"How did you become a werewolf?"

"I was attacked. Beyond that, I prefer not to talk about it."

"So it was, like, traumatic?"

"Yeah, it was."

One girl came on the line crying. "I don't understand how you do it. How can you talk about this stuff and sound so calm? There are days I just want to rip my own skin off!"

I made my voice as soothing as I could. "Take it easy there, Claire. I know how you feel. I have those days, too. I count to ten a lot. And I think talking about it helps. I'm not as scared when I talk about it. Tell me something: What do you hate most about being a werewolf?"

Her breathing had slowed; her voice was more steady. "Not remembering. Sometimes when I wake up, I don't remember what I did. I'm scared that I've done something horrible."

"Why is that?"

"I remember how I feel. I remember how the blood tastes. And—and I remember that I like it. When I'm human, it makes me want to throw up."

I didn't have to mince words anymore. I could answer her from experience now, which I couldn't have done before last week. She probably wouldn't have called me before last week.

"I think when we Change, a lot of human is still there. If we want to be a part of civilization, it stays with us. It keeps us from doing some of the things we're capable of. I guess that's part of the reason I'm here, doing the show and trying to lead a relatively normal life. I'm trying to civilize the Wolf part of me."

"Is it working?"

Good question. "So far so good."

"Thanks, Kitty."

"One day at a time, Claire. Next caller, hello."

"I knew it. I knew you were one." I recognized the voice—a repeat caller. I glanced at the monitor, and sure enough.

"How are you, James?"

"I'm still alone." The declaration was simple and stark.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but how did you know?"

"I don't know," he said, and I could picture him shrugging. "You know what you're talking about. It's the only way you could know." Eager as a puppy, he continued. "So what's it like for you? Do you have a pack?"

Gosh, did I? I wasn't sure anymore. I'd been beaten up by T.J., I'd disobeyed Carl—when I showed up for the next full moon, I wasn't sure they'd have me. I took a chance. "Yes, I do."

"What's it like? What're they like?"

Occasionally, a werewolf attacked someone and there wasn't a pack to take care of the victim, to show him what had happened, to teach him how to live with it. James must have been one of those. I couldn't imagine that. T.J. held me my first full moon, the first time I shifted. It made it easier, at least a little.

I tried to be honest. Or honest for that particular moment in time. "Well. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

So much for a sense of humor. "I value my pack a whole lot. It's been there for me when I needed it. But it can be frustrating. There isn't a whole lot of room for argument." I wondered if Carl or T.J. were listening.

"But you think werewolves need to be in a pack."

"I think packs serve a good purpose. They keep werewolves under some sort of control, so they don't go hunting sheep. Or small children—that was a joke, by the way."

"You don't think a werewolf can make it on his own, then?"

"I didn't say that. It's just that in my experience, it would be hard."

"Oh."

"You said you're alone, James. How do you handle it?"

"I—I don't." He hung up, the line clicking off. Great. I felt queasy about that one.

"Right. Thanks for calling, James."

Matt was waving through the window, pointing at the door to the booth. Rick was standing there. I hadn't noticed him come in. He was lounging against the doorjamb like he'd been there for hours. He waved his hand in a blasé greeting.

I turned back to the mike. "Okay, we're going to break for station ID. More calls when we get back. This is The Midnight Hour ."

Matt made the cutting motion that signaled we were off the air. This gave the local stations a few minutes for commercials and promotions. I pulled off my headphones and went to the door.

"Hey, Rick." I tried to sound casual. Either he was going to deliver a scathing message from Arturo or he wanted to know what I'd found out about the Church of the Pure Faith. I still hadn't learned much.

"Hello. So, this is the famous studio."

"Yeah. Not to be rude, but I'm going to have to get back to it in a minute. What can I do for you?"

"I thought we might trade information. What have you found out about Elijah Smith?"

There it was. I shrugged. "Not much. Nobody who knows him is talking. A couple of reporters tried to sneak into his caravan once and got thrown out. I'm going to keep at it. I've still got a couple of leads to try. I'm sorry I can't give you more."

He pursed his lips, masking disappointment. "Well, maybe your persistence will pay off. In the meantime…"

He offered me a manila envelope. "I heard your show last week. I thought you might be interested in this."

"What is it?"

"Evidence," he said. "Now you have no reason to go poking around Obsidian by yourself again."

I looked up. My throat got tight. "You know about that?"

He nodded. "So does Arturo. He's disappointed you didn't give him a chance to act against you directly."

"Yeah. I bet he is." How stupid could I have been? Of course Arturo had guards posted. Of course they spotted me. Score another point for cowardly self-preservation.

I took the envelope and scooped inside for the contents. There were a few photos, weirdly lit in black and white, like they had been taken with some kind of night vision camera. There was a forested area. I recognized the slope of hill behind Carl and Meg's house. A couple of people were running with a couple of wolves. One of the faces was circled. Mine, of course. A couple of photos later in the sequence, I was ripping off my clothes and my body was changing shape. These were copies of the photos that set Cormac on me. I put them back.

The rest of the envelope held a half-dozen pages of information. Some phone records, a terse written agreement—someone putting a contract on you didn't mean it was actually a contract . I didn't think hit men gave out receipts.