I spun but only got a view of his back a split second before he closed the bedroom door. He’d want privacy for his Change and that wasn’t vanity. I’m curious about many things, but witnessing the human-to-wolf transformation isn’t one of them.

“I’m going to try picking up visions,” I said. “So try to keep the screams of agony to a minimum, okay?”

A muttered epithet. I grinned and walked to the sofa.

HOPE THE SCENT OF TROUBLE

HOPE

THE SCENT OF TROUBLE

While Karl Changed, I worked on summoning chaos visions. To automatically detect chaos, it has to be strong—either very recent or very chaotic. To find more, I need to pop up my antenna by concentrating. The problem is that then I get too many signals, all competing for air time in my brain.

I caught flashes—a raised hand, an angry shout, a muffled plea—with no context to place it in. Having Karl Changing in the next room didn’t help. There was no chaos from it—pain doesn’t count unless it’s accompanied by an emotion, and Karl was beyond that. Still, I knew he was undergoing something agonizing, to help me, so I couldn’t stop feeling twinges of guilt.

Finally there came the noise I’d been waiting for, the bump-bump of Karl moving around the bedroom, sniffing. After a moment, silence. Then a grunt of canine frustration.

I walked to the bedroom door…and laughed.

“Problem, Karl?”

A black nose appeared at the narrow opening of the almost-shut door. He tried wedging his muzzle into it to fling it open, but couldn’t get leverage. Another grunt, annoyed now. The nose withdrew. I could picture him sitting on his haunches, out of my sight, pondering the predicament.

“If you scratch at the door, someone will probably let you out.”

A huff.

I pushed open the door. Karl was sitting exactly as I’d pictured him. He fixed me with a look, then stalked out.

Before I met Karl, I’d wondered what a changed werewolf looked like. Not an all-consuming topic of curiosity, but I had wondered. I’d heard stories, but no eyewitness accounts. I had my curiosity satisfied that first night.

Admittedly, having little experience with wolves, I’d thought he looked like a big dark-haired dog. Later, I’d found a picture of a black wolf with snow on its muzzle, giving the photographer an imperious “I most certainly was not playing in the snow” glower. The wolf—and its expression—reminded me so much of Karl that the picture now hung in my home office. He hated it. Threatened to abscond with it every time he visited, but of course, he never did.

Karl worked his way around the apartment with his nose to the floor. Not wanting to hover, I went into the living room, sat cross-legged on the floor and concentrated.