Fair Game (27 page)

Anna snorted. She knew him, knew who he wouldn’t leave vulnerable.

Beauclaire bowed his head and smiled. “I should have known that Bran’s son would be too hardheaded to be led by his nose by any magic—even by the white stag. Had you chased it, you would have continued, never stopping, never catching up until your legs were but bloody stumps or you died.”

Charles looked at him. “Thanks for the warning.”

Beauclaire laughed. “Bran’s son, no one can guard against the white stag—and knowing what he is and hunting him anyway is very dangerous.
Even more dangerous than hunting in ignorance. If the white stag walked past me two weeks ago, I would not have been compelled to go after him. But if I had seen him tonight, after hunting him since he stole my daughter away—I would have followed him, power that I am, until one of us was dead.”

“I thought fae were immortal,” said Charles. “At least those who can refer to themselves as ‘power that I am.’”

Beauclaire started to say something, but broke off as Charles held up a hand.

There was a scuffing sound above them. Someone was upstairs.

“Isaac?” It was Malcolm.

“We’re down here,” called Charles, relaxing, though Brother Wolf was upset with them. They were supposed to stay safe where he had left them.

Malcolm, the witch, and the FBI came charging to the rescue, bringing more noise and chaos with them than four people should have been able to manage. Goldstein and Leslie Fisher took over, and Charles, tired, aching in every bone of his body, let them.

Leslie stripped out of her knee-length waterproof jacket and helped Beauclaire wrap it around his daughter. The witch dug through her satchel and muttered unpleasant things. Finally she found a Baggie of salt, made them take the coat and Beauclaire’s shirt back off the girl, and dusted Lizzie from head to toe in salt.

Brutal but effective. The black magic dissipated—but the salt burned in her open wounds. She cried, but seemed to be too deeply under the influence of whatever her kidnappers had fed her to make too much noise. Charles smelled ketamine and something else.

“We could have thrown her in the ocean and fished her back out,” Hally told them. “But the cold wouldn’t have done her any good. Better leave the salt on. A half hour should be long enough, but longer won’t hurt. It’ll also stave off infection.”

They bundled Lizzie back up and Charles picked her up, to her evident distress, even with whatever drugs they’d given her in her system. She hadn’t been in their hands long—a little more than a full day—but she’d been tortured and who knew what else. Males were not anything she wanted to deal with.

But Anna couldn’t change back, and Leslie, though in good shape, was human, and not capable of carrying Lizzie all the way back to the boat.

Charles tried singing to her, the same song her father had been singing. Beauclaire—and Malcolm—joined in, and the music seemed to help.

Goldstein had used a stick and a strip off the bottom of his cotton dress shirt to splint Beauclaire’s wrist. And when they started up the stairs, he wedged a shoulder under the fae’s arm and helped steady him, having evidently decided Beauclaire would be his personal responsibility. Beauclaire shot Charles the ghost of an amused look, and let himself be helped—possibly a little more than he really needed.

Isaac was obviously in pain, panting with stress, but he got to his feet and followed, Malcolm walking steadily beside him. Charles kept a close eye on them for a while—wolves could be a little unpredictable when a more dominant wolf was injured. It was a good time to eliminate the dominant and take his place. It didn’t usually happen when an even more dominant wolf like Charles was around to keep the peace and protect the pack, but better to be safe. Happily, Malcolm seemed honestly concerned about his Alpha.

Anna ranged, sometimes walking beside Charles, but mostly trotting in a wide circle around them, looking for danger. Leslie took rear guard, her gun out and ready to shoot. Hally walked in front of them, leading the way as she mostly ignored them all.

They staggered and stumbled, wounded but triumphant, singing
the old Welsh folk song “Ar Lan y Môr.” And if there was something odd about returning from battle singing about lilies, rosemary, rocks, and—for some reason he’d never fathomed—eggs, of all things, by the sea, well, then the three of them made it sound pretty good and only he and Beauclaire knew Welsh.

On the boat, Charles stretched out his legs and tried to ignore the lingering ache of that last change. Anna had tried sitting several different places, but the human seats were too narrow and the wrong shape. The ledges she’d used on the way over were slick, and instead of using her claws to dig into the fiberglass, she slid around with the motion of the sea. Finally she’d heaved a huge sigh and curled up by his feet on the deck.

Beauclaire had forbidden any questioning of his daughter until she’d seen a doctor. Goldstein and Isaac had elected to stay behind until the various agencies summoned arrived on the island. Malcolm told them that he’d decided Beauclaire and the wolves might need rescuing when he heard a boat leaving the island. Charles felt safe enough making the assumption that the horned lord they’d fought had left in that boat. Which would mean that very little danger remained—but it was good that Isaac had stayed anyway, just to make sure everything was okay.

Charles rather suspected that Isaac had decided to put off the boat
trip until he felt better, though he’d felt good enough to change back to human. Hally was staying with Isaac to make sure that the residual magic didn’t get a grip on any of the forensic people who were going to go over the island with a fine-tooth comb.

So the boat was a lot emptier on the way back than it had been on the way over.

Leslie left Beauclaire in the back half of the boat to sit beside Charles.

“She’s in pretty rough shape,” she said, sitting precisely on the edge of the seat. “There will be an ambulance waiting for us at the
Daciana
’s regular berth.”

The FBI agent looked a little less than professional, wrapped in a blanket from the boat, her hair windblown. Like Charles and Anna, she’d been up for a little more than twenty-four hours. Lack of sleep and lack of the subtle makeup that had worn off sometime while running around the island added years to her face.

It intrigued Charles that she chose to sit next to him with so many seats available.

“You aren’t afraid of me?” he asked.

Leslie closed her eyes. “Too tired to be afraid of anything. Besides, if you could see my husband, you’d understand that it takes a lot to scare me.”

That sparked his curiosity. “How is that?”

“Linebacker for the LSU Tigers for three years in college,” she said without opening her eyes. “Hurt his shoulder his senior year or he’d have gone pro. He’s six-five and two hundred forty-two pounds. None of it is fat, not even now. He teaches second grade.” She looked at him. “What are you smiling about?”

Charles opened his eyes wide. “Nothing, ma’am.”

She smiled a little. “Jude says he loves the kids better than he ever did football. But he coaches the local high school team anyway.”

“You didn’t
come over here to tell me about your husband,” he said.

“No.” Leslie looked at him and then away. “How old are you?”

“Older than I look,” Charles said. “A lot older.”

She nodded. “I’ve asked around about you. We have some werewolves who talk to the FBI. They tell me that you’re a detective for all the wolves. You come in and solve crimes.”

He wondered if that was all they’d told her—and thought it probably was. He didn’t respond because he didn’t know if agreeing with her was more of a lie than disagreeing with her would be.

“And you know a lot about this world that we’re just learning about. We got Lizzie out of their hands because you knew to bring in witches—and because that witch was scared enough of you to behave herself.”

That was fair enough. He waited for her to get to the point.

“Lizzie says that there were three of them,” Leslie told him. “Two young men and an old man. One of the young men called the old guy ‘uncle’ before he was shut up. The old man made the cuts on her skin. Both of the young men raped her first, ‘while she was still pretty.’ They told her the old man preferred women after they were broken.”

He’d hoped that they had gotten to her soon enough to spare her that, but he’d been pretty sure they hadn’t.

“I thought Beauclaire had refused to have her questioned,” Charles said. He’d heard Lizzie talking, but Leslie didn’t need to know just how good his hearing was.

“I didn’t ask her a question. She just talked. Told me she wants them caught and caged so they can’t do anything to anyone else. Tough woman. She fell asleep mid-word—and I think her father had something to do with that. Can the fae send people to sleep?”

“I am not an expert in fae magic,” Charles said carefully.

She turned her head and nodded. “You are very good at skirting the truth.” Leslie sighed. “You are an experienced detective and you met the enemy. What are your impressions?”

“I’ve only met the one,”
Charles said. But her request for information was fair—and he wanted the perpetrators caught. “The fae is definitely the junior member of the group, even though he’s probably the only one with magic—and he’s the reason they can take on fae and werewolves.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He’s not a hunter,” Charles told her. “He’s a stag—he’s not a predator, no matter how tough or deadly he is.” Herne the Hunter notwithstanding, Brother Wolf knew that the fae they’d fought with was prey. Maybe Herne was more huntsman and less deer, but this one…This one ran from his foes. He was not a hunter; he was a tool of the real hunters.

“You think he’s a victim?”

Charles snorted. “No. He’s no angel—but he’d never go out hunting victims. He might rape and kill someone who came too close to him—but he wouldn’t hunt. That’s predatory behavior. Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Most years, moose kill more people in Canada than grizzlies do. Moose, though, generally don’t trail people with the intention of killing them like a grizzly will.”

“All right,” Leslie said. “We have a moose, not a bear. What else?”

He reflected on the fight. The horned lord fought instinctively instead of strategically, seemingly incapable of focusing on more than one attacker at a time. “That fae isn’t smart. If he has a day job—and I’d guess that he does—” Charles tried to verbalize the instincts that allowed a dominant wolf to control his pack. “If you are going to keep someone that dangerous under control, you don’t let him start thinking that he’s too valuable. You don’t support him just because he’s useful in your hunt. He has to go support himself.”

“Okay.”

Leslie sounded doubtful and Charles shrugged. “It might be different if our family of killers didn’t come from money—then they’d find some other way to make sure he knew he was subordinate.”

“
They come from money?”

“This much traveling, this many years—if you were looking for a group of poor people, you’d have found them. Money makes a lot of things easier. Murder is just one of them. And they had to have money to be able to afford Sally Reilly.”

“Fair enough. Our profilers figured that the Big Game Hunter was well-to-do about fifteen years ago. You were going to speculate about a job.”

“Right. He’s not bright, and because of that his
other
nature is going to be difficult to conceal.”

“‘Other’ as in fae?”

Charles nodded. “Yes. So he’ll be a box boy at a grocery store or a stocking clerk. Maybe a janitor or handyman. He’d be very strong. Dockworker, if you still have them here.”

“Would people remember him?”

“Is he scary, do you mean? Like your husband?” Charles shook his head, following Brother Wolf’s instincts. “I don’t think so. I think people are going to feel sorry for him. Otherwise he’d be in jail. Scared people generally run or attack. If someone ever attacked this one, he’d kill them. If he went around killing people in the open like that, he’d be in jail or dead.”

“All right,” Leslie said. “We’ll see what we can do with that. Run it by our profilers and see if they agree.”

THE CONDO WASN’T
home, but it felt welcoming all the same. Charles pulled some steaks out of the fridge and cut them up in bite-sized chunks. One of them he set down on the floor for Anna and the other he ate standing up. His human teeth weren’t really sharp enough for the raw meat, but he persevered and was rewarded as the aches and pains gradually settled down as the energy from the food entered his system.

He watched his mate eat with a satisfaction that had never faded since he’d met her, half-starved and wild-eyed. Brother Wolf never forgot how thin she had been, and he would get pushy if he thought Anna wasn’t eating enough.

When she was finished eating, she changed back to human.

It always made Charles restless when she changed, seeing her hurting and knowing that there was nothing he could do to help. He paced back and forth a couple of times, then sat down and turned on the TV, idly flipping through channels until Anna, human again, took the controller out of his hand and turned the TV off.