Fair Game

seen.
    It wasn’t just older; it
felt
older—and somehow still fresh and brash and still moving on. New World-ish, maybe. Built by people unsatisfied with their lives who crossed an ocean, risking and giving their lives for a new start, right here.
    There was the architecture, too. So many buildings here had historic import; they’d been left where they were, no matter how inconvenient. Barricaded on the left and right by busy roads and huge modern buildings, the Old State House was polished and painted and cared for in a way it probably hadn’t been back in the colonial days when Crispus Attucks and four other men were shot on the street next to it in the Boston Massacre.
    Little narrow colonial roads had mostly disappeared into the wide modern streets, but still popped up here and there—holding such treasures as antique stores and old bookshops. The end effect of massive steel and glass buildings standing guard over their smaller and more delicately built forerunners was eclectic and charming.
    “Do you think the killers are werewolves?” Anna asked as they briskly walked back to their condo.
    “Werewolves?” Charles considered it and shook his head. “No. Isaac would have known if Otten had been hunted down by werewolves.”
    They walked about half a block in silence; then Charles shook his head again. “Maybe…maybe Isaac wouldn’t have picked up on it if the killers had been werewolves. He’s young. But the hunt is wrong for werewolves. No one is eating these victims. A werewolf who is hunting like that…Other werewolves could smell the sickness of spirit on them.” He paused. “
I
could smell it on them. There is no wolf in the country who was alive forty years ago that I have not met since the time the killings began. But it could be vampires—or witches.”
    “Five thirty this time of year is pretty light for a vampire,” Anna said. “But if he’s been hunting this long, successfully killing fae and werewolves alike, he’s got to be some kind of supernatural, doesn’t he? I can’t imagine that a vampire wouldn’t also drink from the victims—and if that was the case, no one is telling us.”
    Charles shrugged, dodging around a small tour being led by a man in a powdered wig wearing Revolutionary fashion and carrying anunlit lantern on a stick. Anna dodged the other way and caught a bit of the tour guide’s spiel.
    “Revere did not ride alone that night, nor was he, in his own time, famous for the act. Paul Revere is famous because his name is the one Longfellow, nearly a hundred years later, chose to use in his famous poem instead of my good friend William Dawes, who was the other rider out warning of the British invasion.”
Before his voice was drowned in the sounds of a busy city at midday, Anna noted that he had a fruity British accent pasted over a Southern drawl: not a Boston native.
    Charles continued their conversation as if he’d never paused at all. “It could be an organization of people who hate the fae and werewolves—like Bright Future or the John Lauren Society. Or a bunch of hunters who see us as a challenge.”
    “Or a group of black witches, if there was more than one killer.”
    “Right,” agreed Charles. “I don’t know enough yet. The FBI were pretty careful about what information they gave us.”
    “I noticed none of the later victims’ crime scene photos show their faces,” Anna said thoughtfully. “We saw enough of them that the oversight couldn’t have been an accident.”
    “No faces, no uncovered front torsos or backs, either. Also no means of murder. Were they strangled? Stabbed? I should have asked Isaac.”
    “You think the FBI will call us in to help?” She thought so, but was afraid to trust her judgment when she wanted in as badly as she did. The eyes of the victims stayed with her.
    Charles shrugged. “Yes. Fisher looked at us like we were candy. But it doesn’t matter. If they don’t, we’ll involve ourselves. It’ll be easier if they ask.”
    They walked awhile in silence. Well, Charles was silent. Anna’s shoes made a brisk click-click-click on the sidewalk. She could havewalked more quietly, but she liked the way the noise she made blended with the sounds of the city, almost like music.
    She bumped Charles as a pretty woman in a business suit and torturously high heels walked past them. “Did you see that? Look at her legs. Look at all the women who are wearing dresses—and look at their legs. Their calves are all