“You’reKitty Norville, right? I’ve heard about you.”
“Great!”I said, my bravado false. “Nothing bad, I hope. So are you going toanswer my question?”
Hestraightened a little, rolled his shoulders, and the mood was broken,the predator image slipped away. His lip turned in a halfsmile.
“Ithink about my hands,” he said. Which seemed strange. I must havelooked bemused, because he explained. “I have to punch. I can only dothat with human hands. Fists and arms. Not claws, not teeth. So I thinkabout my hands. But Kitty—just because I don’t shift doesn’t mean Idon’t change.” Some of that animal side bled into his gaze. He musthave carried all his animal fighting instinct into the ring.
Thatwas creepy. I had an urge to slouch, grovel, stick an imaginary tailbetween my legs. Please don’t hurt me . . .
“Soyou do have an unfair advantage?” Larson said.
“Iuse what I have,” he said. “I use my talents, like anyone else outthere.”
“Butit’s not a level playing field,” she said, pressing. “Tell me about thefight in Vegas. About taking the punch that would have killed a normalhuman being.”
“Thatfight doesn’t prove anything.”
“Buta lot of people are asking questions, aren’t they?” Larson said.
“Whatexactly do you want from me?”
“Yourparticipation.”
“Youwant to ruin me, and you want me to help?”This sounded like a growl.
Thetrouble was, I sympathized with them both. Jenna Larson and I were bothwomen working in the media, journalists of a sort, ambitious in a toughprofession. She constantly needed to hustle, needed that leg-up. Thatwas why she was here. I could understand that. But I’d also been inJerome Macy’s shoes, struggling to do my job while hiding my wolfnature. I’d been exposed in a situation like this one: forced, againstmy will.
Ididn’t know who to side with.
“Here’sa question,” I said, gathering my thoughts even as I talked. “Clearlyyou have a talent for boxing. But did you before the lycanthropy? Didyou box before, and this gave you an edge? Or did you become a werewolfand decide a werewolf would make a good boxer? Are you here becauseyou’re a boxer, or because you’re a werewolf?”
“Doesit matter?”
Didit? The distinction, the value judgment I was applying here was subtle.Was Macy a boxer in spite of his lycanthropy—or because of it? Was Isure that the former was any better, more noble, than the latter?
“Thisisn’t any different than steroids,” Larson said before I could respond.“You’re using something to create an unfair advantage.”
“It’sdifferent,” Macy said, frowning. “What I have isn’t voluntary.”
Shecontinued, “But can’t you see it? Kids going out and trying to getthemselves bitten by werewolves so they can get ahead in boxing, orfootball, or anything?”
“Nobody’sthat stupid,” he said. The curl in his lips was almost a snarl.
Larsonfrowned. “If it’s not me who breaks the story, it’ll be someone else,and the next person may not let you know about it first. In exchangefor an exclusive, I can guarantee you’ll get to tell your side of thestory—”
Isaw it coming, but I didn’t have time to warn her, or stop him.
Hesprang, a growl rumbling deep in his throat, arms out-stretchedand reaching for Larson. She dropped her recorder and screamed.
Hewas fast, planting his hands on her shoulders and shoving her to thewall. In response I shouldered him, pushing him off balance and awayfrom the reporter. Normally, a five-six skinny blond like me wouldn’thave been able to budge a heavyweight like Macy off his stride. But asa werewolf I had a little supernatural strength of my own, and hewasn’t expecting it. No one ever expected much out of me at firstglance.
Hedidn’t stumble far, unfortunately. He shuffled sideways, while I kindof bounced off him. But at least he took his hands off Larson, and Iended up standing in between them. I glared, trying to look tough, butI was quivering inside. Macy could take me apart.
“Youbastard, you’re trying to kill me!” Larson yelled. She was wide eyed,breathing hard, panicked like a hunted rabbit.
Macystepped back. His smile showed teeth. “If I wanted to kill you, you’dbe dead.”
“I’llcharge you with assault,” she said, almost snarling herself.
“Both ofyou shut up,” I said, glaring, pulling out a bit of my own monsterto quell them.
“You’renot as tough as you think you are,” he said, looking down at me, agrowl in his voice, his fingers curling at his sides, like claws.
“WellI don’t have to be, because we’re going to sit down and discussthis like human beings, got it?” I said.
Nevertaking his eyes off Larson, he stepped back to the table and returnedto sitting. He was breathing calmly, though his scent was musky,animal. He was a werewolf, but he was in complete control of himself.I’d never seen anything like it.
Hewas in enough control that Larson would never talk him into anexclusive interview.
She’dretrieved her recorder and was pushing buttons and holding it to herear. By the annoyed look on her face, I was guessing it was damaged. “Idon’t need your permission,” she muttered. “I’ve got Kitty to back meup. The truth will come out.”
Ifrowned. “Jenna, I’m not sure this is the right way to go about this.This doesn’t feel right.”
“Thisisn’t about right, it’s about the truth.”
Macylooked at me, and I almost flinched. His gaze was intent—he wasthinking fast. “Kitty. Why did you go public?”
“Iwas forced into it,” I said. “Kind of like this.”
“So—hasgoing public helped you? Hurt you? If you could change it, would you?”
I’dworked hard to keep my lycanthropy secret, until I’d been forced intoannouncing what I was on the air. It hadn’t been my choice. I couldhave let it ruin me, but I made a decision to own that identity. Toembrace it. It had made me notorious, and I had profited by it.
Ihad to admit it: “I don’t think I’d be nearly as successful as I am ifI hadn’t gone public. I’d still be just another cult radio show.”
Henodded, like I’d helped him make a decision.
“We’renot here to talk about Kitty,” Larson said. “Last chance, Macy. Are youin or out?”
