Foliage rustled as he stepped out of the bushes, tail swishing slowly, head high, ears pricked and on alert. I studied him, memorizing his form for possible identification later—one of the first things I’d learned as an enforcer. I inhaled, learning his scent, too, which told me without a doubt that he was male. And that he had not infected the stray I’d killed with the meat mallet. But just because he hadn’t scratched that stray didn’t mean he hadn’t infected another. Or done something worse.

He carried no stench of disease or infection, and he walked without a limp, both of which indicated good health. He looked young—I was guessing early thirties—and was smaller than Marc. Unfortunately, for werecats, size wasn’t the only determining factor for danger; I was proof enough of that.

But the bottom line was that he was a stray tom, and I was a tabby. He was drawn to me by curiosity, and by an instinct he hadn’t been born with and probably didn’t yet understand. To walk away unscathed, I’d have to satisfy his interest and keep him calm until Marc and Jace arrived.

“Good kitty, kitty,” I murmured, unwilling to release the blade on my knife until or unless he looked openly hostile. Wielding my weapon too soon would almost surely provoke that hostility.

Marc, where the hell are you?

The stray took another step toward me, his ears folded back, tail held low and stiff. He was still more curious than aggressive, which was no big surprise. I was typically the first tabby most strays had ever seen, and they generally had no idea there was anything to fear from me until it was too late. Of course, I was usually in cat form too, and I was never unaccompanied…

Okay, there has to be some kind of protocol for this. Still eyeing the cat, I searched my memory, running through everything I’d learned since becoming an enforcer. What did the guys do when they were stuck in human form, barely armed, facing a stray with full use of his claws and canines?

The answer did nothing to reassure me: They fought, or they died.

Fighting was a last resort, and dying wasn’t an option. So, what are you good at?

Talking. According to Marc, I could talk the color off a crayon. Of course, that usually got me into trouble, rather than out of it. But it was worth a shot.

I got as far as, “Hi,” then I was stuck. I couldn’t decide between, “What’s your sign?” and “Please don’t eat me.”