She twisted in his arms and stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin, liking that she was going to smell like him for a while. Jeez, being a werewolf had changed her point of view on a lot of things, she mused, turning to climb up the stairs, Charles at her heels.
The phone rang—the landline that never rang but hung from the wall above the light switch like a tribute to the past. Charles stopped beside it.
“It’s Da,” he told her, then answered the phone.
Bran could make his voice heard in the minds of his wolves (and probably anyone else he cared to). He maintained that he could not hear responses—which was, Anna assumed, why he had decided to use the phone.
“Tell Anna to get the door,” Bran said. “You need to let the wolf greet them.” And then he left them with a dial tone.
Huh, she thought, meeting Charles’s eyes.
He shrugged. He didn’t know why Bran had bothered calling, either. Maybe just to make whoever was at the door wait a bit longer. Trying to work out the hows and whys of Bran’s actions tended to leave Anna with a headache and no wiser for the struggle.
Anna obeyed her orders, walking the twelve feet or so to the door and opening it. She was still trying to work out what Bran’s call had been about, so she blinked a little at the unexpected visitors.
The nearest, illuminated by the porch light, was a fortysomething black woman, looking athletic and smart in a white polo shirt with the FBI logo on one shoulder and dark blue trousers. Beside her was a short, fine-boned white man who could have been anywhere from his midfifties to midseventies. His hair, which had been dark, had been shaved completely off. His tan jacket and blue slacks fit him well and were free of wrinkles or creases. Still, he struck her as more fragile than he’d been the last time she’d seen him, and she wondered if he had been sick. He didn’t smell sick.
For a moment she felt an automatic smile of welcome flow up toward her face, borne of a genuine liking for Special Agent Leslie Fisher and a generally favorable impression of Special Agent Craig Goldstein.
But they weren’t supposed to know who she was now or where she and Charles lived. A wide streak of wariness shoved her smile aside as she contemplated the two FBI agents and wondered what this visit was about to change in their world.
“This is unexpected,” she said.
As the daughter of a lawyer, Anna had a natural inclination to respect the law. But the FBI had no real jurisdiction over her. They would not be permitted to question her or arrest her or take her to trial without a great deal of trouble—maybe not even then. They were all on pack territory now.
She wondered if they understood just how dangerous that was for them. She certainly understood how dangerous their presence here was for the werewolves. This was above her pay grade, she thought. But it would not help matters to let Charles take over.
Leslie looked at Goldstein. Anna remembered that he’d been the senior of the two when she’d first met them. It seemed that still held true.
“We have some information for you, Ms. Smith,” he said without apology. “We felt it was best delivered in person. We also felt that you were the best person to deliver it to.”
Goldstein knew very well Smith wasn’t her name—Anna didn’t like him rubbing her nose in it. She and Charles had made it plain that Smith had been a nom de nécessité, and not their own—for heaven’s sake, why else would they have used “Smith,” notorious in fact and fiction as a false name?
Goldstein’s words smacked of a power play—and Anna disliked politics intensely. Too bad her mate was only slightly more inclined to diplomacy than certain axe-wielding Vikings of her acquaintance. Which left the role of negotiator to her.
This, she thought ruefully, was bound to be a disaster.
Several years of being trapped in a pack where brutality was a fact of everyday life had given her some skills in negotiating with terrorists, however. She wasn’t quite ready to put Leslie Fisher in that category, but it was probably best to assume the worst.
First, show no fear. This was much easier to manage with Charles waiting behind her than it had been when she’d been alone, especially since the FBI had sent people she knew and liked. This was probably not a hostile move on their part. Not yet, anyway.
“My name,” Anna said, letting ice coat her voice, “is Anna Cornick.” Since they were standing on her porch, they already knew her real name.
Second, give the appearance of cooperation—but don’t give them anything you don’t have to.
“He was trying to be tactful,” Leslie said, though she didn’t believe it.
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Werewolves can smell lies.” This was something, like her name, that they also already knew.
Leslie flinched subtly and gave her cohort a grim look. The next sentence out of her mouth was the truth, and she sounded more like a professional agent than a friend. “I’m sorry for the surprise, but we do need to talk to you. Rather than advertising that the FBI came to call on you, can we come in?”
Anna crossed her arms over her chest and snorted. “This is a small town. Everyone already knows you’re here. Sometime in the next ten minutes they’ll look up your plates.”
“It’s a rental car.”
Challenge accepted, Anna thought. “Helen Oxford has a sister who works in the airport in Missoula with the rental car agencies. She won’t have any trouble finding out who rented the car.”
“We drove in from Spokane, not Missoula,” said Leslie.
“Rental car agencies are nationwide companies,” Goldstein remarked to no one in particular. Then he said, “Point taken, Ms. Cornick. If you wish to discuss this on your doorstep …” He looked around.
They were surrounded by mountains and forest. There were no nearby houses. The closest neighbor was a half mile away.
“… then I see no reason we cannot do that.”
Invite them in, said Brother Wolf.
Anna glanced over her shoulder to see the red wolf standing in most of the available floor of their galley kitchen. She wondered, again, why Bran had decided to give the FBI a werewolf to look at.
It was not a bad idea to remind your enemy of who you are, she supposed. Though she hadn’t thought the FBI were their enemies. She had considered Leslie a friend. But she couldn’t afford them to be friends now.
“We have two items of business to bring before you today,” Goldstein was saying. “We know some things we think you should know. And we’d like to start building toward a more formal relationship that could help us both.”
Brother Wolf had said to let them in, but Anna wasn’t sure it was a good idea. She was reasonably certain that Charles wouldn’t tear into the FBI agents without violent provocation. And she was reasonably certain, having dealt with both agents in the past, that neither of them was likely to be violently provocative. But Brother Wolf was an entirely different kettle of fish.
We’ll behave, Brother Wolf assured her. You can let them in.
“I see,” said Anna. “Perhaps you should come in.”
She stepped back, opening the door as an invitation. The open door also gave them a very good view of Brother Wolf. If the sight of the werewolf bothered them, neither of them let it show. They had met Charles’s wolf before.
Anna waved a hand, directing the agents through the living room and into the dining area beyond. Leslie let Agent Goldstein take the lead, and Anna followed behind them.
Leslie paused, looking at the large painting hung over the fireplace. Other than the various instruments that were scattered about, it was the only piece of art in the room.
It was a new painting, still smelling of oils to Anna’s sensitive nose. The smaller piece it replaced had been moved to their bedroom, both works by the same artist.
On one level, the painting was of a gray wolf—not a werewolf—standing in winter woods. But that wasn’t the lingering impression it made. Whenever Anna looked at it, she could feel the tension drain away and optimism flood in to replace it. Anna had stared at t
he painting for hours, and she still didn’t know how Wellesley had done it. Wellesley’s work had always been spectacular—but this one, painted after his curse had been removed, was more … more something.
Asil had brought it over after Wellesley had left. It had come with a note that read: For Anna. He hadn’t signed either the note or the painting.
“Beautiful piece,” Leslie said, reaching out but not touching the canvas. “Who is the artist?”
“A friend,” answered Anna. She had no idea if Wellesley would be interested in painting as a career again, or what name he would choose when and if he did. But she did think if he had wanted people to know who had painted it, he would have signed it. If she and Leslie were being friendly, she might have told her so. As it was, the words lingered in the air.
Leslie frowned at Anna but continued on to the dining room to sit beside Goldstein. Once she was seated, she glanced over her shoulder at the painting again.
Anna pulled up a seat opposite the two agents. Charles moved to her side and stared at them. Neither agent stared back at him, which was smart of them. Charles was not happy.
“We are,” Anna began softly, “very interested in who told you where we live.”
Goldstein nodded and put his briefcase—a battered leather case that had seen better days—on the table and opened it. He pulled out a thick file in a folder and held it out to Anna. Taped to the front of the folder was a thumb drive. When she didn’t take it, he set in on the table between them.
“Most of what we know about werewolves has been gathered in bits and pieces for decades, if not longer.” Goldstein’s voice had a faint New York accent Anna hadn’t caught before. “A slip here, a note there. A colleague of mine has been riding a hobbyhorse of werewolf lore for the entirety of his forty-year career at the bureau. You’ll find most of the general information comes to us from the armed forces—apparently there have been a great many werewolves over the years who have served their country.”
He pulled another file out with another thumb drive. “This is from the Cantrip archives.” He didn’t say how they had gotten it. “Cantrip has been fed information about you from various groups—some of them supernatural hate groups like Bright Future or the John Lauren Society. Some of them are other supernatural groups. One informant was a witch—and she provided them with the equivalent of a biology textbook. Her information was classified and only the very top echelon of Cantrip has access to it. There was a vampire, too, at some point. But he killed two of their agents and they killed him.”
Leslie cleared her throat. “There is information in there you would not want to be public knowledge.”
Anna didn’t make any move to take the offerings on the table—that would be for someone else to go through. Goldstein did not say who had told them where Anna and Charles lived, which would have been more interesting information.
Charles had long ago hacked into the Cantrip database. He probably had hacked into the FBI files, too. The wolves knew there were people in the government who understood just what the wolves were and mostly who they were. It was not the government Bran was worried about—at least not yet. It was the public in general—and what the public would urge their government to do.
“You’ve obviously had this information for a while,” she said. “So why the candor now? What do you mean to accomplish with this?” She waved her hand at the files on the table.
Goldstein smiled grimly. “Some of my superiors were quite stuck on Hauptman. It took some persuading to bring this here instead.”
Anna didn’t know what kind of reaction she was supposed to have, since the Columbia Basin Pack and Adam Hauptman, its prickly and extremely handsome Alpha, were the most famous werewolves on the planet—at least in the eyes of the purely human.
“Okay,” she said. Leslie’s face didn’t change, but from Goldstein’s expression, Anna knew her response hadn’t been the one he was looking for.
“The FBI feels that the various supernatural groups pose a threat to the public. We are reasonably certain if all hell breaks loose, our superior numbers and weapons will leave us the last ones standing. But that only means we all lose.”
“Yes,” Anna agreed, having heard variants on this assessment—albeit from the werewolf side—for years.
“We feel with allies to lend us knowledge, finesse, and firepower, we could avoid the zero-sum ending. We need a large group, one we can trust—and who can trust us.”
Anna must have made some sort of derisive sound, because Goldstein grinned appreciatively.
“For some levels of trust,” he agreed. “The FBI is a large organization—and our upper management is politically appointed. We have … not involved the political appointees at this point. We do understand why you might be less than happy to ally yourselves with us. That’s why I brought you our files, as a gesture of goodwill.”
“Not much of a risk,” Anna observed. “Since it’s all information about werewolves—and we already know all about werewolves.”
“Right,” said Goldstein. “But you can find out how much we know about you.”
Anna wasn’t sure she believed that last part even if Goldstein did. But she didn’t think that conversation would be useful.
She shrugged. “All right. So why bring it to us?”
Goldstein frowned at her a moment. He tapped a finger on the table and said, “I think our opportunity to ally with the fae died when that thrice-be-damned court let Heuter walk. Everyone in the courtroom, judge and jury, knew he’d raped and killed people who came from the supernatural groups. Everyone knew he’d raped the daughter of a Gray Lord and intended to kill her—and they still let him off because he was human and his victims were not. Do you remember the cheers from the courtroom?”
They had all been there.
His assessment of that situation was right on target, Anna thought. Gwyn ap Lugh, who went by the name of Beauclaire, was the most prominent member of the faction of Gray Lords who had been friendly toward humans. It had been his daughter who had been brutalized and scarred.
“Charles told me the world would have been better off if he’d just killed Heuter when he had a chance,” Anna agreed. “It wouldn’t have been just to kill a man who had surrendered—but what the courts delivered wasn’t justice, either.”
“I could have shot him, too,” Leslie observed regretfully. “I thought about it pretty hard.”
Goldstein grunted. “That ship has sailed. So, while we hope for a cease-fire with the fae, we are aware the fae will never trust us. My bones will be dust and Beauclaire will still remember a human court chose to protect their own monster rather than give a Gray Lord’s daughter justice.”
“That is a problem when dealing with immortal creatures,” murmured Anna.
“The only other large and organized group we know about is the vampires. It is difficult for a chicken to make an alliance with a fox—you never know when you’ll be eaten for breakfast,” Goldstein said.
And the vampires were still allowing the world to pretend they didn’t exist. It was easier for everyone concerned. An alliance would surely mean the vampires had to come out of the shadows.
“That left the werewolves,” Leslie said. “But we didn’t know how to approach it. We knew there were packs directed by Alphas. We even knew several of the Alphas very well—Hauptman, for instance. Then you and Charles came to Boston.”
They hadn’t mentioned the witches, Anna noted. Maybe they didn’t consider them an organized group.
“Before that,” said Goldstein, “we had always thought the wolves to be individual packs run by unaffiliated Alphas. As soon as we reconsidered, it wasn’t hard to look at certain events and see the wolves are highly organized. That they are able to act as a single unit if necessary.”
Anna controlled a snort. He made it sound like a business arrangement. Bran controlling the werewolves was more like shoving tigers around with cattle prods. Marginally effective, if potentially fatal to all involved.
/> “Is that person, the person in charge—is that you, Anna Cornick?” asked Goldstein.
She’d been stuck trying to make her tiger metaphor work. She had to blink at Goldstein for a minute to process what he’d said. She decided that was a good thing, because it wasn’t hard to keep her face blank while she thought about what to do with his question.
“Why do you ask?” she said, without letting any expression enter her voice or face. Her years surviving in a brutal pack had given her that ability. “You know who I am. Anna Latham, age twenty-six, college dropout.”
“Anna Latham, musical prodigy,” said Goldstein somberly. “Who disappeared after work one night and was never seen again. Oh, her father and brother both say that she is alive. But no one else who knew her has heard from her. No concerts have been scheduled, though she used to do them as an invited guest.”
She’d been working at reconnecting with her friends. Either the FBI had asked the wrong people or her friends thought she was in trouble and were trying to protect her. The concerts, though, were unlikely to happen. She missed performing to a big crowd.
“Werewolves are immortal,” said Leslie very quietly. And Anna remembered how worried Leslie had been when she’d first met Anna that someone as young as Anna had been married to Charles—who did not look young, no matter the lack of wrinkles or gray hair. No one with eyes as old as his could look young.
“Isaac, the Alpha of the Boston pack—” began Goldstein.
“Olde Towne Pack,” Anna corrected.
“Olde Towne Pack,” Goldstein repeated, and she bet he wouldn’t get it wrong again. “Isaac had no trouble following your orders.”
That they had seen, anyway.
“I thought at first you were playing front man to Charles,” Leslie said. “But he does your bidding, too.”
And they had added two and two and come up with twenty-two.
Anna opened her mouth to tell them they were wrong.
Wait. See what they have to say. Do not lie to them, that could come back and bite us. But for now, let them believe you are leading the packs. It was Bran’s voice in her head.
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