Doit, Ben mouthed the words.
The guy shot him.
Thebullet slammed into his chest. Ben took a step back against the impact.He paused, eyes shut with shock, body hesitating, trembling. So thiswas what it felt like. Dead on his feet. Except—it stopped hurting. Hecould feel his heart pound, but it was with anger now, howling with thevoice of his wolf rising. He clamped down on this tight. Had to stay incontrol if he was going to get through the nextfew seconds. He kept his eyes shut tight. Focused on breathing. Slowly,now.
Thebullet wasn’t silver. He wasn’t going to die. He remained standing,considering.
“Hey,”the other thug said. First time he’d spoken all evening. “He ain’tfalling down. Why ain’t he falling down?”
Ben’slip curled. He was a goddamn superhero. And he was going to make it outof this alive.
“Youcan’t get rid of me that easy,” Ben said. The look on Vince’sface—sheer, blank terror. Everyone else had paled, staring wordlessly.
“Ishot you! I got you in the heart! You’re dead. Dead!”
Benjumped on the table, then over it. Plowed straight into the guy andkept going, found the gamble paid off, because they were all so shockedthey couldn’t react. And he was strong. Lupineblood roared in his veins. Vince fell, and the rest of Faber’s gangwere shouting and running. But the only thing Ben had to think aboutwas getting out of there.
Theworld fell out of focus, and he was sure he’d lost it, that he wasshifting.
“No,no, no . . .” he muttered, because he had nowhere to go, no safe placeto hide. Vegas was far too human a city to cope with.
Besides,he was starting to think the city had it in for him.
Twolegs, not four. He clenched human hands and tried not to think aboutclaws. But the wolf in his blood helped him run faster. Just put yourhead down, stretch out, and go. He left the fight. Slammed through thedoor to the outside. Heard gunshots behind him; couldn’t stop. Keptrunning, down a very dark street lined with cracked concrete buildings,an industrial park of some kind, old and worn. Under a dark night sky,washed out by the city’s blazing lights.
He’dbeen at that game for hours. All night—and where was Kitty? What hadshe been doing all this time? He wondered what would happen if he neversaw her again—
No—hecrashed to a stop by a wall, slid down ’til he was sitting, pantingfor breath. Had to get his bearings. Had to figure out where he was andhow to get back to the hotel.
Thestreet was very quiet. Motionless. Ben listened for cars, gunfire,for anyone who might be following. Maybe he’d left them behind; hewasn’t sure how far he’d gone.
Thenhe heard police sirens. A lot of police sirens, moving quickly,speeding. Instinctively, he huddled in a shadow, out of sight. He hadno reason to hide from the cops, but he didn’t want them to find himlike this, blood covering his shirt, on the verge of turning wolf. Toomuch to explain. They’d want to take him to a hospital. All he wantedto do was see Kitty.
Thesirens seemed to be converging behind Ben, blocks away—Faber’shideout. Vince was right all along, the cops tracked him there, andFaber’s arrogance was going to get the better of him.
Butthe cops wouldn’t find Ben. They’d find blood, they’d get thestory—would they even believe it, that Ben had been shot in the heartthen run off?
Maybehe ought to go back.
No.Because he couldn’t fight it anymore, he let the instinct him carryhim: don’t get caught, just run. Go back to town, find Kitty.
Exhaustedbut driven, he set off.
Thelights of the Strip guided him like a beacon. He had to have beenjogging for miles, he shouldn’t have had the strength for it—he wasgoing to pay for it later, he was sure. Sleep for a week. But this waswolf’s gig now. Just run, or the animal side was going to fight him,take over, and make him run.
Hekept going, rather than let that happen.
Abouthalf a mile from Fremont Street, he managed to flag down a cab.Finally—and why didn’t taxis regularly cruise the run-down, mob-run badparts of town anyway? The taxi pulled over, and Ben leaned toward thedoor—and the cab took off, tires squealing, as soonas the driver got a look at his shirt, which was drenched with blood.Ben stood on the curb, abandoned, staring down at himself. The bloodhad mostly dried in the desert air. Didn’t look too good, him walkingaround with half his chest stained red.
Butit looked like he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
Onlyanother couple of miles to the Olympus Hotel and Casino. Hisfeet were starting to drag.
Whenhe finally came within view of the gleaming, spotlit neoclassicalfaçade of the Olympus, Ben stopped, sighed, and smiled. Never hadcheesy, overhyped architecture looked so good. He moved a little faster.
Then,ahead, just outside the driveway of the hotel, he saw her. He’drecognize that profile, that stance anywhere: slender body, legs up to there, floppy blond hair, tilt to her head like shewas just about to say something funny.
Shewas getting out of a car—was that Odysseus Grant in the driver’s seat?That thread of jealousy . . . worry . . . that was always there, thatalways asked what Kitty saw in a guy like him, flared, and Ben stilledit. Wait for the explanation. But he wondered: what kind of adventurehad she been having? When she moved, sheseemed as tired as he was.
Finally,she looked up and saw him. He’d stopped. He didn’t remember stopping.He just had to, to take her all in.
Andhe thought, Almost home. A few more steps and I’ll be home.
Kittyand the Super Blue Blood
or Whatever Moon Thing
"YOU KNOW, IT'S EXHAUSTING,” Ben said, and took a long draw on his bottle ofbeer. “It’s like every other month there’s this new‘Once every hundred years’ super special moon-related event we’resupposed to be paying attention to. How do we know? How do we reallyknow if it’s important? Are we really letting Facebook decide thisstuff for us?”
Wewere naked, sitting next to each
