It never got old. Or less scary. Being looked at like that will give you a whole new definition of naked. It’s just one of the things about dating a Were that’ll do it.

We stood there, oven heat reflecting off the concrete, each yellowed weed laid flat under the assault of sunlight. Finally my shoulders dropped, and I slipped the pager back in its pocket. “I’m sorry.” The words came out easily enough. “I just…”

“No need, Jillybean.” He rose fluidly, soft boots whispering as he took two steps away from the manhole. I was dripping on the concrete, but drying rapidly.

“I don’t mean to—”

“I said there was no need.” He glanced at the street over my shoulder. The Pontiac crouched, parked cockeyed to block anyone from coming down here, a looping trail of rubber smeared on the road behind it. I’d been going at least seventy before I stood on the brakes. “You really wanted this guy.”

I really want them all, sweetheart. The words died on my lips. And each time I kill one, the itch is scratched. But it always comes back. “Kids.” Just one word made it out.

“Yeah.” He scratched at his ear, his mouth pulling down in a grimace. Weres don’t understand a lot of things about regular humans, but their baffled incomprehension when faced with kid cases is in a league all its own. “You must be hungry. We can stop for a burrito on the way to Galina’s.”

In other words, you haven’t eaten in a while, shame on you. Come on, Jill. Buck up.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea. That shack on Sullivan Street is probably still open.”

The pager went off again. I fished it out again, my hair stiffening as it dried. Ugh.