Fair Game

The features were different, but Benedict’s expression, the thoughts that lurked behind his eyes, were classic Justin, the crazy werewolf who’d Changed her and

done all the other things that no one else had particularly wanted to do to an Omega wolf. Not long after she and Charles met, Charles had killed Justin. But even years later, she had nightmares about Justin’s eyes.

Because Benedict made her so uneasy, she turned her attention to the other stranger in the mix. Clearly related by blood to both of the younger two, the old man– Uncle Travis, that was what Heuter had called him – showed her what Heuter would look like in forty years, assuming he didn’t die under her fangs as she hoped. Age had not so much bent this man as clarified him. Heuter still looked a little soft around the edges; it was what gave him his wholesome appearance. This man was all rawhide and leather.

Even in his mid-sixties or early seventies, he was good-looking, with bright blue eyes unfaded by the years and sharp, clean features that might have been spectacular when he was young but had been solidified by a sense of strength and determination. If A

He moved like there was muscle under his skin despite his age. And from the body language of the others, she knew that here was the Alpha wolf. He ruled by fiat, by strength of character, and by their understanding that it was this one who kept them safe and gave them direction– and would kill them if he needed to.

The body language she observed when the older man wasn’t looking at his minions also told her that Heuter chafed at his secondary position: he was ready to take over at the first sign of weakness. It had been in his voice, too. The old man should have known, and that he didn’t, signaled to A

‘Let’s have a look at you, darling,’ the old man crooned as he came up to the cage, seemingly unfazed by her change to wolf. ‘Black as pitch and ice blue eyes. I’ve never seen a wolf with blue eyes before.’

She had to fight not to back away. Close up, he smelled of pipe tobacco. Charles sometimes smelled like that after he performed one of the ceremonies his grandfather had taught him.

Charles didn’t do one often, but she’d learned to see the signs. He’d get restless for a few days. Then he’d head off to the woods on his own – or haul her off with him – to find a place to burn tobacco and sing to the spirits in his mother’s tongue.

Sometimes he’d tell her what he was doing; sometimes he wouldn’t. She didn’t ask him about the rocks he’d bring in or the small bits of cloth he’d set on top of them during certain seasons of the year. He’d told her once that some things were to be shared, and others were not – and that was good enough for her.

But Charles’s tobacco scent had come to be comforting. She resented the old man for ruining it.

‘Uncle Travis, she’s a wolf.’ Benedict’s voice was a whine better suited to a teenager arguing for a later curfew than the grown man he was. A

‘Hush,’ said the old man. ‘They can’t stay wolves forever. Tomorrow’s the full moon; she can stay a wolf through that, but then she’ll have to change back when the moon sets.’

He was wrong. As long as she didn’t mind losing herself to the wolf, she could stay in wolf shape indefinitely, but he sounded very confident. Maybe Cantrip’s databases had inaccurate information about more than simply who was and was not fae.

‘I can’t wait until tomorrow,’ said Heuter.

‘You’re not a werewolf,’ Benedict said. ‘You don’t need the full moon to do anything.’

‘No, I don’t care about the moon.’ Heuter smiled. ‘I can’t wait to see that smug bastard lose it because we have his wife and he can’t find her.’

‘You aren’t going anywhere near him,’ Uncle Travis snapped irritably. ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ll get cocky and he’ll smell it on you. Smell her on you, maybe.’ He didn’t take his attention off A

A

‘You look so meek in there,’ Uncle Travis said – and it took a moment for A

Gooks were

Vietnamese, right? Score one for her high school history class, because she’d never actually heard that one out loud before. Spics were Hispanic. She had no idea who the dagos were. Her racist vocabulary obviously needed work. What would a racist call werewolves? Wargs? She kind of liked thatone, but suspected that racist bastards didn’t read Tolkien. Or if they did, she didn’t want to know about it.

‘But we’re here to stop you,’ Uncle Travis said, then smiled seductively – and he was handsome enough that she would bet that a lot of women had followed that smile into a bedroom. ‘And for payment, all we ask is that we have a little fun along the way – right, boys?’

‘Yes,’ said the big man. ‘Yes, fun.’

It was weird hearing the simplemindedness in his speaking voice and smelling his lust. In her experience– and she’d volunteered in high school with a group that specialized in free babysitting for parents with autistic or special-needs kids – most people who were mentally disabled were pretty sweet as long as their parents hadn’t totally spoiled them.

Benedict was not sweet, and he was something a lot more deviant than a spoiled brat. Listening to him and smelling his need gave him an oddly pedophilic vibe. It made her feel filthy by association.

A

twisted soul.

‘Look at her, Uncle Travis,’ said Heuter. ‘She’s just staring. Is she too scared to fight? Or maybe she thinks she can get away, that she can fight us and win. Maybe she’s not scared of a bunch of mere humans.’

‘No snarls or raging,’ agreed Uncle Travis. ‘Might mean she’s already given up. Maybe we won’t wait until she’s human. She’s not half as big as that last one was, and he didn’t give us any trouble.’ He put his face near the cage, as if by accident, but she could smell his excitement. He was taunting her, trying to get her to attack. ‘We took that one apart, piece by piece, until the creature that was left was a mewling, broken thing. We put him down out of pity when we were done with him.’

Otten hadn’t been trained by Charles, A

She had to remind herself firmly that she was only acting hopeless and afraid. That she was not a victim, that she would prevail over them.