There was a long pause. Then, “Norville?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“So.” Another long pause. Laconic, that was the word. “Why are you calling me?”
“I just talked to the cops. That spate of mauling deaths downtown? A werewolf did it. I didn’t recognize the scent. It’s a rogue.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
I’d seen his rates. Despite the show’s success, I couldn’t exactly hire him to hunt the rogue. Did I think he’d do it out of the kindness of his heart?
“I don’t know. Just keep your eyes open. Maybe I didn’t want you to think it was me.”
“How do I know you’re not lying to me about it now?”
I winced. “You don’t.”
“Don’t worry. You said it yourself. You’re harmless, right?”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “That’s me.”
“Thanks for the tip.” He hung up.
What was it with everyone thinking they could just hang up on me? I never hung up on anybody. At least not outside the show. Well, not often.
Then I realized—I’d talked to the werewolf hunter about this before talking to Carl.
I was going to have to talk to Carl soon anyway. Until now, I’d been avoiding him, but the full moon was tomorrow, and I didn’t want to go through it alone. He wasn’t going to let the fact that I was still doing the show pass without comment. I’d sort of hoped I could just show up and slink along with the pack without any of them noticing. That was about as likely as me turning up my nose at one of T.J.’s barely cooked steaks. It was really a matter of deciding in which situation—just showing up, or facing him beforehand—I was least likely to get the shit beat out of me. Or in which situation I would get the least amount of shit beat out of me.
Maybe it would have been easier if Cormac had just shot me.
I called T.J. first. My stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick, waiting for him to pick up the phone. I hadn’t talked to him since the night outside Obsidian.
He answered. My gut clenched. But it was still good to hear his voice.
“It’s me. I need to talk to you. And Carl and Meg.”
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. I listened hard—was he beating his head against the wall? Growling?
Then he said, “I’ll pick you up.”
I rode behind him on his motorcycle, holding on just enough to keep from falling off. We hadn’t spoken yet. I’d waited on the curb for him, shoulders bunched up and slouching. He’d pulled up, and I didn’t meet his gaze. I’d climbed on the bike, cowering behind him. He’d turned around and ruffled my hair, a quick pass of his hand over my scalp. I’m not sure what this said. I was sorry that he was angry at me, but I wasn’t sorry for anything I’d said or done. I didn’t want to fight him, and I didn’t want to be submissive. That would be admitting he was right. So I wallowed in doubt. He’d touched me, which meant—which meant that maybe things weren’t so bad.
We pulled up in front of Meg and Carl’s house. He got off. I stayed on. I didn’t want to do this.
T.J. crossed his arms. “This was your idea, remember?”
“He’s gonna kill me.”
“Come on.” He grabbed me behind the neck and pulled. I stumbled off the bike and let him guide me up the driveway, like I was some kind of truant.
He opened the front door and maneuvered me inside.
Carl and Meg were in the kitchen, parked at the breakfast bar like they’d been waiting for us. T.J. had probably called ahead. Meg had been leaning with her elbows on the countertop; Carl had his back to the counter. Both of them straightened. With them in front of me and T.J. behind me, I suddenly felt like I was at a tribunal. I shrugged away from T.J.’s hand. The least I could do was stand on my own feet.
Carl stood before me with his arms crossed, glaring down at me. “You haven’t quit the show. What do you have to say for yourself?”
I thought I’d finished with that when I moved out of my parents’ house. I shrugged. “I got a raise.”