Moon Called by Patricia Briggs Page A

with my hearing.
    Most of the destruction seemed to be concentrated in the high-ceilinged living room just off the entryway. The white Berber carpet would never be the same. One of the dining room chairs had been reduced to splinters against the wall, but the wall had suffered, too: broken plaster littered the floor.
    Most of the glass from the shattered window was spread outside on the porch; the glass on the carpet was from a mirror that had been jerked off the wall and slammed over someone’s head.
    The werewolf was still there, a sizable chunk of mirror embedded in her spine. It wasn’t a werewolf I knew: notone of Adam’s because there were only three females in Adam’s pack, and I knew all of them. She was near enough to truly dead that she wasn’t going to be a problem for a while, so I ignored her.
    I found a second werewolf under the fainting couch. (I liked to tease Adam about his fainting couch—How many women do you expect to faint in your living room, Adam?) He’d have to buy a new one. The seat was broken with splinters of wood sticking through the plush fabric. The second werewolf lay chest down on the floor. His head was twisted backward, and his death-clouded eyes stared accusingly at me.
    I stepped over a pair of handcuffs, the bracelets bent and broken. They weren’t steel or aluminum, but some silver alloy. Either they were specifically made to restrain a werewolf, or they were a specialty item from a high-ticket BDSM shop. They must have been used on Adam; he’d never have brought a wolf he had to restrain into his house while Jesse was here.
    The noises of the fight were coming from around the corner of the living room, toward the back of the house. I ran along the wall, glass crunching under my feet and stopped just this side of the dining room as wood cracked and the floor vibrated.
    I put my head around the corner cautiously, but I needn’t have worried. The fighting werewolves were too involved with each other to pay attention to me.
    Adam’s dining room was large and open with patio doors that looked out over a rose garden. The floors were oak parquet—the real stuff. His ex-wife had had a table that could seat fifteen made to match the floor. That table was upside down and embedded in the far wall about four feet from the floor. The front of the matching china closet had been broken, as if someone had thrown something large and heavy into it. The result of the destruction was a fairly large, clear area for the werewolves to fight in.
    The first instant I saw them, all I could do was hold my breath at the speed and grace of their motion. For all theirsize, werewolves still resemble their gracile cousin the timber wolf more than a Mastiff or Saint Bernard, who are closer to their weight. When weres run, they move with a deadly, silent grace. But they aren’t really built for running, they are built for fighting, and there is a deadly beauty to them that comes out only in battle.
    I’d only seen Adam’s wolf form four or five times, but it was something you didn’t forget. His body was a deep silver, almost blue, with an undercoat of lighter colors. Like a Siamese cat’s, his muzzle, ears, tail, and legs deepened to black.
    The wolf he was fighting was bigger, a silvery buff color more common among coyotes than wolves. I didn’t know him.
    At first, the size difference didn’t bother me. You don’t get to be the Alpha without being able to fight—and Adam had been a warrior before he’d been Changed. Then I realized that all the blood on the floor was dripping from Adam’s belly, and the white flash I saw on his side was a rib bone.
    I stepped out where I could get better aim and lifted the rifle, pointing the barrel at the strange werewolf, waiting until I could take a shot without risking hitting Adam.
    The buff-colored wolf seized Adam just behind the neck and shook him like a dog killing a snake. It was