"Charles is not here to enforce justice, at least not on you or yours." She nodded at Isaac. "We were coming to you to ask for information. There are dead werewolves and the FBI and police apparently don't have anything but bodies. We were sent here to help them. We were coming to ask you the questions the FBI probably already have in the hopes you could answer differently for us. How were our people taken and killed? Where were they taken from?"

"Information on the dead guys?" Isaac raised his chin and met her eyes. He waited for her to drop hers-and when that didn't happen, he frowned thoughtfully. Likely he'd never met a wolf before that he couldn't either stare down, or felt driven to bow before.

The Omega part tended to confuse a lot of wolves who were used to immediately sizing up others when they first met them. Is this wolf more dominant or less? Will she do as I ask, or do I have to do what she tells me? Are we close enough in rank that I have to worry about a fight to determine who rules and who is ruled, who protects and who is protected? Anna didn't register at all on the obey-or-be-obeyed scale-and she apparently came with something that made all the dominant wolves need to protect her.

Finally Isaac shook his head. "My take is that it is some seriously powerful fae, vampire, or something of that ilk. I don't know about the other two-I can give you the addresses of their hotels and their stated businesses. But they've been here before, lots of times. Neither was in the habit of causing trouble, so I don't have them shadowed anymore. But my boy, Otten, he was taken right while he was out jogging along the Charles River about five in the morning."

Isaac glanced over his shoulder as if he could see the river from where they sat, though it wasn't possible. "That's early; I know that's early. But there are other people, and d.a.m.n, he's a werewolf, right?" And Anna realized he'd turned his head so they couldn't see the expression on his face. "Still, no one saw anything. No sign of a struggle-and Otten, he's pretty old, right? Old, tough, and a fine sc.r.a.pper in wolf or human form. He knew how to watch his back. Not someone to be surprised. Pack bonds. .h.i.t me hard about three hours later, dropped me right down and out-he was hurt that badly. But there was so much static I couldn't get a fix on him when I woke up."

He focused on Charles, meeting his gaze for longer than she'd ever seen anyone outside of his father. "They cut him. Raped him and killed him while they cut into him." His voice was raw with rage, and golden embers sparked in his dark eyes despite the tears on his cheek.

"They," said Charles intently. "How many?"

Isaac looked startled at the question, and then surprise jerked his head up and he frowned. "Two? Two...is wrong; there was a third. I just got impressions. Mostly pain. Didn't think the shadows I got were important. Let me think." He closed his eyes and tilted his head, a wolflike motion that was familiar. They all did it, now and again. If Anna's nose quit working, she'd still know a werewolf when she met him, just from that motion.

Isaac frowned and shook his head.

They cut him, Isaac had said. The FBI had shown them only select views of the later victims, as if to hide damage that had some significance they hadn't wanted to share. Or else they were trying not to shock a civilian consultant who might pay so much attention to the dead body, he failed to see anything else. But cutting...She knew a kind of creature who might cut up a werewolf before killing him.

"Were the cuts random?" asked Anna. "Or were they in a deliberate pattern?"

Isaac caught on to where she was going. "Witches? You think witches are behind this?"

Charles shrugged. "This is the beginning of our hunt, Isaac. I try not to think anything at this point."

Isaac nodded and looked at Anna. "Could be the cuts were deliberate. Or it could just have been someone playing, like a cat with a mouse-they seemed to enjoy it. The bond between an Alpha and his wolves isn't a mating bond-I just caught the worst of what he was experiencing here and there." Something unhappy grew in his face, and his eyes widened as he kept the tears in. "He wasn't scared, you know? Even when the pain was bad. Otten was a cool one, just waiting for his chance-but they didn't give him one."

"I knew him," said Charles, and his voice said a lot more than the words. It acknowledged and agreed with Isaac's a.s.sessment of the man and told Anna-and Isaac-that the dead man had been someone Charles respected and liked. "Thank you for talking to us, Isaac. You've helped. We'll stop them, and when we do, you'll know that you helped."

"You find those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds"-it came out in a low growl from Isaac's belly, a command by one who was used to giving orders-"who killed Otten..." He sucked in his breath and looked abruptly away and down. Anna glanced at Charles but she couldn't see the expression on his face that Isaac had responded to; it was already gone.

When the Boston Alpha spoke again, the command was gone from his voice. "You find them, and I would take it as a personal favor if you called me for backup."

He handed Anna a card. It had only a phone number below his name, so she put out her empty hand demandingly. He lowered his lids and stared at her as she met his gaze unflinchingly-then wiggled her fingers. "Gimme."

He laughed, wiped the tears from his face with both hands, and looked at Charles. "What is she?" But without waiting for a reply-that wasn't forthcoming anyway-he handed Anna a pair of cards that had The Irish Wolfhound embossed on them. "Don't bend 'em all up. We reuse them."

Anna snorted as he popped up to his feet and jumped on top of the wagon he'd been on before in an easy leap. With a half wave of his hand, he took off, moving fast without giving the appearance of fleeing. He lightly hopped from one kiosk to the next, rocking them but not enough that anything fell off the shelves.

Charles rose unhurriedly, but without any wasted motions, either, and gathered the debris of their meal. "Let's go while he's still distracting everyone."

THEY WALKED BY the Old State House on their way to the condo. It was sitting right in the middle of a bunch of skysc.r.a.pers, looking like a bright gold and white anachronism in the middle of all the dark gla.s.s and chrome of its near neighbors. Boston...Anna'd been expecting something like Seattle, since so many people compared the two. And there were some things that reminded her quite strongly of the Emerald City-the ocean, for instance-and the whole educated-and-liberal feel to the place. But Boston was different, at least the part of it that she had seen.

It wasn't just older; it felt older-and somehow still fresh and brash and still moving on. New World-ish, maybe. Built by people unsatisfied with their lives who crossed an ocean, risking and giving their lives for a new start, right here.

There was the architecture, too. So many buildings here had historic import; they'd been left where they were, no matter how inconvenient. Barricaded on the left and right by busy roads and huge modern buildings, the Old State House was polished and painted and cared for in a way it probably hadn't been back in the colonial days when Crispus Attucks and four other men were shot on the street next to it in the Boston Ma.s.sacre.

Little narrow colonial roads had mostly disappeared into the wide modern streets, but still popped up here and there-holding such treasures as antique stores and old bookshops. The end effect of ma.s.sive steel and gla.s.s buildings standing guard over their smaller and more delicately built forerunners was eclectic and charming.

"Do you think the killers are werewolves?" Anna asked as they briskly walked back to their condo.

"Werewolves?" Charles considered it and shook his head. "No. Isaac would have known if Otten had been hunted down by werewolves."

They walked about half a block in silence; then Charles shook his head again. "Maybe...maybe Isaac wouldn't have picked up on it if the killers had been werewolves. He's young. But the hunt is wrong for werewolves. No one is eating these victims. A werewolf who is hunting like that...Other werewolves could smell the sickness of spirit on them." He paused. "I could smell it on them. There is no wolf in the country who was alive forty years ago that I have not met since the time the killings began. But it could be vampires-or witches."

"Five thirty this time of year is pretty light for a vampire," Anna said. "But if he's been hunting this long, successfully killing fae and werewolves alike, he's got to be some kind of supernatural, doesn't he? I can't imagine that a vampire wouldn't also drink from the victims-and if that was the case, no one is telling us."

Charles shrugged, dodging around a small tour being led by a man in a powdered wig wearing Revolutionary fashion and carrying an unlit lantern on a stick. Anna dodged the other way and caught a bit of the tour guide's spiel.

"Revere did not ride alone that night, nor was he, in his own time, famous for the act. Paul Revere is famous because his name is the one Longfellow, nearly a hundred years later, chose to use in his famous poem instead of my good friend William Dawes, who was the other rider out warning of the British invasion." Before his voice was drowned in the sounds of a busy city at midday, Anna noted that he had a fruity British accent pasted over a Southern drawl: not a Boston native.

Charles continued their conversation as if he'd never paused at all. "It could be an organization of people who hate the fae and werewolves-like Bright Future or the John Lauren Society. Or a bunch of hunters who see us as a challenge."

"Or a group of black witches, if there was more than one killer."

"Right," agreed Charles. "I don't know enough yet. The FBI were pretty careful about what information they gave us."

"I noticed none of the later victims' crime scene photos show their faces," Anna said thoughtfully. "We saw enough of them that the oversight couldn't have been an accident."

"No faces, no uncovered front torsos or backs, either. Also no means of murder. Were they strangled? Stabbed? I should have asked Isaac."

"You think the FBI will call us in to help?" She thought so, but was afraid to trust her judgment when she wanted in as badly as she did. The eyes of the victims stayed with her.

Charles shrugged. "Yes. Fisher looked at us like we were candy. But it doesn't matter. If they don't, we'll involve ourselves. It'll be easier if they ask."

They walked awhile in silence. Well, Charles was silent. Anna's shoes made a brisk click-click-click on the sidewalk. She could have walked more quietly, but she liked the way the noise she made blended with the sounds of the city, almost like music.

She b.u.mped Charles as a pretty woman in a business suit and torturously high heels walked past them. "Did you see that? Look at her legs. Look at all the women who are wearing dresses-and look at their legs. Their calves are all bigger around than their thighs."

"They call Boston 'the walking city' for a reason." Charles rumbled as he opened the door to the building of their condo. As soon as he was inside, the faint aura of danger he emitted eased down. Evidently Charles had been in this building often enough that he didn't view it as enemy territory.

"How soon do you suppose the FBI will be calling us?" Anna asked. "If they decide to call us."

"Bored?" He took them to the stairs and, after her previous ride in the slick, modern, very slow elevator, Anna was happy to trot after him.

"Nope. I just want to make sure we have time to do the haunted tour tonight."

He gave her a look and Anna grinned, happily sinking into the warm, safe relationship that had somehow been restored after better than a year of fragmentation. It was too easy; she knew it. But she was going to enjoy it while she could.

"Maybe the FBI will call," he said hopefully. She wasn't buying it; he'd have as much fun running around old cemeteries as she would-he just wouldn't admit it.

"I've got my cell phone," she pointed out. "You've got yours. Get changed and let's go."

He growled.

AFTER THE MEETING with the werewolves, Leslie ate an early lunch at a nearby soup and bread place before walking the rest of the block or so between the hotel and her office. She used the time to mentally process what she'd seen and heard so she could give a coherent, organized version of the highlights for Nick. She finished the last little bit as she rode the elevator up so she was ready before she hit the office.

The office watchdog, known only to Leslie's group as the Gatekeeper, nodded at Leslie and buzzed her in. Leslie headed to her desk but a sharp whistle from her boss's office changed her trajectory.

Nick looked tired. They'd been chasing after two different bank robbers and something that might be a terrorist cell-or might just be a bunch of broke students rooming together-before this serial-killer thing hit their radar. The terrorist cell had top priority over everything. However, one of the bank robbers had been doing his best to put himself on the top of the list. He wore a distinctive motorcycle helmet with a small sticker on top that had given him the nickname the Smiley Bandit. Lately he'd begun working with another faceless, helmeted man who liked to carry a gun and shoot it at lights and cameras after aiming it at people. One of these days really soon now he was going to start shooting people. Their team was short a few since Joe and Turk had been transferred out. The job got done, but all of them were a little light on sleep.

"How'd it go?" Nick asked after she closed the door behind her.

Leslie thought about it. "Interesting on many levels."

He gave an impatient snort. "Share. Please."

She started with a rundown on who was there. Nick grunted when she told him Heuter had come. It was a grunt she couldn't interpret. She couldn't tell if he liked Heuter or disliked him-or if he was just acknowledging that Cantrip had sent in their golden boy.

Leslie told him about the biggest revelation. "Our UNSUB has been killing mostly fae-we think for the past twenty-five-odd years-and no one noticed until a werewolf told us, a werewolf who wasn't even born when the first murders began. Cantrip claims she is Anna Latham. I'll run the name and see if I agree with them on her ident.i.ty, but she didn't deny it."

"There have been rumors, if you know where to listen, that werewolves may share a trait or two with the fae. That their ability to heal d.a.m.ned near anything also keeps them from aging."

Leslie absorbed that. "If that's so, I peg our Anna at sixteen and her husband at ten thousand and change."

Nick laughed. "Impressed by him, were you? Craig was, too. He gave me a call as soon as the meeting was over to tell me that he was headed over to see Kip at the Boston PD. He was hoping the police might have someone familiar with the fae they can take the photos to, so we can get a confirmation."

"If you talked to Craig already, why have me do a basic report?" she asked, a little annoyed.

"He said he'd leave the briefing for you to deliver, as he was the senior field agent," said her boss equitably, and then got back to the business at hand. "If it's true, that so many of the victims have been fae, why didn't anyone in the fae communities say anything?"

Leslie shrugged. "Why do the fae do anything, Nick? Maybe they don't want to draw attention or encourage a copycat. Maybe they didn't notice."

"So the killer was out shooting fae and decided to hit a couple of werewolves, too."

"That's the latest theory Craig and I subscribe to."

"What about the werewolves? Will they help us? Do we want their help?"

Leslie tapped the side of her foot on the floor. "The guy is Native American and big. He stood back and didn't say a word he didn't have to. All of us in that room were doing everything we could not to pay attention to him because he was that scary."

"Scary how? Cold? Crazy?"

Leslie frowned at her boss. "Like you get when you are trying to intimidate someone we're questioning-only not so deliberate."

"Thousand-yard stare?"

"Yeah," Leslie agreed. "He's seen some blood somewhere." And the thing that had been bothering her about the pair of werewolves coalesced. "The girl who is his wife, she looks so sweet she ought to be attracting honeybees. Innocent. Even Jim Pierce was feeling protective around her; you could see it in his body posture-and Dr. Singh deliberately distracted the Cantrip agents when they got in her face and tried to intimidate her. And you know Singh."

"You think she was faking it?"

Leslie shook her head. "No. Not really. But both of the werewolves looked at photos of dead bodies and didn't bat an eyelash. Granted we didn't show the bad ones in full color, but the old police black-and-whites are pretty nasty."

"You think they've spent some time looking at dead bodies," Nick said. "You think they're killers."

She nodded. "Him, yes. He has that...that look. You have it. A lot of the armed forces guys have it. I think he could have killed us all and not given it another thought. As for her..." She frowned, trying to get a better handle on it. "Have you ever worked with Lee Jennings? The guy the Behavior a.n.a.lysis Unit sends to interview the nasty guys in prison?"

Nick frowned. "Yes."

"He's pretty unremarkable. I like him a lot, and so does everyone else who's worked with him. And the reason they send him into the prisons with the sc.u.m of the earth and the crazies is because they like him, too. They fall all over themselves to give him whatever information he asks for."

Nick raised his chin and his face went still. "Right. She's like that?"

Leslie nodded. "Her husband didn't say more than two or three words, but he dominated the room. The only one not intimidated was Craig-and he just wasn't looking. I'd bet Charles Smith is an Alpha of some pack we don't know about."

"Intimidating."

She nodded again. "He was playing muscle, I think. But she didn't treat him that way." Why did she think that? "He came in late with coffee for all of us-she'd sent him out so she could explain to us how to make the matter easier for him."

"To keep everyone safe?"

Leslie shook her head. "She said so, but I got the distinct impression she was a lot more worried about him than she was any of us. It was the standard stuff-don't meet his eyes if you can help it. No aggressive moves. The only new thing was that we weren't supposed to try to touch her at all. I expected a wild-eyed maniac, and the man who came in was tight, controlled, and at ease. He looked like he conducted meetings with the federal government every day of his life."

"And that made you think he was running the show behind the scenes?"

"No. That's not all of it. Body language said she respected him and deferred to his judgment. She was in front, but he was more than just backup."

"So do we invite them in?"

"She pointed out that our killer took out werewolves. Taking out werewolves, I gather and surmise, is akin to taking out a SEAL team. This UNSUB has been hunting fae and coming out-as far as we know-unscathed. Do we have a choice?"

"The FBI has some fae on payroll. We have a choice. You met them and you're d.a.m.n near the best agent I have for reading people. What do you think?"

Leslie sighed loudly. "I like her. I told you. And he is...competent-he's got that air. The one that says, 'I've seen a lot and made it out alive.' They won't cost us anything, so the budget will be happy. But"-she held up a finger-"he's not going to take orders."

Nick nodded his head and did his finger-hand-talk thing for a good half minute before blowing out a breath of air. "There's a couple of people at the BAU who are familiar with the Big Game Hunter. I'll give them a call and see what the profilers say might happen to our killer if the media knows we have werewolves hunting him. You and Craig can pick up information on werewolves as you work with them. Let me think about implications for the rest of today, and if nothing strikes me as too stupid, I'll give you a go tomorrow."

CHAPTER 5.

After a hard day of being a tourist, Anna slept deeply in the bed on the other side of the bathroom wall. Charles put his forehead against his side of that wall for a long moment before he worked up his..."Courage" was not the right word. Fort.i.tude.

After a deep breath, Charles stepped in front of the bathroom mirror. It was one of those full-length things that women used to use to make sure their ankles weren't showing below their skirts and now used to make sure, he a.s.sumed, that their underwear showed only when they wanted it to.

And he was trying to distract himself by looking at the mirror rather than looking at the image it held.

Charles couldn't see them if he turned his head to look behind himself, but in the mirror the spirits who haunted him were as clear, as three-dimensional, as they were when they were still alive. They had stayed away all day while he and Anna did the tourist thing, this evening when Anna took him on the silly haunted tour that had been a surprising amount of fun, and tonight when he had held her as she fell asleep.

As soon as she slept, they returned.

We see her, they said. Does she see you? Does she know what you are? Murderer, killer, death bringer. We will show her and she'll run from you. But she can't run far enough to be safe.

Hollow-eyed and cadaverously thin, they stared at him, meeting his eyes in a way that no one except Anna, his father, or his brother had dared to do in a very long time. The oldest ones morphed into something they had not been in life-their eyes black, their faces distorted until they hardly looked human. The three newest ones looked as they had the moment before he'd ended their lives. They stood so close to him that it was strange that he could not feel the heat of them-or the chill-at his back. Even so, it wasn't only his eyes that told him they were there.