Jacobson started to sway. He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself up. Macy landed yet another solid punch that made Jacobson’s entire body quiver for a moment. Then the big boxer went down, boneless, collapsing flat on his back and lying there, arms and legs splayed.

Chaos reigned after that. The crowd was screaming with one multilayered voice; the referee knelt by Jacobson’s head, counting; Jacobson’s trainers hovered in the wings, waiting to spring forward. Around me, journalists and announcers were speaking a mile a minute into phones or mikes, describing the scene.

Macy retreated to a neutral corner, bouncing in place a little, arms hanging at his sides. He hunched his back and glared out with dark eyes that seemed fierce and animal. Maybe they only did to me.

The referee declared the fight over. Jacobson was knocked out, and only started climbing to his feet when his trainers helped him. Macy raised his arms, taking in the crowd’s adulation.

That was it. The whole thing started to seem anticlimactic. There was some chaotic concluding business, strobe lights of a million cameras flashing. Then the journalists started packing up, the crowd dispersed, and the cleaning crew started coming through with garbage bags. A swarm of fans and reporters lurched toward Macy, but an equally enthusiastic swarm of guards and assistants kept them at bay while trainers guided Macy from the ring and down the aisle to the locker area, which was off limits.

Larson slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and tugged my sleeve. “Come on,” she said.

Walking briskly, snaking through the mass of people, she led me to a different doorway and from there to a tiled corridor. This was the behind-the-scenes area, leading to maintenance, storage, and locker rooms, from the other side. Larson knew where she was going. I followed, willing to let her lead the way, quietly hanging back, observing. Other reporters marched along with us, all jostling to get in front, but Larson led the way.

She stopped in front of a door, where a hulking man in a security uniform stood guard. Other reporters pressed up behind us.

“Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews now.” The bear of a man scowled at the crowd.

“I’m Jenna Larson,” she said, flashing an ID badge at him. “Tell him I’m here with Kitty Norville. I think he’ll talk to us.”

“I said, Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews.” The other reporters complained at that.

Larson pursed her lips, as if considering answers, then said, “I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wait?” I said.

“He’s got to come out sometime. Though, if he gives an interview to one of the guys, I swear I’ll-”

The door opened, and one of the trainers leaned out to speak a few words with the guard.

“Is who here? Her? Really?” the guard said, glancing at Larson. Grudgingly, he stood back from the open door. “He’s asking for you. Come on in.”

I stuck close to Larson as she slipped through the door, while the guard held back the rest of the reporters, most of whom were protesting loudly.

Male locker room. There’s no other smell like it. Lots and lots of sweat, new and old, stale, baked into the flat carpet, into the paint on the walls. And adrenaline, like someone had aerosolized it. Like someone had lit a scented candle of it. Pure, concentrated, competitive maleness. Wolf didn’t know whether to howl or whine.

“This way,” the trainer said, and guided us through the front, a brightly lit area filled with lockers, to a smaller, darker side room with only one light in the corner turned on.

The smell of alcohol almost overpowered the smell of maleness here. It looked like an infirmary. Cabinets with clear doors held gauze, cotton balls, bandages, and dozens of bottles. On a padded massage table in the middle of the room sat Jerome Macy.

A shadow in the dim light, he smelled of sweat, adrenaline, maleness-and wolf. His eyes were a deep, rich brown. I could almost see the wolf in them, sizing me up. Challenging me. I didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t give him any aggressive signals. This was his territory. I was the visitor here, and I didn’t have anything to prove.

“It’s okay, Frank,” Macy said to the trainer, who lingered by the door. The man gave a curt nod, then left, closing the door behind him.

So not even Macy’s trainers knew. The three of us were alone in the room, with the secret.

His hands were raw, chapped, swollen. Tape bound his wrists. He leaned on his knees and let the limbs dangle. Werewolves had rapid healing, but he’d still taken a beating. Macy kept his challenging stare focused on me. I started to bristle under the attention. I crossed my arms and lurked.

Larson drew a small digital recorder out of her pocket and made a show of turning it on. “Mr. Macy. Is it true that you’re infected with the recently identified disease known as lycanthropy?”

His gaze shifted from me to her. After a moment, he chuckled. “It’s not going to do me any good to say no, is it? You planned this out pretty good.”

He was almost soft-spoken. His voice was hushed, belying the power of his body. It gave him a calculating air. Not all brute force, this guy. I wanted to warn Larson, Don’t underestimate him.

“I think the public has a right to know,” Larson said. “Don’t you?”

He considered. Sizing her up, like a hunter deciding whether this prey would be worth the effort, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. He was making a challenge: the stare, the shoulders, the slight snarl to his open lips, showing teeth-all pointed to the aggressive stance. I recognized it. There was no way fully-human Larson could. For all her journalist’s instincts, she wouldn’t recognize the body language.

He said, “What would I have to pay you to keep you quiet?”

I was betting he couldn’t have said anything that would make her more angry. She said, “Bribery. Real nice. Be smart about this, Macy: you can’t suppress this. You can’t keep this quiet forever. You might as well let me break the story. I’ll give you a chance to have your say, tell your side.”

She approached this the way she would any other stubborn interview; she turned on her own aggressiveness, glaring back, stepping forward into his space. Exactly the wrong response if she wanted him to open up.

The boxer didn’t flinch. His expression never changed. He was still on the hunt. He said, “Then what would I have to do to keep you quiet?”

That threw Larson off her script. She blinked with some amount of astonishment. “Are you threatening me?”

I stepped between them, trying to forestall what the press would call an “unfortunate incident.” Glancing between them, I tried to be chipper, happy, and tail-waggy.

“Jerome! May I call you Jerome?” I said, running my mouth like always. “I’m really glad Jenna asked me to come along for this. Normally I wouldn’t give boxing a second thought. But this. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. How do you do it? Why don’t you shape-shift when you’re in the ring?”

I had seen animals in cages at the zoo look like this. Quiet, glaring. Simmering. Like a predator who was prepared to wait forever for that one day, that one minute you forgot to lock the cage. On that day, God help you.

“You’re Kitty Norville, right? I’ve heard about you.”

“Great!” I said, my bravado false. “Nothing bad, I hope. So are you going to answer my question?”

He straightened a little, rolled his shoulders, and the mood was broken, the predator image slipped away. His lip turned in a half smile.

“I think about my hands,” he said. Which seemed strange. I must have looked bemused, because he explained, “I have to punch. I can only do that with human hands. Fists and arms. Not claws, not teeth. So I think about my hands. But Kitty-just because I don’t shift doesn’t mean I don’t change.” Some of that animal side bled into his gaze. He must have carried all his animal fighting instinct into the ring.