On The Prowl

"I see," murmured the wolf at the other end of the phone line.

"I couldn't prove that anything was wrong until I saw the newspaper," she told him.

"Does Leo know you saw the boy?"

"Yes." There were two Alphas in the Chicago area. Briefly she wondered how he'd known which one she was talking about.

"How did he react?"

A

He saved her the humiliation by clarifying his question. "Was he angry that you had seen the boy?"

"No. He was... happy with the man who'd brought him in." There had still been blood on Justin's face and he stank with the excitement of the hunt.

Leo had been happy when Justin had first brought A

"I see."

For some reason she had the strange feeling that he did.

"Where are you now, A

"At a friend's house."

"Another werewolf?"

"No." Then realizing he might think she'd told someone about what she was – something that was strictly forbidden – she hurried to explain. "I don't have a phone at my place. My neighbor is gone and I'm taking care of her cat. I used her phone."

"I see," he said. "I want you to stay away from Leo and your pack for right now – it might not be safe for you if someone figures out you called me."

That was an understatement. "All right."

"As it happens," the Marrok said, "I have recently been made aware of problems in Chicago."

The realization that she had risked everything u

" – I would normally have contacted the nearest pack. However, if Leo is murdering people, I don't see how the other Chicago Alpha wouldn't be aware of it. Since Jaimie hasn't contacted me, I have to assume that both Alphas are involved to one degree or another."

"It's not Leo who's making the werewolves," she told him. "It's Justin, his second."

"The Alpha is responsible for the actions of his pack," replied the Marrok coolly. "I've sent out an... investigator. As it happens he is flying into Chicago tonight. I'd like you to meet him."

Which was how A

It had gotten colder, and she shivered as she pulled on the T-shirt she'd brought. There hadn't been room in her small pack for her coat once she'd stuffed it with shoes, jeans, and a top – all of which were more necessary.

She hadn't ever actually been to O'Hare before, and it took her a while to find the right terminal. By the time she got there, he was already waiting for her.

Only after she'd hung up the phone had she realized that the Marrok had given her no description of his investigator. She'd fretted all the way to the airport about it, but she needn't have. There was no mistaking him. Even in the busy terminal, people stopped to look at him, before furtively looking away.

Native Americans, while fairly rare in Chicago, weren't so unheard of as to cause all the attention he was gathering. None of the humans walking past him would probably have been able to explain exactly why they had to look – but A

He was tall, taller even than Leo, and he wore his black, black hair in a thick braid that swung below his bead-and-leather belt. His jeans were dark and new-looking, a contrast to his battered cowboy boots. He turned his head a little and the lights caught a gleam from the gold studs he wore in his ears. Somehow he didn't look like the kind of man who would pierce his ears.

The features under the youth-taut, teak-colored skin were broad and flat and carried an expression that was oppressive in its very blankness. His black eyes traveled slowly over the bustling crowd, looking for something. They stopped on her for a moment, and the impact made her catch her breath. Then his gaze drifted on.

Charles hated flying. He especially hated flying when someone else was piloting. He'd flown himself to Salt Lake, but landing his small jet in Chicago could have alerted his quarry – and he preferred to take Leo by surprise. Besides, after they'd closed Meigs Field, he'd quit flying himself into Chicago. There was too much traffic at O'Hare and Midway.

He hated big cities. There were so many smells that they clogged his nose, so much noise that he caught bits of a hundred different conversations without trying – but could miss entirely the sound of someone sneaking up behind him. Someone had bumped by him on the walkway as he left the plane, and he had to work to keep from bumping back, harder. Flying into O'Hare in the middle of the night had at least avoided the largest crowds, but there were still too many people around for his comfort.

He hated cell phones, too. When he'd turned his on after the plane had landed, a message from his father was waiting. Now instead of going to the car rental desk and then to his hotel, he was going to have to locate some woman and stay with her so that Leo or his other wolves didn't kill her. All he had was a first name – Bran hadn't seen fit to give him a description of her.

He stopped outside the security gates and let his gaze drift where it would, hoping instincts would find the woman. He could smell another werewolf, but the ventilation in the airport defeated his ability to pinpoint the scent. His gaze caught first on a young girl with an Irish-pale complexion, whiskey-colored curly hair, and the defeated look of someone who was beaten on a regular basis. She looked tired, cold, and far too thin. It made him angry to see it, and he was already too angry to be safe, so he forced his gaze away.

There was a woman dressed in a business suit that echoed the warm chocolate of her skin. She didn't look quite like an A

He started a second sweep of the airport when a small, hesitant voice from just to his left said, "Sir, have you just come from Montana?"

It was the whiskey-haired girl. She must have approached him while he'd been looking elsewhere – something she wouldn't have been able to do if he weren't standing in the middle of a freaking airport.

At least he didn't have to look for his father's contact anymore. With her this close, not even the artificial air currents could hide that she was a werewolf. But it wasn't his nose alone that told him that she was something far rarer.

At first he thought she was submissive. Most werewolves were more or less dominant. Gentler-natured people weren't usually cussed enough to survive the brutal transformation from human to werewolf. Which meant that submissive werewolves were few and far between.

Then he realized that the sudden change in his anger and the irrational desire to protect her from the crowds streaming past were indications of something else. She wasn't a submissive either, though many might mistake her for that: She was an Omega.