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you broke in to my apartment to return my purse.”
    â€œHow’s your shoulder?”
    She ignored his question. “I don’t have any money. Whatever I had was in that purse.”
    â€œI’m not here to rob you.”
    â€œThen what do you want?”
    He sighed. “Someone’s got to explain what’s happening to you.”
    She scowled at his cryptic answer, then rushed on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Listen, if you leave now, I won’t call the police. You brought my purse back, now—”
    â€œDon’t you want to know what’s happening to you?” He leaned forward, his hands—large like the rest of him—dangling off his knees. “You’re one of them now,” he continued, “and more has changed than your eye color.”
    She knew she should concentrate on getting this intruder out of her home, but what he said resonated within her. How had he known about her eyes? She couldn’t resist asking, “One of who?”
    â€œRemember the kid you followed into the alley?”
    â€œLenny?”
    â€œYour student, right?”
    She could only nod, wondering how he knew she was a teacher and then remembering her school identification was in her wallet.
    â€œHe was one of them. He attacked you. Bit you. And now you’re one of them, too.” He spoke as if he were explaining something very basic. As if she were a child. As if she were stupid.
    â€œA dog attacked me. Not Lenny,” she said in a voice that left no doubt which of them she considered mentally deficient.
    â€œIt was Lenny,” he said with quiet certainty, then repeated as vaguely as before, “and now you’re one of them.”
    What on earth was that supposed to mean? Had she been involved in some sort of gang initiation and didn’t know it?
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “One of who?”
    â€œLycans,” he said as though the term might ring a bell. When she didn’t respond, he explained, “Sort of like a werewolf. Only not like in the movies. Werewolves are Hollywood. Lycans are the real deal.”
    â€œWerewolves,” she echoed, her gaze darting about again, renewing her search for a weapon, something better than a curling iron.
    â€œYou’re a lycan,” he said blandly, lacking the passion such a declaration might warrant—especially shouted from the padded room of the insane asylum where he must normally reside.
    She didn’t move, didn’t speak, afraid anything she chose to say might set him off.
    â€œYou’re a lycan,” he repeated in the same mild tone. For all the emotion in his voice he could have been the anonymous voice taking her order at a drive-through. “In a very short time you’ll be a perfect killing machine.”
    â€œI see.” Her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. With the utmost care, she adopted a slow, placating tone and said, “Let me get this straight. I’m a werewolf. And Lenny—” She stopped cold, recalling his exact words. Was . All need to placate fled.
    â€œWhat do you mean was ?” she demanded, fighting back the urge to shout. “What happened to Lenny?”
    â€œHe’s dead.” Again, the flat voice.
    â€œDead,” she murmured, her arm falling lifelessly to her side, her fingers loose around her weapon. Dead . The word rolled over her in a numbing fog. No. Not Lenny. He couldn’t be dead. He never got a chance to live. Not the kind of life he deserved, anyway.
    â€œAnd you will be too if you don’t start listening to me.”
    â€œLenny,” she whispered, shaking her head.
    â€œListen to me.” His biting command cut through her spinning thoughts, through the sorrow threatening to swallow her. “You don’t have time to grieve. I need—”
    â€œHow do you know he’s dead?” Her gaze leapt back to his face. Why