By this time, Grimshaw was a full-blown werewolf. So much so that his shirt and jacket had burst open and his eyes had turned wild. His breathing was erratic and drool began gathering at his gum line.

I kept my gun on him. Any trust I had for him was blown to bits.

“I want,” Grimshaw growled, “you . . . to . . . kill me.”

“And then what? Baby-sit two hundred Nazi freak jobs? No-fucking-thank you. I got enough problems already!”

I could see the dilemma though. The house rested on top of the Hollywood Hills, home of the mudslide and the quickly spreading fire. The place was nothing but soft earth, dried brush, and ritzy homes. If we tried to burn or blow up the barrels, the risk of taking down half of Hollywood with them was a distinct possibility.

But it seemed Grimshaw was sticking to his plan: death by detective and let the poor fuck (the poor fuck being me) deal with the mess.

He started coming at me, teeth gnashing, his huge clawed hands poised to gut me. I was ready. He was close. I took careful aim and fired. The bullet ripped the tip of his pointy left ear and Grimshaw screamed. I removed my blackjack from my boot and smashed him over the head.

He hit the floor hard, but he was far from down for the count. I couldn’t take the chance he’d get up. I didn’t stand a chance against those claws in a closed space. I hammered down on him one more time with the blackjack and then jumped onto his back. He growled and squirmed, but I got him in a nasty-ass full nelson, and yanked back until his growls turned to yelps.

The werewolf tried to struggle, but I had him.

“Now listen to me, Grimshaw,” I said, “I want you to shift back to human.”

Grimshaw replied with a growl and a lame attempt to break the pin hold I had on him. I tightened my grip, lifted his head, and smashed him face-down into the pavement. I heard a crack and a single fang slid across the cold floor followed by a small geyser of blood.

“Shift,” I said lifting his head. “Back!” I completed as I hammered his snout into the floor.

He tightened up again, but he didn’t fight. Instead there was this feeling in my arms like a balloon deflating. Grimshaw was letting go. He was shifting back.

I waited until he was all human before I released him from my grip. I stood. Grimshaw stayed on his knees, holding his bleeding mouth.

“If you were losing control,” I said, “you would’ve lost it and torn me to shreds.”

Grimshaw nodded and stood holding his jaw. He had a bloody nose and mouth. I looked down and saw his monocle lying near my feet. I stooped and picked it up. I stayed down for a second, completely vulnerable, and nothing happened.