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 sc.r.a.pe 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 a.s.sess 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 a"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.

All she can do is curl tight around herself, snugged in the corner of the den.

Chapter 11.

Sirens woke me.

I tried to stretch and moved about an inch before pain froze me. I groaned. I felt totally hung over. It was still pitch dark out, middle of the night, which meant I hadn't slept very long. I needed more time to sleep and recover from shifting back from the Wolf before I'd feel decent.

I bent my elbow enough to pillow my head. I was curled up in the corner formed by a brick wall and a wooden fence. I had no idea where I was. But I heard sirens. Police, ambulance.

I remembered enough of the last hour or so to not be entirely confused. I licked my teeth and tasted the blood. Blood still coated my mouth. I curled up tighter, squeezing shut my eyes.

Footsteps crunched up the gravel alleyway.

"Norville. You awake?"

For all my earlier lack of modesty, I now felt thoroughly naked. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged myself, covering myself as much as I could.

The footsteps stopped. I looked. A few steps away, Cormac knelt. He offered a blanket. When I tried to reach for it, I felt a cut open across my back. Wincing, I hissed.

He put the blanket over my shoulders, and with his hands under my arms, helped me sit up. I wrapped the blanket tight around me.

"You found me," I said.

"You were trailing blood."

I nodded. I could feel it caked on my face and neck. I hadn't even looked at my injuries yet. The wounds I got as a wolf transferred. They hadn't had enough time to heal. They itched.

I tasted blood. Blood in my mouth, in the back of my throat. I could taste it on my breath, all the way down to my stomach.

I choked, unable to hold back a sob, and my stomach quailed. I pulled away from Cormac and vomited. It was purplish. It had chunks. After a couple of waves, and a couple more dry heaves, I could take a breath and start to think of what had happened. I rested my head against the brick, which was cool and rough.

"Heap big werewolf, eh?" Cormac said with a half-grin.

"That's me," I said weakly.

"I told you not to fight him."

"It was self-defense, Officer."

"Can you stand?"

I thought about it, taking a couple more deep breaths while I a.s.sessed myself. I thought I could stand. I tried. I got my legs under me, but when I put weight on them, they shook. When I tipped, starting to fall, Cormac caught me.

I cried. I pulled close into myself and cried, gritting my teeth to stop the sound, embarra.s.sed that I couldn't stop the sobs shuddering through me. I hugged my arms around my head, all the hiding I was able to do.

Cormac held me. He didn't pet me or make silly comforting noises. He just held me, halfway on his lap, bracing me.

Eventually, the crying stopped. The trembling stilled. My eyes squinted, swollen. I hiccupped, trying to fill my exhausted lungs. I didn't feel any better after crying my heart out. But I did feel ready to fall asleep without having nightmares.

Sometimes I had dreams where I was covered with blood, running through the forest, killing things, happy to be doing it. Sometimes I couldn't remember if they were dreams or not.

"You okay?"

"I don't know," I said, my voice small. I rubbed my face, which was gritty with dirt and grime.

"Come on. I'll drive you home." He started to stand, and this time when I put weight on my legs, they held me. Cormac kept his hand under my arm, just in case.

The blanket went down to my knees. I walked gingerly; my feet were bare and the alley was covered with broken gla.s.s and metal bits. I watched my feet and wasn't paying attention to much else. When Cormac stopped, I looked up.

Detective Hardin stood there. She turned and said something to the half-dozen uniformed cops trailing behind her. Reluctantly, they backed away. All of them had their guns out.

Hardin tucked her gun into a belt holster. She crossed her arms, regarding us like she was a high school teacher who'd caught a couple of kids necking behind the bleachers. Or maybe it was just that I felt like one of the kids.

She said, "I've got a body back there with its face ripped off. Why do I get the feeling if I check the guy's DNA, I'll get a match with the suspect's evidence from my mauling victims?"

I swallowed. My throat was still raw from trying not to cry. "You will."

"What about the guy from outside your apartment?"

"No. But, I'm ready to talk about him. I think."

Her face took on a pained, annoyed expression. "Does this happen often? Werewolves slaughtering each other for no apparent reason?"

"Oh, there's always a reason," I said. Realizing how bad that sounded, I looked away. "No, it doesn't happen often." Only when the power struggles happened. When a junior wolf like me got too big for her britches.

"Huh. And I thought police internal affairs was tough."

I glanced at Cormac. His expression was a mask, inscrutable. I was sure he hadn't called the cops. I said, "How did you know where to go?"

"Your sound guy called me."

"Matt. b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I muttered. I thought he knew better than to get mixed up in supernatural rumbles.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I didn't want you to get hurt."

"I'm touched. Really, I am. Do you have any idea how I'm supposed to write this up? What am I supposed to do with you?"

I shrugged, wincing when the cut on my back split again. I was going to have to lie still for a good couple of hours if I wanted it to heal. "Should I call my lawyer?"

She stared hard at me, like she was trying to peel back my skin. My shoulders bunched. If she'd been a wolf, I'd have taken her stare as a challenge. I looked at my feet and tried to seem harmless, small, and inconsequential, metaphorical tail between my legs.

She tipped her chin up, a sort of decisive half-nod.

"I saw dogs fighting. That's all I saw. But for G.o.d's sake, call me next time."

She walked away.

Cormac had my clothes in the pa.s.senger seat of his Jeep. I put them on, but still kept the blanket around me. I was cold.

He stopped the Jeep in front of my apartment building and shut off the engine. I had to work up to moving, taking a deep breath because I knew how much it was going to hurt.

When I gripped the handle of the door, Cormac said, "You need me to come in with you?"

The question was laden with meaning and unspoken a.s.sumptions. We weren't exactly a couple on a first date, testing the waters to see if the evening was going to go on a little longer, him wondering if I would invite him, me wondering if I should. But there was a little of that. Maybe he wanted a second chance. Maybe I wanted him to have a second chance. I had to decide how hurt I wasa"but if I was hurt enough to need help, I was probably too hurt to give him that second chance. Maybe he was just trying to be nice. But why would he be trying to be nice if he didn't want a second chance?

Or most likely I was reading too much into it. My head hurt, and I needed a shower. And sleep. Which meant no second chance.

But he had stopped the engine, like he really wanted to come inside.

"I'll be okay." I opened the door and eased myself to the sidewalk. I left the blanket on the seat. "Thanks. Thanks for everything. I think I probably owe you a couple now."

He shrugged. "You saved me a bullet."

I looked down, hiding a smirk. "You're not angry at me for stealing your kill?"

"Just like a wolf to think that way when there's plenty to go around." He started the Jeep. The engine roared, then settled into its rhythm. "Watch your back."

"Yeah. You, too." I shut the door.

He drove away.

I spent the walk to the building still wondering if I should have asked Cormac to come with me. He had guns and wasn't injured. There was the spot where T.J. killed Zan. What else was waiting in the shadows to attack me? Not the rogue wolf. Not anymore.

I'd killed the rogue. All by myself, I'd killed him. That should have made me feel strong, like I could walk down any dark street without fear, like I'd never have to be afraid again. Wolf could stand tall, her tail straight, unafraid.

But all I felt was tired. Tired, sad, sick. Even the Wolf was quiet. Even she'd had enough.

Behind every shrub and corner was a monster waiting to challenge me. The hair on my arms and neck tingled. I kept looking over my shoulder.

James had said she could give him a pack. She had made him, and she wanted him to kill the alpha.

Meg. Had to be. I didn't know what to think. What had she been thinking, taking this guy under her wing? Had she really wanted him as head of the pack? He must have looked tough, tough enough to take on Carl. But James wouldn't have lasted. He didn't have the mind to leada"he'd groveled to me, after all. The pack would have torn him to shreds. Meg must have realized this, changed her mind, and left him hanging.

It was too much. I should have expected it. It still hurt. At the same time, the path before me seemed clearer.

She was still out there. Who would she send after me next? Or would she come herself? I might have killed James, but I wasn't in any condition to fight like that again tonight.