"But… I mean… the stories… I've heard…"

Gullible and inarticulate. Gotta love it. "Next caller, you're on the air. Bruce?"

"Um, hi, yeah. I wanted to know, could I get the phone number for that assassin who was on the show last month?"

"You mean Cormac? You want Cormac's phone number?" I couldn't keep the tone of annoyance out of my voice. "The same Cormac who tried to kill me?"

"Yeah."

"May I ask why you want Cormac's phone number?"

"Well, you know. I kind of wanted to ask if he needs an assistant, or an apprentice or something."

"So, Bruce, you want to be a werewolf hunter?"

"Yeah."

"It's a dangerous line of work. You ever see a werewolf in action?"

"Um… on TV. You know—on Uncharted World and stuff."

"Oh, my God, the videos on that show are so doctored. Let me tell you what it really looks like. The average werewolf has four sets of claws as long as your fingers. Two-inch-long canines. Jaw pressure five times that of a human. And werewolves are fast. I'm talking a two-minute mile. Can you run that fast, Bruce?"

"Uh—"

"Can you shoot straight?"

"Uh—"

"Do you know how long it takes the average werewolf to tear apart a full-grown deer?"

"No—"

I smiled sweetly. The expression was lost on the radio, but the tone would carry through my voice. "The last time I did it, it took about five minutes. And I'm just an average werewolf."

I swore I heard Bruce gulp over the line.

"Whoa."

"Sorry, Bruce, it's kind of against my own personal self-interest to do free advertising for werewolf hunters. You know what I mean? Thanks for calling."

I did an inward shudder. People would not shut up about Cormac, and it was starting to get on my nerves.

"Next caller. Betty, you're on the air. What's your question?"

"Hi, Kitty. I just wanted to know, are you going out with that Cormac guy from last month?"

My jaw dropped. I took a full five seconds to recover and say, "What?"

"Are you going out with that Cormac guy?"

"We are talking about the same Cormac who tried to kill me on the air, yes? The guy who hunts werewolves for a living?"

"Uh-huh."

"And you want to know if I'm dating him? Why on earth do you think that's a good idea?"

"Well, I sort of sensed something between you two when he was on the show."

"You sensed something. Are you psychic?"

"I don't think so."

"Empathic?"

"No."

"Clairvoyant?"

"No."

"Then why the hell do you think we would go out? Of course you sensed something! He hunts werewolves. I'm a werewolf. There's this whole hunter-prey dynamic that happens. He wanted to kill me. I was ready to defend myself, claws and bullets on the verge of flying everywhere—things were tense. That was what you were sensing."

"But he didn't kill you. You worked it out. He sounded kind of nice. His voice sounded really cute. Was he cute?"

"Well, yeah, sort of. If you like guys who wear revolvers in hip holsters."

"It's just that you sound kind of anxious whenever anyone brings up Cormac, and I thought there might be unresolved tension there."

"He tried to kill me! What other explanation do you need? Moving on to the next call. Hello!"

"Um, hi, Kitty. I sort of forgot my question. But that last caller's idea—about you going out with Cormac and stuff. That would be kind of interesting, don't you think?"

"No. No, I don't think it would be interesting at all."

"Well, it's just that you're always talking about cross-supernatural racial understanding, and that would, you know, make a bridge. It would be diplomatic."

Diplomatic. Yeah. I thought real hard about being diplomatic before I answered. "Just a reminder: This is my show. I'm the one who's supposed to give out lousy advice."

I searched the monitor for a call that couldn't possibly have anything to do with werewolf hunters.

"Hello, Ingrid from Minneapolis."

"Hi, Kitty. I just wanted to tell you that I'm a werewolf, I've been one for about ten years now, and I'm married to the most wonderful man in the world. And he's a wildlife control officer. We get along fine; we're just careful to keep the lines of communication open."

The studio was getting stuffy. I fanned myself with my cue sheet.

"Wow, Ingrid. That's really interesting. Can I ask how you two met?"

"Well, it was a full moon night—"

I read between the lines of the story and was willing to bet that Mr. Ingrid had a fur fetish. It happened sometimes. But they sounded happy and that was what mattered, right?

"—so I wouldn't let your prejudice against bounty hunters interfere with what might turn out to be something wonderful."

Keeping my voice as even as possible, I said, "I don't have a prejudice against bounty hunters. I have a prejudice against people who are trying to kill me."

Matt started waving frantically at me through the booth window. "Kitty, you gotta take line two."

"What? Why?" I checked the monitor. "There's no name. Didn't you screen it?"

"Just take the call."

I punched the line. "Yes? What?"

"Norville. It's Cormac. If you don't change the subject right now, I'm going to have to go over there and have a word with you."

Cormac. Geez. I was strangely flattered that he even listened to the show.

"I've been trying to change the subject." Not that he'd know it from the last fifteen minutes. I wondered what would happen if I called his bluff. "But hey, thanks for calling. So, you did get out of jail."

"DA didn't want to prosecute without your testimony. Got off scot-free."

"And have you ever dated a werewolf?"

There was a pause of a couple of beats. "That is none of your business."

He didn't flat-out deny it. Oh, how interesting.

"What if someone you were dating was attacked and infected with lycanthropy and became a werewolf? Would you dump her? Would you feel a deep instinctual desire to kill her?"