Fair Game

Charles held two of the awkward drink carriers and strode through the crowded hotel lobby. In his hurry, it didn't dawn on him that there was anything unusual about the way his path cleared, or the empty elevator that took him to the third floor where their meeting with the feds was to take place. Not until the man waiting for the elevator when it opened on the third floor backed up three paces and, keeping a wary eye on Charles, broke for the stairs, did it strike him that people's reactions had been a little unusual.



He was a big man and Indian. (He'd been Indian for more than a century and only occasionally thought of himself as Native American. When he paid any attention at all, he might consider himself half-breed Salish or Flathead.) The combination of size and ethnicity usually had people avoiding him, especially in places where Indians weren't as commonplace. Not their fault; it was in the nature of man to find the unknown intimidating, especially when it came in the shape of a big predator. His da dismissed it, but Charles was pretty sure that somewhere in their hindbrain most people knew a predator when they met one.



His brother maintained that what sent people backing away was neither his size nor his mother's blood, but solely the expression on his face. To test Samuel's theory, Charles had tried smiling - and then solemnly reported to Samuel that he had been mistaken. When Charles smiled, he told Samuel, people just ran faster.



The only one who appreciated his sense of humor was Anna.



People didn't retreat from him when Anna was beside him. But even without Anna's presence, having a person he wasn't even looking at backing away from him as if he held a loaded gun instead of a bunch of espressos and lattes in a pair of flimsy cardboard drink carriers was a little excessive. He stepped out of the elevator and moved slowly so the man didn't think he was giving chase.



Brother Wolf thought it might be fun and sent him a picture of the man running terror-stricken through the lobby as Charles loped behind him - still carrying the silly drinks. Because Anna had specified hot drinks for all, and he would never welsh on a bet.



So he walked with deliberate slowness down the hall instead of chasing, instead of rending and tearing sweet, metallic, blood-drenched meat between his teeth, just as he'd taken the elevator instead of running up the narrow stairs where someone might bump into him and spill the drinks.



Da had been crazy to send him on such a mission when he was so close to losing it that even a clueless human could tell there was something wrong with him. Charles had known there was something up when he'd arrived for lunch as requested and it had been only his father who awaited him, cooking BLTs in the big house's kitchen.



Da had eaten his own lunch and waited until Charles had finished his before leading the way to the study. His father shut the door, sat behind his desk, and pursed his lips, giving Charles his "I have a job for you and you aren't going to be happy with me" look. Father-son meals often included that expression on his father's face. When Da wanted to talk to him alone, it was seldom a happy talk.



Charles waited, standing, to hear what his father had to say. His wolf was agitated, unhappy - and that meant he could not sit on the chair provided and hinder his ability to move.



"Asil has been nagging at me about you," Da said.



"Asil?" Asil didn't particularly like him - and Charles hadn't so much as seen Asil for a couple of weeks. Which, come to think on it, was a little odd in a town so small someone might sneeze twice and never notice they'd driven all the way through it.



"Anna, of course, goes without saying," Da continued.



Charles braced himself. She knew why someone had to keep order; she knew why it had to be him - she just thought he was more important. Anna was wrong, but it warmed him that she thought so. If her opinion had made his father decide to send someone else, though, it was something that had to be dealt with. Charles, as the Marrok's son and longtime troubleshooter, was the only option for keeping the violence down to unnoticeable-by-the-public standards. His reputation - and who his father was - kept the packs from going to war to protect their own when someone needed to die.



"I know what she had to say. But Anna is wrong. Brother Wolf is not ready to break loose."



"No," agreed his father softly. "But your grandfather would tell you that you need to cleanse yourself of all those ghosts you carry with you."



Charles flinched. He should have known that his da would understand what was happening to him. Da wasn't a spiritual man, not that Charles could tell, anyway. He was pretty sure that his father couldn't see the ghosts the way that his grandfather would have. But his da had a way of seeing right to the heart of things when he wanted to.



"I have tried," Charles said, feeling about thirteen. "Fasting and sweat lodge haven't worked. Running. Swimming."



"You hold on to them because you do not feel that their deaths were just."



Charles turned his head away slightly and angled his eyes down but not so far that he couldn't see Da's face. "It is not for me to determine the law, only to carry it out."



Da frowned at him, not like he was displeased, just thoughtful. "I had a talk with Adam Hauptman."



Charles raised his eyebrows and found a dry voice to say, "Adam is worried about me, too?"



"Adam is worried about his mate, who is injured, cranky, and obstreperous," replied his father. "So he's not available to take on a rather tricky situation."



Charles didn't follow where this conversation was going, so he adopted silence as a strategy. Da liked to hear himself talk anyway.



The old lobo sighed, stretched, and put his feet up on his desk - a sign that Charles was talking to his father and not just the Marrok. "I've been racking my brain - not to mention Asil's brain - with how to make your job easier."



He spoke as if Adam's situation had some bearing on Charles's, though he couldn't see how. "You have."



His father frowned at him. "No. It's becoming painfully obvious that nothing I've done has helped you."



Bran didn't say what it was for a few moments, just studied Charles's face as if it were not the face he'd worn every day since he became an adult nearly two centuries before.



"I cannot send anyone else to enforce the rules - but I am, as of this moment, relaxing the penalties for many transgressions in the hope that it will allow the Alpha wolves to need less...help enforcing them." He held up a hand and Charles bit back his protests. "You are the only one I can send out, yes. But if you falter, there will be no one but me - and I do not trust myself. So it is necessary that you not break. Anyone who has been Changed less than five years gets one warning. Asil is as frightening as you - and he also is not an Alpha right now. He has volunteered to go out and scare the bejeebers out of young idiots who break the rules the first time."



Charles knew it was wrong. His father had weighed and assessed the needs for the wolves' survival and had made the necessary changes in the laws of the packs. But it wasn't shame, but rather relief, that made him drop his eyes.



"I have failed you," he said.



"No, son," said Da. "I nearly failed you. You are, as Asil has reminded me, one of my pack and I am responsible for your well-being." His tone turned wry.



"Asil has appointed himself my guardian?" asked Charles softly. Asil was overstepping himself.



"He was bored, he told me," said his father. He gave Charles a small smile. "I have given him a job so he doesn't get bored again."



Da rocked back in his chair and studied the ceiling as if it were interesting for a moment, before turning his yellow eyes back to Charles. "Asil scaring the britches off our young wolves won't be enough. I...We will still need you to kill. However, Adam thought that maybe doing other things, too, might...dilute the effect. Maybe if every trip you take isn't to go kill some more old friends and acquaintances - " Charles hid a wince, or tried to. "Maybe it will help. So. I have a call from some of my contacts in the government that they need to consult with one of us about a possible serial killer."



His father saw his face and smiled without humor. "Not one of us. One of the killers they've been tracking awhile seems to have changed his victim of choice. At least three of his kills in Boston have been werewolves."



"Three? And we didn't know?"



"I knew three had died," said Da. "From three different packs, but someone did not see fit to tell me that they were probably connected. I'll deal with that part."



Some heads would roll - probably not literally. "There is only one pack in Boston." It wasn't quite a question, but Da should have started asking questions if three wolves from the same pack had died in a short period of time.



"One tourist from a Vermont pack and another from Seattle. Only one from the Boston pack. The FBI is interested in anything we can add to the investigation."



"You're sending me?" People instinctively wanted to please Adam. Charles was better at the destroy-and-subdue, not so good at the coax-and-charm.



"No," said his da. "That would be dumb. I'm sending Anna. You are going as her guard. I've sent the particulars of what I know to your e-mail and to hers."



AND THUS CHARLES found himself wandering around a hotel, trailing a pair of federal agents as he held a cardboard coffee cup holder in each hand, instead of out killing misbehaving werewolves. He knew they were federal agents because only men who were partners moved that closely together. Body language said they weren't in a relationship, so that meant military, feds, or cops. Since they were headed the same direction he was, Charles surmised that he'd happened upon two of the feds they were supposed to meet with.



The thought came to him suddenly that he was enjoying himself, stalking feds through the halls of the old elegant hotel, especially because they had no inkling that he was doing it. It amused him.



If he hadn't lost the bet to Anna, he'd never have gotten the chance. Who'd have thought that the security people at SeaTac would be so worried about him that they'd miss Anna smuggling a bottle of water through the checkpoint? His bet should have been a safe one - and the worst that would happen to Anna was that they would throw out her water bottle.



It was his fault he'd lost the bet.



Maybe Samuel was on to something when he'd told Charles that his expression put people off, because one of the hotel workers who'd been giving him a worried look suddenly relaxed and gave him a cheery grin.



He could have beaten Anna. He hadn't needed to let out a subvocal growl at exactly the right moment to distract everyone when Anna threw the plastic bottle over the scanners and onto someone else's pack on the other side of the machines. No one heard him, not really, just felt the hairs on the backs of their necks crawl while Brother Wolf laughed at their mate's audacity.



Not only had Anna made it through unscathed; she'd distracted him while they patted her down and ran her through the scanners. Which had probably been her intent in the first place. Smart woman, his Anna - but she hadn't let him off from paying up on the bet.



When the TSA finally let him through security - because being scary wasn't really enough to keep him off an airplane - Anna had been waiting for him comfortably curled up on one of the little benches where people sat to put on their shoes. She'd raised her blue food-colored water in a triumphant toast and then drank it down to the last drop. It had been Anna's idea, not his, to dye the water so she couldn't just play sleight of hand - she would never cheat on a bet with him.



Watching her throat as she downed the liquid was a strangely erotic thing - erotic and magical, something that couldn't exist in the same universe as the deaths that haunted him. So the ghosts retreated, not a permanent thing, but it was more freedom than he'd had for a while, and it was good.



Charles didn't mind losing to his mate, though leaving Anna alone to deal with the feds while he fetched for her didn't make his wolf happy. But he knew that Anna could charm the birds out of the trees, and a few feds who needed their help weren't going to give her any trouble. No one was going to try to hurt her. Not yet, not before they involved themselves in the FBI's hunt.



Da thought it would be good for Charles to hunt something other than a werewolf, something truly evil. He hoped that his father was right - and empirical evidence tended to support his hope, as his da was frequently correct.



So Charles followed the pair of feds down the hallway to the room where they were meeting his mate and a small group of others. These weren't FBI field agents, he decided, because neither of them noticed him, even though he wasn't making any particular effort to avoid detection. Homeland Security and Cantrip tended to have more chair sitters than the FBI did. They were speaking quietly enough that it would have taken a werewolf's ears to hear them. Unabashedly, he listened in.



"Are you sure this is safe?" asked the blond man of the federal pair nervously. He looked fresh out of college, not yet twenty-five. "I mean, werewolves, Pat. Plural."



"They're cooperating with us," said Pat, the older man. Charles pinned his accent as New England native softened a little by a stint somewhere in the South. He was in his early forties and walked like someone who'd done a lot of it. "They'll behave themselves because they have to."



"You don't think they'll be mad because I tagged along? It was supposed to be just you. Five people. Two FBI, two Homeland Security, and one of us."



They must be Cantrip, then, thought Charles. According to Da, there should have been two of them and one Homeland Security. Someone had been flexing their muscles. Several someones. Brother Wolf decided that Charles was feeling too relaxed to teach them to mind their manners better.



"Easier to ask forgiveness than permission," said Pat as he opened the door to the room that they were meeting in. "Isn't that right, Leslie?"



"One of you can leave," said a woman's voice coldly. "Just because you aren't in the FBI anymore, Pat, shouldn't mean you forgot how to count. Five. It's easy. You can cheat and count your fingers if you have to."



"Ha-ha," said Pat, pulling the door shut behind him. Charles stopped to listen before going in. "Bet you that no one really cares. When is the werewolf showing up? I thought the memo said eight straight up."



"Six people is fine," said Anna, and Brother Wolf relaxed further at the amusement in his mate's voice. "Five was just to keep the numbers down."



He'd known she was safe. She was a werewolf, and if the training he'd been giving her didn't make her safe in a room full of humans, he'd been doing it wrong. But still, Brother Wolf was happier listening to the relaxed tones of her voice.



Charles looked at the door and realized that it would be tough to open with both hands full. He might have managed it, but there was another way.



He knew better, knew that the ghosts weren't gone. But the temptation was too great. It had been so long since he'd touched her, and Brother Wolf was so hungry. Almost as hungry as he was.



So he opened the bonds that tied wolf to mate and said, as mildly as he could manage, Open the door, please - and someone is going to have to drink hotel coffee since I only brought enough for five federal agents.



The door snapped open and she looked up at him, her face entirely serious and her eyes bright with tears.



You talked to me. But more than words traveled along their bond from her side; she was always generous in sharing her feelings with him. She gave him a rush of relief that almost hid the deep-seated sorrow and pain of abandonment. He'd done that to her; he'd known he was doing it - and still knew that it was the lesser of two evils. He had to protect her from what was happening to him. Knowing he was right didn't mean he wasn't torn, that he didn't regret hurting her.



"I don't mind hotel coffee," she said aloud, her voice a little foggy.



He was afraid that he was going to hurt her much worse before this was all over.



Charles bent his head down and touched his nose to hers, closing his eyes to hide the effect of the knowledge of what he'd been doing to her - and the effect of feeling her, skin on skin, once more. Brother Wolf wanted to drag her away from all of these strangers and find the nearest empty room so he could wrap himself around her and never let go. Charles wanted to say, "I'm sorry for hurting you," but that implied that he would do something differently if he had to do it again. He would never allow the ugliness of his life to stain her, not if he could help it.



So he said something stupid instead. "My wife is drinking the cocoa I brought her." He looked past her and into the room. Except for the two men he'd followed, everyone was sitting down around the table. It must have been her suggestion, because all of them looked tense and uncomfortable. Being seated when someone else is standing can be a position of power - a way of saying, "I am so confident that I can take you that I won't bother getting up." But when a monster comes into the room, everyone wants to be on their feet. Charles was a big monster.



Proof that Anna had been smart to do it, though, was the level of his irritation with the two men still standing behind Anna.



He met the younger Cantrip agent's eyes. The human dropped his gaze and stepped back involuntarily, pleasing Brother Wolf. Charles smiled at the agent with his teeth. "You invited yourself where you weren't asked. You can drink hotel coffee."



And now they'd think he really was stupid, because most humans wouldn't understand that he'd needed to establish who was in charge so that Brother Wolf would know that Anna was safe. Giving an order that they would obey had established the pecking order. It was okay they would think him stupid, he decided. He and Anna could engage in a little smart cop, dumb cop if they needed to. And playing with the federal agents was so much easier than trying to deal with what he was doing to Anna.



She should have picked someone else. Asil. Someone. But the thought of Anna with someone else sent Brother Wolf into a fit of jealous rage.



There is no one for me except you. Anna's quick response reminded him that he'd chosen to leave the bond between them open. He didn't know how much she was picking up, but it was more than time to control himself.



Charles moved past Anna and set the carriers down on the table. Pulling out the single non-coffee for Anna, he handed it to her as he watched everyone sit perfectly still and drop their eyes except for the Cantrip agents: Anna had been educating them.



Anna moved around to the back of the table, taking a chair with no one sitting next to her. The Cantrip agents took empty chairs on the other side of the table after he warned the younger one away from Anna with a lifted eyebrow. Charles stood behind Anna's chair.



"This is my husband, Charles," Anna told them, her hands folded. "Perhaps it would be a good thing to introduce ourselves again, now that we are all here. I'm Anna."



"Special Agent Leslie Fisher," said the other female in the room, a black woman with intelligent eyes and a firm voice. "Violent Crimes Unit, FBI."



"Special Agent Craig Goldstein," said a slender man in his fifties. "On assignment to the Boston Violent Crimes Unit because I have a background with this serial killer."



Charles nodded to the FBI agents. Fisher's background he knew, because he'd done background checks on all of the Boston VCU. Goldstein he'd find out more about.



"Jim Pierce," said the only man in the room who was smiling. He aimed it at Charles. "Homeland Security. They send me out to gather information."



He'd had a pretty good idea whom they'd send in from Homeland Security because they had only eight people specializing in preternatural matters, and he had files on them all.



Political climber, he told Anna silently, returning Pierce's smile. Pierce's face became a lot less happy and he pushed his chair back a few inches. On his way to public office. Do you think I should work on my smile?



Anna glanced back at him and frowned. Behave, said his mate, seriously enough. But he read her amusement in the little upturn of her lips.



"Dr. Steven Singh," said the second Homeland agent.



An old-fashioned patriot, Charles informed Anna after exchanging martial arts - style nods with the doctor. He's on record as personally classifying the fae and werewolves as domestic terrorists. Charles tended to agree with him. Neither is here because they desire to help catch a serial killer. Pierce won't have anything to add. Singh is smart enough that he might be of use, even though he doesn't care about the crime.



The Cantrip agents were more interesting. He didn't know as much about Cantrip, as it was an even newer agency than Homeland Security, having come into being when the werewolves outed themselves. Though funded and authorized by the government, their role was "to collect and share information about nonhuman and altered-human groups and individuals," which left them a lot of leeway. They had two main offices, one on either coast, and otherwise seemed to travel around the country to concern themselves mostly in criminal cases that involved fae, werewolves, or anything else that looked odd to them.



His father tended to dismiss the Cantrip agents as harmless, since they had no authority to arrest or detain anyone. Charles was less sanguine, as they were one of the government agencies required to go armed at all times - and they carried guns with silver bullets. He had files on a lot of their people, but had decided to see who they sent before refreshing his memory.



The older of the two Cantrip agents tried (and failed) to meet his eyes, then stared rather intently at Anna, which caused Charles's hackles to rise - and Brother Wolf didn't like him much, either.



"Patrick Morris," he said. "Cantrip, special agent."



"Formerly of the FBI," said Ms. Fisher with a cool disapproval that said anyone who chose to leave the FBI was a fool.



"Les Heuter," said the younger man, and abruptly became more interesting.



Heuter is a poster child for Cantrip, Charles told Anna. His father is a senator from Texas. If someone from Cantrip is interviewed in the press, three times out of four it is Heuter. Which was one of the reasons, Charles thought, that people tended not to take Cantrip more seriously.



He should have recognized Heuter right away, but he looked different in person, not as stalwart, impressive, or pretty, but more earnest and likable. He smelled eager, like a hunting dog waiting for the scent. Charles wondered if it was the werewolves or the serial killer that caused the young man's adrenaline rush.



He had a good poker face, though. Charles doubted any of the humans in the room would detect how excited Les Heuter was to be here. Charles had never been human, but he decided it must be like walking around with earplugs and nose plugs in all the time.



Goldstein looked around. "People, let's get the ball rolling." He looked at Charles. "The man who set this meeting up tells me that three werewolves weren't likely to be victims by happenstance. According to him, there just aren't that many werewolves out and about. He speculated that three victims has to mean that our killer is targeting werewolves and suggested we lay out all the victims from the beginning for you, Mr. Smith, and see what you think before I start asking questions. In that light, I'll tell you what we know about this one, and would appreciate anything you can give us."



Charles folded his arms and leaned against the wall, his attention on Anna, telegraphing as loudly as body language could that Anna was in charge.



This was Anna's job - if Charles had to deal with them, they'd likely run scared and start shooting werewolves themselves.



"Who did set this up?" asked Heuter abruptly.



Goldstein turned to look at the younger man and said blandly, "I have no idea. The man who called me didn't identify himself beyond that, just suggested I take notes and his advice. As most of it seemed common sense, I did so."



Bran, thought Anna.



Probably, agreed Charles. Or Adam Hauptman.



Anna met Heuter's gaze and shrugged. "I know who set up our end. I have no idea who set up yours."



Goldstein had taken out his laptop and hooked it up to the video system in the room. He cleared his throat. "Agent Fisher, would you secure the door, please? Some of these images are graphic and I would rather not startle some poor maid."



The door was locked and Goldstein took his glasses off and cleaned them as Agent Fisher turned off the lights. When he put the glasses back on, he donned with them the mantle of authority; the faint air of weakness, of age and harmlessness, vanished. For just an instant, Agent Goldstein was a man who hunted other men, then the aura of weakness returned like another man might don a comfortable old shirt.



"We call our UNSUB - " He paused. "That's FBI-speak for 'unknown subject,' which seems a little more professional and less hysterical than 'killer' and more grown-up than 'bad guy.' This UNSUB is known as the Big Game Hunter, because for the first two decades all the kills took place during the traditional hunting season. The first kill we know of was in 1975, though, given the sophistication of the killings, it is likely that he killed earlier than that." He looked at Anna, who must have changed expression, and said, "Yes. We are absolutely certain this killer is a man."



He hit a button and two pictures came up on the big TV screen, side by side. The first was a school photo of a teenage Asian girl - Chinese, Charles thought. She was smiling gamely at the photographer and there was a bright orange headband in her hair. The second photo was very grainy and showed a naked body, head shrouded in shadows and a white sheet or blanket flung over her hips.



"Karen Yun-Hao was fourteen. She was abducted from her bedroom on..."



Charles let the man's voice drift; he'd remember what Agent Goldstein said later if he needed to. For now he concentrated on the faces, looking for clues, for people he had known, for victims who were pack.



The first year their killer took four girls, each a week apart. Asian and young, none over sixteen or under twelve. He kept them and raped and tortured them until he was ready to take the next victim. The FBI thought he killed one victim just before he took the next - though there was some possible overlap. As soon as hunting season was over, he stopped. The first year was Vermont, the second was Maine, where he stayed for a few years, then Michigan, Texas, and Oklahoma.



Organized, thought Brother Wolf, ratcheting up for the chase. A good hunter took only what he needed when he needed it, and their prey was a good hunter. The killer's victims changed gradually through the years, Asian girls and women and then, in Texas, a teenaged boy who was also Asian. The boy was the first victim who was sodomized, but after him they all were, male and female alike. The next year after that his prey was split two and two, women and boys. Then only boys. After that he added a black teenaged girl.



"It's like he's searching for the perfect meal," said Anna softly - and got an appalled glance from Dr. Singh that Charles didn't think she saw; her attention was fixed on the screen. "He started in 'seventy-five. Maybe he was a Vietnam vet?"



"The Asian victims, yes," said the senior FBI agent, looking even more frail than before. "They weren't all Vietnamese, or even mostly. But some people can't see the difference, or don't care. The police already had that theory before the first time the FBI was brought into it in the early eighties. The UNSUB wouldn't be the only one to come out of that mess with a need to kill."



"'These are the times that try men's souls,'" quoted Anna in a soft voice, and Charles knew she was remembering another veteran warrior.



"It took more than five years for the FBI to get involved?" asked Heuter.



Goldstein gave the Cantrip agent a patient look. "Nearer to ten. First, it took a while for the police to figure out they had a serial killer, communication being what it was. Second, the FBI is not in charge of serial-killer cases. We are support staff, not primary." He hit a button and a new photo came up.



"Here's where we came in, the FBI - it was before my time. I first hit this case as a rookie in 2000. In 1984, the Big Game Hunter was back in Maine. This is the first victim that year, Melissa Snow, age eighteen."



Charles recognized her - and she hadn't been eighteen. The next victim was a black boy, a stranger. He didn't know the third victim, another Asian girl. This one was ten.



Brother Wolf decided, looking at the delicate joyful face, that they would find the killer and destroy him. Children should be protected. Charles agreed, and the ghosts of the unjustly executed who haunted him withdrew further.



"Those were the only three victims that we found that year, and after this year the number of bodies we found started to vary. In 1986 and '87, we found three bodies. In 1989, there were two. In 1990, three bodies again, and so on until 2000, when several things changed, but I'll get there in a minute. We don't think that he's changed how he kills. That one week interval between the first victim and the next seems pretty set. So we think he began putting the bodies in less accessible places."



In the next year's group of victims, Charles recognized two of the three. He also noted that the crime scene photos were of better quality - a sign of the FBI bringing in a better photographer, he thought, or just a combination of the advance of technology and the way time degraded color film.



Goldstein commented, "In 1984, two of the victims matched our UNSUB's previous victim choice. From 1985 on out, there are no apparent patterns to the victims. Men and women, young and old. He's still kidnapping, raping, and torturing them for a week before going after the next victim." He took his time, showing them each victim's face. Charles noticed that Goldstein never had to consult his notes for the names, and that when he did go to his notes, it was usually to confirm something he'd just said. "The next year he started in September."



Charles knew three of the victims in 1985 and all of the bodies found in 1986.



Stop him, he told Anna, deciding that the killer's victimology was no coincidence. This is important. Go back to that first year, the one the FBI joined in the hunt.



"Wait," Anna said, glancing down at her notes. "Can you go back to the victims in 1984?"



The fae came out about that time, Charles told Anna. Melissa Snow was fae and as close to eighteen as my father is. She wasn't out then, I don't think, but she was fae.



Maybe it was an accident? Anna thought as Melissa's face, shining and happy in a family-type snapshot, appeared on the monitor next to her gray and lifeless face. The fae aren't exactly everywhere, but it is reasonable that he picked one up by mistake.



She wasn't a half-breed, he told her. If someone picked her up thinking they were getting a teenaged human, they'd never have been able to keep her. She wasn't powerful, but she could defend herself better than a human would have.



Can I tell them that?



Absolutely. Then have them go to the next year. Some fae have no bodies when they die. That could be why there is no fourth victim.



Goldstein watched Anna with sharp eyes. "Was she a werewolf?"



"No," Anna said. "Fae." And then she told the feds what Charles had told her.



"Fae." Singh frowned. "How do you know?"



"I'm one of the monsters, Dr. Singh," Anna said without a pause. "We tend to know each other." It wasn't quite a lie. "The question is, how would the - what did you call him? The Big Game Hunter? How would he know what she was? If he attacked her thinking she was human, she'd have escaped."



"I knew the agent who worked this case," said Goldstein. "Melissa had parents and two siblings who were ten and seven at the time. He talked to them. She was eighteen years old."



No parents, Charles told Anna. Or maybe they were fae as well. Or she could have taken her appearance from a dead girl. Hard to say. But I knew her...not well, but well enough to say that she was not eighteen.



Could the victim have been the real Melissa Snow and the fae took her identity after she died?



Anna was just covering all the bases, but it was a good question. When had he met Melissa? Years tended to blend into one another...I knew her during Prohibition, she was working at a speakeasy in Michigan - Detroit, I think - but long before the eighties.



"She was fae," Anna said. "If she had parents and siblings, I suspect they were also fae. They know how to blend with society, Agent Goldstein. Apparent age has very little to do with reality when you're dealing with the fae."



"The other two?" Goldstein asked, though he didn't sound convinced.



"I'm not an expert on fae," Anna said. "It's just chance that I recognized Melissa. But there are fae among the victims every year from here on out."



Goldstein asked, "Every year?"



That would account for the lack of bodies, Charles told her. Some of the fae just fade away when they die. If the fae lost his glamour, the other fae would make sure the body never came to light.



"That I've seen."



There was a growing tightness in Goldstein's shoulders, and an eagerness in his scent that told Brother Wolf that Goldstein was thinking, adding this to all of the bits and pieces he knew about the killer, trying to see how this changed the big picture.



Charles considered the repercussions of a serial killer who hunted fae. Surely the Gray Lords would have noticed that someone was killing their people? But they were not Bran, who protected and loved his wolves. If a fae who was not powerful and kept his head down for safety died, would the Gray Lords who ruled the fae even notice? And if they did notice, would they do anything?



"Could the killer be a fae?" That was from Pat, the Cantrip agent. "If he's been killing since 1975 and he was human, he'd be using a wheelchair by now."



Agent Fisher frowned. "I know an eighty-year-old man who could take you with one arm tied behind his back, Pat. And if this guy was eighteen at the end of the Vietnam War, he'd be a lot younger than eighty. But most serial killers don't last this long. They devolve or start making mistakes."



"The Green River Killer hunted for over twenty years," offered Pat. "And when they finally found him, he was a churchgoing married man with two kids and a stable job he'd had for over thirty years."



Goldstein hadn't been listening; he'd been staring at Anna without really looking at her. Thinking.



"I don't think he's fae," he said. "Not our original killer. Why else would he have waited until the fae came out to start killing them?"



Not our original killer, thought Charles to himself.



"I don't know all of the fae personally," said Anna dryly. "Maybe they've been fae all along."



Goldstein shook his head, and Charles agreed with him when he said, "No. This is an escalation of the type of prey the killer hunts."



He's on the scent, said Brother Wolf, watching the older FBI agent with interest.



"Hunting the enemy," said Singh unexpectedly. "Say he's a Vietnam vet. He goes home and sees Vietnamese - or Asian, which is close enough for him - on his territory. So he goes hunting, just like he did in the war. He switches to boys. Maybe it's because he likes sex with boys better - but let's say that it is because he finds them tougher, better hunting. And then he finds the fae - and decides they are more worthy opponents. And, like his original victims, in his eyes they are invaders."



"He's good and he's smart if he's killed this many fae," said Anna. "They tend to be harder to kill than humans. Too bad he didn't pick the wrong one; we'd never find the pieces of his body. I wonder how he managed that."



"He's killed werewolves," said Heuter, unexpectedly. Charles had quit paying attention to the Cantrip spokesperson, dismissing him. "Aren't they harder to kill than the fae?"



Anna shrugged. "I don't run around killing fae, myself. But anything as old as some of them are have a few tricks up their sleeves."



"Melissa Snow died before you were born," said Pat. "How did you know she was fae?" It wasn't what he said, but rather the aggression in his voice, that caused Brother Wolf to take notice that the tenor of the meeting had changed.



"Family photos," Anna shot back, curling her lip. "Or maybe I'm older than I look. Does it matter?"



"You are twenty-five," said Heuter. "Got your photo on my phone and sent it to home base. They got a hit about two minutes ago. Anna Latham from Chicago, mother deceased, father's a hotshot lawyer."



"So how does he know?" murmured Singh, ignoring the Cantrip agent's attack on Anna. "How does he know they aren't human? If they'd been out, someone would have noticed he was killing fae."



A werewolf could scent the fae, most of the time.



"Maybe he had some way of watching while his potential victims touched iron. My Scottish grandmother swore that there were herbal salves you could rub on your eyes to see the fairies," continued Singh, who didn't look as though he could possibly have a Scottish grandmother, though Charles could hardly talk because Charles didn't look very Welsh, either.



"Turning your clothes inside out or wearing cold iron is supposed to work, too," said Fisher, who'd been pretty quiet up to this point. Charles rather thought that she was making sure that the Cantrip agents didn't take control of the meeting again, as she'd spoken just as Heuter opened his mouth to say something else.



"You said 'original killer,'" said Anna to Goldstein, and Charles had to fight to hide his smile. He'd thought she'd missed it, but she was just waiting for the right time to spring it on them. "You don't think we're still dealing with the same man?"



"Right," Goldstein agreed, completely ignoring the Cantrip agents and Singh to focus on the murders. "We noticed some differences in the UNSUB's killings starting about 1995 that seemed to indicate he'd acquired a partner. Then in 2000 the killings took place over six weeks. Though we - 2000 is the first year I caught this case - only found five bodies, the timeline indicated that there might be six victims. As there were six the next year, and every year thereafter his killing window has been six weeks instead of four, we're pretty sure that there were six victims in 2000 as well."



"If the MO didn't match, how did you know they were still the Big Game Hunter's victims and not some other killer's?" Singh asked. He was caught up in the hunt for their killer - even though his hunt had started with an entirely different prey: the werewolves. Brother Wolf agreed with Charles's assessment of Singh: smart and distractible if something more interesting than his current prey ran in front of him.



Goldstein reached into his briefcase and pulled out...a bright yellow ear tag. The kind ranchers staple to their livestock. "He tags his kills. In 'seventy-five he used hunting tags for deer, stolen from a hunting supply store. In 'eighty-two, he switched to this. The current batch can be purchased on the Internet in bags of twenty-five for a buck each."



His prey were things to him, thought Charles. Livestock.



Or he was trying to turn them into things, said Anna. "Let's keep going through the victims and see if we notice anything more that we can help you with."



Goldstein continued his slide show. As forensics had developed, the killer's methods of dealing with the bodies changed. Instead of leaving them to be found in some out-of-the-way place, he put them in water. Rivers, lakes, swamps - and here, in Boston, the Atlantic, trusting the water to wash away his sins, which were many.



"There have been several changes besides his choice and number of victims," said Goldstein. "1991 had several. The torture was more ritualized, and he seemed to place more importance on it. The killings also started to move back a month. From 1975 until 1990, all of the murders happened in November. In 1991, he moved to October. And each year after that, he moved back a month until 1995, when he started killing the first of June - where he is now."



"If you'll give me a list - with photos - of the victims," said Anna, when Goldstein was through, "I'll do my best to see if we can't sort the fae out of the rest. I believe that the first werewolf victims were the ones here in Boston, but I'll be able to tell you that for sure after I make a few calls."



Charles was fairly sure the wolves killed this year were the only ones, but it wouldn't hurt to be certain. Besides, with a list of the victims, he could send them out to a couple of fae he knew who might be able to come up with more information on the fae victims, maybe ID a few more.



"All right," agreed Goldstein. "We can do that."



Anna frowned, one hand rubbing lightly on her chin as she stared at the collage of photos of the current year's victims - five so far. The last one was a school photo of a little boy. One more victim to go before the Big Game Hunter moved on until next year.



"I'm not an expert on the fae," Anna said. "But I know wolves. For a normal man, or even a pair of normal men, to take on a werewolf - that's pretty ambitious. Predators usually pick victims that aren't likely to leave them dead."



Heuter frowned. "He didn't seem to have much trouble with these. Three wolves, right? And no one saw a thing. I don't think it's as hard as you say. Otherwise someone would have noticed."



Anna tipped her head back, meeting Charles's eyes. We're here to advise. To give them information. Should we show them?



Charles moved from behind her to the end of the heavy conference table where no one was sitting. He glanced under it to make sure it wasn't anchored to the floor, then lifted it to his chest height while making sure it stayed level so none of Goldstein's expensive electronics fell off. He set it down.



"Just killing us," Anna said. "That's tough, but it's not impossible. But holding a werewolf while you torture him..."



"Magic?" asked Singh. The Homeland Security agent had totally forgotten that his first intention had been to find out more about the werewolves. Charles found that he liked him - and he hadn't expected to.



Anna shrugged. "That or extremely good planning. It's not just strength - we metabolize very quickly. Drugging or incapacitating one of us for long without killing us is extremely difficult."



"Holy water," said Pat the former FBI and now Cantrip agent.



Anna didn't roll her eyes but she let Charles feel her exasperation. "I could drink it every day for a week - and do it while living in the Sistine Chapel."



"Silver?" That was Heuter, again.



"Are there black marks where they've been restrained?" Anna asked. "Silver burns us like fire or acid."



They didn't answer her question. Charles had noticed that from the 1990s victims on, the photos of the now-dead people were from the neck down, and sometimes there were no crime scene photos at all. He was pretty certain that the lack wasn't an oversight.



"And how," Anna continued, "did he know they were werewolves? Only one of them, the local wolf, had come out publicly."



There was some more discussion, but Charles let Brother Wolf assimilate it while he observed the room. Agent Fisher was watching Anna with the same look that Asil got when he found a rose that he wanted for his greenhouse, sort of greedy and satisfied.



We're not going to have to talk our way into helping with this case, he told Anna. Agent Fisher wants us for her very own.



Brother Wolf brought his attention back to the room, where the other Homeland Security agent, Jim Pierce, was speaking. "What if the killer was a werewolf?"



Anna shook her head. "Then you wouldn't be finding tagged bodies; you'd be finding body parts."



"Werewolves eat people?" asked Heuter, coming alert like a hound. "That killing in Minnesota - that was werewolves?"



Anna snorted and lied like a politician. "Look. Becoming a werewolf doesn't make you a serial killer - and it doesn't make you a superhero, either. Whoever you were, that's who you are. If a bad guy gets Changed, he's still a bad guy. However, we police our own and we're pretty good at it. Mostly we're just ordinary people who turn into a wolf during the full moon and go out and hunt rabbits."



Being Changed turned everyone into killers. Werewolves weren't timber wolves or red wolves who hunted only when they were hungry. Werewolves were killers - and the ones who couldn't control it sometimes took a lot of people with them before they died.



No one looking at his mate's earnest freckled face would ever hear the lie - unless they were a werewolf, too. His da would be proud.