Ascension
By
Kelley Armstrong


Gift

My life started the day I was bitten. Nothing that happened before that matters. 
In the past, I've said that I don't remember my pre-werewolf life, but the truth 
is I choose not to remember, not to care. 
It was a late summer night. Hot and sticky, like most summer nights in Baton 
Rouge. My family had retreated to an RV campsite on the city's edge, as they did 
every summer weekend. It was past midnight and I was wandering the woods alone. 
Nothing unusual about that. I suppose there should be something unusual about a 
six-year-old roaming the forest at night, but my parents knew where I was. Or, I 
should say, they had a vague idea of my whereabouts, and didn't care much about 
the specifics. So long as I stayed out of trouble and didn't bother them, I 
could do as I liked. 
Saturday nights at the campground were always the same. My parents and their 
friends would gather at one of the sites, start a bonfire, and drink and talk 
until the wee hours of morning. We kids were left to amuse ourselves. My older 
brothers were supposed to look after me but, as usual, they were with their 
friends, enjoying filched beer and cigarettes, and were quite happy to let me 
take off on my own, so long as I hightailed it back to the campsite when my 
parents finally realized the time and whistled us in to bed. 
The month before, I'd seen something out here, and I'd been looking for it again 
ever since. There were a half-dozen cabins spread out along the front road. Some 
were rented by the week, others by the season. One of the seasonal renters was a 
man at least as old as my grandpa. I'd seen him at the camp store a bunch of 
times, always alone. Then, one night, while I'd been out on one of my late-night 
prowls, I'd seen the man become something. Something no man should be able to 
become. 
The moment I'd realized what I was seeing, I'd turned and ran, and not stopped 
until I was safe with my brothers. Since then, I'd cursed my cowardice a million 
times. All my nights of exploring the forest, and when I finally saw something 
worth seeing, I'd run like a baby. 
I'd vowed to see it again, to satisfy my curiosity. So, each Saturday night, I 
screwed up my courage and ventured into the woods . . . and saw nothing more 
wondrous than fireflies. The last three times, I'd made a side-trip to the 
cabins, hoping maybe I'd see the man head out to the forest. Once I'd seen him, 
but he'd only been sitting behind his cabin, smoking in the darkness. I'd 
waited, and waited, but when he'd finished his cigarette, he'd gone back into 
the cottage, and stayed there. 
Tonight he was there again, on a lawn chair, smoking and staring out into the 
night. I watched from the forest, heart hammering, praying he would do 
something, do it. Just yesterday, my brothers had said there were only two weeks 
of summer left. Just two more weekends at the campground. My chance was slipping 
past. 
Finally, the man stubbed out his cigarette, got to his feet and turned to head 
into the cabin. In that moment, I saw an opportunity. An insane opportunity that 
only a six-year-old child would even consider. I wouldn't wait. I would act. I 
would simply . . . ask. 
I stepped from the forest. The man stopped, but didn't turn around. 
"Tired of hiding in the trees?" he said. 
His voice was low, but sharp with an accent I'd never heard in these parts. He 
turned then. His gaze traveled over me, eyes hooded to bored slits. 
"Well? What do you want, boy?" 
"I saw what you did." 
His expression didn't change. "How nice for you." 
I'd expected him to deny it, or at least play dumb, so when he didn't, I was 
left standing there, my arguments jammed in my throat. 
"I--I saw you do it," I said finally. "I saw what you turned into. I know what 
you are." 
"So you said." He yawned and rolled his shoulders. "How fast can you run, boy? 
Hope it's not too fast, because, truth is, I'm not really in the mood--" 
"I want to know how you do it." 
He stopped stretching. "You want . . ..?" He threw back his head and laughed. 
"But of course. He's curious." 
He paused, lips twitching as if just struck by a funny thought, then he walked 
over to me. 
"So, just how curious are you, boy? Curious enough to try it for yourself?" 
I stopped short. This possibility hadn't occurred to me. But now that he said 
the words, I realized it had been in the back of my mind all along. I didn't 
just want to see. I wanted to know. I wanted to experience. 
Not daring to speak, I nodded. 
"Is that a yes?" he asked. 
I nodded again. 
He reached out and tousled my hair. "Boy, you are making this very easy on an 
old man. You have no idea how grateful I am. Now, you just wait right here while 
I get ready, okay?" 
I nodded. 
"If you run away, I'll have to come after you. Neither of us wants that, so you 
stay right here. When I come out, I'll need to bite you. That's how it's done. 
You know that, right?" 
I nodded. 
"Good. Now, it'll sting some, but don't you worry. Before you know it, it'll all 
be over." 
A final nod from me, and he disappeared into the forest. 
Long minutes passed, and I began to worry that he'd cheated me. Then the brush 
rustled. From somewhere deep within me came the urge to bolt. I forced my feet 
to stay still, despising my weakness. 
I turned slowly. I knew what to expect, but still didn't expect it. Without 
seeing even a flicker of movement, he was before me. 
I stared into the eyes of a wolf nearly as tall as I. The eyes were unmistakably 
human, not in the shape or the color, but in something deeper that every living 
creature recognizes as human. The eyes and the monstrous size were the only 
things left of the man. The rest was wolf. 
His eyes met mine. The test had come. I felt my body betray me, arm hairs 
prickle, legs tremble, a heavy weight bear down in my groin as if I was seconds 
away from pissing myself. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet his gaze. 
He had to bite me. I knew what a werewolf was, and how you became one. My older 
brothers delighted in scaring me with monster stories, never guessing that I 
wasn't scared at all, that I listened to their tales and thought only of how 
lucky the monsters were, that they never had to cower under a bed or hide in a 
closet, listening to drunken curses and punches, and knowing if they were found, 
they'd be next. Monsters didn't fear. They were fear. Now I had a chance to try 
that for myself. So I took a deep breath, held out my arm and waited. 
Something flickered in the wolf's eyes--surprise, shock, maybe even the barest 
hint of uncertainty. He growled. I didn't budge. He hesitated, then snapped at 
my arm. Pain ripped through it. I stumbled back. 
As my arm flew up, I saw my blood flowing from twin gashes in the soft 
underside. I smelled blood and piss and panic, felt warm blood trickle down my 
arm and hot urine soaking my jeans. Cradling my arm against my chest, I 
struggled to my feet. The wolf staring at me, as if confused. His tongue lolled 
out, blood-pink saliva dripping from its tip. 
I met his eyes and grinned. I had done it. I'd been bitten. The gift was mine. 
He moved from side to side, head down, eyes never leaving mine. A low growl 
started in the pit of his stomach. He stopped pacing and hunkered down. Then he 
sprang. 
I should have died that moment. That was his plan, not to turn me into a 
werewolf, but to kill me, to put a quick and easy end to the minor inconvenience 
of my existence, and provide an amusing tale to share with his fellow mutts. 
When he sprang, I should have died. His body should have struck mine, sending me 
flying to the pavement. Then his teeth should have torn out my throat and my 
life should have ended. Why didn't this happen? Was I so brave and strong and 
smart that I outmaneuvered my fate? Hardly. I tripped. 
I saw him spring. As I stumbled back, my foot caught on a root and I twisted 
sideways. Instead of landing on top of me, the wolf crashed beside me, fur 
brushing my arm. 
Somehow, I managed to keep enough balance to come out of the tumble running. 
Instinctively, I ran for the front of the cabin, for the main road heading past 
the campground. 
Before I'd gone twenty feet, I heard a snort and knew the wolf had recovered 
from his fall. My throat dried up. My brain shut down. My legs seemed to move of 
their own accord, running so fast that slivers of pain shot through my calves 
and my lungs. 
I raced for the road. I heard pounding, the blood rushing in my ears or his paws 
on the pavement, it didn't matter. I knew he was behind me. 
Then I heard a scream. No, not a scream. The screech of tires and brakes. The 
flash of headlights. A car heading into the campground. 
I tripped on the curb, gravel slicing through skin, head striking the pavement. 
A shout. Two shouts. I lifted my head to see two men jump from the car, arms 
waving. The wolf hesitated, then turned and ran for the forest. 
"What the hell was that?" one man yelled. "It was huge!" 
"Forget it," the other said. "Go call an ambulance. The kid's bleeding." 
I wobbled to my feet. 
"Whoa. Hold on there, little guy." 
I looked up, saw them approaching, two large faceless shadows in the dark. I 
bolted for the opposite side of the road, heading for the highway across the 
embankment. Behind me, the men shouted. Instead of following on foot, though, 
they ran back to their car. By the time they got the car turned around, I was 
long gone. 
I don't remember what happened next. I assume there was a search for me, maybe 
my picture made it onto a milk carton somewhere. If so, I knew nothing of it at 
the time and, in later years, never checked back to see how big a fuss had 
arisen from my disappearance. As for my parents, I'm sure they milked the 
tragedy for all it was worth, but stopped searching the moment everyone else 
stopped caring. 
I assume I escaped the search simply by avoiding people, an aversion that became 
second nature after I was bitten. I don't know for sure. Of those first few 
weeks, maybe even months, all I remember is the pain. Pain and hunger. My mind 
retreated to some dark hole in my psyche, emerging now and then to spout ribbons 
of gibberish, then muttering away into silence. The world turned to permanent 
shadows, even while the Louisiana sun parboiled my skin. Ordinary shapes 
contorted into funhouse mirror reflections of reality. Alley cats grew to the 
size of ponies, turning black, gaping mouths and fangs threatening to swallow me 
whole. Children's laughter twisted into the taunting laughs of the old werewolf. 
I had only to hear a dog bark, a human voice and I'd run scuttling to the 
shadows. And still the hunger grew. 

Survival

As a human child, I'd already begun learning to fend for myself. With my 
transformation came the boost I needed to survive. A six-year-old child can't 
live on his own, but a half-grown wolf already has the tools and the instincts 
he needs. Instinct made me avoid humans and other potential predators. Common 
sense told me to take shelter from the elements. My sense of smell sharpened and 
tuned to the scent of food, leading me to trash bins and Dumpsters and road-
kill. 
I never went home. Never tried to. I could say that I'd forgotten where home was 
or that I was afraid of how my family would react, but that's a lie. I chose not 
to return. 
I don't remember the first time I changed into a wolf. It wasn't the first full 
moon or anything so dramatic. One night, I passed out, and awoke to find my body 
covered in yellow fur. My brain was beyond reacting. It took this in stride, as 
it had everything else in my new life. I got to my feet and went in search of 
food. 
As a wolf, I learned to hunt. Or, I should say, my body taught me to hunt. My 
brain was too busy chatting with demons to let me learn anything. Even to say I 
'hunted' is an overstatement. More often, I scavenged. If I managed to kill the 
odd mouse or sparrow, it was more dumb luck than skill. Even that added food 
wasn't enough to feed the fire in my gut. 
One day, as the hunger threatened to gnaw through my stomach, I realized I had 
to find something larger than a mouse or half-eaten hamburger. I left my bed of 
matted newspapers and went hunting. 
The city was in the midst of an early-autumn heat wave. The midday sun shoved 
through the buildings and trees, and broiled the pavement into a stinking stream 
of asphalt. Every living thing with a brain had taken shelter, leaving me 
hunting for food in a scorched wasteland. 
Fortune let me stumble onto a cat napping beneath a bush. The cat jerked awake 
and stared at me in heat-stupid confusion. I flung myself forward. In mid-leap, 
a demon split my skull with a shriek. I convulsed, flung my legs in all 
directions and thudded to the ground while the cat regained its senses and ran 
away. When the demon finally sank back to mumbling, I got to my feet and went in 
search of new prey. But it was no use. Fortune, thoroughly disgusted with my 
ineptitude, left to find a worthier recipient. 
I wandered through the alleyways, eating from the open trash-cans, and drooling 
at the ones sealed tight. In this weather, most people covered their cans, so 
easy pickings were rare. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, a 
smell hit me, the stink of dirt and decay, but underlain with something that cut 
short my retreat. The smell of death. Of fresh meat. 
I followed the stench, rounded a corner and came upon a pile of rags shoved 
under a concrete step. The smell overpowered my senses, making my eyes water, 
and prodding me to turn tail and run for cleaner air. But the lingering scent of 
meat kept my paws riveted to the pavement. Buried somewhere under those rags was 
food, and I damned well wasn't leaving until I found it. 
I eased forward until I was under the step. Then I grabbed the first layer of 
cloth between my teeth and tugged. A filth-crusted blanket pulled away from the 
heap beneath, and the heap became a man. A dead man. A derelict. I don't know 
what had killed him. Maybe the heat. It didn't matter. All that mattered was 
that he was dead, and I was starving. 
Instinct told me what to do next. There was never any question of right or 
wrong, simply of death or survival. To survive, I had to eat. 
With the added strength of a full belly, I was able to roam farther in search of 
food. After a couple of days I came to the bayou, and soon made it my home. I 
was comfortable there, away from people. I quickly learned to hunt rats and 
birds. While they didn't always fill my stomach, they kept me from starving, and 
that was enough. 
One evening, I found myself back in the city. I don't remember how or why I 
arrived there. Maybe somehow I knew that on that day I had to be in Baton Rouge, 
at that hour I had to be in that particular park, at that moment I had to be 
beside that pathway, waiting. My life pivoted on this point as much as it had 
the day i'd confronted the old werewolf. 
I was in wolf form. This wasn't intentional--it was no longer a matter of 
intention, if it ever had been. I vacillated between forms endlessly, falling 
asleep human, waking a wolf, hunting as wolf, eating as human. I'd stopped 
noticing the difference. The sharp agony of the change became part of my life, 
like the ache in my gut. 
That evening, I lay hidden in a stand of flowering bushes, watching the 
passersby. When the scent first wafted past, my hazy brain recognized it as 
familiar and, in my mind, I saw the old werewolf who'd bitten me. 
A growl escaped before I could choke it back. The sound was soft, barely louder 
than the rustle of dry leaves, and nobody noticed. Nobody except one man. A dark 
haired man, maybe as old as my father, and about the same size, average height 
and broad shouldered. He was strolling the park gardens with a young woman. When 
I growled, he turned and scanned the area. 
I pushed back into the bush. He caught the movement. His eyes narrowed and his 
nostrils flared. He said something to the woman, the sound reaching me only as 
garbled noise. Then he left her and started toward the bush, long strides 
devouring the ground between us. 
As he approached from upwind, I caught a whiff of scent. It was the same smell 
that had made me growl, the smell that had reminded me of the old werewolf. My 
muddled brain struggled to make sense of it. He smelled like the werewolf who'd 
bitten me, but he didn't look like him. As he drew nearer, I realized that what 
I'd recognized was the common scent of a werewolf. 
As my brain hit the answer, it freed my legs. I tore back out of the bush and 
didn't stop running until I reached my den in the bayou. 
Like any wolf, I had my favorite trails, paths through the swamp that I'd 
trodden and re-trodden until they reeked of my scent. It was a matter of habit 
and safety, sticking to what I knew for day-to-day movements. If a human so much 
as crossed one of my paths, I abandoned it and created a new one. 
All the trails led, in some convoluted way, back to my den. I had little to fear 
from other predators, so I didn't bother covering the trails. Humans had shown 
no interest in following me to my den. Alligators posed a threat, but I was too 
big to be easy prey. 
My den was probably a cubbyhole in some hillock or outcropping of rock. I 
remember it only as a montage of senses, someplace warm, dry and safe. Or it had 
been safe. Until he came. 
Time had passed since I'd seen the werewolf in the park. Days, maybe a week. I 
only know that the fear was still there, a lingering uneasiness that made me 
jump each time I heard a strange noise. 
Before that meeting, I hadn't considered the possibility that I shared my world 
with more than the old werewolf who'd bitten me. Now I knew there were more. How 
many? What would they do if they found me? If one sniff told me what they were, 
they'd just as easily know what I was. And what would they do with that 
knowledge? Would they help me? A child's optimism, one I'd outgrown even before 
being bitten. Why would they help me? There was nothing in it for them. Either 
they'd kill me or they'd ignore me. I prayed for the latter. 
One morning I slipped from my den, shivering. The mornings and evenings had 
grown too chilly for human form. I didn't wear clothing. At some point, the 
impulse to cover myself had died under the sheer impracticality of finding fresh 
clothes each time I ripped and lost mine changing forms. 
This particular morning, I crept from my den in human form, groggy, shivering 
and eager to find a warm place in the sun, so I could go back to sleep. I'd 
walked about five feet when something grabbed me around the neck and hoisted me 
into the air. The panic came slowly, formless, my sleepy brain still trying to 
decide whether this was another demon from my nightmares. I twisted and kicked, 
my feet striking only air. 
A man laughed. The grip on my neck tightened. I struggled harder, twisting and 
flailing. A hand cuffed my ear so hard my vision clouded. The trees swayed. When 
the spinning stopped, I resisted the impulse to fight. Resistance only makes 
them hit harder. A lesson long learned, though often challenged. 
As I went limp, I caught a whiff of scent. Werewolf scent. It was him. The one 
from the park. One of the few living creatures who could track me to my den. 
Instinctively I started struggling. Again he struck me, and the world toppled 
into momentary darkness. 
He said something, a volley of words that made as little sense to me as the 
chirping of the birds overhead. I'd long since lost the ability to understand 
human speech. When I didn't respond, he shook me and repeated himself. His words 
sounded clipped, impatient. Still dangling me by the neck, he swung me around to 
face him, then lifted one brow and said something. When I didn't react, he 
laughed and tossed me to the ground. 
I hit the dirt hard, my head striking a half-buried rock. When I opened my eyes, 
he was crouched with his head inside my den. I tried to growl, but the sound 
came out strangled and ridiculous. He swiveled on his heels, looked at me and 
laughed. He said something, then went back to investigating my den. After a few 
minutes, he got to his feet, grimaced and wiped his hands on his pants. Then, 
without so much as a glance in my direction, he left. 
I lay on the grass, listening as the thud of his footsteps retreated through the 
trees. When the sound stopped, I lifted my head, then gritted my teeth and tried 
to stand. The pain forced me back down. I lay there, panting and trying to 
focus. I had to get up, get away. He might come back. My heart hammered so hard 
it drowned out the birds in the trees. I stretched my legs and rolled onto my 
stomach. Waves of agony pulsed through my skull. I closed my eyes and 
concentrated, got to my knees, started to rise, then passed out. 
When I came to, I'd changed into a wolf. I couldn't remember what happened or 
why I was lying outside my den. The sunlight jabbed needles through my eyes. It 
hurt to blink, to turn my head, to move. As I stumbled forward, my legs tangled 
and I fell headfirst to the ground, muzzle bulldozing though the dirt, nostrils 
filling. For a second, I couldn't breathe. Mindless panic sent me flying to my 
feet. Excruciating pain forced me back to the ground. 
Lifting my head, I saw my den. It wavered, mirage-like, just feet from my nose. 
I crawled forward, belly to the ground. Time crawled even slower. Only the 
promise of my den kept me moving. Finally, I was there. Forcing myself to my 
feet, I made that last step. Then, just as I was about to lurch onto my bed of 
leaves and rags, the scent hit me. His scent. The security I'd found there 
shattered. I backed away, my leg shaking. For the first time in years, old 
emotions--human emotions--surfaced. Frustration. Humiliation. Rage. Hate. 
Impotent, overwhelming hate. I threw back my head and howled my anguish to the 
rising moon. 
I spent days lying outside my den. My brain prodded me to find shelter, but my 
throbbing head wouldn't let me move. The den was soiled for me now. Cold nights, 
bitter rain, the fear of predators, nothing would make me take that final step 
inside. Sleep brought no relief from the pain or the cold. I was too terrified 
to close my eyes, certain he'd come back. Once or twice, the hunger and 
exhaustion became too much and I passed out. More than once, I thought he'd 
returned. I saw him there, looming over me, but just as my teeth were about to 
graze his throat, he'd vanish into mocking laughter. 
One day, I awoke and found the strength to stand. I stumbled to the swamp and 
drank the fetid water, coughing half of it back up again. Next, my nose led me 
to the decaying carcass of a nutria and I ate. And life continued. 
Days, maybe weeks later, I was sunning myself on a rock by the bayou, enjoying 
one of the last rare bouts of heat as autumn slid into winter. A cloud kidnapped 
my sunlight, and I shifted my position. As I moved, I caught sight of something. 
It was him--the werewolf who'd beaten me outside my den--standing downwind less 
than twenty feet away. My heart jammed in my throat. 
He leaned against a tree, arms crossed. When I moved, his arms fell to his sides 
and his lips curved in a crooked, almost hesitant, half-smile, nothing like the 
arrogant grin of my nightmares. Also, I remembered him as shorter, more 
muscular. Older, too. This man looked barely out of his teens. But the dark hair 
and the shape of his face matched my memories exactly. 
I began to wonder if I'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. Had my brain seized on 
an old memory and distorted it to torment me? I rubbed my eyes and looked 
around. Everything was as it should be. Everything except the intruder. I shaded 
my eyes from the sun to get a better look. 
Yes, this man definitely resembled the werewolf who'd beaten me outside my den. 
Therefore it must be him. So why was I sitting here? Was I so eager for another 
beating? My gaze slid from side to side, evaluating my escape options. The man 
was still watching me. Watching, but making no move to approach. 
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he didn't see me. I focused on his eyes. They were 
black and slightly slanted over high cheekbones. Then I knew this wasn't the man 
who'd violated my den. I had looked into the other man's eyes and I would never 
forget them. 
The stranger said something. The inflection reminded me of the other man, but 
the timbre was different, deep and low. He tilted his head and smiled, even more 
hesitant this time. He spoke again. I barely heard him. My attention was focused 
on his body, waiting for the first twitch of movement. I was in human form, 
completely vulnerable. 
After a short silence, the man resumed talking, his voice low and soothing, the 
sentences stretching into a monologue. Then his left leg moved ever so slightly. 
I tensed. He stepped forward, moving slowly, still talking. I inched backward. 
My toes brushed water and I froze. I looked from side to side. The bayou 
surrounded me, blocking off all escape. 
The man continued his approach. I began to shake. He stopped, now only five feet 
away, then dropped to one knee. I watched his hands. He lifted them and turned 
them, palms toward me. Bending down more, he tried to make eye contact. His shoe 
slipped in the mud. At the sudden movement I panicked. I leapt at him. He yanked 
back, fast, but not fast enough. My long nails raked down his forearm, three 
rivulets of blood springing up. 
He inhaled sharply. I fell back, shielding my head, waiting for the retaliatory 
blow. Everything in my early life had conditioned me to recognize this simple 
cause and effect. I cowered, head under my arm, eyes clenched tight. Nothing 
happened. My heart thudded. I knew this trick. He was waiting. The second I 
exposed myself, the blow would come, a cuff across the head or shoulders that 
I'd feel for days. I opened one eye, keeping my arm over my head. He crouched on 
his heels, tying a handkerchief around the wound with one hand. When he noticed 
me watching, he managed a pained half-smile. Then, still crouching, he eased 
backward and stood. 
I closed my eyes, tensed and waited. When I peeked again, he was gone. 

Domestication

Only a few hours passed before he returned. The day was darkening and I'd begun 
to hunt. I'd changed to a wolf, possibly in a subconscious reaction to the fear, 
changing to a form where I would be better able to fight him if he returned. 
I was chasing a mouse when I heard a noise behind me and turned to see the man 
step into the clearing. He smiled. I wheeled around and ran. 
I ran full out until I was certain he wasn't following. Then I did something I 
can't explain. Pure animal curiosity, I guess. Once I was sure I'd lost him, I 
turned around and went back to find him. 
I crept through the undergrowth, ears perked. As I approached the clearing, I 
slowed, crawling along the ground, ready to bolt at the first sign of him. I 
slunk into a thicket bordering the clearing. Then I closed my eyes and inhaled. 
He was there. I listened, but heard nothing. I crouched, sniffing and listening, 
every muscle poised for flight. After a few minutes, I worked up the nerve to 
peer through the weeds. He sat on the grass, leaning against a tree, legs 
outstretched, arms crossed and eyes shut, as if dozing. I stopped, confused. I'd 
seen humans do a lot of strange things, but settling down for a nap in the 
middle of the bayou was not one of them. 
I pushed my muzzle out farther to sniff again. Not a leaf rustled, but somehow 
he seemed to hear the movement. His eyes snapped open and he turned toward me. I 
jerked back into the thicket. He laughed. No, not a laugh really--a deep chuckle 
that rippled through the night air. I heard a rustle and peeked out to see him 
rooting around in a paper bag. He pulled something out and threw it. Although I 
was over thirty feet away, it sailed through the thicket and landed squarely at 
my feet. I bent to sniff it. A piece of cooked meat. I gulped it before I could 
have second thoughts. A second piece flew into the thicket with equally perfect 
aim. I ate that one, and the next, and the next. He threw each to my feet, not 
trying to entice me out of my hiding spot. 
At last, the meat stopped coming. I waited patiently. Nothing happened. I poked 
my head out of the thicket and looked at him. He said something, turned the bag 
upside down and shook it. My nose twitched, catching the lingering hints of meat 
in the air. My stomach growled. He got to his feet. I darted back into the 
thicket. Minutes passed. When I peeked out again, he was still by the tree, 
standing now, hands in pockets. He murmured something under his breath, turned 
and vanished into the forest. Once he was gone, I crept to the crumpled bag and 
tore it apart, frustrated by the scent of meat permeating the paper. I licked 
the scraps, but only got enough of a taste to make my stomach start growling 
again. Reluctantly, I left the bag in tatters and went to hunt. 
I barely had time to pick up another mouse trail when a sharp crack of 
undergrowth startled me. I spun to see a huge form emerge from the trees. Though 
it was in the shadows, I could see the outline of a large dog, bigger than a 
German Shepherd. I was about to bolt when it stepped into the moonlight. It was 
a wolf, a tall, rangy black wolf. My leg muscles seized, riveting me to the 
ground. The wolf moved. Instead of walking toward me, though, he loped to the 
east, circling me while coming closer. There was something in his mouth, but he 
was too far away for me to see it. Then, a light breeze blew through the trees 
and his scent fluttered down to me. With a start, I recognized the smell. It was 
the man from the clearing. I don't know why it surprised me to realize he was a 
werewolf, but it did. 
Staying upwind, he moved a few steps closer. Then he drew back his head and 
threw whatever was in his mouth. His aim and distance weren't nearly as good as 
when he'd been a man and whatever he'd thrown landed around ten feet northwest 
of me. I stayed still, watching. He backed up, then laid down, putting his 
muzzle on his paws. Now a second smell shifted to me in the wind. Rabbit. 
Freshly killed rabbit. My stomach overrode my fear and I raced forward, finding 
the rabbit where he'd thrown it. It was larger than anything I could ever catch. 
The throat had been ripped open, but he hadn't fed. I lowered my head and ate. 
When I finished eating, my brain reminded me that I should escape, but the 
warning was buried under the weight of the food in my belly. With the black wolf 
still lying less than ten feet away, I stretched out and fell asleep. 
The next morning he was gone. He reappeared around noon, in human form, again 
bearing food. I ate it, then crept back into the woods. He didn't follow. That 
night, he returned with more food. 
With that, a pattern was established. Each day, he brought food, he talked to 
me, sometimes changed form and hunted for me, but always kept his distance, 
never following when I grew nervous or bored and wandered away. Gradually his 
patience wore down my fear. Although I still didn't trust him, I learned to 
tolerate his presence--especially since it was always paired with generous 
helpings of food. 
About ten days later, after lunch, while he dozed against a tree, I screwed up 
the courage to approach him. I was in wolf form and he wasn't, which fortified 
my nerve. I circled around behind the tree, then crept forward, ears perked and 
straining for any change in his breathing. Finally, I was behind the tree. I 
craned my neck and sniffed the back of his shoulder. He didn't move. Inching 
forward, I sniffed his arm and shirt sleeve, then his side and hip. He had a 
rich natural smell mingled with a myriad of human smells--soap, fabric, car 
exhaust, processed food and scores more. I sniffed him thoroughly and was about 
to retreat when I noticed a bag at his side. He'd already fed me and the empty 
food bag was lying in the middle of the clearing. I eyed the new bag. Something 
bulged within it. More food? Was he holding out on me? Gingerly, I snagged the 
corner of the paper bag with my teeth, then dragged it to a safer spot behind 
the tree. It didn't smell like food. But it had to be. What else was a bag for? 
Grabbing one corner, I jerked my head up and dumped the bag. A shower of fabric 
fell to the ground. I tossed the bag aside and pounced on the fabric before it 
could escape. I snuffled through the pile. As the fabric spread out, it revealed 
its true nature. Clothing. A small pair of jeans, a shirt and sneakers. I tore 
through the clothing looking for the hidden food. It wasn't there. Behind me, 
the bag tumbled away in the breeze. I raced after it and caught it just as a 
gust of wind was lifting it into the air. Tipping it onto its side, I thrust my 
head inside, hoping to find the missing food. There was nothing there, not even 
the tempting scent of meat soaked into the paper. I pulled back. The bag stayed 
on my head, stuck behind my ears. I shook myself. It stayed on. I tried backing 
away from it and tripped, tumbling head over ass to the ground. It was then that 
I heard it. Laughter. Not a dry chuckle or a quiet laugh, but a tremendous whoop 
of choking laughter. I caught the bag under my paw and yanked my head out. He 
stood there, arms crossed over his chest, trying to stop himself from laughing 
and failing miserably. I glared at him, salvaged my 
last shreds of dignity and stalked off into the woods. 
The next day he brought extra food, so I decided, after much contemplation, to 
forgive him. 
Each day following, the clothes reappeared in a fresh bag. I ignored them. On 
the third day, I was in human form when he brought my lunch. He fed me just 
enough to stop the gnawing in my gut, then produced the bag of clothing. Lifting 
each piece, he pointed at the corresponding article of clothing on his own body, 
then pantomimed putting it on. I fixed him with a cool stare and curled my lip. 
I knew perfectly well what clothing was and what was supposed to be done with 
it. I wasn't an idiot. And I certainly wasn't stupid enough to put them on, 
which seemed to be the end goal of this little demonstration. 
I laid down in my patch of sunlight and closed my eyes. Then I heard the crinkle 
of paper and a smell I knew all too well. Food. I opened one eye. The man held 
out both hands, a cooked hamburger patty in one and the shirt in the other. He 
arched one eyebrow. I closed my eyes. The scent of the meat wafted over. My 
mouth watered. I peeked again. The hamburger was still there. So was the shirt. 
With an annoyed growl, I got to my feet, marched over, grabbed the shirt and 
tugged it on, first trying to pull the armhole over my head, but eventually 
remembering the proper sequence. Then I held out my hand. He gave me the meat 
patty. I ate it, yanked off the shirt and threw it back. Unperturbed, he reached 
down for the jeans and a second meat patty and we started again. 
By the third day of playing this game, I surrendered. It was an uneven match. 
His patience seemed endless. Mine wore out in five seconds. Besides, I was 
curious to see what this clothing business portended. I put on the whole outfit, 
then followed him out of the bayou. On the edge of the woods was a parking lot 
for weekend fishermen. He walked over to the only car in the lot, opened the 
passenger door and turned to say something to me. The tail end of his words 
floated into the night as I plunged back into the forest. 
The next day, he brought fresh clothes. He also brought extra food, so once 
again, I forgave him. To show that I didn't bear a grudge, I even played the 
clothing game again. This time, once I was dressed, he led me not to the parking 
lot, but on a longer walk, right to the outskirts of the city. Backing onto the 
bayou was a rundown motel. He walked to the door closest to the woods and opened 
it. I tensed, ready to bolt. Instead of calling to me, though, he just walked 
inside, leaving the door open. 
I hovered on the forest's edge for at least thirty minutes. When he didn't 
reappear, I crept forward. A car roared into the parking lot. I dove for cover 
behind a bush. Two people stumbled from the car, voices too loud, laughter too 
harsh. Drunk. I knew what that sounded like. 
I watched them go into a room farther down, then slunk out from the bush and 
started toward the open door again. When I got close, I circled wide, keeping my 
distance. A blast of hot air billowed from the room. I paused, letting it chase 
some of the night chill from my bones. Then I scooted around to the far side and 
peered through the open doorway. The man was inside, lying on a bed, ankles 
crossed, reading a newspaper. He glanced around the edge at me, nodded and kept 
reading. I inched toward the door, testing how close I'd need to get to feel 
that glorious warmth again. I was just close enough to feel the tugging tendrils 
of heat when the newspaper crackled. My nerve snapped and I bolted for the 
safety of the woods. 
I didn't go back to my den though. It was getting late and morning would be 
coming. Morning meant breakfast. I dimly remembered breakfast. Maybe if I stuck 
around, I'd get more than the two meals a day he'd been providing so far. So, I 
crawled under a bush and fell asleep. 
Late that night, I woke up shivering. Louisiana was suffering through a cold 
snap that winter and even the clothing the man had provided didn't help much. I 
remembered that burst of heat from the motel room. For a long time, I lay there, 
shivering, fear warring with discomfort. Finally, I leapt up and dashed for the 
motel. The door was still open. Inside, the man was asleep on the bed. I curled 
up in the doorway and went to sleep. 
And so, I let myself be domesticated. In the end, like any stray, I was 
conquered by the promise of continued food and shelter. Trust would take a lot 
longer. For now, so long as the man fed me and kept me warm, I was content to 
hang around. 
For at least a week, I slept in the doorway, not letting him close the door no 
matter how cold the night got. One day, another man came by. While I hid in the 
bushes outside, the other man yelled at my man, motioning at the door. Money 
changed hands and the other man left. That was the first of many such exchanges 
I'd see in my life--cash buying tolerance for my idiosyncrasies. 
After a few days, with the right amount of food for coaxing, the man convinced 
me to come inside the room. So long as he left the door open, this seemed safe. 
It was then that I got my first look at myself. By the bed was a huge mirror 
with a web of tiny cracks down one side. I glanced into it by accident and 
startled myself so badly I dove under the bed, provoking a spate of laughter 
from the man. Pretending that I'd simply fallen under the bed, I pulled myself 
back up and looked straight into the mirror. Staring back at me was a puny runt 
of a kid. Disgust filled me. If I'd seen myself somewhere else, my first 
reaction would have been 'easy pickings'. Definitely not the dangerous predator 
I liked to imagine myself. I was skinny and filthy, from my ragged mop of curls 
to my bare feet with gnarled toenails. Scabs and bruises covered my face and 
bare arms. The clothing--my third set so far--was already torn and dirty. I 
glared at my reflection, sniffed and stalked from the room. 
When I came back that night, the man had covered the mirror with a sheet. The 
next day, he introduced me to soap, shampoo, scissors and nail clippers, along 
with a huge bowl of steaming jambalaya. I deigned to let him do what he wanted 
with the soap and scissors while I ate. When he finished, he smiled and made a 
move to pull the sheet from the mirror. My growl stopped him. As long as I was 
in the room, that sheet was staying up. No amount of personal grooming was going 
to make me anything but a scrawny little kid and I preferred to keep my 
illusions unshattered. 
During this time at the motel, I was also reintroduced to language. Since it was 
more a matter of remembering than learning, it didn't take long for me to pick 
up the basics. Before long, I knew enough nouns and verbs to understand the gist 
of simple sentences. Saying the words was harder. After two years of being asked 
to do nothing more than growl and yip, my voice-box complained at the strain of 
speech. I preferred to listen and spoke only grudgingly. During one of our first 
lessons, I volunteered to speak just once and only because I recognized the 
information as being too important to withhold. 
We were sitting on the floor near the door, before the time when I'd come 
farther into the room. The man was pointing to furniture and naming it. When I 
refused to repeat the words, he changed tactics and would instead say a word and 
I'd point to the appropriate object. After exhausting every item in sight, he 
started opening drawers, looking for more things. I pointed at him. He paused 
and lifted his eyebrows. I jabbed my finger toward him, rolling my eyes when he 
didn't catch on immediately. After a second, he pointed at himself and said 
'Jeremy' hesitantly, as if unsure this was what I wanted. I recognized the word 
as a name and nodded. He smiled, obviously pleased at my interest. Then he 
pointed at me. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. A surge of panic raced 
through me. I couldn't remember the answer. Quickly, he turned and started 
naming the items in the room, trying to change the subject. It didn't help. My 
brain spun frantically. I had to know this. I had to. Finally, the answer 
bubbled up from my subconscious and came out before I even realized I was 
speaking. 
"Clayton," I said. I jabbed my chest. "Clayton."
He stopped. A slow smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. He 
reached out, as if to

touch me, then caught himself and pulled back. "Clayton," he said. I nodded. He 
smiled again, hesitated, then resumed checking the drawers for more items to 
name. While the motel room seemed like a perfectly good shelter to me, it 
eventually became apparent 
that it wasn't Jeremy's home. His home was far away, and he planned to take me 
there. Figuring this out was a long, involved process. While I knew perfectly 
well what a house was, the concept of home was too abstract. For me, home meant 
shelter and shelter could mean house, den, bush or any convenient place. Since 
this motel was as convenient as any, I couldn't understand why Jeremy wanted us 
to go somewhere else. On the other hand, since I felt no particular tie to this 
motel room or this city or this bayou, I had no compunctions about leaving. I'd 
follow the supplier of food and provider of shelter wherever he wished to take 
me. 
However, there was one problem to be overcome. Wherever Jeremy wanted to take me 
wasn't accessible by foot and, so long as I refused to be shut into a room, much 
less a car, we couldn't go. So, Jeremy had to spend several weeks working with 
me until I finally allowed him to close the motel room door at night. To pass 
the time, he also coached me on other things that I inwardly deemed a complete 
waste of brain space, useless skills like rudimentary table manners and basic 
rules of public behavior. Stand up straight. Speak clearly. Don't eat with your 
hands. Don't growl at people. Don't piss on the furniture. And above all, don't 
sniff anything. 
Jeremy didn't work miracles with me. It took weeks before he could get me into a 
car, and even then, it wasn't a pleasant experience for either of us. In the 
end, I think he decided that if he waited until I was fit to be seen in public, 
we might celebrate the coming of the next millennium in that motel room. So, one 
day, he decided I was good enough for my first foray into the human world. 

Identity

Before we left the motel, Jeremy had spent a lot of time making phone calls. Not 
that I understood what he was doing. For whatever reason, I had holes in my 
memory such that I'd know perfectly well what a car or money was for, but 
objects like telephones and toilets were unfathomable mysteries. So, at the 
time, it seemed to me that Jeremy was spending a lot of time with a piece of 
plastic pressed against his ear, talking to himself. Which was fine by me. We 
all have our eccentricities. Jeremy liked talking to plastic; I liked hunting 
and eating the rats that ventured into the motel room. Or, at least I did like 
hunting and eating the rats, until Jeremy caught me, and promptly kiboshed that 
hobby. Some of us are less tolerant of eccentricities than others. 
After much plastic-talking one morning, Jeremy announced our first mutual voyage 
into the human world. The only part I understood was 'car' and 'out', but I got 
the idea. I was okay with the going-out part. It was the complex pre-ritual that 
I objected to--the new clothes, the dressing, the hand washing, the face 
scrubbing and the hair combing. As I endured this torture, I decided there 
wouldn't be many more of these 'goings-out' in the future if I had any say in 
the matter. 
The car ride itself was uneventful. I clung to the door handle, closed my eyes, 
screamed just twice and only sent Jeremy swerving into opposing traffic once. 
Past the busy downtown district, Jeremy turned onto a sideroad, then slowed. 
After consulting a piece of paper, he turned down a wide alley, navigated trash 
bins and parked outside a battered metal door. 
Before we could walk to the door, a thickset man opened it. The man said 
something. Jeremy replied. The man laughed and motioned us through the door. As 
we passed him, I edged closer to Jeremy so I wouldn't risk brushing against the 
stranger. 
We walked into a windowless room. Across the room, under a blinking light-bulb, 
was a massive desk. Along the far wall, a row of machinery whirred and chirped 
and emitted waves of noxious smell. Behind us, the metal door clanged shut. I 
jumped, grabbed a fistful of Jeremy's trousers, sticking so close he nearly 
tripped over me. He steered us toward the desk. 
The machinery gave a thunk and went silent. A second man stepped out from the 
bowels of the beast and shouted something at Jeremy. Despite his raised voice, 
he was smiling. He walked toward us, smiling and shouting. 
This was my first real lesson in human interaction. Although Jeremy had tried to 
teach me how to act in public, I'd absorbed the rules without understanding the 
logic behind them, like a child learning complex algebraic formulae. Now, 
watching him, I began to pick up tips, though not necessarily the ones he meant 
to impart. 
He smiled when the other men smiled and laughed when they laughed, but no hint 
of humor warmed his eyes. He shook their hands and accepted a backslap from the 
first man, but initiated no physical contact and, whenever possible, kept his 
distance. He clearly didn't want to be here. So why was he? Because these men 
had something Jeremy wanted. Papers. A small stack of papers, different sizes, 
different shades of white and cream, each covered with squiggles that smelled 
faintly of the black liquid that coated the machinery. 
As Jeremy examined the papers, I clung to his leg. At a sound from behind us, I 
turned to see three boys played in the corner, hidden in the shadows, their 
smell swallowed by the stinks of the machines. All three were laughing at me, 
not with the good-humored chuckles of the two men, but with the acid laughter of 
derision, the kind that seeps under your skin and burns holes in your dignity. 
The largest caught my eye and stuck his thumb in his mouth, making a show of 
crying. The other two howled with silent laughter. I turned away. 
Jeremy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of money. He counted 
off most of the wad and handed it to the machinery man. I glanced back toward 
the boys. The leader stood, staring at Jeremy's back with narrowed eyes. I 
followed his gaze and saw half a bill sticking out of Jeremy's rear pocket. 
The boy sauntered out into the open. He walked past us and retrieved a soda 
bottle from the desk. On the return trip, he ambled to the right, bringing him 
closer to us. I tensed. As the boy passed, his hand darted toward Jeremy. My 
reaction was purely instinctive, devoid of forethought or reasoning. I saw what 
I perceived as an attack on my master and reacted. 
I launched myself at the boy, hitting him full in the chest and sending us both 
soaring across the room. We crashed through a stack of boxes. I closed my eyes, 
but kept my hold on him, fists clenching his shirtfront. We slammed onto the 
floor. I landed on his chest and righted myself, pinning him down. The boy 
started to scream, not a yell of pain but a high-pitched shriek of panic that 
reminded me of a rabbit's death throes, which reminded me that I was hungry. 
Jeremy grabbed me by the shoulders and ripped me off my prey. The door-opener 
man scooped up the boy by the scruff of his neck and shook him, shouting at him. 
The boy's screams died to whimpers. The man let him go and the boy slunk back 
into the shadows. 
Jeremy said something. The door-opener man laughed and shook his head. Keeping a 
tight grip on me, Jeremy went back to the desk and picked up his papers. A few 
more words were exchanged, but Jeremy's pleasantries had turned brittle. He put 
a quick end to the conversation and escorted me out, not releasing his grip 
until I was safely locked in the car. 
As the car navigated the city streets, the only sound was the rumble of the 
engine. Jeremy kept his eyes on the road. His face was impassive. He started 
heading down the road toward the motel. Suddenly the car skidded to a halt. 
Without a word, Jeremy swung around in a tight U-turn, ignoring a cacophony of 
horn blasts. At the next light, he veered north, heading out of the city. I 
gripped the sides of my seat, scarcely daring to breathe. I knew what was 
coming. Not a beating--Jeremy had never so much as raised a threatening hand to 
me. Worse than a beating. He was taking me back to the bayou. 
The meeting with the men had been a test. I'd failed. Now, I was going back. No 
more regular meals. No more warm place to sleep. No more protection from 
everything I feared in the world. He was sending me back. 
I sank into my seat and slowed my breathing, as if by being small and silent I 
might convince Jeremy that I'd be no trouble if he kept me. The car continued to 
zoom away from the city. I closed my eyes. I felt the car turn again. Then 
again. Any second now the car would screech to a stop, the door would open and 
I'd be flung out to fend for myself. 
The car turned again and slowed. I clenched my teeth and scrunched my eyelids 
shut even tighter. Something roared above the car. I crammed my hands against my 
ears. The car stopped. The door opened. Smells wafted in. Strange smells, 
mechanical smells. Not the bayou? Then where? Someplace worse? At least I knew 
the bayou. Where was he going to dump me now? 
"Clayton?" 
I took my hands from my ears, but kept my eyes squeezed shut. The vinyl seat 
squeaked as Jeremy moved closer. His hand went to my shoulder, his touch 
tentative. 
"Clayton?" 
I didn't budge. He sighed. I opened one eye. He was twisted around in the 
driver's seat, facing me, fingers still resting on my shoulder. He didn't look 
angry. It was hard to tell with Jeremy. Anger was the slightest tightening of 
the lips. Happiness was the faintest ghost of a crooked smile. Worry was the 
barest gathering of the eyebrows. That's what it looked like now. Worry, not 
anger. I opened the other eye and looked around. Airplanes. That was the first 
thing I saw. Three airplanes behind a fence about a quarter-mile away. Following 
my gaze, Jeremy smiled. 
"Yes?" he said. "Go?" He pointed to an airplane taking off. "Home?" 
It was a last-minute, now-or-never, bite-the-bullet decision. Rather than return 
to the motel, he'd decided to take me straight home. It could have been an act 
of incredible bravery and strong willed determination. Or it could have been 
sheer desperation, fear that if he didn't act now, things might never get any 
better. The truth probably lies between the two. 
Once we were inside, we had to wait in a line of people. I clung to Jeremy's 
pantleg, shuddering each time some stranger brushed past me. 
Finally, we approached the counter. Jeremy talked to a young woman, bestowing a 
generous portion of smiles on her. She bent down and said something to me. I 
only stared at her. Jeremy said something and she tsk-tsked sympathetically. 
Jeremy handed her some papers from his pocket, then handed her the papers he'd 
bought from the man. The woman checked the papers, smiling and nodding. Then she 
handed them back to Jeremy along with some more papers and we left the line. 
Jeremy bought some candy bars, drinks and other unidentifiable things at a small 
shop in the airport. Then he took me to a phone booth. While he talked to the 
plastic thing, I downed two candy bars and a carton of milk. When he finished 
his phone call, he led me into another area and we sat down. 
I finished a third candy bar, then noticed the papers still in Jeremy's hand. I 
pointed at them. He lifted an eyebrow. I reached for the papers and grunted. 
Another raised brow. I grumbled, but gave in. 
"See," I said. "Want see." 
He nodded, cleaned the chocolate off my fingers, then handed me the top paper. I 
saw only several lines of typed text. I couldn't understand the squiggles, but 
if I could, I would have read in them my future. My name: Clayton Danvers. My 
date of birth: January 12, 1962, making the day Jeremy found me my seventh 
birthday. And, if I'd been able to read the other papers he had bought for me, I 
would have learned that I was orphaned and under the guardianship of my cousin, 
Jeremy Malcolm Edward Danvers. And my home? A house in the state of New York, 
near the town of Bear Valley. 13876 Wilton Grove Lane or, as Jeremy's ancestors 
had named it, Stonehaven. 

Stonehaven

I don't remember much of the airplane ride. I slept through it, which probably 
had something to do with the chalky taste in the second milk carton Jeremy gave 
me on the plane. We arrived in New York later that day. Outside the airport, a 
string of cars idled by the sidewalk. Jeremy led me to one, opened the back 
door, and nudged me inside. Then he crawled in behind me. Just as I was 
wondering how he planned to drive from the rear seat, I noticed a man sitting up 
front. Jeremy said something to him. The man nodded, and the car broke ranks 
with its brethren. 
As we drove, Jeremy pointed out sites of interest, which didn't really interest 
me. I pretended to be paying attention, partly because it seemed to be what he 
wanted and partly because it helped me forget we were sitting very close to a 
stranger, but mostly because I just liked listening to Jeremy talk. When we 
pulled away from the city, Jeremy's travelogue slowed, until finally he turned 
to stare out the window and seemed to forget I was there at all. 
I leaned over to see what held his attention beyond the window. When I didn't 
notice anything, I looked up at Jeremy and followed his gaze. But he wasn't 
really staring at anything. His eyes were unfocused, black mirrors that 
reflected nothing. Tension vibrated from his body. More than tension. Unease. 
Worry. Fear. The last startled me. Fear? What did Jeremy have to fear? He was an 
adult, a werewolf, my protector. He took away fear--he wasn't supposed to feel 
it. 
Jeremy's anxiety fed my own subconscious worries, and I reacted with the only 
defense mechanism I had. I started to Change. I felt the tingling in my fingers, 
then the throbbing in my skull, and finally the first licks of white hot pain. 
Yet I didn't make a sound. I accepted it. If you grow up with pain, it becomes a 
fact of your existence. I barely remembered any other kind of life. 
As my heart rate accelerated, my breathing kept pace. Jeremy turned. His eyes 
were still blank. Then they focused, looked at my hands and snapped wide. He let 
out an oath and grabbed the driver's shoulder. The car veered. The driver 
snapped something. Jeremy's reply was apologetic. He said something else, forced 
calm. The driver pulled the car to the side of the road. Jeremy swung open my 
door, grabbed me around the chest and bent my head down toward the gravel, as if 
I were vomiting. I barely noticed. The Change had spread to my arms and legs. My 
clothing began to rip. Jeremy coughed, barely fast enough to cover the sound, 
then hoisted me from the car, jogged down the ditch and laid me at the bottom. 
"Stay," he said. "Yes?" 
I could barely understand him, much less reply. Jeremy bent over me. He stroked 
my head, whispered something, then scrambled up the embankment to the car. 
Seconds later, Jeremy returned. The Change was almost done. I lay on my side, 
panting. He crouched beside me and gently removed the last strips of clothing 
tangled around my arms and legs. Once I'd caught my breath, I clambered to my 
feet and started investigating my surroundings. 
A trickle of icy water ran along the bottom of the ditch. I lapped a mouthful, 
then looked back at Jeremy. He was still in human form. I ran over to him and 
whimpered. He patted my head, brushed his bangs back with a sigh, then got to 
his feet. 
Lifting me in both arms, he carried me to the other side of the ditch, away from 
the road. The car and driver were long gone. Jeremy stood there a moment, then 
started walking in the direction the car had been traveling. I sat on my 
haunches and watched. He went a few steps, then turned, and waved me forward. I 
didn't understand. He called my name. I yipped back. He whistled. I arched back 
my head and howled. Apparently, still not the right response, as he threw up his 
hands and walked away. I watched him until he was nearly out of sight, then ran 
to catch up. 
It must have been a long walk, but I didn't notice. I had fun bounding though 
the frost-covered tall grass, hearing it crackle as I trampled it. Once, I found 
a hole in a fence and sent a herd of sheep stampeding for cover. Great fun. 
Jeremy didn't agree and hoisted me back over the fence by the scruff of my neck. 
I didn't mind. It was a glorious day, sunny and bright and cold. My breath 
snorted out in billows of smoke, like the man at the warehouse, except my smoke 
smelled of nothing but crisp, clean air. For a while, I amused myself by running 
ahead, hiding in the gorse, then leaping out and snapping at Jeremy's hands as 
he passed. Great fun. Jeremy even seemed to agree, at least he did until I got 
carried away and took a chunk out of his finger. 
The road was quiet. When the rare car did drive by, Jeremy didn't seem 
concerned. We were on the opposite side of the ditch, and anyone passing would 
only see a man out walking a boisterous dog. Of course, I didn't look like any 
dog. I looked like a young, yellow-haired wolf. But no one expects to see a man 
walking a wolf, so no one sees it. 
Finally, Jeremy stopped. He picked me up and carried me over the ditch, across 
the road and down a long driveway. I burrowed my cold nose against his neck and 
licked him. He chuckled, the vibration coursing through me. The fear was gone. 
His strides lengthened and he picked up his pace, as if eager to reach our 
destination. When we were far enough from the road, he put me back on the 
ground. I yawned and trotted after him. 
We'd barely gone twenty paces when the Change started again. This time, Jeremy 
noticed it immediately, seeming to sense it. He led me behind a massive pine 
tree, then waited until I'd finished, then draped his jacket over me as I rested 
a few minutes to recuperate. 
Instead of going back to the driveway, Jeremy led me across the treed front 
lawn. We wove through another row of evergreens. Suddenly, the house appeared 
before us, as if a magician had yanked off the covering sheet and shouted 'Ta-
da!' I stopped in my tracks and stared up at it. A two-and-a-half story stone 
wall spread as far as I could see. If it wasn't for the windows and gardens and 
front porch, I'd have mistaken it for some other kind of building. I'd never 
seen a house this big. 
When I stopped gawking, I noticed Jeremy watching me. He was smiling, not the 
forced smile he used with humans, but the crooked smile that crept up to his 
eyes. 
"We're home," he said. "Welcome to Stonehaven." 
As Jeremy pushed open the front door, his manner changed again. Tense now. 
Careful. He stepped into the hall, gaze darting from side to side. His nostrils 
flared, testing the air. I saw a flicker of movement from the shadowy hall. 
Jeremy saw it too. He backpedaled out the door. A figure raced down the hall and 
barreled into Jeremy, plowing him backward and toppling them both off the porch 
and onto the grass. 
I saw only a blur of motion. Again, I didn't think. Letting Jeremy's jacket fall 
from my shoulders, I launched myself onto the attacker's back and sank my teeth 
into his shoulder. The man yowled, reared up and reached back. One large hand 
grabbed me, lifted me into the air and swung me overhead. As I inhaled, I 
smelled what I'd come to recognize as the underlying scent of a werewolf. 
When I came down, I found myself looking into large brown eyes. I twisted, but 
couldn't get free. One glance at the man told me I wasn't getting free until he 
decided to set me free. He was at least a head shorter than Jeremy but twice as 
wide, all the extra weight in muscle. Despite his size, I couldn't resist one 
last-ditch effort. I pulled back my foot and kicked him in the chest, hard 
enough to send shock waves of pain through my foot. The man grunted, then 
started to laugh. 
"Big balls for such a little scrap," he said. 
"Serves you right." 
That was Jeremy. Twisting my head, I saw him sitting on the grass, retying one 
shoe. He didn't seem the least bit perturbed about my predicament. The man set 
me down. I growled at him, then lunged to hide behind Jeremy. 
"Bully," Jeremy said, tucking in his shirt tails. 
"That's the boy?" the man asked. 
"I should hope so. I'd hate to think there was more than one." Jeremy got to his 
feet and pulled me up by my hand. He pushed me forward. "This is Clayton. 
Clayton, meet Tonio--Antonio." 
The man grinned, flashing white teeth beneath a dark mustache. He extended his 
hand. I backed up. 
"He doesn't do physical contact," Jeremy said. 
"I see." Antonio flashed another grin and looked me over. "Wild looking little 
thing, isn't he? Clothing might help. I trust he was wearing some on the plane?" 
"Don't ask. We'd better get inside before he freezes." Jeremy prodded me toward 
the door, then stopped. "He's not back yet, is he?" 
"No, no. House was locked tight when I got here. I was waiting for your call. 
You should have called from the airport." 
"No need." 
Jeremy led me into the house. The hall floor was cold stone, marble actually, 
though I wouldn't know that. I hightailed it through an adjoining door to a 
carpeted room. A long wooden table gleamed beneath a glass candelabra. What 
caught my attention, though, were the plates and silverware set out at each 
place. Jeremy stood in the doorway. I reached over and tugged at his shirt. 
"Yes?" 
I pointed at the place settings and grunted. 
"Can he talk?" Antonio asked. 
"Can, but won't. Tell me what you want, Clayton." 
I growled, stamped my foot and gestured at the dining room table. Antonio 
laughed. 
"Don't encourage him," Jeremy said. "Talk, Clayton. Say what you want." 
I growled again, but gave in. "Food. Want food." 
"Ah, yes. Of course." To Antonio, "He likes food." 
Antonio grinned. "A boy after my own heart. Come on then, scrap. Let's raid the 
pantry." 
Some time later we were in another room, still eating. I'd refused to go with 
Antonio alone, so the three of us had gone to the kitchen, where I'd discovered 
heaven as a massive refrigerator, deep freezer and two fully stocked closets of 
food. Antonio had fixed the meal, piling mounds of cold cuts, breads and cheeses 
onto a platter so big I could have curled up on it and gone to sleep. To this, 
he'd added a second platter of salads, fruits and desserts. I decided this was 
someone I could allow myself to tolerate. 
Instead of returning to the dining room, we'd gone to another room of equal 
size. This one held several large padded chairs and a couch. A brick fireplace 
filled one wall. Jeremy had lit the fire earlier and I was lying beside it now, 
basking in the heat and stuffing myself with food. Paradise. 
Jeremy and Antonio sat in the chairs. At first, I'd stuck close to Jeremy. But 
Antonio kept hogging the food, inching the platters over to his side of the 
coffee table. I'd followed the food and ended up lying on the rug by the 
fireplace. I was wearing a shirt of Jeremy's, which came down to my knees, and a 
thick pair of woolen socks. I'd just as soon have gone naked, but Jeremy had a 
thing about clothes, so I humored him. 
The two men were talking. I wasn't paying much attention. Occasionally I caught 
words like 'boy' or 'child', so I knew they were talking about me. To understand 
them, I'd have to concentrate and at that moment, all my concentration was 
required for the arduous task of filling my belly. Once that Herculean chore was 
accomplished, I stretched out and listened to them talk. I wasn't always sure 
what they were saying or what they meant, but I listened anyway. 
"Are his Changes lunar?" Antonio asked. 
Jeremy shook his head. "Emotion-based sometimes. Other times . . . I don't know. 
They're frequent. Too frequent. Usually two, three times a day." 
"Ouch. Poor kid. He's so small. How old do you figure?" 
"I guessed seven for his birth certificate. He's probably closer to eight, like 
Nicky, but with the developmental delays, it seemed safer to go with seven." 
"How long ago do you think he was bitten?" 
"I don't want to think about it." Jeremy sipped his drink. "He's worse than I 
expected. I'm not sure . . .. I wasn't really prepared for this." 
"Second thoughts?" 
Jeremy put his glass down. "No. Of course not. I'm just questioning my own . . 
.." He stopped. Shrugged. "Ah, well. He's stuck with me now." 
"It'll be fine. He seems bright enough. He'll learn fast. And he's a handsome 
boy. Those big blue eyes. Those blonde curls. People see that, they'll expect a 
little angel. That'll help." 
"You think so?" Jeremy looked up, hopeful. 
"Sure. Don't worry about it. In a few months, he'll be a normal boy." 
"You think so?" 

Temper

Over the next couple of weeks, my language recognition skills went into 
overdrive. I learned best the way most children learn: eavesdropping. Days of 
listening to Jeremy and Antonio helped me far more than Jeremy's lessons could. 
That's not to say that my verbal skills kept apace. I talked when I had to, but 
I didn't really see the point. My needs were simple, so there wasn't much I had 
to communicate. Gesturing and grunting seemed far more efficient than speech. 
Jeremy disagreed. 
By the end of the second week at Stonehaven, he wasn't even content with mere 
words anymore. He wanted sentences. Whole sentences. The nerve. And, in forcing 
me to speak when I didn't want to, we both learned one more thing about me. I 
had a bit of a temper. 
"Out." 
Jeremy glanced over his newspaper and lifted one eyebrow. I was learning to hate 
that particular facial gesture. 
"Out." 
Antonio lay on the floor, surrounded by papers, writing in a ledger book. He 
looked up. "I think he wants to go outside. Why don't we--" 
"I know perfectly well what he wants. And he knows how to ask for it." 
"Want out." I planted myself in front of Jeremy and pushed down his newspaper. 
Jeremy shook the newspaper from my hand. "Ask for it properly, Clayton. A full 
sentence. I want to go out. 'Please' would be nice." 
I growled and stamped my foot. Jeremy turned the page. 
"Want--" 
"No, Clayton." 
I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it from his hands. 
"I want to go out! Now!" 
Jeremy plucked the torn paper from my hands, folded it and laid it aside. "You 
don't speak to me that way, Clayton. Go upstairs, please. You can come down for 
dinner." 
I didn't budge. I wanted to go out. It was a simple request. All Jeremy had to 
do was give me permission. I could open the door and let myself out. I knew the 
boundaries: the broken statue, the bronze urn, the kitchen window and the back 
door. 
For weeks, he'd given me what I wanted when I wanted it. Now, all of a sudden, 
these simple wishes were granted only when I complied to outrageous demands like 
having to speak in full sentences. The unfairness of it raged through me. 
I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it in half. Jeremy ignored me and reached for 
his coffee mug. I knocked it from his hand as it touched his lips. It smashed 
into the wall, shards flying in all directions. 
"Clayton!" Antonio leapt to his feet. 
Jeremy put out a hand to stop him. His face stayed impassive, which infuriated 
me more. I flung myself in his face. 
"Out!" I screamed, spraying spittle flying. "Want out nowwwww!" 
I threw back my head and howled in rage. I grabbed the nearest thing to me, 
which happened to be an end table, and flung it again against the brick 
fireplace. It smashed into sticks and splinters. I swung back to face Jeremy. He 
arched one eyebrow. 
"Done?" 
I snarled and stormed from the room. I strode to the back door, touched the 
handle, then stopped. 
I couldn't do it. My fingers refused to turn the door handle. I could not 
disobey Jeremy. It was like a subconscious override that shut down my synapses. 
With a snarl, I spun from the door and stomped up the stairs, making as much 
noise as a sixty pound body can make. 
I ran into the first room on the right, an empty guest room, and threw myself 
onto the bed. Burying my head under the pillow, I gulped stale air and felt the 
rage start to dissipate. On its heels came horror. Somewhere deep in the 
recesses of my damaged memory, I knew that you never lashed out at an adult. You 
did not argue. You did not shout. And you absolutely did not break things. You 
took what they dealt out. Arguing was bad. Dangerous. Painful. It was an old 
lesson, etched in my brain, yet one I'd never been able to follow. Now, I had a 
reason to follow it. I had a home. Shelter and food. Someone to protect me. Yet 
I seemed hell-bent on screwing it up. 
I pulled the pillow around my ears and sobbed, dry heaving sobs that racked my 
body until I was too exhausted to move. Then I lay there, feeling sorry for 
myself. After a while, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I lifted the pillow a 
bit and listened. The footfalls sounded too heavy for Jeremy, but I still peered 
out hopefully. When Antonio rounded the doorway, I yanked the pillow down over 
my head and flipped over, turning my back to him. 
"Good, you picked the old room," he said. "Nothing valuable to break." 
"Go away." 
"What's that? A complete sentence? Short, but grammatically complete. Very 
good." He thudded onto the foot of the bed. "That's a wicked temper you've got 
there. Great pitching arm, though. When you grow up, Jeremy can send you down to 
try out for the Yankees." 
I lifted the corner of the pillow. "Send me away?" 
"No, no." Antonio shook his head and pulled the pillow away. "I was joking. 
Teasing." He studied my face for some sign that I understood him. "Jeremy's not 
sending you anywhere." 
I relaxed. "He come? Up?" 
"'Fraid not, scrap. That's why I'm here. I figured you might need some help." 
"Not come up?" 
"No. He'll call you for dinner, like he said, but he won't come up after you. 
Here's what I'd suggest. You go downstairs and apologize. Understand?" 
I shook my head. 
"Go downstairs. To Jeremy. Tell him you're sorry. Say 'I'm sorry, Jeremy'. A 
complete sentence. Understand?" 
I nodded. It sounded too easy. I should have known there was a catch. 
I followed Antonio downstairs and did exactly as he said. I found Jeremy in the 
study, walked up to him and said 'I'm sorry, Jeremy'. He nodded and let me help 
him finish washing coffee off the wall. And so, I was forgiven. As easy as that. 
No lecture. No icy silence. No grudges held. Yet there was something in his eyes 
that stung worse than all the beatings in the world. Disappointment. No 
apologies, however heartfelt, could erase that. 
Two days later, I was in the kitchen with Antonio. He'd shanghaied me on a 
'special mission'. He was baking a cake and swore he needed my help. I suspected 
Jeremy needed a break more than Antonio needed the help. 
"Now, you can't tell Jeremy about the cake," Antonio said, bending down and 
pulling a bowl from the cupboard. "Okay?" 
"Why?" 
"Because it's a surprise. It's for his birthday." 
My blank look made him gasp in mock horror. 
"You don't know what a birthday is? It means our Jeremy's getting older. 
Tomorrow he will be a very ancient twenty-two. Do you know how old you are?" 
I shook my head. 
"Seven." He lifted seven fingers. 
I pointed at him. 
"Me? I'm twenty-four. One foot in the grave. Not enough fingers for that." He 
grinned and poured white powder into the bowl. "Next year, when you turn eight, 
we'll throw you a party. My boy just turned eight a few months ago. Bet you 
didn't know that, did you? I've got a son just about your age." 
I frowned and looked around. "Where?" 
He laughed. "At home, scrap. With his grandfather, where he belongs. I'm a bad 
influence." Another laugh. "Someday soon you'll meet him. He'd like that. I'm 
sure you will, too." 
Personally I doubted it, but I didn't say anything. He handed me an egg and 
showed me how to crack it into the bowl. I got more shell than egg in the bowl, 
but Antonio only laughed and handed me another one. This time, I got most of the 
egg in the bowl and only one sliver of shell. 
"Well done, scrap. At least someone in this house will be able to cook." 
Antonio continued to chatter. I didn't understand most of what he said. I didn't 
care. I don't think he did either. Nothing seemed to faze him. When I knocked 
over the milk bottle, he laughed and threw down some dishtowels. When I snuck a 
fingerful of batter, he laughed and gave me a cupful. There was no mistake that 
couldn't be wiped away with a laugh and a wink. And best of all, he didn't make 
me speak in full sentences. 
When the cake was done, Antonio pronounced it 'perfect'. Actually, it looked a 
little lopsided, but I didn't argue. We hid the cake in the oven. Antonio swore 
it'd be safe there. He doubted Jeremy knew what the oven was for, much less how 
to operate it. 
After dinner, Jeremy said he was going out back to 'practice'. I was welcome to 
come out, but forbidden to sneak up on him. Intrigued, I started to follow. 
Antonio caught me and pulled me aside. 
"I'm going to town, scrap. Jeremy's birthday present is ready. Want to come?"
"Come? Where?"
"Town. Go. In car. You and me. Yes?"
I shook my head. "Go Jeremy."
"Are you sure? Jeremy won't be much fun. He's busy."
"Stay. Jeremy."
"All right then. I'll see you when I get back. Jeremy's out back. Go through the 
patio doors. 

Make sure he hears you coming. Our Jeremy gets pretty wrapped up in his 
practicing and he might 
not notice you. Be careful. Understand?" I nodded. "Can I get you something from 
town? Bring something home for you?" "Food." 
Antonio laughed and rumpled my hair. "You're easy to please, scrap. Go see 
Jeremy then." 
I found Jeremy outside shooting pointed sticks. This I accepted as a perfectly 
good hobby, much the same as I had the plastic-talking. Jeremy was my god. 
Whatever he did was good and right, even if it looked to me like an incredibly 
bizarre way to pass the time. 
I'd later learn that this hobby had a name. Archery. Not the sort of thing I saw 
people doing everyday back in Baton Rouge. Not the sort of thing you'd expect a 
werewolf to do either. Why learn to use a hunting weapon when you came with your 
own built-in set? For Jeremy, though, archery had nothing to do with hunting. It 
was all about control, developing and improving the mental and physical control 
needed to put an arrow through a target. Of course, I wouldn't know that for 
years. Right then, it looked like he was shooting sticks at a tiny dot out in 
the field. And that was a-okay by me. 
When he saw me watching, he offered to show me how to use the bow. Didn't look 
like much fun, really, but if it meant spending time with him then, sure, I was 
game. 
Jeremy was repositioning my hands on the bow for the umpteenth time when a sound 
came from the house. We both stopped and listened. Somewhere inside, a door 
closed. Jeremy straightened. 
"Antonio's ba--" 
He stopped in mid-word. His eyes narrowed as he listened. A second later, I 
heard it--a voice inside the house shouting Jeremy's name. His back tensed, but 
he didn't answer. After a minute, the patio door swung open. Jeremy turned, 
taking the smallest step backward toward me. 
"I thought you weren't coming home until next month," Jeremy said. 
"That's a fine welcome." 
Jeremy's back blocked my view. All I saw of the newcomer was a pair of loafers 
below tan slacks. The voice definitely wasn't Antonio's, though. A stranger? 
Coming into our house? Invading our territory? Outrage shot through me and my 
hackles went up. I sniffed the air, but the newcomer was downwind. 
"Welcome back," Jeremy said. His voice was stiff. He stepped back again, keeping 
me shielded behind him. 
"My, my, now I do feel welcome," the man said cheerfully. "Of course, an even 
better welcome would be to return to find you've moved out. Or perhaps had an 
unfortunate run-in with a local hunter. But that would be too much to hope for, 
wouldn't it?" 
Jeremy said nothing.
"Did I see Tonio's suitcase upstairs?" the man asked.
"Yes."
"He's here? My timing isn't so bad then. Where is he?"
"Out."
Keeping his back to me, Jeremy picked up the bow and started adjusting the 
string. It was a

subtle dismissal, but the man seemed in no hurry to leave. "Still playing with 
your toys, I see," the man said. Jeremy said nothing. "What exactly is the 
point?" the man continued. "You don't hunt. You're afraid of everything 
that moves. But I suppose that bulls-eye is a safe target. You don't have to 
worry about it attacking 
you, not like one of those vicious little bunny rabbits. Of course, it could 
give you a nasty sliver." Jeremy plucked at the bow string. "Well, come on then. 
Let's see you take a shot," the man said. Jeremy didn't move. The man snorted. I 
saw his legs move as he turned to leave. Jeremy's 
back relaxed ever so slightly. Then, in mid-turn, the man stopped. "What is 
that?" he asked. "What's what?" Jeremy said. "Behind you." "Oh. That." Jeremy 
hesitated, then reached back for my shoulder and pulled me out a few 
inches, still shielding me. "This is Clayton." 
He propelled me out a bit farther, keeping his hand on my shoulder. I looked up, 
my gaze moving from the man's trousers, to his shirt and finally to his face. 
"Clayton, this is Malcolm. My father." 
It was the second werewolf, the one who'd beaten me and invaded my den in Baton 
Rouge. 

Malcolm

If I'd seen this man a month earlier, I would have turned tail and run. But 
things had changed. I was no longer a frightened castaway defending a speck of 
territory. I had a protector and I had a home. The outrage that had surged a few 
minutes ago flared hotter, fueled by something stronger than anger. I looked at 
this man and felt hate. 
I snarled and charged. Jeremy snatched me from behind and yanked me back. I 
howled, lashing out with all limbs. In mid-swing, I realized who I was swinging 
at and stopped short. 
"Don't," Jeremy whispered. "It won't help." 
"I see you're teaching him cowardice already." 
Malcolm hadn't moved an inch, even as I'd been flying at him. As I met his eyes, 
I knew why. I was no danger to him. And, if I attacked him, he was fully 
justified in hitting back. If anything, he was disappointed to have lost the 
opportunity. 
Malcolm turned to Jeremy. "What is he doing here?" 
"I brought him here." 
"You?" Malcolm laughed. "Not goddamned likely. You're afraid to leave the house. 
You certainly wouldn't cross the country chasing some brat. This is another 
scheme you dragged Tonio into, isn't it? I told you about the boy and you got 
all misty-eyed and Tonio offered to fetch him for you. A pet for poor Jeremy." 
While Malcolm was speaking, Jeremy crouched down in front of me, his back to his 
father. My heart was still hammering. Jeremy rubbed my shoulder. 
"Let's go inside," Jeremy said. 
"I'm talking to you," Malcolm said. 
"You've upset him. I'm taking him inside." 
"You're not taking him anywhere. He's not staying." 
"I'm sorry you don't approve." 
Jeremy started steering me toward the door. Malcolm stepped in front of us. 
"Did you hear me? This is not open for negotiation, boy. You are not keeping 
that mutt in my house." 
"It's not your house." 
Jeremy propelled me past him and through the patio door. Just inside, Antonio 
was leaning against the wall, almost collapsing with silent laughter. He thumped 
Jeremy on the back. 
"I never thought I'd hear you say that," he said. "Congratulations. Now, the 
next step is to boot him out the front door and change the locks. Need some 
help?" 
Jeremy gave a small shake of his head and kept walking, pushing me in front of 
him. When we got to the stairs, a sigh rippled the surface of his composure. He 
turned to Antonio. 
"I should have warned him. I kept putting it off and--" He stopped and turned to 
me. "I'm sorry, Clayton. I can't imagine what you must be thinking." 
Antonio rumpled my hair. "Oh, you're fine, aren't you, scrap?" 
I'd just discovered that my new sanctuary was the very home of the werewolf who 
had destroyed my last place of refuge, back in Baton Rouge. So, no, I shouldn't 
have been fine. I should have been frightened, even angry. I should have felt 
betrayed. But I didn't. I was confused, maybe a little apprehensive, but I knew 
Jeremy would do nothing to hurt me. Whatever was going on here, I was still 
safe, and that was all that mattered. 
Taking my cue from the tone of Antonio's voice, I nodded, and threw in a 'yes' 
for good measure. Jeremy didn't look convinced. Antonio grabbed me around the 
waist and swung me over his shoulder. 
"Come on, scrap. I have something in the kitchen that should take your mind off 
the big bad wolf. Go wait in the study, Jer. We'll be there in a minute." 
Without waiting for an answer, Antonio carried me to the kitchen, then put me 
down on the tabletop and closed the door. 
"I suppose that was a bit of a shock," he said. "Jeremy wanted to tell you, but 
we didn't expect him back for a few weeks." He paused. "Do you understand me?" 
I nodded. He hesitated, then opened the oven and took out the birthday cake. 
"Malcolm is Jeremy's father. He lives here, unfortunately. But he's hardly ever 
around, fortunately. Probably just stopped in for money. God forbid the bastard 
should earn his own keep. Expects Jeremy to hand over--" Antonio stopped, shook 
his head and reached for a stack of plates. "With any luck, he'll clear out in a 
couple of days." 
Antonio pulled mugs from the cupboard, then handed me the cake plates. 
"Can you manage those?" 
I nodded. 
He smiled and thumped me on the back. "Good. Don't worry about Malcolm, scrap. 
Just stay out of his way. He'll curse and threaten but, as long as you stick 
close to Jeremy, he won't hurt you. He doesn't dare. Remember that." 
I nodded again and he waved me toward the door. 
Jeremy was in the study. When I entered, he had his back to me and was stirring 
the fireplace embers. The poker circled slowly, sending up fountains of sparks. 
He stopped, shoulders tightening as I walked in. He inhaled sharply. Then he 
relaxed, turned and smiled. 
"Happy birthday," I said. 
Jeremy's crooked smile widened. "Thank you." 
He glanced up and I heard Antonio behind me. As I turned, Antonio kicked the 
half-closed door open with one foot. The overburdened tray in his hands started 
to tip. Jeremy lunged to grab it, but Antonio righted it at the last second and 
waved him back. 
"Sit down and relax," Antonio said. 
Antonio poured the coffee, adding a half-cup of milk to mine and an equal 
portion of brandy to the other two. I passed out the filled cups and plates, 
leaving only a small trail of coffee droplets. Before Antonio sat down, he took 
two brightly colored boxes from the mantle and handed the larger one to Jeremy. 
Jeremy took the gift, but made no move to open it. His eyes were unfocused, his 
mind still elsewhere. Antonio nudged him, then leaned over and whispered 
something in his ear. Jeremy's gaze flicked to me and he forced a crooked 
quarter-smile. 
"Open," I said.
"Hmmm?"
"He's eager to get to the cake part," Antonio said. "I told him he has to wait 
until the gifts are

opened." "Ah. I'll get to it then." Jeremy lifted the box and peeled off the 
colored paper. Underneath was a hinged wooden 
box. He undid the tiny latch and lifted the top. His eyes widened. Smiling, he 
lifted a strangely shaped piece of molded metal and carved wood from the box. 
Although I didn't recognize it at the time, it was an antique revolver, one of a 
pair. 
"Beautiful," Jeremy murmured, turning it in his hands so the light glinted off 
the barrel.
"You said you wanted to try handguns," Antonio said.
"I wasn't imagining something quite so fancy. It's only for target practice."
"Do I ever do anything by halves? Besides, I'm hoping you might use it for 
something more

productive." Antonio tossed the smaller box to Jeremy. "See if this gives you 
any ideas." 
Jeremy unwrapped a velvet jeweler's box. When he opened it, he threw his head 
back and laughed, the sound echoing through the room. I scrambled up and over 
onto his lap to see what caused such an uncharacteristic outburst. All I saw in 
the box, though, was a polished metal chunk with scratches on the side. 
Behind us, the door opened and a voice said, "Well, I'm glad to see everyone is 
having such a 
good time. If I'd known my return would have made you this happy, I'd have 
stayed away." "Fuck off, Malcolm," Antonio said. "This is a private party." 
Malcolm walked in and closed the door. "And what might we be celebrating?" "Your 
son's birthday, which you've obviously forgotten." "Forgotten? Hardly. I 
remember every second of the day that slant-eyed bitch whelped him. 
Much the way one might remember the day one is diagnosed with a terminal 
illness. Had I known how he would turn out, I'd have put him in a sack and 
dropped him off the nearest bridge. I should have guessed the outcome, really, 
right from the moment he was born. Any normal child would come out into the 
world bawling his lungs out. My brat? He didn't make a peep. Even as a baby 
he didn't have the balls to complain." "Cake?" Jeremy said, holding out the 
piece he'd been cutting through his father's tirade. Malcolm ignored him and 
dropped onto the sofa. Jeremy shrugged and gave me the piece. 
Antonio rolled his eyes and mouthed something to Jeremy. The corners of Jeremy's 
mouth flicked 
in the faintest of smiles, but he kept the rest of his face impassive. "Did you 
bring Jeremy a gift?" Antonio asked. Malcolm snorted and reached for the brandy 
snifter. "Want to see what I got him?" Antonio grabbed the tiny jeweler's box 
from the table and tossed it to Malcolm. A spark of 
worry passed behind Jeremy's eyes, but when Malcolm saw what was in the box, he 
laughed nearly 
as loudly as his son. "A silver bullet with my name on it," he said. "One can 
never accuse you of subtlety, Tonio." "Regular bullets may work just as well," 
Antonio said. "But I thought this one might find a 
special place in your heart." 
Malcolm laughed again. "Only if you fired the gun, my boy. That one would never 
do it. He doesn't have the nerve. You're too good to him, Tonio. You inherited 
your father's soft spot for weaklings. Your intentions are admirable, but you 
should pick more worthy friends." 
"Like you. Oh, I forgot. It's not friendship you want from me, it's--"
Jeremy cleared his throat and got to his feet. "I think someone is getting 
tired." He looked at

me, but it must have been a mistake, because I was wide-awake and absorbing 
every word. "Does he have a kennel out back?" Malcolm asked. "Or is he 
housebroken already?" "Off you go," Jeremy said, putting one hand behind my back 
and propelling me to the door. Antonio closed the door behind us and followed us 
up the stairs. Jeremy's bedroom was at the far end of the hall. I'd been 
sleeping there since I came to 
Stonehaven. Jeremy had tried setting me up in a room of my own, but I was having 
none of that. 
Now that Malcolm was here, it would be a while before he started encouraging me 
to take a separate room again, which was the only obvious advantage to his 
father's return. 
Jeremy's room was furnished as a place to sleep and nothing more, just a bed, a 
night-stand and a dresser. The floor was bare wood, no carpet. The walls were 
pale umber, unadorned except for a cluster of small framed sketches by the 
window. All the sketches were portraits, Antonio being the only one I 
recognized. It would be years before I realized Jeremy was the artist. When I'd 
asked about them, he'd only named the people pictured and explained their 
relationships to one another. It would have never occurred to him to say he'd 
drawn them. 
Antonio walked in behind us and threw himself onto the bed. "Paradise lost. The 
serpent has returned." 
"Get ready for bed, Clayton. Just push Tonio out of the way." 
Antonio propped his head up on his arms. "I could help you regain that paradise, 
Jer. Just say the word and he's--" 
"That's enough," Jeremy said, jerking his chin at me. "He doesn't know you're 
joking." 
"Am I? The Pack Laws don't always apply to the beloved youngest son of the Pack 
Alpha." 
I'd spent the last few exchanges standing there with my shirt pulled up around 
my neck, listening. Jeremy tugged my shirt off and lifted me onto the bed. He 
shoved Antonio to the side, folded back the covers and motioned me inside. 
"All right," Antonio sighed. "Forget the permanent solution. How about just 
kicking him out? After all, it is your house." He grinned. "I still cannot 
believe you actually said that to him." 
Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks. 
"You shouldn't let him forget that," Antonio continued. "There's a reason Edward 
passed over Malcolm and left it all to you. Because he knew his son was a 
psychotic son-of-a-bitch and he hoped you'd toss him out on his ass the moment 
the will was read." 
"I don't think that was quite what my grandfather had in mind." 
Jeremy folded our clothing and laid it on the dresser. Then he turned out the 
light and crawled into bed beside me. Antonio ignored the hint. He stripped off 
his shirt and pants and thudded back on the bed. 
"This bed isn't that big," Jeremy said.
"I wasn't done talking."
"Are you ever?"
"Watch it or I'll take back those revolvers. Besides it's not safe for me to 
sleep alone with

Malcolm here. I'm liable to wake up in the middle of the night and find--" 
Jeremy coughed. Loudly. "What?" Antonio said. "You don't understand a word I'm 
saying, do you, scrap?" "He's tired," Jeremy said. "He needs his sleep." "So do 
I, which is why I'm not going back to the guest room. Shove over, scrap." Jeremy 
sighed. Antonio wriggled under the covers and knocked me with his hip. I held my 
ground. I'd been here first. "If you kicked him out, my father would support 
you." "Hmmm." Antonio flipped onto his side. "Don't think you can fool me, Jer. 
You're not afraid to kick him 
out, you're just too damned stubborn. It's like the ultimate challenge of 
willpower. If you can 
survive Malcolm, you can survive anything." Jeremy said nothing. "Don't pretend 
you've fallen asleep, either." "I'm not pretending anything. You were 
pontificating so nicely, I hated to interrupt." "Ha." Silence fell, punctuated 
only by heartbeats and slow breathing. I curled up between them. 
Waves of heat and scent ebbed out from either side of me. I closed my eyes and 
inhaled both, feeling the anxiety of the last few hours wash away. After a 
while, the bed creaked and I sensed Jeremy looking down at me. 
"He's asleep," Antonio said.
"Hmmm."
"What's wrong?"
"I was just thinking." A pause. "Perhaps I haven't done the best thing for him. 
Bringing him

here. Into this." 
"You know, I was thinking the same thing myself. I was lying here thinking, what 
a monster Jeremy is, snatching this poor kid from that swamp, hauling him across 
the country and forcing him to endure some semblance of a normal life. I mean, 
the boy is absolutely miserable here. Anyone could see that." 
"You don't need to be sarcastic." 
"And you don't need to be stupid. If you didn't rescue Clayton, he'd have been 
dead within the year, and I don't mean by natural causes. The whole Pack heard 
Malcolm's story. How long do you think it'd be before someone decided it was too 
risky, having a child werewolf running around Louisiana? No one else would think 
of rescuing him. Not even me. You're different." 
"So I've been told," Jeremy murmured.
"You did the right thing, Jer. End of discussion."
Silence. I was starting to drift off when Antonio started up again.
"You don't need to worry about him, you know."
"End of discussion?"
"End of your discussion, not mine. As I was saying, he'll be okay. Malcolm has 
too much to

risk by hurting him. He knows you wouldn't stand for it. He'd be out on the 
street in a second. And he wouldn't find any sympathy anywhere else. My father 
won't put up with that shit. Malcolm lays a hand on Clayton, you just tell me, 
and he'll be banished." 
Jeremy paused, then spoke, his voice barely audible. "If ever I wanted to throw 
him out, it 
would be now. But I can't risk retaliation." "I know. He'd go after the boy. 
I'll shut up about it." "Careful. I wouldn't want you hurting yourself." 
Something shot over my head. I peeked to see a pillow sail clear over the bed 
and land with a soft whump on the floor. 
"You need to work on your aim." 
"It was just a warning shot." 
"Ah." 
Jeremy rolled over. I waited until I was certain I wouldn't be missing anything, 
then let myself fall asleep. 
Several days had passed since Malcolm's arrival. The three of us were in the 
back yard, and had been for most of the afternoon, namely because Malcolm was 
indoors. 
Antonio and Jeremy were wrestling. At first, Antonio thought it would be fun to 
teach me a few moves, but after a flip sent me skidding to the ground with a 
bloody nose, I was relegated to spectator status. 
Personally, I would have continued playing, but when Jeremy hoisted me off the 
ground and set me on the stone wall, I knew I'd better stay there. Watching 
wasn't so bad. It was an interesting study of maneuvers and strategies, possibly 
transferable to more important things, like hunting. Antonio had the clear 
advantage of weight and muscle, but he pinned Jeremy less than half the time. 
He'd thunder and charge, and Jeremy would just dart out of the way, often 
slipping around behind him and taking advantage of the momentum of Antonio's 
charge to knock him face-first to the ground. Soon Antonio had a bloody nose to 
match mine, but no one suggested he stop playing--not that I was bitter about 
that or anything. 
Jeremy didn't always get out of the way in time. Once, when he was a split-
second too slow and Antonio had him flat on his back, the phone started to ring. 
Now, the phone was over a hundred feet away and inside the house, but all three 
of us heard it. Even in human form, we share a wolf's keener senses of smell and 
hearing. We're also abnormally strong. At the time, I realized none of this. To 
me, it was normal. 
"Will he answer it?" Antonio asked, taking his knee off Jeremy's chest. 
"Only if he's expecting a call." 
"Are you?"
"No." The phone continued to ring. "It's probably for you."
Antonio grunted, grabbed his shirt from a nearby bush and wiped the streaming 
sweat from

his face. He looked toward the house, hesitated, then headed for the back door. 
Jeremy sat up in 
the grass and rotated his shoulders, wincing as something cracked. "Hop down, 
Clayton, and I'll show you some moves." We played for a few minutes before 
Antonio came back, walking out of the house even slower 
than he'd walked in. "Trouble at home?" Jeremy said. Antonio muttered something 
and dropped onto the grass. "A meeting in Chicago. My father 
can't make it. Something's happened at the factory and he's stuck in New York." 
"When do you leave?" "Tomorrow. Damn. I hate responsibility." Jeremy smiled. 
"You're good at it. Better than anyone expected." Antonio snorted and broke an 
icy twig off a tree. He pretended to study it. "My father thinks 
you should stay in New York with him for a while. You and Clayton." "No." "Don't 
be--" "I appreciate the concern, but Clayton's not ready for that yet, the new 
surroundings, the new 
people. No, we'll be fine here." Antonio threw down the stick. "No one said you 
wouldn't be. You have to introduce him to 
the Pack eventually. Why not now?" "I don't want to rush him." "You're 
stubborn." "No, I'm realistic." "Stubborn." 
"Up you get, Clayton," Jeremy said, lifting me under the armpits. "It's getting 
cold and I imagine you're hungry." 
Antonio muttered something under his breath, but followed us into the house in 
silence, probably afraid Jeremy would withhold the food if he continued arguing. 

Campaign

The next night, after Antonio left, Jeremy and I were in the study, where we 
spent most of our evenings. I lay on the carpet before the fire, eyes half-
closed, content to doze and daydream. Jeremy was poring over some ragged book 
that stunk of time and poor storage. On top of the book he kept a notepad, and 
wrote in it as he read, his eyes never leaving the page. 
I know now that Jeremy was working, though at the time I just thought he spent a 
lot of time reading. To be honest, I wasn't even clear on the reading part, not 
remembering having seen anyone in my family partake of this particular pastime. 
Now I realize that much of that reading time was actually work. Jeremy made his 
living translating, mainly for academics. It wasn't going to make him rich 
anytime soon, but it kept the bills paid, and it was something he could do from 
home, which suited him better than an office job in the city. 
We'd been in the study for about an hour when the door swung open. I smelled 
Malcolm and kept my eyes shut, hoping he'd see we were both very busy and go 
away. 
"Christ," Malcolm said, footsteps thudding into the room. "He's like a goddamned 
puppy, curled up at his master's feet." 
I lifted one eyelid just in time to see Malcolm take a swipe at me with his 
foot. His aim went wide, coming nowhere near me, but I growled to let him know 
I'd seen. 
"Don't growl at me, you little--" 
"Then don't antagonize him," Jeremy said, still reading. "Leave him alone, and 
he'll leave you alone." 
"He'd damned well better leave me--" 
"What did you want?" 
"I need money." 
Jeremy's expression didn't change. Nor did he glance up from his book. "I had 
some unexpected expenses this month. I can spare a few hundred now, but if 
you'll be gone for a while, I can wire you more when I get paid." 
"I'm not going anywhere."
At that, Jeremy stopped reading. The barest reaction flitted across his face, 
but vanished before

Malcolm could seize on it. "I see," Jeremy said slowly, laying his book on the 
side-table. "What happened this time?" "Don't take that tone with me." "I wasn't 
taking any tone. If there's another . . . problem, I need to know about it, 
don't I?" Malcolm thumped onto the couch, sprawling across it, a clear invasion 
of our territory. I 
squelched a growl, and settled for inching closer to Jeremy. "Just a dispute 
with a mutt," Malcolm said. "A disagreement over a lady. Not that I'd expect 
you to know anything about that. You'd have to leave the house to get--" "You do 
more than enough for the two of us." Jeremy pulled out his wallet, took some 
bills and handed them to Malcolm. "Eighty bucks?" Malcolm said. "How the hell am 
I supposed to live--" "That's all I have. If you're staying, then you don't need 
more. Things are tight this month. 
I'll be lucky if I can pay the electric bill." "The trials and tribulations of 
home ownership." Malcolm slid a crocodile grin Jeremy's way, then stuffed the 
money into his pocket and left. So we were stuck with Malcolm. Long before I'd 
arrived at Stonehaven. Malcolm and Jeremy had perfected the art of living 
together without actually living together. Despite what I'd thought on my first 
day, Stonehaven was no mansion, but a two-story, five-bedroom house, just big 
enough that two people could pass their days without spending more than a minute 
or two in the same room. 
Most times, Malcolm ignored us. Several times a day, though, he'd corner Jeremy 
with some petty complaint or slam him with a volley of sarcastic put-downs. With 
Malcolm there, Jeremy was always wary, stiffening at the sound of a footstep, 
lowering his voice, scuttling me off to another room when Malcolm approached. 
The cure for Jeremy's discomfort seemed obvious enough. We had to get rid of 
Malcolm. Foolishly simple . . . or so it appeared to me. As Antonio had said, 
the house belonged to Jeremy. I understood little of what went on between 
Malcolm and Jeremy, but the concept of territory was hardwired in my wolf's 
brain. This was Jeremy's territory, and if Malcolm made Jeremy miserable, then 
he had to go. Foolishly simple. 
By getting rid of him, I don't mean killing him. However dangerous I liked to 
imagine myself, I knew I stood no chance of killing Malcolm. For now, I'd have 
to settle for getting him out of the house. To do that, I first needed to 
understand my adversary. As a human child, I'd have had little or no idea how to 
do this, but as a wolf, the method was ingrained in my brain. To understand your 
adversary, you watched him. You studied him. You stalked him. 
My first opportunity came a week after Antonio left. Jeremy was out back 
practicing with his new revolvers. Usually, I was content--if not downright 
happy--to sit and watch whatever he was doing. Today, though, I had a more 
important mission, so I left Jeremy in the courtyard and slipped into the house 
to find Malcolm. 
Malcolm was watching television in the back nook, a room Jeremy and I rarely 
entered. Though I vaguely recalled the delights of cartoons, sitting in front of 
a television no longer held any appeal for me, probably because it held no 
appeal for Jeremy, and he was the yardstick by which I now measured the 
attractiveness of any activity. 
For nearly an hour, I peered around the doorway and watched Malcolm watch TV. 
Finally the show ended. Malcolm turned off the TV and headed into the hall. I 
followed. Several times he paused, and seemed ready to turn, but only shook his 
head and kept walking. 
On to the kitchen. When he wasn't looking, I ducked inside and crouched beside 
the counter. Malcolm fixed himself a sandwich. Though I failed to see the 
importance of his selection of cold cuts, my brain told me it was critical 
information. Finally, he finished making his sandwich, poured a glass of milk, 
and headed for the dining room. I scurried after him, then watched from the 
doorway. 
Malcolm sat down. He took two bites. Then he turned fast and caught me watching. 
I raced 
for the back door. Behind me, Malcolm's voice echoed through the house. 
"Jeremy!" "He's following me," Malcolm said before Jeremy got through the back 
door. Jeremy unzipped his jacket and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. 
"Who?" he asked. "Who? Who? How many people live in this house? If it's not me 
and it's not you--" "Clayton? Where--" Jeremy looked around and frowned, then 
saw me hovering behind him. 
His gaze swiveled to Malcolm. "What did you do to him?" "Do? I didn't do 
anything. He's been following me around for the last hour, watching me." "Of 
course. He's a child. He's curious." "Curious, my ass. He's stalking me." 
"Stalking?" Jeremy's lips twitched. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, 
erasing 
all signs of a smile. "He's a little boy, Malcolm, not an animal. He's playing a 
game with you. Spying. All children do it. If you ignore him, he'll tire of it 
soon enough." 
Before Jeremy could lead me away, I snuck one last glance at Malcolm. He 
returned a glare. In that glare, I saw my victory. My stalking had unsettled 
him. Jeremy hadn't forbidden it, which meant I was free to do it as often as I 
liked. 
This was going to be easier than I thought. 
In stalking Malcolm, my only goal had been to gather information, but I quickly 
learned that the very act drove him crazy. Within days, all I had to do was slip 
past a room, and he'd be on his feet, storming into the hall to glower at me. 
And all he did was glower. Never said a word, never raised a hand, never again 
complained to Jeremy. 
Once I learned how much he hated being stalked, I stopped making any effort to 
hide my activities. If he was watching TV, I'd walk right into the room, sit 
down and stare at him. He'd scowl at me, and try to sit it out, but I outlasted 
him every time. 
In Malcolm's refusal to challenge my misbehavior, I read cowardice. Yes, he'd 
terrorized me just months before in the bayou, but since I'd arrived here, he 
hadn't touched me. In that, Malcolm obeyed Jeremy, which made me decide that, in 
our little pack, Malcolm's status was no higher than my own. If anything, it was 
lower because I enjoyed Jeremy's personal protection. 
I wondered, then, if Malcolm was so powerless, why hadn't Jeremy kicked him out 
years ago? But the very thought felt like betrayal, so I swept it from my mind. 
Had I been older, I would have realized there must be more to it. Yet, at the 
time, I was too pleased with my success to question it. 
After two weeks of being stalked, Malcolm showed the first sign of cracking. One 
day, when Malcolm retreated to the back nook to read, I followed, perched on the 
chair across from his and stared at him. Just stared. After ten minutes, Malcolm 
threw down the magazine, shot a single scowl my way, and stormed from the room. 
He gathered his jacket, wallet and keys, then shouted to Jeremy not to lock up, 
and stalked out the door. 
I had him on the run. 
Now all I needed to do was give him a reason to keep running . . . and not come 
back. 
Again, my wolf's instincts blessed me with a centuries-old plan for handling 
this next step of the fight. To keep an enemy running, one had to give him a 
reason to believe that staying, or returning, would be bad for his health. 
I knew I stood no chance in a fight against any grown werewolf. In a fair fight, 
that is. But what about an unfair fight? Strategy, that was the key. The world 
of the wolf is heavily dependent on might and muscle, but there's plenty of 
wiggle room for a beast with brains. I didn't need to hurt Malcolm. I only had 
to make him think I could. And the only way a young pup could take on a seasoned 
fighter three times his age was to catch him off guard. Attack when he is most 
vulnerable. When are we most vulnerable? When we're asleep. 
I had to move fast. If Jeremy caught me stalking Malcolm, he'd realize it wasn't 
a simple child's game and put a swift end to my campaign of terror. So far I'd 
been very careful, picking my stalking times when Jeremy was working, reading or 
at target practice, three things that consumed his attention to the exclusion of 
everything else. While Jeremy was preoccupied, I could slip away, torment 
Malcolm, then sneak back to Jeremy and he'd never notice I'd left. 
So, two nights after I first scared Malcolm out of the house, I decided to act. 
I had a plan in mind. I'm not sure how I came upon it, but most likely had 
dredged it up from a half-remembered movie or television show. Whatever the 
plan's origin, I was certain it would work. 
I didn't sleep that night. I kept myself awake by fantasizing about life post-
Malcolm. About how happy Jeremy would be, and how happy that would make me. 
When Jeremy came to bed, I feigned sleep. Then I waited and listened for 
Malcolm's return. Finally his footfalls thumped down the hall. His door slammed. 
Jeremy started awake, mumbled something, and fell back onto the pillow. I 
listened to his breathing. It took a while for him to return to sleep. It always 
did. 
By the time Jeremy fell asleep, Malcolm's distant snoring signaled that he'd 
done the same. I reached between the mattress and bedspring, and removed the 
prize I'd secreted there earlier in the day. Then I slid from the bed. 
It took a long time for me to get out of the bedroom, moving as slowly as I 
could, so I wouldn't wake Jeremy. I scampered barefoot down the hall to 
Malcolm's room, eased open his door and peered through the crack. Malcolm was on 
the bed, his back to me. I pushed open the door and looked around. 
Unlike Jeremy's room, Malcolm's had stuff. Lots of stuff, all in a jumble that 
smacked more of carelessness than untidiness. Clothing hung on the chair back 
and piled on the seat. Dual dressers, both covered in toiletries, cuff links, 
watches, paperback novels. Where Jeremy's only decorations were pictures of his 
friends, Malcolm didn't have so much as a photograph on his night­stand. 
Everything was his: his acquisitions, his hobbies, his life. 
I dropped to all fours, crawled forward and peeked over the bedside. Malcolm 
still faced the other way. I considered my options. Over the bed or around it? 
Having grown accustomed to Jeremy's fitful sleep habits, I knew the danger of 
crawling onto the mattress. Better to take the longer route around the bed. 
When I was on the other side, I lowered myself to my belly and inched along the 
hardwood floor. A board sighed. I froze. Malcolm's snoring continued, 
undisturbed. I crept to the front legs of the bed. My fingers tightened around 
my prize. A steak knife. I'd considered one of the carving knives, but decided 
it would be too awkward to carry, and too easily missed. 
I eased my head over the mattress edge. A warm puff of Malcolm's breath tickled 
my face. I watched his eyelids, tensed for any sign of movement. Then I lifted 
the knife and laid it on the pillow, so it would be the first thing he saw when 
he awoke. 
Message delivered. Time to retreat. 
I waited all the next morning for Malcolm to wake. A bloodcurdling scream would 
be nice, but I'd settle for a good shout of surprise. 
Shortly before lunch, Malcolm came downstairs. He passed the open study door 
without so much as a glare in my direction, and headed to the kitchen. He fixed 
himself breakfast and took it into the dining room. 
Had the knife fallen off the bed? In rising, Malcolm could have shifted the 
pillow, causing the knife to slide to the floor undetected. How else to explain 
this complete lack of shock and terror? 
After lunch, Jeremy retreated to the study again. Once he was rapt in his work, 
I sneaked out and followed the sound of the television to the back nook. The 
door was open. I peered through. The TV was on and the recliner was turned 
toward it, facing away from the door. I slipped inside. 
I tiptoed toward the chair. When I'd made it halfway across the room, the door 
clicked shut behind me. I whirled to see Malcolm standing in front of the closed 
door. I backpedaled, eyes darting about for a second exit. 
"Relax, brat," Malcolm said. "I'm not going to touch you. I'm just playing a 
game." He smiled and tossed the steak knife onto the side-table. "You like 
games, don't you?" 
I backed up until I hit the wall. Malcolm stayed in front of the door. 
"I bet I can guess the name of your favorite game," he said. "Let's see . . .. 
Is it: 'Get Rid of Jeremy's Old Man'?" 
I said nothing, just stayed pressed against the wall, watching his body language 
for signs of impending attack. 
"That's a good one," Malcolm said. "Lots of fun, I bet. In fact, it's pretty 
close to a new game of my own. Do you know what mine's called?" 
I didn't move. 
"'Get Rid of Jeremy's Little Beast'. It's still in the planning stages, but I'm 
quite looking forward to playing." 
He sauntered to the recliner. I lunged toward the door, but he was in my path 
before I got halfway there. 
"Now, now. Don't be rude. We're having a conversation, though I'm not sure how 
much of it you understand. Too bad, really. It's always so much more fun to 
compete against a willing opponent." 
He leaned toward me. "That is what we're doing. In case you haven't realized it. 
Competing. Who can get rid of who first. Or is that 'whom'? Never could keep 
them straight." 
"Want go," I said, then cleared my throat and pulled myself to my full height. 
"I want to go." 
"Oh, don't worry. You will. In . . .." Malcolm glanced at his watch. "Today's 
Monday . . . so let's say by Wednesday night, you'll have your wish. You'll be 
gone." He grinned. "Unless you can get rid of me first. But it'll take more than 
a steak knife to do that." 
He picked up the knife. My gaze flew to it. 
"Oh, don't worry, brat. I won't hurt you. Won't lay a finger on you. That would 
suck all the challenge out of it. No, I know a better way. Rid myself of a 
growing inconvenience and get a little payback in the bargain. Teach my son a 
lesson about the danger of picking up strays." 
Malcolm tossed the knife down and stepped aside. 
"Well, go on. Go make your little plans. May the best man--or mutt--win." 
I darted past him and didn't stop running until I was at the study door. I 
peered inside. Jeremy was still engrossed in his work. I crept to my spot on the 
rug, lay down and, set about working on a revised plan of attack. 
When my heart stopped pounding, I considered Malcolm's threat, and dismissed it. 
He hadn't even dared box my ears for the knife incident. I understood enough of 
his babble to know he wanted me out of the house, but I wasn't concerned. He 
admitted he couldn't touch me. So how could he hurt me? 
What I forgot, though, was that it wasn't me Malcolm wanted to hurt. I was 
nothing to him. Nothing but a new tool in a campaign he'd been waging for years. 

Territorial

Though our days at Stonehaven may have seemed casual and unstructured, there was 
a schedule at work. Jeremy liked order, therefore Jeremy liked schedules. A 
flexible schedule, but a schedule nonetheless. Mornings he devoted to me, 
teaching, playing or, more often, a combination of the two. After lunch, he 
squeezed in a couple hours of work while I napped, then came a walk, snack-time, 
and the dreaded daily speech lesson. Once my lesson was done, he took an hour of 
much-needed personal time, reading or doing target practice or sketching. Then 
dinner, then a walk or a game, another snack, and back to work while I dozed by 
the fire. 
On Tuesday and Friday nights, Jeremy went for a run. Although he Changed when I 
did, he spent that time playing with me rather than running or hunting, since at 
any moment I might return to human form. Werewolves need more than that. A Pack 
wolf knows that he must Change at least once a week and run off that excess 
energy, adrenaline and aggression. Otherwise, he risks spontaneously beginning 
his Change while standing in line at the drugstore. 
So, the day after my knife-scheme failure, Jeremy went for his run, as he did 
every Tuesday. Leaving me alone was relatively safe. I was in more danger of 
emptying the refrigerator than sticking something in an electrical socket. As 
for Malcolm, he always left around dinnertime, and never returned until near 
morning, so Jeremy knew I faced no danger from that quarter. Or so he assumed. 
As it turned out, I wasn't the only one who paid attention to Jeremy's schedule. 
That night, Jeremy left me with a plate of cold cuts and a National Geographic. 
The pictures in the magazine fascinated me, not the photos of humans, but the 
ones of wilderness and wildlife. I was studying a spread on lions hunting 
gazelle when the side door to the garage opened. Knowing whom it had to be, I 
growled and got up to close the study door. Then I smelled something that made 
me stop. There was a human in the house. 
I should mention that I disliked strangers in the house. Abhorred would be a 
better word. It was a territorial thing--synapses deep in my brain went wild 
when they scented a stranger on our property. We'd discovered this last week, 
when a woman selling cosmetics had rungour bell and Malcolm let her in, which 
had more to do with her youth and attractiveness than a sudden interest in 
lipstick. 
What happened next was as much her fault as his. Jeremy and I happened to be at 
the other end of the hall when Malcolm invited her inside. She stepped in, I 
snarled. She screamed, I pounced. If she hadn't screamed, I would have backed 
down and retreated to a safer part of the house. But a scream shows fear and 
fear shows weakness and weakness shows that I have the upper hand. So, 
recognizing my advantage, I acted accordingly. Luckily, Jeremy was right behind 
me, and managed to grab me in mid-sprint and hustle me upstairs. 
This time, when I smelled the stranger in the house, I jumped to the obvious 
conclusion. Someone had broken in. With Jeremy gone, it was up to me to defend 
our territory, a task I accepted with pride. I swung into the hall, prepared to 
fight to my last breath. Then I heard familiar clomping footsteps. 
"Whoops," a female voice giggled. "Is there a light switch?"
"To your left, my dear."
Malcolm. I stepped back into the study and closed the door, not so much locking 
him out as

barricading myself in. After the Avon lady fiasco, Jeremy had explained the 
concept of 'invited guest', and my brain understood it even if my body didn't. 
Although I had little control over my instincts, I was learning to thwart them 
in small ways. Now, as far as I was concerned, Malcolm had no right to invite 
anyone into Jeremy's house, but I knew I'd cause Jeremy trouble if I interfered, 
so I was determined to stay locked in this room until Jeremy returned to deal 
with the matter. 
"The estate has been in the family since the eighteenth century," Malcolm was 
saying. "The current 
house was built in 1894." "Wow, that's old. That's back in pioneer days, isn't 
it?" Malcolm chuckled. "Close enough." The footsteps drew closer. I rapped my 
knuckles against my thighs, eyes clenched, willing them 
to move on. "That is the formal dining room," Malcolm said. "The parlor is 
beyond that." 
"Parlor? Like in England?"
"That's right. Now, over here . . .."
The footsteps paused outside the study door. I watched the doorknob twist one 
way, then the other. 

I jammed my foot against the door base and put all my weight against it. 
"Appears to be jammed," Malcolm murmured. "That's okay. Show me--" "One moment, 
my dear. I'll get this." He knew I was there. He couldn't help but smell me. He 
knew how I'd react to confronting a 
stranger in the house. And he forced open the door. 
I tried to dart past him into the hall, but he grabbed my shoulder, fingers 
digging to the bone. With his other hand, he tugged the woman into the room. I 
don't remember anything about her. I didn't bother to look. I already knew 
everything I needed to know. She was human and she was a stranger. 
The woman walked into the room and saw me.
"Oh!" She turned to Malcolm and waggled her finger. "Did you forget to tell me 
something?"
"He's not mine. He's visiting. A very short visit."
Malcolm propelled me forward, pushing me within inches of the woman. I dug my 
heels into the

Oriental carpet and closed my eyes. "Say hello, boy." I kept my eyes screwed 
shut, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling without smelling the intruder. 
How much longer until Jeremy returned? Soon, I told myself, but I knew it was a 
lie. Even if I shouted for him, he'd never hear me. Mentally, I screamed for 
him, but outwardly made not a sound, not daring provoke Malcolm. 
"Say hello, boy." Malcolm's fingers dug into my shoulder.
"Oh, leave the poor kid alone."
She leaned down, bringing her face so close I could feel her breath. I opened my 
eyes and tried to

step backward, hitting the solid wall of Malcolm's legs. 
"What a little cutie," she said. "Are you shy, hon?" 
She reached out and touched my cheek. I growled, wrenched myself back from her 
touch and knocked her hand away. She stumbled back, catching herself on the 
bookcase. Malcolm laughed. 
"That's not funny," she said, straightening up and brushing off her miniskirt as 
if I'd soiled it. "You should have warned me he was a retard." 
"Oh, but he isn't. Quite intelligent, actually . . . in a feral way. I suppose 
you could call him simple, though. A very uncomplicated set of values with 
clearly defined likes and dislikes. You happen to be one of those dislikes." 
The woman blinked, then made another show of smacking imaginary dust from her 
skirt. 
"You can take me home now," she said without looking up. 
"May I? You're too kind. But I brought you here to teach the boy a lesson and 
we've barely begun." 
She sniffed. "You can teach the brat a lesson in manners when I'm gone." 
"Hardly possible, my dear. You are the lesson. A hunting lesson." His index 
finger stroked my shoulder, grip still tight. "You see, the boy likes to stalk. 
To hunt. To kill. A born predator. Given his size, he hasn't had much experience 
with the killing part yet, but I hate to limit such intriguing potential." 
"I--I don't think that's funny. I'm going to hitch a ride home." 
She tried to walk past us to the door, but Malcolm grabbed her arm with his free 
hand. She gasped and her eyes widened. 
"Does that hurt? I'm barely squeezing. Imagine what I could do with a bit of 
effort." 
His arm muscles twitched. The woman yelped and yanked back. Malcolm released her 
arm, letting her crash to the floor. Then he pulled me forward. 
"Go ahead, boy. Kill her." 
I closed my eyes and willed my feet into lead weights. 
"Come now. None of that. She won't hurt you. She's a woman, and a weak one at 
that. You're already stronger than she is. I won't let her escape. It's an easy 
kill." 
"Not hungry." 
Malcolm threw his head back and laughed. "Did you hear that, my dear? He's not 
hungry. No troubling moral barriers there." 
"Th--this isn't funny." 
Fear seeped into the woman's voice, draining any confidence from the words. 
Holding the chair, she slowly rose to her feet, eyes locked on Malcolm. He 
waited until she was up, then shot out one leg, hooking hers. She crashed to the 
floor. 
"See how easy that is, boy?" 
The woman started to crawl toward the door. Malcolm pushed me toward her. 
"No," I said. 
"Yes, I know you're not hungry, but this is a lesson, for when you are hungry. 
Now--" 
"No." 
The woman was at the door. Malcolm reached down, grabbed her by the hair and 
threw her across the room. She lay still, then her shoulders convulsed in a sob. 
She curled up on the rug and made mewling noises. 
"Want to go," I said, straining against Malcolm's grip. "Not kill." 
"You're not afraid, are you? If you need help--" 
"No kill humans. Jeremy say no." 
It was the wrong answer. Malcolm's mouth twitched. He flung me into the center 
of the room. I caught myself before I fell and lifted my arms to ward him off. 
When I turned toward him, though, he was leaning against the door. 
"Jeremy's not here, is he?" His voice was calm, the fake camaraderie back in 
place. "Even if he was, he'd have to agree. The girl must die. We can hardly let 
her go. She's seen you. She knows about you. A shame, really, but--" He 
shrugged. "--what must be done, must be done. If you'd prefer, we could wait for 
him to get back. Of course, I'd have to tell him what you did." 
"Did nothing." 
"You let her see what you are." 
A tiny, snuffling voice from the corner. "I--I didn't see anything." 
Malcolm smiled. "Of course you did. A shame, as I said, but one easily 
remedied." 
The woman pulled herself to her elbows. "No, it's true. I didn't see anything. 
If you let me go--" 
"If I let you go, you'll tell what you saw. That the boy is a werewolf." He 
paused, smiling at her reaction. "Oh, you didn't know? My mistake. But, now that 
you do--" 
He started advancing on her. She lifted her arms and inched backward. 
"I don't know anything. I don't believe you anyway. You're crazy. Just let me go 
and I'll--" 
He grabbed her outstretched arms and snapped the hands back. Two sharp cracks 
and a piercing screech. The woman fell back, chest heaving, lips moving 
soundlessly. Malcolm lifted one of her broken wrists. Bone pierced the skin. He 
filled his hand with blood, then let the woman fall. 
"Can you smell this, boy?" 
He lifted his hand, letting the blood drip. 
"Can you feel this?" His eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and turned the bloody 
palm toward me. "Can you feel it? Close your eyes and smell it." 
I could smell it, the hot coppery scent filling the room. But I felt nothing. 
Why would I? To me, blood smelled only of food, and I wasn't hungry. 
Malcolm closed his fist, then opened it and wiped the blood on my face. 
"Do you feel it?" 
His voice was hoarse, his eyes glowing. He leaned down to look into my eyes. I 
felt his gaze penetrate, searching. Then his eyes dimmed with something like 
disappointment. He strode across the room, grabbed the woman by the back of the 
neck and swung her toward me. Her lips still moved soundlessly. 
"Do you see that?" he said. "Look at her. Look into her eyes. She knows she's 
going to die. Can you see it?" 
I looked in her eyes and I saw the fear of a trapped animal. Malcolm's free hand 
went around the woman's throat. He started to squeeze. Her eyes went wild and 
she kicked at him. 
"Do you want her?" 
His hand tightened. The woman bucked and twisted.
"Do you want her?"
I turned and walked to the door. As I touched the handle, I heard the distant 
sound of running

footsteps. I pulled open the door. The woman yelped. There was a crack, louder 
than the sound of her wrists snapping, then a thud. I walked into the hall. 
Jeremy skidded around the corner. His shirt was off, pants undone and feet bare. 
His eyes were black with dread. When he saw me, he stopped. I jogged over to 
him. He put out one hand, as if to pull me closer, but pushed me behind him 
instead, and held me there, shielding me. 
When I peeked around Jeremy, I saw Malcolm standing outside the study door. 
Malcolm blinked once, a second's worth of confusion passing over his face. "How 
did you--?" Malcolm started, then shook off the question. "You're too late. He's 
already 
done it. Killed a woman. I brought--" "No!" I screamed and lunged forward. 
Jeremy caught my arm. "I know," he said softly. "I know who did it." He motioned 
for me to stay, then walked forward, pushed past his father and stepped into the 
study. 
When he came out, there was a look in his eyes I'll never forget, a look that 
made me swear never to kill a human, if only so I would never be the cause of 
such a look. 
He stood there, caught in the doorway. I thought he was looking at me, then saw 
the blankness in his eyes. If he was seeing anything at all, it was nothing out 
here, but something inside his head. His lips twitched once and he swallowed. 
Then he snapped back. Ignoring his father, he strode down the hall, gently 
herding me ahead of him. We walked to the parlor. He motioned for me to sit on 
the sofa and headed for the telephone. 

Cleanup

"What are you doing?" Malcolm hurried into the room, then slowed and tried to 
saunter. 
Jeremy picked up the receiver. Malcolm grabbed it from his hand. Jeremy turned, 
steered me into the front hall and took our coats from the hall stand. 
"Where are you going?" Malcolm said. 
"To finish my phone call." 
"Who are you calling?" 
"You know very well who. Dominic." 
"For what?" 
"Stock tips," Jeremy spat, then inhaled, and turned to meet his father's gaze. 
"You know why I'm calling. To tell him what you've done." 
"To tattle." 
"Yes, to tattle." 
Jeremy helped me zip up my coat. His fingers were trembling. He shifted sideways 
to block them from Malcolm's view. 
"I've never told him anything you've done," Jeremy said. "He's asked. You know 
he's asked. He suspects you've killed humans, but he needs proof to banish you. 
I've always refused to give him that proof. It seemed . . . safer." 
"Avoid confrontation at all costs. That's my boy. A coward to the very--" 
"I told myself I could handle it." Jeremy's voice was as calm and emotionless as 
if he was reading from a book. "Better for you to be in the Pack, subject to its 
laws, than living outside it, with nothing to stop you from killing whenever the 
whim strikes." 
Malcolm stepped in front of Jeremy. "I have never killed anyone who wasn't a 
threat to the Pack. Dominic knows that, and if you try to tell him otherwise--" 
"That poor girl in there was no threat until you brought her into this house. 
You broke the Law even by bringing her here. That's proof enough." He stopped 
fidgeting with his jacket, pulled himself up to his full height and looked down 
at Malcolm. "I told myself I could handle it. But 
it's not just me anymore. I have other responsibilities. Other considerations." 
"You mean this stray--" 
"Do you think I've forgotten?!" Jeremy roared, making me stumble back, shocked. 
He advanced on his father, closing the narrow gap between them. "Do you think I 
forget what you did? That scene in there. Do you think I forget the last time 
you killed in this house? I was nine years old. You told me it was my fault. 
Well, it wasn't my fault, and this wasn't his fault, and I swear you are never 
going to do anything like this to him again. It ends here." 
He took hold of my shoulder and turned us toward the front door. As his fingers 
grazed the handle, Malcolm's voice cut through the silence. 
"I'll leave," he said. 
Jeremy paused, then turned slowly. 
"You want to protect the brat from me?" Malcolm said. "Fine. I'm not the one he 
needs protecting from, but have it your way. I'll leave for a few weeks--" 
"Ten months." 
"I can't--" 
"Until the end of the year. I'll give you enough to live on, but I don't want to 
see you again before Christmas." 
"And how's that going to look? Me taking off for nearly a year? The Pack will 
know something's up if I don't go to the Meets." 
"Then they'll know something's up. As for the Meets, come up with an excuse and 
I'll go along with it." 
With that, he turned and led me upstairs. No parting shot. No final threat. No 
'be gone before I come down'. He had what he wanted. Malcolm was leaving. That 
was enough. 
Jeremy took me into his room and set me on the bed, then crouched in front of 
me. For several minutes, he just studied my face. 
"Are you okay?" he asked finally. 
I nodded. Was I okay? I wasn't sure. The death of the woman meant little to me. 
I'd say it meant nothing, but I feel I should leave some opening for 
interpretation on the matter. To admit that I, as a child, felt nothing at 
seeing a woman die shifts me into the realm of cold, unfeeling monster. So I'll 
say I felt little. 
I knew, even then, that I should feel something. I saw it in Jeremy's 
expression, the expectation that I should be traumatized or, at the very least, 
shaken. But the woman was nothing to me, so how could I mourn her passing? Her 
death was wrong. Unjust. Inexcusable. That I understood. She'd done nothing to 
deserve her fate and the law of the wild is clear on such matters. You kill to 
survive--for defense and for food. There's no excuse for anything else. But to 
feel pity for a stranger? It was, and still is, beyond me. 
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Jeremy stopped, tensed and swiveled his head to 
track them. Along the hall. Down the stairs. Slam. Jeremy rocked back on his 
heels and nodded. 
"He's gone." He swiped his bangs back from his face, then met my eyes. "There's 
something I need to do now. I'm sorry, but it's important. It must be done right 
away. I'll make sure he's gone and I'll be close enough to hear him if he comes 
back, but I need to do this. Can you wait here?" 
"Go?" I tried again. "Go with you?" 
He went very still, then squeezed my hand. "No, Clayton. This isn't . . . isn't 
something . . . I can handle it. I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you right now, 
but--" 
"I am okay." 
He blinked, as if startled, then he hugged me, a spontaneous two-second hug, 
broken off quickly and hidden under the guise of an awkward back pat. 
"You're a good boy, Clayton," he whispered as he drew back. "I'm sorry . . . 
I'll be back as quick as I can and we'll talk. Okay?" 
"I am okay." 
A twist of a smile, and he was gone. 
Just enough time passed for me to wonder whether I should go after Jeremy, make 
sure Malcolm hadn't come back and hurt him. Then I heard the bathroom taps 
running full-tilt, water thundering into the basin and down the ancient pipes. 
I crept to the hall bathroom and inhaled. Jeremy. Good. I turned the doorknob. 
With the sink water running, I knew Jeremy wasn't doing anything private but, 
the truth is, I would have opened the door anyway. In the transformation from 
human to werewolf, some learned behaviors simply slid free from my brain. Some, 
like the proper use of a telephone, I recovered. Others, like the concept of 
privacy, never returned. Nudity, bathing, urinating, defecating, it was all a 
normal part of life. You weren't doing anything wrong, so why did you need to 
hide to do it? 
I pushed the door open. Jeremy was hunched over the sink, his back to me. At 
first, I thought he was throwing up, having had some experience with this myself 
only a few weeks ago, after I mistook a carton of cream for milk. I inhaled, but 
didn't detect the sour taint of vomit. 
Jeremy's shirt lay in a heap on the floor. I stared at it, scrunched up in a 
ball, nowhere near the laundry basket. That wasn't right. 
"Jeremy?" 
The rush of water drowned me out. Jeremy leaned down until his face was nearly 
in the bowl. When he shifted, the light caught the sweat on his back, the 
rivulets cutting through a fine dusting of dirt. He splashed water on his face. 
Then he turned off the taps and braced his forehead against the mirror. 
Even now, I have to remind myself how young Jeremy was when he found me. He 
never acted young, never did the sorts of things you'd expect a young man to do. 
He couldn't. Long before I'd arrived, he'd had to take on adult responsibility, 
getting a job, running a household, looking after his father. Looking back on 
that moment in the bathroom, I can see how young he was. Young and tired and 
confused. Not yet confident enough to be sure he was doing the right thing, but 
trying so hard to do it. 
I wish I could have done something, said something, to make him feel better. But 
when I looked at him then, I saw only my savior, my protector. An adult, with no 
needs or fears of his own. 
Standing in that bathroom doorway, staring down at that discarded shirt, I saw 
only a sign that the 
world was off-balance, and wanted only to right it again, to get my Jeremy back. 
"I am sorry," I said. He started, then turned, saw me and rubbed his hands over 
his face, finger-combing his hair in 
the same motion. Then he dropped to one knee before me, took hold of my 
shoulders and looked 
into my eyes. "You didn't do anything wrong, Clayton. Absolutely nothing." "Get 
rid--" I stopped and restarted. "I try get rid of him. Scare him. He not like. 
Say he get 
rid of me. Want me kill her. Make you mad." 
Jeremy took a moment to assimilate this, then sighed, dropping his head forward. 
"So that was his plan. I thought--" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You 
had absolutely nothing to do with what happened tonight. It wasn't your fault. 
Do you understand that?" 
I nodded.
"What he did, Clayton, was wrong. Killing that woman was wrong. You understand 
that,

too, don't you?" "No kill humans. You say that. I remember." "Good. That's a 
good boy. I'm sorry you had to . . . to see that. It was wrong. Very, very 
wrong. I should have been there. I shouldn't have left you alone. I should have 
known he'd--" Another shake of the head. "I should have made sure from the start 
that he never got that chance. He's gone now, Clayton. Do you understand that?" 
I nodded.
"Gone for a long time," Jeremy said, pushing himself to his feet.
"Will come back."
"That's for me to worry about, not you. It'll be a long time before he comes 
back and, when

he does, I'll work something out. You don't need to worry about him. I'll make 
sure of that." I looked up into Jeremy's eyes, and I knew, if I hadn't before, 
that what happened tonight had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with 
him, with hurting him. As he vowed that I 
wouldn't need to worry about Malcolm, I made a vow of my own. Someday, he'd 
never need to worry about Malcolm again. I'd make sure of it. 

Dominance

Spring deepened into summer and Malcolm stayed away. Weeks passed like a leaf 
floating downstream, unconcerned with progress or destination. I gave in to the 
equally gentle but unrelenting force of Jeremy's will and learned to speak 
properly and behave with passable normality in public. 
I didn't need to worry about public behavior very often. Jeremy rarely went out. 
It wasn't that he seemed unwilling to leave the estate, more that such leaving 
was unnecessary. Everything we needed was there--food and shelter, 
companionship, land to run on and endless diversions of our own devising. If we 
wanted something, it came to us. Food was delivered. Banking and legal affairs 
were conducted by telephone and mail. Jeremy's work also came and went by the 
mail. Antonio drove up from New York City every few weeks to visit. Everything 
came to us. We had no reason to leave. 
Over that spring, Jeremy taught me more than just language and manners. I 
learned to shoot an arrow within ten feet of the target, to swim in the back 
pond, to read the Sunday comics (even if I didn't understand the humor) and to 
sneak up on a rabbit (even if I couldn't catch it). An idyllic spring, giving 
way to an equally idyllic summer. Then I went and screwed it up. 
Jeremy and I were in the backyard replacing a section of stone wall that had 
crumbled over the winter. Actually, Jeremy wasn't so much fixing it with me as 
in spite of me. I'd already knocked two stones out of the fresh mortar, one of 
which had landed on Jeremy's foot. But I wanted to help, and enthusiasm always 
overruled ability with Jeremy. He wouldn't discourage me even if it meant 
wasting half the day and breaking a few toes. 
"Pull it back," Jeremy said as I put a stone in place. "Not so much. A bit more. 
Now toward me. Perfect." It wasn't perfect, but I knew that once I turned my 
head, it would miraculously find its way to exactly the right spot. I bent to 
lift the next stone. "Hello?" a voice shouted from the back of the house. 
I dropped the stone. Jeremy yanked his foot out of the way, then straightened 
and brushed his bangs back from his face, mortar streaking his black hair with 
gray. 
"There you are." Antonio strode around the back wall. He skirted Jeremy and 
rumpled my hair. "You aren't getting any bigger, scrap. Isn't Jeremy feeding you 
enough? It's past noon and I didn't see anything on the table." 
"We weren't expecting you," Jeremy said. 
"So you don't eat when you're not expecting company?" Antonio grinned, but 
avoided Jeremy's eyes. "Are you hungry, scrap?" 
I looked up at Jeremy. He was watching Antonio, his eyes narrowed ever so 
slightly. I recognized the look. It was the same one I got when he caught me 
sneaking back into my bedroom late at night, smelling faintly of cold roast 
beef. 
"So, you just happened to be in the neighborhood, thought you'd pop by for 
lunch?" 
"What? I can't make a surprise visit?" 
Jeremy didn't answer. He scraped the trowel off in the bucket, then laid it on 
the wall. "I suppose we should go in for lunch." 
"Before we do, I should mention some--" 
The creaking of the distant back door cut Antonio off. I tensed, inhaled and 
caught the scent of a stranger. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. 
"Dad?" a voice called. 
"Just a sec," Antonio called back. 
"I thought we agreed to wait." 
Jeremy's voice was low, his tone even and calm. I shivered in spite of the warm 
sun. I recognized this too--the voice I got when Jeremy went downstairs the next 
morning to discover that not only was the entire roast gone, but the fridge had 
been left open and the milk was spoiled. 
"It's been four months, Jer," Antonio said. "Stop fretting about it." 
He clapped Jeremy on the back. When Jeremy stiffened, Antonio pulled his hand 
away and shoved it into his pocket. 
"He's not ready," Jeremy said in that soft, measured tone. "I asked you to 
wait." 
There was more to the discussion, but I didn't hear it. I'd tuned out, 
concentrating instead on listening for sounds from the house. A child. A boy. In 
my house. 
Tension strummed through me. I strained toward the house like a bird-dog on 
point, waiting for the word of release. Every second seemed interminable. A boy 
in my house. Strange adults were one thing; I was learning to deal with that 
indignity. But children? Sneaky, sneering boys like the ones at the print-shop? 
In my house? That was beyond tolerating. 
"Clayton?" Jeremy said, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I'd like to speak to you. 
Come around to the garden and--" 
The back door swung open, then slammed shut. Jeremy's hand tightened on my 
shoulder. A boy bounded around the corner and stopped short on seeing us. 
"Hello, Nicky," Jeremy said. 
Jeremy said more and the boy responded, but I tuned them out and sized up the 
boy. So this was Antonio's son. He had his father's dark wavy hair and dark 
eyes, but was built slender and tall, already outstripping me by at least a 
foot. He had a good twenty or thirty pounds on me, too. The first prickling of 
fear zinged through me. Then I noticed my advantage. He was unprepared. As he 
talked to Jeremy, his eyes darted over to me, but they held nothing but 
curiosity. 
"Clayton," Jeremy said. "This is Nicholas. Antonio's son." 
The boy extended a hand and a wide grin. I knew it was a grin, but the bared 
teeth still made my hackles rise. 
"He's like you," Antonio said quickly, stepping forward. "A werewolf. Or, he 
will be, when he gets older." 
The boy said something. Ignoring his words, I stared into his eyes and saw 
nothing but open trust. I sniffed the air and caught only the barest 
undercurrents of werewolf scent, heavily overlain with the stink of a human 
child. Like me? This boy? Not likely. At least I had the sense to be wary of a 
stranger. I sniffed and turned my face away, not quite willing to turn my back. 
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy step toward me. I turned, slowly, and 
met his gaze. He smiled at me with that affable smile that made me curse him 
doubly a fool. I bared my teeth. He seemed to think I was returning his smile 
and grinned broader. 
"Hey," he said. "Man, I thought I was never going to get to meet you. Dad's been 
talking about you all the time and then he said maybe you guys were coming to 
the Meet last month, but then you didn't and I kept bugging Dad like, hey, when 
do I get to meet . . .." 
He kept talking. I stopped listening. 
As he spoke he moved closer. His shadow fell over me, making me feel suddenly 
very small. I clenched my fists at my sides and pulled myself up straighter. I 
still only came up to his chin. I inhaled. The werewolf scent was stronger now. 
So this was a werewolf child, was it? Well, if so, something had to be done and 
quickly. There was only one chance to establish dominance. I could stand here 
cowering in his shadow. Or I could seize the upper hand while there was still 
time. 
I lunged without warning. I hit him in the stomach, knocking him back to the 
ground. As I held him down, he didn't struggle, but just stared at me, eyes 
wide. The acrid scent of something vaguely familiar floated up. I felt a 
dampness seep through the knee of my pants and looked down to see a dark patch 
creeping outwards from the crotch of his trousers. As I wrinkled my nose and 
pulled back, Jeremy hauled me into the air. 
The next few minutes blurred past in a series of images. Jeremy's face, 
shuttered and hard, not looking at me. The stink of urine. Antonio bending to 
help his son up. The boy jabbering something. Then, as I was being carried into 
the house, I turned my head and caught the boy's eyes. I saw no anger there, no 
lingering fear, just complete bewilderment. Any struggle for dominance had 
existed only in my head. Then I felt something I'd never felt before. Guilt, 
regret and more than an inkling of shame. 
After a few hours of being left in my new bedroom, Jeremy brought up my belated 
lunch. He explained, calmly, that as Antonio's son, Nicholas must be treated 
with the same respect I would accord Antonio. Although Nick wasn't a full-
fledged werewolf, he would be when he grew up. 
There were no others like me, no child werewolves. There never had been. There 
were other children of the Pack, like Nick, who would grow into werewolves, but 
not until they became adults. These would be my Pack brothers, the only other 
children in the world who could know my secret. No matter how I felt about them, 
I would have to learn to get along with them. The alternative was . . . well, 
Jeremy didn't exactly spell out the alternative, but I understood that it was a 
really, really bad thing. 
I offered to apologize, but it was too late. Antonio and Nick had already left 
Stonehaven. I'd blown my first chance at fitting into the Pack. Although Jeremy 
never said this, I understood it. Deep down, I sensed his other fear, too. That 
I'd never fit in. I was determined to prove him wrong. Of course, I'd also been 
determined never to raid the fridge again, never to attack strangers again, 
never to . . .. 
As summer passed, Jeremy began steering me into situations where I'd be with 
other children. After the fiasco with Nick, I was eager to please him, so I did 
my best to tolerate the little monsters. 
Twice a week, for an entire month, he took me to a playground in Bear Valley, 
the nearest town. I behaved perfectly. I sat motionlessly on a swing, watched 
the children and gritted my teeth until the ordeal finally ended. Whenever a 
child ventured too close, a covert growl always sent him or her scrambling to 
find another piece of playground equipment. 
I was so busy congratulating myself on my model behavior that I failed to 
realize the obvious--that these excursions were leading up to something. Had I 
known, I would have kicked and screamed and thrown my finest temper tantrum each 
time I so much as saw a swing-set. Instead, I behaved so well, that at the end 
of the summer, Jeremy pronounced me, with no small amount of trepidation, ready 
for the next major phase of my integration into human society, a torture worse 
than anything I would have thought him capable of devising. I was to go to 
school. 

Schooldays

The school secretary escorted us into a small room that looked as if it had been 
carved inside a tree. Everything was wood, from the floor to the baseboards to 
the desk to the chairs. Two lights shone overhead, but even their combined power 
was not enough to win the battle against the all-encompassing darkness of the 
wood. All the lights seemed to do was illuminate the oily, lemon-stinking sheen 
on the wood. Jeremy sat down amidst the cluster of chairs. I touched the seat 
beside him. The wood felt as greasy as it looked. I looked at him and curled my 
lip. 
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
A door opened on the other side of the room and in walked a sour-looking middle-
aged woman

who smelled like fruit left on the tree to rot. Jeremy stood, tugging me to my 
feet, and extended 
his hand. She ignored it and skewered me with a snarl masquerading as a smile. 
"So this is Clayton," the woman said. "Welcome to Harding Academy, Clayton." 
"Thank you, ma'am," I said, remembering the response Jeremy had taught me. "Your 
cousin here has already taken care of all the enrollment arrangements, and I 
don't believe 
in protracted good-byes, so let's take you straight to Miss Fishton's 
kindergarten class." "Kindergarten?" Jeremy said. "Oh, there's been a mistake. I 
know he looks small for his age, 
but he's seven--eight in January." "With no formal education, am I right?" "Yes, 
but he's been home-schooled--" "By whom?" She snatched a paper and pen from the 
desk. "You should have provided this 
reference when you enrolled him. The name, please." "I've tutored him myself." 
"Ah," she said, lips twitching. "And your credentials, Mr. Danvers?" She said 
the formal salutation with a mocking lilt that made my muscles tense. Jeremy's 
hand 
gripped my shoulder, restraint disguised as an affectionate squeeze. 
"I don't have any formal qualifications," he said. "However, I can assure you 
that Clayton is well beyond kindergarten level. He's an extremely bright boy--" 
"I'm sure you think he is." 
The hand on my shoulder tightened, then relaxed. "Perhaps you could test him. He 
knows basic addition and subtraction, and he reads at a grade three level." 
"I believe you mentioned socialization problems?" 
"Problems? No, I didn't say problems." A slight hitch in his voice here, 
undetectable to anyone who didn't know him. "I said he lacked socialization 
experience. There was some early trauma, before he came to live with me. I have, 
however, been taking steps to correct this and he had been . . . making 
progress." 
"I'm sure he has. However, given the combination of no formal schooling and 
socialization 'issues', I'm standing by my decision. He will go to kindergarten 
and if he proves himself ready, he will progress to the appropriate level. 
Clayton? Come with me." 
"May we have a moment?" Jeremy said. 
"As I've said, I don't believe in protracted good-byes. Children can't have 
their parents hovering over them--" 
"I would like a moment," Jeremy said, meeting the headmistress's gaze. "And I 
will escort him to his classroom myself." 
They locked eyes. The headmistress broke first. She muttered directions to the 
kindergarten room, then shooed us out of her office. 
"We only have a moment, Clayton," he whispered as we walked. "Now, remember what 
I told you? Where will I be?" 
"On the other side of the playground. In the forest." 
"Right. So when you go outside for recess, you'll be able to smell me, but don't 
come over or I'll have to leave. Just remember that I'm there for you. If you 
can't handle it, absolutely can't, you come to me. But try, Clayton. Please try. 
It's very important that you go to school." 
I nodded and he led me down the hall. 
"Oh, this must be Clayton!" 
A young woman with bright red lips and a high-pitched cheep of a voice flew at 
me. I ducked. Jeremy's hand tightened on my arm, pulling me up straight and 
propelling me into the classroom. 
I squinted against the brightness, not only of the sun streaming through the 
windows, but of the screamingly vivid colors that assaulted me from every 
direction. The classroom walls were painted in bright primary colors, the tones 
so overwhelming they made me cringe. When Jeremy had decorated my bedroom last 
month, he'd asked what color I'd wanted, and I'd picked two: black and white. 
That's what I liked best. I didn't mind colors, so long as they weren't too . . 
. colorful. 
"I'm Miss Fishton, Clayton," the woman chirped, then turned and fluttered her 
hands at the gaggle of children behind her. "Class, this is our new student. Can 
we say hello to Clayton?" 
"Hello, Clayton," a dozen voices chimed in monotone. 
"You're just in time, Clayton," she said. "We were just getting ready to sing 
Old MacDonald. Do you know Old MacDonald?" 
I looked up at Jeremy. 
"I don't believe he does," Jeremy said. 
"Oh, that's okay. We'll teach you, won't we, class?" 
"Yes, Miss Fishton," the class intoned. 
"And then, after we sing, we'll do some finger-painting. I bet you love finger-
painting. Now just come on in, Clayton, and we'll join hands and sing Old 
MacDonald. You can be the pig. Do you know what a pig says, Clayton?" 
I looked up at Jeremy. He rubbed his hand across his chin, then bent down and 
whispered. "I'm sorry." A quick pat on the back, one last apologetic glance, and 
he hurried from the room. I watched him go. 
By the end of that week, I hated school as I'd never hated anything in my life, 
maybe even more that I hated Malcolm. I knew I was here to learn, but learn 
what? How to sing songs about farmers? How to distinguish red squares from green 
circles? How to dig holes in sand? How to build towers of blocks? After a month, 
we'd only begun the alphabet, and I could already read every book in the 
teacher's story library. Yet nobody seemed the least bit interested in moving me 
to a higher grade. 
So, Jeremy continued my academic lessons at home and instead stressed the 
importance of other lessons I could learn at school, namely how to fit in. This 
I understood. I needed to know how to pass for human. Unfair, to be sure, but 
necessary. Jeremy could do it, and he was very good at it, so I resolved that I 
would learn to be just as accomplished an actor. So I studied my classmates. I 
watched them, I stalked them, I learned how to imitate them. 
The watching and stalking portions of these lessons prompted many a parent-
teacher interview in those first two months, but Miss Fishton could never quite 
pinpoint exactly what I was doing wrong, just vague concerns about me 'making 
the other children uncomfortable', which Jeremy dismissed as an obvious 
consequence of putting a seven-year-old with five-year-olds. Of course I 
couldn't befriend them. Developmentally, I was light years ahead. Yet another 
reason, he argued, to bump me up a grade or two. Still they refused. 
At home, Jeremy decided to distract me from my boredom at school with lessons 
that I deemed long overdue. Though I'd hunted with Jeremy for months, he 
preferred to do the killing. He insisted that this was because I needed more 
practice with the pre-killing parts of the hunt--stalking and chasing--but I 
suspected it had more to do with my killing method, which basically consisted of 
chomping on my prey until it stopped moving. Once I did manage to catch a rabbit 
while out running by myself and, after I changed back, I proudly showed my 
accomplishment to Jeremy. He took one look at the unrecognizable mangle of fur 
and bone and declared he would handle all future kills until I was ready. 
In late October, he finally deemed me ready. To my surprise, though, these new 
lessons were conducted, not in the woods, but in the kitchen. For the next two 
weeks, Jeremy produced dead specimens of every small wild animal found at 
Stonehaven--rabbits, opossums, raccoons, squirrels, even a skunk. He then 
dissected them and showed me where the vital organs were located. For the skunk 
and raccoon, he pointed out their defense systems, how to avoid them if cornered 
by one, and how to disable them quickly. For the prey animals, he showed me how 
to kill them quickly and what parts were edible. 
Now, back at school, our classroom had a small rodent zoo consisting of two 
rabbits, three hamsters, a litter of baby gerbils and a guinea pig. At first, 
I'd thought the teacher was raising snack food, which impressed me, being the 
first sign of intelligence she'd shown. Soon, though, I'd figured out the 
animals' true purpose and left them alone, though I would never quite understand 
the appeal of petting and coddling perfectly good food. 
Once Jeremy began my killing lessons, I began to see the classroom pets in a new 
light. Maybe I couldn't kill them, but I could study them, just as I studied the 
children. I began to spend my free time sitting near the rodents and watching 
them, studying how they moved, their weaknesses and blind spots, and how they 
could be most easily killed. 
My newfound interest in the classroom pets was a great relief to Miss Fishton, 
who had probably given up hope of interesting me in anything. The next time she 
called Jeremy in to discuss my behavior, her report was near-glowing. 
"He just loves the animals," she said. "He could sit and stare at them for 
hours." She beamed at me. "I think we might have a little zoologist on our 
hands." 
Jeremy looked down at me. I adjusted the clasp on my lunch-box and pretended not 
to notice. 
Miss Fishton continued. "He's absolutely enthralled by them. It's just so cute. 
Have you considered getting him a pet? I have a friend whose cat just had 
kittens." 
I stopped playing with the lunch-box clasp. 
"Would you like a kitten, Clayton?" Miss Fishton asked. 
"Yes." I looked up at Jeremy. "I would like a kitten." 
"I'm sure you would," Jeremy said. "But you know we can't have pets in the 
house." He turned to Miss Fishton. "Allergies." 
"Oh, that's too bad. But it's good to see him taking such a keen interest." 
"Yes, it is." 
After we left the classroom, Jeremy bustled me out to the car without so much as 
a 'how was your day'. Once he'd pulled from the near-empty lot, he looked over 
at me. 
"I know you must get hungry at school, Clayton," he said. "It's not easy, 
getting through the day without as much food as you're accustomed to. Perhaps I 
can slip in another half-sandwich into your lunch-box. Would that help?" 
"I would like another whole sandwich," I said. "Or two." 
Jeremy sighed. "Yes, I know, and I wish I could give it to you, but you can't 
eat so much more than the other children. Are you getting enough to eat at 
breakfast?" 
I shook my head. 
"Then I'll start making you more." 
I smiled. 
"Now, about these animals," he said. "I know they're a temptation but--" 
"I am not allowed to eat them," I said. "I know." 
"Good." 
He leaned over, popped open the glove compartment and handed me a candy bar. 
"Two?" I said. "I am very hungry." 
He gave me two. 
"So we're clear on this?" he said. "No eating the pets in your classroom." He 
paused, then added. "Or any other classroom." Another pause. "Or any pets 
anywhere at all." Still another pause. "No killing them either." 
I nodded. "No killing and no eating any pets. I understand." 
"Good." 
So, as Jeremy continued his dissection lessons at home, I continued my live 
animal studies at school. The rodent that interested me the most was the guinea 
pig. I'd never seen one in the wild, but it looked like the ideal prey, much 
fatter than a mouse and much slower than a rabbit. This one, though, I suspected 
was slower than most of its kind. It was dying. I could tell by the smell, and 
the fact that the teacher seemed oblivious to this only proved her intelligence 
was about as high as the birds she resembled. 
The more I studied the guinea pig, the more I became convinced that I'd found 
the ideal food source for a young wolf. There was, however, one problem. I 
didn't know where its vital organs were. I could guess, based on the 
similarities between the guinea pig's anatomy and those of the other rodents, 
yet this was, at best, an imprecise science and Jeremy had taught me that 
precision beget accuracy. For a swift kill, you needed to know exactly where to 
strike. 
The answer, of course, was very simple. Jeremy had forbidden me to kill the 
guinea pig, but I didn't need to. It was already dying. All I had to do was 
wait. 
One day in mid-November, the guinea pig climbed into its house and died. I could 
tell by the smell that it was dead, but Miss Fishton paid no attention, knowing 
the creature wasn't the most active of the classroom pets. When recess came, I 
went out with the rest of the children, then slipped back in and went to my 
lunch-box, where I'd been secretly transporting a knife in preparation for this 
moment. I took the knife, opened the guinea pigs cage, dumped its body out of 
its house and set to work. 
By the time the grade one teacher snuck in to swipe some chalk, I was so wrapped 
up in my work that I didn't hear her, even as she walked up behind me. I did, 
however, hear her scream . . . as, I'm sure, did everyone else in the building. 
"You weren't ready," Jeremy said as he drove me home, his hands gripping the 
wheel. "I was too eager. I wanted to get you in right at the start of the school 
year and I should have waited until you were ready. There's no rush. No rush at 
all." He exhaled and glanced over at me. "I think we'll stick with home-
schooling for a while." 
So our lives settled back into the old comfortable pattern, and I was glad of 
it. There was nothing a school could teach me that Jeremy couldn't. As for 
socializing, the only people I needed to socialize with were those in the Pack, 
and I'd be doing that soon enough. With the end of November came a quarterly 
Pack meet. After the school fiasco, I think Jeremy would have preferred not to 
rush me into yet another new experience, but Antonio's father, Dominic, 
insisted. He wanted to meet me, and so he would. All Jeremy could do was prepare 
me and hope for the best. 

Freak

The Sorrentinos lived on an estate about fifty miles north of New York City. All 
three generations of the family lived together, as was Pack custom. The family 
was headed by Dominic, who had three sons, Gregory, Benedict and Antonio. 
Benedict had left the Pack several years earlier, having moved to Europe with 
his two sons. Gregory had also fathered two sons, but the eldest had been killed 
in a dispute with a mutt five years ago. 
Dying young wasn't uncommon for werewolves. Under Dominic's rule, fifty percent 
of Pack werewolves didn't live to see their fortieth birthday, and most of those 
deaths were at the hands--or jaws--of another werewolf, usually a mutt, but 
sometimes a Pack brother. This was an improvement over previous Alphas, who'd 
often seen at least two-thirds of their Pack dead by forty. Dominic himself was 
close to seventy and had been Alpha for nearly two decades, an almost unheard-of 
longevity, both in age and length of rule. 
I learned none of this from Jeremy, of course. On the drive to the Sorrentino 
estate, he talked about the Pack, but not its problems. Instead, he relayed 
facts. Most importantly, he told me who would be there, how they were related 
and their place in the social structure. Hierarchy is very important for 
werewolves, as it is for wolves. Jeremy didn't attach meanings like beta wolf or 
omega wolf or outline a rigid structure of who topped whom. He simply told me 
whom I had to respect, and whom I had to obey, and from that my wolf's brain 
assessed status. 
The Pack of Dominic's time was triple the current size--quadruple if you 
included all the former Pack wolves currently serving a term of exile. That was 
how a Pack Alpha kept order: by threat of banishment. At any given time during 
my youth, there were a half-dozen or more Pack wolves under banishment. Then 
there were those who drifted in and out, claiming Pack membership when it 
benefited them, showing up for Meets only when they felt like socializing. 
Of the eighteen regular adult Pack members, Jeremy expected about a dozen to 
show up at the Meet. Those would include, of course, Dominic, Gregory, Antonio, 
Nick, and Gregory's remaining son, eighteen-year-old son Jorge. The Santos 
family would also be there, the elder generation, brothers Wally and Raymond, 
and Raymond's three sons, sixteen-year-old Stephen, thirteen-year-old Andrew and 
seven-year-old Daniel. Along with the Danvers, the Sorrentinos and the Santos 
comprised the three main families, their ancestors having been members since the 
American Pack began. Of the periphery members, Jeremy expected Ross Werner, 
Cliff Ward, Peter Myers and Dennis Stillwell to attend, plus Dennis's son, 
twelve-year-old Joey. 
The Meet was scheduled to run from Friday to Sunday. Jeremy and I arrived at 
noon on Saturday, not because we'd had more pressing business, but probably 
because Jeremy hoped that by reducing the length of my first visit, he could 
reduce the possibility of 'incidents'. 
For the last hour of our trip Jeremy ran through the do's and don'ts. Most of 
them were don'ts. The simple act of dining now came with even more rules than 
Miss Fishton had for the kindergarten sandbox. I couldn't raid the icebox. I 
couldn't ask anyone except Jeremy for between-meal snacks. I had to eat with 
utensils. I had to chew with my mouth shut. I had to sit with the other Pack 
youth. I couldn't touch any food before everyone older than I had taken their 
share. I couldn't take seconds until everyone older than I had taken seconds. I 
couldn't eat other people's scraps. I couldn't eat food I found on the floor. 
With all these rules I began to fear I might have to starve, rather than risk 
disobedience. I hoped it'd be a short weekend. 
Finally, we arrived. The Sorrentinos house was a sprawling Italianate manor set 
amidst fifty acres of forest. The house was probably three times as large as 
Stonehaven, but the grounds were less than half the size of our property, which 
convinced me that we had the better deal. Better to have more room to roam than 
more rooms to vacuum. The minute we stepped from the car, though, I discovered 
that it was unlikely Nicholas Sorrentino ever had to do vacuuming duty. The 
place stunk of humans. When I asked Jeremy about the smell, he told me that the 
family employed a cleaning and cooking staff, though they'd all be gone for the 
Meet. Given the choice between letting a human in the house or vacuuming a few 
carpets, I'd stick with my hated household chores. 
We walked from behind a row of cars and along a walkway through the gardens. At 
the front door, Jeremy didn't knock, he just opened it and walked in. That was 
normal Pack etiquette. Knocking or ringing the bell would imply you didn't think 
you were welcome, which would insult your host. Instead, you walked in and 
shouted a greeting. Jeremy has never shouted a greeting in all the years I'd 
known him. Instead, he does what he did now, stepped inside, closed the door, 
and paused to see whether anyone heard him enter. When no one came to greet us, 
he followed the scent of his host toward an open door, then paused again and 
called a soft 'hello'. 
There was a scuffle of movement from within the room. Then a large man with 
graying dark hair wheeled around the corner, grinned and embraced Jeremy. 
"Finally!" the man boomed. "I was about to send Tonio upstate to drag you here." 
He turned and shouted toward the front of the house. "Gregory! Jorge! Come!" He 
turned back to Jeremy. "Now where is this trouble-making pup of yours? The one 
who attacked my Nicky?" 
I stepped back, slowly, and looked over my shoulder, measuring the distance to 
the door. 
"Is that him? Hiding behind you? That little runt?" The man's laugh boomed so 
loudly it hurt my ears. "Come here, boy. Let me get a better look at you." 
I tried to take another step backward, but Jeremy put his hand between my 
shoulder-blades and propelled me forward. 
"Clayton, this is Dominic." 
I hadn't needed the introduction to know this was the Pack Alpha. Dominic 
Sorrentino was one of the biggest men I'd ever seen, as tall as Jeremy, yet as 
stocky and muscular as Antonio. Of course he was the Alpha. 
Dominic looked me in the eye, his gaze so fierce I could barely hold eye 
contact. At least two excruciatingly long minutes passed. Then I had to drop my 
gaze. Dominic's laugh roared through the hallway and he clapped one huge hand 
against my back. 
"Did you see that?" he said to Jeremy. "Did you see how long it took him to look 
away? Tonio's right. The boy has balls. He'll make a good playmate for Nicky." 
With his hand still at my back, he steered me past him. "Head down that hall, 
turn left, go downstairs and you'll find the other boys in the basement. Nicky 
will do the introductions." 
"Perhaps later," Jeremy said. "He's quite shy--" 
"All the more reason for him to go. You and I need to catch up, and I'm sure 
Clayton will be happier playing with the other boys." 
"Yes, but perhaps I should make the introductions. He's not entirely comfortable 
with other children--" 
"He'll be fine." 
"Yes, but--" 
"You worry too much, Jeremy. He'll be fine. Clayton? Off you go now. Find the 
others." 
I looked at Jeremy. 
He hesitated, then forced a smile. "Go on, Clayton. Just . . . be good and I'll 
see you soon." 
I stood there as Dominic prodded Jeremy into the room, then closed the door 
behind them. I hesitated, torn between wanting to obey Jeremy and wanting to 
just sit on the floor and wait for him. From the front hall I heard footsteps 
coming down the stairs and remembered Dominic had called his son and grandson 
down. Better not to be caught challenging the Alpha's authority quite so early 
in my visit. I turned and hurried down the hall to seek out Nick and the other 
boys. 
I'd forgotten the directions Dominic had given for reaching the basement, having 
been too disturbed by the prospect of being separated from Jeremy to pay much 
attention. I still remembered Nick's scent, though, and although it permeated 
the house, I was able to find and follow the most recent trail to the basement 
steps. 
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and inhaled. I could pick out five 
separate scents--the five Pack sons Jeremy had told me to expect: the three 
Santos boys, Nick and Joey Stillwell. These five comprised the Pack youth, all 
the sons who had yet to undergo their first change. Jorge Sorrentino had made 
his first Change the year before, so he was now considered an adult, and would 
be upstairs with the men. 
Of the five boys I smelled, one was taking on the distinctive odor of a 
werewolf. This would be the oldest Santos boy, Stephen. Although werewolves 
don't make their first change until their late teens, it's only the end of the 
lengthy process of maturation. With puberty, a werewolf begins developing his 
secondary traits, primarily the sharpened senses and increased strength 
necessary for life as a wolf. Right now, Stephen Santos was the only one of the 
Pack youth who had begun this process. 
The basement was a series of rooms branching off a central corridor. Most of the 
doors were closed. Of those propped open, only one near the end led into a room 
that wasn't dark. I started down the hall. Halfway to the end I heard Nick's 
voice. 
"Can I have my radio back, Steve?"
"What's the magic word?" an older voice said.
"Come on, Steve," another voice said. "Don't be a prick."
"You calling me a prick, Joey?"
I peeked around the doorway. Inside, a tall teen with long red hair was 
approaching a slowly

backpedaling acne-pocked boy. Nick stood beside the threatened boy, hovering 
there, as if wanting to stand with him, but not sure he dared. Across the room 
two other red-haired youths looked on, wearing twin tooth-bearing grins. The 
youngest wasn't much bigger than me. 
I'd drilled Jeremy's litany of names into my head, understanding the importance 
of knowing who was who in this new world, so now I could look across the faces 
and identify all the players. The boy backing away was Joey Stillwell. The boy 
bearing down on him was Stephen Santos, and the two on the sofa were Stephen's 
younger brothers, Andrew and Daniel. 
"You think I should give this back?" he said, waving a light-blue transistor 
radio over his 
head. "Come on and take it then." Stephen held out the radio. Joey didn't move. 
"Can I have my radio back, Steve?" Nick said. "Please." "Why? You don't need it. 
Your daddy and your granddaddy can buy you fifty of them." He 
turned to his youngest brother. "I think Danny would like a radio. You want a 
radio, Danny-boy?" Daniel jumped from the sofa. "Sure." "Then here's what we'll 
do. Danny gets the radio, and Nick tells his daddy he gave it to him, 
as a gift." He turned to Nick. "Got that?" 
"No."
Stephen's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
"N--no. It's m--mine."
Stephen started to advance on Nick. I felt an urge then that surprised me, the 
urge to protect

Nick. I recognized the unfairness of this assault, perhaps more than a human 
would. Stephen was double the young boy's size and quadruple his strength. 
Though I couldn't imagine why anyone would fight over a radio, it did belong to 
Nick. It was his property. You had to protect your property. 
So, in this dispute, Nick was, by every reckoning, the wronged party. Jeremy had 
told me to be nice to Nick. Getting his radio back would be nice, wouldn't it? 
On the other hand, Jeremy had told me not to attack anyone. I was allowed to 
defend myself with reasonable force--Jeremy had always been clear on that. Did 
this apply if I was defending someone else? We'd never discussed that scenario. 
Should I take the chance? Which was more important: that I be nice to Nick or 
that I not start a fight? 
"You want your radio?" Stephen said, holding it up out of Nick's reach.
"Yes." Nick paused. "Yes, please."
Stephen turned and whipped the radio at the brick fireplace beside the doorway. 
It shattered,

pieces scattering across the orange shag carpet. No one seemed to notice the 
broken radio, though. They were all staring at me. I stepped inside the rec 
room, reached down and scooped up the biggest pieces of the radio, 
then walked over to Nick. "Yours," I said. Nick smiled and took the pieces. 
"Thanks." He turned to the others. "Guys, this is Clayton, 
the boy who's living with Jeremy." "The werewolf," Joey said, smiling and 
extending a hand. "Of course, he's a werewolf," Andrew said, getting up from the 
sofa. "We're all werewolves, 
stupid." 
"I mean he's a full werewolf," Joey said. "My dad says he can Change already." 
Joey looked 
at me. "That's so cool." "It's not cool," Stephen said. "It's freaky." "So that 
makes him a freak," Daniel piped up. "Right?" "He's not a freak," Nick said. 
"He's just different." Daniel met my eyes. "Freak." Stephen tousled his little 
brother's hair. "That's right, Danny." Then he turned to me. "He's 
worse than a freak. He's a mutt." His eyes gleamed and I knew he'd lobbed what 
he considered 
the worst possible insult. When I didn't react, disappointment darted through 
his eyes. "He's not a mutt," Nick said. "He's Pack. Poppa says Jeremy can keep 
him, so he's Pack." "Maybe, but he was a mutt," Andrew said. "Once a mutt, 
always a mutt. That's the rule." "Doesn't count," Joey said. "He's a kid. A kid 
can't be a mutt." "So does that mean he's bitten?" Daniel said, lips curling 
back. "That's right, Danny," Stephen said, rumbling his brother's hair again. 
"He's not even 
hereditary. A total freak." "Stop that," Nick said. "Ignore them," Joey said, 
turning to me. "They're being stupid." "We're not the stupid ones," Stephen 
said. "Look at him. He doesn't even know what we're 
talking about. Call him a mutt and he doesn't even flinch. Our dad was right. 
He's a retard." "He's not a retard," Nick says. "He just doesn't talk . . . 
much." Stephen lowered his face to mine. "Retard." I stared him in the eyes and 
said nothing. "See?" Stephen said, straightening. "He's a retard like Gregory 
and a freak like Jeremy." My head whipped up, gaze going to Stephen's. Stephen 
laughed. "Oh, ho. He didn't like that. Freaks stick together, boy. Everybody 
knows 
that. The minute my dad heard Jeremy brought some wolf-cub home, he said 'at 
last, that idiot's done something so stupid Dominic will finally kick him out'." 
"Jeremy's not an idiot," Nick said. 
"No, he's just . . . different, right?" Andrew said from across the room. "If he 
wasn't your dad's friend, he'd have been banished after his first Change." 
"No, not banished," Stephen said. "Executed. Put down like a dog, before he 
embarrassed the Pack." 
I clenched my fists, every ounce of willpower going into keeping them still. 
Jeremy had warned me about this. He'd said I might hear 'things', things about 
him. I hadn't known what he'd meant, and he hadn't elaborated, just forbade me 
to start a fight over it. 
"Jeremy's fine," Joey said. "My dad says he's got some interesting ideas--" 
"He's a freak. His own father's ashamed of him, can't stand to be around him." 
He turned to me. "You think Jeremy's special? Ask him how many mutts he's 
killed. None. Not a single one. Only time he ever fights them is when he's 
cornered. He won't even go on a hunt--" 
"He hunts," Nick said. "He hunts with my dad all the time." 
"For what? Rabbits? I meant the real hunts. Jeremy never goes on the mutt 
hunts." 
"That because he doesn't believe in them," Joey said. "Jeremy thinks we 
shouldn't kill mutts unless they do something wrong, and my dad says that's 
okay, everyone's entitled to their opinion, and if Jeremy doesn't want to fight 
mutts--" 
"Don't give me that 'opinion' crap," Stephen said. "Everyone knows the truth. 
Jeremy doesn't fight mutts because he's afraid of them. He's a freak. A freak 
and a coward. A yellow-bellied coward who hides behind the Pack for protection--
" 
I launched myself at Stephen, knocking him off balance. We hit the floor. All 
the defense lessons Jeremy and Antonio had taught me flew from my head, and I 
acted solely on impulse, kicking, punching, clawing, and getting kicked, punched 
and clawed in return. 
Dimly I heard the shouts of the other boys, Stephen's brothers egging him on and 
Joey yelling at Stephen to leave me alone. Though I got in a few good hits at 
the onset, when I caught Stephen off guard, soon I was receiving more than I was 
giving. A seven-year-old werewolf versus a sixteen­year-old werewolf is as 
uneven a match as the human equivalents, and all the rage-fueled energy in the 
world wasn't going to even the odds. 
Just as my initial fury cooled, and I began to realize that Stephen wasn't going 
to let me off without a good thrashing, a hand reached down, grabbed me by the 
back of my shirt and hauled me into the air. I twisted to see Dominic holding 
me. Nick stood beside him, panting from running to get help. Jeremy rounded the 
corner. I couldn't see his expression, and was pretty sure I didn't want to. 
"Looks like you bit off more than you could chew, pup," Dominic said with a 
laugh. "You need to put on a few more pounds before you try that again." He 
glanced over his shoulder, voice hardening. "Raymond, I expect you to have a 
talk with your son about this." 
"But he started it," Stephen whined, wiping blood from his nose. "He attacked 
me. I was just standing there and he jumped me--" 
"You're weren't just standing there," Nick said. "He attacked you because you 
were making fun of--" 
"Of him," Joey cut in. "He kept making fun of Clayton, and he wouldn't stop." 
I looked at Jeremy and I could see in his eyes that he knew the truth, that I 
wouldn't have attacked Stephen if I'd been the only one he'd insulted. I tensed, 
waiting for that dreaded look of disappointment, but it didn't come. Instead, 
Jeremy took me from Dominic, stood me up and checked me over, his expression 
neutral, neither approving nor disapproving of what I'd done. When he didn't 
find any major injuries, he patted me on the back, murmured a soft 'let's get 
you cleaned up', and steered me from the room. 

Hierarchy

Nick came with us to the bathroom. While Jeremy cleaned my bloodied nose, Nick 
told him about the broken radio, making it sound as if the radio incident was 
another reason for my scrap with Stephen. Jeremy said little, but I could tell 
by his expression that he considered defending Nick a more acceptable excuse 
than defending Jeremy himself. So here was the answer to my earlier question. 
Fighting to help a weaker party was an acceptable use of force. 
Afterward, as further proof that my actions hadn't been too objectionable, 
Jeremy left me alone with Nick. He told us that lunch would be ready soon and we 
should wash up and head for the dining room. 
"Man, it's about time we get to eat," Nick said, swiping his hands under the 
running water then wiping them on his jeans. "We were supposed to eat hours ago, 
but then Poppa said we had to wait for you guys to get here and you've been here 
for what, an hour already and we still haven't had lunch." 
I finished drying my hands and we headed into the hall. 
"Do you get to eat at the grownup's table?" Nick continued. "I bet you do, 
because that's where you eat after your first change and you've had lots of 
changes, so I think you get to eat with the grownups, even if you aren't old 
enough." 
I shook my head. "Jeremy said I eat at the kid's table?" 
"Whoa, bummer. So how do they know when you're ready to join the grownups' 
table? Do you think they'll pick an age? Like sixteen? That's kinda young, but 
Poppa had his first Change when he was sixteen, so I hope I do too. Maybe 
they'll let you join the grownup table when I do. Then if I Changed at sixteen, 
you'd be fifteen--" 
"Hey, Nicky?" Stephen said, walking up behind us. "Does that mouth of yours come 
with an OFF button?" 
"I wasn't talking to you." Nick glanced at me. "Do you think I talk too much?" 
I shook my head. Nick flipped his middle finger at Stephen, who shouldered past 
us, knocking Nick against the wall. 
"Asshole," Nick muttered. "I can't wait until he's sitting at the grownup table. 
When we sit down, you sit with me, away from him. If you're beside him, he'll 
swipe your food." 
"No one swipes my food." 
Nick grinned. "Hey, maybe we should sit next to him, then. See what happens. You 
almost took him downstairs. Just a few more minutes and I'm sure--" 
A laugh sounded behind us. Before we could turn, Antonio scooped us up, each 
under one arm. 
"What's this I hear? Poor Clayton's only been here one hour, you've already led 
him into one fight and now you're tempting him into another? Shame on you, 
Nicky." 
Antonio's laugh belied his words and he twisted us around in midair, then 
thumped us down on our feet. 
"When did you get back?" Nick asked. 
"Just this very minute." 
"And you're done working now? You don't have to go back to the plant after 
lunch?" 
"I fixed the problem and I'm home until Monday." Antonio glanced down at me. "So 
where's Jeremy, scrap? Don't tell me you left him at home." 
"I'm right here," Jeremy said, stepping through the next door. "Just waiting for 
Clayton so I can introduce him to the others." 
"Is everyone here now?" Antonio asked. 
"Everyone except Peter." 
Antonio winced, then caught Jeremy's look of concern and thumped him on the 
back. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's just been busy with school. Once he graduates, 
he'll start coming to Meets again. Now let's get some lunch before we all 
starve." 
Everyone except Dominic was already in the dining room, milling about, talking, 
as they waited to uncover the cold food platters. Jeremy introduced me to the 
adult members of the Pack. 
Although it almost certainly wasn't intentional, Jeremy performed the 
introductions in order of rank. First came the remaining two members of the 
Alpha's family: eldest son Gregory and his son Jorge. Jorge was a quiet, solemn 
young man who took after his grandfather and uncle Antonio in appearance only. 
Jorge stayed close to his father, always hovering, ready to get whatever Gregory 
needed. At the time, I mistook this closeness for a lack of self-confidence, the 
boy preferring to stay under his father's protective shadow even after he'd 
become a man. I'd eventually realize the situation was reversed. It was Gregory 
who needed his son nearby. 
On the drive to the Meet, Jeremy had explained about Gregory's 'accident'. 
Gregory had been brain-damaged in a fight with a mutt six years earlier--and it 
was this fight that had led to his eldest son's death when that son had gone 
seeking revenge. When Jeremy introduced me to Gregory that day, I saw nothing 
wrong with him . . . nothing more than a slightly unfocused look in his eyes, as 
if he wasn't quite paying attention. That is how I remember Gregory best, a 
vague man who never seemed to be fully present. Though I've never been clear on 
the full extent of his injuries, I believe they affected primarily random areas 
of short and long-term memory. He could debate politics, discuss global 
economics, predict stock market trends, and yet, if Jorge wasn't there to help 
him, he'd forget where to find the bathroom. 
The next Pack members Jeremy introduced me to were Wally and Raymond Santos--the 
Santos boys' uncle and father--two red-haired men who barely acknowledged the 
introduction. Next came Joey's father, Dennis Stillwell, a small man who greeted 
me with a warm smile. Then Ross Werner, who was at least Dominic's age. Ross 
clapped me on the back, proclaimed me a 'good­looking young man' and commended 
Jeremy for doing 'a fine job' with me. Finally Jeremy introduced me to Cliff 
Ward, a young man no older than Jeremy, with an insincere smile and eyes that 
always darted on contact. 
"Where's Poppa?" Nick asked the moment Jeremy finished the introductions. 
"He had to take a call from the office," Jeremy said. 
"Working?!" Nick fell into a chair with a groan. "Everyone's always working. 
When I grow up, I'm never going to work." 
"No?" Antonio said. "Then I guess your Poppa and I will have to work harder, so 
you won't have to. Come on and take Clayton to the kid's table. Poppa will be 
down any moment." 
"He'd better," Nick said. "I'm starving. I hate these rules. Why do we have to 
wait for him before we eat?" 
"Because he's the Alpha," Antonio said. "If you want to eat first, then you need 
to become Alpha." 
"And do all that extra work?" Nick said. "No way." 
Dominic walked in then, and the chatter died down as everyone swung into their 
places at the table and started uncovering the food. Nick led me to the 
children's table, which was in the far corner of the room. Nick watched to see 
where Stephen sat, then picked seats for us on the opposite side of the table. 
"See how far away we are from the grownups?" Nick whispered. "They do that so we 
can't hear what they're talking about." 
"I can," I said. 
He hesitated, taking a moment to figure this out, then grinned. "Yeah, that's 
right. Cool." 
As we settled in, I looked at the main table. As I expected, it was arranged by 
Pack hierarchy, with Dominic at the top, his sons on either side of him, then 
radiating down the table to Ross Werner and Cliff Ward at the end. Jeremy sat 
beside Antonio. I must have looked pretty satisfied with this arrangement 
because Stephen followed my gaze and sneered. 
"You think that means he's something special?" Stephen said, voice lowered to a 
whisper. "Jeremy only gets to sit there because he's Antonio's buddy. It's 
bullshit. Look who sits at the old man's right hand. Gregory. A fucking retard." 
Ross and Cliff, sitting at the end of the adult table and therefore closest to 
us, both turned and I knew they'd overheard. Ross glowered and shook a finger at 
Stephen, but when the older man turned away, Cliff shot Stephen a grin. 
"Now boys," Dominic boomed from the head of the table.
Stephen froze and the terror on his face was priceless.
"I think we may have a problem down there, boys," Dominic said.
"S--sir, I--" Stephen began.
Dominic continued. "Ross put out the food, but I don't think he knows how much 
Clayton

eats. From what Tonio tells me, those dishes on your table are just barely 
enough to feed Clayton 
alone." He looked at me. "Is that right, boy? Can you eat that much?" I looked 
at the uncovered plates and nodded. Dominic threw back his head and laughed. 
"You think so, do you? Well, then, maybe we 
should do something about that. We don't want you boys scrapping over the food. 
Grab your chair and come on up here, Clayton. You can eat with me today. We'll 
see which of us eats more." From the other boys, I caught a wave of disgruntled 
looks, ranging from Joey's mild envy to 
Stephen's outright fury. "Lucky," Nick mouthed and shot me a grin. I searched 
his expression for any trace of envy, but saw none. He was simply happy for me. 
Had the situation been reversed, I knew I couldn't have been so unselfish, and 
that boosted my opinion of Nick another notch. I took my chair, carried it to 
Dominic's side and asked him a question. 
He laughed. "You don't want to sit up here alone with the old men? I don't blame 
you." He 
craned his neck to see the children's table. "Nicky?" "Yes, Poppa?" "Bring your 
chair on up here. You're keeping Clayton company." Nick's smile lit up his face. 
He grabbed his chair and scrambled to the head of the table. Dominic out-ate me 
by a half-sandwich and a banana. "He would have beaten you," Antonio said. "But 
he knows a good Pack member always lets 
the Alpha win. He's a smart boy." 
"So I hear," Dominic said. "Tonio tells me you're able to read already." He 
looked out across the table. "Can you believe that? Less than a year ago, this 
boy was living in the swamp. He couldn't talk. He couldn't control his Changes. 
He could barely even walk upright. And now he's going to school. School! Can you 
believe it?" 
I waited to see whether Jeremy would correct Dominic. He didn't. I decided 
Dominic's statement was close enough to the truth to be an acceptable facsimile. 
I had been in school . . . for a while. And I'd be returning to school . . . 
eventually. In the meantime, Jeremy was giving me daily lessons so, technically, 
I was still being 'schooled'. 
Dominic continued. "When Jeremy told me he brought this boy home, most of you 
know how I felt. I was against it. I thought the boy would be dangerous. I 
thought he'd have to be locked up in a cage and if he ever escaped, he'd put us 
all at risk of exposure. I thought we should--" He glanced at me and stopped 
short. "Well, you know what I thought should be done. But I trusted Jeremy. I 
told him he had one year to show me that the boy could be controlled." Dominic 
laughed. "Controlled? Look at him. This boy could walk around New York City and 
he'd be no more an exposure risk than you or me. I have a lot of faith in 
Jeremy, but I'm still amazed by the job he's done." 
Jeremy murmured a thank-you as the rest of the Pack pitched in with 
congratulations of varying degrees of sincerity. 
Dominic continued. "Jeremy, I know there's still two months to go on that year's 
probation, but I've made my decision. The boy is yours, and he's a member of the 
Pack." 
"Thank you," Jeremy said. 
From Jeremy's other side, Raymond Santos cleared his throat. "Shouldn't we . . . 
give the boy some kind of test. I agree Jeremy appears to have done a good job--
" 
"Appears?" Dominic said, skewering Raymond with a glare. "Clayton, come up here. 
Jorge? Grab me today's paper." 
Dominic pushed back his chair and lifted me onto his lap. The boys at the 
children's table took advantage of the break to pull their chairs close enough 
to hear. When Jorge brought in the newspaper, Dominic laid it in front of us. 
"Can you read the headlines for me, Clayton?"
I nodded.
"Well, you go ahead and read what you can, then."
I selected the first article, a piece on the Vietnam War. I stumbled over a few 
of the place

names, but managed to get through the whole article. When I finished, the room 
was silent. Dominic looked at Raymond. "Perhaps you'd like to have Daniel read 
the same piece?" From the end of the table, Cliff said, "Hey, Jeremy? Think 
while you're teaching him to read 
you can teach him to speak. Kid sounds like a goddamned hillbilly." 
A few chuckles greeted this. This was the first time anyone had mentioned my 
accent--I talked so little that it usually wasn't apparent. I suppose it makes 
the sense that when I regained my language skills, I'd speak as I'd always 
speak, and as I'd always hear others speak. Jeremy had certainly never commented 
on it. 
"He sounds just fine," Dominic said, patting me on the back. "Nothing wrong with 
being different. As for the reading, I'll be the first to admit those school-
smarts aren't everything. No one in my family ever made it past high-school and 
we do just fine. My point is that the boy can learn, and learn quickly. Jeremy's 
taught him very well, and I have no qualms about Clayton's future with this 
Pack." 
"Nor do I," say Antonio. 
Gregory and Jorge added their agreement, quieter but equally firm. Dennis 
Stillwell and Ross Werner chimed in with their support. The Santos brothers and 
Cliff Ward said nothing. That was fine; they were permitted to disagree. Their 
votes didn't matter either way--no one's did. The Alpha's decision was final. 
When the others seconded his decision, they were simply showing support. 
"Now," Dominic continued. "Speaking of the Pack and the future, I've been 
considering something for a while, and seeing how well Jeremy has done with 
Clayton has only confirmed my feelings on the matter. As you know, when Jorge 
came of age, I allowed Jeremy to mentor him, guide him through his early 
Changes. That was Jeremy's idea and, although I'll admit I didn't see the need 
for it, Jorge thought he'd like to try it. The transition from a boy to a full 
werewolf is never easy, but Jeremy made it smoother. Jorge learned control much 
faster and his Changes come easier." 
Jorge nodded. "I remember what Peter went though, and I had a far easier time of 
it." "Everyone's transition is different," Wally said. "Peter's was tough. Mine 
wasn't. There are a million factors. You can't take one example--" "Of course 
you can't," Dominic said. "And that's why I'm thoroughly testing this theory of 
Jeremy's by having him try the same with the other boys as they come of age." 
"What?!" Stephen squawked, but his father shushed him. "Furthermore," Dominic 
said. "Last year Jeremy asked for permission to tutor the adolescent 
boys, so they're better prepared for their first Change. I'm granting him 
permission to do so, starting today. After lunch, Joey, Andrew and Stephen will 
go with Jeremy for a few hours. They'll do the same at each Meet until they 
reach their first Change." 
"Cool," Joey said.
Stephen and Andrew shot Joey looks that said he'd pay for his enthusiasm later.
Raymond cleared his throat.
"Yes, Ray," Dominic said, his voice heavy with warning.
"I, uh, don't entirely disagree with the idea of someone prepping my boys for 
their first Change. 

But Jeremy . . .?" "And what is wrong with Jeremy?" Dominic asked, infusing the 
words with a near-growl. Raymond glanced at Wally for support. "Jeremy's very 
young," Wally said. "Not only to be taking on a position of this responsibility 
but, don't forget, he only went through his own Change four years ago--" 
"Which is exactly why he's the right person for job. He still remembers what it 
was like. I've made my decision. End of discussion." 
Dominic picked me up off his lap and plunked me on the floor. "You've done well, 
Clayton. Now go play with Nicky and Daniel. Jeremy, take the rest of the boys 
into the living room. Antonio, you can help Jeremy if you like. Everyone else, 
amuse yourselves until dinner. I'll be in my office." 
Before anyone could say another word, Dominic walked out. Antonio murmured 
something to Jeremy, then rounded up the three older boys and shepherded them 
from the room. Jeremy followed. 
"What do you want to do?" Nick asked me. 
"Can we go outside?" I asked. 
"Sure. Let's go." 
As we headed for the door, I glanced over my shoulder to see Daniel trailing 
along behind us. 
"Don't worry," Nick whispered. "We'll ditch him as soon as we're out of the 
house." 
And, with that, we left. 

Snitch

We pulled on our shoes and coats, and went out the back door. Daniel followed. 
"Once we get to the path, run," Nick whispered. "Just keep running until he 
gives up." 
As plans went, this one sounded somewhat . . . primitive, but Nick had the 
experience in this matter, so I went along with it. 
The path led into the forest behind the house. It started behind a wooden shed, 
which meant that by the time we reached it, we were out of view of the house, so 
no one would see us abandon Daniel. 
When we reached the path, Nick took a quick look around, then whispered, "Run!" 
I quickly discovered one drawback to the plan. A werewolf's special skills are 
intended to improve our chances of survival. Yet Mother Nature is selective with 
her gifts, apportioning no more than necessary. She gave us additional strength 
for fighting off our enemies, so that was what we were designed to do when faced 
with danger: fight, not run. In wolf form we run as fast as a wolf and in human 
form we run as fast as a human. So Nick, who was just as athletic as I was, 
nearly a foot taller, and with a natural runner's lean, long-legged build, was a 
whole lot faster than Daniel . . . and a whole lot faster than me. 
After a quarter-mile of enduring Daniel panting at my heels and Nick's impatient 
waves for me to catch up, I stopped and turned to face Daniel. 
"Go away," I said. 
He looked past me to Nick who was jogging back to us. "Your grandpa said you're 
supposed to play with me." 
"I didn't hear that," Nick said. "You hear that, Clayton?" 
This didn't seem like a good time to become talkative, so I kept my mouth shut. 
"Your grandpa said—" 
"He said Clayton was supposed to play with you and me. But I'm not playing with 
you, so Clayton can't play with us both, can he? He has to pick." Nick stepped 
up beside me. "Who do you pick, Clayton? Me or him?" 
Now, one could point out that this was a pivotal moment, and had I refused to 
choose one boy over the other or suggested that we all play together, I would 
have saved myself a whole lot of pain twenty-five years later, might have even 
saved a couple of lives. Call it denial, but I don't see it that way. I honestly 
believe that, had I acted differently, things would have turned out the same, 
that there were too many other factors that built up over those twenty-five 
years to blame it on something as simplistic as this. 
The truth is, though, that I was incapable of making any other decision. Even to 
call it a decision implied a choice between two options. For me, there was only 
one answer. Nick had been nice to me; Daniel had not. I have zero capacity for 
political insight—I cannot look at a situation like this, mentally play out both 
sides and make a conscious choice based on what might be the 'political' thing 
to do, what might earn the best long-term results. I couldn't do it any more 
then than I can now. 
"Nick," I said. "I want to play with Nick." 
Another boy might have flaunted his victory by grinning at his opponent or 
sticking out his tongue. Nick just nodded, waved for me to follow him and raced 
down the path. I tore off after him. As for Daniel, I don't know what he did. It 
would never have occurred to me to look back. 
Nick led me to the middle of the forest, where Antonio had built him a tree 
fort. It wasn't very high—no more than eight feet off the ground—high enough to 
be fun, but not high enough to be dangerous. We climbed up and Nick took two 
bottles of soda and a bag of beef jerky from his secret stash. 
"I know, I shouldn't be mean to Danny," he said as we opened our bottles. "Pack 
brothers and all that but, man, he is such a sneaky little shit. Sometimes I 
play with him, because I'm supposed to and there's no one else my age, right? 
And I'm nice to him, share my stuff and everything, and he pretends to be really 
nice back, so I think, okay, he's not so bad. But then, later, when his brothers 
get going, making fun of me, saying I'm stupid and spoiled and stuff, Danny's 
right there with them, laughing at their jokes, calling me names." Nick champed 
off a piece of beef jerky. "You know any kids like that?" 
I shook my head. 
"Well, you're lucky, then. You know what else about Danny? He's a sneak. A sneak 
and a snitch. Nothing worse than that, is there?" 
I had no idea what Nick was talking about, but I nodded because it seemed like 
what I was supposed to do. 
"You like school?" Nick asked, passing me another strip of jerky. 
I shook my head. 
He grinned. "Good. I hate it. Especially math. I hate math. Do you guys have to 
do multiplication yet?" 
I shook my head. 
"Lucky. What grade are you in anyway? Oh, wait, you're a year younger than me, 
so you'd be in grade two, right?" 
I considered this, but felt compelled to honesty. "Kindergarten. They made me go 
in kindergarten." 
Nick scrunched up his face. "Why?" 
"Because I didn't go to school before," I said. 
"Oh, right. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Man, so they put you in 
kindergarten? With the babies? Bummer. But they'll move you up soon, right? 
'Cause you're smart and all. You read better than me, so they have to move you 
up, maybe even into grade three. Maybe they'll do it after the Christmas break. 
That's when they change stuff at my school, after the Christmas break and after 
the spring break. I can't wait for Christmas break. We get almost a whole month 
off, because some of the kids live in other countries and stuff. How long do you 
guys get?" 
Again, I felt compelled me to set the record straight. Nick had called Daniel 'a 
sneak and a snitch'. I wasn't exactly sure what those terms referred to in the 
lexicon of preadolescent boys, but I suspected some form of dishonesty was 
involved, and I was determined not to follow in Daniel's 
footsteps. 
"I'm not in school now," I said. "I got kicked out." 
Nick's eyes went wide. "Kicked out? Wow. That's so cool." He paused, seeing my 
expression. "Hey, don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I'm real good at keeping 
secrets. What did you do?" Another pause. "You don't have to tell me if you 
don't want to." 
I could tell by his expression that if I didn't tell him, he wouldn't hold it 
against me, but he would be disappointed. So far I'd seen nothing to indicate he 
was anything less than trustworthy. I was also, I'll admit, somewhat eager to 
explain what had happened, to get another child's opinion on why something as 
innocent as a scientific experiment had warranted screams of horror and swift 
expulsion. 
So I told him about dissecting the guinea pig. He listened with rapt attention. 
The last words had barely left my mouth before the bushes near the base of the 
tree erupted, and Daniel flew out from his hiding spot and raced for the house. 
"He's going to tell!" Nick said, jumping up so fast he bumped his head on the 
low ceiling. "Come on! We have to catch him!" 
As he climbed down and started to run, I hesitated, wondering what Daniel was 
going to tell, and to whom. Then I figured it out, leapt up, spilling soda onto 
my jeans, and vaulted out of the tree-house. That was a mistake: jumping down 
instead of climbing. It was an easy leap for a werewolf, and I landed on my 
feet, but it shocked Nick enough to race back, thinking I'd fallen. By the time 
he started running again, Daniel had too much of a head-start. We tore from the 
woods just in time to see the back door to the house closing behind him. 
As we ran across the lawn, I told myself the situation wasn't as bad as it might 
be. When we'd left the house, Jeremy and Antonio had been teaching the older 
boys and Dominic had been in his office. Daniel would undoubtedly blurt his news 
to his father and the others first, leaving me time to find Jeremy and warn him. 
Then Jeremy could tell Dominic about my school mishap before Daniel did. I knew 
Jeremy could find a way to put a less damning slant on the story. 
Nick pulled open the back door. Down the hall I saw Daniel dart into the living 
room, and heard his father call out a greeting. Exactly as I thought. He'd run 
to his father and the others rather than Dominic. 
Nick sprinted down the hall. I stopped and sniffed the air, searching for 
Jeremy. Then I heard Dominic's voice . . . coming from the living room. He asked 
Daniel where Nick and I were. Then, before I could react, I heard Jeremy second 
the question. 
Everyone was in the living room. 
"No!" I shouted, nearly tripping as I stumbled forward. 
"Clayton got kicked out of school," Daniel announced, his voice ringing down the 
hall. "He killed the class guinea pig and cut it up." 
The liar! I would never disobey Jeremy that way. I lunged past Nick, nearly 
knocking him flying as I swung around through living room doorway. 
"He's lying!" I said. "It was already dead!" 
Apparently, the state of the guinea pig before the dissection was not the issue. 
Getting kicked out of school was. And I suspect they were a little concerned 
about the dissection part, too. Killing the animal they would have understood; 
cutting it up after it was dead just seemed . . . strange. 
Though Jeremy hadn't asked me to lie about still being in school, he'd really 
hoped Dominic wouldn't learn the truth, and for good reason. At lunch, Dominic 
had said he'd given Jeremy a one year probation period with me. It would be 
several years before I fully understood what that meant. 
When Dominic learned that Jeremy had brought me home, he'd evaluated the 
situation, based on what Malcolm had said about me from that first encounter in 
Baton Rouge and what Antonio reported from his first visit, taking into account 
that Malcolm likely exaggerated my wildness to embellish his story and Antonio 
likely downplayed it to help Jeremy's cause. With these quasi-facts in mind, 
Dominic made a decision. Jeremy could keep me for one year. If at the end of 
that year, I was not civilized enough to walk down the streets of New York 
without raising eyebrows, Jeremy could keep me. And if Jeremy failed? Then I had 
to die. 
That explained why Jeremy had been so eager to get me off to school, sending me 
as soon as I had my Changes under control. Socially, I'd been far from ready for 
daily interaction with other children, but Jeremy had been desperate, seeing the 
end of the year only a few months away and me still growling at children in the 
town playground. Yes, I could easily walk down the streets of New York without 
drawing attention, but that hadn't been enough for Jeremy. He'd wanted to end 
the debate, to earn me a permanent place in the Pack by proving that I could be 
a normal child. What better way to do that than to have me successfully enrolled 
me in school, like every other normal child. 
So when Dominic found out otherwise, what did he do? He laughed it off. 
As Dominic pointed out, my abnormally early interest in anatomy might earn me 
some serious question marks in the psychological fitness section of my school 
records, but it wasn't as if I'd been caught tearing it apart with my nails and 
gulping bloodied chunks of raw guinea pig. No one was going to read that report 
and think 'oh my god, the kid's a werewolf!'. And, really, that was all Dominic 
cared about. I walked upright. I could speak enough to be understood. I knew how 
to use a knife and fork. I rarely growled at people. I didn't show any greater 
propensity for pissing on trees than any other seven-year-old boy. I could pass 
for human, and that was all that mattered. 
If I couldn't pass for human, would Dominic have really ordered my death? Yes. 
I'm sure of it. That never bothered me, never altered my opinion of him. Nothing 
in my life had ever given me reason to think that I had a God-given right to 
live. For me, survival has always been a privilege to be earned. 
I understand Dominic's decision. Werewolves don't have the luxury of 
sentimentality. Like a wolf Alpha male, every decision a Pack Alpha makes comes 
down to one question: how does it affect the safety of the Pack? A feral child 
whose Changes are uncontrollable is a clear exposure risk for all werewolves. 
Where Dominic failed, though, is where Jeremy's wider vision succeeded. When 
Dominic learned of my existence, he did nothing—he left me out there in the 
bayou where any human could have found me. Why? Because Dominic wasn't able to 
see the larger picture. Had I been on Pack territory or had I been bitten by a 
Pack wolf, he would have handled the situation. As it was, I was on the other 
side of the country, having no connection to the Pack, so he didn't see the 
threat. Jeremy saw it. 
Jeremy knew that if I was found, the effects of that discovery would ripple back 
to the Pack. It was not, however, in Jeremy's nature to eliminate the threat by 
killing me. To the other Pack wolves, I was a mutt—vermin werewolf. To Jeremy, I 
was a simply a child werewolf, as entitled to protection and to a normal life as 
any Pack son. 
As for mutts, if the Pack's view of them seems harsh, one must remember that 
integral question: how does this affect the safety of the Pack? Mutts are a 
threat. They are always a threat. No matter what kind of lives they lead, 
whether they kill humans or not, their existence threatens the Pack because they 
are beyond the control of the Pack and they are beyond safety net that the Pack 
brotherhood supplies. 
Dominic's approach to handling mutts was the same as that of every Alpha who 
came before him. He imposed rules of engagement that every Pack wolf was 
supposed to obey. If a mutt steps onto your territory, kill him. If you 
encounter a mutt off Pack territory, kill him. And if you're feeling restless, 
have some excess aggression to spend, then go find a mutt, and kill him. 
As a plan of action for dealing with the mutt problem this was about as 
sophisticated as Nick's method for getting rid of Daniel and, not surprisingly, 
Jeremy saw some flaws in it. He hadn't yet come up with a solution—or not one 
that anyone would listen to. In the meantime, he bowed out of Pack-organized 
mutt hunts and, since he rarely left Pack territory, he didn't need to worry 
about killing any he bumped into while traveling. This did, however, leave one 
problematic situation. If a mutt came near Stone Haven, Jeremy was, by Pack Law, 
obligated to kill him. So far, in my year with Jeremy, this hadn't happened. 
Jeremy's luck, though, couldn't hold forever, and the next spring I had my first 
encounter with a trespassing mutt. 

Duel

Winter came and went, and spring returned. It was later this year, but by early 
May snow was a memory and the ground had hardened enough that Jeremy no longer 
handed me a mop and pail each time I raced into the house without removing my 
shoes. 
Little had changed at Stonehaven. Malcolm came back in late December, but his 
week-long stay was uneventful. He paid no attention to us, we paid no attention 
to him and, before we knew it, he was gone again, having scarcely sent a ripple 
through the calm of our day-to-day life. 
With spring came a fresh litter of baby rabbits under the oldest, biggest pine 
tree in the front yard. A group of rabbits had made their warren here years ago, 
and lived under the shadow of werewolves in relative safety. Jeremy had decreed 
the warren off-limits. As he explained, having it there was like having a food 
factory on our front lawn. He didn't use those exact words, but I got the 
picture. Adult rabbits bore baby rabbits—lots of them—and the warren was small, 
so those baby rabbits had to find a new place to live. Most just moved around to 
the back of the house, in the woods of Stonehaven. Once there, they were fair 
game. 
One day in May, as late afternoon stretched into evening, the baby rabbits 
ventured out to explore their new world, and I was using the opportunity to 
practice my hunting skills. I was in human form, which added challenge. The game 
was to see how close I could get, both upwind and downwind, before the mother 
rabbits noticed me and herded their babies back into the warren. After they went 
into hiding, I'd back off and wait for them to return, then start over. Being 
wary animals, they often waited a half-hour or more before venturing forth 
again. I didn't mind the wait. It was a warm spring evening, my lessons were 
done, Jeremy was on the front stoop working, and I had all the time in the 
world. 
As the light faded, Jeremy crept over near my hiding spot, being careful not to 
disturb the rabbits, and motioned that he was going to take his work inside, 
then return and join me in my game. I grinned in reply, and he slipped off to 
the house. 
Almost as soon as the door closed behind Jeremy, I heard the rumble of a car 
slowing near the house. From where I sat, I couldn't see it. The Danvers family 
had built the existing house at the turn of the century, and built it to suit 
their needs in every way. The house itself was over two hundred feet from the 
road, with a winding driveway and a front lawn strategically dotted with 
evergreens. From the road, you could barely glimpse our roof. That barrier to 
the outside world worked both ways, as I assume was the intention. The world 
couldn't see us, and we couldn't see them. 
The car died. A door opened, then shut. From the distance of the noise, the 
driver had stopped either on the road or just at the end of the drive. I tensed 
and listened. Footsteps crunched along the gravel drive. Heavy steps. A man. A 
salesman? With its out of the way location, Stonehaven never saw many door-to-
door salespeople, and I'd recently overheard Jeremy joking to Antonio that the 
one upside of my incident with the Avon lady was that he hadn't seen an 
encyclopedia or vacuum salesperson in months. 
Of course, Jeremy didn't know I was listening in or he'd never have said that, 
putting a positive spin on a negative behavior. When I overheard things like 
this, though, it only confirmed my suspicion that, when it came to such matters, 
what Jeremy told me was not always what he'd like to tell me. He might say it 
was okay for salespeople to come to the door, but the truth was that he didn't 
like trespassers any more than I did. And if he didn't like them, then I had all 
the more reason to scare them away. I just had to be sneakier about doing it. 
So, now, with a stranger on the property and Jeremy in the house, I knew what I 
had to do. I had to get rid of the interloper before Jeremy knew he was there. I 
pinpointed the man's location and looped around the tree. I moved downwind. With 
humans, I knew this was unnecessary, but it was second nature to me. As I crept 
around behind the man, I spotted him. He was short and stocky, maybe ten years 
older than Jeremy, with a brown brush-cut. Before I could take another step, I 
caught a whiff of the man's scent. 
He was a werewolf. 
I stopped short and tried to get a better look at the man, see whether he 
resembled any of the sketches in Jeremy's room. If so, he'd be one of the Pack 
wolves I hadn't met, maybe this 'Peter' that Jeremy had been concerned about 
since the Meet last fall. Yet the man had his back to me and in the waning light 
I could see no more than his build and hair color. 
I decided to scoot back into the shadows, zip around him and get Jeremy. I'd 
just turned when I heard the swish of Jeremy's loafers in the grass. I looked to 
see him on the front lawn, a few yards from the stoop. He stood hidden by the 
shadow of a pine. He was upwind of the other werewolf, which means the newcomer 
should have scented him, but he didn't notice Jeremy until he was less than a 
few feet away. 
Jeremy opened his mouth, then blinked, probably catching the other man's scent 
for the first time. He hesitated only a split-second, then said, "May I help 
you?" 
"Sure," the other man said, his voice grating with a strange accent. "You can 
get your daddy for me, boy. Tell him Carl Pritchard wants to talk to him." 
"My father isn't home," Jeremy said. "And not likely to be any time soon." 
For several minutes, neither man spoke, but just stood there, watching one 
another. 
"That's a shame," Pritchard said at last. "Course, it'd be even more of a shame 
if I came all this way for nothing. I'm thinking maybe I could have that talk 
with you instead." 
"I'm thinking maybe you could," Jeremy said. "But I'm also thinking maybe you 
don't want to. If it's my father you wanted, I'm a poor substitute." 
Pritchard rocked on his heels. "Maybe, maybe not. Your daddy does have a damned 
fine reputation, but a rare opponent is just about as good as a famous one. 
Can't say I've ever met anyone who fought the elusive Danvers Junior." 
"That doesn't mean no one ever has," Jeremy said. "It just means no one ever 
returned to tell the tale." 
Pritchard barked a laugh. "Nice try, boy, but from what I hear, I'll bet the 
real reason is you've never stuck around long enough to let anyone throw a 
punch." 
Jeremy tensed, but quickly hid it with a shrug. "Believe what you like. If 
that's true, then, it won't gain you anything to bother with me, will it? So I 
would suggest that you return when my father's home and take up your quarrel 
with him." 
The man laughed again. "Another nice try, but you aren't going to weasel out of 
it that easily. I'm throwing down the towel." 
"You're giving up? Can't say I blame you." 
Pritchard scowled. "I'm challenging you." 
"Ah. Well, in that case, for future reference, the correct phrase is 'throwing 
down the gauntlet'. And, you know, that's a fine idea, so why don't you just go 
out, find yourself a gauntlet, and when you have one, bring it back, throw it 
down and we'll talk . . . or fight, though I must warn you, I'm a much better 
talker." 
For the next couple of minutes, Pritchard said nothing. I think it took him that 
long to process Jeremy's words, and even then, when he did speak, there was an 
air of hesitancy. 
"I'm challenging you to a duel." 
"Right then. A duel. At dawn? Does that work for you? Pistols or rapiers? My 
swordsmanship is a bit rusty, but I could probably make do." 
Again, Pritchard hesitated, dull brain whirring. "I don't think you're taking 
this seriously." 
"No? Really? Perhaps that's because the situation itself is so ludicrous I find 
it impossible to take seriously." Jeremy stepped forward. "Doesn't this seem the 
least bit stupid to you? You're here because you want to challenge my father to 
a fight. At worst, you could die. But even at best, if you kill him, what have 
you have gained? A better reputation as a fighter. What will that get you? More 
challenges. More challenges equals more chances that you aren't going to live to 
see forty." 
"Yeah. So?" 
"It's stupid," Jeremy said, meeting Pritchard's eyes. "Is that obvious to no one 
but me?" 
"What's stupid about it? This is the way it works. The way it's always worked. I 
come here. I'm on your territory. You have to kill me." 
"No, I don't have to. That may be the practice, but it's not the Law."
"Damn," Pritchard said with a laugh. "You are just as yellow as they say."
Jeremy's cheek twitched, and Pritchard tensed, obviously expecting that to goad 
Jeremy into a

fight. Instead, Jeremy turned his back and began to walk away. "You think about 
what I said," Jeremy said. "I'll give you one hour to get off my territory. 
Then I'm coming after you." "Whooo. I'm scared now." Jeremy just kept walking. 
Pritchard waited another minute, then snorted in disgust, turned on 
his heel and stormed back down the drive. At the front door, Jeremy turned and 
peered into the 
night. Seeing Pritchard gone, he hurried over to where I hid in the trees. "Come 
on, Clayton," he said. "Into the garage. We need to follow him." Once on the 
road, Jeremy trailed as far back from Pritchard's car as he dared, keeping his 
lights 
off while in the countryside. "I know you might not understand what you heard," 
Jeremy said after a few minutes. "I'm 
not sure even I can explain it, not in any way that makes sense to me." "He's a 
mutt, isn't he?" "Yes, and they aren't supposed to come on our territory, but 
they do. We say they can't, but 
we—the Pack—don't always mean it. It's . . . difficult to explain. Maybe when 
you're older . . . The point is that mutts think if they hurt a Pack wolf, it'll 
make them important, and the best way to get a chance to do that is to come on 
our territory." 
"Because you're supposed to fight them."
"Yes. But I didn't, and I'm sure you're wondering about that."
"It's like you said about him. If you win, more mutts will come. They'll want to 
fight you,

too." Jeremy blinked, as if surprised that I'd picked up on this. Then his lips 
curved in a quarter-smile. "Smart boy. Amazing how that can make sense to you, 
yet no one else seems to see it." "What if he doesn't leave? Will you fight 
him?" 
Jeremy nodded. "I said I would. I have to carry through."
"Will you kill him?"
"Not if I can help it. Usually a fight is enough."
"But if you killed him, then he couldn't come back. And he couldn't tell other 
mutts he fought

you, so they wouldn't come either." 
"If only it was that easy. Before mutts come here, they almost always tell other 
mutts what they're going to do, who they're going to challenge. That's part of 
the game. If Carl Pritchard's friends never see him again, they'll know he lost 
the fight. They'd probably think Malcolm killed him, and that's fine with me, 
but it doesn't solve the problem. The higher my father's reputation is, the more 
mutts will come looking for him. And, more often than not, they find me 
instead." 
"You need to stop them from coming." "If I knew how to do that, Clayton, believe 
me, I would." Another small smile. "Maybe someday you can figure it out for me." 
For ninety minutes we crouched in the woods behind the Big Bear Motor Lodge, 
watching Pritchard's motel window, hoping to see the light turn out and hear the 
roar of his car engine as he beat a hasty retreat from Bear Valley. It never 
happened. 
Finally, Jeremy sighed and shook his head. "Looks like I need to finish this, 
Clayton. I want you 
to go back to the car and wait." He handed me the car keys. "Do you remember 
where we parked?" I pointed into the woods. "On the other side. Behind the 
warehouse." "Good boy. Now, you need to stay in there and be quiet. Don't let 
anyone see you." He reached 
into his pocket, took out something, then undid his watch band. "Here's a dollar 
and my watch. 
Listen carefully, okay?" I nodded. "It's just past ten thirty. When it's eleven 
o'clock, if I haven't come back yet, then you leave 
the car, and run to the gas station across the road. It's closed. Go to the 
phone booth and put in a dime. Call Antonio. Do you remember the number?" 
Jeremy had drilled me on this months ago, teaching me Antonio's phone number 
even before our own. It was my emergency number. 
"Call him and tell him what happened. He'll—" Jeremy faltered. "He'll look after 
everything. Okay?" 
When I nodded, he had me repeat back the instructions, then sent me off. 
I walked back to the car, got inside, waited just long enough to ensure that 
Jeremy would think I'd obeyed him. Then I headed back to the motel. This was not 
a simple matter of getting out of the car and strolling down the path to the 
motel. Even opening the door handle was a monumental struggle. There was nothing 
wrong with the door; the problem lay within me. 
Disobeying Jeremy required an act of will unlike any other. In the bayou, after 
I'd been bitten, making it through each day had been a test of willpower but 
compared to deliberately disobeying Jeremy, it'd been as easy as daily life as 
Stonehaven. My wolf's brain was wired to obey my leader without question. 
Dominic may have been Pack Alpha, but Jeremy was my personal alpha, and I don't 
think he even realized how much sway his words had over me. 
Yet, as much as I was hardwired to obey, there was now another equally strong 
instinct conflicting with that one: the need to protect Jeremy. When obedience 
runs counter to protection, the protective instinct always wins. 
So I made my way back to Jeremy. I never reached the motel, though. By that 
time, Jeremy and Pritchard had moved into the middle of the patch of woods 
between the car and the motel. I stopped short the moment their words reached 
me. 
"How do I know you're not going to attack me while I Change?" Pritchard asked. 
"Easy," Jeremy replied. "We're not going to Change." 
They kept their voices low, so no one outside the woods would hear them. I left 
the path, got downwind of the pair, and crept through the brush until I could 
see them. 
"But we have to Change," Pritchard said. "That's the rule." 
"Are you a better fighter as a wolf?" 
"Well, no, but . . ." 
"Then I'm not taking advantage of you, am I? Since you've mentioned the 
possibility of me attacking you while you Change, I can't help but suspect 
you've considered doing the same thing." 
"Hey! I know the rules—" 
"Then you know that Changing form first isn't one of them. We're barely a 
hundred feet from humans. Either you fight me like this, or you don't fight me 
at all." 
"Oh-ho, so that's what you're hoping, is it, boy?" 
Jeremy's right hook flew out so fast that all I saw was Pritchard stumble 
backward, and wondered whether he'd stumbled. Then I saw Jeremy's arm retract 
from the blow. 
"Does that answer your question?" Jeremy said. 
With a roar, Pritchard charged. Jeremy feinted out of the way, swung around 
behind Pritchard and slammed a fist into the side of his head. Pritchard reeled. 
"Any time you want to stop, you say so," Jeremy said. 
Another roar. Another charge. Again Jeremy feinted, but didn't have time to land 
a blow before Pritchard wheeled around, fists swinging. Jeremy backpedaled fast, 
catching only a glancing blow in the side. He landed another strike on 
Pritchard, but couldn't avoid a hook to the jaw. As Jeremy recovered, he spat 
blood. Pritchard barreled toward him, but Jeremy recovered in time to feint and 
strike from behind. 
And so the fight went. Jeremy avoided roughly two-thirds of Pritchard's attacks. 
Of those he couldn't dodge, at least half resulted in glancing blows that didn't 
so much as throw him off balance. In contrast, Pritchard felt the full impact of 
most of Jeremy's hits. 
I'd seen enough of Jeremy and Antonio's wrestling matches to recognize exactly 
where Pritchard went wrong. Jeremy's fighting style was largely defensive. When 
Jeremy threw a punch, he usually took advantage of that moment or two when his 
opponent was thrown off balance by a dodge. 
Antonio knew how Jeremy fought and he adapted accordingly, changing tact as soon 
as he picked up on Jeremy's pattern. There Jeremy would change pattern, and 
Antonio would adapt to that, and so on. Both men had very different styles, but 
neither was significantly better—one just suited each better than the other. 
What Jeremy and Antonio both excelled in, though, was adaptability. I didn't 
realize this until I saw Pritchard losing to Jeremy. He may have been stronger, 
and he may have been more experienced at fighting, but he couldn't adapt. No 
matter how many times Jeremy dodged a charge and wheeled around behind him, 
Pritchard never stopped charging. 
Finally, after one of Jeremy's lightening-fast blows to his head, Pritchard went 
down and stayed down. 
"Enough?" Jeremy wheezed, wiping blood from his mouth. 
Pritchard nodded. 
Jeremy straightened and turned away. He'd gone no more than a yard when 
Pritchard pulled himself up, moving slowly enough not to make any noise. His 
narrowed eyes were on Jeremy and I knew what he was going to do. I opened my 
mouth to shout a warning, but before I could, Jeremy slowed. His head turned 
just slightly. Then his mouth tightened, and I knew he'd sensed or heard 
Pritchard move. He didn't turn around, though. He kept walking, his gaze was 
fixed to the side, as he listened intently. 
Pritchard pushed himself to his feet, then charged. Jeremy swung around and 
dodged easily, but this time wheeled at the very moment Pritchard passed, and 
threw himself onto his back. Both men went down. 
From my vantage point, I couldn't see what happened next. The men hit the 
ground. There was a sharp crack. And everything went still. A long moment of 
silence passed, then Jeremy stood. Pritchard stayed on the ground, his head to 
the side, dead eyes fixed in a look of disbelief. 
"Goddamn you," Jeremy said, his voice infused with a cold fury I'd never heard 
from him before. "Goddamn you." 
He stood there a moment, staring down at Pritchard's lifeless body. Then he 
turned and strode back toward the motel. I scampered to the car. 
About ten minutes after I got into the car, the trunk clicked open. The car 
dipped as Jeremy lowered Pritchard's body in. Then it snapped shut. 
The driver's door opened and Jeremy slid in. I looked over at him. 
"It's over," he said softly. "There's nothing to worry about." 
But I knew there was. That night, I had my first glimpse into a problem that had 
plagued Jeremy from the moment he'd become a full-fledged werewolf, and one that 
would continue to plague him, in increasing frequency, for the next decade. As 
long as mutts continued to treat Pack territory as a gladiatorial arena, our 
home would never be a true sanctuary. Someone needed to stop the mutts from 
coming. 
Jeremy had half-jokingly invited me to come up with a solution. It would take 
nearly a decade before I did, but I never forgot that it was a problem that 
required solving. Over those next ten years, Jeremy had to bury too many mutts 
in our back woods for me to ever forget that. Since I'd arrived at Stonehaven, 
I'd seen Jeremy forced to dispose of two bodies in those woods. Less than a year 
later, another body joined those two, and this one would be the most difficult 
for him yet. 

Dare

For most children, fall means school. For me, it simply meant cooler weather, 
which I always welcomed after two months of sweltering heat. Compared to 
Louisiana, New York might not get that hot, but when you're racing around the 
woods in a fur coat, anything over seventy is hot. 
As for school, Jeremy and Dominic had decided to keep me out until high school. 
Shortly after my expulsion, Jeremy had started me on a formal home-schooling 
program, which satisfied the state. I was happy at home, Jeremy was an excellent 
teacher, and I was well ahead of my public school peers, so there was no need to 
hurry me back to institutionalized learning. 
Being home-schooled, though, did mean I missed out on a convenient form of peer 
socialization. To compensate, Jeremy enrolled me in extracurricular programs in 
Syracuse. Bear Valley did offer some recreational programs for children, but the 
Pack has always counseled its members to limit their participation in the local 
social scene. People in Bear Valley knew us enough to say hello, but little more 
than that. So Jeremy drove me in to Syracuse for my weekly programs. 
Choosing programs for me proved a test of Jeremy's intuitive abilities. First, 
he tried soccer. I put my foot through the ball. Then he tried model-building. 
After two weeks gluing plastic bits onto a model of the Titanic, I decided to 
stage a historical re-creation—using the classroom wall as my iceberg. By this 
point I'm sure Jeremy gave up trying to pick a program to suit me, closed his 
eyes and randomly pointed at one in the recreation guide. The result? Drama. And 
you know what? I liked it. Not that I enjoyed performing—I loathed that part, 
and managed to contract an inexplicable case of laryngitis on the day of our 
parent performance. What I liked though, was the opportunity to learn how to 
play a role. For me, that was a far more useful skill than knowing how to kick a 
ball or build a ship. The moment I stepped outside Stonehaven, I had a part to 
play—the role of a human boy. Drama helped me do that. 
So Jeremy kept me in drama classes one season a year, and for the other three we 
tried different things. He quickly learned what worked and what didn't. Team 
sports, like baseball, didn't. Individual sports, like swimming, did. Purely 
artistic endeavors, like music, didn't. Functional skill-building classes, like 
cooking, did. Yes, I liked home ec, even if I was the only boy there and the 
girls fell into fits of giggling every time I walked in. Cooking was a useful 
skill. And, living with Jeremy, who never heated canned soup without scorching 
it, cooking was an essential skill. 
And so, with these classes, I learned life skills and basic socialization. I 
also learned that children could rival Malcolm for sheer malicious cruelty. 
Despite Jeremy's hopes, I never made a friend in those classes. I'd made great 
strides with my verbal abilities, and could now speak as well, if not better, 
than other children my age, but that didn't change anything. I was different, 
and other kids sensed that like a Pack wolf can sense a mutt. Not understanding 
what made me different, the children seized on the differences they could see. 
They mocked my accent. They made fun of my stature, being still a head shorter 
than most boys my age. They ridiculed my interest in cooking and other 
'unsuitable' classes. On a slow day, they'd even make fun of my hair, which was 
either worn too short or too long, depending on their mood. I knew there was 
nothing I could do or say to win their favor—and I didn't want to, which was 
probably part of the problem. It didn't matter. When Jeremy was around, I 
gritted my teeth and made nice with the other kids. The rest of the time I 
ignored them and did my own thing. 
As for friends, I had my Pack brothers. While I never did befriend Daniel, Joey 
and I got along fine. And Nick? Well, after that first Pack meeting, if we were 
together, we were together, inseparable. 
The October after Jeremy killed the mutt Pritchard, Antonio and Nick came down 
for a weekend, as they did at least once a month. Saturday morning, Nick and I 
were out back, having some trouble deciding how best to utilize our time 
together. 
"No way," Nick said, slumping cross-legged onto the ground. "You're not hunting 
me again." 
"But I need more practice." 
"Yeah, well I don't need you giving me another black eye." 
"I didn't give you a black eye. You tripped." 
"And you pounced and slammed me face-first into a rock." 
I leaned against a tree trunk. "That's because you need more practice." 
"At what? Not getting the crap beaten out of me?" 
"At escaping. You're not a werewolf yet, so you can't defend yourself. You need 
to know how to escape, how to run away. If you let me hunt you, then I can teach 
you how to do that." 
"How about you teach me how to hunt? You play the helpless victim and I'll chase 
you—" 
"You don't need to know how to hunt. You need to know how to run away." 
When he didn't answer, I sighed. "Okay, how about wrestling then? Jeremy taught 
me this new move—" 
"Which you can't wait to try out on me. Uh-uh. No hunting. No wrestling. No 
games where Nicky gets the shit beat out of him, okay? Can you think up 
something like that?" 
I thought about it. And thought about it some more. While I continued to think, 
Nick stood and stretched his legs. He wandered to a nearby oak and peered up 
into its nearly bare branches. 
"Bet you can't jump from that branch," he said, pointing up to one about twenty 
feet from the ground. 
Nick loved testing the limits of my werewolf abilities. Not a pastime that 
lacked challenge, though it ran a distant second to hunting-and-stalking games. 
"If I can, will you let me try my new wrestling move?" 
"Only if it doesn't make me bleed." 
"It's not my fault you bleed pretty easy." 
"If I bleed, I'm not sneaking you any extra food tonight." 
"Fine, you won't bleed." I grabbed the lowest tree limb and swung up onto it. 
"Come on." 
We climbed to the branch. Nick tried to stop halfway, but I egged him on until 
we were sitting side-by-side on the branch he'd chosen for his dare. 
"You really think you can do it?" Nick asked, looking down. "Seems pretty high, 
you know." He slid a tiny smile my way. "I wouldn't blame you if you chickened 
out." 
I flexed my legs and measured the distance to the ground. It was a bit high. Not 
that I'd ever chicken out, but I had to be careful how I landed. The last time 
we played this game, I'd 
miscalculated my leap and twisted my ankle, then had to tough it out for three 
days so Jeremy wouldn't know what I'd done. 
I was visualizing my jump when a car pulled into the driveway. I cocked my head, 
listening. The engine died. A car door slammed. Neither noise sounded as it came 
from any car I knew. I jumped from the tree, hitting the ground hard enough to 
send pain stabbing through my calves. 
"Whoa," Nick called down. "That was—" 
I dashed off toward the house. 
"Clay?" A moment's pause. "Clayton! Don't leave me here!" 
I kept running. I'd return for Nick later. He could wait; this intruder 
couldn't. 
I tore from the woods and around the side of the house, scrambling over the low 
fence and heading for the front yard. I was certain I'd be too late, that the 
trespasser would already have made it to the door and disturbed Jeremy, but as I 
rounded the house, I saw a figure still standing by a car. It was a young man, 
maybe a year or two younger than Jeremy, with red hair past his shoulders. He 
was staring up at the house, chewing on his lower lip. One whiff and I knew he 
was a werewolf. My first thought was 'mutt', but then I saw his face and 
recognized him from a sketch in Jeremy's room. This was the elusive 'Peter', the 
only Pack member I'd never met. 
When I slipped from the hedge, his nostrils flared and, scenting me, he turned. 
He blinked once, then offered a tentative smile. 
"Hey, you must be Clayton. Hello." 
I returned the greeting with a nod and took a few cautious steps closer. Yes, 
this was a Pack wolf, but I didn't know the man, so I wasn't going to rush out 
and hug him. Okay, even if I did know him, I'd never rush out and hug him, but 
the point is, I had reason to be wary. All I knew about this guy was that 
whenever Jeremy mentioned his name, there was a note of concern in his voice. I 
moved closer to the front door, putting myself between it and him. 
"Is Jeremy here?" Peter asked, enunciating each word slowly, as if speaking to 
someone of limited mental capacity. 
I nodded. 
"Is Mal—is Jeremy . . . alone?"
I shook my head.
"Oh, okay, then." Peter turned back to his car. "Well, maybe I'll come back 
later."
"Malcolm's not here," I said. "Just Antonio and Nick."
Peter blinked, as if surprised that I could speak. "Oh, ummm, well, maybe I 
should still come

back. He's probably busy with Antonio—" "He's not," I said, then pulled open the 
front door. "Jeremy!" Peter winced at my shout, then gave one last longing look 
at his car, and pocketed his keys. Jeremy 
appeared at the front door. Seeing Peter, his lips curved in a tiny smile. 
"Peter," he said. "This is a surprise. Good to see you. Come on in." As he 
ushered Peter inside, his gaze went to me. Then behind me. His brows arched in a 
look I 
knew only too well. "I'll go get Nick," I said. "Good idea." Nick had managed to 
make it down from the tree easily enough. The trouble was finding his way 
out of the forest. You'd think that anyone who had been visiting Stonehaven 
since he was old enough to toddle would know his way around the woods there, 
particularly when that someone had werewolf blood, but Nick often had trouble 
finding his way out of the forest at his own house. I'd decided he simply needed 
more practice, but no matter how often I abandoned him in the woods, his sense 
of direction never seemed to improve. That, of course, only increased my resolve 
to keep leaving him there. What were friends for, if not to help you overcome 
your weaknesses? 
Antonio met us as we exited the forest. 
"I was just coming to find you boys," he said. "Jeremy's going to be busy with 
Peter for a while, and they don't need us bugging them, so how about we take a 
ride into town? Pick up dinner, maybe grab an ice cream cone?" 
I glanced at the house. As tempted as I was by Antonio's offer, I had a 
responsibility here that outweighed any duty I owed to my never-satisfied 
stomach. If Antonio went into town, Jeremy would be alone in the house with 
another werewolf. A Pack wolf, to be sure, but my experience with the Pack so 
far hadn't led me to decide that membership in the group meant a werewolf could 
be trusted. Until I knew more about this Peter, I wasn't leaving him with 
Jeremy. 
"I'll stay," I said. 
I expected Antonio to tease me about turning down food, but he just gave me a 
long, hard look that led me to suspect he knew exactly why I was staying. His 
gaze traveled to the house, then back to me, and his mouth opened, as if to say 
something. Instead he only patted me on the back. 
"Just stay outside, okay, scrap? They need to talk. Nicky? You coming?"
Nick shook his head.
"All right, but behave yourselves and don't bother Jeremy and Peter. I'll be 
back soon."
We did as we were told, staying outdoors, and not bothering Jeremy and Peter. 
Yet that could be

done while sitting outside the study window, where we could listen to the 
conversation within. Kids who don't eavesdrop on adult conversations are doomed 
to a childhood of ignorance. And as Nick had discovered, with my enhanced 
hearing, I was the perfect eavesdropping tool. 
Of what I heard that afternoon, I understood only one key point: that Peter was 
leaving the Pack. Why he was leaving, what that meant for his life, how 
difficult that decision was for him to make, all that I wouldn't fully 
understand for years to come. From the tone of the conversation, though, I knew 
that this decision marked the end of a long personal struggle with the issue of 
Pack-hood. I knew too that this was a decision Jeremy had both known and feared 
was coming. 
Roughly half of all Pack youth left the group in their early twenties. It was 
like membership in any regimented segment of human society—children stay with 
the group because they have to, then when they hit adulthood, they realize that 
they have a choice. Like all young adults, they have issues with their world. 
Some, like Antonio, chafe at the rules, but not enough to ever consider leaving. 
Some, like Jeremy, disagree with many of the principles, but believe in the 
institution itself enough to stay and try to effect change from within. Others 
look around and say 'I don't belong here', and this was the case with Peter. 
In the tight-knit society of the Pack, family is important—not just the 
figurative brotherhood of the group, but the literal bloodlines. The 
Sorrentinos, the Santos and the Danvers were the founding families of the 
American Pack. Being part of one of those families automatically elevated your 
status. Peter's father had brought them to the Pack when Peter was little more 
than a baby, the new responsibility of fatherhood having made him decide that he 
wanted a more secure life for his son. Yet he'd never really been accepted, and 
Peter had grown up seeing and feeling that ostracism. With his father having 
died several years ago, there was nothing to tie Peter to the Pack. Now, halfway 
through a college degree in audiovisual technology, he'd been offered a job on 
the road crew of a band. 
When Peter had told Dominic of the job offer, the Alpha's answer had been clear. 
A twenty-year-old werewolf, barely old enough to control his Changes, could not 
leave the safety net of the Pack and go traversing the country with a rock band. 
Dominic forbade it. Everyone knew what that meant. If Peter took this job, he 
would be banished from the Pack. And, really, that was just the excuse he 
needed. Jeremy argued with him, offered to intercede on his behalf with Dominic 
and negotiate a compromise, but I could tell by the tone of Jeremy's voice that 
he knew his offer would be refused. And it was. Peter hadn't come to discuss the 
matter. He came to Stonehaven to see the only Pack member who cared whether he 
stayed or left. 
Finally, his arguments at an end, Jeremy walked Peter to his car. Nick and I 
slipped around the 
house to watch and listen. "Say goodbye to Antonio for me," Peter said as he 
climbed into his car. Jeremy nodded. "You're doing a great job with the boy. 
Really great." Jeremy nodded. Peter started his car, and leaned out the window. 
"I'll call you when I'm settled." A weak smile. 
"Send you cool postcards from the road, show you what you're missing out there." 
Jeremy nodded, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he didn't expect to 
ever get that call or see those postcards. 
"If you ever need anything," Jeremy said. "Anything at all . . . "
"I know where to find you," Peter said. "Don't worry about me, Jer. I'll be 
fine."
Jeremy nodded, then watched the car back down the long drive.
The next day Antonio decided Nick and I needed new winter boots. Jeremy bought 
almost all

our clothing by catalogue, which was fine by me because I knew of few tortures 
worse than spending an afternoon crammed into a dressing room while some middle-
aged woman tried to persuade Jeremy that a blue shirt would really bring out my 
eyes so much better than the plain white one I'd chosen. When it came to 
footwear, though, it was safer to make the trip to the store and find a pair 
that fit properly. So, with winter coming, Antonio saw the perfect opportunity 
to get Jeremy out for the day, with a combined boot-buying, lunch-eating and 
movie-watching excursion. 
Our first stop was lunch. Then off to the shoe store. I found a pair of boots 
within minutes. Nick took longer, insisting on a brand that 'all the other kids 
had'. To me, that would have been the very reason not to buy that brand, but 
Nick was already growing particular about such things, and Antonio always went 
the extra mile—or block—to get Nick what he wanted. So it was off to the 
department store down the road, a five-story monstrosity that sold everything 
from washing machines to hammers to children's boots. 
Once Nick had his boots, Jeremy wanted to take a quick look in the appliances 
section. We needed a new toaster. I'd broken ours by stuffing two pieces in each 
slot at once, trying to speed up the process. Since the toaster was one of the 
few cooking tools Jeremy could reliably operate, we needed a new one—fast. 
Few departments hold less interest for young boys than the small appliances 
section, so Nick asked whether he and I could go to the sporting goods area 
instead. When Jeremy hesitated, Antonio pulled the old 'you worry too much' 
routine, which almost always worked. As cautious as Jeremy was, he hated coming 
across as a worrywart. He told us we could go, so long as we waited there for 
them and I didn't touch anything. Jeremy pointed us in the direction of the 
store map, and we took off. 
According to the map, the sporting goods department was on the first floor. We 
were on the fifth. That left us with a decision: elevator or escalator. For me, 
there wasn't really a choice. I'd pick zooming down motorized stairs over 
waiting for a crowded elevator car any day. As we raced past the elevator, 
though, we saw that we didn't really have a choice. The elevator was out-of-
order. We ran past the sign, then Nick stopped and walked backward for a better 
look. 
"Cool," he said. "Clay, come here. Check this out." He disappeared around a rack 
of girl's dresses. I backtracked and found him stepping over a cord that roped 
off the elevator area. After a quick look around, I followed. 
The elevator door was open. There were tools scattered around the opening, as if 
someone had been working on it, but the serviceman was nowhere to be seen. I 
walked up beside Nick and we looked down the elevator shaft. 
"Whoa," Nick said. "Where's the elevator?"
I looked around, then pointed up. It was just above our heads.
"How far down you think that is?" Nick said, peering into the inky black of the 
elevator shaft. 

"Twenty feet?" "Maybe thirty," I said, though I could barely see the floor 
through the darkness. "Bet you couldn't jump down that." "Bet I could." "Bet you 
couldn't." "Could." "Couldn't." I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "How 
much?" "All the movie popcorn. You do it, you can have mine. You chicken out, I 
get yours." "You're on." At a low murmur of women's voices, I tensed and 
motioned for silence. We waited. No one 
appeared. "You stand watch," I said. 
Nick nodded and walked back to the dress rack. As he went, I squinted into the 
darkness. Thirty feet? That didn't seem right. If it was five floors, and each 
floor was at least— I stopped. It didn't matter. I'd taken the dare. Before my 
brain could calculate the distance—and persuade me to chicken out—I stepped up 
to the edge, bent my knees, counted to three . . . and jumped. 

Broken 
The first thirty feet of the drop went fine. It was those last twenty that did 
me in. 
By the time I reached the second floor, I'd picked up enough speed that when my 
elbow glanced off the side of the shaft, my arm whipped up over my head, 
wrenching my shoulder, and whacked against something hard and sharp protruding 
from the wall. I heard a crack, but didn't have time to register pain before my 
feet struck bottom. I hit hard and, had I not positioned myself exactly right, 
I'm sure I would have broken my legs . . . or worse. As it was, I slammed onto 
the floor of the shaft with my knees bent, absorbing the shock, but the force of 
the sudden stop pitched me forward. My head hit the wall and I blacked out just 
as pain ripped through my right arm and alerted my brain that something was 
wrong. 
I don't know exactly what happened next. Being unconscious does that to a 
person. I assume Nick realized something was wrong and went to get Jeremy and 
Antonio. They probably wanted to get me out of there without alerting anyone, 
but I'm sure the moment Jeremy realized I was lying at the bottom of a five-
story elevator shaft, unconscious, he had decided this wasn't a time to worry 
about calling attention to ourselves. When I regained consciousness, I was lying 
on the floor outside the elevator door, being examined by paramedics, and 
surrounded by what looked like every customer in the store. 
The paramedics declared that I had miraculously escaped serious injury, which 
they chalked up to a child's resilience. Other than a few bruises, a twisted 
ankle, a goose-egg, and my arm, I was fine. My arm was the worst. When I came 
to, the first thing I felt was the pain in my forearm. Though the paramedics 
instructed me to lie still, I managed to twist around and get a look at my arm 
before they could cover it up. My forearm was bent above the wrist in a way I 
knew wasn't natural. Just above the elbow was a gash at least two inches wide 
and an inch deep. My first thought was 'hmmm, that can't be good'. I suppose the 
sight of my own insides should have been more disturbing, but living in the 
world I did, where I saw flesh and blood every time I caught a rabbit, it didn't 
bother me. The pain, though, did bother me. I won't say I sucked it up and 
toughed it out. I was eight years old. I'm sure I cried. 
The paramedics wanted to take me to the hospital. An obvious 'next step' when a 
boy fell down an elevator shaft. Not such an obvious step, though, when that boy 
was a werewolf. Pack werewolves don't go to hospitals. Even most mutts know 
better, and have been known to die from infection rather than risk a hospital 
trip. Fortunately, the Pack has devised a better system. 
The Pack has always relied on the power of greed when it comes to finding 
services it doesn't dare accept from regular sources. If you're willing to pay a 
premium, you can always find a doctor—even a good one—who's willing to set 
broken limbs and perform minor surgery, no questions asked. Dominic had found 
such a doctor in New York, a very well-respected physician who ran a side 
business offering medical services to the Mafia and other criminals. Dominic 
insisted we go to him and paid all our bills. And if the doctor ever wondered 
why he saw a lot of ripped flesh and very few bullet holes, he never said a 
word, just took our money and stitched us up. 
So I should have gone to him for my arm. The problem was that he was over four 
hours away, I had a gaping wound on my arm and a good blow to my head. Jeremy 
and Antonio talked it over—out of earshot of the paramedics, but close enough 
for me to hear. Antonio wanted me to go to the Syracuse hospital. Pack wolves 
are allowed to do this in emergencies, using the ruse of 'religious beliefs' to 
prevent the staff from analyzing our blood or doing anything else that might 
lead them to suspect we weren't quite human. 
When Jeremy hesitated, Antonio pulled the 'you worry too much' routine, but it 
wasn't necessary. Had Jeremy himself been lying on the stretcher, the decision 
would have been a simple one. He'd have let Antonio drive him to New York and if 
he'd suffered as a result of the delay in treatment, so be it. But this was me. 
If I needed immediate medical attention, I would get it immediately. So we went 
to the hospital. 
The paramedics gave me something for the pain, so most of the ambulance ride is 
a blur. Next thing I knew I was in white room being examined by a white-haired 
man in a white lab coat. 
After a few seconds of drowsy confusion, during which I feared the fall had 
affected my ability to see colors, I recognized the setting from a movie and 
knew I was in a hospital. I assumed the man examining me was a doctor, which a 
glance at his name tag verified. 
"So," the doctor said, holding open one of my eyelids and peering through a 
silver instrument. "Why aren't you boys in Vietnam?" 
I was about to answer when my fuzzy brain cleared enough for me to realize that 
although the man was looking at me, it was unlikely he was directing the 
question at me. 
"Haven't been called up yet," Antonio's voice said from somewhere to my left. 
I tried to glance at Antonio, but the doctor wrenched my head back so I was 
facing straight. At Jeremy's touch on my shoulder, I swallowed a growl and kept 
my head still. Both Jeremy and Antonio moved behind the doctor so I could see 
them. 
"The recruitment offices closed shop?" the doctor said, shooting a glare 
Antonio's way. 
When Antonio caught the look, indignation and anger blazed in his eyes, just a 
flash that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn't watching him closely. He 
covered it with a rueful frown. 
"I wish I could," he said. "I really wanted to sign up, but now that my brothers 
are gone, I'm the only one left to work on the farm. After the stroke last year 
. . . well, my dad's just not the same. And, of course, Jeremy has the boy to 
look after. But when they call us up, we'll go. Gotta fight for your country. 
Can't argue with that." 
Jeremy made a noise of assent and the doctor seemed placated. Neither Jeremy nor 
Antonio would be called for the draft. No one in the Pack would. Like I said, 
the Pack had long since learned how to take advantage of human greed, and they'd 
had two World War drafts with which to perfect their system of buying passes for 
their members. 
"You giving these guys a hard time, Doc?" said a young dark-haired nurse as she 
walked around Jeremy and handed the doctor a chart. She flashed a too-friendly 
smile at Jeremy and Antonio, then winked. "You want my opinion, I think they 
should stay out of that hellhole as long as they can." 
"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," the doctor said, snatching the 
chart. 
While he read it over, the nurse mouthed 'grumpy old bugger' at Antonio and 
Jeremy, and rolled her eyes. 
The doctor thrust the chart at her. "Take him down for x-rays." 
"Ummm, sir?" Jeremy said the doctor turned to walk away. "Do you think he'll 
need surgery?" 
The doctor seemed ready to snap something back, but noticed the concern in 
Jeremy's eyes and softened his response. "We can probably do this without 
operating, but let me see the x-rays first." 
"Thank you." 
We picked up another nurse on the way to the X-ray room. I really didn't think 
my situation required a second one, but when we passed a young blonde nurse in 
the halls, our nurse motioned to her, she saw Jeremy and Antonio, and seemed to 
decide our case was more important than whatever she was currently working on. 
Though there was nothing wrong with my legs, the nurse insisted I be transported 
on a rolling bed. So, as I was being wheeled down the hall by Jeremy, everyone 
else could talk literally behind my back. Everyone except Nick, that is, who 
walked beside me, looking miserable. Jeremy had told him the accident wasn't his 
fault. I'd told him it wasn't his fault. Even Antonio, after a brief talk about 
'peer pressure' had, seeing how upset he was, agreed it wasn't really his fault. 
But he was still miserable. So he walked beside me, gaze on the floor, and said 
nothing. 
The nurses said plenty, most of it seeming to have very little to do with my 
medical condition. They both seemed very impressed by Jeremy taking guardianship 
of his 'poor orphaned cousin', and almost equally impressed by Antonio treating 
his 'nephew' to a day in the city. Yes, Antonio had introduced Nick as his 
nephew. That was always easier than going through the whole 'teen father' 
routine, as people calculated how old—or how young—Antonio had been when his son 
was born, and gave their opinion on the situation. For werewolves, though, it's 
common to tangle the limbs of the family tree when dealing with humans. Not only 
is it an added layer of protective falsehoods, but it solves one problem with 
our delayed aging. 
Werewolves age slowly. Whether this means we can live longer than humans is 
debatable, since few werewolves live long enough to test the theory. It does 
mean though that we stay physically young longer. Like most of our special 
abilities, this is all about survival—the longer we stay healthy, the longer we 
can fight off attacks. When dealing with the human world, though, it can be 
tricky. Although it's not impossible for a fifty-year-old human to look thirty-
five, it does call attention to them, and no smart werewolf wants that. So we 
fudge our ages, and lie about our family relationships. The slow aging doesn't 
kick in until one becomes a werewolf, so at Antonio's age, the difference was 
still unnoticeable. No one would look at him and say 'Twenty-six? My god, he 
doesn't look a day over twenty-four!'. Yet in twenty years, when Antonio would 
be forty-six and Nick thirty, they'd have a hard time passing themselves off as 
father and son. By then they'd look close enough in age to be brothers. To make 
things easy, they'd played their human-world roles now as uncle and nephew right 
from the start. 
The next few hours were unpleasant. Fortunately, the doctor had taken advantage 
of my earlier drugged state to put in my IV and stitch up the gash on my arm, so 
I didn't need to suffer through that. Next they x-rayed the break, which they 
declared a 'dinner-fork' fracture, one that could be treated with or without 
surgery. Jeremy spent a half-hour in consultation with the doctor on that, and 
though I heard none of the conversation, I can imagine what it was about. If 
Jeremy let me have surgery here, he'd be in serious trouble with Dominic. Yet he 
wasn't about to accept half-measures that might leave me without the full use of 
my arm. For a Pack werewolf, such a handicap would condemn me to omega status—
the bottom of the heap. 
After much discussion, the doctor apparently convinced Jeremy that my arm could 
be fixed just as well without surgery. Then came the gas, which knocked me out 
while they put my bone back in place and casted my arm. For the next couple of 
hours I floated in and out of consciousness. Jeremy stayed by my side, as did 
Antonio and Nick. During one of my more lucid periods, I overheard Antonio 
arguing with an orderly about bringing food into the room. Seems it was against 
the rules on that ward. Yet Jeremy and Antonio had to eat, so Jeremy whispered 
to me that if I woke up and he wasn't there, he'd be back in a few minutes. 
While he was gone, I surfaced to groggy half-consciousness only once, when 
someone in a white coat poked my uninjured left arm. I assumed they were fussing 
with my IV, which they'd prodded several times earlier. 
By the time we headed home it was eleven PM. The hospital had wanted me to stay 
overnight, but Jeremy knew that a longer stay meant an increased risk of 
trouble, so he discharged me as soon as I was alert enough to make it to the 
car. 
Once back at Stonehaven, Antonio and Nick grabbed their bags and prepared to 
return home. On the ride back, Antonio had offered to stay overnight, but Jeremy 
argued that it wasn't necessary. Dominic expected Antonio home that night, and 
at work the next morning, and Jeremy didn't want to make the situation here seem 
worse by having Antonio extend his stay. 
Nick signed my cast before leaving. I wasn't sure what the point of that was, 
but it seemed to make him feel better, so I made a big deal out of it. He 
persuaded his father to let him come next weekend to help keep me entertained 
while I was semi-immobilized. 
After Antonio and Nick left, Jeremy herded me off to bed. Between yawns, I tried 
to argue that I'd already had at least a full-night's sleep that day, but he 
insisted I needed more rest. 
Jeremy opened the door to my room and switched on the light. 
"Do you need help getting undressed?" he asked. 
I shook my head. He watched for a moment as I fumbled one-handed to undo my 
shirt buttons. When I didn't ask for assistance, he sighed and shook his head. 
"Let me rephrase that," he said. "Here, I will help you get undressed." He 
unbuttoned my shirt and looked at the right sleeve, which they'd cut off to 
examine my arm. "Looks like we can throw this one straight into the trash." 
That was fine by me. I hated button-down shirts. Never saw the point, really. 
Why fuss with buttons when you can buy one that you could pull off over your 
head? And the button-down variety always felt like they'd been dipped in starch, 
stiff and scratchy. On the other hand, I never saw the point of clothes in 
general, unless the weather required them, but apparently I'm in the minority on 
this. 
Jeremy was tugging my shirt off my uninjured arm when he stopped. I followed his 
gaze to a bandage-covered cotton-ball on the inside of my elbow. 
"Oh, right, the IV," he said, nodding. Then he froze again and his gaze traveled 
down my arm. "I thought they put the IV—" He looked at the bandage on my hand. 
"—there." He blinked back a flicker of fear, and gently tugged the bandage from 
my elbow. Under the cotton ball was a single blood-crusted pinprick. His eyes 
shot to mine. "Did someone draw blood from you?" 
"I don't think so." 
"When I left for dinner did anyone—no, you were asleep, you wouldn't know. Damn 
it! Did they move the IV? No, I would have noticed—" 
"Someone came in when you were gone," I cut in. "I was pretty sleepy. I felt 
something, but I thought they were fixing that other thing." 
"Okay," Jeremy said, standing and inhaling deeply. "It's okay. It's only been a 
couple of hours. They won't have touched it yet. I can call the hospital, tell 
them they drew blood against my wishes and demand—" He paused and shook his head 
sharply. "No, I have a better idea. Just wait—no, let me get you into bed—no, 
lie down and rest and I'll be right back." 
I tried to answer that I wasn't tired, but I knew he was too caught up in his 
own thoughts to hear me . . . just as he was too distracted to notice that I 
followed him downstairs. 
I watched from the study doorway as Jeremy rooted around for a phone book. He 
called the hospital and asked for the phone number of their laboratory, then 
hung up. For a few minutes, he stood there, as if thinking, then he gave a curt 
nod and made a second call. 
"This is Doctor Lawson," he said, using the name of the doctor who'd attended to 
us. His voice took on a clipped, authoritative tone. "I've just been informed 
that someone took a blood sample from one of my patients—a patient who was not 
supposed to have any blood-work done." 
Pause. 
"Clayton Danvers." 
A longer pause. 
"Yes, of course I know his family requested no blood-work be done. That's the 
problem, isn't it? Someone drew his blood against his family's wishes and if his 
family finds out, we could find ourselves facing a lawsuit." 
Pause.
"Yes, that's the room, but the boy was in bed B, not D."
Pause.
"I don't want to know how it happened. My only concern is making it un-happen. 
Take that

sample and dispose of it immediately, then shred any accompanying paperwork. Can 
you do that?" Pause. Then Jeremy's hand tightened around the receiver. "I don't 
care if you've already started analyzing it—" Pause. "I don't care what that 
tests showed, his family was very clear—" Pause. A line of sweat trickled down 
Jeremy's forehead. "This is a matter of religious freedom, do you understand 
that? If his parents don't want blood-
work done, we can't do it, even if we find something alarming—" 
A pause. A very long pause, during which Jeremy went pale. He argued with the 
person on the other end for a few more minutes, but it became obvious that 
whatever that lab tech found, he was determined to report it. 
"Yes, well, perhaps you're right," Jeremy said at last, the words coming slow. 
"Let me contact the hospital administration and they can have our legal experts 
look into it. In the meantime, this stays between us. Have you told anyone 
else?" 
Pause.
"You're the only one on tonight?" Jeremy said, his eyes closed. "I see. That's 
good. And

your shift ends at . . .?" Pause. "Why don't I meet you there then, and we can 
discuss your findings, so I know exactly what 
I'm taking to the board." 
They arranged to meet in an hour, and Jeremy hung up. When he turned, he didn't 
seem surprised to see me there. 
"We need to go back to the hospital," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 
I nodded and went to find my shoes. 
I don't know what Jeremy did to the tech. Well, yes, I do know. He killed him. 
It's the 'how' that I can't answer. This time when he told me to stay in the 
car, I did. After all, he was just going to speak to a human lab technician. 
That didn't require my protective eye. It would be years before I figured out 
that he'd had to kill the man and destroy the test results. All I knew at the 
time was that I fell asleep in the car, and when I awoke, he was driving us 
home. I asked him how it went and he only nodded, eyes fixed on the road. 
Jeremy didn't sleep for three days after that. Knowing he never slept well, I'd 
grown accustomed to waking and checking on him. For three days after my hospital 
visit, each time I went to his room at night I found it empty. 
On the fourth day he made a phone call. That night, he slept for a couple of 
hours, and the same for the few nights following. Then, just over a week after 
the lab tech incident, a package arrived at the house. It was a box of medical 
texts. That night Jeremy stayed up dusk-to-dawn reading. Then, with each night 
after that, he read for a few hours and slept for a few more. 
By the end of the month, he was satisfied enough with his progress to sleep an 
entire six hours. Though he could never fix an arm that was fractured as badly 
as mine had been, he now had enough knowledge of emergency medicine that he 
could have evaluated the break and my head injury, stitched the gash on my arm, 
and given me the first aid I needed to make the trip to our doctor in New York. 
And that was what he needed to let himself sleep—the knowledge that he'd taken 
every possible step to ensure that what he'd done that night, he'd never need to 
do again. 

Vision

Over the following year the Pack gradually became aware of Jeremy's new first 
aid skills, and Dominic began encouraging them to visit Jeremy for minor medical 
needs, like stitches and sprains. This was fine when the problem involved the 
Santoses, the Stillwells, Cliff Ward or Ross Werner, who would make the trip to 
Stonehaven, alone or chauffeured by a Pack brother, depending on the severity of 
their condition. This was not so convenient when it involved a member of 
Dominic's family. 
An injury in the Sorrentino family required a house call. Whenever possible, if 
Antonio or Nick was the one hurt, Antonio tried to get to Stonehaven himself, 
but if Dominic found out, he'd be on the phone summoning Jeremy. Of course, 
Jeremy went. He had no choice. When the Alpha called saying his grandson had a 
fever of 102, you didn't say 'give the kid some aspirin, put a cold compress on 
his head, and call me in the morning'. Even if it was two AM in the middle of a 
January snow storm, you put on your winter coat and hustled your butt to New 
York City. 
Dominic was not a complete tyrant when it came to taking advantage of Jeremy's 
new skill-set. He might have expected prompt service, but he paid for it. He 
reimbursed Jeremy for gas and medical supplies, and always made sure we were 
well rested and fed before sending us home. When Jeremy's old Chevy broke down 
that summer, Dominic bought him a brand-new four-wheel drive truck, stifling 
Jeremy's protests by insisting that if he was going to be the Pack paramedic, he 
needed reliable year-round transportation. 
The following autumn, when Jeremy was called in to deal with Gregory's sprained 
ankle, Dominic found excuses to extend our stay for nearly a week. Why? Because 
Malcolm was at Stonehaven, and had been for three weeks, so Dominic knew Jeremy 
could use a break. This, giving Jeremy a few days of shelter, was as much as 
Dominic would ever interfere in Jeremy's relationship with his father. His view 
of the situation was typical Pack mentality: what doesn't kill you makes you 
stronger. 
When we returned to Stonehaven, Malcolm was still there. Most times he only 
stopped by long enough to get money. Occasionally, though, he stayed longer. I 
had no idea what his excuse was this time. Like Jeremy, I'd stopped caring why 
he was there, only gritting my teeth and toughing it out until he left. Asking 
him when he was leaving only invited trouble. I'd done that last year, and he'd 
extended a planned two day visit to two weeks, just to show me that he could 
stay as long as he liked. 
This time was worse than normal because Malcolm had invited the Santos brothers 
and Cliff to Stonehaven for the week, which made life at home very uncomfortable 
for Jeremy. By the time we got home from New York, though, only Malcolm 
remained. He pounced before we could so much as pull off our boots. 
"All done playing doctor?" he said. 
"Yes," Jeremy said. "Gregory is fine." 
"No, Gregory is not fine and hasn't been for eight years. If you really wanted 
to do us a favor, you'd give the idiot strychnine instead of aspirin, but I'm 
sure that wouldn't help your cause, would it?" 
Jeremy only gave a half-shrug and took off his boots, then turned to me. "Go 
into the kitchen and we'll fix dinner." He glanced at his father. "We're having 
sandwiches. Can I make you one?" 
"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." 
If Jeremy didn't, he certainly wasn't about to ask. When a rattler shakes its 
tail, you don't ask what's bothering it, you get the hell out of the way. Jeremy 
tugged off his coat, hung it on the rack and steered me toward the kitchen. 
"How's that new truck working out for you?" Malcolm said, sticking at our heels. 
"It does the job," Jeremy murmured. 
"Dominic must be pretty pleased with you these days. Taming stray pups. Training 
the boys. Learning emergency medicine. What'd he call it at the last meeting? 
Initiative. That's right. Showing initiative. The question is: what do you hope 
to initiate?" 
When Jeremy didn't answer, Malcolm swung in front of him, stretching to full 
height to bring his face to Jeremy's. 
"You get in my way, boy, and I'll squash you." 
"I never doubted it," Jeremy said, and sidestepped into the kitchen. 
Malcolm's next extended stay came just over a year later. It was early December, 
a month away from my eleventh birthday. 
That weekend Antonio and Nick were coming up to take me Christmas shopping for 
Jeremy in Syracuse. Although the Pack didn't really celebrate the holiday the 
way humans did, we would have a Pack Meet and exhange gifts. The original 
shopping plan had been for me to go to New York, but then Malcolm showed up, and 
seemed prepared to stay until the holidays, so Antonio decided they'd come to 
us, minimizing the time Jeremy would need to spend alone with his father. 
On Wednesday night Jeremy woke up from a nightmare. As I've said, I was attuned 
to his sleeping patterns, and when I heard a muffled cry from his room, I bolted 
upright and nearly fell out of bed in my haste to get up. As I scurried into the 
hall, I heard the click of his door handle, and backed into my room. I listened, 
heart thumping, almost certain it was just a nightmare, but unable to shake the 
fear that someone had attacked him in his bed. When I heard his soft footfalls 
in the corridor I knew it had just been another bad dream. Staying behind my 
door, I waited until he passed, then slid out after him. 
Normally after a nightmare, Jeremy would fix himself a sandwich, or pour a glass 
of brandy, depending on how bad it had been. This time, though, he walked into 
the study, passed the brandy decanter and headed straight for the desk. He 
stopped in front of the phone, and stared down at it, as if expecting it to 
ring. For at least five minutes, he stood there. Then he sighed, picked it up, 
moved it to the table beside his recliner, and sat down. 
After about twenty minutes, he eased back in his chair and, after another ten, 
started to nod off. His eyes were only half-closed when he jerked up, mouth 
forming a silent 'o', eyes equally round. From my post outside the door, I swear 
I could hear his heart pounding triple-time. His eyes shot to the door and I 
pulled back farther out of sight. I was sitting on the floor, and his gaze fell 
a good three feet above my head. He tensed, listening, as if afraid he'd cried 
out and alerted Malcolm. He hadn't, though, and all was silent in the house. He 
looked back at the phone, swore an oath under his breath, and rolled his 
shoulders. 
"Call, damn it," he whispered. "I can't help if you don't call."
The phone didn't ring. After glaring at it for a few minutes, he sank back into 
his seat.
Twice more, he began to drift off and twice more a vision startled him awake. It 
was a vision,

not a nightmare. I knew that now. 
Jeremy saw things. I don't know how to explain it any better than that. I can't 
explain it any better than that because even now I know very little about this 
side of Jeremy's life. I don't know because I don't ask. I don't ask because I 
don't want to intrude—no, that's bullshit. I don't ask because I don't really 
want to know. 
Wolves like conformity. They understand it. In the wild, a pack will drive out a 
member who doesn't fit the accepted standard of wolf behavior—most animals do. 
While the Pack wasn't so heartless, even those less attuned to their wolf-side 
were uncomfortable with change, and with those who were 'different'. I knew 
Jeremy didn't like to fight. I knew that wasn't normal werewolf behavior. Yet I 
could overlook it, even accept it, because I knew he could fight. As a wolf, 
that was what was important to me—the ability, not the desire. Not every member 
of the Pack felt that way. Take Malcolm. To him, a werewolf was a fighter, and a 
werewolf's value was directly related to his skills in combat. For Malcolm, 
having his only son, from the earliest age, show no interest in fighting, was a 
humiliation beyond bearing. 
If Jeremy's refusal to fight lowered him in the opinion of some Pack members, 
knowing that he had visions would probably have gotten him exiled outright. That 
went beyond the realm of individual difference. Even I had a problem accepting 
it. Unlike the rest of the Pack, though, I knew that Jeremy saw things, and knew 
things, always bad, always about a Pack brother. 
After nearly two hours, Jeremy fell into a semi-doze, disturbed only by the 
twitches and moans of a fitful sleep. When I was sure he wasn't going to wake up 
again, I crept into the room and fell asleep on the sofa. 
The next day, Jeremy stayed close to the phone. Malcolm noticed. Malcolm always 
noticed Jeremy's moods, partly because it meant Jeremy was more vulnerable to 
verbal jabs, and partly probably because he hated the thought that something bad 
might be happening in his son's life that hadn't originated with him. 
The phone rang twice that day. Both times Jeremy bolted for it, which didn't 
escape Malcolm's notice either. The first time it was the grocer confirming our 
order and the second time it was one of Jeremy's employers asking whether he'd 
received a delivery. 
Late that afternoon, Malcolm went out. Where? Didn't know, didn't care. He was 
gone, and that was enough. Jeremy tried to curb his restlessness by painting, 
one hobby he never dared practice in front of his father. At least marksmanship 
was a sport, which made it a marginally worthy pastime for a werewolf. But 
painting? That would open him up to a whole new arena of parental mockery. So 
when Malcolm was home, the paints and canvasses were locked in a basement 
storage box. 
Today, though, even that hobby couldn't distract Jeremy from whatever bothered 
him. So, instead, he threw himself into physical activity, playing three 
straight games of touch football with me before dinner. While we played, he kept 
the study window open, despite the subfreezing temperature. Every now and then 
he'd stop in mid-play, motion for me to wait and cock his head toward the 
window, as if thinking he'd heard the phone ring. When no sound came, he'd shake 
his head and resume the game. 
After dinner I reminded Jeremy that it was our hunt night. We had two joint 
Change nights per week—one for hunting and one for running. As well, Jeremy 
encouraged me to run by myself once a week, and he did the same. One advantage 
to Changing so often was that if something came up and interrupted our schedule, 
we could skip a run or two with no danger. So I knew, given Jeremy's mood, that 
he probably planned to skip our hunt that night, and I knew that we could skip 
it, but I wasn't going to let that happen without a fight. On my scale of Change 
events, solo runs ranked at the bottom, runs with Jeremy fell in the middle, and 
my absolute favorite—the one thing I loved even more than a full Pack hunt—was 
our weekly hunt together. 
When I reminded him that our hunt was scheduled for that night, I was fully 
braced for verbal battle but, to my surprise, Jeremy told me to grab our coats 
and boots. I understand his reasoning now—like playing touch football, a hunt 
was a displaced form of taking action. As he'd said last night, until whomever 
he expected to call did call, he couldn't help, and since he couldn't help, he'd 
vent that frustration through physical activity of a different sort. One might 
wonder though, why he'd he leave the house if he was expecting a call. We were 
decades away from answering machines and call display. If someone phoned, he'd 
miss it. I think, though, that in some ways Jeremy was almost as uncomfortable 
with his psychic abilities as I was. At that age, he hadn't yet learned to trust 
them and, when the phone hadn't rang in twenty hours, he'd probably decided it 
wasn't going to ring at all. 
We caught a fawn that night. Normally young deer aren't on our menu, but that 
one was a fall fawn, born out of season and abandoned by its mother. Better to 
kill it quickly and let its death serve some purpose, than leave it to starve. 
We were still feeding when the phone rang. Jeremy had 'forgotten' to close the 
study window again, so the distant ring cut through the stillness of the forest. 
Jeremy tore off to Change. I listened. The phone rang only three times, then 
stopped. Jeremy was fast with his Changes, but he wasn't that fast. 
By the time I finished my Change, Jeremy was already in the house. I raced 
inside to find him stalking the rooms in search of something . . . or someone. 
One sniff and I knew what he was looking for. We found Malcolm in the kitchen, 
pouring a beer. 
"Did you—?" Jeremy started, then stopped and made his voice casual. "I thought I 
heard the phone. Was it for you?" 
"No idea," Malcolm said with his back to us. "Strangest thing. I picked it up, 
said hello, and no one answered." He turned and fixed Jeremy with a look. "Very 
strange, don't you think?" 
I didn't think it was strange at all that someone wouldn't want to speak to 
Malcolm, but I kept my mouth shut. 
Jeremy shrugged. "Probably a wrong number." 
"I'm sure it was." 
Jeremy poured me a glass of milk, then grabbed a bag of cookies and led me to 
the study. Malcolm followed. He walked to the sofa and dropped onto it, beer 
sloshing to the floor. I looked at the frothy puddle and bit back a snarl. Of 
course he didn't care about it. He wasn't the one responsible for cleaning the 
floors—or anything else in this house. The floors were my job, but I wasn't 
wiping it up with him looking on. I'd let it dry and scrub the spot off 
tomorrow. 
Jeremy stood in the doorway, looking at Malcolm and struggling to hide his 
dismay. "I have work to do," he said finally. 
"That's fine. You do it. I'll just sit here and keep quiet." Malcolm's gaze 
traveled to the phone—the only one in the house—and his lips curved in a smile. 
"Seems a good place to relax tonight, don't you think?" 
Jeremy poured himself a brandy, took a sheaf of his work papers and sat down. I 
grabbed my book and plopped onto the throw rug to read. 
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. Jeremy hesitated only a moment, with a 
furtive glance toward his father, then he answered it. 
"Hello?" 
Relief flooded Jeremy's eyes as I heard a man's voice reply. Malcolm put down 
his newspaper and perked up, making no effort to hide his eavesdropping. Jeremy 
gripped the receiver tighter to his ear, muffling the voice on the other end, 
and turned his back to his father. 
"Slow down . . . no, slow—wait. Stop. You can tell me when I get there. Let me 
grab a pen." 
He took a pen and paper from the desk. Malcolm stood, sauntered over and leaned 
around Jeremy, trying to see the paper as Jeremy wrote. Jeremy covered his 
notes, then ripped the paper from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. 
"I'll be there as soon as I can." 
When he hung up, he turned to Malcolm and tensed, bracing himself for the 
questions. But Malcolm just yawned as if the whole affair had proved 
disappointingly dull, and strolled to the door. He'd taken one step into the 
hall when he leaned back inside. 
"Oh, if you need someone to look after the boy while you're gone, just ask." He 
looked at me with a teeth-baring grin. "I'll take good care of him." 
When Malcolm was gone, Jeremy glanced at me. "That is a problem," he murmured. 
"I'm going with you." 
A shake of the head. "No, Clay, not this time." 
He picked up the phone and dialed. 
"Jorge? It's Jeremy. How are you?" A short pause. "Is Antonio there?" A longer 
pause, at the end of which Jeremy winced. "That's right. And he's flying 
straight here Saturday afterward, isn't he? Can't believe I forgot that." Pause. 
"No, no. It's not important. I was just calling to discuss our plans for the 
weekend." 
Jeremy chatted for another minute with Jorge, then hung up. After a moment's 
pause, he sighed, shook his head and looked at me. 
"I'm going with you," I said. 
"Yes, I suppose you are." 

Lesson

We caught a plane to Los Angeles and arrived there late that day. Once in the 
city, Jeremy rented a car, bought a map and found the address he'd been given. 
When he reached the motel, he swung into the lot, then hit the brakes, and sat 
there, blocking the entrance, until someone trying to leave blared his horn. 
Jeremy pulled into the first parking spot, checked his scrap of paper, checked 
the address on motel office, and shook his head. 
One glance at the place—and one whiff of the smell coming through the open car 
windows—and I understood his hesitation. The motel was a dump, the lowest, 
cheapest form of accommodation possible, the type usually rented by the hour or 
by the month. In Louisiana, Jeremy's motel had been cheap, but it had been 
clean. It had to be. No werewolf in his right mind could sleep in a place that 
smelled like this. After triple-checking the address, a look of sadness, mixed 
with a twinge of apprehension, washed over Jeremy's face, a look that said the 
situation was worse than he'd expected, and maybe worse than he was prepared to 
handle. 
"Come on," he said, opening his door. When I made a face, he added, "Breathe 
through your mouth until you get used to it." 
Jeremy knocked on a room door. After some rustling from within, the curtain 
cracked open, then fell shut, and the door opened. Staying almost hidden behind 
the door, Peter ushered us inside, then closed and locked it. My first 
impression of him that day was the smell. He hadn't neglected his hygiene too 
badly, maybe a few days without a shower, but there was an unnatural chemical 
stink to his sweat, something that brought back flashes of my nights prowling 
the alleys in Baton Rouge. Peter stepped from behind the door. A dull sheen of 
grease coated his long red hair, a short reddish beard covered his cheeks and 
chin, and his shirt and jeans were dotted with a brownish-red substance of their 
own—blood. 
"Thank god you're—" Peter started. Then he saw me and stopped. "You brought the 
boy?" 
Jeremy hefted his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. "Antonio's out of town on 
business. There's no one else I could ask. Not without answering too many 
questions." 
"Oh." Peter's gaze shot to me, then back to Jeremy. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—" 
"Clayton will be fine." He handed Peter a folded set of trousers and a shirt. 
"Get that clothing off first, give it to me, take a shower and put these on. 
Then tell me what happened." 
Jeremy stuffed Peter's bloodied clothing into a plastic bag and ran it out to 
the car. It took him a few minutes to return, probably because he couldn't just 
throw the bag in the trunk, but had to find a hiding place until he could burn 
them. 
When Peter finished showering and dressing, he came back into the bedroom, and 
took a seat in the chair by the television. Jeremy and I sat on the end of the 
bed. 
It may seem to reflect poorly on Jeremy's parental judgment that he'd let me 
listen in on what was certain to be a discussion unsuitable for a young boy, but 
that's how things were done in the werewolf world. When it came to the violent 
facts of our lives, the Pack never covered our ears or sent us to the next room. 
These were things we had to know, and postponing such knowledge wouldn't be 
protecting us, it would be the worst kind of recklessness. You couldn't let a 
Pack son grow up believing werewolf life was all rabbit hunts and pleasant runs 
through the forest, or the first time he met a mutt would be the last. So too, 
with Peter's story, there was a lesson to be learned for any young werewolf. 
"I know what you're thinking," Peter said, looked down at his hands as he 
worried a hangnail. We'd been sitting in silence for nearly five minutes now, 
waiting for Peter to begin. "You're thinking that Dominic was right, that I 
wasn't mature enough to handle it." He looked up, meeting Jeremy's eyes. "But it 
wasn't like that. I didn't walk away from the Pack and forget everything. I 
remembered the things you and I used to talk about, how to keep better control, 
how to make things easier. I Changed twice a week. I hunted. I never had more 
than one drink at a sitting. I was careful, more careful than I'd ever been in 
the Pack because I knew I had to be. One screw-up and that'd be it; Dominic 
would have me killed." 
Jeremy didn't protest this. He couldn't. It was true. The only thing more 
dangerous to Pack safety than a renegade mutt was a renegade mutt who used to be 
Pack, and knew our secrets. 
"I tried. I tried so damned hard!" Peter ripped off the hangnail, and winced 
with the pain. The finger started to bleed and he stared at the blood a moment, 
then shook his head. "I saw it coming. That's what makes me so mad. I saw it 
coming, but I kept telling myself I could handle it." He wiped his bloodied 
thumb on his pants. "When I started the tour, it was me and three other guys 
doing the A/V work. Last year, one guy quit. They said they'd hire a 
replacement, but they didn't. Then this summer, they fired the third guy, and 
didn't even bother promising a replacement. So it was two of us doing the work 
of four. Concert days, we'd be up at dawn, work all day setting up, work through 
the show, get maybe two hours sleep and be right back at it. Once I was so beat, 
I screwed up the sound levels, and I knew if I did it again, I'd be out of a 
job. The other guy I work with was taking stuff, stuff to keep him awake." 
"Drugs?" Jeremy asked. 
Peter nodded. "For most guys here, it's like taking coffee. Everyone does it. I 
told myself I'd be careful. I took a little, and it worked. I could stay up 
during a concert run, then crash on the tour bus afterwards. I watched for other 
effects, but there weren't any. So when things got busier, I took some more. 
Then when I started having trouble sleeping, I took something for that. On my 
days off, when I got down, feeling lonely, thinking maybe I shouldn't have left 
the Pack, I'd take something to make me feel better. Pretty soon I was—" He 
swallowed. "I was taking a lot. And noticing problems, like mood swings and 
trouble Changing, but I thought I could handle it." 
"And then two nights ago . . .?" Jeremy prompted. 
Peter blinked, as if surprised Jeremy knew, but he only nodded. "Two nights ago. 
There was this party, with the crew. I took some dope, no more than usual, but 
it made me edgy. I—I haven't Changed in a few weeks. I tried once, but I 
couldn't, so I gave up. Anyway, I was feeling real edgy, like I had too much 
energy, so I thought maybe if I—" He glanced at me. "I, uh, thought some, uh, 
company might help. So I went back to this girl's room, and we were—" Another 
glance at me. "—together, but it wasn't helping. It only made me edgier. Things 
got rough and she didn't like that, so she tried to leave, but I—I, uh . . 
wasn't done. When she tried to get dressed, I saw red. I didn't think, I just 
reacted. I threw her and she hit her head." He inhaled sharply. "I didn't think 
I threw her that hard, I really didn't, but . . ." 
"She died." Jeremy brushed back his bangs. "Okay, we can handle this, and I'll 
help you, but only on one condition—" 
"There's more," Peter said. His gaze darted away from Jeremy's and he rubbed his 
hands together, shivering. "I—she—" He stopped and swallowed. "She had a 
roommate. I was . . . " Another swallow, harder. "I was cleaning up the room 
when the other girl came in. I—I killed her." 
Peter lurched to his feet and walked to the window. He pulled back the curtain, 
then quickly shut it. Jeremy said nothing, just sat there, his eyes downcast so 
neither of us could see the expression in them. After a moment, Peter shuddered, 
then turned around. 
"I killed her. That wasn't an accident. The first girl—I can't say that wasn't 
my fault because it was, because I let myself get into that situation, but I 
didn't mean to kill her. With the other one, I knew what I was doing. She walked 
in, she saw the body, she saw me, and I couldn't think of anything else to do." 
"Where did you bury them?" Jeremy asked, his voice low, eyes still downcast. 
"I—I didn't. I left them there." 
Jeremy's head shot up. "You left—?" 
"I panicked. I took off, and I checked into the first motel I found, and I was 
going to take a shower, clear my head, and plan stuff, but then I just crashed. 
When I woke up, it was yesterday evening, and I didn't know if I should still go 
back, so I called you—" 
"Okay," Jeremy said, lifting a hand to cut him off. "We'll have to see what we 
can do. If it's too late, we'll have to deal with that. But back to my 
condition. One thing you have to agree to if you want my help." 
"Anything," Peter said. 
Jeremy's condition seemed simple enough: Peter had to rejoin the Pack. The 
problem, as they both knew, was that if Dominic found out what had happened 
here, Peter was a dead man, no matter how vehemently he might promise to reform. 
There were no second chances. 
Peter could argue that the whole Pack suspected Malcolm killed the occasional 
human for sport, and remained not only alive, but a Pack brother in good 
standing. But there were other factors to consider. First, no one except Jeremy 
could testify to Malcolm's murderous hobbies, and he knew that if he ever signed 
his father's death warrant, he'd be signing his own as well. Second, Peter had 
defied Dominic by taking this job, and proceeded to prove Dominic's fears well 
founded, so his execution would stand as a lesson to the rest of the Pack youth. 
Third, Malcolm was Malcolm, and Peter was only Peter. 
Malcolm was a Danvers, and an integral part of the Pack, someone Dominic could 
rely on to keep the mutts in check and solve other unsavory 'problems'. Malcolm 
might snipe behind Dominic's back, but he was a dedicated Pack brother and a 
first-rate fighter, all of which made him popular with a certain segment of the 
group. Peter was a nobody, a kid who hadn't been a full-fledged werewolf with 
the Pack long enough to prove his worth. If Malcolm wanted to kill the odd 
human, then as long as he did it quietly and cleaned up after himself, Dominic 
would look the other way. But Peter? One misstep, and he'd be an educational 
footnote in the Pack Legacy. 
Jeremy knew better than to take this to Dominic and use his own favored position 
with the Alpha to argue for clemency. In a case like this, Dominic would take 
his interference as rebellion and Jeremy knew he'd be risking his growing status 
in the Pack if the Alpha knew he'd interfered in a matter of Pack discipline. 
The trick, then, would be to clean up Peter's mess so well that no one would 
ever know it had happened. Then Peter could just waltz back to Dominic and say 
'hey, I decided I want to come back' and all would be forgiven, right? Not a 
chance. Getting him back into the Pack would require serious negotiating, but 
Jeremy had played go-between before, and he was ready to do it again. 
Peter trusted Jeremy enough to agree. Not that he had much choice in the matter, 
really, but at least he was clever enough to realize his best shot when he saw 
it. So the plan was set. In an hour, it would be dark. They would use the next 
few hours to prepare, then they would return to the murder scene and—if it 
hadn't been discovered—clean it up. 
As tempting as it would be to flee town afterward, it was too dangerous. Peter 
couldn't remember who, if anyone, at the party had seen him leave with the girl, 
so he couldn't disappear at the same time she did. He'd have to return to work 
and, if all seemed fine, give his notice and work out his two weeks. Jeremy and 
I would stay in Los Angeles with him for the first week, to help him through 
anything else that might come up. Then Peter would hole up at Stonehaven with us 
while Jeremy negotiated his return to the Pack. A solid, straightforward plan . 
. . one that was about to hit a very big, very determined obstacle. 
Every adult member of the Pack knew how to dispose of a body. Normally, though, 
such a task involved a dead mutt, and was usually the result of a hunt or a 
fight, both of which always took place in a location that made body disposal 
easy. Even a mutt knows that if he wins the battle, he'll have a body to get rid 
of, so he's not going to pick a fight in a public setting. 
In those days, although the Pack would kill any mutt they found killing humans, 
they didn't actively look for murderers. If they'd accidentally happened across 
a mutt kill, their only thought would have been to prevent future risks by 
hunting down the mutt. The idea of cleaning up his mess first would never have 
occurred to them, so there was little reason to know how to do so. 
If another member of the Pack ever had to clean up a killing committed in an 
apartment, he'd probably have done what any human in such a situation would do—
try his best using the knowledge he picked up from TV or movies. Jeremy didn't 
watch TV, and although he occasionally went to the movies with Antonio or with 
me, his tastes ran to comedies, historical sagas and other genres that wouldn't 
teach him anything about police procedural. He did, however, read. Though he 
could usually be found reading nonfiction or a newspaper, when he wanted 
entertainment, he often chose the mental exercise of a good whodunit. Between 
mystery novels and newspaper crime accounts, he knew something about modern 
criminal investigation techniques, and how to thwart them. He also had hands-on 
experience. The lab tech may have been the first human he'd ever killed but, 
thanks to his father, it wasn't the first human body he'd disposed of. 
All this meant that Jeremy knew more than the average twenty-five-year-old knew—
or should know—about cleaning up a crime scene. It did not, however, mean that 
he was an expert in the matter. He made mistakes that day, including returning 
to the murder scene without first making sure the crime hadn't been reported. 
For all we knew, someone had found the bodies, and the police were staking out 
the apartment, hoping the killer might return. Luck was with us that night, 
though. The girls lived in a rundown tenement, the kind of place where no one 
would pay much attention to a scream or a thump in the upstairs apartment. And 
they didn't lead the kind of lives where an employer or friend or family member 
would start worrying if they didn't show up for a couple of days. 
So the apartment was exactly as Peter had left it. Or, I should say, I assume it 
was exactly as he'd left it. I never saw it. The educational portion of this 
trip ended well before I got a look inside that room. Jeremy set me up in an 
alley next to the building, where I was to play lookout. Whether he really 
expected me to watch for danger, or whether he was just giving me a job to do 
while I stayed out of the way is questionable, but I played my role to the hilt, 
keeping my eyes, ears and nose on alert. Nothing happened, though. Jeremy and 
Peter presumably cleaned the room as best they could. Then they brought the 
wrapped bodies down to the car, which was parked in the back alley, loaded them 
up, and we left. 
After we buried the bodies—okay, after Jeremy and Peter buried them while I 
played 'lookout'—we had one more job to do: burn Peter's bloodied clothing. 
Jeremy knew enough not to dispose of them anywhere near the bodies, so we headed 
out of the city and dropped Peter off at a park, then we continued on to find a 
place to burn the clothes. The 'park' was a nature preserve Jeremy had found on 
the map. Before we found a motel for the night, Peter had to Change. No matter 
how difficult it might be with the drugs still in his system, Jeremy insisted on 
it. 
While we disposed of Peter's clothing, Jeremy talked the situation over with me, 
making sure I understood what had happened and why. He no longer worried that I 
might be traumatized by such events, or seemed surprised when I wasn't, finally 
having realized that I'd never led the kind of sheltered life that could be so 
easily scarred. At first I'm sure he wondered whether my acceptance of such 
things was a cause for concern, maybe a sign that I lacked a conscience. By now, 
though, we'd been through enough for him to understand the truth about me. I 
couldn't grieve for those two dead girls any more than I could ever grieve for 
any person, human or werewolf, that I hadn't known. 
That didn't mean that I couldn't understand the tragedy of their passing. Every 
death should have a purpose. If it doesn't, then it is tragedy, and anyone who 
commits such an act has violated a basic law of nature. The only excuse for 
killing an animal is for food. The only excuse for killing a human is protection 
of self or Pack. Peter had killed the second girl in self-defense, but if he 
hadn't killed the first one, he wouldn't have needed to kill the second, so both 
deaths were senseless and wrong. I understood this. Even if I could stand there, 
stone-faced, as Peter and Jeremy disposed of two bodies, that didn't mean my 
brain wasn't processing the tragedy of it, and that I wasn't storing this lesson 
away in my memory. What I'd seen that day shouldn't have happened and, knowing 
how it had happened, I'd make sure I never let myself get into a similar 
situation. 
When we arrived back at the nature preserve, Jeremy parked a quarter-mile away. 
Then we walked to the fence, climbed it and headed into the woods. Jeremy 
followed Peter's trail to a pile of clothing haphazardly shoved under a tree. He 
sniffed the air, tilting his head to catch the wind. I did the same, and 
couldn't pick up a fresh scent, meaning Peter was still on his run. 
"Can we go, too?" I asked as Jeremy pushed Peter's clothing farther under the 
bush.
"I suppose so," he said. "Just remember—"
"Hide my clothing better than that," I said. "Yeah, I know." I started to look 
for a place to

Change, then glanced over my shoulder at him. "Can I go find him as soon as I'm 
done? Or do I have to wait for you?" Jeremy chuckled. "Since when have you ever 
had to wait for me?" he said, and disappeared into the forest. 
Jeremy was right, of course. Even at Stonehaven, where I could gain a couple of 
minutes by tossing my clothing wherever it landed, while he folded his, I could 
never Change faster than he could. At the Pack meets, I routinely beat Jorge and 
Stephen for Change speed, so that was a start. 
When I finished Changing, Jeremy was lying outside my thicket, head on his paws, 
eyes closed, as if he'd been waiting so long he'd fallen asleep. I snorted and 
pounced, but he rolled out of the way easily, sprang to his feet, twisted around 
and pinned me by the neck before I even had time to think of my next move. I 
sighed, breath billowing out in the cold air. He gave a low tremor of a growl 
that I'd learned to interpret as his wolf-version of a chuckle. 
He released my neck and turned, as if to run, presenting me with his flank. I 
shouldn't have fallen for it. Only the most incompetent wolf would turn from his 
opponent like that. I was young, though, young and hopeful. When Jeremy turned, 
I scrambled up and dove at his flank, jaws open. At the last second, he dropped 
to the ground, and I flew over his back and pitched muzzle-first into the 
ground. While I lay there, sulking with a noseful of dirt, he prodded my 
hindquarters and gave a soft growl, telling me the game was over, we had to go 
find Peter. 
When I got to my feet, Jeremy jerked his head, making an arc to the left. Then 
did the same to the right. Communication in wolf-form is never easy, but we've 
learned to supplement the basic growls, yips and snorts with enough human-
charades to get across a more complicated message. Jeremy was telling me that 
the game wasn't really over—it had just changed form. Since there was no rush to 
find Peter, we could make a tracking sport of it. One of us would go left, the 
other right, neither following the easy trail Peter had left. We'd see who could 
find him first. I answered by tearing off to the left. 
After about a hundred feet, I stopped and set to work. Tracking by secondary 
clues is much harder than following a trail. You have to use all your senses: 
listening for twigs crackling underfoot, sniffing for a scent on the breeze, 
looking for movement in the shadows. Being more than a bit overanxious to beat 
Jeremy, I took off after the first noise I heard, and startled a couple of field 
mice. That was embarrassing—mistaking two mice for a hundred-and-seventy pound 
wolf. After that, I forced myself to take a two minute breather. When I felt 
calm enough to continue, I set out again. 
I found a path and padded along it, nose and ears twitching for some sign of 
Peter. I'd gone about fifty yards when there came a sound so loud that I dove 
for cover, fearing gunfire. 
When my heart stopped thudding, I realized that the noise came from something 
crashing through the undergrowth. Had Peter frightened a buck? Or a stray dog? 
Whatever it was, it was large, and it was running full out, not caring how much 
sound it made. I crept from my hiding spot and moved a few cautious steps down 
the path. The wind shifted then, bringing a scent that made my eyes widen in 
shock. Jeremy? No, that couldn't be right. Jeremy would never crash through the 
forest like a panicked deer. I snorted, clearing my nose to sniff again. Then I 
caught Peter's scent . . . and that of another werewolf, one who definitely 
shouldn't be out here. 
A yip rang out, the high-pitched yelp of a surprised wolf. I didn't recognize 
the voice, so I knew it was Peter. A growl followed. I knew that growl, 
remembered it from four years ago, listening as I'd cowered in my den in Baton 
Rouge. The hairs on my neck sprang up. I stood there, riveted to the ground, 
legs quaking. Then the sound of Jeremy crashing through the undergrowth snapped 
me back to the present and I understood what was happening, and what was about 
to happen. 
I shot forward, running as fast as I could. I veered off the path to take the 
shortest route. Twigs whipped my face. One caught my left eye, the sudden sting 
forcing it closed, but I just narrowed the other eye and kept running. 
I made it to the clearing first. There, inside, was a wolf with dark red fur—
Peter—lying on his back. Looming over him was a massive black wolf. 
Peter twisted and bucked, hind legs kicking, but Malcolm had him pinned. Malcolm 
growled, lowered his face to Peter's and looked him square in the eye. Peter 
struggled wildly and managed to claw Malcolm in the belly. With a roar, Malcolm 
grabbed Peter by the neck ruff and dashed him, headfirst, into a boulder. Peter 
went limp, but his chest continued to rise and fall. Malcolm stepped over 
Peter's prone body and pulled his head back for the throat slash that would end 
Peter's life. Then the bushes behind him parted, and Jeremy leapt through. 

Player

Jeremy sprang at Malcolm and hit him in the left flank, knocking him to the 
ground. Malcolm's surprise lasted about a millisecond. Then he jumped to his 
feet and charged. Jeremy tried to feint, but the momentum of his spring left him 
off-balance and Malcolm hit him square in the side of his ribcage. Jeremy's 
breath flew out in a groan and he skidded sideways to the ground. Malcolm lunged 
for a throat-hold, but Jeremy managed to scuttle backward fast enough to get out 
of his way. 
As Malcolm swung around again, Jeremy leapt to his feet and dove out of the path 
of his charge. Jeremy barely had time to recover from the dive before Malcolm 
twisted around and rushed him. This time, though, when Jeremy tried to evade, 
Malcolm was ready. He swerved in mid-lunge and caught Jeremy by the hind leg, 
throwing him down. 
As much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew Jeremy was no match for his 
father. At forty-seven, Malcolm was a werewolf in his prime, having the 
experience of age yet none of its disabilities. The only wolf in the Pack who 
could beat him was Dominic and even that was starting to be questioned as 
Dominic's age slowed his reflexes. Mutts came to Stonehaven for one reason: to 
challenge the best. That 'best' was not, and never would be, Jeremy. 
Although I knew this, I waited out the first few minutes, hoping I was wrong, 
and afraid if I jumped in, I'd get in Jeremy's way. Jeremy recovered from the 
first throw-down, and managed to slice a gash in Malcolm's foreleg but that was 
the only hit he scored. Within five minutes, Jeremy was bleeding from his hind 
leg and his left ear, and the froth around his mouth was tinged with pink. 
I knew then that no amount of luck was going to get Jeremy through this. Nor was 
staying out of his way going to help him. So I leapt in, snarling, and threw 
myself on Malcolm's back. For a full-grown wolf, this is a good offensive move, 
pitching your weight onto your opponent and bringing him down. For an eighty 
pound pup, it was like dropping a terrier onto a bull Mastiff. I executed my 
leap perfectly, and landed square on his back, fangs finding purchase in the 
loose skin behind his neck. And all Malcolm did was huff in surprise, then fling 
me off. 
When I got back to my feet, I changed tactics. If I couldn't be formidable, at 
least I could be annoying. While the two wolves fought, I darted around 
Malcolm's legs and tail, nipping and tripping him. It distracted him enough to 
prevent a quick victory, but not enough to let Jeremy win. Finally, Malcolm 
tired of snarling and snapping at me. With one full-on charge, he knocked Jeremy 
flying into the undergrowth. Then he turned on me. 
I should have run. I know that. But running would mean leaving Jeremy behind, 
and I couldn't do it. I pulled myself up to my full height, braced my forelegs 
against the ground, lowered my head between my shoulder-blades and snarled at 
him. Malcolm stood there for a moment, watching me, head slightly tilted, an 
unreadable expression in his eyes. Then he lumbered over to me, lowered his head 
until we were muzzle to muzzle, and growled. I growled back. Malcolm met my eyes 
and I swear he smiled. Then Jeremy hit him from behind, knocking him away from 
me, and the fight began again. 
Any hope we had of besting Malcolm faded fast. Jeremy was hurt, and getting more 
hurt by the minute. I was only wearing myself out. Soon Malcolm had Jeremy 
pinned by the neck. I went wild then, attacking his head with every ounce of 
strength I had left. He just pinned Jeremy with his forepaws and threw me off. 
By the time I recovered, he had Jeremy by the throat again. 
Jeremy's eyes were closed. When I saw that, everything in me went cold. Then I 
saw that Jeremy's chest continued to rise and fall. Malcolm loosened his grip 
and lifted his head. The fur around Jeremy's neck was wet, but with saliva, not 
blood. Malcolm hadn't bitten Jeremy, only choked him until he lost 
consciousness. Malcolm backed off then, gaze fixed on his son. 
Had he realized, in that last moment, that he couldn't kill Jeremy? Yes. But not 
for the reason one might think. Malcolm couldn't kill Jeremy because, if he did, 
he would lose everything. His father had made sure of that in his will. In death 
Edward Danvers had granted Jeremy better protection than he'd ever been able to 
provide in life. He'd written a will that not only gave Jeremy Stonehaven and 
all its assets, but stipulated that on Jeremy's death—no matter how he died—the 
estate would go to charity. And, perhaps even worse, a letter would be delivered 
to Dominic or his successor, detailing crimes that would guarantee Malcolm's 
execution. Should Jeremy not die, but be permanently incapacitated, the same 
provisions took effect. So Malcolm was trapped. His life and his livelihood 
depended on the continued good health of his son. 
After a long, regret-filled stare at Jeremy, Malcolm turned to me. 
I raced forward, swerved past him and wheeled, positioning myself over Jeremy's 
head, not yet old enough to understand that Malcolm didn't dare kill him. When 
he stepped toward me, I lowered my head and growled. He took another step. I 
snapped at his foreleg, teeth clicking hard when he pulled back. For a long 
moment, he just looked at me. Then he turned to his original quarry: Peter, who 
was still unconscious. 
I waited until he was far enough from Jeremy that I could be sure he wasn't 
trying to divert my attention. Then I sprang over top of Peter and growled. 
Malcolm stopped short, eyes widening. This, I suppose, he hadn't expected. 
Again, he stepped toward his prey. Again, I warned him off, forelegs braced, fur 
on end, making me look, oh, at least a good five pounds heavier. 
I drew back my lips and snarled. He stopped and tilted his head, gaze locking 
with mine. I could feel the depth of that gaze as he studied me. He feinted 
left. I blocked him. He darted forward. I snapped, this time in an awkward swipe 
at his throat. He pulled back and, again, I saw a smile in his eyes. 
Several more times he tried to get around me. I know now that he'd been toying 
with me, testing my willingness to protect Peter. If he'd wanted me out of the 
way, he could have grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and tossed me aside. At 
the time, though, I truly believed I was the only thing standing between a Pack 
brother and certain death, and I put everything I had into countering each of 
Malcolm's moves. Once I even managed to snag his foreleg. When that happened, he 
pulled back, as if in shock. He looked down at the small wound, then at me, and 
I saw something in his gaze that made my stomach turn: admiration. 
I lunged at him, snarling. He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the 
ground. For a minute, he held me there, not clamping down, just holding me, like 
a wolf with a misbehaving pup. While holding me, he glanced at Peter. Resolution 
flickered in his eyes, as if he'd decided something. Then he backed off me, 
huffed once, billowing steam from his nostrils, and loped into the forest. 
I kept watch over Jeremy and Peter until they awoke. Jeremy was first. About ten 
minutes after Malcolm left, he started twitching and whimpering as if struggling 
to wake up. Then he shot to his feet and looked around, lips pulled back in a 
snarl. When he saw me, he relaxed. He circled the clearing once, sniffing the 
air, but Malcolm was long gone. Peter stirred then and, after a few prods from 
Jeremy, opened his eyes. He looked around dazedly, then his lids drooped. When 
Jeremy prodded him again, he snapped at him. Jeremy snarled back and prodded 
Peter until he got to his feet. Peter shook himself, then blinked, as if 
suddenly remembering what had happened. Jeremy herded us back to where I'd left 
my clothing. We took turns Changing while the other two stood guard. 
Once we'd all Changed, Jeremy assessed injuries, beginning with me. I had only 
bumps and scrapes from being thrown around by Malcolm. 
"I'm sorry," Jeremy said softly as he fingered a rising bruise on my wrist, 
making sure the bone wasn't broken. "I shouldn't have brought you along." 
"I'm okay." 
A wry quarter-smile and a pat on the back. "I see that. But it shouldn't have 
happened. I should have guessed what he was up to back at the house." 
"And what was he up to?" Peter said. "Besides trying to kill me." 
Jeremy motioned for Peter to sit on a rock and began checking his head injury. 
"That, I'm afraid, was his only goal. To kill you." 
"Why?" I asked. 
Jeremy looked at me, as if trying to decide whether this was information I 
needed to have just yet. "What Peter did—killing a human after leaving the Pack—
is grounds for execution." 
"I know," I said. "If Dominic found out, he'd order someone to kill Peter." I 
paused. "And that would be Malcolm, wouldn't it? That's what Stephen said last 
year, that stuff like that is Malcolm's job." 
"Oh, it's not a job," Peter muttered. "It's a pleasure." 
"So Dominic found out, then, right?" I said. "He found out and he sent Malcolm 
after Peter." 
"Shit," Peter said, staring at me. "How old is this kid again?" 
Jeremy shook his head. "Dominic didn't send Malcolm. I suspect it's more 
complicated than that. Ordering a Pack member—or a former Pack member—to be 
killed isn't, well, it isn't easy for an Alpha. It would be simpler for all 
concerned if that Pack member died before the Alpha had to deliver the order. 
Dominic would . . . appreciate that." 
"Oh, I get it now," Peter said. "Malcolm kills me. Then he tells Dominic, 
probably saying I 'resisted arrest' or some shit like that. Saves Dominic from 
ordering an execution. So Malcolm earns himself a pat on the head from the Alpha 
for solving an ugly problem." 
"I believe he hopes to earn more than a pat on the head. He may win Dominic's 
gratitude, but I think he's more interested in making a point to the rest of the 
Pack, proving that he can take care of problems like this swiftly and 
efficiently." 
"But why?" I asked. 
"Ah, shit," Peter said. "Don't tell me he's angling to make Alpha." 
"He's been angling for years," Jeremy said. "Now he's campaigning." 
Both Peter and I opened our mouths, but Jeremy waved away our questions. He 
proclaimed that Peter might have a mild concussion, but seemed otherwise 
uninjured. Finally, his attention turned to his own wounds, which were much 
worse than ours. Besides bruises around his neck, he had a jagged gaping wound 
down his leg and he winced each time he bent over or straightened, probably from 
bruised ribs. The leg would require stitches, but for now he wrapped it with 
strips from his shirt. Then shrugged on his jacket, brushed off our concern and 
declared himself fit for the walk back to the car. 
Malcolm was waiting for us. He wasn't lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out. 
That wasn't his style. Had he wanted to kill Peter, he could have done so back 
in the clearing. 
No one had wondered aloud why Malcolm had cut short his mission, but I'm sure 
that question was on Jeremy's mind. He had enough experience with his father to 
know this wasn't over. As we walked to the road, Jeremy kept looking from side 
to side and discreetly sniffing the air as he searched for signs of Malcolm. He 
had us stick to the middle of the deserted dirt road, as far from the shadows of 
the embankments as possible. 
Jeremy moved slowly, and although part of that was caution, it was also 
necessity, as his injured leg kept giving way. As we rounded the corner to where 
he'd pulled the car off into the trees, his foot caught on a root. He tripped 
and instinctively threw his weight onto his injured leg for balance. His knee 
buckled and he inhaled sharply. 
"Physician, heal thyself," came a voice from deeper in the trees. 
I caught Jeremy's arm to brace him, but he only patted my shoulder, slipped from 
my grasp and pulled himself up straight. When I peered into the darkness, I 
could make out Malcolm's form perched on the trunk of our rental car. 
"Leg giving you some trouble?" he said. "That's funny. I feel fine." 
To prove it, he leapt off the car and sauntered over. Peter hung back, but 
Jeremy kept moving forward. When he skirted Malcolm, their eyes met and Malcolm 
laughed. 
"Was that a glare, boy? An actual glare? Well, that's a start. Of course, a real 
man would take a swing at me, but that would be to much to hope for, wouldn't 
it?" 
Jeremy put a hand between my shoulder blades and steered me toward the car. 
"Not even going to ask what I want?" Malcolm said. 
"We know what you want," Peter said, struggling to throw some bravado into his 
voice. "Me. But you're too late. You caught me off guard once. It won't happen 
again." 
"Of course it will. You're a child. I could take you down any time. Could have 
done it back there if I'd wanted. Bet you're wondering why I didn't, aren't 
you?" 
"I know why you didn't," Jeremy said as he unlocked the car. "You could justify 
killing him quickly, and argue self-defense, but once Clayton and I became 
involved, things became more complicated. Kill Peter under those circumstances, 
and the Pack will wonder why you carried out his punishment yourself, instead of 
bringing him in. So now you're falling back on plan B—demanding that I turn him 
over so you can bring him to Dominic." 
"You think you're pretty clever, don't you?" 
"No, but you asked what I thought, so I told you. Clayton? Peter? In the car, 
please." 
"He's not going—" Malcolm began. 
Jeremy turned to his father. "I called Dominic this afternoon. He knows I'm with 
Peter, and that I want to negotiate his return to the Pack. If you bring Peter 
in and tell Dominic what he did, then he has to order Peter's death. Given the 
choice between negotiating a pardon and killing a twenty-two-year-old former 
Pack member, which do you think he'd prefer?" 
"You're bluffing," Malcolm said. "You haven't called him." 
Malcolm searched his son's face for some sign that he was lying but Jeremy's 
shuttered expression gave nothing away. 
Malcolm rolled his shoulders and leaned against the car. "You know you're being 
played, don't you?" 
"By Peter? No, I told him to call—" 
"I don't mean Peter. I'm not a fool, boy. I know why you're doing all this. You 
think it'll help you weasel in closer to Dominic, prove what a good Alpha you'd 
make." 
"I—" 
"You think you're being clever, proving yourself to Dominic, taking over his 
duties. But the truth is, you're being played and you don't even know it. Sure, 
Dominic might name you as his choice. In the end, though, that doesn't mean 
piss-all and we both know it. Even he knows it. So why is he going through all 
this trouble, making the Pack think he wants you to succeed him? Because it buys 
him time. No one seriously considers you Alpha material, so no one's going to 
push for Dominic to step down and let you take over. He trains you as Alpha, and 
he looks like he's doing his job, planning for the future, but the truth is, 
he's just securing his place for another 
ten years." 
"No one's playing me," Jeremy said softly. 
Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, but you're a fool. A fool twice in 
one night, too. That must be a record. You know, I could have killed your boy 
out there. You led him right to me, and you couldn't protect him." 
Jeremy flinched. He tried to cover the reaction, but couldn't. 
Malcolm smiled. "Piss-poor guardian you are. Hell, he protects you better than 
you protect him." 
Jeremy saw me still standing beside him and waved me into the car. 
"He's not moving until you're safe in that car," Malcolm said. "You should have 
seen him when I had you down—a regular little ball of rage, all fangs and fury. 
He's got it. Whatever you lack, boy, he's got in spades. You know that?" 
Jeremy met his father's gaze. "Yes, I do." He rumpled my hair, a rare show of 
affection, and nudged me toward the car. "I'm getting in now, Clay. Go on." 
"I want to train him," Malcolm said. 
Jeremy stopped, hand on the door, and slowly turned to his father. "You want . . 
.?" 
"You heard me. I want to train the boy. Teach him how to fight." 
Jeremy stood there, struggling to make sense of this request. I saw the sense, 
though. As much as I loathed Malcolm, I saw the benefit in what he was offering. 
Jeremy and Antonio had taught me a lot, but after that night, I knew it wasn't 
enough. If I wanted to protect Jeremy against Malcolm, there was only one person 
who could teach me how to do it: Malcolm himself. As for why he was offering, 
even at that age I knew he had to have an ulterior motive, probably to turn me 
against Jeremy, but I knew that would never—could never—happen. 
"Let him train me," I said. 
Jeremy blinked and, for a split second, I feared I'd made a horrible mistake, 
that even accepting Malcolm's offer would make Jeremy doubt my allegiance. But 
after that first blink of surprise, he gave a slow nod. 
"Let me take Peter back to Dominic," Jeremy said. "What happened here—all of it—
is never mentioned again. Then I'll allow you to train Clayton to fight . . . 
under my supervision." 
"But of course," Malcolm said. "Who knows, you might even learn something." He 
looked down at me. "I'll see you back at Stonehaven then, Clay. Make sure you 
rest up. We have a lot of work ahead of us, unlearning all those bad habits." 
He smiled, clapped me on the back, then turned and strolled off into the night. 

Angst

Malcolm kept his end of the bargain and we kept ours. Dominic never found out 
what happened in Los Angeles, and if he ever suspected anything, he pretended 
otherwise. As Jeremy had said, given the choice between reuniting a young 
werewolf with the Pack or executing him, Dominic would take option one any day. 
So Malcolm taught me to fight. I still took the majority of my lessons from 
Jeremy and Antonio because they were around more, but when Malcolm was at 
Stonehaven, he trained me every afternoon, from lunch until dinner. His 
motivation? Well, that wasn't immediately apparent. He didn't use the lessons as 
an opportunity to mock Jeremy; although Jeremy was always present, Malcolm acted 
as if he wasn't there. Nor did Malcolm use the lessons to woo me from Jeremy's 
side in any overt way. He was a harsh taskmaster and I often left my lessons 
exhausted and covered in bruises, but every bruise was earned in combat, and he 
never treated me in any way that could ever be interpreted as abusive. 
One person who was never happy with the arrangement was Antonio. I'm sure he was 
put out by the insinuation that his teachings were less than perfect, but there 
was more to it than that. When Antonio had been a teenager, Malcolm had made him 
the same offer: to train him. Antonio had flat out refused, seeing Malcolm's 
interest as something more . . . personal. When Antonio found out Jeremy had 
agreed to let Malcolm train me, he hit the roof. Argued with Jeremy like I'd 
never heard them argue before, then stomped out the door, left Stonehaven and 
didn't return for nearly a month. 
When he did return, he barreled in, found us in the study and lit into Jeremy as 
if he'd only just left. 
"I can't believe you'd do that. After everything that son of a bitch has done to 
you, I cannot believe you'd let him near Clayton." 
Jeremy laid down his book and looked up calmly. "I'm always there." 
"And that makes it okay? Goddamn it, Jeremy, I know you can be naive sometimes, 
but this is downright stupid. He doesn't want to train the kid. He wants—" 
"I know what you think, and I think you're mistaken." 
"Any time a grown man takes an interest in a teenage boy—" 
"Clayton's not a teenager. He's a child. And my father, whatever his faults, has 
never shown any inclination to . . ." His gaze slid to me. "Toward children, 
which I think that proves my point, that you misinterpreted—" 
"Oh no, I didn't." 
"Then we agree to disagree. I'm taking every precaution I can, but this is how I 
choose to raise him." 
"You want him to learn how to fight? Fine. Good. Hell, that's great. But I can 
teach him and you can teach him, and he doesn't need some psycho—" 
"Yes, he does. Malcolm is the best fighter we have, and that's what I want for 
Clay. To learn from the best so he can be the best, because the better he can 
fight, the less he'll have to." 
"What?" 
"You heard me. The better he can fight, the less he'll have to." 
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 
"Exactly what it says. If you want to stay for dinner, there's stew on the 
stove. Clay? Can you set the table, please?" He glanced at Antonio. "I managed 
to stash a few bottles of wine in the basement storage room, where Malcolm 
wouldn't find them. It's a beef stew, so red would be best, if you'd like to 
grab a bottle." 
Antonio threw up his hands and stomped off to the basement. 
So Malcolm continued to train me, and seemed happy enough to do it just for the 
sake of doing it, of having someplace to direct his energy when he was at 
Stonehaven. As the first year passed, his treatment of Jeremy changed too. Not 
that he treated him any better. Instead he began to extend his attitude toward 
Jeremy on the training grounds into our daily lives. He ignored him. Now and 
then, he couldn't resist tossing off a barb or an insult, but as time passed, he 
no longer seemed to take the pleasure in it that he once had and preferred to 
carry on as if Jeremy wasn't there, which suited Jeremy just fine. 
I started high school at thirteen. As concerned as Jeremy was about my social 
maturity, I think he was more concerned about me getting bored if I didn't find 
school challenging enough, so he applied to have me start a year early at a 
private school outside Syracuse. At first, the school balked. They didn't like 
to advance anyone that way, particularly someone who'd been home schooled. But, 
as Jeremy argued, having been born in January, I was only a few weeks younger 
than some other kids who would be starting ninth grade that fall. Still, they 
hemmed and they hawwed, and they put me through a whole battery of tests. Then 
they gave me an IQ test. When they didn't believe the results of the first one, 
they administered a second. Then they declared I was indeed ready for high 
school. 
School wasn't nearly the hell I'd expected. Yes, I'd rather have stayed home 
with Jeremy, but this gave me the opportunity to further study human behavior 
and develop my public face. Not only did I not mind school, I even made a few 
friends—not the 'come on over after school and we'll listen to my 45s' kind of 
friends, but school chums, classmates I was comfortable talking to, and could 
eat lunch with or team up with for joint projects. These friends invariably came 
from the fringes of teenage society, the kids who were too smart, too 
overweight, too homely or just too odd to fit in. With these outsiders, I could 
feel some kinship, even if they weren't werewolves. 
The next landmark of my life came at fifteen, when I killed my first mutt. In 
the Pack, one's first mutt kill is considered a rite of passage, something to be 
celebrated informally with a night of drinking and carousing. I was too young 
for either drinking or the Pack's version of 'carousing', which usually involved 
women. It didn't matter because I told no one that I'd passed this landmark, not 
even Nick. I kept it to myself because I didn't consider it an event worthy of 
commemoration. I wasn't proud of what I'd done. Nor was I ashamed of it. The 
need to kill trespassing mutts was an unavoidable fact of my life, and I 
accepted it as such, with no emotion either way. 
It happened in late spring. Antonio and Nick had come up for the weekend. Nick 
and I were now old enough to stay home alone, so Antonio and Jeremy had gone to 
Syracuse for some drinking and . . . carousing, and we didn't expect them back 
before the wee hours of morning. 
Nick and I spent the evening hanging out, talking—mostly him talking, mostly 
about girls. He'd snuck over a few copies of Playboy, and we went through those. 
I didn't really 'get' it, but I played along with his enthusiasm. When it came 
to sex, I was a late bloomer. I'd begun filling out and putting on some muscle 
heft, helped by the weight set that Jeremy had bought at Malcolm's insistence 
and installed in the basement. I'd also shot up a few inches. In the past year 
or so, I'd begun showing the first signs that, while I might never be as tall as 
Jeremy or as muscular as Antonio, I would, in all physical respects, outgrow my 
'runt of the litter' status and reach a normal size. 
In other areas of puberty, though, I lagged behind. My voice only cracked when I 
lost my temper and shouted loudly enough to strain my vocal cords, and the only 
excess hair I had came when I Changed. Sex and desire were things I understood 
only as hypothetical concepts. So, although I felt no physical reaction on 
seeing the Playboy centerfolds, I seconded Nick's opinion that they were 'hot' 
and tried very hard to keep my attention off the articles, and on the 
pictorials. 
After eating everything that Jeremy left out for us, and sampling his brandy, we 
headed up to my room to sleep. I waited until Nick drifted off, then slipped 
from bed, took my flashlight and sat in the corner to read. With Jeremy gone, I 
was the man of the house, and I didn't feel right falling asleep on the job. 
Anything could happen. And that night, something did. 
When the clock downstairs struck midnight, a wolf's howl echoed the last few 
gongs. I leapt up, dropping my book and flashlight, and opened my window. The 
howl came again, from deep in our back woods. I knew that it was a mutt, not 
because I didn't recognize the voice, but because it was a howl of challenge, 
the call of a wolf who has ventured onto another's territory and dares them to 
do anything about it. 
I knew I had to act fast. Jeremy and Antonio would be home any time now. If they 
heard the howl, our weekend would be ruined. Antonio would insist on handling 
it, Jeremy would insist on defending his own territory, and any way that it 
ended, no one would be happy. Better for me to take care of it first. 
Two things told me I was relatively safe taking on this challenge alone. First, 
the wolf's cry held a quaver that said he was getting on in years. Second, 
coming at midnight and howling in the woods rather than appearing at our front 
door meant he wasn't all that sure he wanted anyone to answer his challenge. 
This was an old wolf making his last stand, maybe ill or otherwise close to 
death, hoping to die doing something he'd never dared do in life—take on a Pack 
wolf. 
So I leapt out the window, raced into the forest and Changed. Then I tracked him 
and killed him. It was, as I'd suspected, not a difficult task, and not one that 
requires any further detail. I killed him, I buried his body, and I went back to 
bed. 
That winter, I killed my second mutt. This time, the mutt presented himself at 
our door, so I couldn't intercede before Jeremy found out. As usual, Jeremy gave 
him until midnight to leave town. The mutt only laughed and said he'd be in the 
back forest, ready whenever Jeremy got up the nerve to take him on. I knew he 
wouldn't leave. And I knew Jeremy would give him until midnight. So, on pretense 
of working out, I went down to the basement, then climbed out a window and 
zipped to the forest. I Changed, lured the mutt away from the place he'd 
promised to meet Jeremy, and killed him. This time wasn't nearly as easy as the 
last, but I managed it. I stashed his body far from the assigned meeting place, 
and downwind so Jeremy wouldn't find it, then hurried back to the house. Late 
that night, long after Jeremy had decided the mutt had fled, I returned and 
buried the corpse. 
Two mutts within six months was unusual. Normally, we saw an average of one per 
year. A third one showed up just a few months after the second. This one, 
fortunately, did take Jeremy's advice and leave town without a fight. But that 
still meant three mutts in a year. Something was wrong. Yet because Jeremy knew 
nothing of the first one, he thought we'd only had two mutts in just over a 
year, both of whom had left without a fight, so he saw no cause for alarm. 
Gregory died when I was fifteen. Since his injury, he'd never regained his full 
physical strength and had always been more prone to illness than most 
werewolves. One night he went to bed and didn't wake up. Outside his family, 
Jeremy was the only one who seemed to grieve his passing. 
When I hit sixteen, puberty finally kicked in, bringing with it a problem far 
more complicated than the killing of trespassing mutts. I began to feel the 
first tugs of sexual desire, and while I'm sure that is confusing for any 
teenage boy, my situation only made it ten times worse. With no females of my 
own species to turn these feelings toward, my body wasn't about to give up hope 
of reproduction; it just fixed those desires on the nearest approximation it 
could find—human girls. And that might have been fine, had my wolf-brain not 
jumped in with demands of its own. On the matter of sex, the wolf in me was 
clear: I needed to find—not a casual sexual partner—but a life partner, a mate. 
I could accept a human mate, since it seemed I had little choice in the matter, 
but it had to be someone I wanted to spend my life with. Yet there were few 
humans I could envision spending an entire weekend with, let alone a lifetime. 
So here I was stuck. I looked around, and saw no potential life partner, and the 
wolf in me would accept nothing less. 
That September was one of the worst times of my teen years. I was sixteen, and 
having one of those weeks in which everything seemed to go wrong. 
It had started at school the week before. I always arrived at school early so I 
could run a few laps around the track, wear off excess energy before beginning 
my day. That morning, the football field was flooded, and the team had to move 
their before-school practice to the track field. I ignored them, but the 
disinterest wasn't mutual. When I was finishing up my run, the football coach 
came over. 
I should point out that I didn't take gym in school. We were supposed to, but 
Jeremy had managed to convince the school that my time was better spent where my 
obvious assets lay—in academics. With the help of a sympathetic teacher, who 
agreed with Jeremy that I needed to be challenged academically, I was already on 
the fast-track to college, skipping any 'extra' classes like gym or art so I 
could graduate a year early. That meant that the football coach had, until now, 
had no reason to notice me. But seeing me on the track, in shorts and a tank-
top, running laps and jumping hurdles without breaking a sweat, he noticed me. 
And he wanted to know why I hadn't tried out for the team. I told him the truth: 
I wasn't interested in team sports. A perfectly reasonable excuse. And how did 
he react? Launched into a tirade about my 'lack of school spirit' as if, by 
virtue of possessing any athletic prowess, I was duty-bound to use it. Before I 
said anything that would get me in trouble, I nodded, mumbled something about 
being late for class and strode off. 
That was never easy for me, walking away from a confrontation, so I was proud of 
myself for doing it. How was I rewarded? With a week's detention for being 
disrespectful to a teacher. If that wasn't bad enough, the coach started 
cornering me in the halls. If I tried out, he said, there was a good chance I 
could make running back, maybe even quarterback, and didn't every sixteen-year-
old boy want to be quarterback? Another student overheard this offer, and ran 
off to inform the current running back and quarterback, neither of whom was too 
pleased with the prospect. So then I had them harassing me. Finally, I snapped. 
As hard as Jeremy might teach me to turn the other cheek, there was a limit to 
how long I could do it. 
The next time they challenged me to a skirmish match, I accepted. Fortunately, 
no bones were broken. The wounds to the quarterback's ego were another matter, 
though and, instead of getting him off my back, I'd only pissed him off more. I 
knew I couldn't fight them—that football match had been pushing it enough—so I 
was stuck swallowing their insults, and accepting their shoves, and getting more 
miserable with each passing day. By the end of the week, even my school friends 
were avoiding me, for fear of catching the fallout. 
Then there was Jeremy. Once the shelter I could run to when anything went wrong, 
he was now the source of more misery than he healed. We seemed to fight over 
everything. Or, I should say, I fought, and he let me rant, unfazed. 
In trying to make sure he didn't find out about my detention, I'd floored it 
home earlier that week, and got a speeding ticket. Jeremy had bought me a car 
for my sixteenth birthday, so I wouldn't have to endure the school bus any 
longer, and this was my third ticket so far. Now, if you worked it out, the 
number of times I sped versus the number of tickets I received, I was doing 
pretty good. But Jeremy didn't see it that way. Nor did he understand my view of 
traffic laws. I understood why speed limits existed, but I saw no reason why 
they should apply to me. I was an excellent driver. With my enhanced senses and 
reflexes, I could drive eighty miles an hour and still swerve before hitting 
even a squirrel. I made my own money, transcribing notes for Jeremy's growing 
translation business, and I paid for my tickets, so what was the big deal? 
Threatening to take away my car was wrong. Wrong and unfair. 
The ticket only added fuel to a fire that had been blazing all month. The source 
of that fire? College. Having condensed my studies, I was due to graduate next 
June, which meant I was supposed to head off to college in a year. I had no 
problem with going to college. I wanted to go. I enjoyed learning and I knew 
that I needed a very good education if I hoped to find a career that I could, as 
much as possible, pursue from home, like Jeremy did. 
Now Jeremy had not gone to college. He'd wanted to, and expected to, but then 
his grandfather died and he'd been forced to stay home and make a living. So 
naturally Jeremy wanted me to go to college and, as I said, I agreed. The 
problem came with the question of 'where'. The school had already hinted to 
Jeremy that I could probably get a scholarship pretty much anywhere I wanted to 
go. So what does he do? Starts gathering information on colleges, to decide 
where I should want to go. I knew damned well where I was going: Syracuse 
University. Jeremy shot down that idea as if it was the most ridiculous thing 
he'd ever heard. I'd already decided my major—my early studies of human society 
had led me to a high school anthropology course, and I'd found aspects in the 
discipline that made me decide that was what I wanted to pursue. As Jeremy 
pointed out, Syracuse did not have a topnotch anthropology program. So I had to 
go elsewhere. Well, I wasn't. I just wasn't. I was staying home, and going to 
Syracuse University. Move away to school? Wasn't happening. 
On Friday, battered down by my hellish week at school, I'd returned to 
Stonehaven, seeking solace, and found Jeremy filling out a form to request more 
information from the University of Chicago. I hit the roof. Broke a chair and a 
couple of plates. Said a few things I shouldn't have. Then I stormed out the 
back door to the woods, and stayed there until midnight, which I figured was 
long enough to make my point. 
When I walked into the house, I passed the study, saw Jeremy in there, and kept 
going. He followed me. 
"Your bag is by the front door. Check it and make sure I haven't left anything 
out." 
My heart jammed into my throat. I didn't turn. "Bag?" 
"You're spending the weekend with Dominic. I have business to do in New York." 
I turned and scowled. "What business?" 
"Nothing important," he said. "Check your bag and we'll leave." 
He headed back into the study. I resisted the urge to follow. What business 
could he have in New York? He never took meetings in person, never needed to. I 
knew the truth. He was sending me away. Taking a break from me, just like he did 
with Malcolm. I'd already begun to suspect that was the reason behind his sudden 
vigor to find an out-of-state college for me: to rid himself of a boy who'd 
turned from a devoted child to a troublesome teen. So it was already starting—he 
was already growing weary of my company, of my temper and my moods. 
And what if he did have business in New York? What kind of business? Why 
wouldn't he discuss it with me? There'd been a lot of that lately, closed door 
phone conversations that ended the moment I walked in. He didn't trust me. He 
still thought of me as a child. Well, he treated me like a child, didn't he? 
Deciding where I should go to school, threatening to take away my car, arranging 
my weekends for me. It was wrong. Wrong and unfair. 
Without checking my bag, I grabbed it and stormed off to the truck. During most 
of the ride, I pretended to sleep. By the time we arrived at the Sorrentinos's 
house, I was looking forward to the weekend away. What better way to forget my 
miserable week than to spend two days with my best friend, the one person who 
never fought with me and always understood me. 
I'd survived the week, and now I was certain things were about to get a whole 
lot better. But I was wrong. My week wasn't over yet. 

Misunderstood 
I couldn't believe Nick had done this to me. 
It was Saturday night. A special Saturday night planned by Nick to lift me out 
of my black mood, because that's the kind of friend he was. Thoughtful, 
considerate, generous . . . the best friend a guy could want. 
I scowled into the night, took a swig of my beer and dumped the rest over the 
side of the deck. 
It had been a great plan, one that made me regret every thoughtless thing I'd 
ever done to him. We'd start with a movie. He knew I liked movies, and there was 
nothing better to get my mind off my horrible week than a good action-packed 
thriller, full of life-or-death dilemmas that would make my problems look 
laughable. After the show, we'd go out for pizza. Then we'd go somewhere else 
and have more pizza. Then we'd head back to the house, and Nick would try 
Changing. In the last few months Nick had begun showing the first signs of 
impending werewolf-hood—increased hunger, heightened senses and greater 
strength. We'd been trying to rush the process along with 'practice' sessions, 
where we'd go into the woods and I'd coach him. So far, it hadn't worked—and 
everyone in the Pack swore it never would—but we kept trying. 
Like me, Nick had his own car. That's common for Pack boys—not because we need 
wheels to head out into the country for an urgent Change or to make a speedy 
getaway, but just because every teenage boy wants a car, and the Pack spoiled 
us, knowing our lives would be difficult enough later. 
Right after dinner, we left the estate. Then Nick realized we were too early for 
the movie, and decided to stop off at a friend's place. His friend's parents 
were gone for the weekend, and he was having a party. There are few things in 
life I hate more than parties—if you want to scare me with visions of hell, just 
tell me it's eternity squeezed into a small room full of people drinking, 
shouting, sweating and playing music loud enough to shatter eardrums. But Nick 
had planned an entire evening for me; the least I could do was give him the 
first half-hour of it. 
So I went to the party without complaint. Then Nick found out they had a beer 
keg, and that a girl he'd been pursuing for the last month was there . . . 
without her boyfriend. 
Two and a half hours later, I was standing on the back porch, alone, glowering 
into the dark yard, and wondering where my life had gone so horribly wrong. 
Everyone I cared about had abandoned me. Nobody understood me. My life sucked. 
When the patio door slid open behind me, I hoped it was Nick. One sniff of 
perfume, though, and I knew better. Without turning, I sent off another hope: 
that the girl behind me had come out for a cigarette or some fresh air, not 
because she'd seen me through the window and decided I looked lonely. In the 
ninety minutes I'd been out here, two other girls had come out, trying to cheer 
up my night, and only making it more unbearable. 
I kept my gaze fixed on the yard, and slumped forward against the railing, 
leaving my back to her. 
"Nice night," she said. 
I nodded. 
She moved up beside me. "You're Nick's friend, aren't you?" 
I made a noise in my throat. Had she been a wolf, she'd have interpreted it for 
what it was: a polite 'leave me alone'. 
"Hmmm?" she said, billowing perfume as she leaned around me. "I didn't catch 
that." 
I shrugged and moved away. 
"Hey, I asked you a question," she said. 
"Yeah, I'm with Nick." 
I headed down the steps to the yard. 
"Hey!" she called after me. "I'm talking to you." 
I kept walking. She hurried after me, and caught my hand. When I shook her off, 
she only grinned, as if it was a challenge. 
"Do you have a name, Nick's friend?" 
"Yeah. Not interested." 
She blinked, eyes snapping with outrage. "Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Just go back inside, okay?"
"Is that an order?"
"Just go—"
"Hey!" someone shouted from the porch.
I looked up to see a tall, muscular boy bearing down at us. One glance at his 
face, and I knew

who he was. The girl's boyfriend. My evening was complete. I turned to walk 
away. The boy grabbed my shoulder and whipped me around. I shrugged him off and 
struggled not to return his glare of challenge. "What do you think you're doing 
with my girl?" he demanded, his face coming far too close to 
mine. I held my ground and met his eyes. "Nothing." "Bullshit," the girl said. 
"I just came out here for a smoke, and he grabbed me. Tried to cop a 
feel." I snorted. "Not likely." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" the 
boy snapped. The look I turned on the girl answered for me. The boy grabbed for 
me again, but I threw up 
my hands and knocked his aside before they could touch me. "Oooh, tough guy," 
the boy said. "You asking for something, tough guy?" "Yeah, I'm asking for you 
to leave me alone, take your girlfriend and go back inside." "Ah'm askin' fah ya 
. . .?" The boy screwed up his face, exaggerating and mangling my drawl. 
"Is that English? What rock did you crawl from under, talking like that? Who 
brought you here?" "Nick," the girl piped up. "Nick Sorrentino." "Well, then, I 
think I should talk to ol' Nicky—" "Leave Nick out of this," I said. "You gonna 
make me?" When I said nothing, he grabbed me by the shirtfront. "Come on. 
Make me." 
I swept my arms up fast, knocking his hands off me. He stumbled back, then 
caught his balance and rushed me. I didn't budge, just whipped out my hands, 
slammed them into his shoulders and sent him flying backward to the ground. 
Before he could get up, I stepped over him. 
"Whoa!" a familiar voice yelled. "Whoa! Hold on!" 
I looked up to see Nick running off the porch, pushing past the small group of 
onlookers who'd gathered. He waved me off the guy, and I did as he asked, slowly 
backing away, then strode to the far rear corner of the yard. 
I waited, with my back to everyone, while Nick sorted it out. When I heard him 
walk over, I turned, fully expecting an apology for the way he'd abandoned me. 
Instead, his eyes blazed with fury. 
"What the hell is the matter with you?" he hissed, bathing me in beer fumes. "I 
bring you to a party and you pull this shit? In front of my friends?" 
"I didn't pull anything. That girl came out here—" 
"And you blew her off, right? Couldn't be nice about it. It's a girl, Clay. Any 
normal guy—oh, wait, but you're not a normal guy, are you? You don't even try to 
be normal, that's the problem." 
One of the partygoers veered past us and shouted an insult in an exaggerated 
drawl. Nick winced and waited for the laughter to die down. 
"See?" he said. "See? You gotta be different. Can't even bother talking 
normally. There's no reason why you keep that stupid accent—oh, wait, there is a 
reason. Because you don't want to sound like everyone else. You like being 
different, being an asshole, acting like you're too good for everyone. Well, let 
me tell you something, Clay—" 
I brushed past him and headed for the front gate. 
"Hey!" Nick shouted. "I'm not done!" 
When I didn't stop, he jogged after me. 
"You walk out that door, and you're walking all the way home. I'm not coming 
after you." 
"Fine," I said, pushed open the gate and strode through. 
I had money for a cab, but no idea how to summon one from a residential 
neighborhood. I assumed that if I called information, they could put me in touch 
with a local cab company, who could lead me through the procedure. First, I had 
to find a pay-phone. So I wandered up and down the streets, telling myself I was 
looking for a phone, but I'm sure I could have walked right past one and not 
noticed. What did it matter? Where would I go? Nobody wanted me around. I could 
probably wander the streets all night and no one would even notice I was gone. 
An hour or so passed. When a horn blasted behind me, I jumped, expecting Nick 
and ready to blast him back, or maybe ignore him and keep walking. But it wasn't 
Nick. It was, however, a familiar car, driven by someone with a familiar face. 
"Now my week really is complete," I muttered under my breath, and walked faster. 
The car revved up beside me. I thought of taking off across the lawns, but that 
would be fleeing, and this was one person I refused to give that satisfaction. 
So I stopped and waited for him to roll down the passenger window. 
"What?" I said. 
Malcolm laughed. "There's a greeting to warm the heart." 
"Go away." 
"That one's even better." He leaned out the window. "Not even going to ask what 
I'm doing here?" 
"No." 
I did wonder, but given what I knew of Malcolm, if he'd said his pet demon told 
him where to find me, I wouldn't have doubted it. As I'd discover later, the 
answer was far more ordinary. Dominic had summoned him to the estate to discuss 
a mutt problem and, shortly after he'd arrived, Nick had called, wondering 
whether anyone had heard from me. Malcolm found out where the party was, made an 
excuse to leave, and came looking for me. 
"Having a rough time of it lately, I hear," Malcolm said. "Want to talk about 
it?" 
That brought a smile to my lips, though not a pleasant one. "With you? No." 
"I don't see anyone else offering." 
into the passenger seat so he could talk. "Let's see if I can guess what the 
problem is," he said. "No one understands you." I kept walking. "Now I might not 
be the person you'd choose to talk to about it, but I might be the best person 
there is. I understand you." "No, you don't." "Ah, you might be surprised. I 
know you've killed two mutts at Stonehaven. Bet I'm the only 
one who knows that." I stopped, wondering how he could know this when I hadn't 
told anyone. Again, pet demons 
whispering in his ear was a damned fine explanation, but I quickly thought of a 
simpler one. "You found the bodies," I said. "Found where you buried them. You 
have to work on your technique, Clay. It might fool 
Jeremy, but it won't fool me." "And now you're going to tell him." "Is that what 
you think? Nah, I wouldn't tattle on you. You're a good kid. You want to kill 
the mutts for Jeremy, all the power to you. When I found that first one, I 
thought, 'well, the mutt was pretty old, it wasn't a tough kill'. But then I 
found the second, and I was proud of you. Damned proud of you." 
"I don't want—" 
"I know, you don't want my admiration, but you've got it. You've earned it. Now, 
in case you haven't noticed, we're having a problem with these mutts at 
Stonehaven, and I think maybe you and I should talk about it." 
I hesitated.
"Do you know why they're coming around?" he asked.
I shrugged as if I didn't care, but I'm sure he could see in my eyes that I did.

"Well, I know why, and I think you should, too," he said. "Climb on in and we'll 
go someplace where we can talk." 
The mutt problem had been weighing on my mind, but this was not the person I 
wanted to discuss it with. On the other hand, it wasn't as if anyone else was 
going to talk to me about it. Right now, Malcolm was the only one who wanted to 
talk to me at all. So I nodded and opened the car door. 

Problem

I wasn't worried about Malcolm driving me to a dark alley and breaking my neck. 
Wouldn't happen. Not that I could outfight him; I couldn't—not yet. But I'd 
lived with Malcolm long enough to understand how he operated. If he wanted me 
dead, he'd have ended my life that night outside Los Angeles. Training me for a 
few years, lowering my defenses and then killing me might seem like a clever 
plan, but Malcolm would never conceive of it, let alone pull it off. He was a 
creature of impulse, of brawn and might, not without the cunning to conceive of 
a long-term plan, but lacking the patience to see it to the end. 
Malcolm drove to a town on the other side of the Sorrentinos' country estate. He 
pulled into a parking lot in the downtown core. 
"Here?" I said. 
He shrugged. "Near here. A little place I go when things get crowded at 
Dominic's. Come on." 
He led me to an unmarked door wedged between a dry cleaner and a convenience 
store. I stepped inside and found myself nose to chest with a massive bald man. 
When he saw Malcolm, he backed out of my face. 
"Hey, Mal. Been a long time." He looked down at me. "Who's the kid?" 
Malcolm put a hand on my shoulder. "This is Clayton. My boy." 
"You got a son? How come you never told me you got a son?" 
"You never asked. Mind if I take him inside? Don't worry, he'll stick to root 
beer." 
"Yeah, sure, take him in. Buy him a real beer if he wants it. No one's gonna 
care." 
Malcolm led me into a small, dark bar, where the only music came from the clink 
of glasses and the occasional laugh. He steered me to a table at the back. 
"You want a beer?" he asked as I sat down. "Smells like you've already had one, 
might as well make it two." 
I shook my head. 
"Soda?"
I shrugged.
He shook his head, went to the bar and returned with two mugs, one cola and the 
other beer. 

Before he could sit down, a red-haired woman in a faded tank top and frayed 
miniskirt slid over 
from another table. "Malcolm," she said, and kissed his cheek. "You didn't call 
me." "Do I ever?" Her lips curved in a half-pout, then she saw me in the shadows 
and blinked. "My son," Malcolm said before she could ask. "Clayton." "Oooh," she 
squealed, the sound grating down my spine. "What a cutie. He must take after 
his momma." "Ha-ha," Malcolm said. "I don't mean to be rude, Deedee—well, yes I 
do. Clear out. I'm 
spending time with my boy. He's had a rough day." "I could make it better for 
him." Her gaze slid over me and she grinned. "End it with a bang." I tugged my 
jacket tighter around me. Malcolm shook his head. "Another time, Deedee. Clear 
out. Now." She pouted and flounced away. Malcolm sipped his beer. "So, what'd it 
feel like, killing your first mutt?" I shrugged. He leaned forward and his eyes 
glittered. "Don't give me that. It felt good, didn't it? Taking 
a life. Made you feel powerful." I looked at him, and tried to figure out what 
he meant, but I couldn't. "Not comfortable with it yet?" he said. "Sure, I 
understand that. Can't be easy when he tells 
you it's wrong. But it isn't wrong. You feel that, don't you? Taking a life 
isn't a crime, it's an act of power. When we take life, we take power." 
I had no idea what he was talking about, but this wasn't the time to argue. I 
needed information from him, so it was best to play along. Since I didn't know 
what he was talking about, though, I couldn't respond in the way he probably 
hoped for. So I nodded and hoped that was enough. 
He clapped me on the shoulder. "See? I do understand." 
"About the mutts," I said. "Something's happening, isn't it? That's why there's 
more of them coming around." 
"You don't know why? You're a bright boy, Clayton. If you think about it, I'm 
sure you'll realize you already know the answer. Why are more mutts coming to 
Stonehaven?" 
Stonehaven. Of course. That was it. With my own problems, I'd overlooked the 
obvious clue to solving this one. The mutts were coming to Stonehaven, and only 
Stonehaven. No one else in the Pack had reported an increase. 
"You're sending them," I said. "You're testing me." 
Malcolm's laugh startled the patrons at the next table. He shook his head and 
lowered his voice again. "Not bad, not bad at all. Wrong, but a good guess. I 
wouldn't do that to you, Clay. You're still too green to be facing mutts without 
backup. If I wanted to test you, I'd take you to the mutts, not send them to 
you. They're coming on their own. Think about it. Who lives at Stonehaven?" 
I frowned. "We do. So? We've always lived—" 
"Wait. Who lives there? You, Jeremy and me. Now most mutts don't know about you, 
so they're obviously coming to see Jeremy or me. Nothing new there but, as you 
said, something has changed. Something that makes them want to challenge Jeremy 
and me in particular." 
I hesitated, then looked up sharply. "Alpha. You're both potential Alphas. The 
mutts know that, don't they? That you want to be Alpha and Dominic seems to be 
backing Jeremy." 
Malcolm nodded. "Good boy. Now why would they—?" 
"Why would they want to challenge a potential Alpha?" I cut in, my brain racing 
ahead to fill in the blanks. "Because it's as close to an Alpha as they can get. 
They can't challenge a real Alpha. 
Even if they won, they know it'd be their last victory, that the Pack would hunt 
them down. But they could challenge an Alpha candidate. That'd be the next best 
thing, wouldn't it?" 
"And an opportunity that doesn't come around more than once or twice in a mutt's 
life. This stretches on much longer, we'll have every mutt on the continent 
getting up the nerve to try his luck." 
I slumped into my seat. It would stretch on much longer. We all knew that. With 
Dominic showing no signs of giving up his position, this waiting game could 
continue for years. Years of having mutts on our doorstep, trespassing on our 
territory, threatening Jeremy. 
When I looked at Malcolm, I knew he'd read my thoughts in my face as clearly as 
if I'd said the words. 
"There is a way to stop it," he said. "If Jeremy tells Dominic he doesn't want 
to be Alpha, he'd be out of the race. The mutts would hear about that, and 
they'd stop coming after him. Now, they'd still want to take a shot at me, but 
most of them know I don't spend much time at home. So Stonehaven would be safe 
again. Jeremy would be safe again." 
Malcolm really needed to work on his finesse. I'd have to be a moron not to see 
through this ploy. Play on my fears for Jeremy, and I'd use my influence with 
Jeremy to persuade him to drop out of the Alpha race. Like I had any influence 
with Jeremy. He wasn't even going to let me influence where I went to college. 
I said none of this to Malcolm. Instead, I nodded and he settled into his chair, 
smiling, pleased with his success. In a way, he had succeeded. I now realized 
that Jeremy was in danger, and would continue to be in danger as long as he was 
running for Alpha. So how would I deal with that? By removing the source of the 
danger. To do that, I didn't need to persuade him not to challenge Malcolm for 
Alpha. As angry as I was with him right then, I still knew he'd make a good 
Alpha, and I planned to do everything in my power to make sure he got what I 
knew he wanted. No, what I had to do was stop the mutts from coming. But how? 
I told Malcolm I wanted to either meet up with Nick or catch a cab to the estate 
so that I didn't return to the house with him, and worry Jeremy. The truth was, 
I wanted to get out of his company as quickly as possible, and I wanted time by 
myself to work on this problem. 
Malcolm dropped me off back where he'd picked me up. I started heading back 
toward the party. Once he'd driven out of sight, I resumed my aimless wandering. 
I'd figure out how to get to the estate later. For now, I needed to think. 
How could I get mutts to stop coming to Stonehaven? I had to do something to 
make them stay away. As I walked, I remembered Jeremy's 'riddle' to Antonio, his 
explanation for why he was letting Malcolm train me. If I was a good enough 
fighter, I wouldn't need to fight. Not a riddle at all, but a logical fact, one 
that only now made sense. When you reached the top of your game, fewer and fewer 
people cared to take you on. Yes, mutts came to Stonehaven looking for a fight 
with Malcolm, the Pack's top fighter. Yet mutts did the same to other Pack 
wolves, picking the one they thought was in their league. 
On average, fewer mutts came to Malcolm than to Antonio or Wally Santos, who 
were considered the next best fighters in the Pack. Most mutts aren't suicidal—
they challenge the best Pack wolf whom they think they have a shot at beating—
and Malcolm was more than most cared to handle. And outside those few formal 
challenges, mutts almost never picked a fight with Malcolm. When a less 
experienced Pack wolf, like Stephen Santos, traveled, he always had to be 
careful. Technically mutts weren't supposed to hold territory but Dominic didn't 
like to bother with mutts any more than necessary, so many settled in cities and 
defended them against all comers. If Stephen passed through a city that a mutt 
considered his territory, Stephen was in for a fight. When Malcolm came to town, 
though, all but the stupidest mutts decided it was time for a little vacation. 
What I had to do then was make sure mutts knew that, to challenge Jeremy, they 
had to get through me first. If I was a formidable enough fighter, few would 
care to bother. Great plan. Only one problem. Such a reputation took years, 
maybe decades, to build. I didn't have that much time. I needed to stop these 
mutts soon, before the campaign for Alpha gained momentum. To do that, I had to 
cheat my way to a reputation. Instead of fighting dozens of battles, I needed to 
do it with one or two, to do something that would fly through the rumor mill and 
make every mutt in the country decide he didn't want to tangle with me. How 
would I do that? I had no idea. 
I heard someone shout, but was too engrossed in my thoughts to look. When 
footsteps sounded 
behind me, I wheeled, fists going up. "Whoa!" Nick said, backpedaling. "I 
thought you heard me call you." I shook my head, turned and continued walking. 
He jogged beside me. "Okay, you're mad," he said. "I don't blame you. I was a 
total jerk." It took a moment for me to remember what he was talking about. When 
I did, I brushed it off 
with a muttered 'it's okay' and returned to my thoughts. 
"I had too much to drink, and then Becky's boyfriend showed up and she took off 
with him, and then I walked out to the backyard, saw you standing over Mike, and 
I lost it. I know you hate parties. I didn't mean to be there that long and I'm 
sorry." 
Another mumbled 'it's okay'.
"I've been driving around for hours looking for you. It's too late to catch a 
show, but we could

get pizza. Do you want pizza?" I shook my head, still walking. Nick exhaled 
loudly. "Shit, you really are mad. Okay, okay, well, at least come back to the 
car with me. Please?" I stopped and gave my head a sharp shake, returning to 
reality. I nodded, then turned and 
started back for the car. "You sure you don't want pizza?" Nick said, hurrying 
up beside me. "There's this great—" "Yeah, pizza's fine. I'm just trying to work 
out a problem." "Oh, well, okay, then. Maybe I can help." I shook my head. "Not 
your kind of problem." I paused. "But thanks . . . for offering." He grinned. 
"So we're square?" "No. You owe me pizza, a movie and your first Change. Then 
we'll be square." 

Circumstances

I didn't come up with a plan that night. Or that weekend. Or that month. This 
was one problem that required serious deliberation. That would take time. 
My life swung out of its rough patch soon after that weekend. Jeremy shelved the 
college debate, which gave me time to cool down and see that I'd overreacted, 
been too quick to jump to the conclusion that he was getting rid of me. Old 
fears die hard, I suppose. When I had time to think about it, I understood that 
in trying to send me off to college he only wanted what he always wanted for me: 
the best. He wanted me to have the best education possible, and the best 
opportunity to gain experience living in the human world. That said, I still had 
no intention of leaving Stonehaven next year, but I realized that if I wanted to 
stay, I needed to stop shouting and throwing things, and come up with a logical 
argument. 
So I set to work researching the matter and within a few weeks developed a line 
of attack—verbal, non-confrontational attack. After earning my undergrad degree, 
I wanted to go to graduate school, a plan Jeremy fully endorsed. My goal was a 
career in anthropology research, and I needed a Ph.D. for that. At that level, 
though, no one really cared where you'd taken your undergrad courses. It was the 
advanced degrees that counted. Since I had no intention of spending seven years 
living away from Jeremy and the Pack, it made the sense for me to reserve the 
'good' schools for my grad degrees. As well, that would give me a few years to 
get accustomed to college life before I ventured out onto my own. 
When I was ready, I argued my case to Jeremy. He listened, he asked questions 
and, finally, he agreed. So long as I promised to go to a top-tier school for my 
graduate degrees, I could attend undergrad classes in Syracuse. 
Nick had his first change at the end of October. Although Jeremy and I had 
prepared him as best we could, I'm sure it wasn't easy. Yet if it was any less 
wondrous than he expected, he never let on, never complained. 
In the past few years, the question of Alpha succession had gone from back-room 
mumbling to heated debate, and I'm sure that whenever Dominic walked into a room 
and heard conversation stop dead, he knew exactly what was being discussed. He 
had now formally turned over all youth training to Jeremy. He'd also put Jeremy 
in charge of the Legacy—the Pack history book. This latter duty I'm sure he was 
glad to hand off, and no one else was clamoring for the job, but it still sent a 
clear message. These were Alpha duties, albeit minor ones. If Dominic was 
passing them off to Jeremy, everyone took that to mean that, any day now, 
Dominic would officially put his vote behind Jeremy. 
Did that mean Jeremy would be the next Alpha? Not necessarily. An Alpha has the 
right to back a Pack brother as his successor, but when it comes to choosing a 
new Alpha, the process is more democratic. Everyone in the Pack endorses a 
candidate, and the one with the most power behind him wins. Right now, Jeremy 
had only Antonio squarely in his corner. Although Jorge, Nick and I also 
supported Jeremy's ascension, we were still considered junior members of the 
Pack, so our votes carried little weight. As for the rest of the Pack, even 
those who didn't like disagreeing with Dominic excused their lack of support for 
Jeremy by privately seconding Malcolm's opinion that Dominic's choice was purely 
political and self-serving. To them, Dominic was intentionally favoring someone 
unlikely to ever directly challenge him for Alphahood. That way, he'd appeared 
to be considering matters of succession while ensuring his hold on the job for 
years to come. 
For now, Dominic seemed secure in his place. When Malcolm 'accidentally' swiped 
the first bite of meat after a Pack deer hunt, Dominic trounced him. The battle 
was closer than Dominic might have liked, but he still won, proving he still 
deserved to be Alpha. 
That winter I finally hit on a plan to stop mutts from coming to Stonehaven. It 
wasn't a simple scheme. It required planning—lots of planning, and lots of 
research on subjects that weren't readily available in the local library. 
By the time I felt ready to carry out my plan, it was spring. The next problem, 
though, was that I needed a specific set of circumstances, an uncommon set of 
circumstances. My requirements for the mutt himself weren't stringent. I didn't 
want one who was too young and inexperienced, or too old and feeble. Other than 
that, my only stipulation was that he be none too bright. That last one was 
pretty much a given with any mutt who showed up at Stonehaven. Clever mutts 
looking to challenge a Pack wolf devised a way to 'encounter' him away from his 
property, where the drive to defend territory would be weaker and the Pack wolf 
wouldn't have the home turf advantage. Only the ones who didn't have the brains 
to think up a way to corner a Pack wolf off-territory came directly to the 
source. 
Over the next six months, two mutts showed up at Stonehaven. Neither fit my 
needs, so I killed them quickly, disposed of the bodies and continued to wait. 
Winter came. Another mutt showed up, but those circumstances didn't suit my plan 
either. That time, Jeremy met the mutt first, and had to deal with it himself. I 
decided then that I couldn't wait for my 'circumstances' to occur naturally. I 
needed to create them myself. 
September came and college began. It took time for me to adjust. Change is never 
easy for me, and something like this, being inundated with new faces, new 
schedules, new expectations, had thrown me off balance, making me edgy and 
moody. Two weeks into the semester, a teacher scheduled me for a 5:30 PM 
conference, which totally screwed up my routine. By the time I drove back from 
Syracuse, it was after seven. I'd meant to grab a sandwich at the cafeteria to 
tide me over to dinner, but was so eager to get home that I forgot. 
I arrived at Stonehaven starving. I parked and bolted for the door, certain 
dinner would be waiting for me. Instead I found Jeremy engrossed in a new 
painting. The frozen casserole he'd put into the oven was still frozen because 
he'd been so distracted by his work that he'd forgotten to turn it on. So I blew 
up. Accused him of being thoughtless and insensitive to my needs. A shitty thing 
to say—and laughably untrue—but I was hungry. 
I stormed to the kitchen, grabbed the makings of a sandwich, then decided it was 
too much work to assemble one and wolfed down the components separately. When my 
stomach was full, I knew I'd been out of line with Jeremy. I also knew that, 
given my recent mood swings, if I tried to say I was sorry, I was liable to turn 
the apology into another fight. So I fixed Jeremy a sandwich and dropped it off 
outside his studio door with a note saying I'd gone for a walk. 
Once outside, I debated working off some energy with a run, but was too edgy to 
Change, so I wandered the forest, mentally working through an essay I needed to 
write this week. I was in the midst of composing my thesis statement when a 
movement in the trees ahead made me stop short. It was almost nine now, and 
dark. Though I had good night vision, with no moon overhead to help, I could 
only make out the shape of a tall, dark-haired man. As proof of my distracted 
sense of mind, I never thought to sneak in for a sniff and a closer look. I 
assumed it was Jeremy and strode forward. When I stepped onto the path, the man 
wheeled. It wasn't Jeremy. 
"Shit!" he said, jumping as he saw me. "What the hell—" He stopped, nostrils 
flaring, then blinked as he realized I wasn't some neighborhood kid trespassing 
in Stonehaven's woods. He squinted in the darkness. "Shit. You're Malcolm's kid, 
aren't you?" 
"No," I said. "Jeremy's in the house, and he's not coming out so don't bother—" 
"Nah, not Jeremy. The other one. The boy. The one Malcolm's been bragging about. 
So his phantom boy werewolf isn't a phantom after all, huh? I figured it was 
bullshit, since no one's ever seen you." 
"Nah, they see me. They just don't live to tell about it." The mutt snorted and 
rolled his eyes. "Yeah, good one," he said, but a flicker of uncertainty in his 
eyes said he wasn't completely sure I was bluffing. I sized up the mutt. 
Jeremy's age, decent physical condition. Yeah, he'd do. Now I just needed to 
persuade him to help me set up the circumstances I required. "You know Nick 
Sorrentino?" I asked, circling the mutt and making him turn around to keep his 
eyes on me. Another snort. "What is this? Small talk? I came here to fight, in 
case you didn't figure that 
out, kiddo." "Nick Sorrentino," I repeated. "Do you know who he is?" "Sure. 
Antonio's kid." 
"He's a friend of mine." 
"Bully for you." 
I stopped circling and leaned against a tree, arms crossed. The mutt visibly 
relaxed. 
"Nick's got this problem," I said. "Maybe you can help me solve it." 
"What do I look like? Dear Abby? I can't solve—" 
"Yeah, I think you can. See, here's Nick's problem. He's been a full werewolf 
for nearly a year now, but he's never fought a mutt. Never even been close to a 
fight. Antonio and Dominic won't let him." 
The mutt sniffed. "Coddling the boy, like they do with Jorge. Figures." 
"Well, that's where I'm hoping you can help. Nick wants a fight, and I want to 
give him one. Chance to fight the Alpha's grandson? A sweet deal for any mutt." 
"You want me to fight Nick instead of you?" The mutt shook his head. "Uh-uh. 
Even if he's a Sorrentino, he's a pup with no notches on his belt. I'm beyond 
that. But Malcolm's phantom foster son?" He grinned. "Now that might be a 
challenge worth winning." 
"Sure it would, and I'm not trying to take it from you. Here's the deal. You 
want a shot at me, bring a friend for Nick. You do have friends, don't you?" 
"Sure but—" 
"I'm sure one of those friends isn't as experienced as you. He'd be happy for 
the chance to fight Nick. And he'd owe you one for setting it up." 
The mutt paused, then peered at me. "You wouldn't be trying to get out of a 
fight, would—" 
I pounced and knocked him to the ground, then jammed my forearm against his 
throat. "Do I look like I'm trying to blow off a fight?" 
The mutt gasped. I eased back, but stayed on his chest. 
"You're good," he wheezed. 
For a moment, I wondered whether I'd miscalculated and scared him off, but then 
his eyes gleamed with the prospect of the bragging rights he'd earn by beating 
me. After all, I was just a kid. A decent fighter for my age, but an 
inexperienced, cocky pup nonetheless. 
"Okay, sure," he said. "I know a couple of guys. Let's set something up." 
So we did. 

Legend

"A small fight?" Nick said, trailing down the path after me. "Just a small one."
"Yeah, sure, we'll just tell them 'hey, Nick wants a fight, but just a small 
one, so stop before you

kill him please.'" "You know what I mean." "No, I don't," I said. I stopped to 
readjust my knapsack, then hoisted the hockey bag again. "I can carry that," 
Nick said, reaching for the hockey bag. I grunted a negative and swung it out of 
his reach. He didn't need to see what was in there. It 
certainly wasn't hockey equipment. This just happened to be the biggest bag I 
could find at the sporting goods store, and the one that would look least 
suspicious if someone saw me hauling it around in November. 
"There's no such thing as a small fight," I said. "There are short fights and 
there are long fights, and either way you can get killed and that's not on the 
agenda for today. Telling them you want a fight was a ruse." I caught his look 
of confusion. "An excuse." 
"But I do want a fight."
"You'll get your chance soon enough. No need to go looking for one."
He swerved past me to open the door on the old wooden hunting cabin. I nodded my 
thanks and

walked inside. It was empty, and had been for months, being off-season. There 
were dozens of these cabins dotting the countryside up here. I'd scouted the 
area last month and found two possibilities. Had one been occupied, I'd have 
chosen the other. Both were at least a mile from the nearest house, meaning I'd 
have plenty of time to work, and clean up after my work, without fear of 
interruption. 
"Do you want to go over it again?" I asked.
Nick shook his head.
"Okay, then go on outside and let me set up."
"I could help—"

"No," I said, and shoved him toward the door. 
I'd arranged to meet the mutt and his friend at noon. The site was a half-mile 
from the cabin. Convenient, but not too close. 
The next step was difficult. Mentally difficult. I had to cheat. No matter how 
senselessly violent werewolf fights may seem, they came with set rules of 
behavior, what human fighters might call 'gentleman's rules'. You couldn't sneak 
up from behind. You couldn't take along three friends to fight one guy. You 
couldn't use weapons. It had to be a fair, one-on-one, open fight. But I 
couldn't do this. Not today. For what I needed to do, I had to break the rules. 
It was the only way to guarantee that my plan would succeed. 
Nick and I broke the first rule by jumping the mutts on their way to the fight. 
We slipped downwind and nabbed them from behind. By catching them off-guard, we 
were able to knock them down, then gag and tie them. Every part of me cringed at 
the injustice of this, but I only had to remind myself of the alternative—a 
lifetime of battling trespassing mutts—and even my wolf-brain agreed that this 
was for the best. Territory had to be protected and, even if this wasn't the way 
any wolf would protect it, it was an acceptable course of action under the 
circumstances. 
After we tied them up, I gave them each a half-dose of the sedative I'd swiped 
from Jeremy's medical supplies. It was enough to make them too groggy to 
struggle, but not too groggy to walk to the cabin. 
Once at the cabin, Nick took the mutt he'd been supposed to fight, the newcomer, 
and tied him to a tree. I double-checked the knots, and gave him another partial 
dose of sedative, to put him to sleep. Then I took my mutt—the one who'd first 
come to challenge Jeremy—into the cabin. 
I never took the gag from his mouth, and never said a word to him. There was 
nothing to say. He'd trespassed on our property, and he knew that the penalty 
for that might be death. The death he was about to receive, though, was a 
punishment far in excess of the crime. Again, that was a problem for me. I knew 
what had to be done, but I also understood the unfairness of it. All I could do, 
then, was to make sure he'd suffer no more than he would have if we'd fought. 
So, when we were in the cabin, I gave him the rest of the sedative dose, plus 
another half-shot. He was unconscious within minutes. Then I hoisted him onto 
the plastic-covered table, double checked the room, making sure all the plastic 
sheeting was still securely in place, and set to work. 
It took two hours. A couple of times, I thought I wouldn't be able to finish. 
No, I wasn't overcome by horror or disgust at the reality of what I'd decided to 
do. I understand that, from a human point of view, maybe I should have been, but 
that wasn't a problem. This was a job that needed to be done, and because I knew 
the mutt felt nothing, it was no different to me than working with a corpse. To 
me, he was already dead. The problem was that I had to keep him alive, and that 
was a feat that required more medical skill than I possessed. As part of my 
research, I'd studied field guides for war medicine, so I had some idea how to 
cauterize the wounds I was inflicting, and keep him from bleeding out, but it 
wasn't easy. 
Finally, the job was done. I pulled off the raincoat I'd donned, so the blood 
spatter wouldn't spook Nick, then headed outside. 
By now, the other mutt was awake and struggling, as I'd assumed he would be. 
"Shit, that really did take a long time," Nick said. "What the hell were you 
doing in there?" 
"I had to wait for him to wake up so I could talk to him first," I said. "And 
now I need to talk to this one. You remember the plan, right? I'm taking him 
inside and you're waiting out here." 
"Sure, but wouldn't it be easier—" 
"No." 
"It'd be safer if there were two of us—" 
I grabbed Nick's arm and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the other mutt. 
"You are not going inside, Nick. Not going in. Not looking in. You promised." 
"Shit, what did you—?" 
"I'm trying to protect our territory. That's all you need to know." 
He glanced at the cabin, then at me. "Yeah. Okay." 
I took a knife from my pocket and advanced on the other mutt. His eyes widened 
at the sight of the knife, but I only cut the ropes holding him to the tree. 
Then I dragged him to his feet and shoved him toward the cabin. He looked 
around, as if considering making a break for it, but could barely walk, let 
alone run. At the door, I glanced back once, to make sure Nick was staying 
outside, then went in and locked the door behind us. 
I waited until the mutt finished emptying his stomach. The smell of vomit almost 
dowsed the stink of blood and burnt flesh. Almost. 
"You sick son-of-a-bitch," he whispered, still doubled over. "How could you—how 
could anyone—?" 
He puked again. I waited until the retching stopped. 
"He came on my territory," I said quietly. "From now on, any mutt who comes on 
my territory is going to end up like this. If you want to be the last mutt to 
walk away alive, then there's something I need you do for me." 
He shot upright. "I am not doing anything—" 
I grabbed his hand. With a wrench, I forced it over the heart of the mutt on the 
table. The other mutt's eyes went round and he jerked back. 
"He's alive? He's still alive? You kept him—!" 
The mutt swung at me, lost his balance on the blood-slicked plastic sheeting, 
and skidded to the floor. I left him there, grabbed an axe from the pile of 
tools, then finished the job on the unconscious mutt. 
"There," I said, turning to the one on the floor. "He's dead. I just wanted to 
show you that I could keep him alive. Think about that. I could do this to you, 
and let you live." 
He lunged for my legs, but I grabbed the back of his shirt and swung him to his 
feet, then shoved him against the wall and held him there until his weak 
struggles stopped. 
"Here's what I want you to do," I said. "I'm giving you a mission. The price for 
your life is this: you need to pass on what you've seen. When you leave here, 
you're taking the first plane out of New York State. You're flying back to your 
friends and telling them what happened, every detail of what happened. And 
you're warning them that if they come here, this is what they can expect. Then, 
once you've told them, you'll find another mutt and tell him, and another, and 
tell him. If you don't—" 
"You'll come after me," the mutt said between clenched teeth. His eyes blazed 
hate, but no amount of revulsion could cover the raw fear behind it. "Yes, I'll 
come after you, but not just if you don't pass along the message. If anyone 
shows up here again, then I'll know you haven't done your job and I'll come 
after you." "What?" he yelped. "I can't tell every last goddamned mutt in the 
world and even if I could, what's 
to say they'll listen to me?" "If you tell the story right, they'll listen, and 
they'll do your job for you by passing it on." "But what if they don't believe 
me? Shit, what person in their right mind could believe that 
someone would—?" His gaze swept the room, and he swallowed. "They won't believe 
me." "Yes, they will." I dropped him, strode across the room and grabbed a 
handful of Polaroid shots. 
"If they don't, show them these." "You took pictures? Jesus Christ! You're—
you're—" "Someone you don't ever want to meet again," I said. I shoved the 
pictures into his pocket, and prodded him out the door. And so the legend began. 
The mutt took my photos and took my tale and spread them as far as he 
could. The story snowballed, as all such stories do, and over the years I've 
heard dozens of versions of it, each more outrageous than the last. Yet I never 
deny any of them. If a mutt came up to me today and related the most sadistic 
exaggeration of the truth, I wouldn't deny it. Why should I? What I did was bad 
enough. If he thinks I'm capable of doing worse, why say otherwise? Sure, he'll 
go away thinking I'm the worst kind of depraved monster, but if it keeps him off 
our territory, then I've done my job, haven't I? 
According to the legend, that day was the last day any mutt ever set foot near 
Stonehaven. Is that true? Of course not. The story didn't spread fast enough to 
warn off every mutt, and over the next few years, even two or three who had 
heard the tale couldn't resist taking a shot at this 'wolf­monster'. Yet none of 
those mutts ever returned, so even if their friends knew they'd come and that my 
victim hadn't really been the last mutt to trespass at Stonehaven, they didn't 
allow this inconsistency to get in the way of a good story. The legend was 
allowed to remain and flourish. 
The news of what I'd done eventually spread to the Pack. As for Jeremy, while 
I'm sure he heard about it within a year or so, he never mentioned it to me. I 
don't think he knew how to handle it. He couldn't endorse my methods, but the 
whole Pack benefited from the results, so how could he complain? Take me aside 
and say 'that was a very, very bad thing you did, Clay, and I know why you did 
it, and I think it might have been the right thing to do, but please don't ever 
do it again'? 
At thirty-one, Jeremy was still coming to terms with the ugly side of 
leadership, the thought that he might need to commit or sanction acts of 
violence to reduce the violence in our lives. As he'd said five years ago, the 
better we could fight, the less we'd have to. In killing the mutt so horribly, 
I'd tested his theory in a way I'm sure he'd never anticipated but, in the end, 
he saw that it did work. One act of extreme violence bought us two decades of 
near-peace at Stonehaven. No one could argue about that. 

Changes

Jeremy turned thirty-two that spring. For his birthday, I decided to get him 
some special art supplies. In the past few years, he'd been devoting more and 
more time to his painting and I wanted to show him that, even if I couldn't 
really share his enthusiasm, I fully supported it. The problem was that I had no 
idea what 'special art supplies' were, or what type Jeremy needed. So I called 
his mentor in New York. That was tough for me, phoning a human stranger and 
asking for help, but I was determined to get the best present I could for 
Jeremy, regardless of the monetary or psychological cost. 
Jeremy's mentor was an artist whose career had been side-railed by arthritis, so 
he'd opened a gallery in New York City. Jeremy had met him five years ago. 
Presumably, Jeremy had been browsing or admiring in the gallery, and they 
somehow managed to strike up a conversation and this artist had been advising 
Jeremy ever since. 
I knew Jeremy's mentor's name, but had never met the man; Jeremy kept that part 
of his life separate from ours. Yet the moment I called and introduced myself, 
the man knew who I was and was more than happy to help. He promised to put 
together a bundle of supplies and mail them, and I could send him a check 
'whenever'. 
"It must be pretty exciting around there these days," he said after we'd 
arranged everything. 
"Ummm, yeah," I said. "I guess so." 
He chuckled. "I don't know how Jeremy stays so calm. When I first—" Another 
chuckle. "But you don't want to hear an old man reminisce. I'm just so happy for 
him. It's wonderful to see. It'll make things so much easier for the two of you. 
Young people can always use extra money." 
He promised to get my supplies into the mail that week, then signed off. I hung 
up, then stared down at the phone. Extra money? What was that about? 
Financially, things had been going much better for us lately. When I'd been 
younger, Jeremy had spent many a late night hunched over a calculator, trying to 
juggle the bills so they'd all be paid on time. These days, he turned down work. 
We certainly weren't well off, but we were comfortable. Yet this hadn't been a 
sudden change, so that didn't explain the man's comments. 
Maybe he'd been referring to the investments. Once Jeremy had begun earning 
extra money, he'd done the financially cautious thing and started investing the 
extra. Some of it went into conservative stuff like bonds, but at least half had 
gone into the stock market, under Antonio's direction. A few years back, Antonio 
had taken over the new technology sector of the family business, just as Dominic 
had been ready to abandon micro-technology as an unprofitable fad. Although 
Antonio knew nothing about computers or technology, he had an instinctive grasp 
of trends and business needs, and had turned a department on the verge of 
extinction into a thriving part of the company. He'd also invested his own money 
in the technology sector, and persuaded Jeremy to do the same. Just a few months 
ago, a dividend check had bought us a weekend camping trip in Vermont. From what 
Jeremy's mentor said, maybe another one was on the way, and maybe another trip 
in the works. I could live with that. 
Jeremy's birthday came and went. No dividend check or special trip was 
mentioned, but he loved my gift, so that was enough. The next month, classes 
gave way to exams, bringing with it the prospect of four whole months to call my 
own. After my last exam, I bolted for the parking lot and found my car missing. 
I stood in the lot and looked around. Had I been so preoccupied with my exam 
that I'd accidentally parked somewhere else? Not likely. My pass was for this 
lot. I was certain I'd parked right there, in my usual spot in the far row. But 
now I was standing there, in front of the spot I could swear had been mine, 
scowling at a black Mustang convertible. A beautiful car, and any other time, 
I'd have been fully appreciative of it, but right now I just wanted to go home, 
and this was, unfortunately, not my car. Had someone stolen mine? Yeah, as if 
anyone would want a fifteen year old Chevy that needed a swift kick to get 
started on cold mornings. Had it been towed? Shit, I'd paid all my tickets, 
hadn't I? Could I have missed one . . . or two? 
A sharp tinkle of metal on asphalt cut short my thoughts. Following the sound, I 
looked to see a set of keys between my feet. I frowned down at them. 
"Well, pick them up," said a voice behind me. "I'd have aimed for your hand, but 
I didn't want to startle you." 
I turned to see Jeremy leaning against his truck. He waved at the keys. I picked 
them up, still frowning. 
"What are you doing here?" I said. "Did something happen to my car?" 
"No, it's right there. Where you left it." 
I turned to the Mustang, looked down at the keys in my hand, then back at the 
car. I can imagine my expression because Jeremy burst into a rare laugh. 
"I thought you might like that," he said. "Any tickets you earn with it are 
still yours, though." 
I looked from the car, to Jeremy, and back again. "But how—where—?" 
"I came into an unexpected bit of money and thought you deserved something new. 
Well, it's not new, but newer, and hopefully nicer." 
"Shit, yeah," I said, still staring. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." 
"You're welcome." 
I jangled the keys in my hand, itching to try them, but knowing that before I 
did that, I needed to be sure this was okay, that Jeremy hadn't gone into hock 
because I'd been bitching and moaning about my car this winter. 
"The stocks?" I said, tearing my gaze from the car to look at him. 
He shook his head. "A long-term investment of another kind. I sold my first 
painting. Two paintings, actually. One this winter and another last month." 
"Sold—? When—? I didn't even know you had any up for sale." 
Jeremy brushed his bangs from his face, using the movement to try to cover a 
blush. "I wasn't ready to admit to it. Not until something sold. Remember when 
we were looking for schools—or, I should say, when I was looking for schools? I 
knew your teachers thought you'd get a full scholarship, but when I saw the 
tuition prices, I was still worried. I didn't want something like lack of money 
to hold you back. Don had been pestering me to put a few paintings in his 
gallery. Eventually I decided to give it a shot." 
"So they sold?" 
A tiny smile. "For far more than they were worth. And since you took care of 
your tuition with your scholarship, I thought it only fitting that I use the 
money on you." 
"You didn't need to—" 
"No, but I wanted to. Now get in and let's go home." 
I grinned. "Race you." 
He shook his head and walked back to his truck. 
And so our lives underwent another slow change. Over the next couple of years, 
Jeremy sold more paintings. He still kept up his translation business, in case 
the art didn't work out, but he retained only his best clients and turned down 
all new work. 
Malcolm continued to train me. By the time I was eighteen, I'd learned all the 
tricks he had to impart, but kept up the lessons for practice. That seemed to 
make him happy—as happy as Malcolm was capable of being. I always knew that part 
of his reason for training me was political. He saw in me a potentially valuable 
ally for his fight to become Alpha, and hoped that we'd somehow bond over these 
sessions and he'd woo me away from Jeremy. Never happened, though. I came to 
tolerate Malcolm, but would never forget what he'd done to Jeremy, and never 
trust him not to do it again if things didn't go his way. 
And what about his failed ploy to get me to persuade Jeremy to drop out of the 
Alpha race? Being out in the world so much, Malcolm was one of the first in the 
Pack to hear what I'd done to that mutt. Was he angry that I'd found another way 
to stop trespassing mutts, one that didn't help his cause? If he was, he never 
gave any sign of it. Instead, it seemed to give him something new to brag about, 
that his pupil had proven not only a vicious killer but a clever strategist who 
had come up with a way to rid all Pack territory of trespassing mutts. Although 
my original plan had only been to keep mutts away from Stonehaven, after hearing 
what I'd done, most mutts decided they'd better not take the chance of 
trespassing on any Pack wolf's turf, just in case they'd misunderstood my 
message. So, by the time I was twenty, our sanctuary extended throughout Pack 
territory. 
As for the Alpha race, it was more of an Alpha crawl. Dominic had moved Jeremy 
into the role of advisor, and consulted him on every matter of Pack policy. This 
seemed a monumental step. An Alpha traditionally acted alone or, if he consulted 
anyone, he did it on the side, so no one knew—he certainly didn't openly ask 
advice as Dominic now did with Jeremy. Yet it was all for show. Dominic might 
seek Jeremy's advice, but no one labored under the illusion that he felt 
obligated to follow it, or even seriously considered it. As Malcolm had said 
years ago, Dominic was playing a game, slowly moving Jeremy into a leadership 
role, while holding fast to the reins of power. Jeremy knew this. He'd always 
known it. But he allowed it to happen because it put him into a position he 
might never attained otherwise—that of a serious Alpha contender. In taking over 
some of Dominic's more mundane roles, and in letting the Pack hear his ideas on 
policy, he showed them that he was more than a puppet in this show. 
I finished my undergrad degree at twenty and, true to my word, went away to 
college for my graduate program. I went no farther than Columbia but, despite 
Dominic's offer to come live with them, I stayed in residence, which satisfied 
Jeremy's desire to have me experience life in the human world. 
The Pack changed little during those three years. Cliff Ward died. The summer 
before I went to Columbia, he was killed in a mutt fight. I mourned his passing 
even less than I had Gregory's. He'd been a non-player, a sycophant of Malcolm's 
with no real power or position in the Pack. I knew I shouldn't feel that way. 
Deep down, I wanted to see all my Pack brothers as just that—Pack brothers. But 
the longer Dominic held power, the deeper the schism became between those who 
supported Jeremy and those who favored Malcolm, and I couldn't help seeing 
Malcolm's allies as future threats to Jeremy, which made them potential enemies 
rather than brothers. 
That fall, just after I'd started at Columbia, Dominic called a Pack meeting. It 
was just a regular meeting, and by now everyone knew better than to expect to 
hear anything as monumental as an announcement that he was stepping down. Still, 
there was always hope. On Saturday afternoon, though, we held the meeting 
portion of the weekend, and he didn't say a word about succession. In fact, he 
said very little of anything, just snapped a few instructions to Jeremy, then 
left Jeremy to supervise the meeting while he stormed off to nurse a headache. 
After the meeting, Nick raided the kitchen, and brought all the lunch leftovers 
into the sun­room, where Joey and I were basking in the heat of the September 
sun. As we ate, I talked about my newly discovered area of academic passion: 
anthropomorphic religion. 
"—then, if you move to Nubia, you have the god Arensnuphis, who's depicted both 
as a lion and as a man wearing—." Nick yawned. "Is anyone else ready for a nap? 
I don't know why, but suddenly, I'm just so 
tired." I lobbed a pillow at him. "Hey, this is important stuff. If you'd gone 
to college, you—" "Could be just as boring as you? Thanks, but no thanks." I 
grabbed an empty plate. Joey caught my hand. "Stick to pillows. Dominic's in a 
bad enough mood as it is. As for lion-
gods, as long as you find it interesting, Clay, that's all that matters. So, are 
we going out tonight?" "Hunt," I said. "Bar," Nick said at the same time. Joey 
sighed. "Someone give me a quarter and we'll flip for it." "Uh-uh," I said. "He 
can go to a bar and pick up girls any time. Hell, he does it every night 
of the week—" "Every night?" Nick said. "Like hell. I don't need to pick up 
girls any night of the week. 
Just open my book and dial a number . . . if they don't call me first." "Good, 
then you don't need to do it tonight," I said. "I'm here, and I want to hunt." 
When he started to complain, I skewered him with a look. He closed his mouth. 
"Hunt," I said to Joey. Then I glanced over at Nick. "And if we have time, we'll 
go to a bar 
afterwards for a drink or two. Without girls." Nick rolled his eyes. "Something 
is seriously wrong with you, buddy." 
"What's wrong with who?" Malcolm said. He strolled into the sun-room, the Santos 
in tow. "You better not be talking about my boy." He clapped me on the back. 
"Nothing wrong with him. Nothing at all." 
"Nothing a lobotomy couldn't fix," Daniel muttered.
"Hey, you guys hear that?" I said to Nick and Joey. "Sounds like a pup yipping."
"Danny-boy," Nick said. "When you going to grow up into a wolf? Still waiting 
for that first

Change, aren't you?" 
"Nah, he had that last year," I said. "Not that anyone's noticed. Still couldn't 
take on a mutt with two broken legs. I hear that's what happens. Guy doesn't 
Change until he's twenty, he never quite catches up." 
Joey shot us both looks, trying to hush us. He was always telling us we should 
be nicer to Daniel, that if we tried, we could win him over easily. I didn't see 
the point. I tossed Joey the 'you worry too much' look I'd perfected from 
Antonio. 
"Don't listen to him," Raymond murmured to his son. "You're just fine."
"Sure he is," I said. "And any day he wants to prove it, I'm ready. I can always 
use a few

seconds of diversion." Nick laughed. When Malcolm chimed in, Daniel reddened. 
"At least I'm not some psycho who chops up—" Daniel began. Raymond caught his 
son's arm to shush him, but Malcolm advanced on Daniel, looming over 
him. 
"No, you're not, are you?" Malcolm said. "You've never even fought a mutt. Never 
needed to. You know why that is? Why a pup like you can run in peace, hunt in 
peace, not have worry about some mutt tearing you to shreds?" 
Daniel muttered something.
"Speak up!" Malcolm barked.
Raymond laid a hand on Malcolm's arm. "He knows, Mal. We're all . . . grateful." 
He choked

on the word, but pressed on. "Clayton did us all a favor and we realize it." 
"Yeah," Stephen said. "Big favor. Now we have to go find the mutts. Even then, 
some of them just run the other way—" 
"But it's a small price to pay for being safe on our property," Raymond said. 
"Come on, boys. Malcolm wanted to talk to Clayton. Let's leave him alone." 
"Hold on," Malcolm said. "I was going to ask Clay if he wanted to set up a hunt 
for tonight. A full Pack hunt." 
"Sure," I said. "Did Dominic say—" 
"No, he did not," growled a voice from the doorway. Dominic strode in, followed 
by Antonio and Jeremy. "Since when are you allowed to set up Pack hunts, 
Malcolm? Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?" 
Malcolm shrugged. "Sorry, Dom. I just thought since you weren't feeling well—" 
"I feel fine," Dominic said, then winced, belying his words. He spun on Jeremy. 
"What did you tell them?" 
"The truth," Jeremy said calmly. "That you have a headache, which you do." 
"I don't have a headache. I never get headaches." 
"Which is why, as I suggested, you should let me call Doctor Patterson and—" 
"You'll call no one," Dominic snarled. "And there will be no Pack hunts tonight. 
In fact, you won't be here tonight. None of you. This Meet is adjourned. Go 
home." 
He stalked out the door. 
No one went home. We were accustomed to Dominic's moods, and knew that if we did 
take off, the next day he'd summon us back and blasting us for leaving mid-Meet. 
After his outburst, he retreated to his room, and the Meet progressed as usual. 
There wasn't a Pack hunt that night. Even Malcolm knew better than to press his 
luck that far. Jeremy advised that Nick, Joey and I should skip our mini-hunt. 
With the mood Dominic was in, he might even see that as a breach of authority. 
So we went out for drinks instead. 
When we returned to the Sorrentino estate a little louder and more boisterous 
than we'd left, Jeremy met us in the garage and warned us to tone it down. 
Dominic's headache was worse, and 
he was now complaining of dizziness and other pains. Jeremy was obviously 
worried, but Dominic only brushed off his suggestion to visit the doctor and 
popped some aspirin. So we bustled off to bed. I slept in Nick's room, and Joey 
slept in one of the guest rooms with 
his father. Nick and I stayed up for a while, talking, but drifted off shortly 
before two. At three-thirty, I awoke to Jeremy shaking me. One look at his face, 
and I leapt up. "What's—?" I began. "Dominic," he said, handing me my clothing 
from the floor. "He passed out and I can't wake 
him. We need to get him to the doctor, fast. Are you okay to drive?" "Sure," I 
said, and grabbed the clothes. 

Challenge

I drove Dominic to the hospital so fast that, if I'd been pulled over, I'm sure 
I would have lost my license on the spot. 
He'd had a stroke. Things like this are less common among werewolves, maybe 
because of our different physiological makeup and maybe because of our more 
active lifestyles but sometimes it doesn't matter how healthy you are, mother 
nature decides your time is up. And so she'd decided for Dominic. He never 
recovered consciousness. For the next three days we kept vigil at his bed in the 
private clinic. I wanted to stay, but Jeremy insisted there was nothing I should 
do and so I shouldn't be missing school. I did, however, skip classes that 
weren't absolutely necessary so I could zip across town to the clinic and spend 
as much time there as possible. 
On Tuesday morning, Dominic died. I didn't learn of it until I arrived late that 
afternoon and found Nick and Jorge alone, sitting beside an empty bed. 
Antonio made the arrangements for Dominic's funeral. Or, he did his best, but 
Jeremy ended up quietly taking over. This is one part of Western death rituals 
I've never understood, that a person has just died and, within hours, those 
closest to him, who most want to go home, close the door and grieve, must 
instead sit in some stranger's office and decide what kind of coffin or flowers 
they want. As for the service itself, it was small, as are all Pack funerals. 
This is a time that the Pack wants to be together, and yet they have to be 
careful how 'together' they appear at something semipublic like a funeral. So 
they get the formalities over with quickly, then retreat to the Alpha's home to 
grieve. 
We'd been back at the Sorrentinos' estate for less than an hour, all gathered in 
the living room. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts—each except Malcolm, 
who knew exactly where he was heading and wasn't waiting another minute to get 
there. 
"We need an Alpha," he said. "Word gets out that Dominic died without a 
successor and we're in deep shit. Every mutt in the country will think 
something's wrong." 
"We just put my father in the ground," Antonio said, lifting his head from his 
hands. "You can wait another goddamned—" 
"No," Jorge said softly. "He's right. We need to get this over with." 
"I don't mean any offense to your father, Tonio," Malcolm said. "If it seems 
that way, then I apologize. I'm just thinking of the Pack. We can get this over 
with quickly and painlessly, then let everyone get back to mourning a great 
Alpha. We all know how this works. I'm putting my name forward. If anyone cares 
to challenge me, we'll step outside right now and settle this." 
"Challenge you to what?" I said. "A duel? You gonna pick swords or pistols?" 
Jeremy's lips curved as he recognized his own words from so long ago. 
"A fight, Clayton," Malcolm said. "A fight to the death. That's how it works 
when an Alpha dies before the Pack chooses an official successor. Now, the only 
people here who might have a shot at winning that challenge are you and Antonio. 
Tonio doesn't want it. Never has. As for you, I'm sure you'd make a damned fine 
Alpha . . . in ten or fifteen years. If that's what you want, let me say that 
you're already my choice for successor." 
Jeremy cleared his throat. Malcolm turned on him before he could get a word out. 
"Don't embarrass yourself, Jeremy. Do us all a favor and keep your damned mouth 
shut for once." 
"No, I don't believe I can," Jeremy said. "You said that this is how we choose 
an Alpha when the previous one dies without a successor, but I must point out 
that you are mistaken." 
"Bullshit. Go grab the Legacy. The last time an Alpha died without a successor—" 
"—was in 1912," Jeremy said. "And they did indeed choose the next Alpha through 
a battle between candidates. However, there is nothing in the Law to say that's 
how it must be done. If you read the Legacy entry, it quite clearly states that 
a battle is how both candidates decided to handle the matter, rather than a 
vote. I am putting forward myself as a challenger but, unless I agree to a 
fight, which I will not, then the matter must be handled in the same way all 
Pack successions are handled, by a vote." 
"He's right," Jorge said. "Do you want to check the Legacy?" 
"Never mind," Malcolm said. "He wants a vote, let's give him a vote. All in 
favor of me—" "That's not how it's done," Jeremy said. "We both need to deliver 
our platforms, let the Pack know our plans for the future—" 
"Screw the future. If we don't decide this, and decide it fast, we won't have a 
future. The mutts will see to that. A leaderless Pack is a weak Pack. Everyone 
here knows you and they know me, and they both know what kind of leader we'd 
make" 
"If that's what you want, that's fine by me," Jeremy said. "We'll vote. But, as 
the Law says, if any Pack member feels he isn't ready to make a decision, he has 
two days to consider the options." 
With that, a decade of Alpha campaigning came to a sudden end. The vote was 
open, as all Pack votes are. Antonio, as the Alpha's oldest living son, led the 
vote. He went around the group and each person named their choice. 
Antonio started by casting his vote for Jeremy. Then he turned to Jorge.
"Jeremy," Jorge said.
Next to Stephen. "Malcolm."
"Malcolm," Andrew seconded, before being asked.
"Malcolm," his father said.
Antonio looked at Peter. "Jeremy."
On to Ross Werner. Ross cracked his knuckles then, gaze still on his hands said, 
"I'm not

ready." "Oh for god's sake," Malcolm snarled. "Just pick—" "He gets his forty-
eight hours," Jeremy said. Then, to Antonio. "Should we continue? Or 
leave it there?" "We'll keep going," Antonio said. "Anyone else wants time to 
think, just say so." He turned 
to me. "Clay? Do I need to ask?" "Jeremy." Next to Joey. His lips pursed as he 
started to say Jeremy's name, but an elbow jab from his 
father cut him short. 
"We'll take the forty-eight hours," Dennis said. "Both of us." 
On to Nick. "Jeremy." 
Daniel. "Malcolm." 
Finally, Wally Santos. "Malcolm." 
There it was. Five votes for Jeremy, five for Malcolm and three abstaining for 
forty-eight hours. 
As far as I was concerned, Jeremy had won. Joey had been ready to name Jeremy, 
and would do so. His father, Dennis, liked Jeremy, and supported him, though 
he'd always been too conscious of the balance of Pack power to do so openly. So 
he would also vote for Jeremy. Ross had always been a fence-sitter, the type of 
guy who never wanted to offend anyone. We could try to sway him our way, but 
ultimately, his vote wouldn't matter. Even if he picked Malcolm, the final 
result would be 7:6 in Jeremy's favor. All we had to do was wait two days. After 
a decade of waiting, that was nothing. 
After the meeting, Joey and Dennis retreated to the guest house. Although we 
called the one-bedroom cabin a guest house, few guests actually stayed there. 
During a Meet everyone liked to stick together, so we all slept in the main 
house. The guest house was used for human guests and, occasionally, as for Pack 
members whom Dominic chose to punish by making them sleep elsewhere during a 
Meet. 
When Dennis asked Antonio for the guest house key, we all knew that it meant 
they wanted a place to talk without being overheard. That was fine. We sent them 
off and Jeremy forbade Nick or I from trying to 'visit' Joey, and sway his 
father's decision. This was a choice they had to make on their own. 
The day passed, and Dennis and Joey stayed in the guest house. This was taking 
longer than I expected, and I began to worry that maybe, instead of Joey 
persuading his father to support Jeremy, Dennis was working to persuade Joey to 
change his vote. While I was certain neither Dennis nor Joey wanted to see 
Malcolm as Alpha, I knew that Dennis feared him, and fear can be a very powerful 
motivator. 
When night fell and they still didn't return, I told Nick to cover for me, and 
slipped into the backyard. The guest house was in the far corner of the estate, 
in the wooded portion, accessible either by road or a very long path. I took the 
path. That way, I could tell myself I wasn't disobeying Jeremy, that I was just 
going for a walk. 
I'd gone no more than a quarter of the distance when I saw a dark figure on the 
path ahead. I slowed and sniffed the air. It was Joey. 
"I figured your patience would be running thin," he said with a twist of a 
smile. "Actually, I thought it would have run out a couple of hours ago. You 
surprised me." 
"Are you done, then?" I asked as I approached. "You've made up your mind?" 
"Uh, yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." 
He dropped his gaze as he spoke and I froze, certain I knew what was coming. 
"Don't say it," I said. "If you tell me you're voting for Malcolm—" 
"No. I can't. We can't. Jeremy's the right choice. We both know that. The 
problem is . . ." 
He let the sentence drop off and scuffed the ground with his shoe, gaze fixed on 
the clods of dirt that shot up. 
"The problem is . . ." I prompted. 
"The problem is that we can't vote for Malcolm, and we don't dare vote against 
him." 
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 
He met my gaze. "You know what it means. He's already been out here twice—" 
"What?" 
"He knows very well which way we want to vote, Clay, and he's not going to let 
that happen. My dad and I, we're the weak links. Neither of us can stand up to 
Malcolm in a fight. We know it and he knows it." 
"He's threatened you?" I slammed my fist into the nearest tree. "Goddamn him! 
And goddamn you, Joey, for not telling me the minute he did. I'll protect you. 
You know that." 
"For today maybe. For tomorrow maybe. But not for the rest of my life. We vote 
against him and he'll take his revenge. He's already said as much. So we're 
leaving." 
"Leaving?"
"Leaving the Pack. Tonight. I wanted to tell you—"
"Tell me what? That you're running away? That you're—"
"Don't say it, Clay," Joey said, pulling himself up straight and meeting my 
gaze. "I know

what you think, that this is the act of a coward. It's not. It's the act of 
someone who doesn't care to become a martyr, no matter how much he may believe 
in the cause. Jeremy will win. I'm sure he will. He's smart enough to outwit 
Malcolm. He'll be the next Alpha, and he doesn't need our votes—or our deaths—to 
ensure that." 
"So then you'll come back. After he's Alpha." 
"I—I don't know." Joey rubbed his hand over his mouth. "It's not the same for 
us, Clay. We aren't Danverses or Santoses or Sorrentinos. Even in Jeremy's Pack, 
I'm not sure how much that would change." 
"It would," I said. "Hell, I'm not a Danvers. Not really. Nobody gives a shit." 
"Because you're special. Look, I didn't wait out here for two hours to argue 
with you. I wanted to say goodbye. I know this will be goodbye." Another twist 
of a smile. "A mutt can't be buddies with the Alpha's son, can he?" 
"Joey, don't. Please—" 
"We've leaving the country. Probably heading up to Canada. Dad's been to the 
west coast there and he thinks it would be a good place for us. Lots of room to 
roam. No mutts, as far as we know. Plus we wouldn't have to worry about 
accidentally bumping into one of you guys and forcing you to fight—" 
"Shit, Joey, no one would ever—"
"But it's a consideration, right? Let's just leave it at that."
"I can't," I said. "Come back with me. We'll talk to Jeremy. He'll work this 
out—"
"Clay, no. Please. Let's just shake hands—"
"And say goodbye? Let one of my friends leave the Pack and become a mutt? No 
way. No

goddamned way!" 
I spun on my heel and whammed my fist into a tree so hard it shook. When I 
turned back again, Joey was gone. I stood there, breathing hard, heart pounding. 
Then I hit the tree again, slammed my hand into it over and over, until I heard 
a bone crack. Only then, when I felt real pain overtake the pain in my gut did 
my brain clear. I stopped, raked my hand through my hair, and concentrated on 
breathing until I could think again. 
I wanted to go after Joey, to say a proper goodbye, but I knew that that the 
moment I caught up with him, I'd start arguing again, desperate to find someone 
way to persuade him to stay. He was better off leaving. As much as it hurt to 
say that, to admit that I couldn't protect a friend, it was true. My priority 
was Jeremy. It had to be. He came first and, although I could try my best to 
protect Joey and Dennis, it wasn't fair to ask them to entrust their lives to 
secondhand bodyguard. 
I looked down the path. 
"Goodbye," I said, then turned and headed back to the house. 
When I told Jeremy what the Stillwells had decided, the news didn't seem to 
surprise him. He promised that, when this was over, we'd try to find them and 
bring them back into the Pack. Until then, we had to let them do what they 
thought was best. 
The next morning, we awoke to find Ross's bedroom empty. Everything down to his 
toothbrush was gone. Jeremy tracked his trail to his car, which was also 
missing. There was no other scent mixed with his, no sign that he'd been killed 
or forced to leave or that he'd done anything other than emulated the Stillwells 
and decided this wasn't a fight he was prepared to join. 
With that, the race for Alpha came to a grinding halt. The vote remained split 
evenly, and both sides knew that count wouldn't change. Who of the remaining ten 
would switch sides? One of the Santoses, who despised Jeremy as much as Malcolm 
did? One of the Sorrentinos, all three of whom had been Jeremy's friends and 
supporters from childhood? Peter, who owed Jeremy his life and nearly died at 
the hands of Malcolm? Me? Of course not. The only three who might have been 
swayed were now gone. So we were deadlocked, and nothing in the Legacy or the 
Law gave us any ideas on how to break the stalemate. 

Stalemate

We spent six months locked in that stalemate, neither side willing—or even able—
to budge. Contrary to Malcolm's dire predictions, hordes of mutts did not 
descend when they heard the Pack was leaderless. They did, however, pace at the 
edge of our territory, like scavengers who weren'tsure their prey was dead yet. 
At first, Malcolm was content to bare his teeth now and then and hope Peter or 
Jorge would cave, but we circled our wagons fast enough that everyone felt safe. 
But that only meant that Malcolm had to do more than threaten—he had to 
seriously consider eliminating one of us. Right from the beginning, Peter had 
moved in with Jeremy and me, but we'd continued our separate lives. By the new 
year, though, we didn't so much as dare collect the mail without backup. 
I managed to make it through the fall term but when it ended, I told Jeremy I 
wasn't going back—not until this problem was resolved. He argued, of course, but 
he understood where my priorities lay and that this wasn't so much a matter of 
choice as necessity. I couldn't concentrate on school knowing my absence put 
everyone in danger. So I told the school I was having problems at home and 
arranged to resume my studies the next fall. 
In April, Malcolm launched his first strike. All six of us were at Stonehaven, 
and we'd decided to blow off some steam with a deer hunt. Once we found a deer, 
we split into pairs. Jeremy and Antonio had looped around in front of the stag. 
Nick and I chased it from the left side while Jorge and Peter took the right 
flank position. Then the four of us would drive it to where Jeremy and Antonio 
were waiting. 
I was running ahead of Nick. I shouldn't have been—I should have stayed at his 
side—but he'd stumbled in an animal hole and, once I'd checked to make sure he 
was okay, I'd dashed ahead, eager to catch up before the stag realized its left 
flank was unprotected. After a few bounds, I could see the stag ahead, and hear 
Nick racing up behind me. A shot cracked. Then a yelp. I wheeled to see Nick fly 
sideways. As I raced back to him, the smell of blood and gunpowder hit me, and I 
knew he'd been shot. 
The next half-hour is a blur. Peter and Jorge, having heard the shot, ran back. 
Then Peter went to get Jeremy while Jorge Changed. I stayed where I was, 
standing over Nick, frantically licking at the blood that poured from his 
shoulder. When Jeremy arrived, he was in human form. I dimly recall him 
struggling to pull me off Nick, then Antonio arriving and dragging me off his 
son. I stayed there, as close as they would allow, until I heard the words 
'he'll be okay'. Then I slid into the nearest thicket and Changed. 
When I peeked out, I saw Peter hurry to Jeremy with the medical kit. I stayed 
hidden for another couple of minutes, as I listened to them. Once I'd heard 
enough to reassure myself that I hadn't misheard, and Nick would indeed survive, 
I slipped out the other way and crept back to my clothes. I dressed, raced to 
the house, grabbed my keys and took off. 
Malcolm was in Syracuse, where he'd been since this all started. I knew exactly 
where he was staying because he'd told us, as if daring us to try something. 
Well, I was going to try something. For months now he'd been skulking around our 
territory and threatening us, and I'd fought every instinct that told me to do 
something about it. But now he'd stepped over the line. 
I should have known he'd go after Nick. Of the six of us, Nick was, arguably, 
the weakest, being the newest werewolf, with little fight experience outside our 
practice sessions. Yet all this time, we'd focused on protecting Peter and 
Jorge, not Nick. Why? Because no one, including myself, seriously thought 
Malcolm would harm Nick. He liked Nick. I suppose that's naive, to think that 
someone as ambitious and ruthless as Malcolm wouldn't kill a person he liked, 
but to us it made more sense that he'd go after Peter or Jorge, both average 
fighters and both men that Malcolm barely tolerated. Yet it was more than that. 
We thought Nick was safe not only because Malcolm was genuinely fond of him, but 
because he was Antonio's son and my best friend, and of all the wolves in the 
Pack, Antonio and I were Malcolm's favorites, no matter how little we wanted the 
honor. 
Despite this, I never doubted that Malcolm had shot Nick. Hunters hadn't set 
foot on Stonehaven's property in well over a generation. The Danverses had 
always made it clear that they didn't want hunters on the estate and, since they 
were otherwise good neighbors, and there was plenty of other hunting ground in 
the region, local hunters obeyed the 'No Trespassing' signs and warned visitors 
to do the same. To have a hunter come on the property, after all those years, 
and just happen to shoot Nick was coincidental beyond belief. Malcolm had known 
we were all at Stonehaven, and would likely take advantage of the full moon for 
a group run. He'd seen his shot, and had—literally—taken it. 
At Malcolm's hotel, I stormed down the hall to his room and pounded on the door. 
Daniel opened it. I shoved him aside and strode into the room, where I found 
Malcolm, Stephen and Andrew sitting around the television. 
"Clay?" Malcolm said, pushing to his feet. "What's—"
"Get outside," I said.
"What?"
"You heard me. You want a challenge. You've got it. Get outside now."
"Challenge? What's—?"
"Did you really think you could get away with it? You'd shoot Nick and I'd just 
chalk it up to

a tragic hunting accident?" "Nick's been shot? Is he okay?" I could see the lie 
behind Malcolm's fake shock and I wanted nothing more than to cross that 
room, grab him and beat him until he confessed. But we weren't alone in that 
room and, as furious as I was, I wasn't risking my life to prove him wrong. Not 
when I knew an easier way. 
I marched to the front closet, yanked it open and grabbed Stephen's shoes. Of 
everyone in Malcolm's camp, he was the only one who owned a rifle and could use 
it, having friends who were hunters. I checked the bottoms, then walked back to 
Malcolm and shoved the shoes under his nose. 
"Smell that mud?" I said. "Stonehaven's mud, still wet. On Stephen's shoes."
Malcolm's eyes went wide. "Stephen? Did you shoot—"
"Don't pull that," I snapped. "Stephen didn't do this on his own. He's too 
stupid to think of

it, let alone carry it out." 
"You little—" 
Stephen flew at me. I nailed him in the gut and he toppled backward. Daniel 
jumped from his spot by the wall. I met his glare. 
"Try it," I said. "Go on. Show me you've grown a pair, Danny." 
Daniel didn't move. Stephen got to his feet and charged. I feinted out of the 
way and was turning to strike when someone grabbed my hand. I roared and wheeled 
to see Antonio behind me. I stopped short, but he used my momentum to yank me 
off balance, and threw me out the door into the hall. 
"This isn't over," I heard him say to Malcolm. 
The door slammed and Antonio turned on me. "Either we continue this out here or 
you go downstairs to the car quietly." 
"But he—" 
Antonio loomed over me, eyes blazing. "Where are Wally and Raymond?" 
"What? I—they're not here." 
"But who is, Clayton? Who is here?" 
"I—I don't—" 
"You're here and I'm here. The two people most likely to come after Malcolm if 
he hurt Nick. And where is Jeremy?" 
I scrambled to my feet. "Oh shit!" 
Antonio grabbed my arm. "He's okay. He's down in the car with the others. 
Fortunately, only one of us is as hotheaded as Malcolm hoped. Think before you 
act next time, Clay. If you're going to protect Jeremy, he needs to be your 
first priority at all times. No one else can matter. Let me look after everyone 
else, including Nick." 
"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing my face. "I didn't think—" 
"Well, that was your first mistake." He thumped me on the back. "Malcolm's more 
cunning than you give him credit for. Remember that." 
I nodded and we headed out to the car. 
The next night, when Nick felt well enough to join us, Jeremy convened a 
meeting. The subject? How to break the stalemate. Knowing this impasse put us in 
danger was one thing, but seeing Nick nearly killed, on our own property, 
surround by all of us, finally brought home the urgency of the situation. Jeremy 
knew we had to act. Since he wasn't yet Alpha, he didn't need to make all the 
decisions alone. He could solicit advice, so he did. 
"I'll fight him," I said as I plunked onto the sofa beside Nick. "Set it up and 
I'll take him out." 
"Presuming you do 'take him out', then what?" Jeremy asked. 
"Well, then I give you—" I stopped and thought about what I was saying. "Er, I—
uh, sorry." 
"I appreciate the sentiment and the offer," Jeremy said softly. "But I wouldn't 
expect anyone to respect an Alpha who had his title won for him by another. The 
answer to our problem, I believe, is obvious. Malcolm clearly wants a fight, and 
I doubt he'll settle for anything less. If that's my only option then I'll have 
to—" 
"No way," Antonio said. 
"I know I'm not on his level," Jeremy said. "But perhaps under the right 
circumstances, with a good strategy, I could outwit him. Strength isn't 
everything." 
"In this case, it is," Antonio said. "Malcolm gets you in the ring, Jer, and 
he'll fight like he's never fought before. He's been waiting for this his whole 
life. He'll kill you." 
"Maybe that's a chance I have to take." 
"It's not a chance, it's a certainty. If you challenge him, you'll die, and then 
the only thing you'll have accomplished is to break the Pack in half, because 
you know sure as hell that none of us is sticking around if Malcolm is Alpha. 
The only two he'd let stick around are me and Clay, and if he kills you, nothing 
in the world would make us follow him. We'd rather be mutts." 
Jeremy was silent for a moment. Then he gave a slow nod. "Maybe, then, that's 
the only solution. To break the Pack in half." 
"Two Packs?" I said. 
Jeremy nodded. 
"It might be the only way," Jorge said. 
"How would that work?" Peter asked. 
"I have no idea," Jeremy said. "So let's talk about it." 
By morning we'd come up with a proposal. We'd split the Pack in two, each with 
an Alpha. Jeremy's side would retain New York State as its territory, and 
Malcolm would take Pennsylvania, where the Santoses lived. That would mean 
Malcolm would give up Stonehaven as his home, but Jeremy would compensate him 
for that with a generous monthly stipend. In time we hoped to persuade the 
others to move their territory farther west or south, and put more distance 
between us, but for now, the division would be the boundary between the two 
states. 
Antonio and Peter took the proposal to Malcolm. He turned them down flat. 
Wouldn't even negotiate terms. He sent back a message to Jeremy saying that the 
only way the Pack was splitting was if we all left the country and started one 
in Canada or Mexico . . . and Jeremy deeded Stonehaven to him. In other words, 
we could put our tails between our legs and flee, and he might let us live. 
Jeremy didn't dignify that with an answer. 
Over the next few days, Antonio and I held some private meetings, to discuss 
taking matters into our own hands. Antonio wanted to kill Wally or Raymond, and 
thus swing the vote in our favor. I didn't see the point of such political 
wrangling. If you want to kill a beast, and make sure it's really dead, you 
don't sever a leg and hope it bleeds out—you lop off the head. Kill Malcolm and 
our problems would be over. While not opposed to the general theory, Antonio 
knew Jeremy would figure out who had killed Malcolm and, whatever the history 
between them, Malcolm was still his father. To have him killed by someone Jeremy 
had raised would be too much. Personally, I though Malcolm had long since lost 
any paternal rights, but I wasn't sure enough about the situation to test it. 
Not just yet. So we reverted to discussing Antonio's plan. The trick, though, 
was to kill Wally or Raymond without it being obvious that we'd done so. 
Otherwise, we reduced Jeremy to Malcolm's level, because everyone would assume 
he'd ordered the death. 
Midweek, Antonio had to return to New York for an unavoidable business meeting, 
and we agreed to think the problem through and come up with some ideas before he 
returned on the weekend. Jorge and Nick went back to New York with Antonio. 
Normally, Peter would have stayed with us, but after the attack on Nick, we 
decided Peter was better off with the Sorrentinos. He was a more experienced 
fighter than Nick or Jorge, so it made sense for the four of them to stick 
together, and let me devote my full protective attention to Jeremy. 
Dinner Thursday night started like any other. Our dinners were still made by the 
same woman who'd been cooking for us since I'd first arrived at Stonehaven. Five 
days a week she made our meal and dropped it off in a cooler late each 
afternoon, then we cooked it. When I'd been young, her husband used to bring it 
by. After his death, her son took over the delivery service. If we were home, he 
handed the cooler over directly. Otherwise, he left it in the garage. In my 
youth, Jeremy had feigned being 'not home' a lot, rather than deal with the 
stress of my reaction to what I considered a trespasser. Eventually, I got over 
it. Or so Jeremy thought. The truth was, the hairs on my neck still rose when I 
smelled the cook's son at the door but, knowing that without him, I'd be reduced 
to eating whatever Jeremy could scrounge from the fridge, I could overcome my 
aversion. By my twenties I'd picked up some basic cooking skills, but I was 
usually too busy with school to do it on weekdays, so we still had our meals 
delivered. 
That night it was Shepherd's Pie. While Jeremy dished it up, I threw together a 
salad in the kitchen. I walked into the dining room to see him leaning over the 
steaming pan, spatula only partway through the first cut. 
"Smell this," he said. 
I did. The scent of hot beef and potato wafted up. My stomach rumbled. 
"Smells great. Now hurry up and scoop it out or I'll take the whole dish." 
I reached for the casserole, but Jeremy pulled it back. 
"I'm serious. Something smells off." 
"The meat?" I said, leaning in for a closer sniff. "Seems fine to me. Doesn't 
matter anyway." Our stomachs, like a wolf's, were strong enough to withstand 
meat that was undercooked or a bit past its due date. 
Jeremy waved me away from the food, forked up a mouthful and sampled it. Then he 
made a face and discreetly spat it into a napkin. I scooped up a fingerful and 
ate it. It tasted fine, but I didn't say so. If Jeremy thought our food had been 
tampered with, I wasn't going to argue. His sense of smell and taste were 
marginally better than my own and, even if he was imagining things, he was 
entitled to a little paranoia these days. 
"Was it left in the garage?" I asked.
"No, John delivered it to the door."
For me, that answered the question of tampering, but Jeremy continued to frown 
down at the

Shepherd's Pie. Then he started for the door, paused, came back and took the 
casserole with him. "Hey, if you think there's something wrong with it, I'm not 
going to eat it," I called after him. After one last look in the direction of my 
vanished dinner, I tucked into the salad. A few 
minutes later, Jeremy returned. "John says he didn't see Pearl this afternoon," 
Jeremy said. "When he got to the house, the 
cooler was inside the front door, so he took it and left." I laid down my fork. 
"And he didn't think that was strange?" Jeremy shook his head. "These days, 
Pearl often naps in the afternoon. Even I knew that." "Does Malcolm?" As Jeremy 
pulled something from his pocket, he gave a half-shrug that I interpreted as 
'probably'. He laid the Shepherd's Pie in front of me again. "Close your eyes," 
he said. I did. He instructed me to sniff and I again smelled the pie. Then he 
held something else in 
front of my nose and I inhaled a vaguely familiar odor—one that I'd also faintly 
smelled on our dinner. "Yeah, that's it," I said, opening my eyes. "What is—?" I 
knew the answer before I even saw 
the bottle in Jeremy's hand. "Sedative. The stuff from your medical bag. Is any 
missing?" He shook his head. "But Malcolm's seen it before, plenty of times. We 
all have. If he knew the name, he'd know 
what to get, and he'd know it worked on us." I looked at the casserole. "So he 
dumped enough in there to kill us." 
"No, we'd smell that much easily. This is just enough to knock us out." 
I pushed my chair back and stood. "Well, I'm not waiting around to see what he 
planned to do next." 
Jeremy laid a hand on my shoulder. "I think we should do exactly that. Malcolm 
expects us to be asleep early tonight. Let's give him what he wants, and see 
what he does with it." 

Endgame

Three hours later, when I heard the back door knob turn, I was sprawled out on 
the sofa in the study, the most likely place for me to crash pre-bedtime. Sure 
enough, the footsteps headed straight for me. I counted three sets and, almost 
the moment I'd finished counting, identified them: Wally and his two oldest 
nephews, Stephen and Andrew. Disappointment zinged through me as I realized 
Malcolm wasn't among our uninvited guests, but I wasn't surprised. As much as 
Malcolm might like a showdown with his son, he wasn't stupid enough to take that 
risk. This way, if things went bad, he could claim that the Santos had acted on 
their own. 
I held myself still as they came into the room. I was lying on my back, with my 
left arm slung up over my face to obscure my expression, in case I slipped up. 
As they walked into the room, I struggled to keep from tensing. I could end this 
here. I knew I could. It might be a close fight, and I wouldn't emerge 
unscathed, but fueled by the outrage of having them invade our house, I was 
certain I could take on all three and win. Yet Jeremy had forbidden it. We had 
to let them make the first move, or Malcolm would claim they'd been sent to 
retrieve his shaving kit or something equally ridiculous. 
"Out like a light," Andrew said, leaning over me. 
"Probably because he scarfed down most of it himself," Stephen said. 
"Let's just hope he left enough for Jeremy," Andrew said. 
Stephen snorted. "Like it matters. Even if Jeremy's wide awake, I could take him 
with one hand tied behind my back." 
"Maybe so," Wally said. "But you're not going to try it. Andy, I want you to 
stay here, make sure Clayton doesn't wake up." 
"Let's skip that step," Stephen said, stepping close enough that I could feel 
the heat of his body. "How about we stage a little 'accident'? Damn, Mal, I know 
you wanted Clay left alive, and we really tried, but he woke up and we just had 
to—" 
"Don't even think about it," Wally said. "Even if he does wake up, we're 
following orders, tying him up and leaving him alive. Anything less, and Malcolm 
will know exactly who was behind it. You don't want to test him on this." 
"Goddamn it!" Stephen said, slamming his fist into the sofa inches from my face. 
"He hates Malcolm. Hates him! But if we so much as lay a finger—" 
"It's not fair, I know," Wally said softly. "But that's the way Mal is. When all 
this is over, we'll take care of Clayton, and things will change. Now, Andy, as 
I was saying, you stay here. If he so much as stirs, come and get me. Got it?" 
"Got it." 
The moment Wally and Stephen left, my heart started pounding, urging me to take 
care of Andrew and go protect Jeremy. Yet I reassured myself that the matter 
wasn't that urgent. It would take them a while to find Jeremy . . . if they 
found him at all. Jeremy had crisscrossed the house, from top to bottom, laying 
enough trails that they'd eventually get frustrated and give up trying to track 
him. Then they'd check the obvious spots he might have passed out —his bedroom, 
his studio, the bathroom —but he wasn't in any of those. I had at least fifteen 
to twenty minutes before they began to suspect that Jeremy wasn't asleep at all. 
I forced myself to count off five minutes before I peeked. By that time, Andrew 
had retreated to Jeremy's recliner. He was sitting there, staring at me, 
unblinking, as if I could wake up and pounce in the millisecond it took him to 
blink. The stink of fear wafted from him. That was why Wally had left him 
behind, because, if I did wake up, Andrew would make damned sure he called for 
help instead of trying to take me on by himself. 
After another couple of minutes, Andrew began to relax and, as he relaxed, he 
grew bored with sentry duty. His gaze wandered to the bookshelf. Two more 
minutes passed. Then he eased up from the recliner, gave me one last look, and 
turned toward the bookshelf. 
I sprang the moment his back was to me. My hand was around his mouth before he 
realized I'd left the sofa. I could have killed him then. But I didn't. Of the 
three Santos boys, Andrew had given me the least reason to hate him. I didn't 
like him, but I didn't hate him, and he wasn't enough of a threat to warrant 
killing. So I wrapped my free hand around his throat and squeezed until he 
passed out. Then I lowered him silently to the floor and crept from the room. 
As soon as I walked into the rear hallway, Jeremy slid through the back door. He 
motioned me to silence, cocked his head and listened. Footsteps sounded above. 
Jeremy waved me closer and I whispered what had happened so far—that Andrew was 
unconscious in the study, and Wally and Stephen were searching. 
"Time to let them find me," Jeremy murmured. 
Of all the parts of Jeremy's plan, I hated this one the most. But Jeremy 
insisted we play this to the end, that we had to know, beyond a doubt, what they 
had in mind. 
Jeremy pointed to the kitchen. When I hesitated, he met my gaze and jabbed his 
finger toward the room. I muttered under my breath, but obeyed. 
I slipped into the kitchen, half-opened the pantry door and stood behind it. In 
the hallway something crashed and the footsteps above stopped. 
"Clay?" Jeremy called, his voice weak. "Clayton?" 
A softer bang as he knocked into the hall-stand. Overhead the footsteps resumed, 
quieter now, heading for the staircase. Jeremy's unnaturally heavy footfalls 
thudded toward the kitchen, interspersed with the odd thump as he stumbled into 
a wall. By the time he threw open the kitchen door, Wally and Stephen were on 
the stairs, moving fast now. 
"Clayton?" Jeremy called into the kitchen. "Damn it, where are—?" The squeak of 
his shoes as he turned. A soft intake of breath. "Wally? Stephen? What are you—
?" 
A thump. I dove from my hiding spot as Wally pounced on Jeremy. Not seeing me, 
Stephen raced across the room to join his uncle. I slammed into him and we 
sailed into the far wall. Stephen's eyes went wide. 
"Surprised?" I snarled. "You wanted to fight me, you got it." 
He swung, but in his haste didn't aim, and I didn't even need to duck to avoid 
it. I grabbed his arm in mid-swing, ripped it backward and heard the bone snap. 
Stephen howled. I put my face to his. 
"What? Can't fight me with one arm? What about Jeremy? Care to test that boast 
now?" 
He drove his good hand into my stomach. The air whooshed from me and I stumbled 
back, but when he brought his hand up again, I grabbed it and threw him over 
onto his back. Still holding his left hand, I took the forearm between my hands, 
paused, met his wild eyes and broke the bone. While he screamed, I leaned down 
and whispered in his ear. 
"I could stop here," I said. "You're not fighting anyone with two busted arms 
so, really, I should just stop. But I'm not going to. And you know why? Because 
you wouldn't if it was me lying there. Sooner or later, it's gonna come down to 
this, and I'm not taking the chance that you'll go after Jeremy again in the 
meantime." 
He opened his mouth, but I grabbed him by the neck and snapped it before he 
could say anything. Then I tossed him to the floor and raced across the kitchen 
to where Jeremy and Wally were fighting behind the table. Jeremy had Wally in a 
headlock, but before he could tighten his grip, Wally managed to kick Jeremy in 
the stomach and wriggle free. I jumped in and grabbed Wally by the back of the 
shirt. Jeremy stopped. He looked up at me, met my gaze and, very slowly, shook 
his head. It took every ounce of will, but I forced myself to let go of Wally 
and step back. Jeremy sprang at him and they went down fighting. 
That was the longest five minutes of my life. I knew Wally was at least as good 
a fighter as Jeremy, yet I also knew that Jeremy had to do this himself. So I 
welded my feet to the floor and I watched. Finally Jeremy got Wally back in that 
headlock and, with a sharp thrust on Wally's chin, he ended it. 
Jeremy struggled to his feet and wiped his sleeve across the blood streaming 
from his split lip. His left eye was fast swelling shut. 
"You okay?" he asked. 
I managed a laugh. "Yeah, I'm fine. Let me grab some ice for that lip. Looks 
like you might need some stitches for it, too." I looked him over. "Is that it?" 
He nodded. Silly question. He could have a dozen broken bones and he'd still 
wouldn't admit to any injury I couldn't see. 
"It's over then," I said as I took a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. "You 
won."
"Hmmm?"
I shot a pointed look at Wally and Stephen. "Three to five now. You won."
Jeremy took the peas and shook his head. "Not like that. I won't take power by 
killing off the

other side." "But—" "I have an idea," he said. "One that I hope will settle this 
for good. You said Andrew's alive?" "I just knocked him out." "Good then. I'll 
call Antonio, see if he can get back here sooner than tomorrow night, and 
we'll finish this." 
Nine o'clock Friday morning. We met at Stonehaven. When Malcolm arrived, Antonio 
ushered him into the living room with Raymond and Daniel. Seeing Andrew alive, 
Raymond's eyes lit up, but any remaining hope for his brother and eldest son 
died as Jeremy explained what had happened. When he heard the news, Raymond 
walked quietly to the sofa and sat down. Daniel flew at me, as if it was my 
fault Wally and Stephen had tried to kill Jeremy. Antonio intercepted Daniel 
before he got to me, then led him to a chair and signaled for Peter to guard 
him. Throughout it all, Malcolm just stood there, expressionless. Then he shook 
his head. 
"I don't know how this happened," he said. "I knew they were getting restless, 
but I didn't think 
they'd try this." Andrew's head shot up, and he opened his mouth, but a look 
from his father cut him short. "So you had nothing to do with this," Jeremy 
said. "How . . . convenient." Malcolm's mouth tightened. "Are you calling me a 
liar, boy?" "Yes, I am. I've been to Pearl's house. I found her body. You did a 
good job of making it 
look like a heart attack, but your scent was everywhere." "That's because I went 
by there a couple of days ago—" "Clay?" Jeremy cut in. "Tell us what you heard." 
I related what Wally and Stephen had said in the study when they'd thought I'd 
been asleep. Malcolm rubbed a hand across his mouth and I could tell he was 
thinking fast, knowing if he called me a liar outright he'd sever any remaining 
bond between us. It didn't matter. He'd done that the moment he sent Stephen 
after Nick. 
"Clayton may have misinterpreted what he heard," Malcolm said carefully. "I knew 
Stephen was looking for an excuse to kill him and I'd forbidden it, but that was 
months ago—a general rule, not related to any specific circumstances." 
"Bullshit!" I said, wheeling on Malcolm. "I didn't mishear—" 
Jeremy raised his hand. "It's not important. If Malcolm says they acted alone, 
then we have to take his word for it. However, that leaves us with a problem." 
He turned to look at Andrew. "Conspiring to kill a Pack brother is a capital 
offense." 
Andrew paled. "No, I—"
At a glare from Malcolm, he closed his mouth.
Jeremy continued. "If Andrew acted on orders from someone he considered to be in 
an Alpha

position, then he can't be held responsible. However, if he acted on his own, or 
along with his uncle and brother, the punishment is death. That's the Law." 
Raymond glanced up. His gaze went first to his son, then to Malcolm, and a look 
passed between them. Raymond turned to his son and gave a small nod, telling him 
everything would be okay. 
"Are you Alpha?" Malcolm asked quietly.
"No," Jeremy said.
"Then you can't make that decision, can you?"
"It's not a decision," Jeremy said. "I will abide by the Law. If Andrew acted on 
your command,

he lives. If not, he dies. The only person who can 'decide' anything is you. 
Tell us what happened and, if necessary, the punishment will be carried out." 
"By you?" Malcolm said, walking over to stand behind Andrew. "That is the Law, 
you know. He tried to kill you, therefore it's your right—and duty—to kill him 
yourself." He met Jeremy's gaze. "Can you do that . . . son?" 
Jeremy looked into Malcolm's eyes. "If I have to. The question isn't how far 
I'll go, but how far you will . . . father." 
They locked gazes for a moment. Then Malcolm snarled, reached up . . . and broke 
Andrew's neck. 
"That's how far I'll go," he said. 
The room went silent. Jeremy paled, as shocked as the rest of us. I glanced over 
at Raymond. He stared at his son's body, eyes filled with grief. Then he glanced 
up at Malcolm and, for a second, rage replaced the grief. Malcolm tensed. Then 
Raymond dropped his gaze, got to his feet, put his arm around Daniel and led him 
from the room. 
A moment later, the front door clicked shut and, with it, the battle for Alpha 
came to an equally quiet close. 
Once Raymond and Daniel were gone, Malcolm followed, and it would be years 
before I saw him again. The fight was over and, as we'd feared, it had indeed 
split the Pack in two. Only we six were left. A few months later, Ross Werner 
returned, and Jeremy accepted him back without comment. When another year passed 
with no word from Dennis and Joey, Jeremy sent me and Nick to search for them in 
Western Canada, but it was hopeless. As Joey had said, there was plenty of room 
to lose yourself in up there, and he and his father had done just that. 
And so, Jeremy became Alpha and the Pack reinvented itself, a slow but steady 
process that took years. We paid more attention to mutts, keeping them off our 
territory but at the same time watching them, and acting if they did anything to 
call attention to themselves and werewolves in general. In this, I became 
Jeremy's enforcer, along with Antonio. Before the next decade ended, Antonio 
would bow out of this job, and I'd have a new partner, one that would turn the 
Pack upside­down yet again, fill the void in my life . . . and nearly end it, on 
multiple occasions. But that's another story.