Whittaker’s eyes sparked just a little at the mention of Will’s name. Slowly, he looked over his own shoulder at the dingy living room. Jesse saw a bong and some lighters amidst the trash on the crappy old coffee table. Whittaker turned back to Jesse with a smirk. “Let’s go around back. The house isn’t real presentable.”
Jesse stepped back to let him pass, then followed Whittaker through the overgrown lawn to the back of the house, where an obviously stolen wooden picnic table stood next to a massive barbecue. Whittaker hopped effortlessly onto the picnic table, sitting on top with his feet on the bench. He took another long drink. “What brings you here, Detective? Noise complaint again? That Spanish mama down the street mad about me revving my bike?” His speech seemed to get more and more choppy, like a gang thug in a bad movie.
Jesse frowned. He was already sick of this guy. “Cut the ghetto bullshit, Whittaker,” Jesse said brusquely. “I looked you up. You have a PhD in astrophysics from Berkeley. Until recently you were a full professor at UC Santa Cruz. I don’t know what happened to you”—he glanced around the tattered backyard, the broken blacktop—“but you’re not fooling anyone with the act.”
Whittaker’s grin disappeared, and for a second something flashed across his face—real anger. His teeth bared, but then he got control back and glared at Jesse. “I took my three best grad students and a telescope to the desert. That’s what happened,” he hissed, the choppy speech pattern vanishing. He spread his arms wide. “And now this is my kingdom.”
Jesse contemplated the litter-strewn yard, the blistered house paint. “The kids survive?” he asked quietly. For the first time, Whittaker looked away from Jesse’s face. He took that as a no. “That where you got the scars?” Jesse said, nodding at the man’s arms.
Terrence shook his head. “Misspent youth.” He looked down at his naked biceps with a wry smile. “I studied in London for a year, took fencing. We thought it was more fun with real blades.”
Jesse shook his head a little. He may not have always been a werewolf, but Whittaker had been wild for a long time. “Why come here?” he asked, gesturing around the dingy yard. “They fire you?”
Whittaker jerked his head up in defiance. “Naw, man. But I couldn’t be around students anymore. Wasn’t safe for them. My grandma left me this place.” His fingers twitched emptily, and he dug into the back pocket of his blue jeans, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. After a second of hesitation, he held it out to Jesse, grudgingly. When Jesse shook his head, Whittaker shrugged and pulled out a lighter, tilting his head toward the duplex at the same time. “I own the whole building. Collect rent on the other half.” His fingers shook as he flicked the lighter open. Jesse had seen that kind of tremor many times.
“Scarlett thought you were pretty together at Will’s place the other night,” Jesse observed. “But I bet you’ve been drinking since you got up this morning. Smoking too.”
Whittaker smiled bitterly around the cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t speak until it was lit and he’d taken a long, desperate drag. “We’re two days closer to the full moon now. Only five out. For me it’s tied hard to the moon.” He held up the cigarette and looked at it speculatively. “Every little bit helps.”
“That why you change between full moons?’ Jesse asked offhandedly. “Does it help keep the magic under control?”
This time when Whittaker looked at him, his eyes were calculating. “Is that why you here, Detective Jesse Cruz? You Will’s new hall monitor?”
Jesse hadn’t mentioned his first name.
He must have reacted, because the werewolf laughed. “Oh, yeah, we know who you are. You’ve been running around town with that, that”—Whittaker’s eyes burned—“that pretty little atrocity. We keep tabs on her.”
“Will know you do that?”
Whittaker’s upper lip curled. It was nothing like a smile. “Will may be our alpha, but he doesn’t speak for all of us.”
“So you do change between moons,” Jesse stated, getting back on topic. Whittaker’s nostrils flared but he remained silent, not denying it. “You ever bite anybody,” Jesse asked casually. “Maybe leave ’em for dead?”
It happened so fast that Jesse thought for a moment that he’d been sucked into the ground. The werewolf’s speed was disorienting, and before he knew it Jesse had been tackled and Whittaker was on top of him, hands on Jesse’s throat, snarling.
“I would never,” he screamed, straight into Jesse’s face. Spittle flew. “I would die before I did this to anyone, you piece of shit, coming here like you know the first thing—”
His rant broke off suddenly as he felt the cold barrel of Jesse’s Glock press into his temple. Jesse hadn’t been able to get it out of the holster before he’d hit the ground, but he had it out now. “I can survive that,” he growled at Jesse.
The werewolf was pressing down on Jesse’s throat, but not quite hard enough to cut off all his air. “Silver . . . bullets . . .” Jesse wheezed.
Surprised, Whittaker sprang back, twisting a little in midair to land in a graceful crouch on the bench of the picnic table. Then he remembered where he was and glanced around. Jesse did too.
No one was watching. Nobody looked out of their windows in this neighborhood.
Jesse stood up warily, not bothering to brush the dead grass off his clothes. He kept his gun out, but pointed at the ground. “Someone . . . someone was attacked?” Whittaker said. His brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to add large numbers in his head. “She said . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”
“Who’s she?” Jesse asked.
Whittaker waved a hand. “I meant your girl, Bernard,” he said offhandedly. “She didn’t say anything about attacks when we met the other night.”
Jesse studied the other man. “You’re high up in the pack,” Jesse reminded him. “If you know something . . .”