The calming voice helps. The fury ebbs. But she’s still standing with her back to a wall and the smell of an enemy in the room. Where is her pack? Her mate? The growl turns into a whine.

The female puts something on the floor and quickly edges away—a new scent. Meat, but not fresh. Not fresh, but available, a few paces away. Hunger has become more important than the rest. She pads to the scent, finds several mouthfuls. She eats warily, keeping a watch on the group of two-legged people. Finishes the carrion quickly, but it settles her.

She does not mean to sleep, but weariness pulls her under.

I had blood and skin under my fingernails. I picked at it.

Either I didn’t remember what had happened, or I didn’t want to. I could guess. The last thing I remembered was Provost’s face, white with fear. Yeah, I could guess what had happened. I hadn’t even felt the Change come. I’d just snapped. That had never happened before.

If I stayed numb, I wouldn’t have to think about the implications.

Someone had put a blanket over me. I lay against the far wall, nearest the kitchen. My muscles were stiff, as if I’d slept curled in a tight ball. Looking across the room, I was having trouble recognizing what I was seeing. My mind was still filled with wolfish vision and the taste of blood. I could smell death.

A body lay against the wall, covered with a sheet, dead. I made a wish, took a breath, and let out a moan, because I smelled Jeffrey. Provost had been so close, Jeffrey couldn’t have survived the shot. Still, I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t deal with that right now.

There was another person lying on the floor, breathing fast, painfully, in the way of the seriously injured. I recognized his scent, too.

Joey Provost was alive.

Chapter 21

I wrapped the blanket around my naked self and stood in the middle of the living room, assessing. I clamped my mouth shut because I was afraid I might throw up. If ever I had a right to spontaneously vomit, this was it.

I didn’t want to have to take care of Provost. I’d rather shoot him.

Conrad was asleep on the sofa. Grant sat on a chair in the middle of the living room, like he could hold us together with his presence. He sat nearest the injured Provost but didn’t seem to be looking at him. Tina sat on the floor, near the window but not looking out. At first I thought she was asleep, the way she held her head propped on her hand. Her other hand rested on a Ouija board sitting next to her. She looked at me. She’d been crying.

I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t open my mouth or I would scream. I wished I had stayed Wolf. The world was simpler when I was Wolf.

“Kitty?” Grant said.

Now I was looking at Provost. He lay on a blanket, covered by another blanket. His shirt had been stripped. He panted, tossed in a delirium, his arms clenched, hands clawing.

I stepped to him, knelt beside him.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Grant said softly.

Besides being infected with lycanthropy? The words stalled in my throat. If I opened my mouth I’d throw up, so I kept my mouth shut.

I put my hand on Provost’s forehead—he was burning with fever. Normal, for a recent victim of a werewolf bite. He’d thrash in a haze for a few days while his wounds healed and while his body transformed itself from the inside out. He smelled ill, injured. Under all that, though, I caught a new scent, musky, animal. Wolfish. Fur, just under the skin. I’d promised myself I would never do this to anyone, I never wanted to, he should be dead—

“Kitty,” Grant said. I shook my head, bringing myself back. Rubbed sleep and tears from my eyes. I needed clothes. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself.

I saw what Grant was talking about, about there being something wrong. He had enough arcane lore, he must have had some idea what a bite from a werewolf did. Provost’s wounds, shredded flesh across his neck and shoulder, were healing: scabs had formed, blood seeped from surface wounds. That was normal. However, where the bullet I fired had hit him, a chunk of flesh taken out of his bicep, wasn’t healing. Here, the wound was black, oozing pus along with blood.

I swallowed and managed to scratch out, “Did the bullet go all the way through?”

“Yes,” Grant said. “It’s a flesh wound.”

Then I laughed. I sounded ridiculous, hysterical. I curled up, hugged my knees, and laughed. This was so fucked up, I ought to be taking notes.

Patiently, Grant waited for me.

I got myself back under control. “Silver allergy. The silver bullet went through him before he was infected. But there must be a trace of it that’s reacting to the lycanthropy. Not enough to kill him. If the bullet had stayed in him, though, he’d have the full-blown allergy. He’d be dead. I wish he were dead.” I laughed again, then covered my face to try to stop the tears. Copious, hysterical tears.

Tina had moved closer to us, studying Provost along with us. She reached out to me, but I leaned away from her. “Don’t touch me,” I whispered. I wanted to Change again. I wanted to get out of here, to bite someone.

“Kitty—” Grant said.

“Any sign of Cabe?”

“No. Maybe he’ll cut his losses and leave us alone.”

“Not likely,” I said. Before he could respond, I stood, tightening the blanket yet again. “I need some clothes.”

I went upstairs.

The face in the bedroom mirror was the face of a monster. I studied it, the crazy blond hair that hadn’t been brushed in two days, the bloodshot eyes, the ragged frown. I wanted to see my friends, my pack, my mate. I wanted to go home.

“Tell me, Cormac. What am I supposed to do now?” I muttered.

You just keep going. He’d say, you just keep on keeping on until you’re dead. But don’t make it easy on the bastards by rolling over for them.

I wasn’t dead yet. We still had a lodge full of people who weren’t dead yet, and the bad guys were down to one man standing.

When I came downstairs, I was dressed in fresh clothes, hair brushed and pinned up, face washed. Still on the edge of hysterical, but at least I was upright. Two legs for the rest of the day, I promised myself.

Tina was sitting at the dining room table now, a blank sheet of paper in front of her, holding a pen over it. This was an old mediumistic talent—automatic writing. Some people believed spirits could communicate by causing the hand of a psychic to write out messages. Most of it was fake, but it really worked for Tina. She expected to receive a message. It wasn’t happening.