Matt traipsed into the house with the details. Normally the attorney-client privilege thing would have clamped his mouth shut. But in a case like this, Pack By-laws superseded human laws.

As I had guessed, the pack got an anonymous tip that a couple of rogue werewolves had moved into the area. One posed as a lawyer to con people out of money, and the other worked as a computer hacker who liked breaking into people's bank accounts and stealing their life savings. With reputations like that, we would've raised an eye or two and had a stack of warrants out for our arrest. After staking a claim on a territory, the last thing any pack wants is a hooligan coming in and starting trouble. So, the Georgia Pack acted on the tip and investigated my husband.

Bottom line: the Georgia Pack needed help ... and fast. One of their brothers got slapped with a DUI charge even though he had passed the breathalyzer and the hand-eye coordination tests. While one cop administered the tests, a second one did a surface sweep of the car's interior and found an extinguished marijuana butt in the ashtray. To sum it up, their DUI brother was facing 30 days behind bars if convicted. Because werewolves change every couple of days, being locked away for more than a week would break his mind. One uncontrolled change ... and our race would be front page news.

Had they wanted Matt for anything less, they would have settled for rousting us out of town. To make matters worse, even Matt getting the charges dropped didn't guarantee our safety. Our butts were cooked regardless of the outcome.

Days had passed, and not a word from Stephan Carlisle, Matt's contact in the Georgia Pack. A magnetic talking toilet held Carlisle's oatmeal-colored business card on the side of the refrigerator, covering most of the gold and black lettering and half of the ivy trim. For some bizarre reason, my husband thought a toilet that sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” made perfect sense stuck on a refrigerator. Go figure.

Every time I entered the kitchen, that business card caught my eye and flooded me with anxiety—not that I would tell Matt. We postulated, argued, and slept on the idea, agonizing and waiting for another intrusion into our lives.

It never came.

No matter. Each night we double-checked the bolts on the front and back doors and made sure the alarm system remained activated whether we were in the house or not. When we walked passed windows, we peeked through curtains and blinds. After everything we had gone through, we had a right to be paranoid. With the backyard being our most vulnerable spot, Matt walked it every night before going to bed. When he changed, he ventured to the edge of the woods behind our home, far less than his usual thirty acre roam. Though we rented the house, this was our territory and ours to protect. We didn't want to own any expansive amounts of property. We wanted the same things most people did. Stability above all. So we stuck to our normal routine and assured ourselves that everything would be okay.

Although we changed our mini vacation into a full-blown week and stayed home, it didn't stop us from tending to other matters. One of them being, I promised our neighbor, Kristen Stancil, that I'd go Halloween shopping with her to help decorate the community center.

Kristen was the epitome of a happy homemaker. She had two kids, ages seven and five, and her whole world revolved around them, making sure they had the best that money could buy. With bouncy blond curls, green eyes, and a figure that most likely paid for her plastic surgeon's Hummer, she loved turning heads but liked the one that belonged to her college-age landscaper the most. Matt and I joked about how her strawberry blond kids were a complete divergence from her dark hair, dark eyed husband. Not that I'd point any fingers, but with Kristen anything was possible. Only she would marry a nerd who went by the name Stan Stancil.

"You know, Alexa,” she said, stepping out of her Toyota Avalon, “you should think about quitting your job if you guys are planning to have kids. That way you'd have more time to devote to the children and the house. It's not like you guys need the money, with Matty being a lawyer and all. That's almost as good as my Stan being a cardiac surgeon, right?"

I rolled my eyes. Minuscule pebbles ground under my heels as I stepped onto the second level parking garage. “I like my job.” Sort of.

Kristen leaned across the top of the white car, twirling her keys on one finger. “But you're going to be the real estate agent, right? Why not put your heart and soul into that? Besides, that's like being your own boss. You make you own hours, see who you want to see."

"Because I believe in having a fallback in case things don't go as planned. Anyway, I telecommute. I get to sit around in pajamas all day and make a sweet bank roll on the side."

"Bank roll?"

I rolled my eyes. Every now and then, what little urban slang I have sometimes seeps out and leaves the middle-class neighbors scratching their heads. Thank goodness they didn't know I grew up in the projects or that could open a door to some real stupidity on their part.

Kristen shrugged. “I guess you're right. But I'm telling you you're going love being a mother. Sure, it gets a little crazy at times, but if you shed enough tears and pluck his guilt strings about not spending time with his kids, your job gets ten times easier. Just like that."

If I rolled my eyes any more at this chic, they'd get stuck at the top of my skull.

Had Kristen not been the grapevine queen, I would have chosen my friends more wisely. Still, we couldn't refute her knack for nosiness.

Without warning, her eyes went wide, staring over my shoulder.

Great.

Scuffling footfalls said it was too late to turn and defend myself. My personal space sensors crept up the back of my neck as the intruder made his approach. When the footsteps halted, the assailant slammed me against the car, covering my entire body with his putrid, sweaty one.

Kristen shrieked. Tears blurred the fear in her bulging eyes. She clutched her fists up to her mouth, sniffling and whimpering. Just what I needed, a woman who lacked a backbone. That's what I get for hanging around with a housewife who's been rumored to fluff more than her husband's pillow.

"Move, cunt, and you're as good as dead,” our assailant seethed. “The same goes for you, rich bitch. I want the purses and the keys. Now!"

Bullies ... I can't stand them.

I rammed my three inch heel on his foot, grinding until something popped underneath the top of his sneaker. His little-girl cry yelped throughout the empty garage. Sinking my elbow into my would-be mugger's ribs sent him staggering backwards. He met my eyes, fury steaming through the black ski mask. He held onto his bruised, if not broken, ribs, seething through clenched teeth.

Was that supposed to be intimidating? I've handled monsters that left me quaking in my shoes. With this guy, I had to stifle my laughter.

I slugged him with a right upper cut. He stumbled backwards, landing hard on the pavement. Not letting up, I took his denim collar in my fist and lifted him off the ground until his legs dangled. His eyes grew as large as half dollars.

"Life is full of surprises,” I said in a low voice, smiling daggers. “Here's another one for you."

I threw him over the hood of a nearby car. He rolled to the other side and flopped onto the ground. As I skirted the front bumper, thoughts of more damage crossed my mind. My would-be mugger got to his feet, swinging his fist. My spine bowed backwards, curving my upper body out of his line of fire.

A challenge. Now we were getting somewhere.

Assuming my kickboxing stance, I locked my glare on his. He swung a left hook, but my right arm blocked him. I delivered a proper left hook across his jaw. I followed up with a jump kick to the chest and a roundhouse kick to his cheek. My heel caught the mask, tearing a hole from the material and taking a slice of skin along with it. My assailant fell against another car. I clocked him with a right uppercut that lifted him up in the air and crashed him down on the front windshield. Cracked glass webbed under his weight.

Footsteps scrambled in my direction. Two mall security guards headed straight for us, shouting for the mugger to stop.

The bonehead regained his senses quick enough to roll off the hood and lope in the opposite direction.

A smile lifted my lips. Punk.

Turning, I went back to the car to collect my purse. The moment I leaned over to pick it up off the ground, the heel of my favorite pair of shoes snapped, pitching me forward. Of all the lousy luck.

That damn mugger. He'd better hope we never cross paths again. Unfortunately, if he worked for the Georgia Pack, then this attack wouldn't be the last.