Fair Game (21 page)

“Witches and fairies don’t get along,” Charles warned her.

“If his daughter’s fate rests in the hands of a witch, Beauclaire will bring her flowers and kiss her feet,” Anna told him with absolute certainty. “Besides, if we run into this horned lord, it might not be a bad idea to have a big bad fairy on your side—and the way he’s dropping information without worrying about it either means he’s crazy—or he’s a really big bad fairy.”

Charles looked at her, then tipped his head. “I trust your judgment.”

Anna looked at Leslie. “But let’s leave Cantrip out of it, okay? We’ll have werewolves, witches, and fae—we don’t need a hostile and frightened man who is as likely to take out allies as enemies.”

“Besides, Heuter is a jerk,” Leslie said. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be stuck on a boat with him.”

“Exactly.”

CHARLES DIDN’T LIKE
the ocean.

He liked boating even less and despised the way the life jacket restricted his movement. The
Daciana
, the thirty-foot boat they were going out on, might be designed for offshore ocean fishing, but the center-console fishing boats like this one had never felt like they were really big enough to handle ocean weather.

The boat was barely big enough to hold all of them: he and Anna, the two FBI agents, Malcolm (the owner of the boat), Isaac (who insisted on coming), Beauclaire, and Isaac’s witch (who was late). If they found Lizzie, they might have to tie her to the bow or make her swim for it. The only thing that would have made it worse was if the boat were handled by someone other than a wolf—it wasn’t only the witch who would have balked at a police or federal boat.

“Charles,” said his mate, coming up behind him where he stood alone in the bow, which was somewhat isolated from the rest of the little boat. Malcolm and Isaac were muttering about courses and fiddling with the instruments packed in under the little central raised deck that provided the only protected area of the boat. Everyone else had chosen to wait on the docks until the witch arrived.

He’d heard Anna approach, felt the slight sway of the boat. It had been easier to be with her when he was in wolf form. Brother Wolf was not torn; he knew that they could protect her from anything—but his wolf was like that: confident. Charles was not so sanguine.

The taint of the ghosts he carried was beginning to wear on him. One day soon Anna would look into his eyes and see the evil within him. He wished he could have stayed in his wolf shape, but talking to Anna without opening the bond between them was too difficult. And he couldn’t open the bond for fear that the ghosts might use it to get to Anna. There were stories about that, about ghosts that killed all of the people close to the man who carried them.

It was easier to be wolf than human because their evil could not touch Brother Wolf. The wolf felt no guilt, because guilt was a human emotion.

Anna touched his shoulder. Charles didn’t turn to his mate, because he couldn’t face her while he was thinking of the evil he carried inside of him. Instead he looked over the starboard side of the bow and out
on the water where the sun was setting in streaks of azure, silver, and faint gold. “It’ll be dark before we get out on the harbor.”

Anna made a sound of agreement. “I know this is not the time, but, watching you brood over here, it occurs to me that you have evidently forgotten something and I think I’d better remind you. I should have reminded you this morning.”

He did turn to her then. Like him, she was staring off into the distance, her shoulder brushing his like the wings of a butterfly.

“What’s that?”

“You are mine.” She didn’t look at him but her hand closed possessively over his on the rail of the boat. Her voice was soft and without emphasis; not even werewolf ears would have heard her ten feet away. “Your ghosts cannot have you, Charles. So exorcize them before I have to.” The last was a clear order, sharp as a shard of ice.

Brother Wolf grunted in satisfaction. He liked it when their mate got possessive and asserted her rights over him. So did Charles.

“Go ahead and smirk,” she said, seriously, though her body was relaxed against him. “Just keep it in mind. Maybe you don’t have to fight all of your battles alone.”

“I’ll remember your words,” he told her with returned seriousness, though he pictured Anna taking her grandmother’s rolling pin after the ghosts who haunted him, and it made him want to…smirk again.

“That’s better,” she told him smugly. “No more brooding.”

And she was right.

The boat swayed a bit as both Isaac and Malcolm moved suddenly and there was a zing of expectation in the air.

“About time you got here, woman,” Isaac called out in tones of real affection.

Startled, Charles looked over to see a woman walking down the pier to where their boat was docked. She was taller than average, taller
than Isaac, who had vaulted up off the boat to trot down the pier to greet her. He kissed her, leaning into it, lingering.

“He’s sleeping with the witch he told us was too devious to be trusted to gather information from Jacob’s body?” said Anna, sounding disgruntled.

Charles laughed and pulled her closer so he could put his chin on top of her head. “Gutsy,” he said. “But he’s forgotten the first rule of the men’s locker room.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t stick your…” He didn’t need to be crude, so he corrected himself. “Don’t screw with crazy, no matter how pretty it is.”

She snorted. “You don’t know her.”

“I know witches,” he said. “They are all crazy.”

“What about Moira?”

Moira was the white witch who was on the Emerald City Pack’s payroll. Anna had met her a couple of years ago and they had become fast friends.

“Except for the blind ones,” Charles allowed.

They watched as Isaac introduced his witch to the FBI agents as Hally Smith. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking with dark coloring, a long, elegant nose, and a wide, generous mouth.

Isaac helped her down into the boat. To Charles, she stank of black magic as she neared and he wondered how Isaac stood it. Moira, Anna’s friend, was a white witch. She generally smelled of the herbs, spices, and magic of her gift. Hally reeked of death, old blood, and ghosts.

The witch looked at Charles as if she could read his mind, which he knew damned well she couldn’t.

“Well,” she said in a low, husky voice. “I’ve heard so much about you, Charles—”

Isaac made a noise in his throat and she smiled.

“Charles
Smith
. Look, we even share a last name. How delightful.”

“
Her last name really is Smith,” Isaac told him.

“Convenient,” said Anna. “People will think you’re lying even when you aren’t.”

“But not you,” said the witch, and Charles fought the desire to grab his mate and set her behind him where he could protect her better. “You and your kind can tell if I’m lying.”

“Only if you aren’t a good liar,” said Anna, half apologetically and half honestly. Being a good liar might keep a young wolf like Anna from discovering a lie, but an old wolf like Charles could almost always tell.

Anna continued to clarify matters. “If you believe your own lies or if telling lies doesn’t bother you, we can be deceived. In fact, we’re even easier to fool because so many of us assume we’re infallible. I, personally, am always careful not to underestimate how well people lie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hally smiled and accepted a life jacket from Isaac, then handed him her satchel, a waterproof canvas backpack, to hold while she put it on. There was an unspoken arrogance about the act that set Brother Wolf on edge: Isaac was neither her mate nor her servant whose service was to be taken for granted. She snapped the vest on over her serviceable wool sweater.

“Are you planning on lying?” asked Leslie Fisher with interest. Anna gave her a quick look and then glanced up at Charles. He let her see that it didn’t bother him, and she relaxed.

Hally’s smile deepened. “I don’t know yet. Isaac said you’d have some of Jacob’s body for me?”

Goldstein took the seat next to Leslie’s with his back next to the stern of the boat. He pulled out a Baggie from his life jacket pocket that contained a two-inch square of skin and a pinch of dark hair and handed it to Hally, who took it with the enthusiasm of a child being given a lollipop.

“Splendid,” she said. “It would probably be best to wait until we are
out in the harbor before I start to do magic. All I will get is distance and a direction, not the closest route there. It won’t last forever, so I’d rather wait until we’re somewhere it will do us the most good. Isaac filled me in”—she looked at Charles—“and promised me recompense.”

She hadn’t been cheap. If it weren’t for the time factor, he could have had Moira and Tom fly out from Seattle for considerably less expense.

“Ten thousand,” Charles agreed.

Leslie whistled. “No wonder we don’t consult with witches much.”

“You pay for the best,” said Hally smugly. “Shall we set sail?”

“Motor,” Anna said, pointing at the stern. “No sails.”

Charles kept a close watch from the bow as Malcolm threaded the
Daciana
around boats and other assorted obstacles with all the sailing skill of a pirate and a cheery rendition of “The Mary Ellen Carter,” a song about men reclaiming a sunken ship, whistled off-key. If Bran had been with them, doubtless he’d have joined in the song. Charles’s da loved impromptu concerts, especially with people who sang—or whistled—Stan Rogers songs, though considering the boat’s passengers, “The Witch of the Westmoreland” might have been more appropriate.

The rise and fall of the ocean made Charles’s stomach roil—another reason he didn’t like boats. Anna was kneeling on the bow as far forward as she could, with her face in the wind and a peaceful expression that made Brother Wolf want to kiss her feet and other places—if only he wouldn’t have thrown up the moment he bent over.

“Gets me, too,” said Isaac, coming up from the rear of the boat. He braced himself on the wall of the console and talked in a voice nicely calculated to carry just over the noise of the engine, but not so loudly
that anyone else was likely to hear. “Once I throw up, I’m okay.” Then he raised his voice. “But I’m the Alpha of the Olde Towne Pack, damn it, and I can’t afford to upchuck in front of a bunch of strangers. They might find bits of that annoying salesman I ate last night.”

Charles scowled at him. “Thanks for the visual.”

Isaac threw his head back and laughed. “You’re all right, man. Malcolm says he’s headed to a spot that he thinks is pretty much a clear shot to most of the islands. There are also lots of abandoned warehouses along the shoreline, thanks to the crumbling of the fisheries around here. Lots of places to hold and torture people without anyone hearing. You really see Indian spirits and talk to them?”

“Spirits,” corrected Charles. “Nothing Indian about them other than we believe they exist and most of you white-eyes don’t. Yes.”

Isaac cackled. “I can’t believe you just called me a white-eye. Better than a pale-face, I suppose, but it just seems so
Bonanza
.” His face softened. “My granddad, he could see ghosts. When he was really old, he would rock in this old, dark wood rocking chair and tell us kids about the murderer who haunted the house he grew up in and tried to make his life hell when he was too young to read and write.”

“Ghosts are different from spirits,” Charles said.
Yes,
howled the ones who haunted him,
tell him about your ghosts, make us a little more real every time you speak of us, every time you see us or think about us. Tell him that ghosts of people you kill can come back and kill the ones you love if you are dumb enough or too clueless to figure out how to set them free.

Charles had to wait a moment before he could continue, and disguised it as his motion sickness from the boat ride by swallowing heavily. “The spirits I see are more…a way for nature to talk to those with the eyes to see and the ears to hear. They never were human. I don’t see ghosts”—
Liar!
cackled one in his ear—“not the way your granddad did, but I’ve met a couple of people who do. Not an easy gift.”

“My
granddad, he was a tough old bird. I’d guess he was tough even when he was five years old and faced down a haunt no one else could see.” Isaac grinned. The sun was down now and his teeth gleamed in the light of the waxing moon. It was two days until full moon. “Tough like me.”

Tough and stupid,
thought Charles with a sigh. “You are sleeping with the witch?”

Isaac smiled whitely. “Yessir. And she makes me breakfast in bed, too.”

Charles liked this young, tough Alpha, so he wanted to warn him. “Black witches are untrustworthy lovers.”

“I get that,” Isaac said. He shook his shoulders to loosen them. “I’m a werewolf; I can’t afford to be delicate—but I could never fall for a woman who tortures kittens to make love potions, even if she doesn’t do it around me. She’s just scratching an itch and I’m enjoying it while it lasts—and I’m clear with her that’s all it is.”

“Women hear what men say,” Anna said without turning around. “That doesn’t mean they believe them. A witch isn’t anyone to screw with, Isaac, and they get as possessive as any other woman. You’re beautiful, strong, and powerful—she’s not going to let that go easily.”