Finally he said, "Be careful."

"Yeah. You, too." I turned away, walking to the back of the alley.

"Don't try to fight him, Kitty. He's bigger than you. Just find him, and I'll take care of it."

I nodded.

Holding her back felt a little like holding my breath. As soon as I thought of shifting to Wolf, the Change started, sensations coursing with my blood, waking those nerves and instincts that lay buried most of the time. Any time except full moon nights, I could hold it back. But if I wanted to shift, I just had to let that breath out, think of exhaling, and the next breath would belong to her.

My back bent, the first convulsion racking me. Think of water, let it slide, and fur sprouted in waves down my back and arms, needles piercing skin. I grunted, blocking the pain. Then claws, then teeth and bones and muscle—

She shakes, ruffling her fur and slipping into her muscles.

Her ears prick, and she raises her head to see the figure nearby. He stands on two legs and smells of danger, of mechanical pain. Her other self recognizes the weapons that can kill her.

Her other self also recognizes him, and keeps her hackles flat and buries the growls.

"Norville?"

Tension, anxiety, fear. She can take him, kill him if she has to. He's weak. But those weapons are stronger. They smell of fire.

"You in there? You know who I am?"

The tone is questioning, seeking reassurance. His anxiety isn't because of her, because there's another danger. The other one, the rogue, the outcast. She remembers.

Identifying him as friend, she wags her tail.

"Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."

He says this to her back, because she's already running.

She seeks the one who has invaded her territory, caused havoc, broken the code. He's run far ahead, but the night is still, the ground is clear, and she can smell him, chase him, like she would a rabbit. With her nose close to the ground, her legs racing, her muscles flowing, close to flying, she will find him. Her mouth hangs open a little; her tongue tastes the air.

Closer, she gets closer. He's turned up ahead. She feels a thrill because he's trying to confuse her, to make her lose him, but she isn't fooled. Stretching full-out, running hard, she turns the corner.

He is waiting for her.

He strikes, tumbling into her from the side. She doesn't have time to stop or swerve. He lays his paws on her, clamps his teeth around her throat, and they roll in a tangle of legs. Snarls, driven from the belly and guttural, echo.

Her speed carries her away from him, sends her rolling out of his grasp and away from his teeth, but she is dazed. She shakes her head. He doesn't hesitate, springing to his feet and leaping at her again. She braces, her lips pulled tight from bared teeth. When he is about to reach her, she rears to meet him, their front legs locking around each other's shoulders, teeth snapping at whatever purchase they can find.

He is so much larger than she, though. He pushes her over without effort; she falls on her back, with him on top of her, her throat and belly exposed. She writhes, kicking, desperate to protect herself. He bites hard catching her upper foreleg, and she yelps. The noise of pain spurs her to frenzy.

She arches forward, closes her teeth under his jaw, bites hard. Taste of blood. He cringes back, and she twists to her feet, is up and running.

Instinct, fear drive her away. She runs, wanting to escape, but he is faster. He jumps, catches her hind end, sends her sprawling. His claws dig into her fur, searching for flesh, scrabbling over her, pinning her to the ground. A memory of hate and wrongness surfaces. He has no right to do this. He is outcast. But he is stronger. If she showed submission, if she whined and turned her belly to him, would he listen? Would he stop?

She doesn't think so. He would kill her.

She can't let him. She also thinks, He may be stronger. But I am better.

That other voice, the day self, the human, says: his eyes. Tear his face.

He climbs her, gnawing her fur and the tough skin of her shoulder, looking for the soft parts, for the chance to rip into her. His weight presses down on her, pinning her no matter how she struggles. She waits until he comes close, until his face is at her neck. Then she attacks.

Jaws open, she lunges. His muzzle is turned down, buried in her hackles. She slams into the top of his face, as hard as she can. Surprised, he pulls back. Released from his weight, her sinewy body twists back on itself. She smashes her mouth into him, searching for purchase, chewing, doubling her effort when her teeth find soft targets, when she can feel his flesh popping, shredding.

He squeals, scrambling backward. She will not let go; he's dragging her with him by the grip she has on his face, her canines hooked into his eye sockets. Her snarls sound like a roar.

He bows, head low to the ground, and swats at her with his forelegs, like he is trying to scrape mud off his face. His claws slash her face; the pain barely registers. He has made himself lower than she, has exposed himself. Has shown fear.

Opening her mouth, she dives at his throat so fast he doesn't even flinch.

She gnaws, breaking skin. Blood erupts into her mouth, washes warm over her muzzle. When she finds a firm grasp, she shakes, worries, mauls, back and forth as much as she can. He's too large for her to toss around properly. But she has this piece of him, and it is hers, and the blood flows hot and fast. The thick taste of it makes her dizzy, ecstatic.

His struggles fade to a reflexive kicking, then nothing.

Blood covers his neck and chest, and her own face, neck, and chest. She licks her muzzle, then she licks him, burying her nose in the wound she made. She keeps growling as she digs into him. Bites, rips, gnaws, swallows.

The body under her is shifting as she feeds. The fur shrinks to naked skin, the muscles melt, the bones reform, until she is digging into the neck of a human body.

"Norville!"

Crack, a sound like thunder bursts, with a smell like fire. She recoils, springing to stand a foot away from where she was, to assess the danger. Her nostrils quiver.

The man, the dangerous one, the friend, stands there, arm pointing up, hand holding the source of the burning smell. The weapon.

"Kitty!" he shouts and stomps toward her, radiating a fierce challenge. She trots a couple of steps away and circles back, staring. Does he mean it?

Pounding human footsteps travel toward them. More of them arrive, smelling of weapons, anxiety, danger. They are pointing at her.

The man yells, "Hardin, hold your fire! It's Kitty!"

There are too many of them.

She runs.

She runs for a long distance, until the world is quiet and the smells are peaceful. She searches for trees, shelter, comfortable scents, finds none of these. She's far from home, doesn't know this place.

A patch of dry ground in the corner between two walls makes an uncomfortable but acceptable den. She is hurt—aches in her face, leg, and shoulders, a sharp pain in her back. She needs rest. She misses the others. There should be others. There should be pack, for her to feel safe.