Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Page A

of the attack, the silence, the stealthy killer no one had seen come or go: all this pointed to only one thing as far as he was concerned. It was a wonder the wingnut ever cleared any cases, since the perps they dealt with were generally not vampires, werewolves, ghosts, leprechauns, or aliens. Unless you counted Mexicans without papers as aliens. Or, asCharlotte had once pointed out to Framingham, “From my point of view, white people.”
    Snapping on her latex gloves, Charlotte deliberately shut out Framingham’s mutterings and silenced Uncle James, too. Uncle James was wrong. Charlotte had been born in New York City. Her people lived in the center of the state, but the land where she belonged—the land she belonged to—was here.
    And Framingham, he was a damn good detail man, seeing what was really there even if he was perpetually disappointed he couldn’t prove it had been dropped there by black helicopters. His current theory on this one had to do with a botched extraterrestrial dissection. Fine. If that’s what allowed him to spot every paper clip, phone call, and pinprick, go with God.
    Charlotte herself did it differently. She operated on instinct and always had, on the Job and in her life. Her grandmother had been a seer, a healer, in the tribe, and Uncle James always said the same power was in Charlotte, too. She thought that was probably baloney but she couldn’t help admitting she had moments of clarity, of being sure of something she had no way to prove. Her spine and fingertips would tingle, colors would snap to a knife-edge sharpness, and she’d just know.
    Sometimes, not always, it happened on a case, though she had no way to know why or when that feeling would kick in. She’d been leery of letting anyone on the Job know until she discovered instinct, going with the gut, was a respected cop technique. She wasn’t the only cop to work that way and she didn’t have to admit to any Indian woo-woo to explain her high clearance rate—or to be admired for it.
    Charlotte knelt beside the body. Methodically, she started to work. Her doubts quieted and backed away. The answer to her question rose up, as always, and always the same: she was on this Jobbecause what had happened here, the fear and blood and death, wasn’t caused by ectoplasm, aliens, or New York City. Someone—a person, with a reason, with something inside him that told him he had the right—had done this to this woman. That was an everyday situation. Charlotte’s job was to make him pay.

20
    L ivia hadn’t spoken since Michael Bonnard had revealed the meaning of what Spencer saw in the park. She sat enthralled by the possibilities his words conjured.
    Earlier, with Michael and Thomas banished to the kitchen, Livia and Spencer had sat in the parlor as Spencer’s strength returned. They’d discussed what to do if it turned out Spencer hadn’t been delirious and his vision was real. The Noantri had no Law regarding contact with other non-Unchanged humans. That would have been absurd, like Laws regarding behavior during a Martian invasion. It was explicitly written, however, that the Conclave must be informed of anything that could in any way impact the Community as a whole.
    “Shapeshifters, Spencer?” Livia had said. “What could fall more squarely into that?”
    “You’re right, of course,” Spencer had replied. “And yet . . . Livia, our Laws require us to remain hidden. Perhaps the laws of Michael’s people do the same. He showed himself only in a desperate attempt to save my life. To do so may be punishable. If I’d broken a Law forhim, I’d hope not to be—what do they say?—thrown under the bus for my act.”
    “Spencer, you’re suggesting we break a Law right now. He saw you start to heal. Instead of vanishing before he knows you’re gone, you want to get him in here and reveal who we are.”
    “Who I am. I shan’t unmask you—there’s no need.”
    “Of course there is. If we do this I’m not going to—as