A Touch of Dead

reason.” He looked humiliated. “I didn’t want to talk about it. But you’ve been so kind.”
    I was not liking this more and more. “And that reason would be?”
    “I was payment for an offense.”
    “Explain in twenty words or less.”
    He stared down at the floor, and I realized he was counting in his head. This guy was one of a kind. “Packleader’s sister wanted me, I didn’t want her, she said I’d insulted her, my torture was the price.”
    “Why would your packleader agree to any such thing?”
    “Am I still supposed to number my words?”
    I shook my head. He’d sounded dead serious. Maybe he just had a really deep sense of humor.
    “I’m not my packleader’s favorite person, and he was
willing to believe I was guilty. He himself wants the sister of the Sharp Claw packmaster, and it would be a good match from the point of view of our packs. So, I was hung out to dry.”
    I could sure believe that the packmaster’s sister had lusted after him. The rest of the story was not outrageous, if you’ve had many dealings with the Weres. Sure, they’re all human and reasonable on the outside, but when they’re in their Were mode, they’re different.
    “So, they’re here to get you and keep on beating you up?”
    He nodded somberly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him to rewind the towel. I took a deep breath, looked away, and decided I’d better go get the shotgun.
    Howls were echoing, one after another, through the night by the time I fetched the shotgun from the closet in the living room. The Sharp Claws had tracked Preston to my house, clearly. There was no way I could hide him and say that he’d gone. Or was there? If they didn’t come in . . .
    “You need to get in the vampire hole,” I said. Preston turned from staring at the back door, his eyes widening
as he took in the shotgun. “It’s in the guest bedroom.” The vampire hole dated from when Bill Compton had been my boyfriend, and we’d thought it was prudent to have a light-tight place at my house in case he got caught by day.
    When the big Were didn’t move, I grabbed his arm and hustled him down the hall, showed him the trick bottom of the bedroom closet. Preston started to protest—all Weres would rather fight than flee—but I shoved him in, lowered the “floor,” and threw the shoes and junk back in there to make the closet look realistic.
    There was a loud knock at the front door. I checked the shotgun to make sure it was loaded and ready to fire, and then I went into the living room. My heart was pounding about a hundred miles a minute.
    Werewolves tend to take blue-collar jobs in their human lives, though some of them parlay those jobs into business empires. I looked through my peephole to see that the werewolf at my front door must be a semipro wrestler. He was huge. His hair hung in tight gelled waves to his shoulders, and he had a trimmed beard and mustache, too. He was wearing a leather
vest and leather pants and motorcycle boots. He actually had leather strips tied around his upper arms, and leather braces on his wrists. He looked like someone from a fetish magazine.
    “What do you want?” I called through the door.
    “Let me come in,” he said, in a surprisingly high voice.
    Little pig, little pig, let me come in!
    “Why would I do that?” Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin .
    “Because we can break in if we have to. We got no quarrel with you. We know this is your land, and your brother told us you know all about us. But we’re tracking a guy, and we gotta know if he’s in there.”
    “There was a guy here, he came up to my back door,” I called. “But he made a phone call and someone came and picked him up.”
    “Not out here,” the mountainous Were said.
    “No, the back door.” That was where Preston’s scent would lead.
    “Hmmmm.” By pressing my ear to the door, I could hear the Were mutter, “Check it out,” to a large dark form, which loped away. “I still gotta come in and check,” my unwanted visitor said. “If he’s in there, you might be in danger.”

    He should have said that first, to convince me he was trying to save me.
    “Okay, but only you,” I said. “And you know I’m a friend of the Shreveport pack, and if anything happens to me, you’ll have to answer to them. Call Alcide Herveaux if you don’t believe me.”
    “Oooo, I’m scared,” said Man Mountain in an assumed falsetto. But as I swung open the front door and he got a look at the shotgun, I