The boat’s engine got louder as the boat swung around and took its passengers upriver and out of our sight. The pack hunting magic subsided.

“We could intercept,” suggested Ben, who did some boating with friends from work. “That small engine is good for being quiet, but pushing even that little boat upriver will be slow going.”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t want them yet,” he said.

“I take it,” said Honey, brushing her honey-colored hair out of her eyes, “that the wolves who did this were another of the interesting discoveries you made last night?”

“Because by Saint Peter’s peter,” said Ben, “an arse-licking boogeyman wasn’t enough. We needed a bishop-beating bunch of mangy invading werewolves, too.”

Luke laughed and in a fake British accent said, “Fecking right, Ben, my lad. But it would be take a real gobshite to try to invade us right this moment.”

“Agreed,” said Honey, while I was still trying to figure out what a gobshite was. “They should wait a few more months until attrition has winnowed our numbers down sufficiently.”

A silence followed her words, broken only by Mary Jo’s quiet voice as she talked to the sheriff’s department.

It was true. Since we weren’t connected with the rest of the packs (for various political and doubtless correct reasons) in the Americas, when our wolves left, there were no replacements. We’d lost eight wolves since we’d broken with the Marrok. One of us had died, and the other seven had moved for the usual reasons—better jobs, family necessity, and the war-ready tension our pack had to operate under right now. Adam could have made them stay, but he refused to do that. Our pack, which used to have between thirty and forty people in it, was down to twenty-six.

Our wolves had given up on the chase and were jogging back to the house.

“They want to talk to you,” said Mary Jo, handing her phone over to Adam. “I’ll take him inside.”

“Put him in the spare bedroom,” I told her as Adam explained that he understood that the sheriff’s office was not happy with one of their people being taken. “The sheets on the bed are clean.”

She picked him up in a fireman’s carry. He was quite a bit taller and more massive than she was, so it looked a little odd.

“I’ll get the doors,” volunteered Ben.

It took Adam about ten minutes to negotiate a path forward with Renny’s sheriff that didn’t involve the sheriff’s department taking the town apart to look for the perpetrators. The chill effect of Honey’s words kept the rest of the pack quiet. Adam and I had talked about our declining numbers, but apparently it was a new thought for most of the pack. Or maybe hearing it said out loud made it harder to ignore.

Auriele, Darryl, and Warren were jogging up to the porch by the time Adam disconnected.

“Let’s go back upstairs,” Adam said. “I have some information for you about the wolves who dropped Deputy Renton on our porch.”

ONCE EVERYONE WAS SEATED AGAIN—INCLUDING Mary Jo and Ben, who’d returned from settling Renny, who appeared to be sleeping comfortably—Adam ran down the details of the wolf kill the night before.

“I identified two of the werewolves from last night, and I made some calls,” Adam said. “I have a pretty good idea who the leader of this pack is.”

He let that sink in a moment, then continued, “And we can put some other names in the probable category. I don’t think it’s a big group; more than likely there are only six of them. Warren, could you get the lights?”

Warren reached over his shoulder and flipped the light switch. Adam pulled down the shades and turned on the projector.

A somewhat grainy photograph of the top quarter of a man appeared on the screen. He had a narrow, aquiline face, a long nose, and big dark eyes.

“Harolford,” said Elliot as soon the photo came up. He didn’t sound happy. The big man growled. “Bastard. Nasty opponent in a one-on-one fight—wiped the floor with me.” Elliot looked at Adam. “That was before I came here—and I’m a better fighter now. But I don’t have any appetite to go at it again with him. He’s a good strategist—thinks a few steps ahead. I don’t like him. At all. But he isn’t stupid.”

Adam looked around the room. “I haven’t met him,” Adam said. “Does anyone else know anything about him?”

“Maybe,” said Auriele. “I don’t know him, but if that is Sven Harolford—”

“It is,” said Adam.

“Then I’ve had two women—werewolves both—who told me never to be alone with him,” she said. Then she smiled, a dark and hungry smile. “Which makes me want very much to do exactly that.”

There was a short silence.

“Don’t remember him,” said Sherwood. “But my wolf is pretty unhappy about him. I’d be okay with killing him.”

When no one else said anything, Adam pulled up another face. No one knew that one.

“He has been going by the name Lincoln Stuart, though he is old and that is not his original name.”

“Was he the guy who was second to …” Mary Jo snapped her fingers impatiently. “A pack in Nebraska, but I can’t think of the Alpha’s name.”

“I know who you mean,” Adam said. “And no, you’re thinking about Lincoln Thorson. He’s still second in the Lincoln, Nebraska, pack—which is why everyone remembers him. This isn’t that Lincoln.”

He brought up another photo; this one was the kind of photo taken on vacations. An Asian man and woman were standing in front of what I was pretty sure was the Grand Canyon. The shot looked as though it had been taken thirty years ago. The man was smiling at the woman, who was pointing up at him with both of her index fingers in a “look what I caught” pose that was completed by her over-the-moon smile.

“Chen Li Qiang.” Carlos was not a big man, nor did he look like the badass he was. He worked for Adam, and his specialty, I knew, was de-escalating FUBAR situations. “Damn it, Adam,” Carlos said with feeling. “Damn it. Li Qiang, he’s a friend. I served with him in Korea.”

“His name is Chinese,” said Darryl. “And he looks Chinese.”

“He is,” said Carlos. “But he’s lived in the States since he came over to work on the railroad and ran into a werewolf. He worked as a translator for the USMC because his Korean is almost as good as his Cantonese and Mandarin.” Carlos rubbed his hands together and shook his head. “That girl in the photo was his wife. She died about five years ago—I went to the funeral.”

“I remember,” said Adam.

“I haven’t seen him since,” Carlos admitted. “I heard he didn’t adjust to his wife’s death well and he left his pack.”

Honey knew the next one, a soft-faced man with gray eyes and medium-brown hair.

“That’s Kent Schwabe,” she said, sorrow in her voice. “He was a good man, Adam. Ended up in a bad pack, though—I think in Florida. Charles killed that Alpha back in the 1960s, and the whole pack was dismantled. We were casual acquaintances, though, so I don’t know what happened to Kent after that.”

“He moved to Texas,” Adam told her. “He ended up in Galveston.”

“That’s Gartman’s pack,” said Warren, sitting up a little straighter.

It hadn’t been a question, but Adam nodded. “That’s right.”

Warren growled. “Some damn fool should take that Alpha right out of existence. World would be a better place.”

Adam tipped his head toward Warren. “Oh?”

“I expect you’ve heard people say he keeps the peace. That his wolves don’t cause no trouble and they never say a bad word about him,” said Warren. “I know, because I talked to Bran about that one a few times. Bran is watching him, but he can’t do anything until he gets a complaint or something happens.”

Adam said, carefully, “I understand that he’s a hard man.”

“Hell,” Warren said. “I don’t mind a hard man.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Ben, his British accent carrying through the room.

Warren gave him a roguish look—he and Ben were friends.

“Kyle aside,” Warren said—and there were a few soft laughs from the pack. “Gartman’s not hard, Adam, he’s polecat mean. Some of his pack stay with him because they like that—he allows them to be mean, too. Most of them are too afraid to squeak.”

“Good to know,” Adam said. “I hadn’t heard anything bad about him—until last night.” He changed the photo again.

This time it was a thin-faced woman in profile. No one knew her. “This is Nonnie Palsic. She’s old. My informant—”

Charles, I thought, though officially Charles shouldn’t be giving us information since we weren’t affiliated with the Marrok. I’m sure the Marrok told Charles that, too, knowing exactly how well his son would follow that directive.

“—tells me that she’s around four hundred years old. She’s mated to this man.”

He changed the screen to show an ordinary-looking guy with a baseball in one hand and a bat over his shoulder.

Adam looked over the room, and when no one spoke up, he announced, “This is James Palsic. He is older than his mate, possibly a lot older than his mate. I met James about twenty years ago—so did any of you who were in my pack when we were in Los Alamos. He was an engineer on assignment. Worked at the National Lab down there for two months before he went back to Washington, D.C.”

When no one said anything, Adam smiled. “I have noticed that people don’t tend to remember him. I’ve been told that it’s not magic. Not sure I believe it. It is true that he is very low-key. He was one of the wolves I scented last night. Li Qiang was the other.”

“I didn’t know that you knew Li Qiang,” said Carlos.