Fair Game (29 page)

“His gift,” Anna agreed. His bane. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a good fighter, his father would have sent someone else to maintain order among his packs. But that wasn’t for public discussion. She needed to change subjects.

“So where are we going?” A diner would be perfect—just a little worn-down, with cracked Naugahyde seats and scuffed-up, bad-imitation wood-grain Formica tables, where coffee was served to everyone in white cups and all of the meals were cooked in unhealthy grease: a cop’s hangout, the cliché of every cop film or novel.

“
When Goldstein called me, I offered to host the party at The Irish Wolfhound,” Isaac told her. “The pub owned by our pack. There’s a big room for parties.”

Anna couldn’t help being a little disappointed. “I was hoping for a diner.”

Isaac laughed. “The food’s better at the Wolfhound, and we’re less likely to have uninvited guests.” Amusement died from his face, and the smile he gave Anna was tight and unhappy. “As I told you, there are members of our law enforcement community who dislike us and would love to provoke a fight under the cover of too much drink. This way it’s just the people who are working on this case—and most of them are way too ecstatic about Lizzie’s rescue to be fussy about how it was done.”

“It seems like a lot of celebrating, when we didn’t catch the killers,” Anna said.

Isaac nodded. “It’s like when I was in high school. My junior year our football team just had this…synergy. The year before, the year after, they were good. But that year, they not only had the players; they had the
team
. No one even scored against them until the last game of the season. The other team scored a field goal in the fourth quarter—and the stands erupted. You’d have thought they won the game instead of losing by thirty-odd points. What they
had
done was what no one else had managed to do.”

“I see,” Anna said.

Isaac’s white teeth flashed. “We didn’t win this one,” he said. “But we didn’t lose, either.”

“You weren’t on that football team, were you?” There had been something in his voice and the way he referred to his high school team as “they.”

“Nope. I was the little geek the football team halfback liked to shove
into gym lockers for fun when the team captain wasn’t around to keep him in line. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly mean, I’d love to meet Jody Weaver again and have him try to shove me in a locker now.”

Anna laughed…paused, because she didn’t know football, but she had a father and brother who were football fanatics. “I know that name. Jody Weaver. He’s a big deal, right?”

Isaac nodded. “Went on to get rich and famous—and he’s still a bastard. Proving once and for all that life is not fair.”

“Speaking of not fair,” Anna said, “have you heard anything about Lizzie? I called Leslie earlier, but all she knew was that she was listed as stable and that they already had her in the operating room for her knee.”

Isaac shook his head. “You know more than I do. I left a message on Beauclaire’s phone and invited him over tonight. I suspect he won’t be leaving the hospital.”

“Were there any clues to be had on the island?” Anna already knew that the forensic people hadn’t found much from her earlier conversation with Leslie. But there was a possibility that Isaac or his witch might have found something they hadn’t talked to the authorities about.

Isaac shook his head. “No. It was like they knew the island would be searched by werewolves—the whole prison area had been doused with ammonia. They found a few personal effects, enough to determine that Jacob, Otten, and a couple of the other victims had been kept there.”

“If they had known we were coming, they’d have moved Lizzie,” Anna said.

Isaac nodded. “Right. I suppose it was in preparation for a worst-case scenario. They’ve been killing werewolves. They don’t want
us
to figure out who they are.”

Isaac’s
explanation made sense. He was probably right. And if he wasn’t, they’d figure it out when the bastards were caught.

THE RAIN WAS
pouring down when they reached the pub. Irish pubs in Boston, Anna had noticed, were sort of like pizza parlors in Chicago: there were a lot of them and most of them served pretty good food.

Just inside the door lurked a life-sized, wooden Irish wolfhound. It was, Anna judged, only a little smaller in height than Charles, but about a quarter as broad. Around his neck was a sign that read
WELCOME FRIEND
.

Isaac waved one hand at the hostess and, with his other hand at the small of Anna’s back, directed her to a rough-sawn wooden staircase. At the top of the stairs, just past the restrooms, was a door marked
PRIVATE PARTY
.

Through the door was a big room with four trestle tables with chairs and benches mixed in, filled with people, most of whom Anna didn’t know. Celtic music filtered in through speakers in the ceiling, and there were pitchers of beer and water on all the tables.

A waitress came in through a door in the back of the room. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. Anna had plugged her ears as soon as the girl’s fingers touched her lips, and the piercing noise still hurt. She could pick out the werewolves, because they were the ones with grimaces on their faces. She recognized Malcolm, of course, but there were three others in the room, too.

Quiet descended.

“All right, gents and ladies all. There’s beer and water on the table and we’ll keep the pitchers full until nine p.m. If you want something different to drink, our Isaac says he’ll cover it, too—” She broke off, interrupted by cheers. Isaac bowed, and nodded for the waitress to continue. “
Again until nine, after that your food and drink comes out of your pocket. We’ll be coming around for orders for food. Our specialty is bangers and mash, but we have a great stew tonight and the fish and chips are to die for. Enjoy!”

She retreated through the door at her back to another smattering of applause, and two young men and a middle-aged woman came in through the same door and started to take orders.

Anna looked around. There were maybe thirty people in the room—if seven were werewolves, that meant that there were twenty-three police officers. Which seemed like a lot until she laid eyes on Leslie. The FBI agent was sitting beside a giant of a man who looked as though he could do his share of shoving people into lockers. He made two or maybe even three of Leslie and, while she talked to a pair of plainclothes police officers, he kept a big hand on the back of her neck. This must be the football-playing husband Leslie had talked about.

If everyone had brought a date, the numbers made more sense. She caught sight of one of the two Cantrip agents, the one who was not Heuter. His name had started with a
P
. Patrick…Patrick Morris. He was talking to Goldstein. So it wasn’t just police officers here. She decided to avoid him if possible, just in case he shared Heuter’s views on werewolves.

Leslie looked up, saw Anna, and waved her over. In the two hours that followed, Anna found herself shuffled around from one table to another, answering questions about being a werewolf. In a quiet moment, she pointed out, rather grumpily, to Leslie that there were six other werewolves—Isaac and his five pack mates—in the room. So why was everyone asking her questions?

“All the wolves are answering questions,” Leslie replied. “But you’re easier to talk to—women aren’t as threatening as men.” She thought about it. “Most women, anyway—I know a few that would scare any person with a modicum of sense. But you’re approachable. And you
are going away soon. So if they offend you, they don’t have to live with the consequences.”

So Anna explained, over and over, that werewolves could control themselves when they ran as wolves—though they tended to be hot-tempered. Yes, all werewolves had to change during the full moon, but most of them could change whenever they wished it. Yes, silver could kill a werewolf—so could beheading or a number of other things. (Bran thought it important that the public not perceive werewolves as invulnerable.) No, most of the werewolves that she knew were staunch Christians and none of them that she knew of worshipped Satan. Once, she recited a few biblical verses to prove that she could do so. She’d have been more exasperated about that one, but there
were
things out there that couldn’t quote scripture (not that she told them that).

“Your husband’s a werewolf, right?” said one young man as she walked by his table.

“That’s right,” she told him.

“You ever have sex as wolves? Is it different from normal sex? Do you like it better?” He grinned hugely and took a swig from his glass, obviously thinking he’d gotten one over on her. But Anna had been raised in a household of men—her father, her brother, and all of her brother’s friends who thought of her as a little sister. He’d had a lot of friends.

“You ever have sex with your mother?” she asked casually. “Was it better than with your girlfriend or did you prefer it with your boyfriend or your pet rat?”

His jaw dropped open and the guy nearest him slapped him on the head and told him, “And that is why you are never going to get a date, Chuck. You see a pretty girl and the things your mama taught you about politeness and all the IQ points you can’t count on your fingers to keep track of just leave your head—and then you are compelled to open your mouth. Women are
not
impressed by crudeness.” He looked at Anna. “
He apologizes for being a dumbass. He’ll feel really bad about it in about four hours when he starts to sober up. He’s really a good cop and not usually—” He looked at the offending man and sighed. “Well, okay. There’s a reason he doesn’t date much.”

“How did you know I had a pet rat?” said Chuck in a tone filled with awe. He was really drunk and had probably missed the point of everything anyone else had said in the last few minutes: everything except, evidently, the rat.

Several of his buddies laughed and gave him a hard time.

Anna smiled; she couldn’t help it—he sounded about six years old. “I can smell him.” And that started another round of questions.

It wasn’t exactly a fun evening—Anna felt like she’d spent most of her time walking a tightrope. But it was better than being stuck in the condo while Charles buried himself in electronics. And it wasn’t all bad. She enjoyed meeting Leslie’s husband, who was funny and smart—and offered to stuff Chuck in a wastebasket. The fish and chips were superb and so was the stew.

Eventually the fascination with werewolves seemed to wear off and Anna found a quiet table in a corner where she could relax and watch everyone.

The crude Chuck’s friend saw her and came over to apologize again. “He knows he’s stupid when he drinks, so he usually doesn’t. It was just a bad day today, you know? The last call we took before coming here was a domestic abuse call—some lady’s boyfriend beat her up and then started in on her toddler. Chuck has a little boy he hasn’t seen since his ex-wife moved to California, and he took it pretty hard.”

“I have bad days, too,” Anna told him. “I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

Chuck’s friend nodded and wandered off.

She closed her eyes for a minute. She was a little short on sleep thanks to Charles, and it made her eyes dry.

Someone came over and sat on the chair opposite her. Anna opened her eyes to see Beauclaire pouring himself a glass of beer.

“Isaac said he invited you,” she told him. “But we were pretty sure you weren’t coming.”

“Lizzie’s out of the operating room,” he told her, sipping his beer as if it were fine wine. “Her mother and stepfather are there—and Lizzie will be drugged and sleeping until tomorrow.” He took a bigger sip. “Her mother thinks it is my fault that she was taken. As I agree with her, it was difficult to defend myself, and so I retreated here.”

Anna shook her head. “Never accept the blame for what evil people do. We are all responsible for our own actions.” She was lecturing him, so she stopped. “Sorry. Hang around with Bran too long, and see if you don’t start passing around the Marrok’s advice as if he were Confucius. How is Lizzie doing?”

“Her knee was crushed.” He looked at the wall behind Anna where there was a very nice print of an Irish castle. “They might repair it enough so she can walk, but dancing is definitely out.”

“I’m so sorry,” Anna said.

“She’s alive, right?” Beauclaire said, and took a long, slow drink. “The things they carved in her skin…In time, the surgeons might be able to get rid of them, they think. Until then, every time she looks in a mirror she’ll have the reminder of what she went through.” He paused. “She knows she’ll never dance again. It broke her.”

“Maybe not,” said Leslie. She sat down beside Anna on the dark brown bench seat and put her purse on the table. “Someone gave something to me, a long time ago—and I’ve never used it. I think mostly because I was afraid. What if I’d tried to use it and it failed?”

She opened her purse, dug down until she found her wallet, and slipped a plain white card out, handing it to Beauclaire. It looked like a business card to Anna, but instead of a name, the word
GIFT
was typed in the center of the card.

Beauclaire took it and rubbed his fingers across it, and a faint smile crossed his face. “And how did you get this?”

Leslie looked uncomfortable—almost embarrassed. “It’s real, right?”

He nodded, still playing with the card. “It’s real, all right.”

She took a deep breath. “It happened like this,” she said, and spun a tale of monsters who ate children and childhood dreams—including Leslie’s puppy—and a fierce old woman who knew a little of the fae, and about a debt owed and a bargain made.

“You can use it to fix your daughter’s knee?” Leslie asked.

Beauclaire shook his head and handed the card back to Leslie. “No. But I’ll remember you offered—and I’ll give you some advice, if you don’t mind. The fae who gave that to you did it with the best of intentions. For all that we do not reproduce, we tend to be a very long-lived people. Treasach was very old, and powerful, too. But death comes for us all, eventually, and it came to him.”

Leslie tucked the card away and rubbed her eyes with the edge of her finger so her makeup wouldn’t run. “I don’t know why I’m feeling this way. It’s stupid. I met him once, for less than ten minutes…and…I won’t forget him.”