Thenthe white boxer, Ian Jacobson, the defending champion, laid one intohis opponent, Jerome Macy. The punch came in like a pile driver,snapped Macy’s head around, and sent the big man spinning. He crashedinto the mat headfirst. The crack of bone carried over the roars andcheers of the crowd. I resisted an urge to look away, sure I waswitnessing the boxer’s death.
Thearena fell silent, watching Macy lie still. Jacobson had retreated toan empty corner of the ring, looking agitated, while the refereecounted down over Macy. Ringside officials leaned in, uncertainwhether to rush in to help or wait for the count to end. Macy lay withhis head twisted, his body crumpled, clearly badly injured.Blood leaked out his nose.
Then,he moved. First a hand, then an arm. He levered himself up, shaking hishead, shaking it again, stretching his neck back into alignment.Slowly, he regained his feet.
Heturned, looking for his opponent with fire blazing in his eyes.Jacobson stared back, eyes wide, fearful. Obviously, he hadn’t wantedMacy to be seriously hurt. But this—rising from the dead almost—musthave seemed worse.
Theroar of the crowd at the apparent resurrection was visceral thunder.
Theyreturned to the fight, and Macy knocked out Jacobson a minute later,winning the title.
Ahand reached over me and hit the pause button on the laptop.
“Thatwasn’t normal,” said Jenna Larson, the woman who had broughtme the recording of the match. She was a rarity, a female sportsreporter with national standing, known for hunting down the bigstories, breaking the big news, from drug scandals to criminal records.“Tell me that wasn’t human. Jerome Macy isn’t human.”
Whichwas why Larson was here, showing me this video. She wanted to know if Icould tell Macy was a werewolf or some other supernatural/superhumancreature with rapid healing, or the kind of invulnerability that wouldlet him not only stand back up after a blow like that, but go on tobeat up his opponent. I couldn’t tell, not by just watching the clip.But it wouldn’t be hard for me to find out, if I could get close enoughto smell him. I’d know if he was a werewolf by his scent, because I wasone.
She’dbrought her laptop to my office. I sat at my desk, staring at thefrozen image of Macy, shoulders slouched, looming over his fallenopponent. Larson stood over me—a position of dominance, my Wolf sidenoted testily—waiting for my reaction.
Ipushed my chair away from the desk so I was out from under her, lookingat her eye to eye without craning my neck. “I can’t say one way or theother without meeting him.”
“Ican arrange that,” she said. “His next bout is here in Denver thisweekend. You come meet him, and if there is something going on, weshare the scoop on the story.”
Thiswas making me nervous. “Jenna. Here’s the thing: Even if he is awerewolf, he probably doesn’t want to advertise the fact. He’s kept ithidden for a reason.”
“Ifhe is a werewolf, do you think it’s fair that he’s competing againstnormal human beings in feats of strength and endurance?”
Ishrugged, because she was right on some level. However talented aboxer he was, did Macy have an unfair advantage?
Italso begged the question, in this modern age when werewolves, vampires,witches, and other things that went bump in the night were emergingfrom shadows and announcing themselves—like hosting talk radio showsthat delved into this secret world—how many other people had hiddenidentities? How many actors, politicians, and athletes weren’t entirelyhuman?
Larsonwas in her thirties, her shoulder-length brown hair shining andperfectly arranged around her face, her makeup calculated to lookstunning and natural, like she wasn’t wearing any. She wore a pantsuitwith high heels and never missed a step. She was a woman in a man’sprofession, driven to make a name for herself. I had to respect that.The territorial side of me couldn’t help but see an alpha female on theprowl.
Shewas brusque, busy, and clearly didn’t have time to hang around becauseshe shut down the laptop and started packing it into her sleek blackshoulder bag.
“Iknow you’re interested in this,” she said. “If you don’t help me, I’llget someone else. One way or another, with or without your help, I’mgoing to break this story. How about it?”
Therewasn’t even a question. She called me pretty well: I wouldn’t let astory like this get away from me.
“I’min,” I said.
Icame within a hair of changing my mind outside the Pepsi Center thenight of the bout. The crowd swarmed, jostling around me as theyelbowed their way through the doors. This many people, all of them withan underlying aggression—they had paid a lot of money to watch two guysbeat the crap out of each other—was making me want to growl. The Wolfside of my being didn’t like crowds, didn’t like aggression. I wantedto fight back, snarl, claw my way free to a place where I could run,where no one could touch me.
Concentrating,I worked to keep that part of me buried. I had to keep myself togetherto do my job.
Istill wasn’t sure I wanted to do this job. If Larson turned out to beright and Macy was a werewolf, what if he didn’t want to be exposed?Should I step in and somehow talk her into keeping his secret? He had aright to the life he was carving out for himself. I’d been in hisposition, once. On the other hand, maybe Macy would be okay withexposing his werewolf identity. Then I could claim his first exclusiveinterview for my radio show. Larson could break the story in print, I’dget the first live interview—part of me really hoped Macy was okay withtelling the world about this.
Theother part hoped he wasn’t a werewolf at all. Luck had saved him duringthat bout in Vegas.
Larsonmet me inside the doors with a press pass that got us close toringside. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be ringside. Flying sweat and spitwould hit us at this range. The arena smelled of crowds, of old sweatand layers of energy. Basketball, hockey, arena football, concerts, andcircuses had all played
