He scratched the back of his head, hard. "What do you mean? I don't get it." "All of us, all the tribes of the Garou, spend our lives trying to save Gaia. The Earth. There are forces that work against us, not all of them human. But we try, )o. We keep on trying."

"You rip it, Mr. Blanchard."

He sat up sharply. "1 what?”

"No secrets anymore, do you understand? No secrets. Their safe time is over."

He didn't like the way the snow sounded like tiny claws on the pane; he didn't like the way the snow blurred the view and turned daylight to gray; he didn't like the way his throat abruptly dried.

"No offense, Mr. Crimmins, but do you know what the hell you're saying here?"

"I know precisely what I'm saying, Mr. Blanchard. I've given it more thought than you’ll ever know."

"Jesus.” He inhaled slowly. "lesus H. Christ."

"What separates us from you is something we call the Veil. I am sworn to protect it, as well."

"Can I have a minute here?”

"Take your time, Mr. Blanchard, take your time. I want no misunderstandings.”

He placed the receiver carefully on the bed, rose, and walked to the window. There was nothing to see except for the snow, for the struggling traffic, but when he placed his fingertips against the pane, the cold felt damn good.

They were nuts.

Those guys were fucking nuts.

Rip the goddamn Veil?

He made a small noise in his throat, covered his mouth with one hand, and looked over his shoulder at the bed.

Were they out of their goddamn minds?

Christ, this wasn't just some war they would start. This was goddamn Armageddon.

"Your rogue, Jo, is a Garou. That’s why you’ve never found him. You started out looking for an animal, now you're hunting a human. You should have been looking for both.”

He couldn't tell a thing from her expression; he couldn't tell how deep her retreat had taken her.

"It's a hunger born of madness. We all .. ." He faltered, looked away, decided to concentrate on the window and the leafless branches outside. "We all must kill to eat. To live. It's a part of us, there's no getting around it, and we ... I make no excuses for it. The madness is just .. . killing. For the hell of it. For the pleasure of it.

"And my job is to stop it."

"You're crazy," she whispered. "We’re both crazy.”

"I am a Silent Strider. A loner. Always alone." The wind caused the branches to quiver. Shadows darted across the pane like smears of black rain. "And I am one of the best at what I do."

"Tell that to Curly Guestin.”

He glanced at her, pleased—for just that split second, she had taken his word. Right now, it was enough.

"So tell me," she said, shuddering a deep breath, "are you like in the movies? Full moon? Silver bullets? A normal guy one minute, a wolf the next? Fangs and claws, all that shit?”

The bravado and derision were back.

"You'll see."

He picked up the receiver, but he didn’t sit down, "Back, Mr. Crimmins.”

"Good."

"So let me get this straight: You still want me to take care of Turpin, but you want me to do it so these people will know what he is?"

"Yes.”

"Tonight?”

"Yes.”

"And then what?”

There was no answer.

She refused to allow him to touch her, but did as she was bidden when asked to take his place by the coffee-table, her back to him. Then he closed the drapes in both rooms, turned out all the lamps but one.

"Look at the wall, Jo."

She folded her arms under her breasts and scowled. "Some kind of game?”

"Trust me, Jo—"

"Ha."

"—it’s better this way."

His shadow rose on the wall by the door.

"You do rabbits and birds?”

"Watch."

"Mr. Crimmins, once I do this thing, then what?"

The shadow began to change.

"You run, Mr. Blanchard."

The shadow grew. Expanded. "That's pretty good,” Joanne said. The shadow began to shift.

"You run as far away as you can."

He knew what she saw, spreading toward the ceiling: The muzzle, the ears, the extended arm and the claws.

Anubis.

He heard the whimper, saw her spine grow rigid, and saw her head begin to move.

"No," he cautioned. Voice deeper. Much deeper. As quiet as it was, it filled the room with its power. "Not unless you really want to know.”

"Trick.”

"No."

She turned, and she saw him.

"Oh, Lord," she said, and sat down hard on the floor. "Aw, Jesus."

Blanchard hung up, cursing at the way his hand trembled. He unhooked the scrambler and put it back in his bag. He stood for a long time at the window, watching the snow accumulate on the sidewalks, imagining how it would be when the Veil was torn and the Garou were exposed.

Not many believers at first, except perhaps those who saw the deed. Then the word would spread. Especially, he thought, if he could get television to record the proof.

His lips twitched.

There would be coverage tonight. The costume thing. Local news. Stringers, or reporters who were at the bottom of the ladder. Unless ...

His lips twitched.

Unless he made a couple of calls, let a couple of people know that tonight wasn't just going to be a bunch of jerks walking around like it was Halloween.

Unless he let it slip that... that maybe the police were set to make a major arrest . . . that the killer was actually someone here at the convention.

Imagine, he thought.

Armageddon in Chattanooga.

Ft would almost be funny, if so many people weren’t about to die.

Rich ebony fur edged in silver on crown and chest. "Richard?"

"Yes."

Gently slanted eyes filled with green fire.

"Oh, God ”

He said nothing.

"Oh, God, Richard, 1 think !’m gonna be sick."

He took his time dressing, all the while listening to Joanne in the bathroom, retching, moaning, stumbling around, retching and moaning again. Once, he heard a fist slam against the wall. He opened the drapes and turned off the lights. He watched the snow as it began to turn over to sleet. He knocked on the bathroom door and didn't react when she screamed at him to go away. She was terrified, and terrified that she might be going insane; she would find a hundred reasons why she hadn't seen what she had, and a hundred more why all of them wrong; she might huddle in there for hours, believing she was dreaming until she knew that she was awake; she would rehearse what she would tell the others, and she would weep and scream again.

Because she knew no one would believe her.

And there was nothing, not now, he could do to help her through it.

He couldn’t stay. He had to trust his own judgment and hope that she would make the right decision.

On a pad of hotel stationery he left a short note, picked up his jacket, and left without a good-bye. On

the way to the elevator he caught up with the whitehaired man he had met on the first night, who smiled wanly in greeting. He looked exhausted, massively hung over, and Richard couldn't help a sympathetic smile.

"Rough night?” he asked as they stepped into the car.

A woman's voice called plaintively just as the doors closed.

"insatiable," he groaned.

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me."

Marcus Spiro chuckled. "At my age, it either kills you or makes you younger."

"And?"

The door opened on the gallery floor.

"Well, my hair is still white, but I’m not dead. Could be worse," and he left with a wave over his shoulder.

Richard felt himself grinning as he rode down to the first floor, and felt the grin fade as he stepped into the nearly empty lobby. Not all the chairs and sofas were taken; those people he did see were clearly on their way to someplace else. Despite the noise he heard from the gallery above, down here the world was hushed. After a moment’s indecision, he made his way to an alcove that contained public telephones and tried to call iohn Chesney, but again there was no response; nor could he raise Viana or Maurice.

He almost dialed Fay's number.

Until he remembered.

Disturbed, and feeling flashes of anger at being deserted, he wandered aimlessly around the first floor, noting the sheet of ice forming on the streets, looking through the window of the gift shop at the day's headlines in the local paper.

Another murder.

That stopped him until he saw "copycat killer" in the body of the text. He went in and bought a copy, took it to the restaurant and ate a fast lunch while he read what little there was, plus a lengthy sidebar on the serial killer and his latest attack on the mountain. By the time he was finished, he suspected that the copycat killer wasn't a copycat at all.

It was someone who, for some reason, had tried to make things confusing.

No, he thought; not some reason.

Had Richard not been injured, he might well have gone to the bus station himself, just to be sure the rogue hadn't struck again. And if he had ... a trap, John had warned him; this whole affair may well be a trap.

Feeling more alert, he wandered back to the lobby, noting what his preoccupation had prevented him from seeing the first time around—more than a dozen easels scattered around the room, each holding a large color photograph. From the legends at the bottom, not all of which he understood, the pictures appeared to be of stellar attractions of previous costume events at this annual convention, and he had to admit that many of them were quite amazing, detailed and elaborate, and, in some cases, astoundingly beautiful.

And some were rather silly.

He couldn’t help a quick laugh when he stopped in front of a picture of someone who had chosen to be Lon Chaney, jr.’s Wolf Man. A remarkably faithful rendition of the motion-picture monster, with the added attraction of a busty, scantily clad Gypsy cowering at his furry feet.

Oh brother, he thought, holding back a laugh; boy, if they only knew.

“Interesting," a voice said blandly beside him.

He looked as he said, "Excuse me?", then shrugged an apology when he realized the man who had spoken had made the comment to his female companion. "Sorry."

"Not at all," the man answered with a polite smile. "We were admiring the picture gallery." He waved a hand at the other easels.

"So was I."

The woman, whose wiry hair had been pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, looked him over and looked away; her boredom couldn't have been more evident if she had worn a sign.

"It's amazing what these people can do," the man remarked, then cleared his throat. “I’m awfully sorry, I'm being rude.” He held out his hand. "Blanchard. Miles Blanchard. This is my wife, Wanda.”

Richard shook the hand without giving his own name, nodded to the woman, who hadn't looked back, and gestured toward the Wolf Man. "I gather these people are pretty heavily into movies and TV."

"Looks that way, yes. It must take them hours to put some of these costumes together, don’t you think?” Richard supposed that it would, spotted the badge on the man’s chest, and asked if he too was going to be in costume that night.

"But of course," Blanchard answered with an expansive laugh. He slipped his arm around his wife and hugged her close; she didn’t react. "We wouldn’t think of not doing it. It’s a tradition, you might say.” Richard heard someone call his name.

"Right... honey?"

“What will you be?" he asked as he looked around, and saw Joanne in the middle of the lobby, beckoning urgently. “Hey, I'm sorry,” he said quickly, stepping away, "I have to go. Nice meeting you. Good luck.” Blanchard said something in response, but Richard didn't listen. Anxious and hopeful, he hurried over to

Joanne, who immediately grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the staircase leading to the gallery floor.

"Come on, there's something 1 have to show you."

He tugged on her arm, wanting to see what he could read in her eyes. "Are you.. . ?"

"Shut up," she said without much heat. "No, I'm not, but shut up."

They pushed through the crowd, Joanne taking him through the ballroom's wide anteroom to the gallery's other side, then up three steps into a long corridor where more photographs were on display. Some guests were already in costume, but Richard saw that these weren’t anywhere near on par with those in the pictures. Mostly capes and fangs, or what resembled Star Trek uniforms, and one whitefaced guy in a fuzzy black wig, net stockings, high heels, and a fancy black corset.

Richard couldn't help but stare as the man and his similarly dressed retinue passed, and Joanne had to yank his hand twice before she got his attention.

“Look,” she ordered, and pointed.

“Jo,” he said, “I’ve already seen a picture of the Wolf Man downstairs.”

"Look, damn it."

He did, and the hall fell silent, nothing but a rush of dry wind in his ears.

It wasn't the Wolf Man.

It was a Garou.

According to the legend, the picture had been taken just two years ago.

He couldn't breathe.

Joanne pulled him away toward a narrow staircase in the opposite wall.

Garou. Here. And it’s been here for at least two years.

"Come on," she said tightly.

He stopped halfway down, nearly pulling her off her feet.

"What?"

"Not a rogue," he said. "I’ll be damned. It's not a rogue.”

The restaurant/bar was packed, and too many people stood in line. Impatiently she pulled him back into the hall, frowned in thought for a moment, then said, "Button your coat, we're going out."

They went across the boulevard to a McDonald's on the other side. The light inside was too bright for the weather, the colors too vivid, the smells too strong. Every sound too sharp, every move too stilted.

Like being in the corner of a glaringly lit stage surrounded by the night.

He didn't want anything, but she nearly filled a tray, and they took a booth along a fake-brick wall. She fussed a bit with her food, setting it out as if she were having a real meal, then pointed at the fries.

"Am I going to be able to keep this stuff down?”

His smile was automatic and genuine. "I hope so."

"Good, ’cause I'm starving. And while I eat, you’re going to tell me everything, okay? Everything I need to know."

"Why?"

“I'm your partner, right? If you're going to hunt this thing, I—"

He slammed a fist on the table, making her jump, eyes wide and fearful.

"Son of a bitch!"

"What? What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?"

He shook his head, put his hands to his head and

shook it angrily. "There was a man and woman in the lobby. I was talking to them when you—"

"1 saw them. So what?"

"They belong to the convention. I asked if they were going to be in costume, and he said they were." He lowered his hands, palms down, to the table. "1 didn't catch what he said right away, when 1 asked him what he'd be. 1 was too worried about what. . He stopped himself and looked around the restaurant, shook his head at his own stupidity, and forced the tension out of his system. "He said, 'Hunter,’ Jo. He said, 'We’ll be hunters, Mr. Turpin.”’

There was a delay in her comprehension, but when it came it knocked her back in her seat. "What?” "He knew my name, Jo. He knows who I am."

"Don't bother," she said when he started to get up. "He did it deliberately, to get your attention. And he’s not going to be there, waiting for you to come back.” She picked up a hamburger, grimaced at it, and took a bite.

"You’re eating.”

"I told you, i’m starving." She took another bite. "Now talk to me, Richard. How does he know who you are?”

He explained briefly about the Warders, stumbling when he mentioned Fay, and those the Garou knew were trying to gather information about their world. It had been previously thought that these other groups, however many there were, were too disparate to cause many problems because, like humans generally, they hoarded knowledge for the sake of power, and for the sake of future glory. Bad for the humans, good for the Garou, because it made it easier for them to keep tabs on what these people knew, and what they thought they knew.

When they learned too much, group members tended to disappear.

Joanne stabbed a french fry into a thick puddle of catsup. "By disappear, you mean . . ."

"Yes."

There was no guilt, no remorse, he told her; it was a simple matter of survival, for the Garou and for Gaia. Humans didn’t realize it, but it was for their survival too. But now someone had slipped through the Garou net.

"This guy Blanchard,”

"No. He's working for someone else. People like this, they don't dirty their own hands."

She met his gaze without blinking. "Like the Warders."

He didn't deny it.

Nor could he deny any longer that one of the Warders may have ordered Fay's death, undoubtedly because he knew she had warned him, knew where her primary allegiance lay. And perhaps she knew more, something she hadn't been able to tell him.

“She was your lover."

He nodded.

"Children?" She gave him a lopsided grin. "Or whatever?"

He returned the grin, and shook his head. Garou who mated, no matter how much in love, rarely produced normal offspring. These metis, as they were called, were deformed if they lived, already mad, already half dead. He glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable. He damn near started blushing. "Garou like me come from ... 1 guess—”

“A mixed marriage?” she suggested.

"Close enough." He still wouldn’t look at her. "Wolves or humans, actually."

She nodded thoughtfully, and ate another fry.

"You know, some people would think that's pretty gross."

"And you?" he asked without thinking.

"Don’t push it, Richard, I’m still working on it, okay?" When he held up his hands, she added, "But now we have to figure out a way to get you out of the city in one piece."

"No," he said. "First, I have to figure out how to take care of the false rogue. Then I take care of Blanchard and whoever’s with him, probably that woman. Then I get out of town."

She gaped, started to argue, then slumped in defeat and said, "Well, maybe I can help you out."

"How?”

"I think I know who that rogue thing is."

4

They reached the exit just as a band of conventioneers scrambled in out of the sleet and rain. Their voices were too loud, their faces too animated, their apologies as they bumped into Joanne and Richard too filled with uncaring laughter.

Joanne hooked her arm around Richard’s, and they went outside, unable to move quickly because the footing was too slippery. The wind had picked up, the sleet falling at an angle that stung his ear and cheeks. At the curb they were forced to wait for a bus that skidded and hissed steam as it stopped for a red light. Once on the island, they had to wait again, this time for a funeral, headlamps aglare, the mourners unseen in gleaming black limousines. Slush had already begun to form in the gutters; there was nothing left of the morning's snowfall but a few patches in recesses the sleet couldn't reach.

Once under the hotel’s canopy, however, he pulled her to one side, put his arms around her back and clasped his hands behind her. She resisted for only a second, shivering, cheeks beginning to blotch with pale red.

"When I go in there, it begins," he said, nodding toward the double glass doors.

"We,” she reminded him. "I still have to tell you."

"Me," he contradicted gently. "Lt. Millson will kill me if you don't show up for that meeting.”

"Can he?" She cocked her head, smiling.

"No. Not really. But it's the thought that counts, |o. You still have a job. It means too much to you, and I don't want you to lose it."

He could tell she knew he was right. He could also tell that she didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not for a long time.

"What are you going to do?”

"Right now?" He frowned over her head, his breath drifting into her hair like pale smoke. "Not much. And certainly not in there. There are too many people, too many eyes, if you know what I mean." He shuddered when a run of ice water slipped from his hair down his neck and to his spine. "First thing I must do is make some calls. 1 have to know what's happened to my ... to the Warders."

"Stay away from your room," she warned.

"Why?"

"They got you once, remember? If you stay alone, they'll try to get you again."

He wanted to tell her that he could take care of himself, but an image of the silver spike in his bathroom flared and vanished. He didn't think that this Miles Blanchard would be carrying a club. He’d have a gun. Silver bullets. He had a partner. More silver.

"Damn," he whispered.

The sleet had turned to mostly rain, and it fell heavily, springing fountains in the street, drumming hard on the canvas canopy, sounding like the thunder of a stampede.

"Okay." She poked his chest with a stiff finger.

"Use the public phones, stay out of crowded rooms—and empty ones—and keep yourself visible. All the time, Richard, all the time."

He slipped his arms away and gripped her shoulders. “I can't.”

“Why?" she demanded.

‘i have to go someplace first.”

"What? Listen, Richard, you can’t—”

He silenced her with a finger. "This is something 1 must do, and it’s a place where you can't go. It won't take long by your time, but I have to do it if I'm going to have a chance."

Her protest sputtered on, but it was only words without meaning. She lay her palm against his chest. "This is some kind of... Garou thing?”

He nodded.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not yet. I won't lie to you, Jo. It could be, but not yet.”

"And when you get back?"

"I will do exactly what you told me. I swear it." He shook his head. "No. I give you my word.”

She snapped a thumb toward the parking lot. "My car's over there. I'll be back as fast as I can." With a sly smile she patted her breast pocket. "I still have the key."

"Call the room first, look for me," he said sternly.

"Hey," she said, insulted. "I'm a cop, gimmie a break, okay?"

There was nothing left to say, and without bothering to think, he pulled her close again, and he kissed her, soft and quickly on the lips.

Flustered, she broke away and hurried to the curb, hurried back and said, "1 have to get one thing straight, all right?"

"Sure."

"When you say this Garou thing, these people of yours, we're talking about. .She swallowed and looked sheepish.

He couldn't help but grin, "Yes, Jo, I'm talking about werewolves."

She nodded sharply. "Good. Okay. lust wanted to be sure."

Seconds later the rain took her, smearing her to a formless figure that disappeared when she crossed the street. He waited a moment longer, then went inside and gasped at the too-warm air that hit him from a ceiling vent. He took off his jacket and shook it hard, away from his side, then grabbed it in the middle and headed for his room.

The desert was silent.

He made his way through the ruins to the garden, and sat in the chair where Fay’s spirit had been.

The stone vase was still there.

The rose was gone.

He looked at the table, sighing when he saw the thin layer dust from the drying of her black tear. He passed a hand over it, and the dust scattered and was gone, and he wished, too late, he had kept some of it for himself.

Emerald sky and gold-tinged light.

No one came, nothing moved.

He rose and began to walk, skirting the barren flower beds, searching the crumbling stone paths for something, anything, that would send him where he needed to go.

The rogue wasn't a rogue.

He came to a low wall and fingered the brittle straw that poked out of the mud.

The photograph in the hallway.

He followed the wall around the garden’s perimeter,

breaking off straw, crumbling bits of clay between his fingers.

Fay’s warning. '

He stopped at a tree, whose bark was sickly gray, whose branches were bent and twisted as if in frozen torment. There were no leaves. The knees of a root broke through the faded tiled floor.

It was inconceivable that a Garou could be so careless a hunter. The monthly pattern was deliberate, deliberately staged to attract the Warders’ attention. To attract him. And it had worked. But to hunt a Garou who has lost touch with Gaia and his mind was one thing; to hunt one in control, to hunt one as he had hunted the rabbit, was something he wasn’t sure he could do, no matter what tribe the false rogue belonged to. It fell too close to blasphemy. Too close to treason.

Emerald sky and black-emerald clouds.

Gold-tinged light.

The soughing of a slow wind sifting sand from the wall, the grains falling through the dead tree like the scratch of ice against glass.

This man called Blanchard. He knew Richard, knew him by name and most likely, therefore, knew who and what he was. Did he work with the Garou whose picture was in the hall? Or was there a third party, unknown to both?

Why the hell wouldn't the Warders return his calls?

He punched the trunk in frustration, and a thin branch swayed under the impact, snapped, fell, shattered to pieces at his feet.

And something moved on the bark.

It startled him into taking a step backward, then puzzled him into drawer nearer again.

He smiled, but briefly.

A chameleon, ridged skin almost the exact hue of the bark, moved ponderously around the trunk toward the thick stump of a branch, its tail was blunt, its sawtooth back broad, its head marked by a pair of forward-aiming horns.

Gently Richard picked it up and carried it in his palm to the table, sat, and watched it lumber toward the vase.

Gray shifted to sandstone.

Almost, but not quite.

He leaned back and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, studying the little beast, watching it try to vanish. One hand shook the table slightly, and the chameleon froze, sandstone lids slipping over its bulbous eyes.

Now. Now it was gone.

The soughing became a keening, and beneath it a deep calling that turned his head toward the tree, in the uppermost branches, the ones that formed jagged cracks in the emerald-streaked sky, he saw a bird, huge and brown.

"Ah," he said, and nodded to it. "I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”

The owl’s wings spread, and the wind took it aloft.

He followed its effortless glide above the ruins, shifted back a little when the owl began its glide, wings high, talons out, soundless save for the wind, until it swept with a rush across the table and vanished over the far, falling wall.

He had to brush a hand across the table to make the chameleon was actually gone.

The keening became a roar.

He didn’t keep track of the time he sat there.

Time, in the desert, meant less than nothing.

When he finally rose, he lifted his face to the wind and the emerald sky and the hunter bird, and he shifted.

And he bellowed until walls began to crack, and the stone vase exploded.

Shifted again and walked to the nearest gate. When his shadow brushed the tree, the tree shimmered and fell to dust, twisting slowly in the wind.

He opened his eyes, feeling the desert heat still radiating from his skin. He sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, stripped to the waist, feet bare, hands cupped lightly over his knees.

In the middle of the sitting room, Joanne sat in a chair, legs out, hands in her jeans pockets.

"You were gone a long time,” she said when he allowed himself a smile of greeting.

"I guess.” His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. "It's hard to tell sometimes.”

She glanced at the window. "The sun's down.”

He eased himself to the edge of the mattress, grimacing as he straightened his legs. "Then it was a long time."

"Where . . . where were you?"

"Away. I'm sorry, but that's the best way I can describe it. Away. In a place, like I said, where I’d hoped to find some answers."

"Did you?" She hadn't moved.

He shivered a little in the room's cool air. “I don't know. I think so. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Things where I was, they aren't always what they seem."

She moistened her lips. "And sometimes they are?"

"Yep."

"So how do you know the difference?"

He laughed quietly. "Practice. And a whole ton of mistakes.”

She drew her feet back toward the chair and sat up. "You made a noise there, at the end."

He raised an eyebrow. "I did?"

"Kind of a grunting or something. Like you were growling.”

He looked at her in admiration. "You know, Detective, you're taking all this damn calmly."

"The hell 1 am.” She wiped a hand under her nose. Tm sitting in a room with a half-naked man, who, if you can believe it, can turn himself into a wolf."

"A sort of wolf."

"Whatever. And he tells me there are others like him, all over the damn place. One of them, he tells me, is the guy I'm after. Then he sits there, on that bed, in some kind of spooky trance, doesn't move a muscle for hours, makes me think maybe he’s some kind of dead, makes these noises that scares the shit out of me, then has the nerve to tell me that I’m taking all this damn calmly.”

She took a deep breath.

"You could have been killed, you stupid son of a bitch." Her voice deepened. "Anyone could have come in here while you were like that, and you could have been killed!"

"I would have known, )o. 1 would have sensed it.”

"You could have been killed," she insisted, and something glittered in her eyes. Then she spat dryly. "Calmly. Good . . . Lord."

Another deep breath.

"And if you don't stop looking at me like that, Turpin, I’m going to scream my frigging head off."

He laughed. He couldn’t help it, it just started, and once started, he couldn’t stop it. When she stood, fists at her side, he raised his hands in apology, laughed even harder, and fell onto his back, bounced to a sitting position, and she was there, right there, standing at his knees.

Hands still raised, he gulped for air, forced himself

to calm down, and hiccuped so loudly he started laughing again. .

She stared.

"Oh, God." He shook his head violently. "Oh, God,” and used the backs of his hands to wipe the tears from his eyes.

‘The noise," she said evenly.

He looked into her eyes, and sobered. "Yes?"

"What did it mean?"

"I’m a hunter,” he told her.

"I know that."

"It means the hunt has begun.”

For a moment, just a moment, the lobby was empty.

Silent except for the distant sound of the wind.

A long table had been set up against the west wall, opposite the elevators, a white cloth draped over it, four chairs behind. The Green Room Restaurant's tall double doors were open, the tables inside the elegant dining room pushed against the walls. The easels had been taken down, the photographs gone.

For a moment, just a moment, nothing moved.

A cough, then, and a murmur as a group of people came out of the bar’s rear entrance, their footsteps echoing until they reached the carpet.

The contest judges took their seats behind the table—an artist, a professional costumer designer, and an editor from the sponsoring publisher. The fourth chair was for the guest of honor, but Marcus Spiro hadn’t yet arrived; no one seemed too concerned. Low voices from above as regular guests lined the gallery railings, while others drifted around the lobby perimeter. Waiting.

The muffled cry of a siren.

The sound of the wind.

When the elevator doors next opened, the evening began.

They drifted out in singles and in pairs, their costumes simple in the beginning—generations of Star Trek, uniforms and masks, and a few who had almost learned the art of latex and paint. Star Wars. The Highlander. A few capes and white faces and red-tipped fangs. Doctor Who. They were nervous despite their smiles, avoiding the judges' gazes, avoiding those who watched from above and behind. Walking slowly. Posing. Trying a bit too hard not to stare at the competition.

The doors opened.

The doors closed.

A princess from someone's book, in glitter and gown, with a page for an escort and a tiny dragon on her shoulder that spat sparks for fire; a Southern belle in a hoop skirt with a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat, with an exquisite leopard’s face and a leopard's tail, and where flesh should have been there was fur; a satyr complete with cloven hooves and pointed ears; an impossibly tall Frankenstein's monster; a couple in Elizabethan dress, the woman carrying her grinning head under her arm, the man carrying an executioner's ax.

A slender figure dressed in shimmering black; when he raised his arms before the judges, his cloak was lined with black feathers edged in silver and gold.

Toad and Mole; Pinhead and the Candyman; Xena and Hercules; the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a scantily clad Esmeralda.

The lobby filled.

There was, here and there, a smattering of applause. A few catcalls and some laughter. Whistles. More applause.

Antennae and claws, rhinestones and feathers, chain mail and leggings.

They flowed smoothly in and out of the lobby and Green Room, the best always in character, whether fairy tale or nightmare.

The judges conferred and made notes, and the fourth chair remained empty.

Wanda leaned back against the wall beside the bar’s entrance. To her right, some thirty yards away, was the hotel's Broad Street entrance; directly ahead was the boutique promenade that led to the parking garage entrance; and to her left another sixty feet distant were the backs of scores of people watching the costume contest.

Her hands were deep in her trench coat pockets, and though her expression was studiously blank, she was more than a little disturbed.

The storm had changed everything.

She could see the glitter of sleet turned to snow, and knew it was going to be hell getting out of the city tonight. She was a Georgia woman herself; she knew how folks down here reacted to unexpected winter storms like this, storms more suitable to places north of the Mason-Dixon line. If she wanted to put some distance between her and what pursuit there might be, she had to act within the hour, or she'd be lost.

In more ways than one.

Applause filled the lobby.

Beyond the heads of the onlookers, she spotted the glare of television lights.

Maybe she just ought to leave. Now. Crimmins could hardly blame her. A touch of sugar in her voice would smooth that old man’s temper. Besides, there would be other times, other places, where her particular skills would be needed.

She didn’t move.

Her left hand left its pocket and touched the back of her head, touched the lump Blanchard had left there.

A spattering of laughter; a few more catcalls and whistles.

The crowd shifted, people exchanging places, coming down the stairs from the gallery, going up in search of a better view.

The hand returned to her pocket.

Her priorities had changed. Turpin was no longer at the head of the list. He would die if she had the opportunity, but she wanted Miles Blanchard.

Not dead; that would be too easy.

What she would do, what her silver blade would do, would make sure that nothing in that stupid kit of his would ever be able hide him again.

He would be, quite literally, a marked man.

And only then, when she felt like it, would she cut out his heart and shove it down his throat.

The elevator doors opened, and Beauty and the Beast stepped out, courtly and splendid.

One more time, Richard thought, dropping wearily onto the couch and grabbing the telephone; one more time.

|o stood in front of him, hands on her hips. "You're stalling."

Chesney didn't answer his phone; neither did Viana or Poulard.

He could hear the patter of sleet on the pane behind him, punched by the wind.

"Richard, come on, you're stalling.”

With a disgusted noise he replaced the receiver and looked out at the city. The lights were extra bright, and a car skidded across the intersection in maddeningly slow motion.

Her voice was quiet and hard: "They say, you have an idea, Detective? You think you have a hunch? Fine. Pursue it on your own time, don't come crying to us when you get burned, 'cause we don’t know you."

He shifted his gaze to her face.

"If you're right, they take the credit; if you’re wrong, they’ve already put the distance between you, and you get all the blame when the shit comes down."

He shook his head. "It's not the same, Jo."

"They’ve cut you loose, Richard, and you know it. Think about what they said to you, for God’s sake. They never really expected you to bring this rogue thing back alive, and you know it. But because you're you, they expect you to try, and they don't expect you to come back at all,"

"No. It's not like that.”

"Oh, yeah, it is," she contradicted softly, reached out and grabbed his hand. Pulled gently until he stood. "Yeah, Richard, it is."

"If you're so smart, you want to tell me why?”

She grinned. "I'm working on it."

So am I, he thought reluctantly; so am 1.

"Meanwhile, we get this rogue who isn’t really a rogue, right?” She slipped on her jacket, clipped her holster onto her belt at the small of her back.

"And I suppose you know who it is.”

She stared at him, surprised. "Well, sure. Leon Hendean."

He gaped.

She reminded him of their talk with Curly Guestin,

that he had complained that he hadn't been the one to fix the glider Trish McCormick had used the day she'd died. No one else worked at the place, except its owner. No one else had been there the day of the murder, except Hendean. If, she continued as they left the room, Richard could go down the mountainside, so could Hendean; it was entirely possible he had planned the woman’s death. Maybe Curly had figured it out, and had to be killed for it. As well, she added, as to bring more attention to himself.

"To get me down here."

She nodded.

He rubbed the back of his neck absently, following her down the hall. "No proof, though."

"We’ll get it. Be patient. First, we have to get hold of our boy."

They passed the elevator alcove, and she pointed toward an open door, down on the left. "In there. The brain center of the convention."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a detective, Turpin, remember? I detect."

She motioned to him to say nothing when they reached the room, and he leaned against the jamb, hands in his pockets, trying to look as official as he could.

It was a similar set-up to his, except the bedroom was to the left. On the couch opposite the door sat a middle-aged stocky man with black hair in an incongruous Caesar cut. White shirt. Trousers. The table in front of him littered with pizza boxes and clipboards. A blank look on his rounded face when Joanne stepped in, held up her ID, and said, "Chattanooga police. You in charge here?"

He nodded mutely.

"You got a name?”

"Attco," he said, and pushed himself hurriedly to his feet. "Hoiburton Attco.” He shrugged sheepishly. "What can 1 say? My mother's a nut. They call me Holly.”

"Well, Holly," Joanne said, "I need you to answer a few questions, all right?"

He blinked. His face paled, then reddened, and he glared at the ceiling. "Godammit! Underage drinkers, right? Some asshole made a complaint, right?” He stomped around the coffee table and took a swipe at a blank computer terminal. "No. It's some asshole walking around with a sword out or something, right? Jesus!" He looked at Richard for the first time and spread his arms. "I got a zillion people working security around here, you know? But they can't be everywhere. I mean, Jesus, why the hell would anyone call the police, for Christ's sake? It's not like we’re tearing the place apart.” He stomped back to the couch and dropped onto it. "God.” He glanced at his watch. "Aw, Jesus, the masquerade’s begun and I’m not down there. I'm supposed to be down there, you know." He snapped his fingers. "Shit, one of them’s naked, right? Oh God, please tell me one of them isn't naked."

Joanne sniffed, and rubbed the side of her nose. "You finished?"

"I.. . yeah. I guess."

"Leon Hendean. You know him?"

Attco frowned his puzzlement. "Well, sure. He’s part of the committee." Another frown, this time thinking. "He's a liaison this year."

Joanne waggled a hand in silent question.

"He works with the guests," the man explained "Runs errands for them, keeps them happy, gets them where they're supposed to be ... on time, with any luck.”

"And where would he be now?”

Attco shrugged. "How the hell should I know? With Spiro, i suppose."

"Spiro?”

"The main speaker," Richard said. When Joanne looked at him, he nodded down the haft, "i've run into him a couple of times. That’s his room, by—'' He caught himself, jerked a thumb. "The one with the double doors."

"Right,” said Attco. "You find him, you'll find Leon. But why?"

"Those pictures in the lobby, Mr. Attco," she said with a polite smile.

"The pictures?" Attco scratched his paunch, confused by her change of subject. “Oh. Yeah. Costume winners from past years. We put them up this year because a couple of the publishers put up some serious bucks for the winner this time. Incentive, see?"

"How serious?" Richard asked.

“Fifteen hundred for the Best in the Show. A couple of five hundreds for the others."

"Not bad."

"Hey," he said. "It’s not my money, and it brought in the experts.”

"And their money."

Attco grinned. "That, too."

"The one of the werewolf,” Joanne said, giving Richard a look to keep him quiet. “Has a Gypsy at his feet?"

Attco nodded eagerly. "Oh, man, yeah. That was two years ago, I think. Most amazing thing I ever saw.” His hands shaped the air in front of him. "You couldn't see anything, man, it was incredible. No seams, no Velcro, no zippers, no nothing. Had the most unbelievable contact lenses. Big. I mean, huge guy. The woman was someone he’d picked up for the

weekend. She had to lead him around, I don't think he could see hardly anything with all that makeup." His enthusiasm faded for a moment, his expression abruptly somber. "No competition that time, believe it. He walked off with everything."

"You said 'was,'" Richard said, ignoring [oanne's warning glance. "About the lady.”

"Yeah." Attco fussed with some papers on the table. "She died two weeks later. Committed suicide."

"How?"

The man looked at him almost angrily. "Fucking jumped off Lookout Mountain, that's how. There wasn't much left of her when they found her, okay?"

Richard backed off, hands up in apology.

"Hendean," Joanne said into the silence.

Attco blinked. "What?"

"The werewolf guy. There was no name on the picture, like on the others. But it was Hendean, right?"

"Leon?"

Joanne nodded.

"Leon?" He rubbed his forehead. "Son of a bitch, you know, you might be right?" He laughed. "Son of a bitch."

The elevator doors opened, and Death stepped out, his scythe tipped in red.

Blanchard tossed the last of his gear into the rental car, cursing the weather, and cursing himself for playing the role of the gentleman assassin. Taking his time. Revealing himself to his victim. Toying. Playing. Making it a game.

Vanity, it was. Foolish, foolhardy vanity that might actually have worked if the weather had given him time to play the game. Now he had to hurry. Now he had to believe his decision was the right one.

He had already made one sweep around the lobby, had seen the elaborate outfits, the cameras, the audience, and realized that Crimmins’ order to rend the Veil was a joke. Any Garou could walk in there now and not be noticed; any death would be seen as part of the show, an act, a skit, and no one would care.

Crimmins, for the first time in their long association, was wrong.

And he had been wrong for thinking it would work.

For the fifth or sixth or dozenth time he made sure he had his passports, the bank books, all the identification all his personalities needed to leave the country a millionaire several times over. Then he checked the chamber of his gun, smiling at the silver, slipped it into his topcoat pocket, and headed for the hotel.

The hell with the Garou.

Richard Turpin was the prey.

The elevator doors opened A werewolf stepped out.

Richard paced the empty hall outside Attco's room. Prowling. Nervous. He could feel the storm surround the hotel; he could feel the energy out there, and in here; he could feel a subtle shift in the balance of the way things were, a shift that meant the hunt.

As he paused at the door, puzzling over a whiff of something familiar, he was distracted when he heard Joanne demand, "What do you mean, might be? Don't you know?"

Attco shrugged. "Nope.”

"How the hell could you not know? You’re supposed to be in charge, right?"

"Yeah, but you haven’t any idea what these—" The telephone rang, and Attco stumbled around the coffee table to grab the receiver. "Yeah?"

Richard couldn’t catch all that was said; he was too busy watching the anger and disappointment on Joanne's face.

"Hey." Attco slammed the receiver back onto its cradle. "Gotta go, sorry. They need me downstairs. Some TV people have shown up."

loanne grabbed his arm as he headed out, "So who would know?"

"Know what?"

"Who the werewolf was?"

"lesus, lady, 1 don’t know. Look, meet me downstairs after 1 take care of the TV thing, I’ll show you who’s in charge this year, okay? Come on, I gotta go.”

Richard stepped aside as Attco hurried down the hall, but shook his head when Joanne beckoned him to join her.

"What?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Just go. I’ll catch up."

She started to argue, then scowled and ran when Attco called out that he had an elevator waiting.

When she was gone, he went straight to the stairwell and let himself out on the gallery floor. As quickly as he could, he pushed through the crowd, excusing himself, smiling, nodding, making his way around to the other side where luck gave him a place beside one of the pillars. From here he could see the elevator doors, and nearly laughed aloud when the werewolf made its entrance.

Just like one of the pictures he had noted earlier: Lon Chaney, Jr., right out of any one of a half-dozen Universal pictures. Hairy face and black clothes, hairy feet and hands. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t real.

A few seconds later, the other door opened, and he watched Joanne follow Attco through the audience and contestants, Joanne tugging angrily at the man's arm, the man glaring at her while, at the same time, trying to smile at a man with a microphone standing beside another man with a TV camera on his shoulder.

Richard searched the lobby intently, watching as the contestants seemed to be forming a line out of the chaos, a line that wound past a table below him and into, and out of, the Green Room to his left. Behind him, he heard someone complaining about the guest of honor not showing up for the judging, heard someone else laugh and say he was probably hiding in the bar, looking to get laid.

Another sweep of the costumes, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

No Garou. No one who matched Hendean’s description.

He eased back from the railing, his place instantly taken by two giggling youngsters in capes, and made his way back the way he had come, struggling not to snarl when elbows stabbed his ribs and back, when boots trod on his feet.

The noise level rose.

The lights dimmed, and were made dimmer by vivid spotlights fixed to the pillars that skated slow-moving circles across the lobby floor.

The glare caused everything else to fall into false shadow.

On the gallery the crowd grew more raucous in the near twilight, and twice Richard had to push people out of his way. No longer polite. Frustration had weakened the hold on his temper. What he wanted was to get away from all these bodies, the smell of their sweat, the smell of beer and liquor and cheap makeup and damp clothes; what he wanted to shift and send them all screaming to the comfort of their nightmares.

A burly man in a T-shirt grabbed his arm. "Hey, mac, watch it, okay?”

Richard glared up at him. "What?''

The man nodded to a woman beside him, sucking on the heel of her hand. "Made her cut herself, you asshole."

Richard froze.

"You gonna apologize or what?"

He looked at the man without blinking.

. . . green . . .

"Hey."

. . fire . . .

The hand gripping his arm fell away, and Richard shoved his way clear, sprinted to the fire stairs and took them up, two at a time. He slammed through the door and swung around the corner, stopped at his room and waited.

There it was.

The scent he had noticed earlier.

Slowly he approached the double doors of the suite at the end of the short hall.

In there.

It was in there.

He tried the knob, but the door was locked, and the lock was too strong for him to force.

It was in there.

The blood.

loanne gave up.

Attco wasn’t about to talk to her, not when he was too busy sucking up to the newsman and the camera.

She supposed she could have reminded him who she was, but that would attract the newsman's attention, and she didn’t think the lieutenant would appreciate it, not when she wouldn’t be able to give him a good reason why she was still here.

She let the crowd ease her away, forcing her slowly toward the back. What she would do is find Richard, find out why he had left her, and then—

A hand cupped her shoulder, and something hard pressed into her back.

She didn't move.

A voice in her left ear: "Officer," it said, “you take one breath without my permission, and you won’t breathe again."

Richard shifted.

Merged.

He pressed his hands against the wood, testing its strength, feeling its weakness, then took a step back and threw himself at the door.

It shuddered.

He did it again.

It bowed.

He snarled and did it a third time.

The crack of splintering wood was quick and sharp, like a gunshot.

The fourth time, the doors flew inward, and he leapt inside, great head swiveling as he tracked the scent of the blood.

A single lamp was lit by the bed.

He smelled the body first, then saw it curled in the shadows on the far side of the mattress.

Or what was left of it.

With the hand guiding her, and refusing to permit her to look around, she stepped slowly backward

"Where is Turpin?"

She shook her head—I don't know.

The pressure on her back increased sharply.

"Where is he?”

She shook her head again, wondering why the hell nobody could see what was happening.

"One more time, cop." The pressure on her back increased sharply. "Where the fuck is he?"

There was a singular explosion of cheers and applause, and without thinking she stopped, and looked through a momentary gap in the crowd.

"Oh my God," she said.

And the voice answered, "You lose.

He stood in the ruined doorway, trembling with rage, green fire eyes dark enough to be black.

He hesitated only long enough to glance behind him once more, then raced down the hall.

Without changing.

Punching the metal fire door open, leaving a dent in its pocked surface, swinging over the railing and landing lightly on the floor below, again to reach the ground floor, grabbing the bar and shoving, shoving the door open and striding out, shifting into the open, into the shadowy dim light.

He heard the applause and the cheers, saw to his right a score or more people pushing forward to get a closer look at whatever enthralled them.

He saw Joanne.

In the spotlight, its deep gray fur glittered as though it had been touched by dew, its eyes glowed crimson, its teeth not quite white.

The Garou acknowledged the adulation with upraised arms and, in the silence that ensued, it lifted its muzzle and howled.

The hand turned Joanne around.

"Amazing, isn’t it?" said Miles Blanchard. "A monster like that in clear view, and no one even knows."

She didn't look down; she knew the gun was in his pocket, too close to miss. Nor did she bother to tell him that shooting her now would be a huge mistake. Witnesses. A TV camera. None of it mattered, because they were all fixed on the creature in the spotlight. They may hear the shot, but Blanchard would be gone before anything could be done.

His smile was empty, his voice hollow and quiet. "No time for games, Detective. Tell me where he is and walk away, no catch, no tricks.’’ The smile died. You have no idea, my dear. No idea at all."

She could feel her own weapon pressed against her spine, but they were two steps away from the crowd now, and he would spot any move.

There were giggles, then, and outright laughter. Speculation that the werewolf couldn’t stand on his feet, that he was probably drunk.

"Turpin.” Blanchard grabbed her shoulder again, and squeezed.

Use your knee, she told herself; just use your damn knee and get out of the way.

Instead, she said, "Look."

He didn’t want to; she could see it, and she had to swallow a giggle when he glared an order at her.

And looked over his shoulder.

The Garou howled again.

There were cheers.

All the main lights were doused, nothing left but the spotlights in the lobby.

There were feigned screams of alarm, and nervous laughter.

Wanda didn’t move.

She kept her hands in her pockets and thanked all the gods she knew that she'd been given this front-row seat

With just a bit more iuck, all her work would be done for her.

Nonetheless, she pressed a button on the ivory shaft, and a silver blade snicked out. lust in case, she told herself, lust in case.

Blanchard moved carefully, putting Joanne between him and Richard, shifting them all until they stood beside the gift shop's glass wall.

The applause was frantic now, the cheers boisterous.

“The thing is," Blanchard said mildly, his voice barely heard over the noise, "if you make a move, no matter what it is, the cop will die. Are you going to sacrifice her just to get at me, Turpin?”

"Standoff," Richard answered, just as evenly.

"No. 1 don't think so. What I think is, we’ll move a little way down here, if you don’t mind. Around the corner back there, by the bar door."

Then they'll separate, Richard thought; he'll keep us far enough away from him so that one shot will be all he needs.

He had no doubt what kind of bullets the gun had.

He had no doubt who would be first.

"And if you don't move, I'll kill her anyway," Blanchard added.

“Then you’ll die."

"But she’ll be dead.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel her trembling, not all of it from fear. His left hand gently brushed across her shoulders, her back, fingers brushing over the bulge of her holster.

Blanchard looked and sounded calm, but he knew

it was as much a mask as those the contestants wore. It was more than simple fear; it was a sense of urgency. That might cause him to make a mistake, but it was just as likely to prompt him into acting without thinking. Whatever timetable he had, if Richard tried to stall, the trigger would be pulled anyway.

"Shall we?" Blanchard gestured with his chin. "Now, please?"

Richard didn't insult the man by faking resignation, but when he turned, taking Joanne's arm, he took only a few paces before he saw the woman leaning against the wall, one hand in her trench-coat pocket, the other tucked against her side.

"Your partner?" he asked over his shoulder.

"We have the same employer. That's all."

It made Richard stop.

"Damn it, Turpin."

At the same time, Joanne looked up at him, questioning without saying anything.

Blanchard prodded him with a sharp finger. "Move, damn it.”

Richard remained where he was. "Jo, 1 was wrong."

The applause and cheers began to trail off behind them.

"Your friends," was all she said.

"Yeah. I was wrong. They're not involved at all."

Blanchard shoved him; he didn't move.

The woman straightened, keeping her hand at her side.

"I swear to Christ," Blanchard said tightly, "i'll do it right here, right now."

Richard faced him, and Blanchard took an involuntary step back.

"You work for the men who would destroy the Veil, don't you." He didn’t expect an answer; he didn’t need one. "Fay found out about you, didn't she." She hadn’t been warning him about one of the Warders; she had been trying to warn him about this man, here.

Blanchard managed a sneer, but Richard knew it was only a cloak for his fear.

"Did you kill her?" Richard asked. His chest was tight, his breathing slow and deep. Specks of light coasted at the corners of his vision. "Did you?"

Blanchard blinked his confusion. "Who?” Then he shook himself, and pushed his gunhand against the topcoat fabric. "You’re out of time, Turpin."

The lobby went silent,

Richard released Joanne's arm, leaned over and kissed her cheek. As he did, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

She kissed him back. "I'm not."

Blanchard’s gun was free.

Richard heard the hammer cock as he turned back again.

He heard a collective gasp from the crowd, heard the Garou begin to snarl.

"Goddamn freak,” Blanchard said, the gun aimed at Richard's heart. Richard had no choice. He used the only weapon he had. He lost his temper. And he shifted.

1

Light and shadows.

. . . green fire .. .

Richard's right hand shoved loanne out of the way. Too hard. She stumbled, then fell as she tried to scramble her weapon from its holster.

Richard’s left hand snared Blanchard's wrist, wrenching it up and away just as the gun fired.

Blanchard screamed.

Richard snarled.

Blanchard tried to backpedal, but Richard grabbed him between the legs and around the throat, and lifted him over his head, hearing nothing but the bloodlust storming in his ears, feeling the man squirming frantically in his grasp, inhaling the scent of the man's fear as if it were ambrosia.

He turned sharply, growling, and threw him down the hall, arms and legs flailing, skidding on his shoulder toward the exit, and the snow beyond.

He loped after him in the near dark, seeing nothing else but the man trying to get to his hands and knees, left arm useless, head hanging. He didn't care now if the contest spectators saw him, didn't care what they would say. He stood over Blanchard and waited.

Just waited.

Counting the seconds as the man finally tipped back on his heels and looked up and over his shoulder.

"No," Blanchard whispered. "Fucking freak, no."

"Turpin," he answered, voice guttural and harsh. "Remember me. I'm Richard Turpin."

His right arm lifted, claws flared, and swung down in an arc that seemed to move too slowly.

Blanchard couldn't move.

A flash, and the flesh of his face and throat grew thin dark lines; a flash, and the lines began to release smears of red; a flash, and his eyes were filled with swimming color; a flash, and he toppled forward, landing on his forehead. Kneeling as if in prayer.

Richard stared, not sated but satisfied.

A step back, a partial turn, and sudden fire stripped along his side.

He whirled, right leg buckling, and faced the woman, who smiled up at him over the tip of her silver blade.

"That was my party, you bastard," she said, nodding toward Blanchard’s body.

He barely heard her.

The fire had taken root, and he could feel his own blood slipping through the ragged gash in his pelt. Beyond them, beyond the thunder of his pain, there was pandemonium. Screams and running feet and a high, hysterical howling.

Distracted, he missed the tension in Wanda's legs as she set herself to lunge.

And when she did, he realized he wouldn't be able to deflect the blade from taking root in his chest.

He didn't have to.

it was only a single gunshot, but it was enough.

Wanda gasped and arched her back, and a black-red rose blossomed on the front of her coat. She looked confused, then disappointed, before she fell against the wall and slid in stages to the floor.

"He's gone!" loanne shouted at him, pointing with her gun toward the lobby. "He's out!"

They looked at each other for only a moment before he clamped an arm against his side and stumbled through the exit, into the storm and the quiet city.

The cold revived him somewhat as he swung around the corner of the building. It was difficult, but not impossible, to heal as he ran; he only hoped it would be enough when he came across the other Garou.

And this time he would.

Whatever this strange Garou’s true intentions had been, they had resulted in Fay's death, and the nearkilling of loanne Minster. They had threatened everything he had sworn himself to protect.

Rogue or not, this Garou wouldn’t last the night.

At the next corner he stepped into a howling wind, the snow blowing horizontally, directly into his eyes. But he saw a fleeing shadow far ahead, heading north toward the river, and he followed. Not racing. Using the time to let his body try to stitch the silver wound.

He slipped on ice.

The wind slammed him backward.

Snow clung to his fur in tiny balls of ice.

The street was dark, and made darker by the lonely islands of white cast by the streetlamps. At least the storm kept people inside, and as he shivered against the biting cold, he supposed he ought to be grateful for that.

He ran on.

Crosswinds at the intersections gave him excuses to pause, to catch his breath and check the healing—slow, too damn slow.

The Garou ahead could have plunged into any one of the side streets, but he didn’t. He stayed just far enough ahead to keep himself indistinct, but not so far that Richard couldn’t see him through the whirling flakes.

The cold.

Always the cold.

Always the mocking voice of the wind.

Across the street now, the bus station huddled in the dark, parking lot streaked with white and gray.

The Garou turned the next corner.

Richard followed, now just thirty yards behind, trying not to breathe ice into his lungs, concentrating on his footing and on the fire that finally began to dampen in his side.

The aquarium was just ahead.

The Garou darted across the road and ran beneath the entrance arch, turning abruptly as if he had suddenly forgotten his destination. He slid, waved one arm, and went down on both knees, sliding again until he slammed into the back of one of the benches, the impact stunning him and knocking him over onto his side.

Richard smiled.

There was no humor.

By the time the Garou had ciimbed to his feet, Richard was there.

Waiting.

The Garou braced himself against the bench, panting heavily, head almost bowed.

He's old, Richard thought in amazement; damn, he's old.

Here in the open, the storm pummeled them, stealing part of their attention, just enough to keep them both reasonably steady on their feet.

The snow matted in the Garou’s fur added to Richard's belief.

"You're Spiro,'' he said, letting the wind spin his words.

Marcus Spiro lifted a weary arm in greeting.

"Why?"

Spiro's eyes, crimson fire, narrowed. "You think I'm a rogue?"

Richard shook his head. "No. But why?"

The Garou laughed, fangs not as long, not as sharp. "I was bored, you stupid boy. I was bored."

And before Richard could even begun to understand, Spiro sprang, claws at the ready, jaws snapping for Richard's throat.

For a second Richard couldn’t fight, but the first stab of claw against the wound in his side changed that, and they grappled, snarling, snapping mostly at air, wrestling across the icy paving stones until the corner of the bench caught the Garou’s hip, and he slipped.

lust enough.

Richard slammed an elbow into his temple, bringing him to his knees.

"No need,” he said. "Come on, Spiro, there’s no need anymore."

With surprising strength, Spiro launched himself from the ground, fangs scraping across the base of Richard's throat, burying a claw into the meat of his shoulder. The pain reignited the bloodlust, and Richard instinctively wrapped his arms around him, eventually spinning them both clumsily across the park while his teeth fought through the thick pelt to lay open the Garou’s back.

A large shrub took them, and they fell, rolling down the slope.

Spiro opened a gash on Richard’s chest.

Richard shoved him away and staggered to his feet, half blinded by the snow, deafened by the wind, arms hang loose at his side.

When Spiro charged again, howling his rage, the Strider caught him in the stomach with the claws of his right hand, pulled and turned, and let his jaws close around the back of Spiro’s neck.

It didn't take very long.

He tasted the blood, felt the vertebrae snap, and shook his head violently, just to be sure.

Spiro didn't drop until Richard removed his claws.

And opened his jaws.

The twisted body slid toward the black water river.

Shifting.

Bleeding.

But Richard simply watched until the water took him away. Only then did he let his legs collapse; only then did he fall, onto his back to watch the snow spin in circles into his eyes.

The desert warmth soothed him, and made him shiver as he remembered the storm's needle cold.

The table was empty.

The chameleon tree was gone.

He didn’t mind.

It was his place again, the place of sweet retreat.

Still... there was the voice.

He smiled, and stood, and walked among the ruins until he found a gate, took a breath, and stepped through.

"This is getting to be a habit, Turpin," Joanne said. She sat on the bed beside him, his shirt in her hands. "You do this often?”

There was still a faint burning in his side from Strand's silver blade, but the rest of his wounds had healed. No scars. Except inside.

She told him the hotel had been overrun by police shortly after Blanchard had died. When she told Lt. Millson the killer had been there—Blanchard’s body the proof—and that it had most likely been Wanda

Strand—knife in hand, plus other assassin's weapons found in her car—-it had been fairly easy to convince him that with the lights gone and all the shooting, it wasn’t hard to understand that a few hundred hysterics thought a monster was on the loose.

A werewolf, if you can believe it.

A goddamn werewolf in Chattanooga.

“You’re amazing," he said truthfully. "Absolutely amazing.”

She straightened, and grinned. “Damn right. He bought every word.’’ A hand brushed down his arm. "1 can see why those two wanted you dead. That much I get. But I don’t get Spiro. What did he mean, he was bored?"

Richard still wasn't sure he understood it himself. He had thought about it the entire time he had dragged himself back to the hotel and managed, with more than simple luck, to get back to his room. He had thought about in his desert place. And he thought about it now.

"He was old."

"So?"

“So when a Garou gets to a certain age, and it’s never the same for us all, we decide how we’re going to spend our last days. Human, or wolf. Whatever will make the last times easier.’’ He stared into the sitting room; there were no lights but the glow from outside. "I think ... 1 guess he must have been a fighter when he was young. I don't know. I do know, from what he said to me the few times we talked, that he wasn't entirely happy. That he was just going through the motions."

"Until he died.”

He nodded. "Yeah. I think so.”

"So . . . what? He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory or something?"

Richard thought a moment before smiling. "You know, you may be right. He was never a major writer. Never made the millions or had the fame other writers have." A shrug. "Maybe this was his way.”

loanne scratched a hand back through her hair. "Well, at least the Veil is okay, right?”

"Right." He hugged her with one arm. "You did fine, Detective. You did real fine."

She preened, she kissed him lightly, she slid off the bed before he could grab her and announced that she was starving. "1 have reports, you know. But I’m not going to do them on an empty stomach. You owe me a meal." She started for the door, stopped, and turned around. "Cooked, Turpin. Cooked."

He dressed slowly, favoring the stiffness in his side, saying nothing when she told him she had taken a call from a man named John Chesney, who wanted to know if he was all right.

"I told him you were busy,” she said. "I don't think he liked that.”

Richard didn’t care.

Changes were going to be made, and they were going to be made soon. He didn't appreciate how the Warders had apparently deserted him this time; he wanted answers, and he wouldn’t leave them alone until he got them. Neither was he going to take another assignment until he himself was positive a rogue was on the loose.

What, he wondered, if there were others out there? Others like Marcus Spiro, who weren't content to take the usual path to dying? What if Gaia, whatever Her reasons, had caused an alteration in the way the Garou were supposed to protect her? Changes.

There would be changes.

And there would be some answers.

"Are you away again?" Joanne demanded.

"No. Not really."

He joined her at the door, and she slipped an arm around his waist.

"Are you leaving town?"

"Soon. It’s my job, remember?"

"How soon?”

Gently he pulled her arm from his waist and took her hand as he opened the door. "Not that soon, I don't think."

She grinned. "Good answer, Turpin."

At the elevators, she said, "Will you come back?”

"It might take time. But yes, I'll come back.”

"Another good answer."

The doors opened; the car was empty.

She stepped in quickly, leaving him in the alcove. Joanne stood at the back of the elevator, lay a finger against her cheek, and said, "You ever make it with a cop?"

Richard felt his mouth open.

The doors began to close, and she made no move to stop them. "Wrong answer," she said with a slow shake of her head. And the doors shut as she added, "Take the stairs, it'll clear your mind,"

He didn't move for a long second, and after that he shook his head.

Count to five before you jump off the damn cliff, Fay had told him; and remember the damn parachute.

He laughed.

"One," he said, and ran for the stairs.

The hell with the parachute; this was more fun.