“I tried Bran’s phone before I called you,” Boyd said in a neutral tone. “He’ll have those files.”

“The Marrok is away,” Charles allowed. “That is need-to-know information that shouldn’t go past you.”

“Got it.” He made a thoughtful sound. “How about I e-mail you the file on this transaction and all the banking information we have on it?” There was a pause. “Then I’ll send you the whole mess that we’ve been amassing and overnight it to you on disk. If you have Cable dead on your territory, Bran has run out of time to organize everything to his pleasure.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Charles said because Boyd was right. He’d hunt down whoever his father had given those files to, anyway, because then he wouldn’t have to spend all his time redoing work someone else had already done. But if he couldn’t find out who it was, at least he could look.

Somewhere in those files was a trail to the man who had paid for Ryan Cable’s Change. Tough to follow a financial trail that old, but if one of the account numbers matched an account Charles had in his “to watch” files, he’d have a name. Someone had been running Cable and his dead friends, and there was a good chance that it was the same person who’d paid for his Change—or some close associate.

“After Cable was Changed,” Boyd continued, “whoever ran him used him as a messenger. He’d show up, meet with Leo, and be gone the next day. Three or four times a year. Often enough that I didn’t have to search my memory for his name but not so often that I knew him more than to nod at. If we had a real conversation, I don’t remember it. I can brainstorm with a few of the other old pack members who survived Leo and see if we can get some sort of general feel for when he came—and maybe someone will remember a bit more about him. At the end, Leo pretty well ignored the more submissive wolves. They witnessed a lot he should probably have kept hidden from them.”

“I’d be grateful for anything you can turn up,” Charles said.

“I didn’t know Hester,” Boyd said. “But I’ve heard stories of her. For her to die like this … I’ll do what I can.”

Charles picked up the witchcraft-laden weapon that had dropped him unconscious in the midst of his enemies.

“Did Leo ever work with a witch?”

“Not while I was in the pack,” Boyd answered without hesitation.

“Did he have weapons that were especially effective against other werewolves?”

“No,” Boyd said, though this time his response was slower, his voice raw. “Other than Justin. But I know about the drug someone developed using the wolves Leo had made and sold as guinea pigs.”

Charles took a deep breath and forced Brother Wolf to really examine the situation Boyd had found himself in—a gradual wearing away of all the rules until all anyone in that pack could do was cling to their Alpha because there was nowhere else to go. And Brother Wolf still thought that Boyd should have done more. So did Boyd, obviously.

Charles gave him what comfort he could. “You learned what not to do,” he said. “Teach the others. Move forward. Backward does no one any good.”

“How is Anna?” Boyd asked, and there was hunger in his voice. Not sexual hunger, but the need to know that he had, at the very least, helped Anna out of that mess.

“She wanted to take this call,” Charles said with amusement.

“Shit,” said Boyd. But then he laughed. “Next time maybe I’ll call her on her phone.”

“She’d be glad to hear from you,” Charles said. He looked at the witchcrafted weapon again. “I’m going to send you a photo of a witchcrafted gun that was effective enough on me.” He explained something about how he’d come to have it. “Maybe one of your submissive wolves saw something that you didn’t.” Leo had not viewed the submissive wolves as a threat, so he did not pay attention to what they witnessed.

“I’ll check,” said Boyd, sounding more like himself. “If they don’t know, they might have some ideas where to look.” There was a pause. “I don’t recall anything about witches in this business, though. But Harvey—he could smell a witch at a hundred yards.” Boyd paused, then said slowly, “Harvey’s reaction that night—that might be about right if one of them was a witch.”

“Keep the weapon as pack-only information. I don’t want all the witches on the planet trying to figure out how to take out werewolves for fun and profit.”

“What about Hester’s death and the attack on the Marrok’s pack?”

Charles gave an involuntary laugh. “I’d have kept it quiet if I could have, but I suspect that people in your pack are getting calls from friends and acquaintances right now. It’s harder to keep things quiet than it was fifty years ago.”

“I hear you,” agreed Boyd with feeling. “Talk to you if I hear anything interesting.”

“Sounds good.” Charles disconnected. He started to get out of the truck, stopped, and picked up the phone.

“Da,” he said, as soon as the message program picked up. “I don’t know what your game is, but let me lay out for you what happened today with all the important pieces that I know.”

CHAPTER 6

Anna let herself in Bran’s house. She felt jittery and unsettled. She’d much rather have been walking into her own house, so she could deal with the stir of old memories without witnesses. Despite the lateness of the hour, the whole house was abuzz with the chatter of voices and the smell of woodsmoke. She’d known by the cars outside that everyone had apparently decided to congregate at the Marrok’s house instead of going home to sleep, like sensible people.

Even with a fair warning, she almost turned around and walked back out. Only the knowledge that Charles would think something was wrong kept her moving forward.

She wondered how often Bran wanted to turn around and walk away from it all. Wondered if that’s what he’d done.

The thought of Bran’s not coming back, of his leaving this pack and the wildlings—and well, all the werewolves in North America—in Charles’s hands was almost enough to spark a panic attack. Of course he was coming back. He was a control freak. There was no way that he would stay away very long.

Her quiet house would await her until he returned.

Bran’s home was always teeming with people and noise; only the bedroom suites and Bran’s office were private. She knew that in most packs, the house of the Alpha’s second was nearly as busy. But most of the pack, dangerous as they were, were afraid of Charles. Having a house that was a haven rather than the pack clubhouse was a blessing she hadn’t fully appreciated until this week.

She entered the large gathering space filled with pack members—who all quit talking and looked at her as she walked in. They knew. Someone must have overheard her when she told Charles about the dead werewolf she’d once known. They had added two and two and gotten four somehow—she could see it in their faces.

There wasn’t a wolf here, not excluding Leah, who wouldn’t throw themselves between her and anyone who would harm her. Some of that was because she was Omega, but some of it was that they were her friends and family. There were compensations for living elbow to elbow with other wolves.

The problem was that she didn’t need rescuing, except maybe from them. The force of their concern, of their knowing that she had been a victim made her feel like a victim again.

“Hey, Anna,” said Kara cheerfully. Her rescuer appeared from the direction of the kitchen with a plate filled with peanut-butter cookies. “Leah and I made cookies.”

The teenager’s face was nearly expressionless except for the wry laughter in her eyes. As the youngest werewolf in the pack, Kara had dealt with her share of overprotectiveness. “There was some dough in the fridge, but Leah said she’d rather have peanut-butter cookies.”

Anna rolled her eyes. Passive-aggressive did not even approach describing Leah’s usual modus operandi. She regretted the gesture instantly—-partially because she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t let Leah bring her down to her level. But mostly because, mid-eyeroll, Leah walked around the corner into the far side of the living room and caught Anna.