The question hangs in the air between us while he grins.

I can’t imagine how he knows. Or maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just guessing. Maybe he’s hoping I’ll confirm something for him.

I try to stay impassive, but I’m sure I’m giving away panic on my face.

He laughs. “Tara’s a bad liar, Tiergan. She had blood on her clothes, and I couldn’t get a straight answer out of her about it. So I sent Brennan out to have a look.”

He chuckles again and says, “Relax, Tiergan. I told you, I’m proud of you! I was starting to doubt you had it in you.”

He beams at me, and, in the name of self-preservation, I force a smile. But I just can’t feel it. I want him to be proud of me. I’ve always wanted that. And now he is . . . I should be happy.

Why can’t I be happy about this?

I force some words to my mouth. “I think I left a bit of a mess,” I say. A practical concern. Safe middle ground.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. The cops had already gone. Didn’t even find the body—not surprising, where you left it.

“Brennan says you tore his throat clean out! Fuck, I wish I’d been there to see it. My pup brother—grown up at last!”

He beams at me again, waiting expectantly for me to respond, to fill in all the dirty details, to revel in my brilliant kill.

And for an instant, I’m on that roof again, his hot, metallic blood rushing into my mouth again, into my nose, down my throat; his rasping gurgle in my ears; his desperate clawing at the ground before my eyes.

While I watch.

My stomach turns and I pull away from Faolan. I jump to my feet. “I’m sorry, Faolan. I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.”

I turn to run away, but he grabs my hand and pulls down sharply. I crumple to the ground in a heap. I can’t keep the tears from my eyes, and I turn away from the punishment I know will follow. For my cowardice. For my weakness.

I cringe at the touch of his hand on my neck. But the punishment doesn’t come. Instead, he pulls me to him. He holds my head against his chest while I cry.

“I’m sorry Tiergan,” he says, after some minutes. “I’d forgotten how hard it is . . . the first time.”

He holds me up with his embrace as I sag against him.

“It will get easier, I promise.”

Mother fucker. Of all the wrong things to say.

I push away from him, suddenly furious, and yell, “What if I don’t want it to get easier? What if I don’t want you to be proud of me for this? What if I want you to have been right about me, all along?”

And something that should stop me doesn’t.

“What if I don’t ever want to be like you?”

I lash out at him with the hardest fist I can clench.

He lunges forward—faster than anyone has a right to move—and catches me around the chest. My punch hits only air behind him. I scream.

Come on Faolan, get angry! For fuck’s sake, hate me!

Hit me!

But he never gives when it is asked for.

“It’s okay, Tiergan,” he whispers in my ear. “I understand.”

I collapse in his arms.

“Fuck, it’s cold down here.” The words are out of my mouth before I can even think about their effect, but he just chuckles.

I roll over and pull myself upright, and wrap my arms around my legs. With the bright light now behind me, I can see his face more clearly, but I can’t read anything I see there. He seems calm, but I don’t trust it. But, then, I never trust it, with him. Not anymore.

“You left my cloak near the stairs,” he says quietly, as if to confirm my fears—but then just adds, “You want me to get it for you?”

I watch him carefully, replaying the words in my head, scanning for tone or subtext I didn’t hear the first time. But I find none. “My cloak”—there was a time that one little thing would have been excuse enough, regardless of what kind of mood he was in.

Something’s definitely up, tonight. Maybe I’d better save the credits for later.

“Nah, it’s okay,” I reply, as casually as I can manage. “Thanks, though,” I add. “How’s your shoulder?”

A scowl flickers across his face, but he covers it with a smile. “Just a scratch,” he says. “Could have been worse.

“Brennan and Tara tell me I have you to thank for that.”

He watches me intently, and I look away. Panic scurries around the edges of my mind, but I resist it. Brennan and Tara don’t know much about it, so he can’t either. He’s just talking about the warning. And I’m willing to take credit for that.

“Yeah, I guess we’re lucky I recognized, her, eh?” I try to laugh, but I don’t pull it off.

“Where have you seen her before? Tara said something about Rian?”

“Yeah.

“Remember that hunting trip you took me on, a couple of years ago? To Rian’s estate?”

He nods.

“She was there.” I take a deep breath and meet his eyes: “She works for him.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, dead serious. “I need you to be sure about this, Tiergan. We’re talking about war, here.”

I nod. My stomach sinks, but it can’t be helped. We didn’t start this. At least, not at this level.

“I’m sure.”

He releases me from his gaze and stares off into the darkness. The muscle of his jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I can guess what he’s feeling. Hell, I probably know the situation as well as he does. Rian is powerful—he’s wealthy and he runs a big family. A number of other, smaller families work for him, too. Faolan’s many things, but he’s not stupid about his odds in a fight. This is one we can’t win, and he knows it.

Not without help, anyway.

“Remember when we used to play down here?” he says, without looking up.

The question is an odd one, and it shakes me out of my train of though. I smile, almost involuntarily, but he doesn’t look at me to notice.

“Things were a lot simpler then. When Dad was . . . . “

He trails off, but the words fill in the space between us all by themselves—Running things? Alive? But he’s right—they don’t need to be said.

“Sometimes, I really miss him, Tiergan . . . . He was always so strong. So in control. When trouble came along, he’d just laugh. No doubts. No hesitation.

“Do you remember, Tiergan? Do you remember what he was like?”

Again, I try to catch his eye, but he doesn’t look over. I nod anyway.

“I try to be him, Tiergan. But I’m not. You all never say it to me, but I can see it in your eyes, sometimes. I got his build, his strength, his power. But you got his brains. And I don’t know that it’s enough, without them.

“He’d know what to do about Rian.

“He’d never have let things get this bad.”

I start to reach over to put my arm around him, but then think better of it. I know him too well. This mood he’s in, it will pass, and he’ll resent it all the more if he thinks I’ve felt sorry for him. Very soon, he’ll be himself again, and he’ll mow down anyone who remembers his weakness.

Better for me if I pretend I never saw it.

A half-truth bubbles up. I can see the danger in it, but a leader who is doubting himself, especially right now . . . Cormac might decide to take his chances. And then Rian wins, regardless. I take the smaller risk.

“Faolan,” I say, and turn to face him. His gaze stays fixed in the shadows. “You are the scariest, most brutal killer I’ve ever known. Rian tried to have you shot because he’s afraid of you. He doesn’t want to face you in fight because he doesn’t want to die.”

He looks up, and I continue, with the most dangerous lie of all. “When the time comes, I’m going to be there to watch you rip his throat out. And I’m going to cheer when you do it.”

A smile spreads slowly across his face, and I meet it with one of my own. Either he doesn’t see the truth, or, like me, is just ignoring it for now.

He chuckles and I know I’ve made the right choice. For the short term, at least.

“Thanks, Tiergan,” he says.

“You saved my life today, brother. I won’t forget it.”

He reaches over and pulls us together. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

Four little words. That I’ve been waiting for most of my life.

I hold his gaze and smile.

A few moments pass, and he breaks the silence. “Now,” he says, and a grin tugs at the side of his mouth. “Tell me about the guy on the roof.”

I cover my teeth and drop to the ground as quickly as gravity can move me. But he just laughs.

“Bad dream?” he asks, turning, and sits down beside me. The fluorescent I’d turned off is now back on, properly. It casts a harsh white light and dark shadow around boxes and through cobwebs into my corner. His face looks sharp and angular in the contrast.

“You were whimpering,” he says. Calmly. Remarkably so. “That’s how I found you,” he adds.

He places his hand between my ears and begins to rub my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a white bandage on his left shoulder. His chest is bare, and I can smell blood. But it’s already drying. His arm seems okay—he isn’t moving it much, but it isn’t hanging limply either. I can’t smell any bone or marrow.

Just a flesh wound, after all. We got lucky.

“I was waiting for you upstairs,” he says, still rubbing my head. His hand doesn’t tense, but I can’t help wondering if I’m missing a sign. He works his fingers gently into the muscles on my skull, behind my ears.

“Why didn’t you come see me?”

It’s not a question I want to answer. I’m not even sure if I can. But I can’t seem to muster too much care. His fingers work carefully into the skin beside my ears, all gentle, restrained strength. Back and forth. Back and forth. He knows exactly where to touch, how hard to push. Tension fades from my muscles in a soft tingling glow, and, against my better judgement, my fear drains away with it. With every stroke he tells me the very thing he hasn’t told me in so long. That he’s happy with me. That I’m his, and he’ll take care of me.

He’s my brother, and I have nothing to fear.

And I can’t resist him. I let out a long breath, wishing he would never take his hand way, wishing he would never stop. We’re here, together, against the world. And that’s all we need. I think I see him smile, though I can’t be sure without turning; but he strokes a little more firmly.

And then he stops. He removes his hand and says, “Come on, Tiergan. I want to talk to you.” I want to beg him for more, to let me stay in his care a little longer.

But as the glow fades, my better sense pushes itself back up from ecstasy. He’s in a good mood. He’s happy with me.

Keep it that way.

I stretch out and change.

The dream begins as it always does. I know it’s a dream. I’m not sure how, exactly, but I always know.

I’m running. Not away from, or to, just . . . running. Along a white road through rolling green meadows. Stacked walls of blackened limestone and granite divide the land into oddly shaped, verdant fields. Sheep country. Farm country. There’s the smell of bog in the air, too—but faintly, not unpleasant.

And I’m running. Now wolf, now human. Now both at once. Maybe that’s how I know this is a dream.

The sun is shining brightly, amidst large, clumpy white clouds. The wind drives them hurriedly across the sky. The light flickers from bright to dark and back again, as each cloud passes.

There’s a large hill in the distance. A mountain, almost. But that’s not where I’m heading.

But where am I heading, then?

Just run.

Small birds flit from copse to bramble, across the road, or along it, as they please. Two keep pace with me while I run. But it’s not a competition. It’s a game. And we all win. As long as we move.

The air is cool in my nose, and on my tongue. It has an edge of dampness, but only enough to be pleasant.

But, somehow, things start to change.

The clouds grow thicker. They pile together in rafts, and the wind seems less able to push them along. White dulls to grey in places. The dark moments grow slowly longer, and yet I run on. I have to be somewhere.

Don’t I?

I thought I was just running.

I look around, but the birds are gone. Weren’t they here just a minute ago?

Strange.

The air grows damper, colder, in my nose. It chills my skin, despite my fur. And I have fur now. I’m no longer both. I’m no longer human. Just wolf. Just running.

Towards now. And maybe away. No, definitely towards. But towards what?

I don’t know, but I need to get there. I need to get there soon.

The sun is gone, and the clouds descend. There is mist in the air—little tiny drops of rain, so tiny they don’t fall. They just scurry in the air, before my eyes. And into my fur.

The stone walls have fallen into disrepair. There are big gaps in them, now; places where the rocks lie sprawled across the ground. And the green is now tinged with yellow—a sickly yellow. A deathly yellow. The white of the road has turned to blackened dirt. And the mist smells of bog—of wet, rotting vegetation, rotting for an eternity, rotting without any hope of turning to dust.

I’m cold now. I shiver, even as I run. And the world is grey.

There’s a crossroad ahead.

And suddenly I know I’m running the wrong way. I shouldn’t have come here. I should be running the other way!

But I can’t seem to turn.

And there she is—off to the side, kneeling beside a tiny trickle of water. My feet slow, and stop, even though I’m ordering them to move. Away.

And I’m beside her. Only a few feet away. Within arms reach. And she is ancient, from the look of her skin. It sags from her face, and neck, and arms in deep folds. Her hair is white and thin, unkempt. Stiff, even, like wire. It doesn’t move in the wind.

In her hands she holds a white shirt, dripping wet. She thrusts it back into the stream and turns to look at me. Her face cracks into a wide grin, full of missing teeth, and my skin crawls.

Her eyes are black as night, two holes of infinite depth, waiting. Always waiting.

“You are Tiergan,” she says. But her voice is inside my head. And it grates at me, at my entire being. I want to flee. I need to flee. But my feet won’t move.

She releases one hand from the shirt and reaches out to pat my head.

She growls, “It’s so nice of you to come.”

---

And I’m awake, instantly—a very human scream unable to form through my very canine mouth. And my body is way ahead of me—I’m already pushing off the ground, ready to attack. Ready to run.

But the dream leaves my vision as quickly as it came, and I know where I am. And it was just a dream. Like always.

I look up. Faolan is standing over me.

The air is cold, damp. Musty, too. I suppose, after all this time, I should expect that.

I flip on the light, but the fluorescent at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t seem to like the cold, either. It flickers dully, with a faint buzz, and provides almost no help against the dark. I debate my choice for a moment, but, I still don’t have any good options, and I don’t want to just sit here at the top of the stairs all night. At least down there, I can find a nice, quiet place to curl up. And nobody’s likely to come down to look for me, either.

I pull the thin cloak tighter around me and start down the stairs. Slowly. The first stair creaks loudly under my weight, and I cringe at the noise—the walls aren’t that thick, and Sheridan isn’t deaf—but it holds, and I hear nothing from the hallway. I continue down, avoiding the middle of the steps, where the creak will be worst. The noise softens.

It doesn’t always seem like it upstairs, but down here . . . this house is old. Very old. It’s there, in the stone foundations—the work of generations of this family, altering, extending, rebuilding. Sometimes, it feels like this place has been here forever. And we’ve been here, too, all along. In a way, this place is us, and we are this place.

I guess that’s what I’ve always loved about it—it’s the solidity, the permanence. The continuity. This house has a weird way of making all of my problems seem somehow temporary. As if it is quietly telling me with its very presence that everything will work out, because it always has before. And I need that continuity, that permanence. The need is so deep, so basic, so deeply ingrained within me—within all of us—that there just can’t be anything else.

But days like today . . . fuck. It seems like such a simple solution—just take Keaira and run away some place new, some place we can start again, some place we can be free, together.

But leaving this place, leaving Tara, and Conlan, and Elish and . . . and yes, even Faolan and Cormac . . . . Being alone, just the two of us, adrift in the world, with no family, with no place, with no history . . . the idea terrifies me in a way nothing else can. It feels like death.

No, it has to be this way. There’s just no other alternative.

My feet touch bare earth at last: packed sand—hard, and a bit damp. Cool to the touch, too, but right. And now I know why I came down here. It’s the dark, the coolness, the smell of damp earth and stones. A den. Away from lights, away from everything that can hurt me.

And tonight, I won’t find it anywhere else. I’ll deal with them all tomorrow. It’ll be easier, tomorrow.

I reach up and twist the flickering bulb a quarter turn out of it’s socket. It winks out and stays that way. I drop the cloak and change. Light returns with my better eyes, but now it’s comfortable, real light, not something generated from electricity.

I set out amongst the old boxes and furniture to find a place to rest.

The door to the den is closed, but I can still hear raised voices through it. Cormac. And Faolan.

I guess I can’t blame them—if someone had just tried to kill me, I’d . . . . Yeah, well . . . I guess I know exactly how I’d be. But it leaves me with a problem. Nothing good comes of being around Faolan when he’s angry. Nothing. He’s never been very careful about his targets.

I look past the den again, to the staircase at the front of the house. But that’s a silly idea. There’s no reprieve there, either. I can’t get past Conlan’s room unless the door’s closed, and probably not even then. Too many creaky floorboards. And I know Tara too well; right now, she wants to kill me.

And, for all I know, when I see Conlan . . . I might want to help her do it.

If only Sheridan hadn’t seen me, I could just turn around and leave. Come back in the morning, when everything has blown over. Well, as much as it’s going to.

But she has. And I’m stuck.

“Tiergan?” she says, and I drag my attention back to the present. I hear concern in her voice. Or maybe just puzzlement.

Either way, I’ll take it.

There’s a thin cloak on the back of the door. It’s Faolan’s, but he won’t miss it for a while. I grab it and pull it on.

“Have you got extra?” I ask, and step into the kitchen. “I’m feeling kind of hungry.” I’m not—I can’t taste his blood any more, but I can still taste it, and even the thought of food turns my stomach. But I need an excuse—any excuse—to delay.

She looks at me—definitely puzzled—but only says, “Sure, hun. Pull up a stool and I’ll make you a sandwich.” She smiles at me, then busies herself cutting some bread for the loaf.

I step to the sink to pour a glass of water.

And I notice that my fingernails aren’t quite clean. I thought I’d gotten it all off in the river on the way home, but there it is . . . dried blood against the cuticles, and under a few of the nails. In some of the folds of skin over my knuckles too. I thrust my hands under the stream and start to scrub. She didn’t ask about it, so maybe I got lucky—maybe she didn’t notice. No reason she would.

So why do I feel so terrified?

I steal glances at her reflection in the dark window, but she’s still busy making my sandwich. If she noticed anything, she’s not letting on.

I check my own reflection; my face seems clean. But there’s a weight there, in my eyes, that I don’t remember seeing before. And I look so tired.

The anger isn’t far beneath, and it blazes up without warning.

Get over it, Tiergan! Grow the fuck up! You killed him. So what? He was trying to kill Faolan, and if you’d given him the chance, he’d have tried to kill you, too. You are such a fucking pup, sometimes. Now, grow! the fuck! up!

I realize what I’m doing at last and pull my hands apart, but too late. There’s new blood in the water now, and this time it’s mine, dripping form a fresh fingernail-shaped cut on the back of my right hand, between the thumb and forefinger.

“Tiergan?” Sheridan asks. I look up and meet her eyes in the glass. “Are you going to run that water all night?”

“Oh,” I mutter, and stare back down at my hand. “Sorry.”

I fill my glass and turn the water off, then grab some paper towels. I squeeze the cut hard, for a few seconds, in hopes of stopping the bleeding, then toss the towel in the garbage and arrange myself on a stool.

I leave my right hand on my lap, out of sight, and force a smile onto my face. It doesn’t feel like I’m quite managing it.

Sheridan smiles, then returns her attention to my sandwich. “You want to talk about it?” she asks casually, her eyes on her work.

I watch her hands as she finishes up. Lettuce, then turkey, then tomatoes, more lettuce. She’s already put exactly the right amount of mayonnaise on the bread.

But there’s a question pending, and more to follow, if I ignore it. “What’s to talk about?” I reply.

She places the bread on top, runs the knife through the centre, and hands me the plate.

“Thanks,” I say, as I take it from her. With my left hand. But, from the look on her face, she knows something’s up.

She eyes me for a moment longer, then says, “You don’t have to worry, Tiergan.” It’s her best comforting voice. “Faolan really will be fine.”

I smile. And almost laugh.

Fuck. And I was worried she could see right through me.

“Thanks, Sheridan,” I reply, with all the sense of relief I can fake. “I know it’ll all work out okay.”

I don’t know how anyone can be as effective as her when hunting, as brutal as her in a fight, and still be totally clueless about what’s going on around her.

But I guess I should be glad.

“Do you mind if I take this up to my room? I should get dressed.”

“Sure, hun,” she nods, and starts putting stuff away.

That little voice at the back of my head taunts me again: “You’re just upset she didn’t make you spill it. That’s why you’re going up to your room now. You want Tara to drag it out of you.

I pause at the door of the kitchen. He waits, too, to see what I’ll do.

But not for long. For me, the jumble in my head means nothing at all, but, for him, it seems to be all the confirmation he needs.

“You are such a worthless little shit. Can’t even kill in self-defense without turning it into a pity party.”

Fuck off.

“You fuck off. You little turd. Go on, go cry to Tara. You know you want to.”

Fuck.

There’s only one other place I can go. I glance over my shoulder, to make sure Sheridan doesn’t see me, then duck into the stairway, and head down to the cellar.

Chapter 3

The back gate looms ahead, its white paint oddly bright in the grey night.

To see me running here, you’d have thought there’s no place I’d rather be. And I guess I thought the same, too. But . . . suddenly things seem different. The demons I thought I’d left behind in the dust have caught up at last. They stand at the door, waiting for me to go in.

I don’t know how I’m going to face Conlan. Or the look on Tara’s face when she sees what I did to him.

He’ll forgive me, I’m pretty sure. But she might not. She’s going to see things rather differently.

At least Faolan isn’t going to crush me for it. I did save his life, after all. He has the flesh wound to prove it. Or so Tara said. But I can’t help think that we’ve won very little, tonight—a brief reprieve before a long slide into war. Nothing’s going to change in the short term. Not yet. That’s not the way we do things. But Rian has made this whole thing very personal, and Faolan isn’t going to forget it.

Sooner or later, he’s going to want payback.

As soon as he has Keaira’s family on side, probably.

The pain has caught up with me, at last. It’s been okay when I’m running, but now that I’ve stopped, the cuts on my back burn like they’re on fire. And what was my elbow hasn’t appreciated the exercise, either. It throbs with a deep, swollen ache. I crane down to lick it clean, but that only makes the pain worse.

The image of that man, arched up in agony, clawing at the ground as his life slips away, flits around the edges of my mind.

Dead. It’s so permanent, that word.

And nobody knows but me.

I don’t know whether to be proud, or ashamed, or indifferent.

No, not indifferent. Not ever indifferent.

But who do I tell? Faolan? He’d be proud of me, for sure. And I’ll admit, I want that. For once. It would be nice.

But I’m not sure I want him to be proud of me for this. I know I should, but just I can’t feel right about it.

I guess, eventually . . . that’ll change.

The night air smells of autumn—wet, decaying leaves and cold earth. I can smell the river, too, in the mist that is slowly rising from the forest around me. I shiver, despite my fur. But I’m just restless.

Screw it.

I step through the gateway and into the back yard. There are lights on in several windows. One of them Conlan’s. Tara’s is dark.

Whatever. It’s done.

It’s so done.

I change and step inside.

“Tiergan!” Sheridan says, from the kitchen, as I enter. “We were starting to worry. You’re the last one in.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say and nod. “I needed to run a bit.” It’s sort of a lie, but . . . .

“Of course,” she nods. I feel as if she is looking straight through me, but she betrays nothing about what she’s seeing there. “Tara told me what happened. It was a good call, tonight, Tiergan. Faolan owes you his life. Cormac, too, probably.” She smiles. Like I’d done nothing but right, tonight.

I nod. I should be flattered, pleased. But it just won’t sink in.

“Conlan made it back okay?” I ask, looking down the hallway to the front door.

Tara’s shoes are sitting on the mat.

“Mmm, hmm. Tara’s with him now.” My heart sinks as she says it. I’d hoped I’d get to tell her before she saw him.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be okay in a few days.”

I nod, but don’t turn.

“Faolan’s in the den. He won’t be running for a week or so, but he’ll be okay, too. Get dressed, first, then go see him.

“He’s waiting for you.”

I crouch at the edge of the roof and stare down into the space between the buildings. I see nothing but movement. The spinning red and blue lights from the police car in the street cast an eerie, pulsating light into the night: it careens off the walls and down the alleys in odd, scurrying shapes. They seem almost to run in horror from their glimpse of me.

And I guess I can’t blame them.

There’s still blood in my mouth. And in my nose. I can’t seem to get it all out. And my attempts to wipe it away have only spread it around. It grows cold and sticky on my face, on my chest. And on my hands. I can feel it tightening as it dries, pulling at hairs and skin; a cold, angry embrace.

The wind mutters in my ear. It says nothing good.

When did it get so cold?

I try to shake the growing, dark swirl from my mind, but it refuses to go.

He lies still behind me. I should check him, to be sure, but . . . . Fuck it, it’s done, and . . . it’s time for me to go. I’ve been here too long already.

I reach out to grab the conduit, but something’s wrong. I’m forgetting something, I think.

Oh. Right. Fingerprints.

I just murdered somebody.

Come on, Tiergan. Hold your shit together please.

I look down at my hands, though I can’t really see them in this light, with these eyes. But the problem is clear. There’s so much blood . . . still wet . . . I’m bound to leave indelible proof, all the way down.

I haven’t touched much. Only the conduit already has my fingerprints. And maybe the metal flashing on the top of the wall. There’s nothing I can do about my saliva all over everything, but that, at least, won’t be so easy for them to use.

Fuck! Why am I worrying about this! It was self-defense!

Yeah. A dead guy on a roof with his throat torn out. Human teeth marks. That’s sure going to play as self-defense.

I turn to face him.

It’s strange—he seemed so big when I was grappling with him. But now . . . he’s just some guy. Cold. And alone.

I shake my head again and force my eyes to the task at hand.

His shirt might work, but his jeans would probably be the better choice. Coarse cotton, lots of texture. I can hold onto the conduit with it and brush away any proof.

Yeah, the thought surfaces, and you could get rid of even more proof if you change and maul him a bit.

My stomach heaves violently at the thought, and I clench both fists. I force myself still.

No! Enough. I’ve done enough to him already.

I’ll take my chances.

I don’t want to touch him again, don’t want to feel his lifeless, slack muscles, under my hands. His cold, clammy skin.

And I’m afraid, too. That he’s just playing. That as soon as I go near him, he’ll be on me. And this time, I won’t be so lucky.

Tiergan! that cold, always-in-control part of me yells. Time! Let’s go!

I step forward. Without a knife, I won’t be able to do anything with his jeans. I pull up his shirt instead, take it in my teeth and tear. It takes some work, but I get a strip. The second is easier.

I jump away from him the instant I’m done, then arrange a strip in each hand. I grab the conduit and lower myself over the edge, and wipe the pipe as I descend.

My bare feet hit the ground more loudly than I expect. It’s really not that far of a drop. But I guess my muscles aren’t working quite right. They feel slow, and heavy, like I’ve just run a dozen miles at full speed.

The adrenalin seems to have left me to my own devices.

I shiver as I look around. The alley is still, and I can’t detect any noise. Except from the police in the street. On foot, from the sounds of it—I can hear chatter on a radio. Approaching.

I take the strips of cloth in my mouth and change, then run down the space between the back of the buildings and the school yard fence, toward Taylee. If I have to run towards trouble, better it be the police. The alternative . . . they know what I am. They won’t mistake me for a dog.

And besides . . . I have to know.

I stop at the last building before Taylee, and slink back towards the street. The lights of the police car are dazzling, up close, so bright in the dark. But my wolf eyes are up to the job, as long as I don’t look straight at the lights.

And the street’s empty! Except for the police car. No Tara. No Faolan.

I want to go out and check. If only the wind was blowing the other way, I’d know more. But it isn’t. Still, no body, no pool of blood that I can see.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

It’s stupid, it’s reckless but I can’t help it. I let out a howl to the night: Sound off.

The first response is almost instantaneous. And it’s Faolan! Across Taylee and to the north of me. He’s okay!

Cormac follows. Then Saraid and Findlay, together.

My breath becomes short and ragged, I’m so relieved.

Brennan, Sheridan. Brennan sounds angry, and I almost start to laugh.

But I startle at the sound of a footstep behind me. I spin and bare my teeth, ready to attack.

“Tiergan!” Tara whispers as she steps into the gap between the buildings. “I called the cops. You need to go. Now!”

I cover the distance between us in two breaths and leap at her. She giggles softly as we hit the ground, my tongue in her face, my body a furious wiggle.

Puppies have more dignity than me, when the time is right.

“Come on,” she says softly. “I can worry about the police tomorrow, if they come by.

“Let’s go home.”

Shit!

A police car siren blares somewhere just south on Taylee, and everything changes. The sniper reacts instantly, pulling back from the edge, and I grab the conduit and dive back down over the side to avoid being seen.

I pull up short against the wall and peek back over. He kneels down and quickly pulls his gun apart in a few easy movements, then stuffs them in a duffle bag. The precision of it all chills me to the bone. Two seconds to turn and fire. Two seconds! And I thought I’d had a chance. Fuck. I am so lucky. He’d have killed me for sure.

Yeah, like I’m out of danger: he rises partially and starts backing toward me.

I’m such an idiot! It’s a flat roof of a one-story building, and I’m hanging onto the only way up or down! And it’s too late to drop now—he’ll hear me for sure.

I duck down beneath the edge.

So? What are you going to do, Tiergan?

The question seems so open. But there’s only one answer, and I know it.

Deal with it. You came here to kill him. That’s just what you’re going to have to do. Head in the game. Now.

He approaches. I can hear his footsteps in the gravel. Maybe ten more feet. I quickly shift my feet further up the wall, closer to my hands, and crouch in. I’m going to need all the spring I can get. I just hope he doesn’t look down before he steps over. Things are going to get a lot more difficult if he sees me while he still has his centre.

The image of Tara flashes before me again, lying on the ground, her blood pooling around her. But this time I cling to it.

He did that. And he enjoyed it.

He, doesn’t! get! to leave!

But what if he has another weapon?

I reach over and drive my fingernails into the damage on my right arm, and the pain erupts from dull ache to blazing fire. I grind my teeth as it races up my arm and into my skull, a brilliant white light that burns everything else away.

He killed Tara. Maybe Faolan. Maybe your whole family.

Kill him.

Rip his fucking throat out.

Two more steps.

One more.

He looks down and I laugh at the look of shock on his face as I launch upwards. I want to change, but I haven’t quite enough time.

I grab him around the waist instead, pinning the slow arm to his side as we fall backwards onto the roof. His quicker hand scrabbles for something behind him, but too late. He hits hard and his right hand is trapped beneath him. But that won’t last for long. The muscles under his clothes feel large, much larger than I had expected.

There’s no time to think. There’s no time to change. If he has a weapon, he’ll have it in the second it will take. If I lose the surprise, I lose my life.

I plant my feet and leap forward. With all my weight, I drive my left hand towards his nose, hoping to drive it into his brain, but he sees what’s coming and jerks his head back. I land the heel of my palm on his chin instead, driving it back, fully exposing his neck. I land my knees on his right shoulder and chest, and land my jaws around his trachea.

My human stomach rebels as it realizes what I’m doing, but it can’t be helped. I bite down and tear.

His blood rushes into my mouth, hot and metallic. The taste is disgusting to this form. My stomach heaves and I manage to spit out his throat just in time. The contents of my stomach follows, down and into the jagged hole in his neck.

He hasn’t even had time to scream. Air rushes ineffectually out the hole instead. He sucks in his own blood and my vomit on the return gasp, writhing in agony and sputtering horribly as the acidic mixture tears at his lungs. He grabs at me with his now free hand, but it’s no longer an attack. It’s a plea for mercy. And God! I would give it to him.

But there’s nothing I can do.

I pull away from him and my stomach heaves again. With my weight off of him, his back arches up from the ground, and he scrapes at the gravel with his hands. He must be trying to cough stuff out, but all he can manage is a sickening gurgle.

And all I want to do is run away.

It’s such a brave idea, this killing people. You’d think it would be just like killing a deer.

What a fucking lie.

The metallic taste of blood and the rotten butter taste of vomit linger stubbornly in my mouth. I heave again, but there’s nothing left. Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to wipe them away.

I force myself still.

You did this, Tiergan! You did it because you had to. And you did it because you wanted to.

You will watch until it is over.

For both our sakes, I pray it won’t take long.

Faolan!

Tara!

I launch into motion. Brennan dives at me, but too late. No! he orders from behind, but in a straight out run, he can’t catch me, and he knows it.

I leap the gate into the back school yard and race toward the old industrial park on the other side. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do when I get there.

Except rip her fucking throat out. That sounds like a good start.

Fuck, this is nuts! Why am I running right into a trap?

Because, asshole: you have no choice. Now shut up and run.

A vision of Tara hangs before me. She’s lying on the ground, blood spilling out. And somebody’s lining up another shot.

I drive my feet harder into the ground with every pace.

And if it’s Faolan . . . then Rian’s already killed us. Cormac trying to take over . . . Sheridan, Brennan . . . fuck, me even . . . it’ll be a war, and we’ll all lose. Then Rian can just waltz in. All he’d have left to do is clean up the blood.

No! It’s not going to happen! No, fucking, way!

The back fence looms ahead. It’s twelve feet high if it’s an inch. I scan the bottom edge for a gap, and find one. It’s too small, but I don’t have time to dig. The metal tears at my already torn back as I scramble through. But there’ll be plenty of time later for the pain. For now, it just makes me clearer. Or something.

I need a plan.

Yeah. Note to self, right?

But the picture’s becoming clearer. And more difficult. I can smell five of them. Five! All human. Gun oil and burnt powder, too. Fucking snipers. The closest one is above me, I’m pretty sure. On the roof of the nearest building. And there’s no way up.

In this form, anyway.

There’s an electrical conduit attached to the wall, about seven feet up, and it extends vertically to several feet above the flat roof. Probably live wires at the top, but I should be able to get under them.

I leap at the wall and change mid-air. I miss with one hand, but manage to grab the bottom of the conduit with the other. Fortunately, bare feet against a brick wall, I haven’t made much noise.

I haul myself up and peek over the top of the wall. He’s there, lying on the far side of the roof, a rifle aimed down the street. Right about where Faolan’s call came from.

I have no idea how far Tara got.

I can’t be certain with these eyes, but I think there’s another guy on the roof of the building opposite.

It’s a fucking shooting gallery. And somebody I need is the target.

The roof between me and the near one is covered in gravel. The second I step out, he’ll hear me. Fuck! It’s 30 feet, easy. Even with a jumping start, it’s still a couple of seconds to cross the distance. Plenty of time for him to turn.

Though maybe not enough time for him to aim.

Too bad. It can’t be helped. If he’s still here, he’s hoping for another shot at whoever he’s got pinned down. And I just can’t let him do that.

Never did like long decisions. And I’m out of options.

I pull myself up and onto the top of the wall, my heart in my mouth. He doesn’t turn.

Maybe I could get closer to him if I climb along the wall. But if he notices me while I’m doing it, it will be me with the late start.

Just do it, you fucking coward!

I shake the noise out of my head and fix my eyes on his back.

Just stay low. On three.

One . . . 

Two . . .