She could have ruled them all, Charles thought, but only because she would never think to rule any of them. Being the ruler of all she surveyed was just not anything his Anna desired—which was one of the reasons they could let their guard down around her.

She was more than up to taking point against a second-rate witch like this. And she was better suited to get information out of him than Charles was. People liked to talk to Anna. People liked to run away from Charles. Both of those things pleased him.

“Yes?” Anna said in response to Underwood’s I-know-who-you-really-are reveal. Her mild tone made Underwood’s lips thin.

The best part, as far as Charles was concerned, was that the question in her tone meant that she wasn’t lying to the witch. It wouldn’t be her fault if Underwood misunderstood.

Witches couldn’t smell a lie, but they had their own ways of detecting untruths, not that Underwood was using any of them. If Charles were to hazard a guess, it would be that Underwood did not have the magic to spare. He wondered how much of Underwood’s magic went to just keeping him safe from the black witches who employed him.

As I told you, he would be better off if we killed him now, agreed Brother Wolf in a lazy tone that fooled Charles not a bit.

Underwood settled back in his chair and rocked it a little. “Did you think you could come here, into the heart of our power, and leave without a payment, Anna?”

Charles could feel Anna’s intention to produce Carrie Green’s check—though she knew full well that wasn’t the kind of payment that Underwood was talking about. He tightened his hand on her shoulder to stop her.

It could be dangerous to give something to a magical being, especially something like a check, which was, in essence, a payment for things owed. Magic tended to be symbolic. It was the reason that Anna’s gift of song in that amphitheater had allowed the Singer to attack her. She had offered a gift—and the Singer had taken her up on her offer.

He didn’t think Underwood was powerful enough for that to be a real threat. But Charles was here to guard Anna against any possibility of harm—and Underwood wasn’t the only witch in play here.

As if in answer to that thought, Charles heard someone cat-footing it down the hallway. Like everything else in this place, they did not stink of black magic, but the power that one carried . . . the last time he’d faced someone that strong, he’d nearly died. And witches only gained that weighty realness, the kind he could sense in his skin, from stealing death and pain from their victims.

Anna, apparently unaware of the more dangerous opponent approaching, asked, “What do you want from us, Dr. Underwood?”

The footsteps stopped. Whoever was out there—and he’d lay odds it was a woman, both because of the power she held and because of the faint smell of some flowery perfume—was listening on the other side of the door.

I am ready, Brother Wolf told him. And there was none of the unreliable violence in his voice that sometimes accompanied their encounters with witches.

Charles prepared himself for a quick shift. He could deal with magic at the level of a witch of Underwood’s power. But he’d found the werewolf to be more effective against anyone of greater ability. It was hard for a witch to shape magic with fangs in their throat.

Anna knows the threat is outside this room, Brother Wolf told him. She is prepared to deal with Underwood. Which she can. Some would underestimate her physical speed and power, but we do not make that mistake.

The last was said with such pride in their mate’s prowess that Charles had to work not to smile. Anna could handle Underwood.

“I want to know where Wild Sign is,” Underwood said. “Carrie was nothing when she brought Daniel Green to us. She had barely enough magic to light a candle. Without that artifact she carried, he would have eaten her alive.”

Ah, thought Charles, that’s why no one had eaten Carrie Green. He had heard of artifacts, tuned to the witch who wore one, that could prevent power grabs by other witches. He’d never seen one himself and knew they had attained a mythical status among most white witches. But Charles had seen other mythical magic artifacts, and he was willing to believe Carrie had such a thing.

Anna did not speak into the silence Underwood gave her.

He gave Anna a real smile. “Without that artifact, we might have eaten her alive, too. If you find it, you should bring it to me—a silver necklace with a moonstone flanked by diamonds.”

This influence spell was stronger. Precast, Charles assumed. A spell Underwood used often enough to make up for the trouble of setting runes under the oriental carpet or perhaps on the client chairs. But it wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the protections Charles had set upon Anna.

The corner of Anna’s mouth quirked up, which wasn’t really the agreement Underwood obviously took it to be. Charles assumed that Brother Wolf was keeping her apprised of the magical attacks aimed at her.

Underwood tapped his desk with his hands. “Where was I? Ah, yes. When Carrie Green brought her grandfather to us two years ago, she was a powerless white witch with a necklace to keep her safe.” He sounded like he was a little surprised the necklace had accomplished its task. “The last time Carrie Green attended to her grandfather, she was still a white witch with the amulet—yet she bore such a wake of magic that we all felt it when she walked onto the grounds of the garden.” He licked his lips, and his hunger smelled almost sexual.

“Interesting,” said Anna.

She was not wrong. It was verification that what Erasmus had told them had been true. Something had given Carrie Green more power. That it had been the result of an entity exchanging power for music was indeed interesting.

There was a link between music and magic. His grandfather had used music as part of his healing and his spiritual life. In the hands of such a man as his grandfather, the patterns of music rendered in chords, rhythm, and tone called and shaped magic.

“Ms. Cornick,” Underwood said. “You will tell me the location of Wild Sign, or you and your husband . . . mate? Mate, yes. You and your mate will not leave this building.”

Silence grew in the office while Underwood made the journey from smugness to anger as he realized Anna had no intention of giving him what he wanted. He increased the power of the magic he was using, breaking into a sweat with the effort.

Charles watched, but the magic continued to slide off the protections he’d laid on Anna. If that changed, it would be time to kill the witch.

“We are werewolves,” Anna told Underwood when sufficient time had passed to make her point—he couldn’t make her do anything. “Your magic does not affect us.”

Both true statements, thought Charles happily. Maybe, depending upon who was listening, the witches here might start wondering if all werewolves had some undefined immunity to witchcraft. Then more witches would be told that. He could feel the intensity of the witch lurking in the hall, hanging on Anna’s words.

“If you want to leave here,” Underwood whispered, “you will tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Anna. “Besides, I don’t deal with underlings.”

Charles did not grin as she stole the tone directly from the most arrogant wolf he’d ever met—but it was a struggle. He would make her use it on Asil and see if that old wolf recognized his own medicine.

Behind them, called by Anna’s words, the door opened, revealing a slender woman of much less than average height. She wore glasses, red lipstick, and a suit that seemed like it was supposed to make her appear businesslike—but actually made her look like a teenager playing dress-up.

Warned by Charles’s abrupt grasp on the back of her chair, Anna picked up her feet. Charles dragged her chair around so that both of them had their backs to a wall and a good view of the witches. Anna put her feet down delicately as he released the chair.

“Well, hello,” Anna said to the newcomer in dulcet tones. “Are you in charge around here?”

For a moment Charles could see the newcomer consider a “Who, me?” response, and then her personality lit her face. She gave him a wicked smile. Him, not Anna. Her mistake—and an interesting one for a witch to make. Exactly the opposite mistake Underwood had made.

Wolves were pack animals. It made them stronger. Both of them were dangerous.

“Not me, precisely,” the witch said. “But close enough.”

She looked at Underwood. “You are lucky that Mary Frank thought to tell me Daniel Green was to have visitors and who they were.”

Underwood had gone white and he sat very still. If Charles hadn’t been able to feel the woman’s power, Underwood’s reaction would have warned him.