"Door's open," Clay called.

I found him pacing inside, cell phone at his ear. Reese sat on the edge of the bed, with a bloody towel around his right hand.

"I didn't do it," Clay said.

I motioned to the phone.

"Jeremy," he said. Getting medical advice, I presumed.

"What happened?" I asked Reese.

He glanced down at his towel-wrapped hand, as if startled to see it. His pupils were dilated and he blinked hard, having trouble focusing on his hand, still holding it up and staring. I glanced at Clay, but he'd turned his back to me as Jeremy gave instructions.

When I took Reese's hand, he didn't resist. His skin above the towel was clammy, despite the warm room. I slowly unraveled the towel until I saw his hand, and winced. Two finger joints of his ring finger and the last joint of his pinkie had been cut off.

"I didn't do it," Clay said.

"Feel the need to make that perfectly clear, do you?" I said.

He grunted and tossed the phone onto the bed.

"What happened?" I asked.

"No idea. I haven't gotten that far. Jeremy says we need to get him stitched up. We can get the details after."

CLAY RETRIEVED MY bag-with my first-aid kit-from the car. He had one in his luggage, too. Jeremy would sooner let us travel without clothing than forget emergency medical supplies.

I got Reese's hand cleaned, stitched and bandaged while Clay played nurse, taking away the dirty cloths and getting new ones. As for how he lost his fingers, Reese was staying mum. It seemed more shock than reticence, though, so Clay and I tried to distract him by discussing the latest injuries in our lives-our kids' fall.

" Logan wouldn't talk," I said. "But I finally got Kate to admit what happened, which was exactly what we thought."

"They jumped because they'd seen us doing it."

I explained to Reese. "Our kids have realized that our days don't end after they go to bed. We go for walks in the forest, we talk by the fire, the food comes out… "

"Especially the food," Clay said.

"Naturally they felt left out and kept getting up. Rather than turn bedtime into a battleground, we started going to bed at the same time, then sneaking downstairs or outside."

"Only they heard us if we went downstairs," Clay said.

"Being so young, they shouldn't have secondary powers. We aren't even sure they're werewolves-one or both or… it's complicated. Anyway, at this age, we don't know whether they have enhanced hearing or we're just louder than we think we are. But we thought we were safe, avoiding the stairs and jumping out our bed room window. Apparently not."

"They tried it?" Reese said, his first words since I'd come in. "Are they okay?"

"One sprained ankle, one sprained wrist and one very guilt-stricken parent."

"Two," Clay said. "We're going to have to come up with another solution."

"Other than tying them to their beds?"

"That'll be option two."

I cut off the bandage. "I know, we should probably just clamp down-bedtime is bedtime-but I was thinking of a compromise. We'll let them stay up until eleven two nights and we'll go to bed early, and the rest of the week, they're down at the normal time. If they don't settle, then we get tough-no special late nights."

"That might work."

"I hope so. Or it'll be time to invest in bars for the windows."

I stood and stretched my legs. Reese had followed our conversation with equal parts interest and bewilderment, and now he just looked confused. He'd heard stories about us-any mutt who's been in the United States more than a month has. Tales of Clayton Danvers, child werewolf turned vicious psychopath, who at seventeen chopped up a trespassing mutt and passed out photos of it. Then he bit some poor girl in Toronto, made her his mate, imprisoned her with him at Stonehaven, forced her to bear his children, and dragged her along on his assignments as Pack enforcer, so she could-I don't know-wash his socks and serve him breakfast in bed, I guess.

There were truths in this, as in all mythology. The child werewolf. The axe-job and photos. The bite. But it was all vastly more complicated than any mutt's urban-legend version allowed. Now, seeing us together, hearing us talking, we seemed like a normal couple… or as normal as any couple who knew how to field-dress severed fingers.

"So," Clay said as he repacked my medical bag. "Your hand. Mutt do that?"

Reese flinched at the word. Some do, taking it as derogatory. Others wear it as a badge of honor. Most don't care, the word having long since lost its bite, a label no different than "Pack wolf." But seeing Reese's reaction, I quickly said, "Another werewolf, I take it?"

He nodded. "I was in the museum this morning. The art and history one on Seventh Street."

He explained that he'd gone, pulled by a mild interest in history coupled with the conviction that if any werewolf had followed him to Alaska, a museum would be the last place we'd look.

For Liam and Ramon, I was sure that was true. These were two guys who'd have trouble spelling museum. For Clay, though, there was no city attraction he was more likely to be found at. But I didn't mention that.

Reese's logic, while sound, didn't help him. He was found there, by two mutts who'd introduced themselves as Travis and Dan. They'd crossed his trail a couple of blocks away and followed it to check him out, as any werewolf would upon scenting another in the same city.

They seemed relieved to find he was just a kid-in our world twenty years old is still "just a kid"-meaning he'd have little fighting experience and no reputation. They were fine with Reese being in Alaska -temporarily, they hoped. He was no threat to them and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he was welcome to visit. They even gave him some advice on cheap motels, good buffets, safe places to run…

Friendly enough without being overly hospitable, which struck the right balance for a kid who'd already been burned. In the course of the conversation, Travis noticed Reese's class ring. He asked about the insignia. Reese let him take a closer look.

"Travis was checking it out, holding the end of my fingers. That's when it happened, so fast I didn't see the knife until… " He paled at the memory. "If I hadn't yanked back right then, he would have taken both fingers right off. I ran. I shoved my hand in my pocket and I ran as fast as I could. I could hear them coming after me. So I raced past this guard-an old guy. By the time he got up and yelled at me, I was out the door, but it made Travis and Dan pull back. There was a cab right out front. I got in and came here. I-I guess they wanted the ring, but it wasn't anything special. Just a high school ring."

"It wasn't about the ring," Clay said. "It was a warning. Get off our territory."

"Then why not just tell me to? Why act all nice, then-" He lifted his hand. "Do this?"

"How do you feel?" Clay asked.

Reese's face darkened. "How the hell do you think I feel? I lost my fucking fingers."

"Scared? Confused?"

"Hell, yes."

"And what were you going to do after you got it cleaned up? Tell the desk clerk you'll be staying a few more days, extending your Alaskan vacation?"

"Fuck no. I would have been on the first plane-" He stopped and nodded. "That's the point, isn't it?"

"Strike hard and fast, catch you off guard and scare the crap out of you. Lot more effective than giving a friendly warning and hoping you don't stab them in the back."

I asked about the mutts. He gave me a description. Travis was "huge." At least six foot four and buff. The rest of him hadn't left much of an impression-brown hair, he thought, neither long nor short. No idea what color his eyes were. No distinguishing marks.

Travis's size had blinded Reese not only to what he looked like, but to his companion. All he could say about Dan was two things. First, he was smaller. Second, he was Russian-he'd spoken little, but when he did, it was with a heavy accent. Oh, and while Travis's English was perfect and had an American accent, he'd had a few exchanges with Dan in Russian.