"All but these are mine," I said, holding up my right forearm as the last glimmers of magic sparkled away, "and the man who did my inking arm works with me in the Rogue."

The wolf leaned back, impressed. "I would say I am now convinced, but I was before."

I glared at Spleen. "You could have brought him to the Rogue-"

"NO," the wolf said. "It's not safe-"

"This," I said, "is the twenty-first century. In Atlanta. In Little Five Points. Trust me, no one is going to hassle a werewolf. Heck, no one will even notice you."

"I didn't mean it wasn't safe for me," the werewolf said, still staring at me with those hungry eyes. His eyes no longer lingered on my tattoos, but roved all over me, like I was a particularly delicious banquet. Then he caught himself and looked away, shaking his head, face twitching in a pained grimace-I was a banquet he was forbidden to touch.

He was embarrassed. I felt sad for him, forced to hide in these tunnels, afraid of himself, holding on to what little scraps of dignity he could, like his battered suit. Even looking away, his chin was held up with pride, as of he were trying to be more than the monster most people would choose to see.

Not that a twinge of fear wasn't still nagging me: here I was, facing a real Edgeworlder, ripe with danger, popping his cork monthly, all too interested in my tattoos. I couldn't help but think of that skin-covered lid in the evidence tray. But I sensed no malice in this werewolf-in this man, this dangerously scruffy but still charming man with gleaming green eyes. And behind the hunger and the pain in those eyes I saw sadness… and interest?