As he paused at the door, puzzling over a whiff of something familiar, he was distracted when he heard Joanne demand, "What do you mean, might be? Don't you know?"
Attco shrugged. "Nope.”
"How the hell could you not know? You’re supposed to be in charge, right?"
"Yeah, but you haven’t any idea what these—" The telephone rang, and Attco stumbled around the coffee table to grab the receiver. "Yeah?"
Richard couldn’t catch all that was said; he was too busy watching the anger and disappointment on Joanne's face.
"Hey." Attco slammed the receiver back onto its cradle. "Gotta go, sorry. They need me downstairs. Some TV people have shown up."
loanne grabbed his arm as he headed out, "So who would know?"
"Know what?"
"Who the werewolf was?"
"lesus, lady, 1 don’t know. Look, meet me downstairs after 1 take care of the TV thing, I’ll show you who’s in charge this year, okay? Come on, I gotta go.”
Richard stepped aside as Attco hurried down the hall, but shook his head when Joanne beckoned him to join her.
"What?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Just go. I’ll catch up."
She started to argue, then scowled and ran when Attco called out that he had an elevator waiting.
When she was gone, he went straight to the stairwell and let himself out on the gallery floor. As quickly as he could, he pushed through the crowd, excusing himself, smiling, nodding, making his way around to the other side where luck gave him a place beside one of the pillars. From here he could see the elevator doors, and nearly laughed aloud when the werewolf made its entrance.
Just like one of the pictures he had noted earlier: Lon Chaney, Jr., right out of any one of a half-dozen Universal pictures. Hairy face and black clothes, hairy feet and hands. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t real.
A few seconds later, the other door opened, and he watched Joanne follow Attco through the audience and contestants, Joanne tugging angrily at the man's arm, the man glaring at her while, at the same time, trying to smile at a man with a microphone standing beside another man with a TV camera on his shoulder.
Richard searched the lobby intently, watching as the contestants seemed to be forming a line out of the chaos, a line that wound past a table below him and into, and out of, the Green Room to his left. Behind him, he heard someone complaining about the guest of honor not showing up for the judging, heard someone else laugh and say he was probably hiding in the bar, looking to get laid.
Another sweep of the costumes, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
No Garou. No one who matched Hendean’s description.
He eased back from the railing, his place instantly taken by two giggling youngsters in capes, and made his way back the way he had come, struggling not to snarl when elbows stabbed his ribs and back, when boots trod on his feet.
The noise level rose.
The lights dimmed, and were made dimmer by vivid spotlights fixed to the pillars that skated slow-moving circles across the lobby floor.
The glare caused everything else to fall into false shadow.
On the gallery the crowd grew more raucous in the near twilight, and twice Richard had to push people out of his way. No longer polite. Frustration had weakened the hold on his temper. What he wanted was to get away from all these bodies, the smell of their sweat, the smell of beer and liquor and cheap makeup and damp clothes; what he wanted to shift and send them all screaming to the comfort of their nightmares.
A burly man in a T-shirt grabbed his arm. "Hey, mac, watch it, okay?”
Richard glared up at him. "What?''
The man nodded to a woman beside him, sucking on the heel of her hand. "Made her cut herself, you asshole."
Richard froze.
"You gonna apologize or what?"
He looked at the man without blinking.
. . . green . . .
"Hey."
. . fire . . .
The hand gripping his arm fell away, and Richard shoved his way clear, sprinted to the fire stairs and took them up, two at a time. He slammed through the door and swung around the corner, stopped at his room and waited.
There it was.
The scent he had noticed earlier.
Slowly he approached the double doors of the suite at the end of the short hall.
In there.
It was in there.
He tried the knob, but the door was locked, and the lock was too strong for him to force.
It was in there.
The blood.
loanne gave up.
Attco wasn’t about to talk to her, not when he was too busy sucking up to the newsman and the camera.
She supposed she could have reminded him who she was, but that would attract the newsman's attention, and she didn’t think the lieutenant would appreciate it, not when she wouldn’t be able to give him a good reason why she was still here.
She let the crowd ease her away, forcing her slowly toward the back. What she would do is find Richard, find out why he had left her, and then—
A hand cupped her shoulder, and something hard pressed into her back.
She didn't move.
A voice in her left ear: "Officer," it said, “you take one breath without my permission, and you won’t breathe again."
Richard shifted.
Merged.
He pressed his hands against the wood, testing its strength, feeling its weakness, then took a step back and threw himself at the door.
It shuddered.
He did it again.
It bowed.
He snarled and did it a third time.
The crack of splintering wood was quick and sharp, like a gunshot.
The fourth time, the doors flew inward, and he leapt inside, great head swiveling as he tracked the scent of the blood.
A single lamp was lit by the bed.
He smelled the body first, then saw it curled in the shadows on the far side of the mattress.
Or what was left of it.
With the hand guiding her, and refusing to permit her to look around, she stepped slowly backward
"Where is Turpin?"
She shook her head—I don't know.
The pressure on her back increased sharply.
"Where is he?”
She shook her head again, wondering why the hell nobody could see what was happening.
"One more time, cop." The pressure on her back increased sharply. "Where the fuck is he?"
There was a singular explosion of cheers and applause, and without thinking she stopped, and looked through a momentary gap in the crowd.
"Oh my God," she said.
And the voice answered, "You lose.
He stood in the ruined doorway, trembling with rage, green fire eyes dark enough to be black.
He hesitated only long enough to glance behind him once more, then raced down the hall.
Without changing.
Punching the metal fire door open, leaving a dent in its pocked surface, swinging over the railing and landing lightly on the floor below, again to reach the ground floor, grabbing the bar and shoving, shoving the door open and striding out, shifting into the open, into the shadowy dim light.
He heard the applause and the cheers, saw to his right a score or more people pushing forward to get a closer look at whatever enthralled them.
He saw Joanne.
In the spotlight, its deep gray fur glittered as though it had been touched by dew, its eyes glowed crimson, its teeth not quite white.
The Garou acknowledged the adulation with upraised arms and, in the silence that ensued, it lifted its muzzle and howled.
The hand turned Joanne around.
"Amazing, isn’t it?" said Miles Blanchard. "A monster like that in clear view, and no one even knows."
She didn't look down; she knew the gun was in his pocket, too close to miss. Nor did she bother to tell him that shooting her now would be a huge mistake.
Witnesses. A TV camera. None of it mattered, because they were all fixed on the creature in the spotlight. They may hear the shot, but Blanchard would be gone before anything could be done.
His smile was empty, his voice hollow and quiet. "No time for games, Detective. Tell me where he is and walk away, no catch, no tricks.’’ The smile died. You have no idea, my dear. No idea at all."
She could feel her own weapon pressed against her spine, but they were two steps away from the crowd now, and he would spot any move.
There were giggles, then, and outright laughter. Speculation that the werewolf couldn’t stand on his feet, that he was probably drunk.
"Turpin.” Blanchard grabbed her shoulder again, and squeezed.
Use your knee, she told herself; just use your damn knee and get out of the way.
Instead, she said, "Look."
He didn’t want to; she could see it, and she had to swallow a giggle when he glared an order at her.
And looked over his shoulder.
The Garou howled again.
There were cheers.
All the main lights were doused, nothing left but the spotlights in the lobby.
There were feigned screams of alarm, and nervous laughter.
Wanda didn’t move.
She kept her hands in her pockets and thanked all the gods she knew that she'd been given this front-row seat
With just a bit more iuck, all her work would be done for her.
Nonetheless, she pressed a button on the ivory shaft, and a silver blade snicked out. lust in case, she told herself, lust in case.
Blanchard moved carefully, putting Joanne between him and Richard, shifting them all until they stood beside the gift shop's glass wall.
The applause was frantic now, the cheers boisterous.
“The thing is," Blanchard said mildly, his voice barely heard over the noise, "if you make a move, no matter what it is, the cop will die. Are you going to sacrifice her just to get at me, Turpin?”
"Standoff," Richard answered, just as evenly.
"No. 1 don't think so. What I think is, we’ll move a little way down here, if you don’t mind. Around the corner back there, by the bar door."
Then they'll separate, Richard thought; he'll keep us far enough away from him so that one shot will be all he needs.
He had no doubt what kind of bullets the gun had.
He had no doubt who would be first.
"And if you don't move, I'll kill her anyway," Blanchard added.
“Then you’ll die."
"But she’ll be dead.”
He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel her trembling, not all of it from fear. His left hand gently brushed across her shoulders, her back, fingers brushing over the bulge of her holster.
Blanchard looked and sounded calm, but he knew
it was as much a mask as those the contestants wore. It was more than simple fear; it was a sense of urgency. That might cause him to make a mistake, but it was just as likely to prompt him into acting without thinking. Whatever timetable he had, if Richard tried to stall, the trigger would be pulled anyway.
"Shall we?" Blanchard gestured with his chin. "Now, please?"
Richard didn't insult the man by faking resignation, but when he turned, taking Joanne's arm, he took only a few paces before he saw the woman leaning against the wall, one hand in her trench-coat pocket, the other tucked against her side.
"Your partner?" he asked over his shoulder.
"We have the same employer. That's all."
It made Richard stop.
"Damn it, Turpin."
At the same time, Joanne looked up at him, questioning without saying anything.
Blanchard prodded him with a sharp finger. "Move, damn it.”
Richard remained where he was. "Jo, 1 was wrong."
The applause and cheers began to trail off behind them.
"Your friends," was all she said.
"Yeah. I was wrong. They're not involved at all."
Blanchard shoved him; he didn't move.
The woman straightened, keeping her hand at her side.
"I swear to Christ," Blanchard said tightly, "i'll do it right here, right now."
Richard faced him, and Blanchard took an involuntary step back.
"You work for the men who would destroy the Veil, don't you." He didn’t expect an answer; he didn’t need one. "Fay found out about you, didn't she." She hadn’t been warning him about one of the Warders; she had been trying to warn him about this man, here.
Blanchard managed a sneer, but Richard knew it was only a cloak for his fear.
"Did you kill her?" Richard asked. His chest was tight, his breathing slow and deep. Specks of light coasted at the corners of his vision. "Did you?"
Blanchard blinked his confusion. "Who?” Then he shook himself, and pushed his gunhand against the topcoat fabric. "You’re out of time, Turpin."
The lobby went silent,
Richard released Joanne's arm, leaned over and kissed her cheek. As he did, he whispered, "I'm sorry."
She kissed him back. "I'm not."
Blanchard’s gun was free.
Richard heard the hammer cock as he turned back again.
He heard a collective gasp from the crowd, heard the Garou begin to snarl.
"Goddamn freak,” Blanchard said, the gun aimed at Richard's heart. Richard had no choice. He used the only weapon he had. He lost his temper. And he shifted.
1
Light and shadows.
. . . green fire .. .
Richard's right hand shoved loanne out of the way. Too hard. She stumbled, then fell as she tried to scramble her weapon from its holster.
Richard’s left hand snared Blanchard's wrist, wrenching it up and away just as the gun fired.
Blanchard screamed.
Richard snarled.
Blanchard tried to backpedal, but Richard grabbed him between the legs and around the throat, and lifted him over his head, hearing nothing but the bloodlust storming in his ears, feeling the man squirming frantically in his grasp, inhaling the scent of the man's fear as if it were ambrosia.
He turned sharply, growling, and threw him down the hall, arms and legs flailing, skidding on his shoulder toward the exit, and the snow beyond.
He loped after him in the near dark, seeing nothing else but the man trying to get to his hands and knees, left arm useless, head hanging. He didn't care now if the contest spectators saw him, didn't care what they would say. He stood over Blanchard and waited.
Just waited.
Counting the seconds as the man finally tipped back on his heels and looked up and over his shoulder.
"No," Blanchard whispered. "Fucking freak, no."
"Turpin," he answered, voice guttural and harsh. "Remember me. I'm Richard Turpin."
His right arm lifted, claws flared, and swung down in an arc that seemed to move too slowly.
Blanchard couldn't move.
A flash, and the flesh of his face and throat grew thin dark lines; a flash, and the lines began to release smears of red; a flash, and his eyes were filled with swimming color; a flash, and he toppled forward, landing on his forehead. Kneeling as if in prayer.
Richard stared, not sated but satisfied.
A step back, a partial turn, and sudden fire stripped along his side.
He whirled, right leg buckling, and faced the woman, who smiled up at him over the tip of her silver blade.
"That was my party, you bastard," she said, nodding toward Blanchard’s body.
He barely heard her.
The fire had taken root, and he could feel his own blood slipping through the ragged gash in his pelt. Beyond them, beyond the thunder of his pain, there was pandemonium. Screams and running feet and a high, hysterical howling.
Distracted, he missed the tension in Wanda's legs as she set herself to lunge.
And when she did, he realized he wouldn't be able to deflect the blade from taking root in his chest.
He didn't hav
e to.
it was only a single gunshot, but it was enough.
Wanda gasped and arched her back, and a black-red rose blossomed on the front of her coat. She looked confused, then disappointed, before she fell against the wall and slid in stages to the floor.
"He's gone!" loanne shouted at him, pointing with her gun toward the lobby. "He's out!"
They looked at each other for only a moment before he clamped an arm against his side and stumbled through the exit, into the storm and the quiet city.
The cold revived him somewhat as he swung around the corner of the building. It was difficult, but not impossible, to heal as he ran; he only hoped it would be enough when he came across the other Garou.
And this time he would.
Whatever this strange Garou’s true intentions had been, they had resulted in Fay's death, and the nearkilling of loanne Minster. They had threatened everything he had sworn himself to protect.
Rogue or not, this Garou wouldn’t last the night.
At the next corner he stepped into a howling wind, the snow blowing horizontally, directly into his eyes. But he saw a fleeing shadow far ahead, heading north toward the river, and he followed. Not racing. Using the time to let his body try to stitch the silver wound.
He slipped on ice.
The wind slammed him backward.
Snow clung to his fur in tiny balls of ice.
The street was dark, and made darker by the lonely islands of white cast by the streetlamps. At least the storm kept people inside, and as he shivered against the biting cold, he supposed he ought to be grateful for that.
He ran on.
Crosswinds at the intersections gave him excuses to pause, to catch his breath and check the healing—slow, too damn slow.
The Garou ahead could have plunged into any one of the side streets, but he didn’t. He stayed just far enough ahead to keep himself indistinct, but not so far that Richard couldn’t see him through the whirling flakes.
The cold.
Always the cold.
Always the mocking voice of the wind.
Across the street now, the bus station huddled in the dark, parking lot streaked with white and gray.
The Garou turned the next corner.
Richard followed, now just thirty yards behind, trying not to breathe ice into his lungs, concentrating on his footing and on the fire that finally began to dampen in his side.
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