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stabbed, Mike looked up with wide eyes to see me pounding down the sidewalk towards him. Giving up on pulling the knife free, he sprang up and ran after his friend who had already made it halfway down the block. There may be honor among thieves, but there didn’t appear to be any among whack-jobs.
    “Oh no you don’t,” I muttered, dropping the file folder near my Jeep and giving chase.
    It was easy enough to catch up to the straggler, the wolf lending speed and power to my pumping legs. Landing a hand on his shoulder, I pulled him to a lurching stop, my grip on his shirt the only thing keeping him from ending up in a tangled heap on the sidewalk.
    “Get your filthy werewolf hands off me!” he shouted as I whirled him around to face me. He looked a year or two older than his friend, close shorn, dark hair and bright blue eyes making him look like any one of a hundred college kids.
    Christ, are they recruiting these guys in daycare now? I thought, my surprise at him being so young almost making me loosen my hold on him.
    “Let me go of me, you bitch!” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips.
    The rain of spit peppering my shirt instantly dispelled my surprise, bringing my anger roaring back to life.
    “What the hell were you doing to my car?” I asked, tightening my grip on his shirt.
    Rather than answering, he tried to pull away, and discovering that he couldn’t budge, resorted to spitting in my face with a shocking degree of accuracy. I jumped at the wad of phlegm hitting me in the eyes, blinding me for a moment.
    That’s disgusting!
    I was reaching to wipe the spit from my face when my spidey-senses tingled, every muscle in my body coiling tight like a spring. Opening my eyes, I felt a cold sweat break out over every inch of my skin. Mike had produced another knife that he was now waving mere inches from the tip of my nose. Releasing my grip on him as if his shirt had caught fire under my fingertips, I lurched back out of his reach. Sharp, pointy things are generally bad, and I knew that the Humans for Humanity crowd were known for toting silver.
    Something in the gift, curse, virus—whatever you want to call it—that gives life to the beast living inside all weres also makes us susceptible to silver in a horrifically violent way. We can heal damn near anything short of beheading or full amputation, and even then I’d heard of rare cases where a were was able to regenerate a severed limb. Injuries inflicted with silver, however, are another matter entirely. The mere contact of silver against the skin is like a severe allergic reaction, with prolonged exposure leading to blistering, burns, and scarring. A wound made by silver will leave an ugly scar and oftentimes continue to plague the victim with pain for the rest of their days.
    Silver is not something we weres tend to fool around with.
    It had been an unhappy day when I’d had to don a pair of heavy duty work gloves and pull every piece of silver out of my jewelry box shortly after Samson had attacked me. As thanks, I’d emptied a full magazine of silver bullets into his face eight years later. It was one of the best damn things I’ve ever done.
    Wind milling my arms, I reared back a pace or two, and regarded the asshat glaring at me. Settling into a ready stance he’d probably seen in some crappy Kung-Fu movie, he waved the knife at me again. Beyond his shoulder his friend disappeared around the corner at the end of the block.
    Giving the air a sniff, I almost sighed in relief when I couldn’t detect any traces of the familiar oily stink of silver. The lack of silver didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, but I was bolstered by my certainty that he didn’t have anything that could cause any permanent damage unless he landed an incredibly lucky blow.
    “Stay back wolf!” he said, brandishing the knife as he took several shuffling steps backwards.
    “Hey man, I just want to know why you trashed my Jeep,” I said, raising my hands. “I didn’t do