He shrugged noncommittally, as if to say, Who me?

She's a hack," I muttered. Then what the hell does that make you?"

"A has-been, evidently." I brushed back my hair and sighed.

He stood and grabbed his coat and gun off the kitchen counter. "You want a pity party, you can have it by yourself."

"I'm not… this isn't… I'm not looking for your pity."

"Good. 'Cause you're not getting any. If you're a has-been it's your own damn fault."

"Where are you going?"

"Guard duty. If I see any gutted rabbits I'll let you know."

Bang, he slammed the front door behind him and that was that.

I let out a frustrated growl, grabbed the blanket, and cocooned myself on the sofa.

I wasn't a has-been. I wasn't.

Yet.

I woke, startled, and sat up on the sofa. I hadn't heard anything, nothing specific had jolted me awake, but I felt like someone had slammed a door or fired a gun.

Cormac.

He was asleep in a chair, which he'd pulled over to the living-room window. He'd been keeping watch, just like he'd said. But I never thought he'd fall asleep on guard duty. It just wasn't like him.

Whatever had shocked me awake hadn't affected him. He even snored a little, his chin tipped forward so it almost touched his chest.

Outside, the sky was gray. Light, so it was past dawn, but still overcast, like it was about to snow. I had a queasy, stuffy-headed feeling that told me I hadn't gotten enough sleep.

"Cormac?" I said.

Immediately he sat up and put his hand on the revolver he'd left sitting on my desk. Only after looking around, tensed at the edge of the chair as if waiting for an attack, did he say, "What happened?" He didn't look at me; his attention focused on the window and the door.

"Something woke me up," I said.

"I hadn't meant to fall asleep," he said. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep." His hand clenched on his weapon like it was a security blanket. He didn't pick it up, but I had no doubt he could aim and shoot it in a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeats, his had sped up. I could hear it, and smell his anxiety. He wasn't used to getting caught off guard. His fear fed mine.

"Something's out there," I whispered.

"You hear something?"

"I don't know." I concentrated, trying yet again to remember what my senses had told me, what exactly had fired my nerves awake.

I smelled blood. It wasn't new blood, fresh blood. It was old, rotten, stinking. And not just a little, but a slaughter­house's worth. A massive amount, and it was everywhere, as if someone had painted the walls with it. No—no—

Get a grip. Keep it together.

"Do you smell something?" I said, my voice cracking. Of course he didn't. Not like this. How could he?

"I assume you mean something out of the ordinary."

"Blood."

"Are you okay?"

I went to the door. Get out.

My hand on the knob, I squeezed my eyes shut. There wasn't a voice. I hadn't heard anything. I cracked open the door.

The smell washed over me. I'd never sensed anything like it. The odor was hateful, oppressive, like it was attack­ing me. Could a smell be evil?

"There's something out there," I said. And it hated me. It had left all those signs that it hated me.

"Move over." Cormac, gun raised, displaced me from in front of the door. "Stay back."

I did, holding my clenched hands to my chest. He opened the door a little wider. His gun arm led the way as he stepped out, the weapon ready to face the lurking danger.

Sheltered behind the door, I watched his face. His expression never changed. It stayed cold, stony—his pro­fessional look. Then he froze.

"Jesus Christ," he said, his voice filled with something like awe. He didn't lower his weapon.

I slipped out the door to stand next to him on the porch and looked out.

All around the clearing in front of the house, carcasses hung from the lower branches of trees. Skinless—pink and bloody, wet with a sheen of fat and flesh, the dead animals were hung up by their hind legs, so that their front legs and heads dangled. Their teeth—the sharp teeth of carnivores—were bared, and lidless eyes stared. There must have been a dozen of them. They swayed a little on their ropes, ghosts in the dawn light.

I moved forward, like that would help me see better—like I even wanted to see them better—and leaned against the porch railing. They looked alien and terrible, so that I couldn't identify them at first. Four legs, straight naked tails, slim bodies with round rib cages and narrow hips. Heads with narrow snouts and triangular ears.

They were dogs. Some kind of dogs. Canines. Wolflike.

I made a noise like a sob.

I had to get out of here, but I couldn't, not yet, not until I'd gotten Ben through the full moon. But the walls were closing in. And there weren't even walls out here. The dead eyes all stared at me. Get out.

"Kitty?"

"Who hates me this much?" I started crying. Tension, exhaustion, uncertainty—in the space of a few days my whole life had fallen apart, and I didn't know what to do about it. It all just came out.

I stumbled back, away from the mess, and bumped into Cormac. Then I leaned into him. He was close, and I needed a shoulder, so I turned to his. Eyes leaking and nose dripping on his T-shirt, I let it all out, feeling profoundly embarrassed about it even as I did. I didn't care.

He put his arms around me. He held me firmly without squeezing, moving one hand to stroke my hair. For some reason this made me cry harder.

I didn't like being an alpha. For the last couple of days, I'd been pulling out alpha left and right. Now, though, Cormac was willing to take care of me, at least for a little while. I was profoundly grateful.

"We'll figure it out," he said softly. "After tomorrow, we'll work on figuring this out."

Tomorrow. After the full moon. After we got all that sorted out. I held on to him.

Arm around my shoulder, he guided me inside, shut the door, and set his gun on the desk. I stayed close to him. I didn't want him to pull away, and he took the hint. We stood there for a long time; I clung to him, and he kept his arms around me. I felt safer, believing he could actu­ally protect me from the horrors outside.

"You're being very patient with me," I said, murmur­ing into his T-shirt.

"Hm. It's not every day a woman throws herself into my arms. I have to take advantage of it while I can."

I made a complaining noise. "I didn't throw myself into your arms."

"Whatever you say."

I chuckled in spite of myself. When I tilted my head back, I saw he was smiling.

"You'd better be careful," I said. "You're getting to be downright likable."

I could kiss him. Another two inches closer—standing on my toes—and I could kiss him. His hand shifted on my back, flattening like he was getting ready to hold me steady, like he wanted to kiss me, too. Then the hand moved away. He touched my cheek, smoothed away the tears. He pulled back.

"I'll start some coffee," he said, and went to the kitchen.

Part of me was relieved. All of me was confused. I covered up the confusion with my usual lame bravado. "There, you're doing it again. Being nice."

He ignored me. Cormac, back to normal.

We discussed the situation at the kitchen table over cups of fresh coffee.

"Whoever's doing this doesn't want to kill me," I said.

"But that's some pretty twisted stuff out there. It's all aimed at you, and it's escalating."

"What's next, if I don't listen to it now?"

"Listen to it? What's it saying?"

"Leave. Get out of here. Someone doesn't want me to be here. You'd think they could just write a note."

"Just because they haven't tried to kill you yet doesn't mean they won't. If you don't leave, and if they get des­perate enough."