Any other morning, he would have snorted at that, moved on, passed Jude the front page of the paper. Any other morning. But this morning, today, the front page was on a werewolf run rampant. So Kieran shrugged, and could not quite look at Jude, but was rather studying the tea kettle. Practically speaking, he had a good record: four years, and four people knew, and he'd turned one. (Unless there had been other casualties of the night with Topaz Urquart, but - that was best not thought about.) The destruction of the British magical government was also... best not discussed.
Ciaran Byrne's record could have been good, too. The paper said nothing about years, or number of full moons, or what he did normally.
"Anyone figures it out - you go to prison, too," Kieran said, shaky, because it was true. And the thing was: he worked with reporters. He worked with crime reporters, and one day someone might notice that Kieran was never the reporter on call during full moons, might get twitchy. Or - or he could slip up, again, and kill someone, this time.
Ciaran Byrne's record could have been good, too. The paper said nothing about years, or number of full moons, or what he did normally.
"Anyone figures it out - you go to prison, too," Kieran said, shaky, because it was true. And the thing was: he worked with reporters. He worked with crime reporters, and one day someone might notice that Kieran was never the reporter on call during full moons, might get twitchy. Or - or he could slip up, again, and kill someone, this time.