He was male, muscular, stripped to the waist to reveal that he was covered in short russet fur. His hair was black and cut long and shaggy. His nose was all wrong, as black and glossy as a healthy cat’s. As he bounded up the stairs toward me his mouth opened too wide to reveal sharp white teeth and a lolling pink tongue. None of this registered until he was almost on top of me and I didn’t have time to do anything but scramble back and lash out with my foot.

Doc Martens, patented acid-resistant-soled, reinforced leather shoes, as recommended by police officers and skinheads everywhere—when you absolutely, positively have to kick someone down the stairs.

Predictably Tiger-Boy landed like a cat, twisting his spine as he dropped to fall into a crouch on the landing below.

“Get up on the roof,” I shouted through the door.

Tiger-Boy took a moment to shake his head and give me a big feline grin. His eyes were quite beautiful, amber-colored, slotted like a cat’s, and obviously adapted for hunting at night.

I heard the door open and Peggy and Simone dragging a still-whimpering Cherie out of the room and onto the stairs up to the roof. I didn’t dare take my eyes off Tiger-Boy; he was just waiting for me to lose concentration.

“Who the hell is that?” asked Simone.

“Nobody you want to know,” I said.

Tiger-Boy hissed. I saw his tail twitch and found myself wondering whether he’d cut a hole in the back of his Y-fronts to let it out.

“Little mousy,” lisped the Tiger-Boy. “Why don’t you jump about? It’s more fun when you jump about.”

The pop-in light switch popped out, it went dark, and Tiger-Boy leapt toward me.

I put a werelight in his face.

I’d been practicing and had managed to produce one that burned as brightly as a magnesium flare. I’d closed my eyes and it still lit up the inside of my eyelids, so it must have hit Tiger-Boy right in his specially low-light-adapted eyes.

He howled, I jumped and this time managed to get both size elevens in contact with his body. He probably outweighed me but Isaac Newton was on my side and we went down the stairs together, only he was hitting all the steps and I was surfing down on him. At least that was the theory.

We hit the landing harder and faster than I expected. I heard a snap under my feet and there was stabbing pain in my left knee. I yelled and he yowled.

“You’re right,” I said. “It is more fun when you jump about.”