Charles could smell them. Not the odor of rotting meat precisely, but something close, the sweet, sickly smell that some flowers produce to attract flies and other carrion-feeding bugs. The smell penetrated his skin. Like the ghosts in the mirror, the scent was a reflection, not the real thing.

And he heard them.

Why? they asked. Why did you kill us? He knew they weren't interested in the answers, not really.

The first time he'd seen them, when he'd first started this job for his father, he'd tried answering them, though he'd known better. He'd been certain that if he hit upon just the right thing to say, they would go away. But explaining things to the dead never works. They don't hear the way the living do and words have little effect. The questions were for him, but not for him to answer-and talking to them just gave them more strength.

Guilt attracted them. His guilt-it kept them from moving on to where they belonged. There should have been something else that could have been done for them. That there had not been didn't make him feel any differently about it.

They had been protecting a child and lost control of their anger. Charles knew, as any werewolf did, all about losing control. There had been a pedophile stalking children in the pack's territory, and they'd been sent out to hunt him down. That was exactly what they had done. Then they botched the job beyond repair. In another time, they'd have been punished, but not killed.

And now they haunted him. That Charles could not release them was a second burden to bear, a second debt he owed to them.

His grandfather-his mother's father-had taught him it was so, and his very long life had given him no reason to doubt it.

Dave Mason, the dead man nearest Charles, the last of the Minnesota wolves Charles had killed, opened his mouth and darted forward. Dave had been a good man. Not the brightest or the kindest, but a good man, a man of his word. He'd understood that Charles was only doing what was necessary. Dave wouldn't have wanted his ghost to torment anyone.

In the mirror Dave's cold, eager eyes met Charles's as his lamprey mouth attached to Charles's neck, cold and sharp, feeding on guilt. He disappeared from sight after a few minutes, but not from Charles's senses as, one by one, the ghosts behind him did the same, until Charles stood apparently alone in front of the mirror and felt his ghosts gain strength from him while they weakened him. They didn't touch him physically, not yet. But he knew that he wasn't thinking as clearly, wasn't able to trust his judgment anymore.

On the other side of the wall, Anna moved restlessly. Not awake, but aware.

He should close down his bond with her, again. He didn't think any of his ghosts could cross it and touch her, but he wasn't certain. He couldn't bear it if he caused her harm.

Equally, Charles couldn't bear to be separated from her again.

Anna's cell phone rang and she grumbled as she fumbled around the unfamiliar nightstand for it.

"h.e.l.lo, this is Anna," she said, her voice husky with sleep.

He was too distracted to pay attention to the words of the person on the other end of the conversation. He listened to Anna, let her voice remind him that he hadn't driven her away, hadn't hurt her irreparably. Not yet.

"Right now?" A pause. "Sure. We're glad to be of a.s.sistance. Can you give me the address? No. Not necessary. There's Wi-Fi here so I have the Internet. Just wait for me to find a sheet of paper." She pulled something else off the table next to the bed-her purse, he thought from the sound of it. Charles looked away from the mirror.

"Okay. Have pen and paper. Shoot."

He couldn't go out and perform for the feds. Not like this. He would hurt someone, someone who didn't deserve it.

Use me, said Brother Wolf. If I stay with Anna, it will be safe for everyone. I will not harm any of the people. I will keep her safe from them.

Which "them"? Charles asked.

FBI, killers, the dead. All of them and any of them. She will be safe-and so will the others. I will not hurt them unless I have to. Can you say the same?

Charles almost smiled at the thought that Brother Wolf would be less dangerous than he, but at the moment it seemed to be true enough. Without another look in the mirror, he let the change take him: he would trust the wolf to keep her safe.

"HOW LONG WILL it take you to get here?" Leslie Fisher's voice was cool and professional, but her question had just a hint of urgency.

A young woman was missing from her condo, though she hadn't been gone long. Luckily, the policeman who'd gone to check it out had been briefed on their serial killer and thought it was a close enough match to the way other people had been taken to call in the FBI.

There was something wrong with Charles. It had been nagging at Anna since she woke, but she'd already answered the phone. It didn't feel urgent, just not good-so she decided to take care of the truly urgent matter first to get it out of the way. If it was their serial killer, they had a chance of getting to the girl before anything happened.

"How far is the apartment from the hotel we were at"-it was two in the morning-"yesterday morning?" Charles hadn't been in bed beside her, though she knew he was in the condo. She could feel him.

"Ten-or fifteen-minute walk. Something like that. The victim's apartment isn't too far from the Commons." Then Fisher clearly remembered that Anna and Charles weren't from Boston. "The Boston Common. The big park a couple of blocks from the hotel."

After a day of sightseeing, Anna could have told Fisher how big the Common was and approximately how many people were buried in it and all about the ducks that inspired a famous children's book.

Their condo was less than a five-minute run from the hotel, and she and Charles could always take a taxi if the place they needed to get to was too far.

"Less than fifteen minutes, then," Anna told her.

"Good," said Fisher. "We'd appreciate anything you can do. a.s.suming this is our UNSUB, based on previous cases, she's still alive and will be for a few more days."

"We'll do our best."

Anna hung up the phone and began dragging on her clothes. "Charles? Did you hear? There's a girl missing. Is Lizzie Beauclaire one of our werewolves? I don't remember her name from the Olde Towne Pack roster."

Not that I know of. It wasn't Charles who answered.

Anna paused, one foot off the ground as she'd been shoving it into a pant leg. Brother Wolf padded out of the bathroom, all three hundred pounds of fox-red fur, fangs, and claws. There were bigger werewolves, but not many. Her own wolf was closer to the two-hundred-pound mark-so was Bran's, for that matter.

"Well," she said slowly. The wrongness in their bond was fading, leaving behind the cool, thoughtful presence that was Brother Wolf. "I suppose it'll help save time if one of us is already wolf when we get there."

Charles is worried that he will do something bad, Brother Wolf told her. We decided that it would be best if I take point tonight. Brother Wolf had gotten better about speaking to her in words rather than images. She got the distinct impression that he looked upon it as baby talk, but it amused him anyway.

She resumed dressing while she considered his words. Of all the wolves she'd known over the past few years, none but Charles could let the wolf rule without disaster. The wolf part of a werewolf was...a ravaging beast, born to hunt and kill, protect the pack at all costs, and not much else. Brother Wolf was different from other werewolves' wolf spirits because Charles, born a werewolf, was different from other werewolves.

Different because of you, too, Brother Wolf told her.

"I suppose if you-both of you-think it's wise. You know better than I do. Let me know if there's some way I can help. But it does mean we aren't getting a taxi."

It no longer felt odd to talk to Charles and his wolf as if they were two separate people who shared the same skin, both of them beloved. She and her wolf nature were much more entwined, though she had the impression that they were still not as integrated as most werewolves were.

Brother Wolf b.u.t.ted up against her, knocking her over, and licked her face thoroughly. Yes. No taxis for werewolves. Charles doesn't like driving in cars. The werewolf stepped away and tilted his head, gold eyes gleaming with humor-whatever had Charles upset, it must not be too bad because his wolf wasn't worried.

I will take care of him. Brother Wolf's humor fled. As your sister wolf took care of you when you needed her to defeat the Chicago wolves.

"All right, then." Anna didn't know what to think of that because her wolf had helped her endure rape and torture. But in the optimism of the change in Charles yesterday, she decided to believe that Brother Wolf's intervention was a positive thing. Anna dried her face on her shirt tail and got up to finish dressing.

Shoes on, face washed, she looked up the address on her laptop. "We're in luck," she told him. "Only two miles from here."

THERE WERE PEOPLE out and about at two in the morning, but no one seemed to think it odd that she was running down the street with a three-hundred-pound werewolf. Might have been a touch of pack magic making people see a large dog-or not see them at all. Pack magic, she'd discovered, could be capricious, coming and going without any of the wolves calling for it specifically. Bran could direct it, as could Charles-but she had the feeling that pack magic mostly did what it chose to do.

The lack of interest they were sp.a.w.ning might also simply have been city survival skills on the part of their observers. Anna had grown up in Chicago. In a city, you don't look at anyone whose attention you don't want to draw. Who wants to have a big scary wolf decide you might be interesting?

Brother Wolf was on a leash, because Bran thought that the leash and collar made a lot of difference to the humans they ran into-and not much difference to the werewolf. The collar was store-bought from a big-box pet store and came with the cute plastic clasp designed to make sure someone's dog didn't get caught and choke to death. It meant that the collar wouldn't even slow a werewolf down before the plastic broke.

The name on the collar he wore was Brother Wolf. Bran had disapproved. He liked the names to be less truthful, more friendly and cute. Unusually, Charles's brother had told her, Charles had held out until his father gave in.

The address Leslie Fisher had provided led them to one of the skysc.r.a.pers, a tall but narrow edifice squeezed in between two even taller buildings. Anna would have picked it out even without the giant black numbers tastefully etched into the gla.s.s over the main door because it was the one with police cars parked in front of it.

No one looked at them when they entered the building, though there was a small group of officers huddled up in the foyer. A young man in a security uniform manned the desk; he looked upset.

On impulse, Anna walked over to him. "Excuse me. Were you on duty when the young woman went missing?" She waited for him to ask her for her credentials, but either he was too shocky or he'd just gotten used to answering any and all questions put to him.

"Lizzie," he said, his eyes drifting over her face, down to Brother Wolf and back up, as if not looking at the giant wolf in front of his desk might make the scary thing go away. "Her name is Lizzie. She came in about eight and I never saw her leave. Neither did the security tapes." He swallowed. Glanced down at Brother Wolf again.

"Who used the elevator after she came in?"

"Tim Hodge on the fifth floor. Sally Roe and her partner, Jenny, on the eighth. That is the biggest dog I've ever seen." He sounded a little apprehensive.

"And Lizzie is on the twelfth."

"That's right."

"How many people use the stairs?"

"Businesses on the first three floors," he answered, frowning at Brother Wolf. She could hear his heartbeat pick up as something instinctual kicked in to tell him that there was a big predator on the end of her leash. Though he continued talking, he took a step back. "A couple of the people on the fourth and fifth floor take the stairway down sometimes, but mostly everyone who lives here takes the elevator."

Brother Wolf took a step forward.

"And where is the stairway?" Anna asked, then hissed, "Stop that," to her mate. If it had been Charles, she would have been certain he was only teasing-the wolf was a different matter.

Brother Wolf turned his head toward her, his eyes half-veiled, and let his ears slack a little in a wolf smile. All of which didn't mean that he hadn't been interested in hunting the young man down-just that he also had enjoyed teasing her.

"Over there." The security guard pointed just beyond the police officers. "I'll have to buzz you in. For that, I'll need some ID."

"Do you have to buzz people out?"

He shook his head. "Against the fire code, I think."

The stairs would have been a better way to exit. The door was out of the way and didn't chime, as the elevator's doors did, to announce when someone was leaving. She'd take Brother Wolf up that way-if she could talk her way around the ID thing. She hadn't brought any with her, and wouldn't have used it if she had. She wouldn't lie with a false ID, and she had no intention of giving them any more personal information than she could help, not unless Bran told her differently.

"Do you have a card from Agent Fisher or Agent Goldstein of the FBI?" Anna asked.

He looked at the small collection of cards on the desk in front of him. "Agent Fisher. Yes."

"Why don't you buzz us in and call her. She called me in and I left in a hurry and forgot my purse and ID. She's expecting me."

He frowned at her.

"Really," Anna said dryly. "Woman with werewolf. It's hard to mistake us for anyone else."

The security guard's eyes widened and he took another good look at Brother Wolf-who slowly wagged his tail and kept his mouth closed. Apparently he'd decided not to torment the young man.

"I thought they'd be bigger," the security guard said, unexpectedly. "And...you know. Grayer."

"Less civilized, more slathering?" asked Anna with a smile. "Half-human, half-wolf, all monster?"

"Uhm." He gave a quick smile and kept a wary eye on Brother Wolf. "Can I plead the fifth on that? You'll still have to wait until I call for confirmation. If I don't know you, you don't get in without ID or an invitation."

"Did the police already ask you about the people who came in today?" Anna asked.

The guard nodded. "Everybody. Police, FBI, and possibly a dozen other agencies and people as far as I could tell. Starting with Lizzie's father."

"I don't need to repeat their work, then," Anna said.

He gave her a polite smile, picked up the phone, and called the number from a card resting on top of the desk. "This is Chris at the security desk downstairs. I have a woman and a werewolf down here."

"Send them up," said Leslie Fisher's voice. She sounded a good deal less calm than she had when she'd called Anna. She hung up without ceremony.

Chris the Security Guard nodded at Anna. "I'll buzz you through. How come you're taking the stairs? Twelve stories is a lot."

"He doesn't like elevators," Anna said. "And it sounds like, if she was kidnapped, maybe her a.s.sailant would have taken her down the stairway because you'd have noticed him in the elevator." She indicated the wolf with a tip of her head. "He's got a good nose. We'll check it out."

Chris looked at Brother Wolf with less fear and more interest. "It would be good," he said, "if he could find her fast."

Anna nodded. "We'll try."

BROTHER WOLF TROTTED up the stairs scenting the people who'd come this way. There were old scents-several people had dogs and someone had the worst cologne...and six or eight fresher scents. As he and Anna moved up at an even and steady pace, the other scents fell away, leaving just a few. He could smell the woman who cleaned here-she came up often-but there was another that overlaid it, fresher by days.

Brother Wolf pinned his ears and stopped, because Charles told him what he was smelling was unlikely.

"What?" asked Anna, then, more properly, What?

She came here on her own, without touching the floor. Brother Wolf knew his tone was grumpy, but he could not change what was just because it didn't make Charles happy. Sliding against the wall about three feet from the floor. Charles says, "No."

"Fair enough," said Anna, her voice soothing his ruffled fur. "Momentarily inexplicable evidence in an abduction that possibly involves fae or werewolves isn't surprising when you think about it." She put her hand on his head, between his ears. "Arguing with your senses at this point is useless-which is something Charles taught me. There will be an explanation. Let's see what her condo tells us."

More cheerfully-because she had taken his side over Charles's-Brother Wolf resumed the hunt.

They came, by and by, to the twelfth floor, where Anna held the door open for him. It wasn't difficult to locate the missing girl's condo, because, like the building itself, there were police and other people standing around just outside the door.

The woman from the FBI was there, her arms folded and her face set. In front of her was a delicately built man, taller than the FBI woman, but he appeared shorter because of his build. His hair was chestnut and grayed at the sides. Fae-Brother Wolf's nose could smell it. Some sort of water fae, maybe; he smelled like a freshwater lake at dawn.

He looked so very helpless, this fae, though there was no sense of timidity about him. Brother Wolf couldn't get a fix on how powerful he was, either. Brother Wolf was no expert on fae, though he'd met his share. But it seemed to him that the ability to hide from all of Brother Wolf's senses might mean the same thing among the fae as it did among the werewolves. Only Bran could hide what he was so well that Brother Wolf could not immediately discern his power.

"We are doing what we can," the FBI woman said. "We don't know if this case is related to the others-only that our serial killer has been killing fae for a number of years and abducts his prey in a manner similar to this. No one sees or hears anything-though the abduction site is well guarded or well populated."

"My daughter is only half-fae," said the man. "And until Officer Mooney, here, asked me, no one knew it. No one. There is no reason to suppose that your serial killer has my daughter before your forensic people go in to see what they can find. I was in there, and there is no sign of a struggle. We were meeting to celebrate her successful audition-she won a place in a top-flight ballet troupe-and she would not have stood me up. Not without calling to cancel. If there is no sign of a struggle, then she knew her kidnapper and let him get too close. She was a trained athlete and I saw to it she knew how to defend herself. I need to find her address book and you need to start down the line and send people to visit each and every person there while we wait for the kidnappers to call and demand a ransom. We are wasting time."

This one, thought Brother Wolf, was used to giving orders rather than following them. He might have been tempted to teach him better except for the smell of frantic worry and heartsick terror that the fae was covering with quiet orders.

"If it is our serial killer," said the FBI woman, sounding much more patient than she smelled, "then there will be nothing our forensic units can find, and it won't be anyone she knows. I have a-" Something caused her to look around just then. Probably the startled swearword one of the young cops said when she noticed Anna and Brother Wolf standing just outside of the stairwell.

The FBI woman- Leslie Fisher, admonished Anna, because she had a thing about proper word-names.

To demonstrate that he knew perfectly well who he was talking about, Brother Wolf sent her a complicated impression of muted dominance, human, and a scent that was a combination of skin, hygiene products, and a family smell indicating that the FBI woman had a long-term relationship with a male and several not-adult children and two cats. He was showing off a little, because it took a lot of experience to separate a person's scent into so much detail.