She opened her hand, revealing a trio of nine-millimeter bullets, shiny and silver. I stared at them like she was holding a poisonous snake at me.

"Yeah," I said. "They'll work."

"Thanks." She pocketed the bullets. "Maybe I should invest in a couple of crosses, too."

"Don't forget the wooden stakes."

Waving a half-assed good-bye, I fled before the conversation could go any further.

The phone rang eight times. Didn't the guy have voice mail? I was about to give up when he finally answered.

"Yeah."

"Cormac? Is this Cormac?"

There was a long pause. Then, "Norville?"

"Yeah. It's me."

"So." Another long pause. Laconic, that was the word. "Why are you calling me?"

"I just talked to the cops. That spate of mauling deaths downtown? A werewolf did it. I didn't recognize the scent. It's a rogue."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

I'd seen his rates. Despite the show's success, I couldn't exactly hire him to hunt the rogue. Did I think he'd do it out of the kindness of his heart?

"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open. Maybe I didn't want you to think it was me."

"How do I know you're not lying to me about it now?"

I winced. "You don't."

"Don't worry. You said it yourself. You're harmless, right?"

"Yeah," I said weakly. "That's me."

"Thanks for the tip." He hung up.

What was it with everyone thinking they could just hang up on me? I never hung up on anybody. At least not outside the show. Well, not often.

Then I realized—I'd talked to the werewolf hunter about this before talking to Carl.

I was going to have to talk to Carl soon anyway. Until now, I'd been avoiding him, but the full moon was tomorrow, and I didn't want to go through it alone. He wasn't going to let the fact that I was still doing the show pass without comment. I'd sort of hoped I could just show up and slink along with the pack without any of them noticing. That was about as likely as me turning up my nose at one of T.J.'s barely cooked steaks. It was really a matter of deciding in which situation—just showing up, or facing him beforehand—I was least likely to get the shit beat out of me. Or in which situation I would get the least amount of shit beat out of me.

Maybe it would have been easier if Cormac had just shot me.

I called T.J. first. My stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick, waiting for him to pick up the phone. I hadn't talked to him since the night outside Obsidian.

He answered. My gut clenched. But it was still good to hear his voice.

"It's me. I need to talk to you. And Carl and Meg."

For a long time, he didn't say anything. I listened hard—was he beating his head against the wall? Growling? Then he said, "I'll pick you up."

I rode behind him on his motorcycle, holding on just enough to keep from falling off. We hadn't spoken yet. I'd waited on the curb for him, shoulders bunched up and slouching. He'd pulled up, and I didn't meet his gaze. I'd climbed on the bike, cowering behind him. He'd turned around and ruffled my hair, a quick pass of his hand over my scalp. I'm not sure what this said. I was sorry that he was angry at me, but I wasn't sorry for anything I'd said or done. I didn't want to fight him, and I didn't want to be submissive. That would be admitting he was right. So I wallowed in doubt. He'd touched me, which meant—which meant that maybe things weren't so bad.

We pulled up in front of Meg and Carl's house. He got off. I stayed on. I didn't want to do this.

T.J. crossed his arms. "This was your idea, remember?"

"He's gonna kill me."

"Come on." He grabbed me behind the neck and pulled. I stumbled off the bike and let him guide me up the driveway, like I was some kind of truant.

He opened the front door and maneuvered me inside.

Carl and Meg were in the kitchen, parked at the breakfast bar like they'd been waiting for us. T.J. had probably called ahead. Meg had been leaning with her elbows on the countertop; Carl had his back to the counter. Both of them straightened. With them in front of me and T.J. behind me, I suddenly felt like I was at a tribunal. I shrugged away from T.J.'s hand. The least I could do was stand on my own feet.

Carl stood before me with his arms crossed, glaring down at me. "You haven't quit the show. What do you have to say for yourself?"

I thought I'd finished with that when I moved out of my parents' house. I shrugged. "I got a raise."

He cocked his hand back to strike, and I ducked. We both froze midmotion. He stood with his fist in the air, and I bowed my back, my knees ready to give, cowering. Then he relaxed, and I did the same, straightening slowly, waiting for him to change his mind and hit me anyway.

This was so fucked up. But all Wolf wanted to do was put her tail between her legs and whine until he told us he loved us again.

His hands opened and closed into fists at his side. "Can't you say anything without trying to get a rise out of people?"

"No."

Carl moved away to stalk up and down the length of the kitchen. Meg, arms crossed, glared at me. I cringed and tried to look contrite, but she wasn't having it.

Nothing to do but plow ahead, now that I was here. What was it some weird philosophy professor had said to me once? What's the worst thing that can happen? You'll die. And we don't know that's bad…

Ah, so that was why I'd changed my major to English.

I wasn't here to talk about me. "The police came to talk to me—"

"What?" T.J. said, gripping my shoulder. Carl and Meg both moved toward me.

I ducked and turned, getting away from T.J.'s grasp and fleeing to the living room, putting the sofa between them and me.

"Just listen. You have to listen to me, dammit!" The sofa wasn't discouraging them. T.J. was coming around it from one side, Meg from the other. Carl looked like he was planning on going straight over. I backed against the wall, wondering if I could jump over him.

I had to talk fast. "A detective called me. They've got a serial killer—mauling deaths. At first they thought it was an animal, a feral dog or something. But now they think it's one of us. They asked me for help. They—they took me to a crime scene today." My breathing came fast. Talking about it, I remembered the scene, what it looked like, the way it smelled. The memory was doing something to me, waking that other part of me. My skin was hot; I rubbed my face. "I saw the body. I smelled it… I know… they're right. It's a werewolf, but I didn't recognize him. There's—it's a rogue, in our… in your territory."

Pressed against the wall, I slid to the floor, holding my face in my hands. I couldn't talk anymore. I remembered the smell, and it was making me sick. Wolf remembered, and it woke her up. Made her hungry. I held on to the feeling of my limbs, my human limbs and the shape of my body.

Then T.J. was kneeling beside me, putting his arms around me, lending me his strength. "Keep it together," he whispered into my hair. "That's a girl."

I hugged him as hard as I could. I settled down somehow, until I was calm enough to breathe normally, and I didn't feel like I was going to burst my skin anymore.

T.J. let me pull away from him. I huddled miserably on the floor. Carl looked like he was going to march over to me. Meg held him back, touching his arm. She stared at me, like she'd never seen me before.

"Why did you agree to talk to them?" she said.

"Don't you think it would have looked a little suspicious if I'd told them to fuck off?"

"What could they have done about it if you had?"

"I couldn't do that. I've got a reputation—"

"That's your problem."

I ran a hand over my hair, which was coming out of its braid and needed washing. This wasn't getting anywhere. How did I word this without seeming like I was questioning them, or ordering them around? "The pack should take care of this, shouldn't it?"