"Did you check to see no one else was in the building?" Clifford asked in a whisper.

Dahlia looked a bit surprised. "No," she said. She shrugged. "Whoever's there must take his chances along with the Rippers."

Clifford huffed a little over this, but Dahlia fixed him with her glowing green eyes and he subsided. Dahlia could tell the young Were was not so enchanted with her as he had been; he undoubtedly thought he understood a little better now why his elders in the pack avoided the undead.

But Clifford had promised he'd help tonight, and he would complete his task. Unless Dahlia's observational skills were faulty, and she didn't think they were, the young Were was also a little excited by the prospect of the special hunt later on.

The three stood across the street in a recessed doorway, watching the Ripper pack in their very own gym. Suddenly, the lights in the gym went out. Clifford almost howled. He knew the Weres inside were changing into their other forms, and he longed to change, too.

"Just a few more minutes, young Were," Dahlia said, gripping his arm with a force that recalled Clifford to his duties.

"Now's the time to use the grimoire." Clifford had been studying it most of the day. The words he had to repeat seemed to hurt his throat when he spoke them, but Clifford persevered. When the last word had clicked the spell into place, he heard a dismal howl float through the air. It was faint because it issued from the glass-walled second story of the building across from them. A chorus of other howls followed in its wake.

Dahlia and Taffy smiled at each other.

Taffy, and then Dahlia, embraced Clifford.

"Thank you, friend," Taffy said. "We owe you."

Dahlia gave him a cold kiss on the cheek, having to stretch up on her toes to deliver it. "I won't forget what you've done for Todd these past few days. Now, go enjoy your moon time."

Clifford didn't need telling twice. In a flash, he was bounding down the street to find his pack, who ran out by the reservoir. He could hardly wait. The Swiftfoot pack was going to have a special hunt tonight, though the chosen prey didn't know it yet. He'd be told soon enough.

The pack would give Bart a head start, because that was only sporting. The packmembers had been democratic about it; they'd voted on whether or not to accept a cheater as their second in command. Unfortunately for Bart, who hadn't been invited to the pre-change meeting, the vote against him had been unanimous.

The public door into the building lobby was still open, and Dahlia and Taffy entered as silently as snowflakes. They took the stairs up to the gym, just in case any Weres were trying to slink down. They found one confused female, and they herded her back into the large open room to join the others.

"We need more light," Taffy said, and found the switch. She could see wonderfully well without any help. The moon's radiance was flowing through all the glass walls. But she wanted to view the whole picture, and then she wanted to take a few. She'd brought her Nokia camera along.

They were all hairless, all the wolves. They were embarrassed and horrified and naked and bare, because they retained just enough of their human selves to understand their condition. Taffy laughed until she felt sick, and even Dahlia had a broad smile.

A few of the large wolves growled at the two vampires, but most of them seemed to be completely demoralized by their own state. They whined and paced while Taffy took pictures.

"What do you think this is?" Dahlia said conversationally, holding the big sack out. She supported it without effort, though she was a very small woman and the sack was very full and heavy.

The yellow wolf eyes focused on the bag and the sensitive wolf noses sniffed the air. All the wolves rose to their feet. Just then, whatever was inside woke up, and gave a big questioning snuffle. Then there was a terrified oink as the creature smelled the wolves.

The Ripper pack began to growl in anticipation.

Taffy turned off the light, just in case someone walked by in the street below. "Ah, yes, you know that smell," she said coaxingly. "You may be hairless, but you're still wolves."

"This is your lucky night," Dahlia said, turning over the sack and dumping a very fat sow onto the gym floor.

In a squeal that sounded very like Kathy Aenidis's voice, the pig tried to tell the Rippers that she was a valued friend of the pack, that she was beloved girlfriend to their packmember Bart. If she could have spoken, she would have reminded the wolves of all the spells she'd cast for them, all the potions she'd brewed—including one that had caused Todd Swiftfoot to become confused and weak and dead.

But tonight the Rippers were wolves, and they'd been humiliated enough to make them on edge and impatient, and they were hungry.

"I've brought you something," Dahlia said. "Look! Bacon!"

It was nap time, and it wasn't often that I could get both children to sleep a full hour—the same full hour, that is. I stepped back and ran my hands over the healing and protection spells that enveloped my babies, Angelina and Evan Jr. The complex incantations were getting a bit frayed around the edges, and I drew on Mother Earth and the forest on the mountainside outback to restore them. Not much power, not enough to endanger the ecosystem that was still being restored there. Just a bit. Just enough.

Few witches or sorcerers survive into puberty, and so I spend a lot of time making sure my babies are okay. I come from a long line of witches. Not the kind in pointy black hats with a cauldron in the front yard, and not the kind like the Bewitched television show that once tried to capitalize on our reclusive species. Witches aren't human, though we can breed true with humans, making little witches about 50 percent of the time. Unfortunately, witch babies have a poor survival rate, especially the males, most dying before they reach the age of twenty, from various cancers. The ones who live through puberty, however, tend to live into their early hundreds.

The day each of my babies were conceived, I prayed and worked the same incantations Mama had used on her children, power-weavings, to make sure my babies were protected. Mama had better-than-average survival rate on her witches. For me, so far, so good. I said a little prayer over them and left the room.

Back in the kitchen, Paul Braxton—Brax to his friends, Detective or Sir to the bad guys he chased—Jane Yellowrock, and Evan were still sitting at the table, the photographs scattered all around. Crime scene photos of the McCarley house. And the McCarleys. It wasn't pretty. The photos didn't belong in my warm, safe home. They didn't belong anywhere.

Evan and I were having trouble with them, with the blood and the butchery. Of course, nothing fazed Jane. And, after years of dealing with crime in New York City, little fazed Brax, though it had been half a decade since he'd seen anything so gruesome, not since he «retired» to the Appalachian mountains and went to work for the local sheriff.

I met Evan's gray eyes, seeing the steely anger there. My husband was easygoing, slow to anger, and full of peace, but the photos of the five McCarleys had triggered something in him, a slow-burning pitiless rage. He was feeling impotent, useless, and he wanted to smash things. The boxing bag in the garage would get a pummeling tonight, after the kids went to bed for the last time. I offered him a wan smile and went to the Aga stove; I poured fresh coffee for the men and tea for Jane and me. She had brought a new variety, a first flush Darjeeling, and it was wonderful with my homemade bread and peach butter.

"Kids okay?" Brax asked, amusement in his tone.