Well, I heard him, like I said, and I knew right off that he was lying. He was going to steal her and he was real scared somebody would know it. I could hear it in his voice, but she could not. She got into the car with him, but I had the smell of him by then and I had seen the car and the license number. I wrote it down as soon as they had gone so I would not forget it.

No, Father. I have never owned a car. I never got that much money together before they put me in here. If I had owned a car I would have driven it to work, probably, and I would never have seen him stealing her.

So I borrowed somebody else’s-just pulled him out when he was getting in and took his keys. Only I never meant to keep his car, which would be stealing. I was going to leave it someplace where he would find it.

I looked for an hour, maybe, before I found them. They were in a trailer park where one of the guys I worked with lived. So I got out and knocked on the door of the trailer. He opened it, and when he saw how mad I was, he just ran away out the back door and I let him go.

Well, Father, maybe most of them don’t have back doors, but this one did.

She was in there on the floor crying. He had tied her hands and there was a rope around her neck that was tied to the bed so she couldn’t get away. Besides, he had torn off all her clothes and she was bleeding from down here.

Sure I did. You would have, too, Father. It tasted great.

So I said, don’t cry, please don’t cry, he’s gone now and you don’t have to worry about him anymore. Now you listen to me. I am going to leave you here until dark. It won’t be long. When it is dark, nobody will see that you are naked, so then I can get you into my car and it will be all right.

No, Father. I wasn’t going to hurt her at all.

So then I drove out to that factory where I had kept Paul. I had my paper and tape there, and a cleaver and some knives. You know. After that I went back home and put some in my freezer.

By then it was dark so I came back for her just like I had said. She was so sweet! She had finished crying by then, and the way she looked up at me… If you had seen her little face then, Father, you would know I would never hurt her. I untied her and got her into my car, only the police stopped us and here I am.

So I am not a child molester like they said. Not at all. He was the one that did her like they were married, only nobody could marry a girl as little as she was then.

Maybe ten. Not much older.

She’ll be older now. I know that. But if you’ll find her and talk to her, she’ll tell you I never did. It was him. I just licked her where she was bleeding. You know. That was all I did.

Well, tell her to tell the truth, please. She won’t lie to you, I know. And tell her I will get out someday and when I do I am going to look her up and make sure she’s all right.

I didn’t mean to scare you, Father. Really I didn’t. I just laid my hand on your shoulder-you shouldn’t be so touchy. Just tell the screw you want out.

Kitty Learns the Ropes by Carrie Vaughn

I hit play on the laptop DVD software and sat back to watch.

This was a recording of a boxing match in Las Vegas last year. The Heavyweight World Championships, the caption read. I was glad it did, because I knew nothing about boxing, nothing about who these guys were. Two beefy, sweaty men-one white, with a dark buzz cut and heavy brow, the other black, bald, snarling-were pounding on each other in rage. I winced as the blows against each other sent sweat and spit flying. As sports went, this was more unappealing than most, in my opinion.

Then the white boxer, Ian Jacobson, the defending champion, laid one into his opponent, Jerome Macy. The punch came in like a pile driver, snapped Macy’s head around, and sent the big man spinning. He crashed head-first into the mat. The crack of bone carried over the roars and cheers of the crowd. I resisted an urge to look away, sure I was witnessing the boxer’s death.

The arena fell silent, watching Macy lie still. Jacobson had retreated to an empty corner of the ring, looking agitated, while the referee counted down over Macy. Ringside officials leaned in, uncertain whether to rush in to help or wait for the count to end. Macy lay with his head twisted, his body crumpled, clearly badly injured. Blood leaked out his nose.

Then he moved. First a hand, then an arm. He levered himself up, shaking his head, shaking it again, stretching his neck back into alignment. Slowly, he regained his feet.

He turned, looking for his opponent with fire blazing in his eyes. Jacobson stared back, eyes wide, fearful. Obviously, he hadn’t wanted Macy to be seriously hurt. But this-rising from the dead almost-must have seemed worse.

The roar of the crowd at the apparent resurrection was visceral thunder.

They returned to the fight, and Macy knocked out Jacobson a minute later, winning the title.

A hand reached over me and hit the pause button on the laptop.

“That wasn’t normal,” said Jenna Larson, the woman who had brought me the recording of the match. She was a rarity, a female sports reporter with national standing, known for hunting down the big stories, breaking the big news, from drug scandals to criminal records. “Tell me that wasn’t human. Jerome Macy isn’t human.”

Which was why Larson was here, showing me this video. She wanted to know if I could tell Macy was a werewolf or some other supernatural/superhuman creature with rapid healing, or the kind of invulnerability that would let him not only stand back up after a blow like that, but go on to beat up his opponent. I couldn’t tell, not by just watching the clip. But it wouldn’t be hard for me to find out if I could get close enough to smell him. I’d know if he was a werewolf by his scent, because I was one.

She’d brought her laptop to my office. I sat at my desk, staring at the frozen image of Macy, shoulders slouched, looming over his fallen opponent. Larson stood over me-a position of dominance, my Wolf side noted testily-waiting for my reaction.

I pushed my chair away from the desk so I was out from under her, looking at her eye to eye without craning my neck. “I can’t say one way or the other without meeting him.”

“I can arrange that,” she said. “His next bout is here in Denver this weekend. You come meet him, and if there is something going on, we share the scoop on the story.”

This was making me nervous. “Jenna. Here’s the thing: even if he is a werewolf, he probably doesn’t want to advertise the fact. He’s kept it hidden for a reason.”

“If he is a werewolf, do you think it’s fair that he’s competing against normal human beings in feats of strength and endurance?”

I shrugged, because she was right on some level. However talented a boxer he was, did Macy have an unfair advantage?

It also begged the question: in this modern age when werewolves, vampires, witches, and other things that go bump in the night were emerging from shadows and announcing themselves-like hosting talk radio shows that delved into this secret world-how many other people had hidden identities? How many actors, politicians, and athletes weren’t entirely human?

Larson was in her thirties, her shoulder-length brown hair shining and perfectly arranged around her face, her makeup calculated to look stunning and natural, like she wasn’t wearing any. She wore a pantsuit with high heels and never missed a step. She was a woman in a man’s profession, driven to make a name for herself. I had to respect that. The territorial side of me couldn’t help but see an alpha female on the prowl.

She was brusque, busy, and clearly didn’t have time to hang around because she shut down the laptop and started packing it into her sleek black shoulder bag.