To my left, occupying the largest space of floor that was free of lab benches and equipment, was a news crew. It looked like a full-on studio job, with a large television camera, a camera operator, and a sound guy with a mike on a boom and headphones. And Roger Stockton, sans handheld video camera. Someone had given him a promotion. An equipment bag on the floor nearby bore the logo of a local network affiliate.

He stared at me, wide-eyed, like a rabbit in a trap. He trembled like prey, like he knew that if I wasn't currently behind a locked door, I'd kill him.

I started to laugh, then stopped, because the nausea wracking my stomach was about to break loose. I swallowed, and my mouth tasted like copper.

"What's going on here?" My voice cracked.

No one said anything. They'd come here to see a monster. Monsters weren't supposed to talk back.

Finally, Roger said, "Live broadcast. I sold the story to the network. It's my big break. I can take my work to the mainstream. Hey, if you'd just given me an interview, I wouldn't have agreed to this." A smile flickered, then disappeared.

"Unreal," I muttered, not aware I'd spoken aloud until I heard my voice. But why stop myself? "Fucking unbelievable. You were supposed to be for real! Searching for the truth, looking for knowledge—not in it for the fame and money! But you really are scum, aren't you? Playing like you're my friend, then selling me out the first chance you get—" My first impressions weren't always faulty, apparently. "What the hell are you trying to accomplish with this? What the hell do you think is going to happen? And you." I pressed my hands to the glass in front of Leo. "What are you getting out of this? Does Alette know you're working for them? God, of course not—you wouldn't have killed Bradley then. You're moving against Alette, aren't you?" His expression of amusement didn't waver.

Duke said with a tone of disgust, "We don't have to explain ourselves."

"It's just for the night," Flemming said softly. "You'll be free to go in the morning."

Then, I did laugh. Bitter, hysterical laughter. I shut my mouth before it could become a howl. "Are you kidding me? Do you think that makes everything all right? You're supposed to be a scientist, Flemming. You call this science?"

"I think he calls it public relations," Leo said. "He's a bureaucrat. Well, gentlemen, it's been lovely working with you, but I have business elsewhere." The vampire wore a sly grin on his face, looking terribly amused. "Doctor, if you'll remember our agreement?"

If anything, Flemming became more pale and uncomfortable-looking, kneading the fabric of his jacket sleeves. He looked over at the soldiers and nodded. Two of them moved toward the door and waited.

Leo tossed me a salute. "Take care of yourself, Miss Norville."

He stalked out of the room without waiting for a response. The two soldiers followed him.

Soldiers. Flemming had given the bastard backup. I had to call Alette. Would someone let me call Alette?

Senator Duke marched over to the doctor and pointed an accusing finger at the door Leo had just left through. "Dr. Flemming, I have to protest you making deals with that monster. When I agreed to help you, you said nothing about working with the likes of that!"

"I think there's some debate about who's helping whom here, Senator. I'm giving you the evidence you want. You said you didn't want to be involved in collecting that evidence."

"You'd do well to remember you wouldn't even have a chance to save your research if it weren't for me."

"I seriously wonder about that." He kept his gaze focused on me. I felt like a bug under a microscope.

I had to move. I had to get out of here. I saw the way out—through the door, past my enemies. Had to be a way out. If I kept moving, walking long enough, far enough, I'd find a way out. Had to turn before I got too close to the wall—it felt hot, the silver would burn me.

"Kitty!"

I flinched, startled out of my manic thoughts. Flemming had uncrossed his arms and was watching me, concerned.

"You're pacing," he said.

Like a caged wolf, back and forth across the front of the cell. I hadn't even noticed.

I couldn't see the moon. I didn't have to. A cramp wrenched my body. I doubled over, hugging my stomach, gritting my teeth, and unsuccessfully stifling a groan.

"Jesus, what's wrong with her?" the cameraman said.

Flemming frowned. "She's a werewolf."

Public relations. That was the game we were playing, was it? Flemming and Duke would both win support for their causes if they could prove, once and for all, that the monsters were real. The hearings hadn't been able to do that; that was all just talk. They needed videotape. Brightly lit, clinical videotape.

I didn't have to give up the fight that easily. There was a way out. If I could keep in control for a little while longer, I could beat them. I breathed, taking a moment to center myself, to convince my body to stay human. You'll be out soon, I told Wolf. Just give me the next hour or so.

She settled. We lived by compromise, my Wolf and I. She understood that the human half had to fight this battle.

"Roger, come here. I have to talk to you." I stood near the glass wall, by the dinner tray slot. I turned my back to the others.

"Why?" He laughed nervously. "You look like you want to kill me."

"That's because I do. But I won't. Come here."

I must have sounded serious, because he obeyed. Stockton crept forward slowly, like he thought I could break out of here. I couldn't; leaning on the Plexiglas told me it was solid. The hinges on the door were strong—and painted with silver. I might be able to break through, but I'd have to throw myself against it all night and probably wouldn't be in great shape afterward.

Let the human side deal with this.

"I have a counteroffer, Roger. How'd you like to produce the first live televised episode of The Midnight Hour?"

His brow furrowed, confused. "What, here?"

"Yup. Look, I know Duke and Flemming aren't going to let me out of here. But if I'm going to end up on TV, I want to do it on my terms. I get my show, I get to have my say, and you get your footage. That's what you want, isn't it? Real live film of a werewolf transformation, in a brightly lit lab, no shadowy forests and night-vision cameras, and you get a front-row seat. I just want a little credit. Duke and Flemming still get to prove their points. Everybody wins."

"What, you want me to put in a phone line, take calls—"

"No, there's no time for that. I just want a mike so I can talk to the audience. A few supplies, some music, I'll carry the whole thing by myself. That's all I'm asking for, some odds and ends and billing for the show. What do you say? You owe me, Stockton." That did come out as a growl. Just a little. I grit my teeth, glared—I couldn't imagine what I looked like to him. Like a werewolf. He stepped back.

"If all I want is werewolf footage, I'll get that one way or the other," he said.

And he was right, of course. I was in a very poor bargaining position. "Then tell me what you want."

He glanced at Flemming and Duke, who were their usual stolid and frowning selves. He hesitated, his face gone stony with thought. His jovial, animated facade had disappeared. Then, he said, "I still want that interview. I'll interview you, then you can do or say whatever you want for the rest of the broadcast."

Dammit, if he asked me any questions I was likely to swear a blue streak at him. I didn't know how much self-control I could manage for the next hour—surely not enough to produce a cohesive interview. All I wanted to do was scream. But I was in no position to negotiate. I wanted a microphone, and if this was what I had to do to gel it, then so be it. "Fine, okay."