Son of a bitch had stolen Ben's keys.

Ben.

I let Dack go and ran to the trees. Did some quick math—fired twice, fifteen rounds, thirteen left. Should be enough. If I could keep my aim straight, I only needed two. I followed my nose.

There they stood, in a field on the other side of the cottonwoods, out of view of the street. All three of them. Ben was on his feet—but Carl was holding him there, standing behind him, wrenching both his arms back and pinning him immobile so Meg could torture him. Blood covered her, spattering her face and soaking her clothing. She was letting her wolf slide to the fore, and her hands had turned to claws. She had been slashing at Ben. I was twenty paces away, but I could make out wounds. He had cuts, parallel lines across his cheeks and across his neck as if someone with claws had grabbed him there and squeezed. His shirt was shredded, dripping with blood.

She had been taking him apart, piece by piece, while Carl held him still.

I painted this scene by inference, because they had paused. Meg had taken a few steps away from Ben—probably drawn by the sound of gunfire, trying to decide whether to go see what was wrong.

I wanted to watch Ben, find some sign that he was moving, that he was going to be all right, that they hadn't gone too far and that his injuries wouldn't kill him. We were less than a mile from where T. J. had died, after Carl ripped out his heart. I couldn't watch that again. I couldn't take that happening again. It was all I could do not to scream in agony.

Meg saw me and snarled. Beyond words.

Dack had delivered him, and they were dealing with him. Then, Ben's keys in hand, Dack was probably leaving to go get me, lure me out here on some pretense. Maybe he'd say he'd help me rescue Ben. That had probably been part of their deal with Arturo—Carl and Meg could keep the pack, but they had to get rid of me and Ben. Or maybe it had been Mercedes's idea. Like Rick, we were too independent, too much trouble. She sent her minion to get rid of us.

They'd planned on killing the three of us—me, Ben, and Rick—the same night we planned on killing them. It had all come down to who got there first.

I had a flash: all the things I could say to Meg, all the mercy I could show her—stop, get away from him, don't make me do this. Get out of Denver, you get the same deal Carl gave me, go away and never return.

She moved toward me, her bloodied hands clenched, shoulders tight like hackles, and I sensed the attack she was about to make—the tensing muscles, the quickening stride. I stood my ground. She was so fixated, so high on adrenaline and victory, she didn't see the gun I held at my side, behind my thigh, out of sight.

She thought she had the power here, but she didn't. That knowledge gave me strength.

This time, I was calm, and Ben's instructions whispered at me. Take a breath. Hold the gun in both hands. Aim. Exhale slowly. It only took a second. Her eyes registered a moment of surprise. She hadn't expected to see a weapon.

I aimed for her head. Fired. Fired again.

One bullet hit her shoulder, another her chest, sending out sprays of blood. She spun back and fell. Didn't even cry out.

Carl ducked, flattening himself on the ground. Released, Ben fell beside him—not moving. I choked on a cry.

Meg writhed on the ground. I kept my distance. The gun was warm in my hand. I held it straight before me, sighting down the barrel. The wounds hadn't killed her. I'd have to finish it. I didn't want to have to do this, please, God, don't make me do this…

Then, she wailed. Seized by pain, she arced her back, flung out her arms, clutching at the grass. Her head tipped back, and her mouth opened wide, screaming. I smelled something—ill and rotten, it came from her, growing until it vied with her normal human-wolf scents. The wounds didn't smell just of blood. Sickness oozed there, too, something sour and burning, growing to be overpowering.

I stepped closer.

Meg didn't notice. All her muscles clenched, pulling her body into a trembling, fetal form. The wounds, marked by bloody splatters, had blackened. The veins in her neck had blackened, showing the trail of poison carried from the wounds by her bloodstream. In another moment the searing trails of silver poisoning traced down both her arms, into her face. Under her clothing, they would soon mark out her whole body.

She stopped shaking. Her eyes and mouth had frozen open, and her fingers remained tensed in the shape of claws. They were only fingers now, harmless, and covered with blood.

"Oh, my God," breathed Carl. I turned to look at him, and he scuttled away from me. Afraid of me. I wasn't even pointing the gun at him.

Oh, this moment was a long time coming.

Moving toward him, I raised the gun, aimed it. I forced myself to step slowly, exhibiting calm, exhibiting power, when all I really wanted to do was throw myself to the ground at Ben's side. Or let Wolf come out and rip into Carl. I could almost feel his blood on my tongue.

Ben moved, starting to sit up—alive. He was alive. He clenched his jaw, grit his teeth, bent over in the wracked pose that meant he was fighting his wolf, trying to keep from shifting. All that pain and anger called his wolf up, and he was fighting it. I couldn't go help him yet.

On his feet now, Carl was still backing away.

"Kitty," he said, his voice sounding different than I'd ever heard it. Tighter. Higher. Fearful. Close to panic. "Don't…don't do this. I know you don't want to do this. Kitty."

Behind him, something moved in the scrub, where trees started growing at the base of the hills. A wolf, moving in from the wild, trotted toward us. Then another. These were large—too big to be wild wolves. These were wolves that conserved the mass of their human halves—a hundred fifty, two hundred pounds maybe. Big, but still lithe, trotting smoothly and with purpose.

Behind them came a person—a woman, naked, flexing her muscles, her arms and hands, in a familiar gesture. She was about to shift.

I took a deep breath, trying to scent a nonexistent breeze, catching what odors the morning air carried. The pack. This place always smelled like pack—this is where they gathered, where they made their home. But this smell was alive, not a passive scent left behind on a place. The pack was here, now.

I ventured a look around. On all sides of us, people approached. I counted four, then six, then nine, and more. Shaun was one of them, coming from the street. He gave me a nod of acknowledgment. They weren't all dead. They'd found us.

Carl saw them, then. For just a moment, a hairsbreadth of a moment, he smiled, almost relaxed—he thought he was saved, that his pack would rescue him.

But they weren't his pack anymore, and they all moved toward him. Their glares held malice. In return for the abuse he'd handed out, on behalf of the ones he had killed, they wanted blood.

Carl's expression turned to panic.

He raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "Kitty, no, no, please! I'll leave. I'll leave Denver, I won't come back. It'll be yours, it'll all be yours."

"It's already mine," I said.

His face went slack, as if the muscles gave out. The wolves, on two and four feet, came closer.

"Please let me go, Kitty." He sounded like a little boy. "I'll never bother you again."

My mouth was dry. But I had to see this through. I couldn't turn away. "You'll leave Denver, never come back?" I said. "Same deal you gave me?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes, yes!"

A dozen monsters wanted his blood.

"I'm sorry, Carl. That's not for me to decide."

The pack closed the circle around him. A wolf clamped teeth around his waist, another raked claws down his back.

Carl screamed and started to Change. His wolf had sensed the danger and had clawed its way to the surface. His face stretched, growing a snout. His reaching arms bore claws, his skin shone with fur. But it was too late. The others were too many and too strong. They overwhelmed him, swallowed him in their crowd. I lost sight of him, but still heard him. His screams came fast and desperate, turning high-pitched and squealing, like the wailing of a dog, then gurgled to silence. They tore him apart.