Standing on the top of the ladder, Hally took a small rug out of her pack and laid it out flat. While she was snapping it into place, Charles caught a glimpse of circles and symbols and realized that she'd woven into the rug the protections that a witch would normally have used chalk for. It was a clever thing, something that would save her time and trouble-and also work admirably well on a boat in the rain.

Kneeling on the rug, she took out four or five small pottery jars and set them up as if their placement was important. She did the same with eight silver candlesticks holding dark-colored candles-probably black candles, but some witches worked with red. She adjusted and moved things around for a while. At last she set a tall candle in the center of her work.

"Light," the witch said, in an ordinary voice a half beat before the candles lit themselves despite the salt-sea air. The flames on the wicks burned steady and true though the wind whipped the strands of hair that had worked their way out of his braid. Magic. Her voice hadn't been the trigger, just a distraction or embellishment. The smoke told his nose what Charles already surmised-there was human blood worked into the candles she burned.

The way witches cast spells differed from one witch to the next depending upon a lot of things: their family background, who their teachers had been-and a little of their own personalities. This one was a wiggler and moaner, but she did it with all the grace of a talented belly dancer, and her moans were both musical and mesmerizing. Charles felt her magic rain down upon their little boat and found himself agreeing with Isaac's a.s.sessment: she was a power.

It made him wish that he'd called the white witch Moira after all. Hally didn't scare him, but his paranoia didn't like being in the middle of the ocean on a boat with his mate with a world-cla.s.s witch who would-as Anna had helpfully pointed out earlier-as soon kill them as not. He intensely disliked being in someone else's power.

If we jumped up there, she'd scream and fall in the water, Brother Wolf a.s.sured him, because he didn't like being in her power, either. Or we could just kill her and save her the trouble of drowning.

Hally put the contents of the Baggie in a small ivory-colored pot shaped like a toad with big black cartoon eyes, its back open as if it had been made to hold a candle or a small plant. It fit into the palm of her hand. She pulled a vial out of her bag, pulled a cork stopper out with her teeth, and poured the liquid into the pot. By the smell, Charles knew it was brandy, and not the good stuff. Annie Green Springs, Everclear, or rubbing alcohol would have probably done just as well.

Storing the empty vial back in her pack, she held the pot over the flame of the middle candle with both hands and continued her melodic chanting. After a few moments, she slid her hands away and the pot hung over the candle without moving. She sat back on her heels and lifted her face so that the moon caressed her English-pale skin and slid down her hands, which were shaking feverishly about three inches from the pot. Theatrics designed to hide which were the important bits, in case another witch was watching.

Charles started to turn away from the show, but the corner of his eye caught something and he froze. A shadow thicker than steam slid out of the mouth of the frog. It sank to the rug and grew even thicker and darker, filling the s.p.a.ce between the witch and the candles. He glanced around at the others, but no one looked worried or excited so he supposed he-and Beauclaire, who was slowly rising to his feet-were the only ones who saw the shadow.

In the middle of her music, at the height of her dance, the witch stilled and said, "Darkness."

The candles and every one of the boat's lights went out.

Malcolm swore, dove for his console, and frantically played with the switches. He put a foot on the first rung of the ladder, presumably to go up and confront the witch for meddling with his boat.

Malcolm was under Charles's protection, so Charles shoved past Isaac (still watching the witch instead of Malcolm), trusting that the Alpha wolf would have enough presence of mind not to fall overboard. He caught Malcolm by the shoulder when he was two rungs up, pulling him back to the deck. Interrupting a witch was not a good idea for anyone who wanted to survive long. Malcolm wrenched himself free of the unfamiliar hold and snarled. The noise cut off as soon as he saw who it was who'd manhandled him.

A dim light began to glow on the top of the fishing platform, distracting both of them.

"What in..."

In h.e.l.l, thought Charles, as the light resolved itself into the three-dimensional shape of an eight-year-old boy.

The smell of the black magic made Charles's earlier seasickness rise with a vengeance, and he moved as far from the center of the boat as he could get. Anna's cold hand closed on his. She was shaking. Not with fear. Not his Anna. No, she was shaking with rage.

"Tell me this was necessary," she said.

"No," Charles answered. He knew Anna didn't mean the witch; she meant the method the witch had chosen. Directional spells were easy. He didn't do them himself, but he had watched them cast. Calling a ghost as a compa.s.s was a major spell, a show-off spell, and entirely unnecessary.

"Tell me she doesn't get to keep him."

"She won't get to keep him," Charles told her. He was no witch, but his grandfather had taught him a thing or two. He might not be able to get rid of his own ghosts because he had to somehow fix himself first, but Jacob Mott, held by black magic, would be no trouble.

"All right," Anna said, her voice tight, trusting him to keep his word.

"Jacob, I invoke thee," the witch said, her voice like honey rising over the wind and slap of wave. "Jacob, I conjure thee. Jacob, I name thee. Do thou my will."

The boy's figure, glowing with silvery moonlight, stood with his back to her, his head bowed, reluctance in every line of his body. But Charles could see his face-and there was no expression at all upon it, and his eyes glowed red as fire.

"Where did they kill you, Jacob Mott? Where did they sacrifice your mortal being?"

The boy lifted his head, looked south and east, and pointed.

"I can't run without lights," Malcolm said. "It's illegal, for one thing. And I don't want to get caught with candles made with human blood. I don't mind fines, but jail isn't going to happen."

"My magic needs darkness," said the witch in a midnight voice.

Beauclaire got out of his seat and touched the rail of the boat. The lights came back on and the witch turned to glare at him.

"Your magic is darkness," said the fae repressively. "The rest is cheap theatrics."

The witch ignored him and put her hands on the shoulders of the boy, caressing him in a not-motherly fashion.

"Thanks," said Isaac to the fae.

Malcolm, his face tight-he had to stand directly under the taint of black magic in order to run the boat-turned the Daciana. When the direction the boy was indicating lined up with the point of the bow, Isaac said, "That's good," and the Daciana steadied on course.

Malcolm got busy with his charts and then called out loud enough that people who were not werewolves or fae could hear him over the engine and waves, "Looks like we're headed to Long, Georges, or Gallops Island."

"What do you think?" Isaac asked; then to the rest of them he said, "Malcolm makes his living hauling anyone who will pay him out fishing or exploring. He's been doing it for thirty-five years and he knows the harbor as well as anyone living."

"Could be any of them, I suppose. Georges has a lot of people during the day, which would make me nervous if I was trying to keep live prisoners."

"What about Long Island?" asked Leslie. "It's accessible by car, too, right?"

"Right." Malcolm was quiet. "Long Island has the public health facilities, and people who live and work there every day. But there are lots of places no one goes. Places for someone to hide people in, more than either Georges or Gallops. Those old hospital buildings have tunnels going from one to another. There are a few empty buildings-the old concert hall, the chapel, and a couple a.s.sociated with the old hospital. Fort Strong is falling down and full of good hidey-holes. The old Alpha had me lead a couple of full-moon hunts out there. We hunted Gallops, too-ought to do some more there because there are rabbits doing a lot of damage. As long as no one notices the boats, it would be cool. We don't have to hunt quiet there 'cause it's been quarantined for the past decade. Gallops has old military buildings full of asbestos and there's no money to clean it."

"Our UNSUB knows a lot about the local area," Anna noted.

"Always seemed that way to me, too," agreed Goldstein, who had gotten up and worked his way around the boat until he could get a better look at the dead boy who guided their trip. "He does that in most of his hunting grounds-uses the territory more like a native than a traveler."

Goldstein stopped and frowned up at the softly glowing boy.

"Is he a ghost?" he asked.

Anna looked at Charles and everyone else followed suit.

The witch looked at him, too, and smiled.

Charles ignored her and did his best to answer. "Not his soul; that's gone on. She couldn't have touched it." He believed that, believed that the only person who could destroy or taint a soul was the person whose soul it was, even though his ghosts were laughing as he spoke. You tainted us, they told him. You stole our life and tainted us.

He continued, stoically ignoring the voices of the dead. "A ghost is the little left-behind bits, collected together. Memories held in buildings or things-and here by flesh and hair."

"It's not really the boy?" asked Leslie Fisher, and from the tone of her voice, if he said yes, she would have shot Hally without a second thought.

"No. More like a sweater that he wore and discarded," Charles told her. The red eyes, he was pretty sure, were caused by some aspect of the witch's magic.

Leslie looked at him, and he thought that if she looked at her children that way, they would squirm. Then she nodded her head and made her way to the rear of the boat-and sat next to Beauclaire instead of the backward-facing seats behind the console that would have left her back to the witch. He didn't blame her.

After a while, Malcolm said, "It's not Long Island or Georges. We're either going to Gallops or someplace along the coastline."

"It's not the coast," said the witch, lifting her face to the night sky. "Don't you feel it? It's glorious. They must be amateurs to leave such a feast behind unconsumed." She smiled, and it was a terrible smile because it made her look so sweet and young-and the cause of the smile was the death of Jacob Mott and others before him.

"It is too bad that so many of us, so many witches, are afraid of water," Hally said to Charles. "Otherwise we'd have known about this a long time ago. They've used this more than just this season."

The Hunter had hit Boston twice, Charles remembered.

"If this were springtime, we'd have trouble accessing Gallops," said Malcolm. "As it is, there are some docks that are still usable. I'll take us around."

"We know where we're going," said Charles to the witch. "Release the boy."

"I thought he was just a collection of memories," she murmured. "Just an old sweater discarded when Jacob died."

Charles jumped to the top of the railing of the fishing platform and bent his knees, balancing with the sudden lurch the force of his jump had caused and then settling more comfortably as the rise and fall of the boat steadied to the ocean's hand.

He caught the witch's eyes and, bringing Brother Wolf and all of his power to the fore, said, "Let him go."

She obeyed before she thought, his sudden appearance and the force of his order dictating her actions. She dismissed the ghost with a flick of her power. Then her jaw dropped in outrage, and magic gathered around her.

"Don't," said Charles before she could complete whatever mischief came to mind. "You won't like what happens."

He hopped down beside her and picked up the little frog pot. The sickly magic residue tried to crawl onto his fingers, but flinched back from Brother Wolf's presence at the last moment. His instinct said that whatever ties the contents of the pot had to Jacob were gone, used up-and that was good enough for him. He tossed the frog out over the side of the boat, making sure that it spun upside down and scattered its contents as it fell.

She hissed and flung something that slid off him like water. Charles shook his head.

"Do you think I would have survived this long if some hastily constructed spell could harm me?" It wasn't a lie. He was just asking her a question. If her answer was the wrong one, it was not his fault. Half of his reputation rested on stories people told about him. He'd been lucky. He wore some protections, and being a werewolf was another kind of protection, but no one was invulnerable. The secret of being safe from magic was to make people think it was useless to attack him by that method.

Charles swung back over the platform railing and landed lightly on the deck below. He took a seat on one of the benches that served as bait containers near the bow, and his mate scooted over and sat on his lap.

Anna kissed his jawline and he felt the ghosts' predatory rumblings. Closer, bring her closer, they said, cackling. We shall eat her and share her among us.

Mine, answered Brother Wolf. He tightened his arms around her when Charles would have sent her to safety. But Brother Wolf held her and stared at the moon, who sang serenely to him.

CHARLES JUMPED OUT with one of the dock lines as soon as the boat was near. The wooden platform felt st.u.r.dy under his boots and the cleat he tied his line off to looked new. He asked Malcolm about it as the others disembarked.

"The parks department comes out and they need somewhere to tie up their boats, don't they?" asked Malcolm rhetorically. "So they keep the dock up."

"Stick together," said Charles. "Malcolm, your job is to keep our FBI agents safe."

Leslie drew in a breath, but Goldstein held up a hand. "You and I can't see in the dark if our flashlights give out. There's a moon out right now, but given the clouds in the sky, that could change. We are slower and more vulnerable than they are-and if this is the killing ground, then someone might be here to guard their latest victim."

Leslie pulled out her gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, and then put it back in her shoulder holster.

"If you can manage without flashlights," Charles told them, "it will help the rest of us keep our night vision. But don't risk a broken ankle. I don't know how well you can see-we wolves can see just fine in the dark; most witches have a trick or two-" He glanced at Beauclaire.

The fae nodded. "I can see fine."

"So it's up to you. If you use the flashlights, please try not to shine them in our eyes."

"I have a question," said Leslie. "If you can see in the dark, why did Malcolm say he needed lights to find the island?"

"Because I'm not taking a boat that has parts not working into waters that aren't safe," Malcolm said. "There are some pretty nasty places around here if you don't know where you are, and her spell killed all of my instrumentation lights-GPS, depth finders, the whole kit and caboodle."

The witch smiled at them all. "Are you still talking?"

Isaac touched her shoulder. "Lead the way, Hally."

The fae followed Isaac and his witch, her pale skin standing out in the darkness like a candle in the night. The FBI agents followed the witch with Malcolm trailing them. That left Charles and Anna to take the rear guard.

Castle Island had been parklike with carefully planted trees and bushes. Gallops was more like a jungle. Not quite as dense as the temperate rain forest near Seattle, but the undergrowth could have used a machete or two to clear it out. Perforce they followed paths that had once been sidewalks or narrow roads before nature had started to reclaim them. Mostly they walked uphill-from what he'd seen on the water, the whole island was mostly one long, narrow hill. It wasn't very big, less than forty acres, he thought. It wouldn't take them long to find the place where Jacob had been killed, as long as the witch was telling the truth-that she could feel it.

Anna pointed out the cornerstone of a house and what was undoubtedly originally a planted hedge of roses that had gone wild. He pointed out some poison ivy and a pair of curious rabbits who weren't at all scared of them. Any hunt on this island would be boring if they were hunting rabbits.

The whole thing stank of black magic. If he'd been trying to find the center on his own, he'd have had to crisscross the whole island and hope he'd stumble into it.

As much as he hated to admit it, the witch had been right. Only amateurs would leave this much power residue behind. After they were done here, he'd have to talk to his father about how to clean it up. This much tainted power was more troublesome than asbestos-people would get sick here and die from colds. They would scratch themselves on a thornbush and die from the resultant infection. They would kill themselves from a despair they would never otherwise have felt.

This much residue would also attract dark things-and in the ocean there were some very bad things who might decide to come ash.o.r.e for the kind of invitation the island was sending out. And the worst part was that there were more places like this, everywhere the killers had struck over the years.

Sally Reilly, Caitlin the witch had said when she identified the marks the killers left on their victims. It made sense. He hadn't ever met Sally, but his father had made a point of attending one of her "demonstrations" and had come back shaking his head and sent Charles out to do research. Back then it had been more foot and phone work than computer work. After talking to her father (her mother was dead), some old friends, and a couple of witches, he'd returned to Bran with a report.

Sally wasn't a hack or an amateur, but rather a skilled witch. She'd broken with her family and decided to turn the heat up-maybe cause another witch hunt. A hunt that she intended to protect herself from by money she gained while she was busy convincing the television-watching public that witches were real.

He'd told Bran that they needed to stop her-and then she'd quit trying to publicize witches. Instead, she'd started charging rich people large fortunes for her work. She'd disappeared altogether sometime in the early 1990s, but he'd always supposed that she had retired, until Caitlin the witch had been so utterly convinced that Sally Reilly was dead.

It would have been just like Sally to do something like agree to work up a spell that would leave a residue like this, one with incorrect symbols, maybe-while she charged them through the nose for it, thinking them fools who intended to kill chickens or goats.

Had they killed her? The timing was right. And if they'd paid a witch for a spell to let them feed from people they killed, they'd have felt the need to get rid of her, since she was a witness they wouldn't have wanted. And serial killers didn't stay free and killing for this many years without being smart enough to take care of witnesses.

Charles let his hand linger on Anna's back. She wore a sweater and a light jacket, but he pretended he could feel the heat of her through the clothing that covered her.

Brother Wolf wanted her off this island and somewhere far away from killers who hunted werewolves and left no scent behind for them to discover. But Charles knew better. To try to encase his Anna in Bubble Wrap would be to kill the woman who protected him with her grandmother's marble rolling pin. She was the woman he fell in love with.

Then why are you hiding your ghosts from her? Brother Wolf said.

Because I am afraid, Charles answered his brother, as he would have answered no one else. He had lived a very long time, and only since he gained Anna had he learned to fear. He'd discovered that he had never been brave before-just indifferent. She had taught him that to be brave, you have to fear losing something. I am afraid I will lose her. That they will take her from me-or that I will drive her away when she sees what I really am.

Beauclaire had addressed that. Charles couldn't remember the fae's exact words, but he felt them. People as old and powerful as he should never be given someone to love.

For Anna he would destroy the world.

ANNA FELT CHARLES more than heard him, even though he'd taken his hand off her back and let her go ahead. She could hear the others walking in front of her, but Charles was a silent, rea.s.suring presence behind.

She could smell the wrongness in the air and it made her wolf nervous. It felt like something was watching them, as if the wrongness had an intelligence-and it didn't help to remember that at least one of the people they were hunting could hide from their senses.

Anna fought the urge to turn around, to take Charles's hand or slide under his arm and let his presence drive away the wrongness. Once, she would have, but now she had the uneasy feeling that he might back away as he almost had when she sat on his lap in the boat, before Brother Wolf had taken over.

Maybe he was just tired of her. She had been telling everyone that there was something wrong with him...but Bran knew his son and thought the problem was her. Bran was smart and perceptive; she ought to have considered that he was right.

Charles was old. He'd seen and experienced so much-next to him she was just a child. His wolf had chosen her without consulting Charles at all. Maybe he'd have preferred someone who knew more. Someone beautiful and clever who...