Three days until the fight.Ethan's back had healed overnight. By morning, the claw marks from the alley were thin pink lines. By noon, they were gone.[Vitality bonus: Accelerated healing.]He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, turning to look at his shoulders, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold apartment. Humans didn't heal like this. Humans didn't get up after being kicked by seven werewolves.What am I turning into?His phone buzzed.St. Mary's: Mr. Cole, there's a visitor asking for your mother. He says he's from Hale Corporation's insurance department. Please call.Hale Corporation didn't have an insurance department.Ethan was out the door before he finished reading.***He heard the voices before he reached his mother's room. His senses picked them out through two closed doors and the noise of a busy cardiac ward."...a beautiful boy, I'm sure. Was there anything unusual about the birth, Mrs. Cole? Complications? Anything strange?"The man's voice was sm

The Pit had never been this full.Five hundred werewolves packed the old rail tunnel, standing on crates, hanging from the rusted support beams, pressed so tightly against the cage that the chain-link bowed inward. The air was hot and thick with sweat and beer and the electric smell of wolves on the edge of shifting. Someone had hung a banner from the ceiling, painted in red: REED vs. THE HUMAN.Betting slips fluttered everywhere. The odds on the board read DEREK REED 1:8. ETHAN COLE 15:1."Fifteen to one," Toby muttered, peering through the curtain of the fighters' corner. "That's an insult. Last week you were sixty to one. Now they only think you're mostly going to die.""That's progress," Ethan said.He sat on an upturned bucket, wrapping his hands. Harlan stood beside him, leaning on his cane, silent. The old man had said almost nothing all evening. He had only gripped Ethan's shoulder once, hard, and whispered three words.Wait for three.Ethan didn't know exactly what it meant.

The uniform still smelled like his father.Ethan found it in the back of the estate's uniform closet on Monday morning, hanging in a plastic bag with a faded name tag pinned to the chest: D. COLE. Black jacket. Black trousers. White shirt, yellowed slightly at the collar. Mr. Graves had told him to wear it. "It's the driver's uniform. It's the only one in your size."It fit perfectly.He stood in front of the narrow mirror in the staff changing room for a long moment, looking at himself in his dead father's clothes.Daniel Cole had worn this jacket every day for eight years. He had driven Victoria Hale to board meetings and charity galas and late-night meetings at the docks. He had come home tired and smiling, and he had never once talked about his work.Then one winter night, six years ago, his car had gone off an icy road on the way back from the docks. The police had called it an accident. Mrs. Hale had paid for the funeral. Everyone had said how generous that was.Ethan straighten