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  The arena fell silent, watching Macy lie still. Jacobson had retreated to an empty corner of the ring, looking agitated, while the referee counted down over Macy. Ringside officials leaned in, uncertain whether to rush in to help or wait for the count to end. Macy lay with his head twisted, his body crumpled, clearly badly injured. Blood leaked out his nose.

  Then, he moved. First a hand, then an arm. He levered himself up, shaking his head, shaking it again, stretching his neck back into alignment. Slowly, he regained his feet.

  He turned, looking for his opponent with fire blazing in his eyes. Jacobson stared back, eyes wide, fearful. Obviously, he hadn’t wanted Macy to be seriously hurt. But this—rising from the dead almost—must have seemed worse.

  The roar of the crowd at the apparent resurrection was visceral thunder.

  They returned to the fight, and Macy knocked out Jacobson a minute later, winning the title.

  A hand reached over me and hit the pause button on the laptop.

  “That wasn’t normal,” said Jenna Larson, the woman who had brought me the recording of the match. She was a rarity, a female sports reporter with national standing, known for hunting down the big stories, breaking the big news, from drug scandals to criminal records. “Tell me that wasn’t human. Jerome Macy isn’t human.”

  Which was why Larson was here, showing me this video. She wanted to know if I could tell Macy was a werewolf or some other supernatural/superhuman creature with rapid healing, or the kind of invulnerability that would let him not only stand back up after a blow like that, but go on to beat up his opponent. I couldn’t tell, not by just watching the clip. But it wouldn’t be hard for me to find out, if I could get close enough to smell him. I’d know if he was a werewolf by his scent, because I was one.

  She’d brought her laptop to my office. I sat at my desk, staring at the frozen image of Macy, shoulders slouched, looming over his fallen opponent. Larson stood over me—a position of dominance, my Wolf side noted testily—waiting for my reaction.

  I pushed my chair away from the desk so I was out from under her, looking at her eye to eye without craning my neck. “I can’t say one way or the other without meeting him.”

  “I can arrange that,” she said. “His next bout is here in Denver this weekend. You come meet him, and if there is something going on, we share the scoop on the story.”

  This was making me nervous. “Jenna. Here’s the thing: Even if he is a werewolf, he probably doesn’t want to advertise the fact. He’s kept it hidden for a reason.”

  “If he is a werewolf, do you think it’s fair that he’s competing against normal human beings in feats of strength and endurance?”

  I shrugged, because she was right on some level. However talented a boxer he was, did Macy have an unfair advantage?

  It also begged the question, in this modern age when werewolves, vampires, witches, and other things that went bump in the night were emerging from shadows and announcing themselves—like hosting talk radio shows that delved into this secret world—how many other people had hidden identities? How many actors, politicians, and athletes weren’t entirely human?

  Larson was in her thirties, her shoulder-length brown hair shining and perfectly arranged around her face, her makeup calculated to look stunning and natural, like she wasn’t wearing any. She wore a pantsuit with high heels and never missed a step. She was a woman in a man’s profession, driven to make a name for herself. I had to respect that. The territorial side of me couldn’t help but see an alpha female on the prowl.

  She was brusque, busy, and clearly didn’t have time to hang around because she shut down the laptop and started packing it into her sleek black shoulder bag.

  “I know you’re interested in this,” she said. “If you don’t help me, I’ll get someone else. One way or another, with or without your help, I’m going to break this story. How about it?”

  There wasn’t even a question. She called me pretty well: I wouldn’t let a story like this get away from me.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  I came within a hair of changing my mind outside the Pepsi Center the night of the bout. The crowd swarmed, jostling around me as they elbowed their way through the doors. This many people, all of them with an underlying aggression—they had paid a lot of money to watch two guys beat the crap out of each other—was making me want to growl. The Wolf side of my being didn’t like crowds, didn’t like aggression. I wanted to fight back, snarl, claw my way free to a place where I could run, where no one could touch me.

  Concentrating, I worked to keep that part of me buried. I had to keep myself together to do my job.

  I still wasn’t sure I wanted to do this job. If Larson turned out to be right and Macy was a werewolf, what if he didn’t want to be exposed? Should I step in and somehow talk her into keeping his secret? He had a right to the life he was carving out for himself. I’d been in his position, once. On the other hand, maybe Macy would be okay with exposing his werewolf identity. Then I could claim his first exclusive interview for my radio show. Larson could break the story in print, I’d get the first live interview—part of me really hoped Macy was okay with telling the world about this.

  The other part hoped he wasn’t a werewolf at all. Luck had saved him during that bout in Vegas.

  Larson met me inside the doors with a press pass that got us close to ringside. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be ringside. Flying sweat and spit would hit us at this range. The arena smelled of crowds, of old sweat and layers of energy. Basketball, hockey, arena football, concerts, and circuses had all played here. A little of each remained, along with the thousands of people who watched. Popcorn, soda, beer, hot dogs, semi-fresh, semi-stale, ground into the concrete floor, never to be erased. And the echoes of shouting.

  The arena filled. Larson talked with her colleagues, talked on her cell phone, punched notes into her laptop. We waited for the gladiators to appear.

  “You look nervous,” she said to me, fifteen minutes into the waiting. I’d been hugging myself. “You ever been to a fight?”

  I shook my head and unclenched my arms, trying to relax. “I’m not much into the whole sports thing. Crowds make me nervous.” Made me want to howl and run, actually.

  The announcer came on the booming PA system, his rich, modulated voice echoing through the whole place and rattling my bones. Lights on scoreboards flashed. The sensory input was overwhelming. I guessed we were starting.

  The boxers—opponents, combatants, gladiators—appeared. A great cheer traveled through the crowd. Ironically, the people in the upper bleachers saw them before those of us with front row seats. We didn’t see them until they climbed into the ring. The challenger, Ian Jacobson, looked even more fierce in person, muscles flexing, glaring. Already, sweat gleamed on his pale skin.

  Then came Jerome Macy.

  I smelled him before I saw him, a feral hint of musk and wild in this otherwise artificial environment. It was the smell of fur just under the skin, waiting to break free. Two werewolves could smell each other across the room, catching that distinctive mark.

  No one who wasn’t a werewolf would recognize it. He looked normal as he ducked between the ropes and entered the ring. Normal as any heavyweight boxer could look, that is. He seemed hard as stone, his body brown, huge, solid. Black hair was cropped close to his head. In his wolf form, he’d be a giant. He went through the same routine, his manager caring for him like he was a racehorse.

  Just as I spotted him, he could sense me. He glanced over the ropes, scanning for the source of that lycanthropic odor. Then he spotted me sitting next to Jenna Larson, and his eyes narrowed. He must have known why I was here. He must have guessed.

  My first instinct, wolf’s instinct, was to cringe. He was bigger than I, meaner, he could destroy me, so I must show deference. But we weren’t wolves here. The human side, the side that needed to get to the bottom of this story and negotiate with Larson, met Macy’s gaze. I had my own strengths that made me his equal, and I want
ed him to know that.

  As soon as he entered the ring, Larson leaned over to me. “Well?” She didn’t take her gaze off the boxer.

  Macy kept glancing at us and his mouth turned in a scowl. He must have known who—and what—I was, and surely he knew about Larson. He noted the conspiracy between us, and must have known what it meant. Must have realized the implications.

  “Yeah, he is,” I said.

  Larson pressed her lips together in an expression of subdued triumph.

  “What are you going to do?” I said. “Jump in and announce it to the world?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll wait until the fight’s over for that.” She was already typing on her laptop, making notes for her big exposé. Almost, I wanted no part of this. It was like she held this man’s life in her hands.

  But more, I wanted to talk to Macy, to learn how he did this. I knew from experience—vivid, hard-fought experience—that aggression and danger brought the wolf side to the fore. If a lycanthrope felt threatened, the animal, monstrous side of him would rise to the surface to defend him, to use more powerful teeth and claws in the battle.

  So how did Macy train, fight, and win as a boxer without losing control of his wolf? I never could have done it.

  In the ring, the two fighters circled each other—like wolves, almost—separated only by the referee, who seemed small and weak next to them. Then, they fell together. Gloves smacked against skin. I winced at the pounding each delivered, jackhammer blows slamming over and over again.

  Around me, the journalists in the press box regarded the scene with cool detachment, unemotional, watching the fight clinically, an attitude so at odds with the chaos of the crowd around us.

  I flinched at the vehemence of the crowd, the shouts, fierce screams, the wall of emotion like a physical force pressing from all corners of the arena to the central ring. Wolf, the creature inside me, recognized the bloodlust. She—I—wanted to growl, feeling cornered. I hunched my back against the emotion and focused on being human.

  The line between civilized and wild was so very thin, after all. No one watching this display could argue otherwise.

  They pounded the crap out of each other and kept coming back for more. That was the only way to describe it. An enthusiast could probably talk about the skill of various punches and blocks, maybe even the graceful way they danced back and forth across the ring, giving and pressing in turn in some kind of strategy I couldn’t discern. The strategy may have involved simply tiring each other out. I just waited for it to be over. I couldn’t decide who I was rooting for.

  Catching bits of conversation between rounds, I gathered that the previous fight between Macy and Jacobson had been considered inconclusive. The blow that had struck Macy down had been a fluke. That he had stood up without being knocked out—or killed—had been a fluke. No one could agree on which of the two had gotten lucky. The rematch had seemed inevitable.

  This time, Macy clearly had the upper hand. His punches continued to be calculated and carefully placed, even in the later rounds. To my eyes, Macy looked like he was holding back. A werewolf should have been able to knock an enemy across the room. As a werewolf, I could have faced down Jacobson. But Macy couldn’t do that. He had to make it look like a fair fight.

  Jacobson started to sway. He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself up. Macy landed yet another solid punch that made Jacobson’s entire body quiver for a moment. Then the big boxer went down, boneless, collapsing flat on his back and lying there, arms and legs splayed.

  Chaos reigned after that. The crowd was screaming with one multi-layered voice; the referee knelt by Jacobson’s head, counting; Jacobson’s trainers hovered in the wings, waiting to spring forward. Around me, journalists and announcers were speaking a mile a minute into phones or mikes, describing the scene.

  Macy retreated to a neutral corner, bouncing in place a little, arms hanging at his sides. He hunched his back and glared out with dark eyes that seemed fierce and animal. Maybe they only did to me.

  The referee declared the fight over. Jacobson was knocked out, and only started climbing to his feet when his trainers helped him. Macy raised his arms, taking in the crowd’s adulation.

  That was it. The whole thing started to seem anticlimactic. There was some chaotic concluding business, strobe lights of a million cameras flashing. Then the journalists started packing up, the crowd dispersed, and the cleaning crew started coming through with garbage bags. A swarm of fans and reporters lurched toward Macy, but an equally enthusiastic swarm of guards and assistants kept them at bay while trainers guided Macy from the ring and down the aisle to the locker area, which was strictly off-limits.

  Larson slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and tugged my sleeve. “Come on,” she said.

  Walking briskly, snaking through the mass of people, she led me to a different doorway, and from there to a tiled corridor. This was the behind-the-scenes area, leading to maintenance, storage—and locker rooms, from the other side. Larson knew where she was going. I followed, willing to let her lead the way, quietly hanging back, observing. Other reporters marched along with us, all jostling to get in front, but Larson led the way.

  She stopped by a door where a hulking man in a security uniform stood guard. Other reporters pressed up behind us.

  “Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews now.” The bear of a man scowled at the crowd.

  “I’m Jenna Larson,” she said, flashing an ID badge at him. “Tell him I’m here with Kitty Norville. I think he’ll talk to us.”

  “I said, Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews.” The other reporters complained at that.

  Larson pursed her lips, as if considering answers, then said, “I’ll wait.”

  “You’ll wait?” I said.

  “He’s got to come out sometime. Though if he gives an interview to one of the guys, I swear I’ll . . .”

  The door opened, and one of the trainers leaned out to speak a few words with the guard.

  “Is who here? Her? Really?” the guard said, glancing at Larson. Grudgingly, he stood back from the open door. “He’s asking for you. Come on in.”

  I stuck close to Larson as she slipped through the door, while the guard held back the rest of the reporters, most of whom were protesting loudly.

  Male locker room. There’s no other smell like it. Lots and lots of sweat, new and old, stale, baked into the flat carpet, into the paint on the walls. And adrenaline, like someone had aerosolized it. Like someone had lit a scented candle of it. Pure, concentrated, competitive maleness. Wolf didn’t know whether to howl or whine.

  “This way,” the trainer said and guided us through the front, a brightly lit area filled with lockers, to a smaller, darker side room with only one light in the corner turned on.

  The smell of alcohol almost overpowered the smell of maleness here. It looked like an infirmary. Cabinets with clear doors held gauze, cotton balls, bandages, and dozens of bottles. On a padded massage table in the middle of the room sat Jerome Macy.

  A shadow in the dim light, he smelled of sweat, adrenaline, maleness—and wolf. His eyes were a deep, rich brown. I could almost see the wolf in them, sizing me up. Challenging me. I didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t give him any aggressive signals. This was his territory. I was the visitor here, and I didn’t have anything to prove.

  “It’s okay, Frank,” Macy said to the trainer, who lingered by the door. The man gave a curt nod, then left, closing the door behind him.

  So not even Macy’s trainers knew. The three of us were alone in the room, with the secret.

  His hands were raw, chapped, swollen. Tape bound his wrists. He leaned on his knees and let the limbs dangle. Werewolves had rapid healing, but he’d still taken a beating. Macy kept his challenging stare focused on me. I started to bristle under the attention. I crossed my arms and lurked.

  Larson drew a small digital recorder out of her pocket and made a show of turning it on. “Mr. Macy. Is it true that you’re infected with the recently i
dentified disease known as lycanthropy?”

  His gaze shifted from me to her. After a moment, he chuckled. “It’s not going to do me any good to say no, is it? You planned this out pretty good.”

  He was almost soft-spoken. His voice was hushed, belying the power of his body. It gave him a calculating air. Not all brute force, this guy. I wanted to warn Larson, Don’t underestimate him.

  “I think the public has a right to know,” Larson said. “Don’t you?”

  He considered. Sizing her up, like a hunter deciding whether this prey would be worth the effort, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. He was making a challenge. In wolf body language, the stare, the shoulders, the slight snarl to his open lips, showing teeth, all pointed to the aggressive stance. I recognized it. There was no way fully human Larson could. For all her journalist’s instincts, she wouldn’t recognize the body language.

  He said, “What would I have to pay you to keep you quiet?”

  I was betting he couldn’t have said anything that would make her more angry. She said, “Bribery. Real nice. Be smarter about this, Macy: You can’t suppress this. You can’t keep this quiet forever. You might as well let me break the story. I’ll give you a chance to have your say, tell your side of the story.”

  She approached this the way she would any other stubborn interview; she turned on her own aggression, glaring back, stepping forward into his space. Exactly the wrong response if she wanted him to open up.

  The boxer didn’t flinch. His expression never changed. He was still on the hunt. He said, “Then what would I have to do to keep you quiet?”

  That threw Larson off her script. She blinked with some amount of astonishment. “Are you threatening me?”

  I stepped between them, trying to forestall what the press would call an “unfortunate incident.” Glancing between them, I tried to be chipper, happy, and tail-waggy.

  “Jerome! May I call you Jerome?” I said, running my mouth like always. “I’m really glad Jenna asked me to come along for this. Normally I wouldn’t give boxing a second thought. But this. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. How do you do it? Why don’t you shapeshift when you’re in the ring?” Larson still held her recorder out, and she let me keep talking.