"Sure, that sounds great. How about six?"

"I'll be there. Thanks for calling, Dad."

"See you soon." I clicked off the phone and started crying.

Ben had a new case to work on and begged off for the evening. Cheryl had also bowed out of dinner. One of the kids had caught a cold, Mark was working late, they didn't want to be a bother. A dozen excuses. But I wondered: Now who was shirking her filial duties?

I arrived at my folks' place with a bag full of take-out Chinese and a cheerful disposition.

Mom took the bag from me as I asked, "What did the doctor say? What's happening?" I didn't even say hello first. She was back to her put-together self, her fashionable blouse and slacks, with the right amount of jewelry and makeup. But she seemed harried.

"Let's eat first," she said. She wasn't smiling.

Dad came in from the kitchen and hugged me—something he never did, not right away like this. His face was pale, and he wasn't smiling either. Silently, the three of us put out plates, spooned out rice and stir fry, and settled in to it.

This was the most stressful meal I'd ever eaten. Not that I could honestly say I ate anything.

"How's work?" Dad asked finally, falling back on the standard question.

I blathered on, determined to keep the grim silence from falling again. It had definitely been an exciting weekend, even after leaving out all the stuff about Carl and Meg, vampire politics, learning how to shoot, and instead sticking to the upcoming book release and how great it was that I could break a story like Mercedes Cook being a vampire. Running my mouth also meant I mostly moved my food around on the plate without really eating. Mom and Dad did the same. At this rate, the leftovers would last a week.

Mom pushed her plate away first, and Dad and I gratefully followed suit.

"Jim, would you clean up, please? Kitty and I can go have our talk."

In reply, he kissed her cheek—a communications shorthand after thirty-five years of comfortable marriage—and collected plates. Mom took my hand and led me to the living room. We sat side by side on the sofa.

"Okay," I said, trying to be brave. "How bad is it?"

"It's a little worse than we thought. They didn't remove all the cancer, it turns out. It's invasive."

"What does that mean?" And how could she be this calm?

She shrugged stoically. "It means things are a little more serious is all. I'll need more surgery. They want to remove lymph nodes for testing. If it spread, I may need chemotherapy as well as radiation. I'll be a little sicker for a little longer. The prognosis is good, it's still good." Her smile went tight and strained. The power of positive thinking and all that. You had to be positive. "They're recommending aggressive treatment, and they want to start right away. That would mean more surgery in a week or so."

I choked on the words. "That soon? Isn't there something else, another way—"

"We'll see. I'm going to get a second opinion. But really, the lump was there, the spot on the mammogram is there, only an idiot would claim that nothing was wrong."

She turned her gaze to the ceiling; her eyes were shining. "You know what's strange? I'm not even thinking about myself right now. I'm thinking about you girls, my darling girls. My Aunt Patty died of this, and now I have it, so it obviously runs in the family and if you and Cheryl ever get this I'll be so…so…upset." Like she couldn't think of anything stronger to feel than that.

"Mom." I held her hand in both of mine, squeezed until she looked at me. "Don't worry about me. I won't get it. I can't get it. I'm a werewolf, werewolves don't get sick. They don't get cancer."

I froze, because a terrible, insidious worm of a thought started in the back of my brain. A vicious, hopeful thought.

My mind was in a panic, I couldn't speak. Mom didn't seem to notice. She touched my cheek and rested her hand on my shoulder.

"You know, I look at you and I can't even tell? I still don't believe it most of the time. You're not a monster, I don't care what Time magazine says." The glint in her eye laughed silently at the joke.

I smiled back. I forced my limbs to relax. I acted normal. As normal as I ever could.

I didn't say, I could bite you, Mom. I could cure you.

Chapter 7

A clock was ticking just behind my back. The noise of approaching doom was always right behind me, like Captain Hook's crocodile. I could never turn around fast enough to actually see it. But it was always there, and I knew that soon the alarm would go off. The ringing of it would break me. Mom's surgery, Rick's war, my career, my own rebellious body—something was going to start ringing soon. Then it would blow up, like a time bomb.

I was exhausted, waiting for the explosion.

"So then I said to him, look, I don't care if it is a full moon tonight, I want to go to the Coldplay concert and you're going to take me. You're just going to have to turn into a wolf some other night. And you know what he says to me? He says—"

This caller was why I didn't counsel people in person. If she'd been sitting here I'd have throttled her. "Let me guess. He says, 'Baby, I don't have a choice.'"

"Well, yeah, except for the baby part."

"Let me ask you a question, Mia. What have you done for him lately?"

The pause lasted a beat. Then, "What do you mean?"

"I mean have you ever done anything nice for your boyfriend?"

Mia gave an unattractive snort. "Why should I? He's lucky to have me."

"Oh, honey, I used to beat up girls like you in grade school. Look, I'm as sympathetic about inattentive boyfriends as the next girl, but when he said he didn't have a choice about turning into a wolf—he meant it. He's supposed to be able to look to his girlfriend for support, right? 'Cause you know, this whole relationship thing works both ways, give and take and all that. And what do you do? Ask him to do the one thing he can't. Could you be any more insensitive? Wait, don't answer that. Of course you could. But I'm thinking he's the crazy one for putting up with your crap."

"You can't talk to me like—"

"Listen. You have so many problems with this boyfriend of yours, here's my advice. Break up with him. You'd be doing him a favor."

"But I like dating a werewolf. It's cool."

"You can't have it both ways." I clicked off the line, because really, that conversation couldn't go anywhere else. "You like fur so much, buy a poodle. Except I wouldn't wish you on a poodle even. Damn, I'm cranky tonight. Let's see, where do we go from here. Stan, you're on the air."

"Hi, Kitty. Thanks for taking my call. Can you answer a question for me?"

"I'll give it a shot." I tried to learn everything about him from the sound of his voice: male, indeterminate age. He wasn't overly emotional: frustrated, depressed, sad, or angry. He was neutral, interested. His question could be about anything.

"A lot of people call in to your show wanting to know about vampires and werewolves like they admire them. Like they want to be them. But these are monsters we're talking about—they're not saints. They're not something to aspire to. Even if it is a disease, like you say, why would anyone want a disease like that? I don't understand. Can you explain what people see in the whole thing?" His question sounded genuine. It didn't sound like a put-on.

I was sort of in his camp at the moment.

"I don't know, Stan. Different people see different things in it, I think. Some see glamour. Or power. They feel helpless, and these identities are a way not to feel helpless. The thing is, people who aren't vampires and werewolves aren't looking at the reality of it. Often they only see the stories, the lore, the mystique. They're basing their feelings on what they think those lives must be like. They don't see the dark side. Or if they do, they paint it in glamorous colors as well. It's exciting, it's dangerous. It's an adventure. Maybe that's it."