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I saw two uniformed paramedics standing toward the back of the crowd. They were both shifters of some kind, their brain patterns told me. With them was a person—well, maybe a creature—I hadn’t seen for months: Dr. Ludwig. She caught my eye and bowed to me. Since she was around three feet tall, she didn’t have far to lean. I bowed back. Dr. Ludwig had a large nose, olive skin, and thick wavy brown hair. I was glad she was there. I had no idea what Dr. Ludwig actually was, other than nonhuman, but she was a good doctor. My back would have been permanently scarred—assuming I’d lived—if Dr. Ludwig hadn’t treated me after a maenad attack. I’d escaped with a couple of bad days and a fine white tracery across my shoulder blades, thanks to the tiny doctor.

The contestants entered the “ring”—actually a large square marked off by those velvet ropes and metal-topped posts that they use in hotels. I’d thought the enclosed area looked like a playground, but now, as the lights came up, I realized I was seeing something more like a jumping arena for horses crossed with a gymnastics arena—or a course for a dog agility competition for giant dogs.

Christine said, “You will change.” Christine moved away to melt back into the crowd. Both candidates dropped to the ground, and the air around them began to shimmer and distort. Changing quickly at one’s desire was a great source of pride among shifters. The two Weres achieved their change at nearly the same instant. Jackson Herveaux became a huge black wolf, like his son. Patrick Furnan was pale gray, broad in the chest, a bit shorter in length.

As the small crowd drew closer, hugging the velvet ropes, one of the biggest men I’d ever seen emerged from the darkest shadows to step into the arena. I recognized him as the man whom I’d last seen at Colonel Flood’s funeral. At least six and half feet tall, today he was bare-chested and barefoot. He was impressively muscular, and his chest was as hairless as his head. He looked like a genie; he would have appeared quite natural with a sash and pantaloons. Instead, he was wearing aged blue jeans. His eyes were pits of pitch. Of course, he was a shape-shifter of some kind, but I could not imagine what he turned into.

“Whoa,” breathed Claude.

“Hooboy,” whispered Claudia.

“Wowzers,” I muttered.

Standing between the contenders, the tall man led them to the start of the course.

“Once the test begins, no pack member can interrupt,” he said, looking from one Were to the other.

“First contestant is Patrick, wolf of this pack,” the tall man said. His bass voice was as dramatic as the distant rumble of drums.

I understood, then; he was the referee. “Patrick goes first, by coin flip,” the tall man said.

Before I could think it was pretty funny that all this ceremony included a coin toss, the pale wolf was off, moving so fast that I could hardly keep track of him. He flew up a ramp, leaped three barrels, hit the ground on the far side at a dash, went up another ramp and through a ring hanging from the ceiling (which rocked violently after he was through it), and dropped down on the ground, crawling on all fours through a clear tunnel that was very narrow and twisted at intervals. It was like the one sold in pet stores for ferrets or gerbils, just bigger. Once out of the tunnel, the wolf, mouth open in a pant, came to a level area covered with Astroturf. Here, he paused and considered before putting out a foot. Every step was like that, as the wolf worked its way across the twenty yards or so of this particular area. Suddenly a section of Astroturf leaped up as a trap snapped shut, narrowly missing the wolf ’s hind leg. The wolf yipped in consternation, frozen in place. It must have been agonizing, trying to restrain himself from dashing for the safety of the platform that was now only a few feet away.

I was shivering, though this contest had little to do with me. The tension was clearly showing among the Weres. They didn’t seem to be moving quite as humans did