Peter fought the urge to toss his head back, exposing his throat. His ears were tight against the sides of his skull, the torn edge throbbing in time with his pulse. "I didn't do anything!" he growled, shoving awayfrom the table and stomping out of the kitchen.You just wait, he thought as he stripped and changed.I'll show you.

Rose made as if to follow but Nadine reached out and pushed her back into her chair. "No," she said.

Stuart sighed and scratched at a scar over his eyebrow, the result of his first challenge fight as an adult male. This had to happen when there was a stranger with the family. He looked over at Celluci who was calmly wiping ketchup off his elbow - Daniel had been overly enthusiastic with the squeeze bottle again - and then at Nadine. Arrangements to separate Rose and Peter would have to be made this evening. They couldn't put it off any longer.

Storm skulked around the barn, looking for rats to take out his bad temper on. He didn't find any. That didn't help his mood. He chased a flock of starlings into the air but he didn't manage to sink his teeth into any of them. Flopping down in the shade beside Celluci's car, he worried at a bit of matted fur on his shoulder.

Life sucks,he decided.

It would be almost two hours until dark. Hours until he could prove himself. Hours until he could take that human's throat in his teeth and shake the truth out of him. He imagined the reactions of his family, of Rose, when he walked in and declared,I know who the killer is. Or better yet, when he walked in and threw the body down on the floor.

Then faintly, over the smell of steel and gas and oil, he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He rose. On the pa.s.senger side of Celluci's car, up along the edge of the window was an area that smelled very clearly of the man in the black and gold jeep.

He frowned and licked his nose.

Then he remembered.

The scent he'd caught at the garage, the trace clinging to the hood release of Henry's wrecked car, was, except for intensity, identical to the scent here and now.

This changed things. Tonight's meeting could only be a trap. Storm scratched at the ground and whined a little in his excitement. This was great. This alone would convince everyone to take him seriously.

"Peter?"

He p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. That was his uncle's voice, over by the house, not calling him, talking about him.

Storm inched forward, until he could see around the front of the car but not be seen. Fortunately for eavesdropping, he was downwind.

His uncle and Detective Celluci were sitting on the back porch.

"He's all right," Stuart continued. "He's just, well, a teenager."

Celluci snorted. "I understand. Teenagers."

The two men shook their heads.

Storm growled softly. So they could dismiss him with one word could they? Sayteenager like it was some kind of disease. Like it explained everything. Like he was still a child. His hackles rose and his lips curled back, exposing the full gleaming length of his fangs. He'd show them.

Tonight.

"... course, up until the early 60s, most shooters thought that no one would ever shoot a score above 1150 in an international style compet.i.tion but then in 1962, a fellow named Gary Anderson shot 1157 in free-rifle. Well, there were some jaws. .h.i.tting the floor that day and most folks believed he'd never be beat." Bertie shook her head at the things most folks believed. "They were wrong, of course. That 1150 was just what they call a psychological factor and once Gary broke it, well, it got shot all to s.h.i.t. So to speak. I'll just make another pot of tea. You sure you don't want more coffee?"

"No, thanks." Since she'd left the force, Vicki's caffeine tolerance had dropped and she could feel the effect of the three cups she'd already had. Her nerves were stretched so tightly, she could almost hear them ring every time she moved. Leaving Bertie in the kitchen, she hurried to the living room and the phone.

The evening had pa.s.sed unnoticed while she'd been comparing lists of names. The sun, a disk so huge and red and clearly defined against the sky that it looked fake, trembled on the edge of the horizon. Vicki checked her watch. 8:33. Thirty-five minutes to sunset. Thirty-five minutes to Henry.

He said his arm would be healed by tonight so maybe he and Celluci could stake out that tree together and she could get Peter to drive in and pick her up. She snickered at the vision that idea presented as she sat down in the armchair and flicked on one of the lights. She'd definitely had too much coffee.

The surnames of eleven Olympic shooters had matched with members in the local clubs. Time for the next step.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Scott? My name is Terri Hanover, I'm a writer, and I 'm doing an article on Olympic contestants. I was wondering if you were related to a Brian Scott who was a member of the Canadian rifle team at the '76 Olympics in Montreal? No? But you went to Montreal. ... That's very interesting but, unfortunately, I really need to talk to the contestants themselves." Vicki stifled a sigh. "Sorry to bother you. Good night."

One down. Ten to go. Lies to get at truth.

Hi, there. My name is Vicki Nelson and I'm a private investigator. Have you or any members of your family been shooting werewolves?

She pushed her gla.s.ses up her nose and punched in the next number without any real hope of success.

For Henry the moment of sunset came like the moment between life and death. Or perhaps, death and life. One instant he wasn't. The next, awareness began to lift the shroud of day from his senses. He lay still, listening to his heartbeat, his breathing, the rustle of the sheet against the hairs on his chest as hislungs filled and emptied. He felt the weave of the fabric beneath him, the mattress beneath that, the bed beneath both. The scent of wer wiped out even the scent of self but, all things considered, that didn't surprise him. Redefined for another night, he opened his eyes and sat up, extending his senses beyond his sanctuary.

Vicki wasn't in the house. Mike Celluci was.

Wonderful. Why hadn't she gotten rid of him? And for that matter, wherewas she?

He flexed his arm and peered down at the patch of new skin along the top of his shoulder. Although still a little tender, the flesh dimpled where the new muscle fiber had yet to add bulk, the wound had essentially healed. The day had given him back his strength and the hunger had faded to a whisper he could easily ignore.

As he dressed, he considered Detective-Sergeant Celluci. The wer had obviously accepted him, for Henry could feel no fear or anger in his sensing of the mortal. While he still thought that burning the memory of the wer and the witnessed change out of Celluci's mind was the safest plan, he couldn't make a decision without knowing how things had progressed over the course of the day. He wished he knew what suspicions the man harbored about him, what he'd said to Vicki last night, and what Vicki had said in return.

"Only one way to find out." He threw open the door and stepped out into the hall. Mike Celluci was in the kitchen. He'd join him there.

Just before the sun slid below the horizon, Storm leapt the fence behind the barn and using the fence bottom as cover, moved away from the house. If his uncle saw him, he'd call him back. If Rose saw him, she'd demand an explanation of where he thought he was going without her. Both would mean disaster so he used every trick he'd learned in stalking prey to stay hidden.

It didn't matter how long it took, the human would wait for him. He was sure of that. His ears flattened and his eyes gleamed. The human would get more than he bargained for.

"No luck?"

"No." Vicki rubbed her eyes and sighed. "And I've about had it for tonight. I don't think I can face thoselists again without at least twelve hours sleep."

"No reason why you should," Bertie told her, clearing away the sandwich plates. "And it's not like it's an emergency or anything. Surely those people can keep their dogs tied up for a few days."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because it never is." A facetious explanation, but she didn't have a better one. Even if she'd been able to discuss it, Vicki doubted she could do justice to the territorial imperatives of the wer - not when it involved such incredibly stupid actions as presenting oneself as a target. She checked her watch and dug another two pain killers out of her purse, swallowing them dry. At eleven, Colin would be off shift. In an hour or so she'd head over to the police department and catch a ride back to the farm with him. In the meantime. ...

"If you can put up with me for a little while longer, I think I'd better get started on the non-Canadian teams."

Bertie looked dubious. "I don't mind. If you think you're up to it. ..."

"I have to be." Vicki dragged herself up out of the depths of the armchair, which seemed to be dragging back. "The people I talked to tonight will probably mention the call." She raised her voice so she could hear herself over the percussion group that had set up inside her skull. "I have to move quickly before our marksman spooks and goes to ground." She gave her head a quick shake, trying to settle things back where they belonged. The percussion group added a bra.s.s section, her knees buckled, and she clutched desperately at the nearest bookcase for support, knocking three books off the shelf and onto the floor.

With the bookcase still supporting most of her weight, she bent to pick them up and froze.

"Are you all right?" Bertie's worried question seemed to come from very far away.

"Yeah. Fine." She straightened slowly, holding the third book which had fallen faceup at her feet.

MacBeth.

This morning Carl Biehn had been wringing his hands, trying to scrub off a bit of dirt. Like Lady MacBeth, she thought, hefting the book, and wondered what had happened to make the old man so anxious. But Lady MacBeth's scrubbing had been motivated by guilt not anxiety. What was Carl Biehn feeling guilty about?

Something his slimy nephew had done? Possibly, but Vicki doubted it. She'd bet on Carl Biehn being the type of man who took full responsibility for his actions and expected everyone else to do the same. If he felt guilty, he'd done something.

Vicki still couldn't believe he was a murderer. And she knew that her belief had nothing to do with it.

Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows.

Strongly held religious beliefs had justified arbitrary bloodbaths throughout history.

It wouldn't hurt to check him out. Just to make sure.

He hadn't been on any of the Canadian teams but Biehn was a European name and although he didn't have an accent, that didn't mean much.

"Are yousure you're all right?" Bertie asked as Vicki turned to face her. "You're looking, well, kind of peculiar."

Vicki placed the copy ofMacBeth back on the shelf. "I need to look at the European shooting teams.

Germans, Dutch ..."

"I think you'd be better off sitting down with a cold compress. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"There was no reason why it couldn't.

"No." Vicki stopped herself before she shook her head, the vision of the old man's hands washing themselves over and over caught in her mind. "I don't think it can."

Storm tested the wind as he crouched at the edge of the woods, watching the old Biehn barn. The man from the black and gold jeep was alone in the building. The gra.s.seater remained in the house.

The most direct route was straight across the field but even with the masking darkness, Storm had no intention of being that exposed. Not far to the south an old fence bottom ran from the woods to the road, pa.s.sing only twenty meters from the barn on its way, the scraggly line of trees and bushes breaking the night into irregular patterns. Secure in the knowledge that even another wer would have difficulty spotting him, Storm moved quickly along its corridor of shifting shadows.

Although he longed to give chase, he ignored the panicked flight of a flushed cottontail. Tonight he hunted larger game.

Neither the East nor West Germans had ever had a Carl Biehn on their shooting teams. Vicki sighed as she flipped through the binder looking for the lists from the Netherlands. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were little black marks on sheets of white.

The way people move around these days, Biehn could come from anywhere. Maybe I should do this alphabetically. Alphabetically ...She stared blankly down at the page, not seeing it, and her heart began to beat unnaturally loud.

Rows of flowers stretched before her and a man's voice said,"Everything from A to Zee. "

Zee. Canadians p.r.o.nounced the last letter of the alphabet as Zed. Americans said Zee.

She reached for the binder that held the information on the U. S. Olympic teams, already certain of whatshe'd find.

Henry stood in the shadows of the lower hall and listened to Celluci patiently explain to Daniel that it was now too dark to play catch with the frisbee. He hadn't thought the mortal the type who cared for children but then, he hadn't thought much about this mortal at all. Obviously, he would have to rectify that.

The man was close to Vicki, a good friend, a colleague, a lover. If only through Vicki, they would continue to come into contact. Their relationship must therefore be defined, for the safety of them both.

Like most of his kind, Henry preferred to keep his dealings with the mortal world to a minimum and those dealings under his control. Mike Celluci was not the sort of man he would normally a.s.sociate with.

He was too ...

Henry frowned. Too honest? Too strong? Was this where a prince had fallen then, avoiding the honest and the strong for the weak and the rogue? In his life, he had commanded the loyalty of men like this one.

He was not now less than he had been. He stepped out into the light.

Mike Celluci didn't hear Henry's approach, but he felt something at his back and turned. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man who stood just inside the kitchen door. Power and presence acquired over centuries. .h.i.t him with almost physical force and when the hazel eyes met his and he saw they considered him worthy, he had to fight the totally irrational urge to drop to one knee.

What the h.e.l.l is going on here?He shook his head to clear it, recognized Henry Fitzroy, and to cover his confusion, snarled, "I want to talk to you."

The phone rang, freezing them where they stood.

A moment later Nadine came into the kitchen, glanced from one to the other and sighed. "It's Vicki. She sounds a little strange. She wants to talk to ..."

Celluci didn't wait to hear a name, but even as he stomped into the office and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver, he had to acknowledge that Henry Fitzroy had allowed him to take the call; that without Fitzroy's implicit permission, he wouldn't have been able to move.If that man's nothing but a romance writer, I'm a ...He couldn't think of a sufficiently strong comparison. "What?"

"Where's Henry?"

"Why?" He knew better than to take his anger out on Vicki. He did it anyway. "Want to make kissy-face over the phone?"

"f.u.c.k off, Celluci." Exhaustion colored the words.

"Carl Biehn was a member of the American shooting team in the 1960 summer Olympics in Rome."

Anger no longer had a place in the conversation, so he ignored it. "You've found your marksman, then."

"Looks that way." She didn't sound happy about it.

"Vicki, this information has to go to the police."

"Just put Henry on. I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

"If you don't report this, I will."

"No. You won't."

He'd been about to say that their friendship, that the wer, couldn't come before the law but the cold finality in her voice stopped him. For a moment, he felt afraid. Then he just felt tired. "Look, Vicki, I'll come and get you. We won't do anything until we talk."

A sudden burst of noise from the kitchen drowned out her reply and, tucking the phone under one arm, he moved to the door to close it. Then he stopped. And he listened.

And he knew.

Good cops don't ever laugh at intuition, too often a life hangs in the balance.

"The situation's changed." He cut Vicki off, not hearing what she said. "You'll have to make it back here on your own. Peter's missing."

Storm crept across the open twenty meters from the fence bottom to the barn crouched so low the fur on his stomach brushed the ground. When he reached the stone foundation of the barn wall, he froze.

The boards were old and warped and most had a line of light running between them. He changed - to get his muzzle out of the way, not because one form had better vision than the other - and placed one eye up against a crack.