anyone's throat out," I said. Though I got close with Zan…

Hardin stood at my shoulder. "She's the third one to match this MO in the last two months. The first two were written off as wild animal mauling deaths. Coyotes, maybe. Then I started asking questions. We found that the saliva on the bite wounds is human. Mostly human, anyway."

I turned the corner out of the alley and leaned against the wall. So. Could werewolves really overcome their natures to be productive members of society, or was I just blowing smoke? I wanted to believe a lycanthrope hadn't done this. Hardin was wrong; this was some animal—

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

The smell of blood and decay was overpowering. The victim had been lying here since the previous night. Carrion, my other self hinted, salivating. Stop it. I went further, to the little smells that fringed my senses, like the flash of sunlight on rippling water.

Tar and asphalt. Car exhaust. Hardin had brushed her teeth recently. Mint and tobacco. Rats. And… there it was. A wild smell, incongruous with the city's signature scents. Musky and fierce. And human, under it all. Male. He smelled of skin and fur.

I didn't recognize the individual scent mark. Nor did it smell like my pack—Carl's group. I was almost relieved. Except that it meant we had a rogue wolf running around.

"It's a werewolf," I said, opening my eyes.

Hardin was watching me, her gaze narrowed. "Friend of yours?"

I glared. "No. Look, you asked for my help, but if you're going to go all suspicious on me, I'm going to leave."

"Sorry," she said, holding up her hands in a defensive gesture. "But if I understand it correctly, if I was listening close enough to your show, you have packs, right? Can I assume that you know other werewolves in the city?"

She'd done some homework, for which I had to give grudging admiration. She stood close—but not so close she couldn't duck out of arm's reach in a second—one arm propped on the wall. Her expression wasn't inquisitive anymore. She wasn't looking to me for an answer. Suspicion radiated off her.

"You didn't bring me here as a consultant," I said. "You think I can tell you who did this. You want me for questioning."

She bowed her head for a moment; when she returned her gaze to me, her determined expression confirmed it. "You said you could smell it. If you know who did this, I really need you to tell me."

"I don't know who did this. You have to believe me."

"I could take you in as a material witness."

"Witness? I didn't see anything!"

"You're in possession of a piece of evidence our forensics people don't have. That makes you a witness."

My head was spinning. She'd drawn me straight into the middle of this, but there was no way she could hold me there. Precedents, legal precedents—I was going to need a research assistant before too long. Was I out of my mind? There weren't going to be any legal precedents.

Hardin continued. "Would you recognize the wolf that did this if you ran into him?"

"Yeah. I think I would."

"Then keep in touch. Let me know if you find out anything. That's all I want."

She wanted me to be a freakin' witness for a crime I had nothing to do with and was nowhere near. The manipulative bitch.

"There's no way in hell an after-the-fact witness by smell would be admissible in court. The courts aren't going to know what to do with that kind of testimony."

"Not yet," she said with a wry smile. "Give me another minute and I'll drive you back."

One of the reporters, the woman in the suit, was waiting for us at Hardin's car. A man held a camera pointed at us, over her shoulder.

"Shit," I muttered.

Hardin frowned. "Ignore them. Walk by like they're not even there."

"They can't air pictures of me without my permission, right?"

"They can. Sorry."

I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, unwilling to lose my dignity to the point of covering my face. Besides, it was too late.

The reporter dodged Hardin and came straight toward me, wielding a microphone. "Angela Bryant, KTNC. You're Kitty Norville, the radio show host, right? What is your involvement with this case, Ms. Norville? Are you a witness? Is there a supernatural element to these deaths?"

For once, I kept my mouth shut. I let Hardin open the car door and close it when I'd climbed inside. Calmly, she made her way around to the driver's side. I propped my elbow on the inside door and shielded my face with my hand.

We drove away.

Hardin said, "For a celebrity, you're a shy one."

"I've always liked radio for its anonymity."

We stopped in front of the KNOB studio. I was about to get out of the car—slink out of the car as innocently as I could—when Hardin stopped me.

"One more question." I braced. She reached into her coat pocket. "I felt stupid when I went looking for these. But they were easier to find than I thought they'd be. I guess there really is a market for this kind of thing. I have to know, though—will they work?"