I hate the full moon.

I’ve seen the werewolf movies. I know what people think: the moon has some sort of sway, it makes werewolves go nuts. It’s total bullshit.

Werewolves, when broken down, are humans. And wolves. We aren’t madmen. We’re just men and women. We aren’t made, as far as I know, we’re born. I’m a werewolf because my father was a werewolf, not because I was bitten on the moors of Scotland on a full moon.

It just sounds absurd, if you say it out loud: “I was bitten by a werewolf on a full moon.”

I have a regular job, if you want to call it that. I went to law school, passed the bar, and practice boring contract law at a medium-sized law firm in Denver. I don’t terrorize farmers. I don’t howl at the moon uncontrollably. I did get drunk and howl at the moon a few times in college, but that doesn’t count and I wasn’t wearing the wolf at the time.

I just wanted to get a drink after an especially long day. But no. The crazies like to come out and play when the moon is full beca use they believe in mystical bullshit. Or maybe I just notice it more on account of the light being bright enough to see by. Whatever.

“Hey! What’re you doin’ over there?”

It’s my best police voice. Extra deep and plenty loud.

Three men turn to face me. One of them looks like he’s trying too hard to be part of a bad reggae cover band. I’ll call him “Bob.” The second is the chubby sort, a big man who was once an athlete but really let himself go. I’ll call him “Jocko.” The third is that wiry, too skinny kind of guy. I’ll call him “Trainspotting.” Inspired, right? I amuse me, anyway.

The woman they’re pestering is terrified. She reeks of it even from twenty feet away. I have to focus on what I can see or I might not be able to do anything about it.

“Fuck off!”

Good ol’ Bob has some balls on him. I sigh. Not because I’m irritated, mind you. I’m ecstatic. I want an excuse for violence. I sigh because someone might be watching. Or worse: recording.

“No. Leave. Now.”

Gotta give at least one verbal warning. The escalation of force doctrine for protecting others isn’t as clear as it is for protecting yourself. I normally wouldn’t do this type of thing. Normally, I’d just pull out my phone and call the cops. They’re supposed to handle this kind of shit. But, I’ve had a long day and I’m just a little irritated. Today is not normal.

Bob walks over. He’s just so obliging. He’s also aggressive. He lumbers like a pissed off gorilla, his arms swinging at his sides like he’s looking to swing them at something. I let The Change wash over me. Not enough to become a wolf, but enough to be stronger and tougher.

He flinches. Everything is clearer so my eyes probably Changed a little too. I’m not too good at controlling what I Change. He might’ve seen my irises change or the low light might be making my eyes look red like in flash photos. I didn’t mean to do that, but it might work out better this way. Who believes a story about a guy with glowing eyes?

I bring my fist down into his collarbone. It crunches and Bob collapses. Now that I have a chance to really take a hard look at the other two, I’m even less impressed. Jocko scuttles over. He looks like he might have played something rough like maybe football or rugby. My father insisted I learn martial arts. I didn’t get to compete. Dear Old Dad said I had an unfair advantage for competition.

He was right.

I time a front kick perfectly to take Jocko in the thigh mid-stride. I’m quick enough on my feet to shuffle out of the way of his tumble. I put a lot of power into that kick. I won’t be surprised if his knee is injured. Trainspotting decides discretion is the better part of valor and skedaddles. It’s more like a flight for dear life, but skedaddles just sounds better, you know?

I can make out the plaid of the woman’s outfit. I know the bar that dresses the waitresses up in tartans. It isn’t a bad bar.

She’s staring at me.

“What?”

“Nothing! It’s just... Suits don’t usually do...” She sweeps her arm at the two grown men whining on the ground. “That.”

I let The Change recede and check myself for dirt or blood. I plan on taking the suit to the dry cleaner anyway, but knowing where the stain is helps the dry cleaner get it right the first time.

“I had a bad day. And they were extremely unlucky.”

“O-kay. I’m gonna head to work now.”

“You should call the cops. Report them.”

“I left my phone in my car.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“My car isn’t here.”

“Still not seeing the problem.”

She rolls her eyes. “If I go back to my car, I’ll be late for work. I can’t afford to be late for work. The manager might fire me. I need the money.”

This is the point where I’m thinking I should’ve just walked on and had my drink because violence is one thing, but I’m not really in the mood to be a White Knight. But I don’t suppose I can just leave it now. I’m already committed.

“I can guess the bar where you must work. Just a bit over that way.” I gesture in the general direction of the Tartan-themed bar.

She nods.

“Let’s get you to work and you can call from the phone there.”

“What about your phone?”

“Left it at work. Like I said: bad day.”

***

It’s funny how the police change tack so completely when they find out I’m a lawyer.

I only had to give my statement once and they left me alone. That poor girl had to tell her story three or four times. Lucky me.

I started drinking just as soon as the cops finished their questions. Some people think that werewolves regenerate. They aren’t right, but they aren’t wrong either. I heal faster than people and don’t scar. I had a ring avulsion when I was in high school. I wanted to look like the cool rock stars I saw on TV. I was young and impressionable. The ring ripped my finger off because that’s what happens when you wear rings and do physical stuff. The finger grew back, but my new finger had a new fingerprint.

I bring this up because most people think that regeneration means that someone can’t get drunk. I can get drunk. I can get extremely drunk. After the police left me to my own devices, I started drinking.

I recall starting with Guinness. I know: a Scottish bar and an Irish beer. I like Guinness. I remember chatting up a dark-haired woman. Then I remember doing shots. Maybe a Buttery Nipple? I don’t know. There was caramel. Everything starts to get hazy and then I woke up. At home, in my bed, with the covers rolled around someone with long, dark hair.

I’m hoping it’s that dark-haired woman I was chatting up last night, but I’m not ready to find out. She’s out cold. The throbbing in my head is fading fast, which means blacked-out me must have drank plenty of water. The damage that much alcohol did to my brain is likely already healed, but the dehydration still hurts. So thanks Blacked-Out-Me for drinking a ton of water before bed.

I decide that I’d rather have some water than lie in bed with a headache. If you’ve ever tried to escape a bed without waking a bed-mate, you know the secret. You’ve got to roll and distribute your weight. If you try to get out of bed as one normally might, the bed will shudder and jiggle and you’ll likely wake up the other person. Instead of sitting up, I slowly roll out from under the side of the sheets.

This technique doesn’t work if one is the sort of person who tucks in the sheets before getting into bed. I am not one of those people. I like having my sheets un-tucked and well-ventilated. My body runs a little hotter than normal. It’s probably a werewolf thing, but I never asked my father. The Talk was traumatizing enough as a teen. It included both human and lupine facts, so it was probably more traumatizing than for regular kids. Utterly foolish not asking my father in retrospect, but tell that to a teenager and see how far it gets you.

I roll off the edge of the bed, using my leg and arm as a prop to un-weight the mattress without waking the dark-haired woman. I pause on all fours and look over. She hasn’t moved. Her breathing hasn’t even changed.

I crawl quietly out the hall and into the bathroom. A quick shower later and I rifle through the linen closet in the bathroom for some basketball shorts. Not the short shorts from the ‘70s, the big, baggy ones you might see today. They’re super comfortable, so silky and airy. They barely have seams!

I close the bedroom door as quietly as I can manage and get started making some breakfast. One of the guys at work watches all of the cooking channels. He watches YouTube videos of cooking tips and recipes at lunch. He is enthusiastic about food. I enjoy food, but I can cook three things: meat, eggs, and s’mores. Anything else, I follow the directions on the box or I pay someone else to cook it for me. I eat a lot of meat. Not a werewolf thing, just a personal preference.

I put the pan on the stove and start the grill built into the counter. I have a huge deep freezer where I store all of my kills, but I generally keep pieces thawing in the much smaller refrigerator. That little guy fits my eggs, the thawing and thawed meat, and some leftovers from takeout. I don’t bother with a full-sized refrigerator unit, much to the dismay of my apartment’s leasing office. I payed for the changes out of my own pocket, and it’s in my contract that I’ll pay to have a regular fridge put in before I move out, so the company doesn’t bother me about it.

The elk steaks sizzle as soon as they hit the grill. Did you think I was a serial killer keeping people in my freezer? Ha! No.

I love grilling. I throw some salt and pepper over the steaks and let them sizzle. I turn the stove low on to heat the pan. I crack four enormous eggs into a bowl, making sure to keep the shells out. I bought these eggs at the Asian grocer. They’re not from chickens. I think they’re from wild turkeys or something because they’re speckled instead of brown or white.

I flip the elk steaks because one does not eat game any more cooked than medium-rare, but rare is best. Another sprinkle of salt and pepper before I put a nub of butter in the pan. Once the butter foams, the eggs go in, the heat goes down, and the lid goes on with a splash of water. I fire the two smaller burners and stick the ceramic plates on them for about thirty seconds to heat them up. They’re warm, but not hot.

Two eggs per plate and the hollandaise sauce I keep in the fridge goes into the microwave while I slice the elk against the grain. I pour the bloody juice from the steaks into the hollandaise and stir it again before nuking it the final time. Pour the hollandaise over everything and season.

Time to wake the dark-haired woman and see what I’ve done.

I open the door to the bedroom and clear my throat.

“If you get out of bed right now, breakfast won’t be cold.”

“Uuuuhhhhnnnnnnn...”

She rolls up to sitting and the sheet falls away. She’s got an athletic back, tapering like a swimmer’s, but her middle is obviously thicker than when she was younger. There’s a scar on her shoulder blade that looks jagged. I don’t know what could’ve caused it, but I’m not an expert in scarring. Her skin is tan from her neck up, so she doesn’t see much sun without a shirt.

She reaches down and wiggles before standing with a little hop to pull on her pants. I see a flash of color that must be panties as she’s dragging it on all at once. She picks up a bra and throws it at a bag that isn’t mine laying in the corner. She pulls on her shirt and buttons it as she stumbles to her bag. She digs around for something and puts it in her teeth. She eyes me as she pulls her wavy, black hair back and puts the thing she had in her mouth into her hair. Must’ve been a clip of some kind.

She looks at me and her eyebrows lift.

“Breakfast?”

I nod and wave her to follow me. She shuffles behind me.

“Coffee?”

“Sorry. I don’t have any. There’s a Starbucks around the corner. Eat first.”

She looks down at the plate and frowns.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Be a vegetarian later. Eat now.”

She frowns deeper. I didn’t think it was possible to frown deeper. She picks up a fork and takes a tentative stab at the meat. She puts it in her mouth as if it’ll suddenly jump out and bite her. Some slow chewing and a quiet swallow later she looks over at me, her brow crinkled and her tongue running over her teeth. Take that, vegetarians! I smirk. I’m a smirker.

“What is this?”

“Elk, wild turkey eggs, I think, and hollandaise. The hollandaise is from the store.”

I start eating mine. I’m hungry and not in the mood for conversation, which is good cause neither is she. I finish mine while she’s only half-done with hers. I wait for her to finish. I slide her a tumbler full of water, which she drinks down.

“Better?”

She nods.

“Need a ride anywhere?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m John.”

“I remember.”

“Good. I don’t. I blacked out. What’s your name?”

“Lynn.”

She grabs her bag and digs around. She pulls out a notebook and a pen, clicking the pen with her thumb. She tears out a sheet and writes something down.

“I’d be up for a repeat performance. Let me know when you’re free. You said you work a lot. I do too.”

She slides the paper over the counter and walks to the door. I pick up the paper and crumple it in my hand.

“I’m not domesticated like that. The hunt is half the fun. If you want to do this again, find me. Or be where I can find you.”

She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. Mild crows feet: over thirty. Noted. That close to the door, I can see just how tall she is. She’s got to be six feet, at least.

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“You like ‘the hunt’?”

“You’d be surprised how much.”

“Asshole.”

“Maybe. But I’m honest.”

“If you don’t want to see me again, just say it.”

“If that’s what I wanted, that’s what I would’ve said.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. You want to do this again, you find me or be somewhere I can find you.”

“You sound like a predator.”

That gave me pause.

“We’re all predators.” I smile and point to my canines. “These are for eating prey.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Can you be a bigger cliché?”

I want to point out that she just ate three different animals, but I’m not going to do that. I am not a young man with delusions of changing minds with snark.

“I like you and you’re in my home. That doesn’t mean I want to start a family with you. If you don’t like honesty, go elsewhere. I deal with lies and half-truths more than I care to already.”

“So do I.”

“Okay. No lies. No half-truths. No omissions. Find me and we’ll do this again. Or don’t. I’m not scheduling it like a spa day.”

“I work odd hours.”

“I do too.”

“I’m a detective. For a living. I don’t usually like working when I’m not at work.”

“I won’t be offended if you cheat. Look me up. Just... I’m not a spa day, not a commodity to be traded or scheduled. And neither are you.”

She narrows her eyes and looks at me. I don’t look bad in just shorts. I have far more muscle and far less fat than a lawyer has any business having. I know because that’s what the entire office tells me every time we have some sort of casual day and they see me sans dress clothes.

“Okay.”

She walks out the door and I’m left alone with dirty dishes and dirty sheets. I guess I’ll have to do my own chores. The maid service I use doesn’t work weekends.

Work is not fun. It is not a calling. I don’t know who said, “If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.” But they were incredibly dishonest. Not everyone can make money doing what they love. I love sex, hunting, and figuring out puzzles, but there isn’t a job for that. That’s what hobbies are for.

Work is for money. I work so that I get money so that I can spend time on my hobbies. It’s what happy people do. Or so I’ve been told.

And that’s not even getting into the people who love doing stuff that just doesn’t pay. What about the people who love reading? There isn’t a job that’s just sitting around reading books. Even book critics have to write about the books they’ve read. Maybe that’s onerous and maybe it isn’t.

Point is: I work for money, not because I love work.

So imagine my surprise when I caught sight of Lynn in my office. My office is a law office in downtown Denver. I’m a junior partner. Junior because I’m young and partner because I’m good at what I do.

Two things I noticed that put me off. Lynn wasn’t alone. There was a man a few inches shorter than Lynn, which made him five-nine or five-ten, in the cheapest suit I’ve seen in the office. Ever. The both of them had concealed weapons; Lynn’s on her belt, the man’s in a shoulder-holster. And they had badges on their belts. Police badges. A gold shield with some lettering that I can’t make out from across a room. With human eyes anyway. I’m not about to risk Changing at work. I like the money I make. I can be foolish at times, like anyone, but I’m not entirely without forethought.

The two of them went right into my boss’s boss’s office. They were in there for a good fifteen minutes before they moved into our conference room. They started calling people in shortly after. The third one was a woman I recommended hiring after her internship. Shawna or Shana or something. I don’t remember.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

She shrugged.

“They have a subpoena. They’re asking questions.”

“Ah.”

If they were the local police, it might be a criminal investigation. If they were Federal or a letter agency, it could be anything from terrorism to tax evasion. It might be about a client or an employee. And I hate mysteries. They’re like puzzles but less fun.

By the sixth, I’d figured out that they were going alphabetically. That meant they were interviewing everyone. And my name’s down at the end.

William Johnathon Smith, in case you were wondering. I go by my middle name. I never liked my first name, but I don’t really want to change it. It’s mine.

I worked, reading the details of some hack’s work on a contract, until Lynn called out, “William Smith.”

The walk over was short and I’m probably smirking. I nod my head and say, “Detective.”

Sitting in the commandeered conference room, I’m definitely smirking. “You have my attention.”

“What?”

The man answers. I’m not even looking at him. I’m looking at Lynn. Idiot.

“He’s talking about me. We’ve met before.”

“You know him?”

“He told me his name was ‘John’.”

“It’s my middle name. It’s what I go by.”

“You should get someone else for this.”

“You never skip out on an interview.”

“We don’t usually interview men I’ve been shagging. I’m emotionally compromised. I can’t do this interview.”

The man frowns. “You don’t have emotions.”

“You’ve never seen them. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Take the lead.”

Lynn sat in another chair and tried to bore holes in my face with her glare.

The man sighs and runs his hand through his hair. Brown with a few specks of grey. Lynn’s hair is black and pulled into a bun. Not a hair out of place. If she’s wearing makeup, I can’t see it. Her clothes are tailored, unlike his. She spends money on them.

“I’m Detective Boyle. This is Detective Spartan. This conversation is being recorded for reference. You may have council present at any time. This subpoena,” he slid a piece of paper over, “compels you to discuss what you know about Colorado Beef and Chicken, Incorporated, a client of this firm. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I’m staring at Lynn. Detective Boyle begins asking questions. When he isn’t looking, I mouth, “Coincidence?”

Lynn nods.

The questions are boring. I never worked on any contracts for that particular corporation, so I don’t have anything to tell them. Lynn follows me to my desk.

“Found you.”

I smile. “So you did.”

“Don’t take lunch until two.”

“I’ll make an exception today.”

“Is that a ‘Yes, I’ll meet you for lunch?’”

I smile. “Yes. That’s a yes.”

***

There’s a diner about two blocks down the street from my office. It isn’t fine cuisine, as my culinary-minded associates from work like to remind me. But it’s fast and moderately healthy, depending on your definition of healthy. They don’t layer on the grease and salt, at least.

I get a booth and Lynn takes the opposite side. We order and start talking.

“Police Detective?”

“I retired from the Marines. Twenty years was enough.”

“What did you do in the Marines?”

“Nothing I can discuss.”

“Classified or painful?”

“Classified.”

That tells me enough, I suppose. Spy shit.

“Why’d you retire?”

“I wanted to fix my marriage.”

“That seems to have gone well.”

“Yeah. We had some disagreements over sleeping with other people. I was against it. My Ex wasn’t.”

“Any kids?”

“One. He’ll be twelve soon.”

“Custody?”

“We have an agreement. We live in the same house, but we aren’t together anymore.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It’s a big house.”

“Ah.” I’m not really sure what to say there.

“Lawyer?”

“I am a lawyer.”

“Not what I envisioned. Thought maybe personal trainer or something like that.”

“Oh?”

She lifts her hand and moves it up and down at my body.

“Good genes.”

“Lucky.”

“Can you tell me why you’re investigating...”

“Colorado Beef and Chicken, Incorporated.”

“Yes. Them.”

“Someone died. It’s related.”

“Makes complete sense.”

“It’s boring. I like this kind of thing and even I’m bored by it.”

“May I infer that your husband is the one with money? Police jobs don’t strike me as particularly well-paying. And you’re doing it largely because you like it.”

Nobody does what they enjoy unless they have financial support of some kind. The Richard Bransons of the world would have you believe otherwise, but they are the exceptions and don’t even know it.

“We made some good investments when we were first married. He got half my retirement in the divorce and I got half of our investments. I decided that I didn’t mind living with him or raising our son together, I just didn’t want to be married to him. He’s free to seek romance elsewhere. And he does.”

I’m not sure what to make of that. Let’s review: forty-ish, divorced, mother, and enjoys mysteries. Fantastic. Just fantastic. I’m a werewolf, so there’s that mystery for her to solve. I’m sure that won’t bite me in the ass at some point.

“How do I fit?”

“You’re a convenience. You’re fun. You’re a lot of things my ex is not. I actually thought you were younger.”

“Does that matter?”

“Honestly, younger men don’t ask questions. Younger men just want to get laid. There’s a myth that I can play on about single mothers being the perfect sex partners for young men looking for fun without attachment. But now I’m curious. Are you married? Do you have kids?”

“My parents were awful people. And I don’t mean the emotionally abusive kind of awful. They were monsters. They’ve been better, recently, but that doesn’t really fix my childhood.”

“But not you.”

“Everyone’s a monster in their own way, but I don’t break laws or have a sadistic streak.”

She bristled. I wonder what I said.

“I never particularly cared one way or another, but my brother... well... he was enthusiastic. I had a falling out with him when I was sixteen. My parents sided with him and I left. My brother left some time around fifteen years ago and my parents contacted me to apologize.”

“You look twenty-five. You gonna stick with that story?”

I smile. “Good genes.”

“And evil genes, apparently.”

“Not really. My brother especially didn’t view other people as people.”

She frowns.

“I’m not making myself clear. I’ve seen documentaries on military training. They train people to kill, yes?”

She nods. “But that’s different.”

“What I mean is that psychological technique where killing is glorified and enemy combatants become not-human is exactly what my family thinks about people who aren’t family. Or they did, anyway. The family is... human, while everyone else isn’t. It’s easier to kill animals. There are people who are so sensitive, so empathetic that even killing animals is horrifying. But that mindset doesn’t fit with military types, does it?”

She’s silent. Her brows are knotted together. She’s staring at me.

“What happened?”

“To make me leave?”

She nods.

“I was sixteen. I had a girlfriend who was very different. She was kind of a hippy. She was an artist, she was sexually liberated, she was everything my family didn’t like. My brother had a string of lovers, but nobody like her. He was jealous, I think. She died badly.”

“What happened after?”

“Do you mean did I tell the police? Did I do something more illegal?”

“Anything.”

“I left. I emancipated myself, got my GED, and went to college. I haven’t spoken to my brother since.”

“Did you do anything else?”

I smile. “It’s been over twenty years. How much detail do you really want?”

“Fair.”

“Tell me about how you became a detective.”

“Well, I retired so that I could spend more time with my son. I had to spend four years as a patrol officer here, which wasn’t difficult. Forty hours a week is a lot better than eighteen months on ship, and I earned my degree mostly through correspondence courses. The detective exams weren’t difficult compared to that. The background check was a joke compared to what I did in the Marines. I applied as soon as I was eligible and was offered the job six months later.”

The waitress was standing with our plates. Lynn had some vegetarian nonsense. We ate and went back to our respective day jobs.

I had the dream again. The one with my older brother. He was hunting cheerleaders. It reminded me of those horror movies with teenagers and a masked slasher, except my brother never got caught. I hate those movies.

I wake up in my bed with Lynn. She spent the night again. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone repeat that I’d forgotten how nice it is to know the person’s name. It’s been over two weeks since we first met and a little less since she found me at work. She’s managed to find me five times.

I respect that kind of ability. It’s not difficult to find me, but finding me when I’m looking for company can be tricky. My hours can be weird, but I guess I frequent the same few blocks enough that it isn’t impossible.

What am I doing?

The news personality is talking about something while I’m making breakfast. Lynn is not to be trusted with breakfast. She goes to the nearest coffee shop and gets confections. That’s just going to cause a blood-sugar spike and not just for diabetics.

I make meat. I’ve got some fruit to go with the meat. I can compromise. And the fiber is good for me. Ground elk plus spices and pork fat equals breakfast sausage. Elk generally has very little fat, which makes it very tough. Grinding it with pork fat gives it more flavor and softens the meat.

“You know I’m a vegetarian.”

“You know I don’t care.”

She takes her plate of meat and fruit with a sigh.

The news personality starts talking again. Lynn pays attention. I eat. Elk breakfast sausage is delicious. I pay a butcher good money to make it for me and I’m not wasting it.

“Just when the gangs were settling down.”

“Huh?”

 “The news, John. Pay attention.”

“You’re the one who likes watching the news. I don’t care.”

She rolls her eyes. She’s got an apple wedge in her hand. She takes another bite and points to the TV.

“This is the third Hispanic gang member killed. This could be a serial!”

“A serial killer?”

“Yes! That means a task force! That means more work for me, either way. I’ve never worked a serial killer before. Should be fun!”

“Either way what? I’m lost.”

“If I get assigned to the task force, that means more work. I’ll be looking into the serial killer. If I don’t get assigned to the task force, that means I’ll have to cover cases for the people who’re on the task force. More work for me.”

“And you want that?”

“I’m not saying there are bad detectives, but closing cases and getting convictions aren’t the same thing. We close a case, but then the DA has to prosecute. If the case is good, then the DA doesn’t have to work very hard. Most of the people in those cases take a plea bargain which saves the DA and taxpayers time and money. I’ve worked on twenty-seven cases in the last year. Two went to court. None were dismissed.”

Her smile is ear to ear. I’m pretty sure that’s pride.

“Okay. You’d better take a shower first then. I don’t have to be at work for a while.”

She grabs her gym bag. It’s not an overnight bag. It has gym clothes and other stuff. It also has her toiletries and change of clothes. But it’s not an overnight bag.

I listen to the news personality drone on about the weather and traffic conditions. Why people are surprised by rush hour traffic where I-25 and I-70 meet is beyond me. I chose an apartment downtown so I wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing. I can take a bus or walk to work. I could ride a bike, if I was slightly insane.

Lynn’s got her hair up in a tight bun and her clothes are spotless.

“Thanks again. Got to go. Later.”

And she’s out the door.

***

Everyone at the office is quiet. Not the normal quiet, but the kind of quiet that happens after a tragedy. It was quiet like this after the twin towers in 2001. I don’t remember anything that would merit this on the news.

“What’s going on?”

Robyn, one of the women from accounts, looks at me. Her eyes are wide and her skin is a little pale. She’s breathing shallow breaths as well.

“You haven’t heard?”

Obviously I haven’t heard whatever is shaking people up. Sometimes I want to strangle people. I shake my head.

“There was a guy on the third floor. He used to be in one of the Hispanic gangs a long time ago. Someone killed him last night. They found him this morning, like an hour ago. The third floor is closed. I guess there’s blood everywhere.”

Great. More of this nonsense.

I head to my desk and try to get to work when my boss calls me into his office.

“How are you, John?”

The man is fat. He’s in his sixties with grey hair and his suits are always fitted. I can see his hands are well-manicured and soft, with callouses on the tips of his fingers on his left hand. I’ve known him for over a decade and the only thing that’s changed is his waistline and the color of his hair.

“Fine, sir. I was just trying to get some work done.”

“Ah, yes. Blood doesn’t bother you, does it? Being a hunter and all.”

It usually comes up at gatherings. People ask about hobbies and then talk about their own. I shake my head and shrug. I’m not sure what to say.

“I need you to go down to the third floor and find out what happened. A few of our employees used to work criminal law. They might be targeted by former clients with a grudge. I want to see if we should tighten security.”

What security? The stairs only open into the stairwell and the bottom floor for evacuations and that’s mostly to prevent people from smoking in the stairwell. The elevator doesn’t have any security. There is a camera in the lobby though. That’s not security. Idiot. Ass-covering idiot.

“Sure.”

I take the elevator down to the third floor. The place is swarming with lab-coat-wearing folk. There are three uniformed officers. I walk up to one. His name tag reads, “Johanson.”

“Excuse me, Officer Johanson?”

“It’s Sergeant, but go ahead.”

“My apologies, Sergeant Johanson. I’m from the eighth floor and my boss wanted to know some things. Not anything that would compromise your investigation, of course. Just things like potential bio-hazards, if any of our people might be targets, if we should increase security. Things like that.”

He frowned with only the left side of his mouth. I was concerned he might be having a stroke for a second. Then I decided that if he was having stroke, there isn’t much I could do.

“What do you do up on the eighth floor?”

“Franklin, Leibowitz, and Jones. Law firm. Contracts and civil litigation, mostly, but some of our people have worked criminal law in the past. Some people hold grudges.”

“I’ll pass your information on up. They’ll contact you if they think you’re in any danger. But you can tell your boss that increasing security wouldn’t be a bad idea. If any of this blood is going to be a bio-hazard, the building maintenance staff will get notified.”

I smile.

“Great. Thanks, Sergeant Johanson.”

And back up the elevator I go. I tell my boss what the good Sergeant told me and try to go back to work. Again.

“Mister Smith?”

I sigh. What now? I just want to get back to my desk and finish this stupid contract. I don’t recognize the woman.

“Yes. Who are you and what do you want?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something is off. Very, extremely off.

“Victor says hello.”

She can’t be much bigger than five feet. She’s smiling at me.

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, Billy, I’m really not.”

Fuck. Unholy fuck. Nobody calls me Billy anymore. Is now a good time to panic? Probably not.

“Tell him I’m not interested.”

“He isn’t trying to sell you anything.”

“He’s always trying to sell me something. I’m. Not. Interested.”

“I think you’ll want to talk to him. Family’s important, you know.”

“The last time I saw my brother, we nearly killed each other. He can go fuck himself.”

Anger is washing over me. It hasn’t done that in years. It’s forcing The Change. I can hold it to a dull roar, but my muscles are straining and my vision is getting clearer. That’s when I notice the slight ripples in her flesh. Her hair is retracting into her skull, shortening. There is a thrum of instinct screaming at me.

‘I AM ALPHA,’ it screams. ‘ESTABLISH DOMINANCE,’ it screams.

She smiles. I can see her teeth are more pointed, her canines more pronounced.

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

She turns her back on me to leave. I struggle not to attack. I stand in the hall shivering in impotent rage. I don’t even know why I’m angry. Just the smell of her perfume is driving me nuts. I stalk to the elevator and take it to the top floor. The stairs there have roof access and I need some air.

By the time I get there, I’m not mad anymore. I can think. I’ve never had that reaction to anyone before. Werewolf or human, I’ve never been incensed like that. I’ve spoken about my brother before. He even tried to talk to me before. This was something else. I’ve met other female werewolves and they didn’t elicit that kind of response. I try to remember the smell of her perfume and find that I can’t.

I go back down to the office and sniff around. It’s a flowery, chemical smell. Like any number of other perfumes. I can’t identify it though. That frustrates me. I begin to hate her. And then the anger washes over me again. I have to work to restrain the Change.

And she works for my brother. She has some sort of perfume that drives anger into overdrive and forces the Change. That’s just fantastic. Can I panic yet? No. I cannot.

I take out my cell phone and dial Lynn’s number. It’s the number on the card she gave out when she was interviewing my office a few weeks back. She’s offered me her home phone a few times, but I keep refusing. The rules of our relationship have been clear. We haven’t exchanged information, although she knows where I live.

She answers, “Detective Spartan.”

“Hi. Can we talk?”

“I assume it’s important.”

“I might be panicking, but it might be important.”

“I can meet you. What’s it about?”

“I’ll tell you in person. Meet on the roof of my office building.”

“Can we meet somewhere else? I’m nowhere near there.”

I shake my head and realize immediately that she can’t see me. “I can wait. Meet me as soon as you can.”

Silence that stretches and then, “Okay.”

***

Lynn walks out onto the roof. The sun is still over the mountains. This time of year, it doesn’t set until late. From the roof, you can see the mountains between other buildings.

“What’s up?”

“The throats of the victims were mauled, as if by an animal. The footprints at the scene are bare feet and canine, if there even are any footprints. No other part of the body was touched. Am I right?”

She’s got her lips pursed. She’s glaring at me. Her hand is inching to her hip.

“What makes you say that?”

“I am right. Fuck.”

“You need to tell me how you know that. Right fucking now.”

“My brother. It’s his signature.”

I turn away from her. I like her. More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. If she’s going to shoot me, I’d rather not see it coming. It’ll hurt less.

“Your brother?”

I nod. She’s behind me, closer now. My eyes are closed. I’m listening to the wind.

“You’re sure?”

I nod again.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

I open my eyes and turn to her.

“Tons. None of it is helpful. I suspect the death on the third floor was his handiwork. If there is going to be a task force, don’t be on it.”

“You’re spooked. It’s weird. It doesn’t fit you, somehow.”

“No. It doesn’t. He’s my brother. I don’t love him, but I can’t stop him.”

He’s the elder wolf. He was always stronger than me. He taught me how to hunt. I love him. I hate him.

“Still. If your brother is killing people, we’re going to stop him.”

I shake my head.

“He’s not invincible, untouchable. You might think so, but he’s not.”

“Maybe. But in a contest between him and you, he’ll win and more people will die.”

“Do you think I can’t take him?”

I let the Change wash over me. I need to prove a point. I should try talking to her more. I know that. I’m making bad decisions, but I’m committed now.

My hands move like lightning, one grabbing the handgun on her belt and the other grabbing her shirt. I lift her off her feet and pull the weapon out of its holster. I roll onto my back and put my foot into her stomach as she comes down. With a hard kick, I launch her across the roof. I finish the roll and am on my feet before she stops rolling. I eject the magazine and pull the slide of her weapon to eject the last round. I’m not familiar with the exact weapon, but it’s a semi-automatic pistol.

“He’s stronger than me. He’s faster than me. He’s more experienced than me. He’ll get that close and you won’t know it unless he wants you to. And he kills people. Listen to me.” I drop the weapon and the magazine. “Turn down the task force if they offer it.”

I need her to understand: Victor is a monster.

She’s still pulling herself to her feet. Her face is red and her brows furrow. She charges me. She’s been trained and trained well. I’ve been trained too and although not nearly as well, I have reflexes rivaled only by wild animals and roughly three times the strength of someone my size. She leads with a kick to my leg. I turn my leg into it and meet her shin with my knee.

She grunts and leans in to put an elbow to my face. I flex my neck and lean sideways. Her elbow won’t do anything to me.

I grab her by the armpit and lift her off her feet. I grab one of her thighs and turn her as I put her above my head. I throw her across the roof again.

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m taking great care not to hurt you. My brother won’t.”

She’s breathing heavier now as she picks herself up.

“How are you doing that?” She wipes her arm across her forehead. “It’s like fighting a wall.”

“Good genes.”

“Bullshit. I can fight. I’ve competed in martial arts tournaments, back when I thought it would help my career. I’ve fought other blackbelts who could barely block like that, let alone throwing me like I’m a child.”

I stare. “And my brother can do it better, faster, and with more brutality.”

“And you won’t help stop him.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Make me then.”

“He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, older than me, and he enjoys violence. He’s got a sadistic streak. He enjoys causing pain.”

She stares at me for a long time, her frown boring into me. She takes a deep breath and her face goes neutral.

“I understand.”

She picks up her gun, turns, and walks down the stairs. I just fucked up and I don’t even know how. Dammit.