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he’s gone dark. One of the pack went up there just a month ago to do some hunting. Never came back. We sent the West Coast warden over there to find him, and to check in with Borland. Borland killed him just today. Thirty minutes ago, in fact. We called and he answered the warden’s phone. Imagine our surprise. Freely admitted to killing both the hunter and the warden. Actually said he was declaring war. We don’t know why, except that he’s one of the oldest. Probably the oldest of us all out east. Might have gone crazy.”
    “Crazy?”
    “We believe he’s gone crazy. Dementia. Alzheimer’s.”
    That slap of cold information made Kirk balk. He sat up, sober in the eye of the storm. “You’re kidding. We… we can go crazy ?”
    “Blame it on something in the water, the food, the hole in the ozone layer, whatever. It happens. Rarely, but it happens. And it’s happened on the Rock. Easiest explanation. Regardless, we can’t have him running wild over there. There are people over there. You understand?”
    “Yeah.” Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”
    “We’re sending you over there with Morris.”
    Well, shit. And that chill rushed up his spine again, like fingers swishing piano keys in a violent flourish. He knew better than to say anything, but he did anyway. “Why two of us?”
    “Borland’s already killed two, including a warden from the West Coast. He’s dangerous.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Old,” the voice stressed. “Never mind exactly how old. You just keep in mind he’s murdered two who were much, much younger than him. He put them down and laughed about it. Laughed right in my ear. He might be old, but he’s dangerous . You heed that, and you kill him.”
    Christ , Kirk thought. Right into the fire. “When do I go?”
    “As soon as we’re done here. And Kirk…”
    “Yeah?”
    “Make no mistake. You’re going over there to hunt down and bleed an old fuck dead. Don’t you care one goddamn about how old he is. Or what’s he’s done. He gets no respect. And don’t dare show any mercy. The lines have been drawn on this one. Understand?”
    With the phone to his ear, Kirk nodded. “Yeah.”

6
    Not one for dawdling, Borland gripped Blackbeard by his ankle and pulled him towards the door, smearing the dark elegance of the blood pooled on the floor. Borland retracted his fangs and claws, felt his wereblood ebbing, but he figured he’d have just enough strength to get the body out back. It took energy to force the change and to maintain it. The speed of the change, essentially channeling it where it mattered the most, was his secret weapon. Ordinarily a young wolf had no control over the transformation, like a human baby having no control over its bowel movements. When the moon was full, the Were changed, regardless of when or where. He changed. But as time went on, the change could be controlled, even delayed a bit on the nights when the moon blazed, and initiated even on nights when there was no moon. A complete change still took time, at most three minutes if one let himself go. Three minutes, Borland had learned long ago, was a long time if one were rushed or pressed. It could mean the difference between life and death. He realized one didn’t really need to go full wolf if their life was at risk, and over time, he learned to morph his body in the places where needed, when needed. Claws. Fangs. Strength and speed. The final form of the wolf was the purest, the pinnacle of the gift, and nothing felt finer than running through a forest at midnight, with the path lit up by the moon. Nothing could compare to the natural high of being in that state. Borland dreaded never being able to feel that rush again, even after dying. But the half form, the ‘quick draw’ of the change which he could unleash in a very shocking second, was his secret weapon.
    In an honorable world, a sane world, two Weres would fight after their change. In Borland’s, his fight started with a