Kitty and the Midnight Hour

listening close enough to your show, you have packs, right? Can I assume that you know other werewolves in the city?'

She'd done some homework, for which I had to give grudging admiration. She stood close—but not so close she couldn't duck out of arm's reach in a second—one arm propped on the wall. Her expression wasn't inquisitive anymore. She wasn't looking to me for an answer. Suspicion radiated off her.

'You didn't bring me here as a consultant,' I said. 'You think I can tell you who did this. You want me for questioning.'

She bowed her head for a moment; when she returned her gaze to me, her determined expression confirmed it. 'You said you could smell it. If you know who did this, I really need you to tell me.'

'I don't know who did this. You have to believe me.'

'I could take you in as a material witness.'

'Witness? I didn't see anything!'

'You're in possession of a piece of evidence our forensics people don't have. That makes you a witness.'

My head was spinning. She'd drawn me straight into the middle of this, but there was no way she could hold me there. Precedents, legal precedents—I was going to need a research assistant before too long. Was I out of my mind? There weren't going to be any legal precedents.

Hardin continued. 'Would you recognize the wolf that did this if you ran into him?'

'Yeah. I think I would.'

'Then keep in touch. Let me know if you find out anything. That's all I want.'

She wanted me to be a freakin' witness for a crime I had nothing to do with and was nowhere near. The manipulative bitch.

'There's no way in hell an after-the-fact witness by smell would be admissible in court. The courts aren't going to know what to do with that kind of testimony.'

'Not yet,' she said with a wry smile. 'Give me another minute and I'll drive you back.'

One of the reporters, the woman in the suit, was waiting for us at Hardin's car. A man held a camera pointed at us, over her shoulder.

'Shit,' I muttered.

Hardin frowned. 'Ignore them. Walk by like they're not even there.'

'They can't air pictures of me without my permission, right?'

'They can. Sorry.'

I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, unwilling to lose my dignity to the point of covering my face. Besides, it was too late.

The reporter dodged Hardin and came straight toward me, wielding a microphone. 'Angela Bryant, KTNC. You're Kitty Norville, the radio show host, right? What is your involvement with this case, Ms. Norville? Are you a witness? Is there a supernatural element to these deaths?'

For once, I kept my mouth shut. I let Hardin open the car door and close it when I'd climbed inside. Calmly, she made her way around to the driver's side. I propped my elbow on the inside door and shielded my face with my hand.

We drove away.

Hardin said, 'For a celebrity, you're a shy one.'

'I've always liked radio for its anonymity.'

We stopped in front of the KNOB studio. I was about to get out of the car—slink out of the car as innocently as I could—when Hardin stopped me.

'One more question.' I braced. She reached into her coat pocket. 'I felt stupid when I went looking for these. But they were easier to find than I thought they'd be. I guess there really is a market for this kind of thing. I have to know, though—will they work?'

She opened her hand, revealing a trio of nine-millimeter bullets, shiny and silver. I stared at them like she was holding a poisonous snake at me.

'Yeah,' I said. 'They'll work.'

'Thanks.' She pocketed the bullets. 'Maybe I should invest in a couple of crosses, too.'

'Don't forget the wooden stakes.'

Waving a half-assed good-bye, I fled before the conversation could go any further.

Chapter 8

The phone rang eight times. Didn't the guy have voice mail? I was about to give up when he finally answered.

'Yeah.'

'Cormac? Is this Cormac?'

There was a long pause. Then, 'Norville?'

'Yeah. It's me.'

'So.' Another long pause. Laconic, that was the word. 'Why are you calling me?'

'I just talked to the cops. That spate of mauling deaths downtown? A werewolf did it. I didn't recognize the scent. It's a rogue.'

'What do you want me to do about it?'

I'd seen his rates. Despite the show's success, I couldn't exactly hire him to hunt the rogue. Did I think he'd do it out of the kindness of his heart?

'I don't know. Just keep your eyes open. Maybe I didn't want you to think it was me.'

'How do I know you're not lying to me about it now?'

I winced. 'You don't.'

'Don't worry. You said it yourself. You're harmless, right?'

'Yeah,' I said weakly. 'That's me.'

'Thanks for the tip.' He hung up.

What was it with everyone thinking they could just hang up on me? I never hung up on anybody. At least not outside the show. Well, not often.

Then I realized—I'd talked to the werewolf hunter about this before talking to Carl.

I was going to have to talk to Carl soon anyway. Until now, I'd been avoiding him, but the full moon was tomorrow, and I didn't want to go through it alone. He wasn't going to let the fact that I was still doing the show pass without comment. I'd sort of hoped I could just show up and slink along with the pack without any of them noticing. That was about as likely as me turning up my nose at one of T.J.'s barely cooked steaks. It was really a matter of deciding in which situation—just showing up, or facing him beforehand—I was least likely to get the shit beat out of me. Or in which situation I would get the least amount of shit beat out of me.

Maybe it would have been easier if Cormac had just shot me.

I called T.J. first. My stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick, waiting for him to pick up the phone. I hadn't talked to him since the night outside Obsidian.

He answered. My gut clenched. But it was still good to hear his voice.

'It's me. I need to talk to you. And Carl and Meg.'

For a long time, he didn't say anything. I listened hard—was he beating his head against the wall? Growling? Then he said, 'I'll pick you up.'

I rode behind him on his motorcycle, holding on just enough to keep from falling off. We hadn't spoken yet. I'd waited on the curb for him, shoulders bunched up and slouching. He'd pulled up, and I didn't meet his gaze. I'd climbed on the bike, cowering behind him. He'd turned around and ruffled my hair, a quick pass of his hand over my scalp. I'm not sure what this said. I was sorry that he was angry at me, but I wasn't sorry for anything I'd said or done. I didn't want to fight him, and I didn't want to be submissive. That would be admitting he was right. So I wallowed in doubt. He'd touched me, which meant—which meant that maybe things weren't so bad.