The refereedeclared the fight over. Jacobson was knocked out, and only startedclimbing to his feet when his trainers helped him. Macyraised his arms, taking in the crowd’s adulation.
Thatwas it. The whole thing started to seem anticlimactic. There was somechaotic concluding business, strobe lights of a million camerasflashing. Then the journalists started packing up, the crowd dispersed,and the cleaning crew started coming through with garbage bags. Aswarm of fans and reporters lurched toward Macy, but an equallyenthusiastic swarm of guards and assistants kept them at bay whiletrainers guided Macy from the ring and down the aisle to the lockerarea, which was strictly off-limits.
Larsonslung her laptop bag over her shoulder and tugged my sleeve. “Come on,”she said.
Walkingbriskly, snaking through the mass of people, she led me to a differentdoorway, and from there to a tiled corridor. This was thebehind-the-scenes area, leading to maintenance, storage—and lockerrooms, from the other side. Larson knew where she was going. Ifollowed, willing to let her lead the way, quietly hanging back,observing. Other reporters marched along with us, all jostling to getin front, but Larson led the way.
Shestopped by a door where a hulking man in a security uniform stoodguard. Other reporters pressed up behind us.
“Mr.Macy isn’t giving interviews now.” The bear of a man scowled at thecrowd.
“I’mJenna Larson,” she said, flashing an ID badge at him. “Tell him I’mhere with Kitty Norville. I think he’ll talk to us.”
“Isaid, Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews.” Theother reporters complained at that.
Larsonpursed her lips, as if considering answers, then said, “I’ll wait.”
“You’llwait?” I said.
“He’sgot to come out sometime. Though if he gives an interview to one of theguys, I swear I’ll . . .”
Thedoor opened, and one of the trainers leaned out to speak a few wordswith the guard.
“Iswho here? Her? Really?” the guard said, glancing at Larson. Grudgingly,he stood back from the open door. “He’s asking for you. Come on in.”
Istuck close to Larson as she slipped through the door, while the guardheld back the rest of the reporters, most of whom were protestingloudly.
Malelocker room. There’s no other smell like it. Lots and lots of sweat,new and old, stale, baked into the flat carpet, into the paint on thewalls. And adrenaline, like someone had aerosolized it. Like someonehad lit a scented candle of it. Pure, concentrated, competitivemaleness. Wolf didn’t know whether to howl or whine.
“Thisway,” the trainer said and guided us through the front, a brightly litarea filled with lockers, to a smaller, darker side room with only onelight in the corner turned on.
Thesmell of alcohol almost overpowered the smell of maleness here. Itlooked like an infirmary. Cabinets with clear doors held gauze, cottonballs, bandages, and dozens of bottles. On a padded massage table inthe middle of the room sat Jerome Macy.
Ashadow in the dim light, he smelled of sweat, adrenaline, maleness—andwolf. His eyes were a deep, rich brown. I could almost see the wolfin them, sizing me up. Challenging me. I didn’t meet his gaze, didn’tgive him any aggressive signals. This was his territory. I was thevisitor here, and I didn’t have anything to prove.
“It’sokay, Frank,” Macy said to the trainer, who lingered by the door. Theman gave a curt nod, then left, closing the door behind him.
Sonot even Macy’s trainers knew. The three of us were alone in the room,with the secret.
Hishands were raw, chapped, swollen. Tape bound his wrists. He leaned onhis knees and let the limbs dangle. Werewolves had rapid healing, buthe’d still taken a beating. Macy kept his challenging starefocused on me. I started to bristle under the attention. I crossed myarms and lurked.
Larsondrew a small digital recorder out of her pocket and made a show ofturning it on. “Mr. Macy. Is it true that you’re infected with therecently identified disease known as lycanthropy?”
Hisgaze shifted from me to her. After a moment, he chuckled. “It’s notgoing to do me any good to say no, is it? You planned this out prettygood.”
Hewas almost soft-spoken. His voice was hushed, belying the power of hisbody. It gave him a calculating air. Not all brute force, this guy. Iwanted to warn Larson, Don’t underestimate him.
“Ithink the public has a right to know,” Larson said. “Don’t you?”
Heconsidered. Sizing her up, like a hunter deciding whether this preywould be worth the effort, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. Hewas making a challenge. In wolf body language, the stare, theshoulders, the slight snarl to his open lips, showing teeth, allpointed to the aggressive stance. I recognized it. There was no wayfully human Larson could. For all her journalist’s instincts, she wouldn’trecognize the body language.
Hesaid, “What would I have to pay you to keep you quiet?”
Iwas betting he couldn’t have said anything that would make her moreangry. She said, “Bribery. Real nice. Be smarter about this, Macy: Youcan’t suppress this. You can’t keep this quiet forever. You might aswell let me break the story. I’ll give you a chance to have your say,tell your side of the story.”
Sheapproached this the way she would any other stubborn interview; sheturned on her own aggression, glaring back, stepping forward into hisspace. Exactly the wrong response if she wanted him to open up.
Theboxer didn’t flinch. His expression never changed. He was still on thehunt. He said, “Then what would I have to do tokeep you quiet?”
Thatthrew Larson off her script. She blinked with some amount ofastonishment. “Are you threatening me?”
Istepped between them, trying to forestall what the press would call an“unfortunate incident.” Glancing between them, I tried to be chipper,happy, and tail-waggy.
“Jerome!May I call you Jerome?” I said, running my mouth like always. “I’mreally glad Jenna asked me to come along for this. Normally Iwouldn’t give boxing a second thought. But this. I’d never havebelieved it if I hadn’t seen it. How do you do it? Why don’t youshapeshift when you’re in the ring?” Larson still held her recorderout, and she let me keep talking.
Ihad seen animals
