I made it to some halfass cover—a row of boxes to one side of the television. The angle was bad, but I could at least see a slice of the porch and, hopefully, whatever was at the door.

Dust got in my nose as I shimmied behind the boxes. The urge to sneeze filled my nose, trickled down my throat, and damn near made my eyes water. Do this right, Dru. You’ll only get one shot. I got my legs up under me as another flurry of taps hit the door.

I rose, carefully, slowly. Peered over the top of a box holding spare clothes and blankets.

The angle was indeed bad. But through the glass, I could see a moving shadow as whatever was out there shifted weight, probably from one foot to the other.

Assuming it had only two feet.

But weird stuff usually only came out at night. This was wrong, all wrong. I pointed the gun carefully, braced myself. The top of my head felt very, very exposed, poking above the boxes.

“Dru—” Graves half-whispered. There was a queer sliding noise, ending with a click.

What the hell was that? The shadow moved slightly.

“Dru—” Graves, again. Like we were in class and he was trying to pass a note or get someone to copy from.

Yeah, sure, like this kid’s ever copied. Puh-leeze. “Shut up,” I whispered, as quietly as I could. Should I take a shot through the wall? I thought the angle was better over here. Dammit.

“The door,” Graves whispered. “The locks are moving.”

Oh shit. I scrambled to my feet and launched myself over the boxes. It was an amazing leap—I don’t even remember my wet boots touching the floor on the other side. I piled into the hall past Graves, shoving him down and aside. The door, its locks rotating and clicking into the open position, the knob turning slowly and paradoxically too fast for me to stop it; I barely got the safety off, raised the gun as the door blew open, a wave of intense cold streaking down the hall.

The lightning-crackle of the warding didn’t even slow him down.

The blue-eyed boy’s fingers closed around my wrist, and he casually twisted the gun free. It clattered on the floor, thankfully not going off.

There’s one thing to be said for your dad leaving you a fifty and a reminder to do your katas. When a bad guy busts into your house and grabs you, you can punch him in the face hard enough to make him stagger back, blood pouring from his patrician nose.

Red blood. Not black, and not sheened with the opalescent slug-trail of sucker blood. Memory clicked inside my head—the drips on the snow that night had been red blood too.

Suckers bleed black; there is no hemoglobin left in them. It was why they needed fresh transfusions all the time. I hadn’t thought of it before, too tired and scared to think anything like straight.

Too late now.

What the hell?

He stumbled back, his hair no longer dark-wet and sleek but light brown and shaggy, and I took a step, foot coming down solid and other leg bending, knee jackhammering up, and I got him a good one in the nuts—or would have if his arm hadn’t swept down and smashed right above my knee, harder than anything human had a right to hit, deflecting my knee just a little bit. A burst of apple-pie scent came out of somewhere and hit me in the face.

Graves finally let out a yell. The blue eyes flickered past me, but I was already moving. Dad always said that the nut shot was great if it went through, but a girl always had to have a backup—because a guy won’t expect you to go for the nuts and for something else.

I guess since the groin is the center of a guy’s world, he rarely guesses it isn’t the center of yours.

My fist, already folded up, headed for his throat like an express train. Next came the open palm, the heel of the hand striking just under the nose and driving up so the nasal promontory broke and slid into the brain. If I could just move fast enough.

Work it, Dru! Harder! Harder! Dad’s voice, yelling—but there was no time for that, because there was a shattering roar behind me and something bulleted past, something long and lean, moving faster than it had any right to, hard to look at because it was blurring like clay under fast-running water. It hit the blue-eyed boy and threw him back at least six feet, and they were still going when the boy’s head clipped the lintel and they tumbled out the door, onto the porch, and out of sight.

What the—? But I was already moving, forgetting the gun and tearing for the front door. The noise was immense, a growling roar mixed in with high-pitched but unmistakably male laughter, along with thumping that shook the whole house.

That was Graves. Hairy and moving like a bullet on speed.

He wasn’t supposed to change! It seemed to take forever to reach the door, and by that time they had shattered the porch railing and dumped off into the front yard. There was a sickening crack! and an amazing fountain of snow jetted up.

“Stop it!” I screamed, but they weren’t paying any attention. There was so much snow it was hard to see what was happening, but it looked like the blue-eyed boy had Graves—or what had been Graves—by the scruff and was flinging him around.

I took three steps, launched myself off the porch, and flew just like Supergirl, fists outstretched. I tackled the blue-eyed boy hard, all the breath driven out of me and my shoulder giving a huge burst of pain, and knocked him ass-over-teakettle. We went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and I gave the kid a good sock in the stomach before I realized what he was yelling.

“I’m here to help you, fucking morons!”

I rolled free, snow stinging my hands and face, and leaped to my feet just as Graves launched himself again. Time slowed down; my hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his wild, curly hair—wilder and curlier now. He wasn’t furry all over, but he was changed, something inhuman shining out through his burning-green eyes and the air hardening and shimmering around him like heat off a black sidewalk.

I gave a huge yank, only mildly concerned at the fact that I shouldn’t have been able to move fast enough to catch him. The world had gotten very, well, basic, and the fact that this new kid was bleeding red had just truly made its way through a haze of adrenaline.

Better not rabbit anymore, Dru. Come on. Control the situation.

My abused shoulder gave a howl, but I held on grimly; Graves’s legs flipped out from under him, and he let out a sound like that dog in the cartoons reaching the end of his chain and getting roinked but good. I let out a hurt little cry, my fingers cramping, and Graves hit the ground, his hair—vital, curly, springing with harsh life—slipping free of my hand.

“Where the hell did you get that?” the blue-eyed boy snarled. His face was a mask of blood, the right half already puffing up and discolored from my first punch. He was, again, not dressed for the weather—a black V-neck sweater about as thick as a piece of paper, jeans, and black sneakers caked with snow. I caught another breath of a good, spicy apple smell, and wondered if one of the neighbors was baking.

Sunlight gilded his hair, bringing out blond highlights in the brown. It looked like a new, expensive shaggy cut, and when Graves snarled at him he snarled back, lips peeling back and exposing teeth that were only bluntly human. They both made rumbling sounds—Graves like a huge-ass, very pissed-off dog, and Blue Eyes like metal rubbing against itself.

“Just hold on a minute.” I reached down. Graves had struggled up to sit on his haunches in the snow. He was still actually growling, a low deep thrumming sound that rattled my teeth. Just to be safe, I put a hand on his head—not that I’d be able to stop him if he launched himself now, but it was worth a try. “Graves? Hold on a second, please.”