Fair Game

slip-on shoes and what looked like a…belly-dancing coin belt.
    Next to the bench, one corner of the barn was closed off and a sign that read OFFICE hung on the door. A wall of mirrors spanned the long side of the barn, mirrors that reflected her image, still looking like she was terrified. A long brass bar, placed about three feet up and running the length of the mirrored surface, clinched the deal. She was imprisoned in a cage hanging from the rafters of a dance studio. No dungeon or dank hidden basement for her. When she was performing regularly, she used to have nightmares about being imprisoned on a stage where she would be able to get out only if she played “Mary Had a Little Lamb” backward, which should have been easy but someone had replaced her cello strings with violin strings. A cage in a dance studio was better than that, right? Honest terror instead of frustrated embarrassment.
    She had to get out of here.
    But, in the meantime, she needed to do something about the frightened-looking werewolf reflected in the big mirror.
    She stood up straighter and pricked her ears, and the mirror-Anna appeared slightly less pathetic. She didn’t quite manage scary—Charlescould do that without even trying—but at least she didn’t look so scared. She was a werewolf. She was not a victim.
    Seeing that they had brought her to a barn-turned-dance studio, Anna wondered if there was any connection to Lizzie. Maybe she had danced or taught here. Maybe this was how the killers had found her. Or maybe Beauclaire and his daughter were simply on Cantrip’s mysterious and sometimes inaccurate list of fae and others living in the United States—a list Heuter would have access to. But if there
was
a link between Lizzie and this dance studio, there was a slight chance that Charles could make the connection and find her.
    Because he had to know she was gone by now. If he hadn’t contacted her through their bond, then he couldn’t. He’d have to find another way. And the dance studio might lead him here…in a couple of months or so.
    And now she looked pathetic again. There was a sharp smacking sound—like someone getting slapped in the face. A second smack, and the background noise of the men fantasizing about torture and rape stopped abruptly.
    “You know what I told you.” An old man’s voice, a little quavery but still powerful, spoke in almost-soft tones that reminded Anna of Bran when he got really angry. “You keep using those words and you’re going to forget and use them in public. Then you’ll lose your nice job and find yourself out in the streets begging for bread because I’m not going to feed you. No child of my house will be useless and living off the dole.”
    Someone said, “Yessir,” in an almost whisper.
    “Those words are for trash,” the old man continued. “For lowborn scum. Your father might have been scum, but your mother was a good girl and her blood should be stronger. You shame her when you speak that way.”
    The old man’s voice changed a little, as if he’d moved, but also sharpened. “And you. Les, what do you think you’re doing? Do you think I don’tknow where he gets it? You think you’re so damned smart, but you are nothing. Nothing. Too stupid for the FBI, too pansy-ass for the military. You like to forget who is in charge here, or what our mission is and what it means. Distraction is not useful; you know how hard he has to work to seem just like everyone else. You want him to get caught? How far would you get trying to destroy the creatures who are taking over this land of ours without Benedict? Are you trying to ruin us?”
    “No, sir.” Heuter’s voice was subdued, but there was venom lurking below the meek tones. “Sorry, Uncle Travis.”
    “You aren’t a kid anymore,” the old man said sternly, apparently missing the undercurrents in the younger man’s attitude. “Start acting like it. What are we doing here?”
    “Saving our country.” Heuter’s voice strengthened, almost military-style—and he was telling the truth. “Making our country safe for her citizens by taking out the trash and doing the things that our government is too liberal, too soft, to do.”
    Anna couldn’t fathom it. She remembered his little speech at their lunch yesterday; he’d been telling the truth as he believed it then—and though she’d thought him unlikable, she’d also felt a certain respect for him.
    She should have remembered Bran’s law: zealots are one-trick