Cormacwasn’t paying attention. He stopped, stepped off the curb betweenparked cars, and studied the front of the postcard. Flipped it over,then back. Held it up at arm’s length, then seemed to sight along it.
“What?”
“Checkit out.” He handed the card over, pointing out a little hole that mighthave been made by a thumbtack. I had only noticed it before as standardwear and tear.
WhenI held it up, the image in the photo lined up with the scene in frontof us. And the pinhole—I squinted, peered through it. I moved the cardaway just to be sure of what I was looking at, checked the makeshiftviewfinder again. It pointed toward a spot on a distant hillside, asmall clearing in the pine forest.
“Xmarks the spot?” I asked.
“Sure,why not?”
Cormacstopped the Jeep a couple of times to double check landmarks as wetook one dirt road after another, passing occasional homesteads tuckedback in the trees. Finally, we turned onto a two-trackpath and he got to practice his off-roading skills. I held tight to thedoorframe as we rocked and bounced over stones and hillocks. I lookedback once to see a great view of the town, and yes, we seemed to beheaded to the right place. Finally, he parked.
We’dcome to a small mountain meadow, bounded on one side by a patch ofaspens, bright green among the darker conifers. This was how he’didentified the spot back in town, the landmark he’d used to guide us.The clearing was maybe fifty yards across, quiet and isolated. Elk camehere to graze—lots of droppings lay scattered, and their scent waseverywhere.
Asmall cabin sat tucked up against the trees, almost invisible. Made ofrough-cut logs, its low roof was covered in pine boughs. The wholething was barely big enough to count as a closet. But someone wasliving here, I could smell it.
Cormacstalked forward, studying the cabin’s exterior and the space around it.On a bare patch of ground, he found a fire circle, ashes ringed byscorched stones. A blackened stick still had a shred of burnt meat onit.
“Fire’sstill warm,” he said. “Whoever it is was just here.”
“Isthis who you’re supposed to deliver the message to, or another clue?”
Helooked around, agitated, like he was searching for the hidden camera.
Isettled myself. Breathed deep, took in the calm of the forest, the hushof a soft breeze through the trees. Let my Wolf side out, just alittle. Her senses, hearing, vision, and sense of smell that couldtrack a rabbit across a prairie. Felt the itch across my shoulders ofinvisible hackles rising. This was a hunt, and Wolf was ready.
Thefirepit. The door. The wall outside—and a pile of clothes, army surpluscamo pants and a ratty sweatshirt. The scent was all over them. And itwasn’t entirely human. I didn’t know what it was, except . . .lycanthrope. Canine.
Ilooked back at Cormac. “It’s the same scent as the fur in the box. It’sa guy, he’s shapeshifted.”
Hepulled the fur out of his jacket pocket, and I held it to my nose. Ithad lost some of its strength and had taken on some of Cormac’s ownsmells of leather jacket and maleness. But yeah, it was the same.
“Heheaded into the woods. Probably saw us coming. I can track it. Or Wolfcan track it.” If I shifted, Wolf would able to follow that smellanywhere.
“Youdon’t have to do that.”
Iwas already taking off my shirt. I wanted to see this through to theend, to find who that fur had come from. Cormac looked away,frustrated, as I shoved my jeans down around my ankles.
“It’stoo dangerous,” he said.
“Yeah,probably. I’ll be careful. We’ve come too far to not keep going.”
Cormacturned his back as I stripped off the rest of my clothes. He’d seenthis before, and I’d been a werewolf too long to be self-conscious.But he would never be comfortable with it.
Thechill mountain air felt good on my skin, and Wolf was ready.
Werewolveshad to change on nights of the full moon, but we could shiftvoluntarily whenever we wanted. Sometimes, I wanted to an awful lot. Tobe Wolf was to be strong, free. To flee worry. Wolf wasalways there, just under the surface.
Iimagined my ribs were a cage, holding her in. Most of the time, exceptfor full moon days, she slept. A presence, but not obtrusive, unless Iwas angry or scared or in danger. Then, she woke up. Then, I could feelher pressing against the bars of the cage, fighting to get out. Clawspressing at the tips of my fingers, ready to burst through the skin.
Mostof the time she slept. But when I called her, she was always ready.
“Kitty,”Cormac said. I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m right behind you.”
“Thanks,”I said.
Iknelt, put a hand on the ground, my fingers digging into the earth,and I imagined a door opening, the bars of a cage dissolving. And shewas there. Hundreds of pinpricks stabbed myskin, fur bursting through. My back arched, and I grunted as bonesmelted, broke, reformed, my whole body wrenching into something else.This pain was familiar, and the best way to cope was to let it happen,let it wash through, fast, fierce—
—blinksat the sun, she so rarely sees daylight, she is a nighttime creature, achild of the moon. She shakes out her fur, remembers . . . she has ajob. The scent. Strange, mysterious, like her but not. Muzzle toground, her nose lights up and she finds the trail. Runs.
Sheis followed, two-legged footfalls. Hesitates, glances over hershoulder. She knows him, his scent, he is pack, so she continues on. Atrue hunt, friend at her back, quarry ahead.
Thetrail is strong, growing stronger. The prey flees, weaving around treesbut moving constantly uphill. So wonderful to run, free, surroundedby wild, soft earth under her paws, cool air through her fur, she cankeep running, just keep going—
No.Remember the job. Her other self drives her.
Shecatches sight of her target. Pushes harder. Closes. Her quarry wheels,dances in place. Curious, she pulls up. Studies it, nose flaring.Doesn’t bare her teeth because she doesn’t feel threatened. It has fourgangly legs, scraggily tawny coat, narrow face, smaller nose.
Wary,tail straight out, she waits for a challenge. Braced to spring if sheneeds to. The other paws the ground, backs
