LITMIR.BIZ

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thousand other things…

      He knew of course that little, if any of this, was a possibility. He would find out only what St. Clare allowed him to find out. But how could he not try?

      The old man walked for half a block, then got into a car with a driver. Ky had not anticipated this, which only went to show how rattled he was by events in general; even his normal investigative instincts had deserted him. He had assumed that, since there was no car waiting outside the building, St. Clare had come on foot, but of course a person who was planning on breaking and entering would hardly park his car in plain sight.

      Ky hesitated, then decided it would be more efficient to follow for a while on foot while the trail was still fresh, then go back for his car when he had a better idea in which direction St. Clare was headed. He did not, after all, seek another confrontation with St. Clare tonight, so time was not a consideration. He simply wanted to know where the old man was going.

      There were a thousand, a hundred thousand sensory clues crowding up the well-worn streets of this ancient city, yet the scent of the werewolf was unmistakable, and Ky followed it effortlessly. Even encased as he was in two tons of metal and disguised by exhaust fumes and fresh rain puddles and the succulent outpourings of open-air restaurants as the car made its way in an unhurried fashion through the Vieux Carre, Sebastian St. Clare left a signature upon the night that was as easy to read as a map.

      And then it wasn’t.

      Ky followed the trail the car left for three blocks—long enough to realize he was being led in a circle, or a square, actually, that would take him right back to Rampart Street. At first he was irritated, and mildly disappointed because he had expected something more inventive from St. Clare. But then he understood.

      St. Clare’s driver had taken the circuitous route not necessarily to confuse Ky but to avoid crossing Canal Street, which was closed for a parade. The parade, now fully in progress and blocking out both visual and aural clues with its color and raucousness for a good quarter mile in either direction, had swallowed up the last scent of the werewolf.

      His quarry was gone.

      Amy said steadily, “What, exactly, are your plans for me?”

      She should have been terrified. She was, in fact, on some visceral level almost too intense to be recognized, frightened out of her wits. And yet she could deal with it, she could sit here on the soiled mattress and gaze into that nightmarish monster face and let him fondle her, without breaking into hysterical, mindless screams, because of him. Because there was something about him—his touch, his voice, his manner—that didn’t seem monstrous at all.

      He said, drawing a gloved index finger down her cheek from the edge of her eye to the curve of her jaw, “Perhaps I shall just keep you as a pet.”

      “That might be difficult. I’ll be missed. And, as you might know, I have a few influential friends.”

      He chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. Your friends. Perhaps then, I should think of some other, more amusing, use for you.”

      The threat was implicit, the meaning unmistakable. Had Amy been able to see his face, there was no doubt in her mind that he would have been undressing her with his eyes.

      She said, “Is that intended to frighten me?”

      “Does it?”

      “No.”

      “I’m not certain whether I’m insulted or flattered.”

      “The Werewolf Killer never sexually assaults his victims,” Amy said. “If you were to rape me, you’d only prove to me that you’re not who you claim to be.”

      He laughed. “A rather twisted piece of logic, but oddly compelling. And you’re right. I haven’t the least interest in ‘assaulting’ you, as you put it.”

      “What are you going to do with me?”

      He sat back, regarding her with an attitude of what Amy could only imagine to be amused speculation.

      Then he said, “I am going to use you, my dear, to bring my story to the world.”

      Amy lifted the wine glass and took another sip. The wine, the conversation, the urbane manners of the gentleman sitting across from her…it could have been lunch at Arnaud’s, cocktails poolside, a casual interview in the lounge of the Ritz Carlton. She concentrated on forgetting that she was not in any of those places.

      She said, “I thought that was what I was doing.”

      “Indeed.” He inclined his head. “And you’re doing a superlative job. But you only know half the truth. I would like you to know all about me.”

      Because the reporter in her wouldn’t die, Amy said, “I’d like that, too.”

      He was silent for a time. Amy could feel his eyes on her, the eyes behind the yellow eyes and she wished desperately to see his face…not just for identification purposes, but to see his face, to know the man behind the mask.

      “Yes,” he murmured after a time, as though having reached a conclusion in thought, “I think you may be ready to know the truth. Not the whole world, perhaps, but you…yes. And I would like it if at least one person knew.”

      Amy said, softly, so as not to break the spell of gentle sadness that seemed to have come over him, “Knew what? What is the truth?”

      He looked at her, and though of course she could not see through the mask, she imagined that he smiled. “The truth,” he replied, “is that I am a werewolf.”

      Ky stood on the corner, impatiently trying to see over the heads and around the shoulders of jostling parade watchers, reflexively falling back on the ordinary human senses of sight and sound when his extraordinary ones failed him. There was, of course, no sign of the werewolf, nor of the car in which he had been driven away. There were twelve-foot-high floats and belly dancers and acrobats in the street, there were children riding shoulders and men lifting beer mugs on the sidewalk; it was enough to confuse anyone.

      The car had obviously passed this way before the parade reached the corner, but in which direction it had gone was anyone’s guess. Whatever residual trace of the werewolf scent that remained was masked completely by the chaos that surrounded him now.

      “Damn!” Ky said, and turned to push his way back through the crowd. To be this close, the chance of a lifetime, and to lose him in a Mardi Gras parade…

      But St. Clare wasn’t entirely lost. Ky had his money, which meant St. Clare would be in touch. No one just walked off and left fifty thousand dollars without following up on the contract. And he had a name, which he had absolutely no reason to believe was a false one. No, St. Clare was too arrogant, too sublimely confident in his own invincibility, to try something as banal as concealing his identity from a private investigator. Finding St. Clare again would not be the problem. Getting to him would.

      “Damn,” Ky muttered again, and broke through the crowd, turning the corner that led to his apartment.

      That was when he caught the scent.

      “I see,” Amy said.

      Her tone wasn’t convincing, even to herself, and she wasn’t surprised that he was angered by it.

      “Don’t humor me!” he snapped and got to his feet. “You forget your place, human! I have the power, do you understand that? I am in charge here, and I will not be patronized!”

      His fury, though not entirely unexpected, was nonetheless terrifying, like a quick harsh storm that broke tree limbs and blew shingles off roofs and then, as abruptly as it began it was over. The roar of his voice actually hurt her ears and she even imagined—surely she imagined—a gust of wind created by the force of his rage. He seemed to grow larger, more menacing, and when he loomed over her in that horrible mask, she could believe he was anything….

      “Is this how you use your power then?” she cried. “Frightening helpless women? Kidnapping them and holding them captive and then terrifying them

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