Fair Game

He’d get restless for a few days. Then he’dhead 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. Anna was sure by now there was something wrong with him, something more than his being a sociopathic—or was that psychopathic?—serial killer. “She’s no good as a wolf. I don’t like old men or boys, but I can do them. I won’t do a wolf—that’s just sick.”
    “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’ttake his attention off Anna, so he didn’t see the resentment that flashed and disappeared on Heuter’s face.
    Anna didn’t have Charles’s memory for information, but she was pretty sure that Heuter was nearly thirty. That was old to be taking orders issued as if he were a child. Werewolves had to follow their Alpha’s orders that way, though. They followed them or they were killed. Maybe it was the same kind of thing for Heuter? Maybe his uncle read him better than she did, and the threat of death was enough to keep him in line.
    “You look so meek in there,” Uncle Travis said—and it took a moment for Anna to process that he was talking to her because he’d switched from talking to Heuter without altering his voice or his body posture. “Are you afraid, princess? You should be. Your kind is trying to take over the world. You don’t fool me with the ‘we’re good guys’ spin-doctoring. I know a predator when I see one. It’s just like the gays. Just like the gooks and the spics and the dagos. Trying to turn this country into a cesspool.”
    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 that one, 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 highschool 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.
    Anna wondered if there had always been something wrong with Benedict, or if Uncle Travis had turned him into this…twisted soul.
    “Look